The Last Snowbird

an unpublished collection of personal notes, insights and commentary while solo sailing every inch of the Inter Coastal Waterway, from Connecticut to Florida and return

Introduction

These pages contain observations and reflections from a solo sailor on his first voyage meandering the length of the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway from Connecticut to Florida.  He accidentally left late in autumn and purposefully lingered in small towns, winning the award for being the season’s Last Snowbird. His vehicle was a modest 32 foot Irwin sloop named Dust In The Wind, powered by an aging Atomic-4 gasoline engine.  His companion was a 10-year old golden retriever, Chubby, who “was a great companion and lousy crew.” 

On the surface this is a story of a retired ICW newbie who bumps and sails and motors down the  ICW – and narrates his experiences along his route.  However, this is not so much a travelogue as an entertaining and incisive potpourri of errors admitted, learnings compiled, skills mastered and insights connecting the dots between sailing and life.

The author implores his readers to “see the ICW before you die”.  Reading these pages, meandering as they do through the South and through life, may wet your appetite to put the ICW on your MUST DO list.

The Last Snowbird - strike one
This chapter begins on Monday, November 21, 2005 with the next day ending in ignominious defeat.

Chubby, my faithful golden retriever, and I set sail from Beacon Point Marina, Housatonic River, Shelton, Connecticut to catch the ebbing tide and realize our dream of becoming intimately acquainted with the  InterCoastal Waterway. 

I’m 65 and Chubby is 8.  Since the conventional wisdom is that you can convert a dog’s age to the human’s equivalent by multiplying by 7, I figure that Chubby is 56 and gradually catching me.  So these two old men are setting out in an equally old boat, Dust In The Wind, a 1971 Irwin 32’ sloop, with an old Atomic-4 gasoline engine. We are not exactly in Bristol condition, but what we lack in equipment we make up with love for each other and reckless enthusiasm for this voyage.

We moor for the night at the mouth of the Housatonic River in Stratford in light rain and an outside temperature of 50 degrees F.  With one candle, one dog and one human the interior temperature is 52 degrees F.  I'm learning that insulation is NOT this boat’s strong point.

The next morning we awake to crappy weather and evaluate my options.

The good news is I have local area knowledge of Long Island Sound.  The bad news is winds are 25 knots – at the margin of what I think Dust and I are capable of handling.  But I rationalize that I am safe enough in LIS and this will be a good test that I’d rather face here than in strange waters.  Also, I have multiple escape routes. I know the harbors along the route, or I can always turn around and return to Stratford.  I make a decision to stick the nose out into Long Island Sound. So we set off westward down Long Island Sound, and promptly sailed into a confluence of errors. 

Around Bridgeport the wind increases to 35 knots.  My first error was to not heed the old saying “reef often and early”.  I hate it when I know something intellectually but I can’t make the leap to put it into practice.  I find myself over-powered.  When I try to second-reef the big 150% genoa it gets away from me and promptly unfurls itself completely.  I can’t get it under control, and worse than that I can’t control the boat’s course.  It lays broadside to the wind, and I struggle winching and furling for about an hour and finally get it mostly furled.  I am wet and cold and struggling physically, when I get the engine started and point head-to-wind back to Stratford in a nasty 4-foot chop. 

We are near the mouth of the river, just 100 yards from “safe harbor” when suddenly the flogging genoa clew tears from the sail and in an instant the genoa sheet goes overboard and wraps around the prop.  A few seconds later the engine labors and gives up.  Now we can neither sail nor motor and we are 100 yards from the harbor breakwater.  I am breathless and fighting to stay rational in spite of my fear of being pounded to death of a breakwater when I call the Coast Guard.  The distinction between "may day" and "pan pan" escapes me.  It's my perception that this is life-threatening and they answer my voice-wavering "may-day" call.

And then as if by magic Dust decides to heave to without a genoa. She sets herself on a steady course  45 degrees to the wind and drifts parallel to the shore at about one knot. I have never seen anything like this!  It becomes apparent that she is neither going aground nor to sea.  Magic or miracle... she is saving all of us.  She is smarter than I, and calmer too.  Sometimes it is best to take your hand off the wheel.

