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News & Features
ICW Catboat Cruise
By Roland S. Barth
For Points East
For a half-century I've sailed the waters of Maine. And for 20 years, the waters of South Florida. Three years ago, I decided to give myself a 70th birthday present by fulfilling a lifetime dream - sailing the waters in between. I invited a number of friends to confine life for perhaps a week to a two-foot by one-foot duffel and sign on for a portion of the 1,900-mile journey. I issued full disclosure concerning the suspension of normal conversational etiquette, of edible cuisine, of sanitary hygiene, and of the conventional fulfillment of bodily functions. To my astonishment and delight, my wife Barbara was the first to sign on, and she was soon followed by seven others.
On April 8, Barbara, our 17-foot Cape Cod Catboat Ibis, and I set forth from Key Largo, Fla., our destination the boat's builder, Cape Cod Shipbuilding, in Wareham, Mass. I estimated the journey would take 10 to 12 weeks running 25 to 30 miles per day.
Ibis has a quarter-century-old OMC Saildrive with a tendency to overheat. I supplemented this with a new and more efficient and reliable five-horse Suzuki, hung over the transom. "Twin screws," one of my crew dubbed them! "Belt and suspenders," I called them. Inboard, we had two bunks, a Porta Potti, an alcohol stove, a sink, and five gallons of fresh water. On top, a solar shower and two anchors tied to the mast. We towed a six-foot kayak as a tender.
Let me share some highlights from the voyage.
Florida: Negotiating the narrow ICW, the boat traffic, and the never-ending bridges while sailing double-reefed before 25 knots of breeze is white-knuckle time. Not much room to come about into the wind, drop sails, await openings, and gawk at the excess around us.
Remarkable how close the Waterway is to the ocean, and how easy it is to go ashore, walk over to the Atlantic, and take a swim. At many anchorages, we go to sleep hearing the waves break on the other side of the dunes. Some great stops: Delray Beach, Cape Canaveral, and St. Augustine.
Powerboats whizz past at 30 knots kicking up huge wakes. Once, we lost both anchors and the Sunshower overboard in a swamping. Rule of thumb: The narrower the ICW (or the bridge opening), the more likely a powerboat will steam past - sometimes passing one another as they pass us.
Standards of hygiene diminish precipitously after Barbara, a surgical nurse, disembarked. Fortunately, Geoff, who drove in from Tennessee to join me in Vero Beach, is adaptable to what another crewmember called, the "Third World conditions" aboard.
The coast of Florida seems endless. Indeed, we travel nearly 500 miles of Florida coast.
Georgia & South Carolina: On Jekyll Island, Geoff got off and James, who flew in from Michigan, come aboard. Seems you just get one crewmember up to speed and he leaves and another intern comes aboard. All proved quick learners, capable teachers, and patient with the captain.
Many 10- to 12-hour days of delight and tedium as we meander through the serpentine creeks, rivers, canals, and sounds. The charts of this area looked like a drawing of a digestive system gone awry. Five miles of sailing for every mile made good. It seems like 10,000 sail trims a day. The area abounds with imaginative names like Rockdedundy River, Old Teakettle Creek, and Dog Hammer Spit.
Some following winds are so fierce we can't hold a double reef and are reduced to motoring, especially as a jibe is needed with each bend in the course. Yet the bucolic views of the marshes and mudflats swarming with egrets, herons, ibis, eagles, gulls, cormorants, plovers - and dolphins - were savored.
Multiple inlets from the Atlantic between the barrier islands offer multiple challenges. We try to approach each one on an almost-low tide so that we have favorable outgoing current the few miles up to it, then a favorable incoming current beyond it. But frequently it's four- to five-knot swirling currents on the nose.
Great history to dip into along the way. For instance, passed an island where one Parson Thomas Bosomworth married an Indian and introduced white man's religion amongst the natives - until he was ceremoniously consumed by them.
Insect life is fecund in the marshes: green heads, mosquitoes, and especially noseeums. Mosquito netting at night slows down the noseeums, but clearly doesn't stop them. More belts and suspenders at night - netting and insect repellant.High level of cooperation and collegiality of crew: James and I share our one pair of socks to ward off the sun and bugs! Oh well, one foot was covered! So much for checklists and careful provisioning.
