Onward to the jumping off point

Port Saint Joe is a quaint little town with a great little marina. We ran into a group of sailors from Fort Walton that have an annual cruise to PSJ. They were very friendly and we enjoyed a dock visit with them before dinner. They had one member who was doing the cruise on a 14-foot catamaran with a Walmart tent spread out on his trampoline for sleeping. My crew and I decided that he is a Coast Guard rescue waiting to happen.


We saw yet another beautiful sunset before we set out for dinner in town.

The Port Saint Joe Marina is perfectly located for a trip up the Gulf Canal toward Apalachicola. We departed on Thursday morning about 9:00 a.m. and motored underneath the Highway 98 bridge into the canal about 9:30. It was the first time this crew had been in a man-made canal. It was ugly. We were bucking a 1 knot current and we were dodging hundreds of crab pots and lots of floating debris. The canal runs 5 miles north to join the Intracoastal Waterway. At the intersection, we turned east and meandered toward Lake Wimico. There were more Bald Eagles than we could count.

About noon, the narrow "ditch" opened up into a wide shallow lake, Lake Wimico, about 5 miles long. As we exited the lake, the current shifted to push us instead of working against us. We made sandwiches and motored through the railroad swing bridge that was wide open. By 2:00 p.m. we were tied up at Scipio Creek Marina in Apalachicola for the night.


We wandered around Apalachicola, eating oysters and learning about the fishing industry.


Ninety percent of all the oysters in the U.S. come from this area. The shrimp and scollop industry used to be the mainstay of the local economy, but has obviously fallen way off in recent times because of competition from foreign shrimp.


After dinner, we wandered down the waterfront and Ryan worked his way into the hold of a shrimp boat that was being unloaded at the dock. John and I were visiting with the owner of beautiful Island Packet 39 a few hundred yards down the wharf. We assumed that the shrimp boats were unloading shrimp into the waiting tractor trailers. When Ryan returned to us an hour later, we were astounded to hear that the boats were unloading "Cannonball Jellyfish," not shrimp.


It turns out that Japanese and Chinese men like to eat the meat of this jellyfish believing that it helps their sex drive. So, the former shrimpers are now filling their holds with jellyfish and shipping it to the far east.

The weather forecast was not looking good for a jump from Carrabelle to Clearwater on Saturday, which was the plan. Since I might be "locked down" for a few days waiting on the weather to improve, we debated staying put in Apalachicola since it is a bigger town that Carrabelle.


John said, "Yes, I hear there is a car rusting festival here this weekend." His point was well made -- Apalachicola is no party town. So we decided to set sail for Carrabelle the next morning.

We shoved off of the dock at Scipio Creek Marina about 8:00 a.m. The forecast was telling us it would be a cloudy day, but we had long since learned not to trust the weatherman. Early morning clouds burned off and we enjoyed a beautiful day as we motored under the highway bridge into St. George Sound. The Sound is so shallow that boaters must stay in a dredged fairway that runs due south into the bay.


After a few miles, the dredged fairway takes a 90-degree turn to the east. When we made this turn, the wind was now favorable for motor sailing so we raised the mainsail.

After passing through a huge fleet of Oyster fisherman, the dredged channel took another turn toward the northeast.


We were running ahead of schedule, so we decided to roll out the genoa and shut off the engine.


The wind was blowing about 7 knots and we were able to make about 5 knots sailing under the main and genoa.


A group of dolphins started swimming with us, knowing that we no longer had a propeller turning that was dangerous to them.

We sailed up the entrance fairway toward Carrabelle about 1:00 p.m. We called C-Quarters Marina on the radio and they said they had a transient berth for the night. We pulled up to the marina and refueled before pulling into the slip assigned to us. John and Ryan packed up their belongings and loaded them into the car of a lady who had agreed to drive them back to their car in Destin.

I hated to see them go. It had been a really good week of good weather, good food and good friends.

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Another forecast mistake...but this one in our favor

I intended to get up at 6 a.m. on Tuesday to do the final departure chores from Destin Harbor. Instead, I awoke at 3 a.m. I decided to walk up to the restroom by the marina office so I wouldn't wake up my new crew, Ryan and John, with the noise of our manual pump toilet. When I got back, they were both awake asking if it was time to go. I laughed and told them they could get three more hours of sleep. This crew was ready for action!


When we finally did depart at 6:30, I was THRILLED to see the waters in Destin Pass. It looked like a lake compared to what I had come through a week earlier. I tried to explain to John and Ryan what it looked like, but it was one of those things you just had to see to believe. I found out by researching the offshore data buoys that Barry and I had navigated 8-10 foot seas. This day, the seas were 1-2 foot...a piece of cake.