It is 45 minutes later that SeaTow arrives and above the din I welcome the captain's greeting: "what the hell are you doing out here?"  He tows me into Milford Harbor without further incident, and we settle the bill.  What a relief to reach the calm waters of the jetty and be in "safe harbor."  We are safe!!  But I am chilled to the bone.  Chubby is sopping wet and looks half his normal fluffy size.  Uncle Bob and sister Jean drive down and chauffeur  us home ... for the rest of the winter.  We got all the way from the Housatonic River to Bridgeport (approximately 10 miles -- or 8 mintes by car).  And that's how my dream to travel the ICW ended in 2005....a complete and swift ignominious defeat. 

The boating and sailing lessons were many and worth every expensive penny!  I put a clutch in the jib furling line so it could never get away from me again. I learned to change the Genoa to a 100% jib when expecting 15 knots of wind. And I resolved to increase my sailing competency.  And so on.

I also recall from my flying days that most recreational aircraft accidents are not due to a single catastrophic failure, but rather a confluence of circumstances that combine against you.  And so it is at sea. 

In either environment the risk is ever-present. The job of the pilot or mariner is to be as competent and experienced as he can possibly be, to have the best equipment he can afford, and then to stack all the cards in his favor before choosing to depart. This minimizes, but doesn't eliminate defeat, when dancing with Nature.  

There are old pilots, and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots.  I was on the wrong side of prudent today, but I lived to learn from it.

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp -
or what's a heaven for?
                                           Robert Browning 

Should a man step into the space beyond his reach?  My answer is Yes, in spite of past embarrassment, peril, failure, or expense. 

The Last Snowbird - strike two

It's a year later and deja vu al over again! 
On November 18, 2006 Chubby and I again depart on Dust in search of our ICW dream.  We are very late in departing. We have a happy sail from the Housatonic River to City Island, New Rochelle, NY, on the western end of Long Island Sound.  We moor for the night at the Stuyvesant Yacht Club in New Rochelle New York (a very welcoming club and marina).  We are in sight of the Throg’s Neck Bridge and the mouth of the East River, gateway to our ICW dream.  

Chubby and I awake to a scene of déjà vu.  Once again we are caught in an early winter nor’easter.  Winds are from the north with gusts to 25 knots, and I doubt I’ll go anywhere today except for a quick shore visit for Chubby’s relief and to fill two jerry-cans with gasoline. With 5 new gallons pourd into our tank our chores are done for the day.  

The front blows over that night and November 20 dawns with clear air and light winds.  We prepare to depart, but the engine starts and then dies (thankfully before we leave the mooring).

I finally examine the fuel and in it are globules that look like jellyfish.  The fuel is thoroughly contaminated and completely useless.  Globules have worked their way into the carburetor which has to be torn down and cleaned.  I have been working on the engine from 0630 to to 1500 hours.  I can get the engine running but I am out of options for obtaining clean fuel.

I jurry-rig a direct feed from a fresh jerry can of fuel sitting in the cockpit. But I know it would be insane to be offshore New Jersey in rough seas with a fuel tank thrashing around the cockpit. I am uncomfortable with way-out-of-code rigging, but it works well enough to set out on a return voyage to Beacon Point Marina to put Dust up for the winter.  Considering all factors, timing, a second impending cold front, my yacht’s systems, sailing solo, etc. with a rational mind and a broken heart I turn back eastward and motorsail toward home.  I can see the jagged Manhattan skyline to the west framed against an orange sky.  Goodbye Manhattan – goodbye ICW dream – not this year.  Maybe next year – and maybe not.

My consolation prize is that this year I am on the right side of being prudent.  This year Chubby and I got all the way from the Housatonic River to City Island, NY (approximately 40 miles -- or 1 hour drive by car).  And again, Bob and Jean drove me home from the marina.  And that's how my dream to travel the ICW ended in absurdity in 2006. 

For several days I am in a deep funk.  I dance between  my dream and my pragmatism… beating myself up over not being better prepared, not leaving earlier, not having more money, etc.  Shouda, woulda, coulda consumes my self-talk.  If I am a competent and intelligent person, how come I am so incompetent and stupid!