Lots of renumbered, reset, and removed navigation aids, which don't comply with the chart. Fortunately my GPS chartplotter, secured for this trip, offers more recent data. Although the shifting sandy bottom in the sounds make all charts and chartplotters rather useless in figuring out where we are, where we think we are, and where we want to be. More white knuckles.
Great stops: Beaufort, South Carolina, Charleston, and Georgetown all have great charm and remarkably preserved antebellum mansions.
In Charleston, James gets off. Alan and Bob, who have flown in from Boston, come aboard. Having three aboard called for inventive sleeping arrangements, with six-foot, three-inch Bob curled up in the five-foot cockpit (in the rain).
Next day, Bob gets off before sunrise. Alan and I get as far as a lovely, unspoiled marina in McLellanville, where we seek refuge from dangerous, approaching-tropical-depression Andrea. We visit rice plantations, museums; eat crab, shrimp, oysters, okra, hushpuppies. Alan's weeklong cruise lasts one day and about 20 miles; he headed back to Boston.
I'm alone for a long second leg (the first being in central Florida).
Singlehanding a 17-foot catboat for 12-hour days is a challenge: No autopilot. Constant vigilance is required to miss day markers, to keep the boat from jibing, make peanut-butter sandwiches, relieve oneself, and marvel at the surroundings.
The Waccamaw River is the loveliest stretch of the ICW thus far. Cypress have replaced palms. Most of the river is a wildlife preserve and swamp. Few buildings, marinas, and signs of mankind are evident. Water is fresh, but looks like Starbucks dark. Expected to see an ivory billed woodpecker at any moment. Eerie sounds at night.
Endured "The Rock Pile," a 30-mile stretch of narrow, straight, and rocky water. Most unforgettable incident of the forgettable day in this ditch was a powerboat towing a water-skier past at about 40 knots. And then returning to pass again - @##$%&*!
North Carolina: It's good to be in the water of little tide. Makes nights at anchor less eventful and removes the tedious motoring at 2 ½ knots into a 2½-knot current. Thought I had seen the full assortment of bridges, until I encounter a "pontoon bridge," a floating section that opens (not frequently) to allow boats to pass.
The Cape Fear River from Southport, upstream toward Wilmington, is a day of almost continuous white knuckles. Huge expanse of water, strong currents, two- to three-foot chop, winds on the nose, heavy commercial traffic, and no place to hide for 20 miles. Choose your conditions carefully: A big piece of water for a very little boat.
We enter a 20-mile stretch of the Waterway that feels like Baghdad. Camp Lejeune Marine Base, which borders the ICW, is engaged in maneuvers. Gunships in the air, gunships on the water, and troops everywhere. One assault craft comes bearing down on me, a 50mm machine gun on deck, darkened combat troops at the ready.
I had my American ensign flying at the peak, but that didn't prevent this assault craft from slowing down beside me. Thought my 70th birthday would be my last. Then, the pontoon boat and Marines wave and speed up and go on by. They had slowed down just to ponder and to pass this little sailing craft, which precious, precious few civilian powerboats have done. Let's hear it for the Marines!
We traverse huge Bogue Sound, and at Morehead City head north for the first time. Most of Georgia and South Carolina has been more east than north. In fact, Cape Cod is about 800 miles east of Key Largo and 1,200 miles north. Cross the Neuse River and tie up at a marina in the lovely port of Oriental, "the sailing capital of North Carolina." A thousand miles down; 900 to go. Some nasty weather provides three days to charge the batteries - literally and figuratively.
Bill drives down from Boston and comes aboard - for the official birthday party. Champagne! We sail for several days on the Bay, Pamlico and Pungo rivers to the mouth of the Alligator River and Albemarle Sound. Warnings about this treacherous piece of water have haunted me for months. So we cross the wide and shallow 16 miles at 5 a.m. and enjoy the sunrise, before the nasty winds and chop pick up.
Had looked forward to the 28 miles of the Great Dismal Swamp, laid out by surveyor George Washington in the 1700s and dug by his slaves. It turns out to be a lovely piece of water, but Highway 17, which runs beside most of it, spoils any sense of seclusion.