At 7:00 a.m., we rounded the last buoy and set our chart plotter for the entrance pass to St. Andrews Bay, 43 nautical miles ahead. The computer said we would be there at 1:30 if we maintained our present speed of 6.5 knots. The wind was blowing out of the NE at about 10 knots, but the forecast was for the wind to swing around to the ESE, exactly where we were pointed. I decided to go ahead and put up the mainsail because the wind was building. I figured we might as well use it until the wind changed to the forecasted direction. Guess what. The weatherman missed it again. It never did swing around, so we motor-sailed all morning and arrived at the pass at 1:00 p.m. -- thirty minutes ahead of the original projection. In addition to the added speed, the sail made the ride so much smoother. The sail acts like a giant wind vane to slow the pitching and yawing creased by the rough seas.

Late in the morning, we saw a huge naval vessel off in the distance -- in fact right at the pass we were heading to. An hour later as we got very close, we saw a rigid inflatable boat full of Navy Seals slide down a ramp between the catamaran hulls into the Gulf with a splash. I was getting so close that I called the captain on the radio and he told me to hold my course and he would turn out of our way. Even the Navy was moving out of the way of Agaliha! John got on his smart phone and learned that the experimental vessel, named Sea Fighter, is super stealth and capable of 50 knots plus speed.


We turned into St. Andrew's Bay and anchored behind beautiful Shell Island. We spent a beautiful sunny afternoon on the deck watching jellyfish swim by. Ryan had wanted to dive for crabs, but the jellyfish were a strong deterrent. We made a great dinner of the Royal Red Shrimp we had bought in the seafood market the day before.





Wednesday's trip to Port St. Joe was a carbon copy of the trip to Panama City, only shorter. We motor sailed to the entrance buoys. The trip from there to the Port St. Joe Marina was a long one because the sound is HUGE. The marina was very nice and clean -- and they seemed glad to have us. They bill themselves as the Friendliest Marina on the Panhandle. The little town is friendly and quaint. That's a nice way of saying it is dead. We had a very good meal at a local restaurant and then stopped in the local bar to get a nightcap and shoot some pool. The 10 aged locals in the bar were taking turns at the karaoke microphone. We got a lot of entertainment for our $4 drinks!


Tomorrow's itinerary is a 25-mile hop through the Gulf Intra Coastal Waterway to Apalachicola. The weather forecast is good and the fall days here are just beautiful -- even if the bars aren't.




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It takes a (fishing) village

I had no idea when I was planning this trip that I would stay an entire week in Destin. But I got a little ahead of schedule, and after the beating we took last Tuesday, it was a great respite. I owe lots of friends for their part in making Destin such a great stop.

My friend Richard's slip at the Destin Yacht Club was fabulous. The whole time Linda was with me we never moved the boat. At home, she hates to stay at the dock. But at the Destin Yacht Club, we both loved being at the dock. The people were so nice, the weather was perfect (cool nights, sunny and breezy days), and the wildlife and views of Destin Harbor were easy to soak in.

Then, Barry and his wife Madge loaned us their car for several days. So, I got a haircut, restocked the boat and was able to pick up Linda at the airport. We had mistakenly assumed that she would be able to get a cab from the airport, but her flight arrived at midnight and the little airport had rolled up the sidewalks and locked up. Also, Madge and Barry's friends, Mike and Elise made the trip very special.








I was parked next to a Viking 65 sportfish Yacht which was manned by its professional captain, Louis, a americanized Bahamian who has spent all of his 69 years on the water. We became friends over the week and he offered me all kinds of stuff and advice. He never seemed to tire of my questions about the Bahamas, about sport fishing, about the weather patterns in the Gulf, etc. When Linda arrived, he warmed up to her right away (go figure) and answered her probing questions about his personal life. She learned that he was not married ("This life no work for a wife, mon."). She said, "Don't you get lonesome?" In a long answer we learned that he has 17 children by seventeen different mothers. We think they all live in the Bahamas. Don't guess he is lonesome for long.

My last day, he gave me bag of frozen baitfish to troll behind the boat. When he saw my little freshwater fishing rod, he said, "Whachu gonna catch with dat, mon?" I wasn't going to make any obvious comments about the size of equipment to a man that has fathered seventeen children.

