Eleanor floats contentedly, chrome gleaming in the morning sunlight, dew bubbles rolling off thick, new varnish. A full moon still hovers over the West River as her owners and caretakers, Jon and I, board, toting only our last-minute provisions. Our crew, Craig and Jenn Barnabee wrestle their gear aboard, stowing it neatly in the compact guest bunk room, which until recently had served as stowage for tool boxes and cans of Awlwood.

Eleanor, named for the former first lady as a hardworking and hardy lady—stylish even if she needed a bit of upkeep, is a 52-foot Choey Lee Midnight Lace.  We’d spent just over a year replacing bits of her parts, overhauling others, pulling and tightening her inside and out until we declared her fit for a voyage. Now, on this crisp, shiny morning, she is ready.

           

            We left Chesapeake Yacht Club at 7:02, with the leisurely goal of cruising the Intracoastal Waterway, reaching Eleanor’s winter port, Charleston, South Carolina, by Thanksgiving.  

  Both Jon and I are blissful at Eleanor’s steadfast performance as we cruised uneventfully down the Chesapeake, spotting the occasional dolphin and dodging the occasional crab pot. The ladies helmed often, taking breaks to slap together lunches and warm up below. About eight hours of steady speed landed us in Hampton Virginia, where there was time before sundown to scrub the boat then entertain friends for cocktails before heading off to dinner. 

DAY TWO

Another 7am departure treated us to bottom-up views of menacing Navy warships lined along the docks at Norfolk. Jon was able to describe various types and point out cannons and structural differences until we ran out of ships, passing bouy 26—our official welcome to the Intracoastal, then easily slid under the first bridge. It was the second, (or technically, third) which became our first obstacle. I binoculared the radio channel.

 “Gilmerton Bridge, channel 13.” I called out. Jon radioed the tender.

“This is Eleanor, the dark hulled fly bridge. When can we expect that railroad bridge to open?”

“I’m double checking. Ah, yes, it’s closed until Tuesday.” Today was Sunday. I began thinking this would be a long time to float around the ICW.

“That’s strange because I read that the closure was last week,” Jon responded. “Musta changed.”

More than a fly in the ointment, we’d have to toss our entire plan. Jon began shuffling charts.

“Looks like we’re headed out to sea,” he said, all grins. I wasn’t sure. 

“We’ll be able to see land the whole way, correct?”  The idea of our work of art, our pride, our personal tender bouncing about without a point of reference made me a little nervous. 

“We will. We’re coming out here,” he pointed to a chart, and we’ll go back in here,” he said, pointing to the Oregon Outlet. Or inlet, maybe depending on which way you’re going. Next he called a marina and made a dock reservation at Wachese, North Carolina. 

I took the wheel as we poked back up the Intracoastal, leaving the Gilmerton obstacle in our wake. A few hours later I took Eleanor across the line of demarcation into the great Atlantic. Pretty exhilarating… our girl was now an ocean-going vessel! She coasted gracefully up and down the ocean swells as Jon, Craig, Jenn and I swapped turns at the helm.

It was while Jen was piloting that the wind began to ripple then chop, making deeper and deeper troughs between waves. We passed around prophylactic Dramamine, swinging from seat to seat, avoiding unnecessary weaves through the cabin.  Eleanor cut through the seas, seeming to revel in her opportunity to perform, sashaying up and swerving down. Still, I was more than relieved to see the Oregon inlet bridge, even though it was known for its shifting shallows. Eleanor draws about three and a half feet. Jon took the helm and I sat close to the depth sonder, calling out descending numbers.  Waves were breaking on a shoal, just a few yards to our port. We slowed to near neutral. 

“Eight.”

“Seven-point-four.”

“Six.” I gripped the arm of my chair, bracing for a slow-motion grounding. 

“Five.” 

“Four-point five.”  An alarm sounded. If we lost just a few more inches we would ground.
             “Five-two. Six. Five. Six-three. Six-seven. Six. Seven. Eight.”

I let out my breath. It seemed we’d made it. I wanted a bourbon. Instead I squinted at tiny chart numbers as we weaved through a narrow channel toward Wanchese. Our overnight stay would be at the gas dock, surrounded by sport fishing yachts. Our hosts informed us that the town was named after Chief Wanchese and that was pretty much it for local color. The only restaurant in town was closed. We settled in for a cheese and cracker snack dinner, and snuggled into our jammies, way too early. I sat back in my bunk, fingering pages trying to decide which book to read.

“Hey Terese, your friends are outside!” Craig called from the saloon. Craig is our resident prankster. I could only imagine what he was luring me toward, maybe dive-bombing seagulls or fishermen without pants.  I padded warily out onto the back deck in my travel slippers to find my old neighbors from Edgewater standing on the dock. 

“Isn’t this crazy!” said Gail, who explained her son-in-law had noticed Eleanor and had seen Facebook photos and I’m not even sure how it all happened, but there they were, standing on the dock in Wachese, which I’m pretty sure doesn’t even have a traffic light. We chatted for a bit, their elderly bones unwilling to climb aboard, then they went on their way. A happy coincidence. I barely ever run into them in Maryland and we live ten miles apart. By now everyone else had dozed off, but the chilly chat had awakened me so I settled in to read those books for a bit before sinking into what would be a deep ten-hour sleep.