The Last Snowbird - the third strike

Dad was not a baseball fan, but in adverse circumstances he would say “three strikes and out”, and I revered him and internalized both his wisdom and hubris.   Somehow the absurdity of attempting a 1,000 mile voyage and only making 10 miles (to Bridgeport) in year one, and only making 40 miles (to City Island, NY) in year two does not deter me.

We are leaving with two brand new fuel tanks and a rebuilt fuel system, a clutch to control the jib, and a myriad of other upgrades. All systems are in order, and we are better prepared than ever with knowledge, with experience, and with spare parts.  However we are still being pushed along with the old Atomic-4 gas engine. 

On Sunday, October 21. 2007 David and I set out from the Stuyvesant Yacht Club for Newport Marina in the Hudson River http://www.newportnj.com/ .  Newport Marina is our preference over its more prominent Atlantic Highlands. The immediately adjacent community, numerous convenient choices of restaurants, and convenient subway to and from Manhattan make it the stop of choice on the Hudson. 

We limp in to Newport harbor with a rough running engine!  After several conversations with our Atomic-4 engine guru, Don Moyer http://www.moyermarine.com/ I decide to purchase an electronic ignition.  It’s a several day’s delay, and I am considering giving up, and taking on a modest winter challenge with guaranteed success  – such as painting my bedroom. 

Just-in-time ‘angels’

When Joseph Campbell describes the universal Hero’s Journey,  he observes that in your darkest hour, lost in the forest and unknown,  resources will show up to support you.  I can’t explain ‘why’ this might be true, however it is true to my experience.  On my lost Sunday Eddie just appeared without notice.  I bumped into him on the dock, and he just came down to see how I was coming along.  His moral support that day was invaluable.  David  continued to call, and do engine research and give me solutions.

These two men were there at the tipping point.  Additionally Don Moyer’s mix of patience with this pesky customer, and expertise with the pesky engine was invaluable. Without the support and encouragement of these “angels” who showed up in my circumstances, I would have given up the journey PERMANENTLY.  I was that close when I installed the electronic ignition – the very best $100 investment I ever made.

A generous man will prosper; he who refreshes others will himself be refreshed.                                                      
                            Proverbs 11:25

Whether we prefer the words  “Proverbs” or   “karma” or “angels” or “miracles”, or simply "good Samaritan", most of us agree with the notion that when it comes to generosity and selflessness, what goes around comes around.  But I can assure you from personal experience that if you are a "giver" the real test comes when it is your turn to be a "receiver."  If you don't believe in angels then they will not be there for you!

These three individuals embody selfless generosity -- by their nature.  They could hardly be otherwise.  They are magnetic to be around because they are themselves enthusiastic when others around them succeed.  Their impact upon me stretches all the way from a helping hand to a deeper understanding of what defines the best of human behavior.  Perhaps they are modeling a parent or perhaps a spiritual force moves through them.  In any case they were there for me at the tipping point.  It’s not a stretch to say “they changed my life’s direction.”  I trust that they are refreshed by their acts, not merely by my thanks, but in ways they don't even connect to their interactions with me.

They enabled my third time at bat to be a home run rather than a strike out.

On Monday, October 29, 2007, in new seasonally low temperatures, we departed Newport Marina for the Verrazano Narrows bridge, the mouth of New York harbor and then the long offshore trip down the coast of New Jersey.  We rounded Sandy Hook at 1600 hours, and made preparations.  My goal is to have everything I’ll need at hand for the next 24 hours  immediately at hand, so I neither have to go forward on deck during the night, nor below for food or a spotlight.  Preparations included sail change, food prep including hot soup in a thermos, food, clothing, two flashlights and a spot light, and all navigation tools and charts.  It was my helm and my nest, with everything in reach and nothing extra at hand.  And settle in to run the full length of the New Jersey coast in the following 24 hours while staying awake and sharp. In the middle of the night I felt the home run.