He gave us a tour of the boat that was truly one of the most impressive vessels I have ever been aboard. There were more freezers and refrigerating compartments than we could count. The cabins looked like something on a Ritz Carlton. Even Louis' cabin was nicer than anything on our boat. The carpet throughout the boat was white...which would explain why we had to remove our boat shoes to enter (No shoes inside, Mon.) The sliding door from the aft deck opened with the tap of a toe button. The bilges were cleaner than any refrigerator I have ever owned.


But, at some point, all cruising boat has to leave the marina. My new crew arrived 30 minutes after Linda's cab left on Monday. After going through the boat systems, safety discussions, etc., we motored the boat over the the fuel dock. Now we were ready to venture out Tuesday morning at first light. We would go back through Destin Pass and back into "The Washing Machine." I tossed and turned in my berth Monday night wondering what we would find the next day.

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Destin returns to normal

As planned, Linda arrived from Boston on Thursday at midnight. Thank you, U.S. Air! It was still unseasonably cold, so the heat in the boat felt good when we got to the marina.

When we awoke on Friday, we wrapped up to go for a walk. After a good long walk on the sidewalks of Highway 98, we turned around and found our way to "The Donut Hole," the best breakfast in Destin for generations. While we were waiting for a table, I heard my name and turned around to see my step-brother Bobby and his wife from Columbus, Georgia. I had not seen him in years and we exchanged bear hugs. They came by the boat later and we had a great visit. He is a Harley Davidson aficionado, and was in Destin for a Harley event that brought out more leather and do-rags than I had seen in a while.


The temperature soared to 76 for the first time since Monday and Linda and the sun were helping me forget how miserable Tuesday was. We sat in the sun of Destin harbor and recharged our human batteries. A little Zac Brown Band playing "Toes in the sand" while sipping a Dark and Stormy is hard to beat.


I couldn't help but start my weather research for the trip to Panama City. My next crew was scheduled to arrive on Monday, with hopes of setting out for PC early Tuesday morning. Unfortunately, the weather isn't looking good. Not nearly as bad as this past Tuesday, but I've learned my lesson. I'm not going until it's perfect. So, I'm not making the call today. I will wait and look at the forecast on Sunday. In the meantime, life is good in Destin and we're having a great time.


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The weather gods finally weigh in

Monday morning, we left Orange Beach on a leisurely schedule because we only had a short trip to Big Lagoon at the mouth of the pass at Pensacola. I was now two full weeks into the trip and had had nothing short of perfect weather every day. Monday was no different.

We pulled out of "The Wharf" Marina about 9:30 and motored through the Gulf Intra Coastal Waterway to get as close as possible to the pass into the Gulf. Our new-found friends at the marina had showed us their favorite anchorage on the chart and we headed straight for it. We arrived about lunch time and settled in for a leisurely afternoon of reading and boat chores. The sky was perfectly clear and the temperatures rose into the mid-eighties. I used the transom shower to rinse off with fresh water after I had stood on the ladder to bathe in the salt water.

One of the boat chores was to load the chart plotter with a waypoint for the entrance to Destin Harbor so that that we could navigate straight to it on Tuesday. Doing this in advance of Tuesday morning turned out to be a really good idea, which I will say more about in a minute.

We had another great meal from the cockpit grill. As were were cooking, we could see dolphins swimming between us and beautiful sunset behind the boat. Another beautiful day in paradise.








Back at "The Wharf" Marina, there had been a lot of discussion about the cold front that was approaching from the north. There was also a low pressure system in the southern gulf that was dumping rain on southern Florida. The forecast was for the weather to get ugly (gale force winds) on Wednesday, so we wanted to get to Destin to ride it out. The winds were forecasted to be moderate (10-15) out of the NNW on Tuesday, a perfect direction to sail east to Destin.

Well, in hindsight, I can tell you that weather forecasting here is no better than it is at home. The interplay between these two weather systems was hard to read, even by the experienced professionals. So, by now, you have probably figured out that Tuesday did not turn out at forecasted.

By the way, the reason that we have to venture out of the protected GICW into the Gulf is that there are three bridges too short for our mast. All three are charted at 49 feet and we need 52.

We got up before the sun to prep the boat for the trip in open water. We stored all breakable objects in secure holds. When I pulled up the anchor, I lashed it to to the boat instead of relying on the windlass tension to hold it. We ate a little breakfast as we motored in the east wind toward the ocean pass a mile ahead. As soon as we got to the buoys for the pass, the water got ugly. There were 3 to 5 foot swells that were rolling into the bay. I assumed that they were caused by the transition from deep water to shallow and that it would get batter when we got away from the mouth of the pass.

