Chapter Two
Sights and Scenes along the ICW
The rain hadn’t stopped as we eased our way out of The Boatyard at Hampstead. Gerald and his crew watched to see if we cleared the tight channel. The mechanic, Steve, was standing on the pier, next to Gerald. He still had the huge stilson wrench used to tighten something in the engine room. I yelled to him as we pulled away: You don’t have a hangover this morning do you? You’ll soon know, he yelled back.
George had to turn the boat around in a tight area so several reverses and forwards were necessary. Mud kicked up from the new prop but we didn’t hit bottom, as we did bringing the Maffitt up here a couple of weeks ago.
Mr. Kay settled into a bench in the aft and enjoyed a cigarette as Earnest and I kept George company in the small wheelhouse. George had brought their puppy, Ming, along and she was shivering. Ming is a shiatsu, about three months old and she was either scared to death or freezing, or both. I held on to her while George piloted the boat. Ming responded to my touch and settled down on a small ledge in front of the wheel.
The water was like glass, except for the raindrops and these subsided after a bit. We were able to look ashore and comment on the passing views. To our right were periodic houses, some grand but most not so much. To our left was marsh and further into the horizon we could see barrier islands such as Topsail (say Topsul) and Figure Eight. The latter is home to the ubber-rich. The only way on to the island is by a private, manned, bridge. The islanders, mostly seasonal, have been fighting beach erosion for a decade or more. They have poured millions into beach restoration and have used controversial sandbags to stem the tides. These bags are huge, probably 10’ by 5’ and look like beached whales. They are no longer permitted as they are viewed an attempt to fool Mother Nature, which we all know cannot be done.
George took a break from piloting and let me take the wheel. He told me the channel was about sixty feet wide and to keep the red buoys on my right. Red, right, return; red, right, return. We passed a buoy with 270 written on a board. That means we are 270 miles from Norfolk, Virginia. You will see a marker like that every five miles, George said. The ICW begins and stops in Norfolk. By this time it was becoming a bit warmer so Earnest and George settled into the bench in front of the wheelhouse.
We were with the tide and doing a bit over ten knots. George asked me to keep an eye on the temperature gauge and if it approached 200 degrees, throttle back. Two hundred is the tipping point for a diesel engine, especially one over sixty years old.
Just then a lone porpoise surfaced off our port bow. These animals fascinate us all. Being so close to it allowed me to see just how smooth and clean its skin is. There was a short, almost silent, blast as it cleared it’s breathing and suck in another breath.
After almost two hours, or so, we were approaching the Wrightsville Beach Bridge. George radioed to the tender that we were a commercial vessel and would like a bridge opening. On the way up we didn’t invoke the privilege and shredded an antenna. Normally opened only on the hour, our boat could get it opened anytime. The tender acknowledged that he would open it. We were still about a mile away, and would take at least seven, maybe ten minutes, to get there. If you are in a car waiting for the bridge to close, seven minutes is a lifetime. As it opened a huge cruiser coming north barged towards us. The captain had evidently heard George’s conversation with the bridge tender and took advantage of the commercial opening. George told me the boat coming with the tide has right of way, so it was coming through first. Boats are more difficult to handle when being pushed by tides. It didn’t really matter because our little craft was chugging slowly. We gave the tender a short toot from our horn as we passed between the pilings. I imagine the motorists would like to give us a little something else. We had made them wait a good fifteen minutes. Tough. We’re commercial, Dude. You can tell by the broad sign on the side of the Maffitt: BOAT RIDES $4.
By now we were ready for some lunch so George pushed the boat up against the dock at The Dockside restaurant. This place looks like every joint on the water. Rough-timbered outsides with a bit of paint, screens on a porch or two, picnic tables, umbrellas. We settled into the upstairs room and watched the boats go by. The waitress came over and bantered a little with us. Wilmington is a college town and an actor’s town. Screen Gems makes its home here. So, we have the best educated and best looking wait staff this side of Beverly Hills. Katie was just learning the ropes but she had watched us get off the boat. Can I get a ride, she asked? I quickly raised my eyebrows and suggested we would waive the $4 charge. Still want to take a ride, I asked? Not anymore she cheerfully but warily replied. George and I had the fried shrimps, Earnest the burger and Mr. Kay, had chowder and a hot dog—all the way.