The Elizabeth River takes us through the Portsmouth and Norfolk Naval bases. The insignificance of a 17-foot catboat is juxtaposed with the significance of humongous carriers, submarines, tenders, and other mighty, metal instruments of war. All are protected from our threat by machine-gun-mounted patrol boats. An overwhelming feeling. Relocate the anchor a record three times during the night to find a comfortable night's sleep in Hampton Roads. Bill does the muddy work in his PJs.
I drop him off on the western shore of the Chesapeake and set out, alone once again. Take a two-day detour to visit friends on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, well up the Wicomico River. Lots of motoring.
Fortunately, the weather on the Chesapeake is gentle and winds favorable, so I sail and motor-sail up to the C&D Canal into Chesapeake City. At 4 a.m., a long 14-hour day begins. Catch the five-knot current into the Delaware River. The current also favors me down huge and potentially nasty Delaware Bay. Make it through the Cape May Canal in Cape May Harbor after a new record of 75 miles made good.
Next morning at 6, Charley comes aboard, and we head up the narrow, skinny, and convoluted waters of southern New Jersey. Fortunately, few other boats find these conditions welcoming, so traffic and wakes are not a problem. After my first nighttime sailing, we arrive in Beach Haven at 11 p.m., illuminated by a fine moon and the glowing GPS. There are no ICW mile markers after Norfolk but we estimate another 75 miles for today.
Next day pass through expansive Barnegat Bay and make Charley's homeport on the north end. Beaton Boat Yard in Mantoloking may have the largest congregation of catboats of any yard in the country. Ibis feels right at home. Me too.
After a couple of days of rest and recuperation, take Harry aboard for the passage out the Manasquan Inlet for Ibis' first encounter with the open Atlantic Ocean. With Harry doing great work navigating and deciphering the "Eldridge" tide tables, we make Sandy Hook, the Verrazano Bridge, and get into the East River of New York City. Timing is perfect to catch the strong flow toward Long Island Sound. As we come through Hell Gate, our speed over the ground - with sail, outboard and current - peaks at 10 knots, a record never to be approached again, I'm sure. Another whopping 65 miles down.
We are advised not to anchor near shore in this area as local hoodlums delight in seeing if they can hit visiting vessels with rocks. So much for Rudy's crime-stoppers! After a night under the Throgs Neck Bridge - the last of many, many bridges we go under - enter Long Island Sound. It's beginning to feel like we're going to make it.
One long day into Westbrook, and another day into the beautiful port of Stonington, Conn. New England! Just in time to seek shelter from yet another tropical depression. Heavy rains and winds.
Friend Gordon - the last of the parade of crewmembers - arrives from Maine for the final leg. We wait for the seas to calm down after the storm - and wait. Finally, after three days, the marine weather announced that the ocean swells are down from 10 to three feet and a light northwest breeze is to prevail. Once again Ibis sets out into the Atlantic.
Alas, between Point Judith, R.I., and Cuttyhunk, our destination for the day, some final and fearsome weather makes an appearance. Unexpectedly, swells suddenly rise to six feet. A storm brings rains and 30-knot winds along with a two-foot chop on top of the swells. Not what we had bargained for.
We are surfing down mountainous swells, in danger of broaching. Life harness, jackets on. Not a boat in sight. Water temperature 50 degrees. Decks awash. Too much sail up, but unable to go forward to put in the double reef. I'm not sure where "the edge" is for Ibis, but we are perilously close to it. The kayak doesn't look like much of a lifeboat. More white knuckles. Gordon announces, helpfully, "Roland, there's no one I'd rather die with."
After 1,900 miles and two months on the water, this is the finale. I'm pleased to be here to report that, after two hours of these relentless conditions, the rains abate, the winds and seas drop to manageable proportions, and we sail into Cuttyhunk inner harbor - to a peanut-butter sandwich, a glass of wine, and a nap for two ancient mariners.
The final day of the passage saw Ibis traverse Buzzards Bay and wind her way up the Wareham River to the Cape Cod Shipbuilding Company, where Barbara stands on the dock to greet us. She is relieved. So are we. Enough is enough. After 8½ weeks, we had reached our destination.
Roland Sawyer Barth , recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, is the author of five books about improving public schools. He is a former public school educator and faculty member at Harvard University. His most recent sailing book, "Tales of the Intracoastal Waterway," about this cruise, was published by The Catboat Association earlier this spring. For details, visit www.catboats.org. He and Barbara live and sail in New England and Florida.
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