At about 7:30, one hour into this this 42-mile trip, we were 2 miles off shore and had turned due east toward Destin. The water was 70 feet deep and the wind was blowing straight at us at 15 knots. When was the wind going to shift to the north as forecasted? The question of the day.

I'm going to try hard to exadurate the next part of this story. I have been in some bad seas in my life. I have sailed in small craft warnings in the BVI and off the coast of Charleston. I have endured huge ocean swells that turn you green. I have never seen water like we saw on Tuesday. I have heard this term used by many mariners and now I understand it -- the waters were "confused." There was no pattern to the roughness, only mayhem. Some waves fell off so sharply after we crested them that the boat would fall off the back side and crash into the trough below. Then the next wave would be from another angle to rock the boat sideway. It was like watching a rubber duck in a washing machine.

So, you are probably wondering, why didn't we turn around? Several reasons. One, the damn forecast said the wind direction was going to turn in our favor. Second, I was motoring into the waves at a manageable, albeit uncomfortable, angle and I wasn't sure what it might be like if these waves were hitting us from the stern. I watched the chart plotter "speed over ground" reading and were were averaging 4 knots --five in the better periods and three when the boat would fall off a wave and crash. So, unless it got worse, I knew we had fuel and daylight to make Destin, the only harbor for a long way.

So, we just slogged it out. Neither of could eat anything. We concentrated on staying hydrated. We listened to the weather radio and the forecast continued to say the winds would change. They never did. And we heard that one of the weather buoys not far from us was reporting 9-foot swells. For nine hours, we watched the chart plotter slowly tick off our progress toward Destin. At one point, Barry went below to replenish our water and tea and I was truly afraid that he might get thrown around and break an arm or a leg. He managed not to do that, although it may be Christmas before his bruises heal. He reported that all of our preparations had paid off and that nothing was broken below.

About noon, the wind did die down to 8-10 knots (incessantly from the east) and this improved out condition a little. The boat didn't crash as often and our SOG (satellite measured speed over ground) improved by a few tenths of a knot. But I was still worried because I knew what was ahead -- Destin Pass. I had been in this pass in a small powerboat a few summers before. On a very nice summer day, this narrow pass scared the hell out of me. The water is always rough, the pass is shallow, and the boat traffic is intense. The only good news for us today was there was no boat traffic. No other fools were out in this stuff.

When we got to the entrance buoy, I turned the boat north and could scarcely believe what I saw ahead. On either side of the next pair of entrance buoys, there were 12-foot breakers rolling over the shallows. In the center, where I was headed, they weren't breaking but they were the same height. I asked Barry to get out the boards that close the companionway so that the boat wouldn't fill up with water if we got hit by a wave from the rear. I looked at the tachometer of the little Yanmar and said, "don't fail me now." Right as we split the buoys, one of the monster swells lifted us and to my great relief I was able to keep the boat pointed in the general direction we wanted to go. I could see calmer water ahead.

In a very short distance, the waters calmed and now all I had to worry about finding deep enough water to get into Destin Harbor. There had been dock rumors in Orange Beach about shoaling in this narrow entrance so I was thrilled when the depth sounder showed 9 feet or more all the way in. We were on a rising tide so I figured even if we ran aground we would float off shortly and I was just glad to be out of the washing machine.

We proceeded to the Destin Yacht Club, where my friend Richard had arranged for us to be his guest. He has a 40-foot slip in this marina and the dock master welcomed us and helps get tied up. Ten minutes later, Barry's friends from Memphis showed up to transport him to a beach house they had rented for the week. They invited me to go along and I jumped at the chance to use a land shower and wash my laundry.


So, all's well that ends well, but I learned that I'm not venturing out in the Gulf unless the weather forecast is perfect. That might mean I have to sit still for a few days, but that will have to be O.K.

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Beautiful Mobile Bay

If this trip were about setting speed records, we would have just left Dog River and gone straight to Orange Beach. But, then again, if this were about speed we would have driven a car. We set out on Saturday morning from the western shore of Mobile Bay, bound for Fairhope, AL on the eastern shore. The winds were out of the north at 10-15, so we raised the sails as soon as we cleared the bridge leaving Dog River. We had a fun and rapid sail across the bay that brought us to Fairhope before 11:00 a.m.

We entered the narrow fairway, hoping to see a sign for a marina. There were boats everywhere, and no signs. There was a nice lady sitting in her sailboat and I asked if there were any transient slips for rent. She said, "No, this is a yacht club, but you are welcome to stay here if you'd like! Just pull up to one of the T-docks right over there and go see the lady in the bar at the clubhouse." Damn, we liked this place already.