We departed without incident and after taking the boat to mid-channel George gave me the wheel. We were now headed into Earnest’s old neighborhood. His Dad was the comptroller for Atlantic Coast Lines, at that time a major railroad. The railroad’s beginnings can be traced to 1835. By 1840 it had 161 miles of track, the longest in the world at the time. Through a series of mergers it became the Wilmington, Columbia and August RR in 1846. Dozens of mergers followed until ACL and its predecessors were scooped up by CSX in 1987.
Before that, ACL employed almost 3,000 in Wilmington. Without much advance word the railroad picked-up and relocated to Jacksonville, FL in 1956. This had a devastating effect upon Wilmington; all of a sudden there were no jobs, no pedestrians on the sidewalks, empty buildings all over. The city only recovered when I-40 was completed. This allowed traffic from I-95 as well as Raleigh to get here in half the time.
By the time Earnest’s family left for Jacksonville, he was in college. We were passing they house in which he had grown up. The house is white, three storied with porches on each level with modest columns. It sits a, maybe, twenty feet higher that the water and about three hundred feet away from the ICW. At the time of Earnest’s youth they had twenty acres along the water. There are now a dozen houses on the cut-up property. He pointed out Money Island, as we passed. This is no more a spit of sand, rather than an island. It has a couple of bushes and maybe a tree or two. But you could walk the length of it in ten minutes. But this, supposedly, is where Blackbeard buried his treasure. As a boy Earnest and his pals would row over to Money Island and dig, looking for treasure.
Earnest was on the water all the time. As a thirteen year old he tells of having a fourteen-foot wooden skiff get swamped as he came in from the ocean. He was able to pull the submerged boat along as he swam to the beach.
We were now facing the tide and our speed had dropped to 8mph. I dropped the RPM’s back a bit to keep the engine cooler. As we passed Carolina Beach the water churned as the ICW met the ocean and water from the cut. Snow’s Cut is a man-made channel between Carolina Beach and the Cape Fear River. The cut allows us to enter the river without a long detour into the ocean. Exiting the cut the wind picked up measurably and we all crammed into the pilothouse. I offered to turn over the helm to George but he humored me with a compliment so I kept driving.
Navigating in the river is much different. It is broader, the waves can be a little higher, there are more birds on the water and the buoys are huge. Instead of the dinky one’s on the ICW these buoys are meant to help navigate ocean-going ships. Wilmington is a significant port; it has eight derricks to lift containers and put them on rail cars or trailers. It is no Rotterdam, of course, but it contributes to the economy. There is discussion about building a Super-port in Southport, about twenty miles down river. That could crimp things a bit. But it would be a multi-billion dollar project and ultimately add greatly to Southeast North Carolina.
I was following a GPS George had brought along. The screen showed our boat and a line that I was to follow. This line was made by satellite on our way up to the boatyard, two weeks ago. Because we were now going only 8mph the boat steered a bit heavy. Too much to the left had to be quickly corrected or I would go off course. Even though the GPS showed the next buoy I used the binoculars to spot it and aimed for it. From time to time George urged me to lean a little left or right.
I really loved this part of the trip. The river is so broad, there are islands that should be explored, the far mainland sported grand houses, hundreds and hundreds of cormorants flew up in front of me, a stray duck or two bobbed to the right of the boat. But the best part was being in the ship channel. Besides the large buoys there were light markers. These are designed to set your course. Line up the front light with the backlight and you are going to be fine. This navigation system must make a container ship captain, coming in at night, a whole lot more confident.
As we approached the high level bridge close to downtown I gave the wheel to George. That gave me a moment to look around; at the port and the looming cranes, a couple of huge red tugs resting on the south shore, listen to the whine of the cars and trucks above us on the bridge and review a couple of grand old ship captain’s houses along the shore.
As a boy I had spent considerable time on Lake Erie, we had a house on an island there. But my Dad instilled in me the fear of pending doom from water. He was convinced at least one of his six children would drown. Thankfully, he never knew just how reckless we all were with our little boats. Nor did he see us body surf the enormous waves churned up by Nor’easters. Today I had become more and more comfortable on the water in a very short time. It may be time for me to explore it a little more.
I was sorry our little adventure had come to an end.
