Preface
I hope this to be the book I wished for in my planning. All of the standard references told me of the impracticality of distance cruising in a small boat, like our Stiletto Catamaran, and the improbability of the trip I had in mind, and yet with a realistic understanding of inherent limitations and differences, the result was a fuller experience.
Departure
Boldness is measured, considered and reconsidered, even more so for the small cruising boat, so subject to weather. Preparations, outfitting, provisioning, and lists are checked and rechecked. Only the foolhardy charge out inexperienced and ill prepared, and yet a trip by cruise ship or large yacht would be a dull exercise; it was adventure we sought, but not danger or epic suffering. What is it that make for fine adventure, and what style of adventure did we seek?
The answer only comes when the trip is examined in retrospect. During this trip I would be traveling with my 11-year old daughter. I needed to balance challenge, surprise, aesthetics, and pure fun for these two weeks to be a success.
There will be times that are uncomfortable and uncertain, perhaps to the point of fear, and if fear or fatigue strikes when 250 miles from home, you must persevere. The romance of adventure is uncertain outcome. Many of the surprises will be wonderful, and the negative will be accepted or fought. It’s not dinner and a movie. You must hunger for surprise.
The mighty ship chosen for this adventure would never be chosen by the traditional yachtsman. Cherokee Sun is a 27-foot Stiletto catamaran, built in 1979 by Force Engineering in Sarasota, Florida. At 1,300 pounds empty, she’s a speedster capable of over 20 knots under sail and 11 knots motoring. She can charge upwind in a 25-knot breeze, reefed down and if the sea isn’t too much. With sail reduced and heading downwind, I have read a book while sailing at 12 knots in a 25 knot breeze, one knee casually draped over the tiller. Pile on more sail and she’s a rocket. Her construction was ahead of her time: the hulls were autoclaved in one piece from Kevlar/Nomex honeycomb pre-preg (a material widely used in aircraft construction), the centerboard and rudders carefully shaped into aerodynamic foils, and the sails and rig are exceptionally sturdy. Her draft is a mere 14 inches with the centerboard up, and the rudders kick up automatically when they encounter the bottom or a crab pot line. Under sail, she managed 83 miles in a mere 7 hours the last day of our trip, with the help of tropical storm Ernesto.
Deale to Solomon’s Island
Sailing is a wonderful enforcer of relaxation; a means to learn that time–free time–only exists when it is not measured. Anchored off the beach, there is simply no use or point in feeling guilty over sloth. Watching my daughter explore, make instant friends, and search for fossils and critters on the beach and in the mark, there is nothing for me to do but pull up a chair, a book, and a glass of something cool. The sailing trip itself, in spite of being completely focused on the real, is unreal when contracted to our normal lives.
Solomon’s Island presents two anchoring choices: the basin close behind the entrance, or up Mill Creek a bit. Our first day out, solitude seemed preferable. We motored up the glassy creek, past tugboat docks, to a shallow cove that was tonight’s home for a half dozen cruisers. The holding ground is deep semi soft mud, well sheltered and secure. Jessica immediately set off in her tube to explore the shoreline. It’s a simple pleasure to watch a laughing child try to maneuver a round boat with a single paddle. Spinning like a whirling dervish and making no progress at all until the trick is learned.
Solomons Island to Cape Charles
Tangier Island. After our walk we intended to enjoy lunch at a local restaurant, but it seemed most were closed on Sunday, and the only open establishment was filled with a tour group and had quite a wait. We departed for Cape Charles musing that on future trips we should leave more time and spend the night. On our next trip we did spend half a day and the night, and it was time well spent. We found a wonderful wild beach at the south end of the island, and easy 1 mile walk through town. My daughter hooked up with the children of a cruising couple and spent hours fishing and feeding her catch to friendly cats. Together – both our families – we enjoyed dinner at Crokett’s and later we relaxed in the cockpit of our new friend’s boat and swapped tales into the evening.
Cape Charles to Wachapreague Inlet
Sand Shoal Inlet. Flanking each inlet are sandbars extending as much as two miles out to sea on either side. Beacuse of a long period of four-foot swell running from the south, most of the bars were clearly marked by breakers in water deep enough that stiletto could easily sail over them. It was good fun weaving and surfing through these, a mile or more from the beach. I silently reminisced over a trip 20 years before when I took a beach catamaran along the canoe camping trail behind Assateague Island…until a breaker slapped up on the beach and threw a heavy shower of water on board, narrowly missing the open hatch. The dangers of woolgathering…I don’t suggest the sandbar game with a monohull or in any kind of weather. I am not sure it was smart in our Stiletto Catamaran, Cherokee Sun, but it was fun!