The lady in the bar was one Sue Brown, a 17-year employee of the Fairhope Yacht Club. She made us feel at home instantly, and didn't even seem to mind that we were from Tennessee (smile). We ordered a cheeseburger and a beer and settled in to watch some SEC football on the flat screen TVs.

By multiple conversations, we learned that the Fairhope Y.C. had been devastated by Hurricane Katrina. In fact, it was a total loss. But three years to the day later (August 29, 2008) the club dedicated a brand new clubhouse which has to be the envy of any club in America. I'll let the pictures do the talking.








We also met up with a friend of a friend, Will, who drove us around Fairhope and Point Clear and gave us a "Chamber of Commerce" tour. He showed us his beautiful 49-foot Pilothouse cruiser and gave me some valuable tips about the waters ahead. Once again, we were wowed by Alabama hospitality.


After watching the Vols get whipped by LSU, we walked over a mile to get to a restaurant that was only 100 yards away from our boat. It was on the other side of the cove, so we had to walk into town, down the street, and back out the other side. We needed some exercise anyway. We had a great grilled seafood basket outdoors on the beach of the Fly Creek Cafe. There were no flies. Only good food and nice people.

The next morning, Sunday, we pushed off at 6:45 as the sun came up to sail South to the bottom of Mobile Bay. We motored about 6 miles to get west of the shallows of Point Clear, then we turned southwest for the entrance of the Gulf Intra Coastal Waterway. On this heading, the wind speed and direction was perfect for sailing, so we hoisted the mainsail and launched the spinnaker. We sailed on the same heading for about 3 hours (over 18 miles) which is something you never get to do on Lake Chickamauga. At one point, we hit seven knots as the big "chute" pulled us along.


The view from my cabin

When we turned the boat into the GICW, the wind was on our nose, so we doused the sails and motored the remaining 15 miles to "The Wharf" -- a beautiful marina in Orange Beach.


We arrived about 2:00 and it was a very warm day in the mid eighties. The forecast is for a cool front to come through on Tuesday, so I decided today was the day for me to get in the water to scrub the "Looper's Mustache" off of the bow. I was almost proud of the mud stain that forms from powering through 700 miles of muddy river water, but my desire for a clean boat won out. The water was warm (82) and it felt good to get in. As they watched me get in the water, the other boaters in the marina seemed totally convinced that people from Tennessee are nuts. Case closed.


Looper's Mustache--before I scrubbed it off

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Milestone -- saltwater

We woke up Friday with a sense of excitement about reaching Mobile bay. Climbing the steps into the cockpit revealed a spectacular morning with slight steam on the water lit by the sunrise. We were underway by 7:05, with the engine purring like a sewing machine.


We were 52 miles from "Mile Zero" of the Tennessee Tombigbee. At 8:30 we could feel the familiar turbulence in the water created by a towboat ahead. The disturbed water from these behemoths travels for miles. Sure enough, as we came around a bend we saw a downbound tow pushing six barges of coal. Fortunately, we had a rare wide, straight section of the river coming up to pass him. There was another tow in front of him, so we passed them both. This was getting to be "old hat."

The river was starting to look different. There was hanging moss in the trees. There were gulls and terns mixed in with our now familiar herons, egrets and kingfishers. At mile mark 23 we celebrated at our fist sighting of a pelican. Salt water can't be far away.

The only navigational hazard between us and the bay was a swing bridge at mile 13.2. There has been a lot of buzz about this bridge since we left Chattanooga. It is scheduled to be replaced on Oct. 30, and the river will be closed to navigation for several days. We passed the replacement bridge a few miles upstream of the new one. It was a gleaming new structure covered with dozens of workers in hard hats.

When the old bridge came into view, I had a little difficulty raising the bridge tender on the radio because I wasn't call the bridge by the right name. My chart showed it as the CSX Railroad Bridge at mile 13.2. A towboat captain came to my rescue and told me to call it the "Fourteen Mile Bridge." When I did this the tender immediately responded. He said it would take a few minutes to clear the workers from the area so that he could swing the rusty old thing out of my way. Well, it was more than a few minutes. More like a half hour, but I could see workers scurrying about moving things that were in the way of the process. I felt a little guilty that they were doing all of this for me. I got over that when I saw a big towboat round the bend coming up stream. It opened just in time for him to take the east side opening and I took the west.


At this point the marine radio traffic was starting to get very heavy. We were with in range of Mobile Harbor and it sounded like a busy place!

When we came up on an island (appropriately named 12-mile island) our chart showed that we should go around it to the left. My chart plotter shoed it much shallower that way, but I decided to follow the government chart. Almost immediately the depth started shrinking and I actually pulled the engine back to idle when the depth sounder read 6.4 feet. The engine shuddered, and for a second I thought we had run aground. When I put the engine back in gear, it smoothed out and the depth started slowly increasing to 7 feet. A couple of miles later when we got to the end of the island, I could see that the towboats were going around the other side. So much for trusting the government charts.

An hour and a half later we passed under a very pretty (and very high) bridge and entered Mobile Harbor. It was dredge to 40 feet, so depth navigation was not an issue, but traffic was. There were hundreds of barges and tugs tied to the shores. There were all manner of dry-docks, loading cranes and mechanisms. We say a very strange looking craft being built in a huge building on our left side. It was shiny welded aluminum with twin hulls and a long, pointy bow. We learned later that it is an experimental Navy ship, called the Enterprise, capable of 60-knot speeds with a low radar signature. Every boater in Mobile seemed to know about this project and was damn proud of it.

At 2:00 we crossed over Mile Zero and celebrated with a shot of rum. Almost on cue, a dolphin broke the surface as he escorted us into the bay. Agaliha was pumping salt water through her systems for the first time and seemed to like it just fine.

We had travelled 700 miles from Chattanooga with perfect weather and not a single mechanical hitch. We pointed the boat down the Mobile shipping channel toward the cut-off toward Dog River Marina, our home for the night. We got to the marina about 4:00 and then took a courtesy car to Food World for a grocery run.


We ate dinner at the Mobile Yacht Club, where they served us a delicious grouper, stuffed with crabmeat. The seafood goal had been achieved.


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Bobby's Fish Camp

We got up at 7:00 on Thursday and weighed anchor in hopes of getting a fuel top-off at Bobby's Fish Camp, the only fuel stop between Demopolis and Mobile. I could have made it with the fuel on board, but I wanted to be safe. I had heard about this place for years and my first view of the "Stars and Bars" confederate flag sort of confirmed my premonitions.


It turns out that the fuel pump on the dock is not really a fuel pump. It's a hose connector to the real fuel pump 100 yards up the hill. Bobby explained to us later that this gets around some regulation that is overbearing. O.K. Well, I'm thinking that it's the only fuel stop between Demopolis and Mobile so it should be a license to print money.


After a 30 minute wait for the gas powered cruiser to load on 150 gallons of gasoline, I was almost embarrassed to ask for 5 gallons of diesel to top off our tank. $20 goes a long way in a sailboat.


As we were refueling, a towboat passed the dock headed for the lock. Ah-oh, we just got put behind schedule. After 11 locks with no wait, number 12 was going to be awhile. It really wasn't that bad and by 10:00 a.m. were were entering the lock with two other power boats that we had met in Demopolis.

After the lockage, it was clear sailing for the rest of the day. The railroad bridge was already up at the Jackson, AL coal plant. We had a following wind and a little current, so we were making good time. The sun is
out and life is good.

Just as the sun was setting, we pulled into the old Alabama River and dropped anchor. We are 53 miles from Mobile Bay, so we expect to see and smell salt water tomorrow.


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Rhythym of the River

We departed the Demopolis Yacht Basin at 7:00 on Wednesday morning and arrived at the Demopolis Lock about 7:20. Once again, the gates were open and the green light was on. There were three pleasure boats in the lock, including us. We exited the lock before 8:00 and were on our way down the Tombigbee River.


We hounded this poor Egret for five miles!

Alabamians have been looking for ways to make use of the Tombigbee for over one hundred years. In the late 1800s, it was two feet deep below Demopolis and one foot deep above the town. At the turn of the century, they built a series of locks on the Black Warrior River and the Tombigbee to move goods between Brimingham and Mobile.

We were enjoying moving our goods downstream, too, even though it was the first overcast day we have had since the trip started. It was still about 70 degrees, so we were very comfortable. Right about lunchtime we came up on the stern of a down bound towboat, so the little Yanmar had to rev up again to pass a couple thousand tons of coal. The tow captain told us that the railroad bridge up ahead was stored in the up position unless a train was coming, so we didn't even have to call the bridge tender on the radio.


There is an interesting lingo that the tow captains use to communicate how they want to pass other boats on this narrow winding river. Since the days of steamboats, they settled on a code of one whistle = leave me on your port side or two whistles = leave me on your starboard side. But since they now use radios, they say "One whistle, Cap'n" or more often they say, "I'll see you on the one" or "I'll see you on the two." It reminded me of truckers talking on their CB radios in the 70s. But, whatever, we were on their turf and we fell into using their lingo. They were all very cordial and very concerned for everyone's safety -- which makes them different from today's truckers.