We motored over to the remains of some pilings and a broken-down house–the wreck of the 1890 lifesaving station– anchored fore and aft, and hurriedly set out for the shore. Excitement for exploration was high, and Jessica and I ran all over each other as we bustled to get our things together. Where to begin…There is excitement inherent in exploration ad discovery. Not that we were the first people to visit this island. Not that someone else won’t be there tomorrow, not that someone else might not be on the island somewhere right now, but because it feels isolated, looks nothing like Ocean City or even Assateague, and promises surprise around every corner. A shipwreck, buried treasure, sea monsters washed up from the deep. Anything.
We strolled around the southern tip of the island, walking in the surf, investigation the flotsam line, and prospecting for shells, weaving all over the beach, my daughter and I. The bayside shallows teemed with hermit crabs, scurrying about after bits of food while the time swept in, so crowded it was often impossible to place a foot without stepping on several. Large conch snails cruise the shallows. The remains of a loggerhead sea turtle, 3.5′ on the shell, made a home for a bustling community of ghost crabs.
A kid’s paradise. Our only mammalian company; a white tail deer far in the distance.
Chincoteague to Ocean City
My intention was to approach a small herd of wild ponies by motoring among tumps (the local term for the low tidal grassy islands and peninsulas) on which they graze, and perhaps hike in a bit if need be. The Stiletto Catamaran truly came into its own, smoothly cutting across the shallows, miles of 2 to 4 foot water, some exposed as mud flats during low tide.
It was late afternoon and a particularly nasty group of squalls were working their way off-shore from Rehoboth down to Ocean City. High winds, lightening, hail, tornadoes–the whole deal, a once-per-summer superstorm. Owning to the great size and power of this squall, a steep breaking chop built 6-8 feet, opposing the 3-foot swell from the south. Winds reached 35-45 knots even a mile to the side. At the start, our Stiletto Catamaran, handled it well enough by quartering into the wind and slowing to perhaps 3 knots. I felt in control.
Gradually, I realized that we were too close to the beach, only 400 yards out, the result of a false assumption that the gust front would come from the west and the hope that dunes and shore would limit the wind and eliminate the waves. My third mistake. NEVER hug a potentially lee shore.
Keeping my nose at mt chosen angle at low speed became impossible. We were moving closer and closer to the beach, no more than 300 yards out and close enough to see the surf. The solution was simple and obvious, but an option I had never explored. Six-foot breaking waves on the Chesapeake Bay…impossible. By simple kicking the motor tiller 20 degrees to leeward to assist in steering, all control was returned and steering because easy. We carefully worked our way offshore to a safe position, the engine just above idle.
Taking green water over the bow, we scooped mullet onto the trampoline, liberating them after quick examinations and necessary laughter. Perhaps nervous laughter. Predictably the winds calmed as time passed, the squall line moved offshore, and we neared Ocean City, joining the lineup of boats entering the inlet. In front of us, an ocean-going trawler began yawing as much as 30 degrees to each side of her intended course; an intimidating spectacle to watch when waiting, next in line. Thankfully, our Stiletto Catamaran tracks very well down wind and in surf. We rapidly overhauled the trawler, the survival struggles of the past hour exchanged for the carefree illusion that we were now surfing an out-rigger canoe up to Waikiki Beach.
Tied up, freed of foul weather gear, and in dry clothes, we walked the few blocks east to the great white way that is Ocean City’s boardwalk. Independently, we each considered the tourists, lining up for the roller coasters and noisy thrill rides to get a cheap, safe, and mindless adrenaline fix. Our eyes met and we laughed, with instant understanding and no need for clarification. Plain boardwalk food seemed best for dinner, as seafood has temporarily lost its appeal. The remainder of the evening was whiled away wandering up and down the boards, watching people and enjoying steady ground. Back at the boat, relaxing with Arsenic and Old Lace and Cary Grant on DVD was a wonderful way to unwind. Absolutely no relationship to sailing.
Three weeks later…
From my notes, written shortly after our return:
“Now that time has erased the memories of sticky bugs, missed sleep, and thunderstorms, I’m rolling over the idea in my head of doing it again. If cavemen hadn’t evolved the capability to remember what is dear and pleasant, and pack away misery, we wouldn’t be here. Mariners wouldn’t cross oceans”