As we clicked off the miles, we were trying to determine where we would spend the night. There are very few anchorages along this river. In fact one of the suggested ways to get "off" the river and sleep is to tie up to a bridge piling on the Highway 10 bridge! We passed under this bridge at about 2:00 p.m. and laughed at the prospect of tying off to it. The next possibility was Bashi Creek. We motored past it at 5:00 p.m. and decided it looked too swampy and narrow. But, of course, we were running out of daylight and the next potential anchoring spots were 20 miles away. We decided to risk running out of daylight, since it was a full moon and our chart plotter was working perfectly (meaning we could drive by instuments). Another factor in our favor was that there were no more towboats on the river in our path.


Barry steers us downriver

We made it Okatuppa Creek (MM123.2) at about 7:20 p.m. after spending 30 minutes cruising in the very dark twilight using a search light to lookout for trouble. The Creek was just barely deep enough for us to pull in out of the channel. I dropped anchor and we fired up the grill to sear a pork tenderloin. We had covered 93 miles that day and the celebratory martini was particularly smooth.


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Escape from Pirate's Cove

My crew, Roy, had a business commitment on Wednesday, so I really wanted to get him to Demopolis with plenty of time to do his car shuttling on Tuesday. So we decided to make an aggressive plan to complete the 91.1 miles from Pirates Cove to Demopolis is one day. This required a predawn departure from the marina, via search light to spot the buoys out of the marina. We left at 5:35 with coffee brewing in the galley as we crept our way out of the slough.


Roy and Ron

Our bold plan called for both of the locks between us and Demopolis to be swift lockages with no waiting. Sure enough, the Tom Bevill Lock one mile from Pirate's dump was "green light with gates open" when we got there at 5:50. We were out of the lock at 6:15 with just enough predawn light to center the boat down "the ditch."

We ate our breakfast (microwaved Quiche) with one eye on the auto pilot as we clicked off the miles. There was no wind and the water was glassy, so Agaliha glided along at 8 mph. Roy and I had a great time recalling all of the great things that we had experienced together over the past 30 years of working together.

I called ahead to the Gainesville lock at 10:45 and told the lock master that we should arrive at 11:15. She said, "I have no traffic. The green light will be on and the gates will be open." Roy and I high-fived over the incredible luck that we would pass through 10 locks in three days without a moments delay. It will never happen again. So, we entered Gainesville at 11:15 and exited at 11:45, now only 76 feet above sea level. If we had been delayed by either lock, I had a bail out plan to anchor in an industrial "cut" and then finish the trip on Tuesday morning. It didn't look like I would have to use that back-up plan.

Now, all we had to do was maintain our good speed to cover the remaining 50.1 miles to the Demopolis Yacht Basin. Our speed/distance calculator said we should be there a few minutes after 6:00 p.m. -- just before sunset. One stretch of the river/canal along this section was a straight 10 mile shot heading due east. Unfortunately, the wind came up at 10-15 knots out of the east. So with our speed, we had about a 20 knot wind coming across the deck. Even though it was 77 degrees, it seemed much cooler.

The scenery got better as we got further downriver because we were increasingly using the real Tombigbee riverbed with fewer and fewer man made cuts. We saw a pair of Bald Eagles fishing pretty close to the boat. And we saw a family of four wild boars scurrying along the riverbank. Roy whistled at them and they were terrified of him. He hadn't shaved in three days and I was, too.

At 6:08 we pushed our bow into the Demopolis Yacht Basin, where a dock hand was waiting to help us tie up. He told me the marina was shallow, so he had reserved me the deepest transient space they had. It was 5.1 feet deep. I had one inch to spare. (Let's hope they don't lower the river tonight).


Demopolis Yacht Basin

This marina was a little run down, but we later learned that a brand new facility with floating concrete dock was being dredged out of the river just a few hundred feet upstream. The fuel dock here is a major production because many of the commercial tows stop here to take on thousands of gallons of diesel fuel. This assured me that I would get fresh fuel -- which is really important. I had passed up refueling at Pirate's Cove because I could imagine that their fuel had been there since the Civil War. As a result, I came into Demopolis with only a gallon or two in the tank, which is closer than I like to call it.



The Fuel Dock

We ate a decent meal at the marina's restaurant and then retired to the boat in hopes of watching Monday Night Football. Those hopes were dashed when the TV did its channel scan. We only got one network, PBS and a preaching channel.
The next day I asked an old codger in the marina office if the cable worked and he shook his head no. I told him that we were not able to get but a couple of stations off the air and he said, "Well, that PBS is pretty good and there ain't nuthin' but bad news on the rest of it." Well, alrighty then.

Roy got a ride to Tuscaloosa with a young lady that works in the marina office. She was also going back to pick up my next crew in Tuscaloosa in the afternoon. The logistics of making this plan happen could fill another web site, but so far, it has all worked. I spent the day doing laundry, filling all the tanks and writing. It was a rainy, overcast day -- perfect for those activities.
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Goodbye Civilization

I have heard enough disparaging remarks about rural Mississippi and Alabama in my life that I thought I was prepared for the region surrounding "the Ditch." Well, I wasn't.

We got up at 6:45 this morning and departed our anchorage at MM366.5. By 8:00 a.m. we were in the Aberdeen Lock. Once again the gates were open and light was green when we arrived. That is seven in a row.

At 11:15, we entered the Columbus Lock, and yes, once again the gates opened as we arrived. So make it eight in a row. During our eight hours of motoring today we only encountered one other boat -- an upstream 50-foot cruiser from Indianapolis. Not a singe barge was spotted. Maybe it's because it's Sunday. Or maybe the economy is that slow. It's just not what I expected.


The scenery was nice, but it never changes much. There are lots of white egrets, blue herons and ducks flying around. A few high clouds had blown in from the east accompanied by strong winds from the southeast. Roy and I both wore long pants and long sleeves until well into the day because there was a little nip in the air.

At 3:30 we motored past the Tom Bevill Visitor's Center with the hope of touring it. It is the museum of the TN-Tom, if you will. We quickly acertained that it was not open. In fact, the docks were in such disrepair that we wouldn't have stopped even if it had been open.

Then we turned up the slough toward Pirate's Cove Marina, our destination for the night. If you've been keeping track, this is our first overnight stay at a marina since we left Chattanooga. When we pulled into the marina, I thought seriously about staying another night on the anchor. I don't want to be uncharitable, but it was a dump. I'll let the pictures do the talking.


We borrowed the marina's courtesy van and drove to Aliceville to find a restaurant. We ended up with a MSG and sodium hyperload at a chinese restaurant with no name. Wow, this yachting lifestyle is rich.


Anyway, we covered 60 miles today and locked through two locks...down to 136 feet above sea level. It looks like we will make Mobile by the weekend, and maybe we can find some civilization there.


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The mighty Wilson Lock

Forgot to post this photo Thursday when I climbed the mast.

On Friday morning, we got up early and were accompanied by our hosts, Steve and Toni, along with Chip's wife, Lizzie. Although they live 4 miles from the lock, they had never been through it. We had a 30 minute wait while a big group of bass boats locked up to start a tournament.


Toni and Steve prepare for Wilson Lock at sunrise

We got in and tied off, and the lock began its 93-foot drop down to Pickwick Lake. It is the largest lock on the Tennessee River and I was told it is the largest freshwater lock in North America. In any event it is a monstrous engineering feat.


We pulled into Florence Marina to drop off our guests and get a 11 gallons of fuel. I got our the calculator and figured that we are getting 14 miles per gallon. The current is helping our normal 12 mpg consumption.


Chip Thomas and Captain Ron

We left the marina and turned downstream toward the mouth of the Tenn-Tom Waterway, about 40 miles away. At 2:15 p.m., we turned into Yellow Creek, which is the mouth of the waterway. It is so narrow and inauspicious, you would never know that it is the gateway to the Gulf of Mexico. There are no signs or markings unless you are reading a chart. We celebrated with a "Dark and Stormy" cocktail, since the weather was not.

About six miles into the Waterway, we entered the manmade "Divide Cut" which is affectionately known as the "ditch." It is a 300 foot wide ditch with rip-rap rock on both sides. There are pretty trees and hills on either side, but it has a very mechanical, man-made feel to it (because it is). You also get a heightened sense of speed since you are so close to a wall on either side. We traveled through a 20 mile section of this and needed to get to the end of it to find an anchorage for the night. We knew we wouldn't have enough light to get to the Bay Springs Marina.

About 10 miles down the ditch, we came up on a huge towboat pushing nine barges full of coal at about 6 knots. Since we were going faster than that, and afraid to slow down and use up our daylight, I called the tow captain and asked for his permission to pass. He said yes (probably laughing his ass off) and we revved up the Yanmar diesel and inched our way around. It got my heart racing because we had such a small margin of water between us, the wall, and the towboat. But we did make it and when we anchored as the sun set, we were glad we had pressed on.


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