Casting Off 2006

The physical moment of departing on a long voyage away from home looks just like any number of goodbyes we're accustomed to.  It is stowing last minute items and taking a final picture and saying those sweet and sorrow goodbyes to loved ones.  We've done it so many times driving away from a visiting weekend that it is strangely familiar -- even when it is the first time on the water. 

The act of casting off the lines is both a literal act and an undiscovered metaphor. I know the sequence of casting off the dock lines, and it is easy.  As I do so I hold the illusion that I am prepared for this voyage.  But I can not see over the near horizon.  The familiar part is uncleating a line.  The unfamiliar part is casting off my illusions about safety and security, and indeed everything that is in my known world.  It is both ac act of faith and a reckless act.  When I pull the last dock line aboard I am trading in my entire known zone for the un-known.  I have never undertaken such a solo voyage in my life, but I feel strangely heroic -- and free -- freed from a prison of our own making.  Question:  how does one get out of the box of his own making, when the cosmic joke is that the instructions for so doing are printed on the outside of the box?  Answer:  cast off.  Cast off the lines that constrain your soul.

As I cast off I leave behind my youthful dream to be president or a captain of industry, a new kind of leadership is emerging within me.  It’s not the formal power and fame of a Winston Churchill or Jack Welsh that guides me now.  My goals are no longer to follow in the footsteps of the famous, but to live recklessly honoring what I feel passionately in my soul.  Personal leadership is not just dreaming, but acting without reservation on what one feels passionately about.

I am leaving the dock on my own Lewis and Clark expedition. The charts are complete, so I am not in search of a speculative passage in uncharted lands. In the outer world I am casting off to become acquainted with the ICW.  In the inner world I am casting off to map the latitudes and longitudes of my heart and mind.  Dare I even hope to find my Holy Grail. 

My uncharted lands are of my mind and heart. Perhaps I am in search of a new northwest passage – one that will break up some of the old neuro-passages that are so embedded that I act them out unconsciously. My new northwest passage will be passages of the mind – a dissolving of some cherished beliefs and building new ways of thinking, and new neural pathways. I am not cast in cement. I am not yet in the ground. I have faith that this old dog can learn a new trick or two, even if it requires more energy and repetition than in younger years!

The Last Snowbird
November 2007

Undeterred by past defeats I am once again the last snowbird sailing south for the winter. This year I have a better excuse than “I got a late start”. My long time partner and favorite person in the world, Gail, has died of cancer, and her memorial service was held in Old Lyme, CT on Sunday, November 07, 2007. Even though we were estranged, our friendship, and my love for her, endured to the end. I had to be at her service.

Dear Gail has passed on, but her shadow lives on board Dust In The Wind, my 1971 thirty two foot Irwin sloop. Four years ago it was going to be OUR boat, and our adventures. My first marching order was to redo the entire head. Thankfully I succeeded with the advice of the self-anointed head-mistress, Peggie Hall, and it met with Gail's approval. It still functions properly. My "good days" are measured with unusual metrics.  It is a good day on the ICW when there is no head malfunction or smell!

Then I proposed renaming our boat “Gail Force.” However for some inexplicable reason, Gail was ambivalent about it. During this period my sister-in-law sent us boat towels embroidered with “Gail Force”. So Dust sails on -- with a new head, and embroidered towels, and my loving memories of Gail mixed with confusion and sadness. In so many ways she is aboard beside me today.

Life Goes On, and I must sail on
The harsh reality is that she passed on, while family and friends and I stood helplessly by. I would have traded places with her, but I was not able to negotiate these matters of mortality (a lesson I was to learn again riding out the Belhaven blow) with a higher power. What choice do I have? I am destined to live without her. And I am compelled, perhaps by unconscious forces and her untimely death, to carry out the plan we once owned together, and to have one more adventure while I have my health and wits.

I don’t have a significant human partner I want to travel with, so there is no one to share my dream with and nothing to do except put one foot in front of the other and keep walking toward a dream that was born four years ago.

See the ICW before you die
   I had been introduced to the Inter Coastal Waterway by Janusz Machnica, the owner of New York Sailing School. I was crew on a delivery of a Tayana 37, and we had quite a trip together (that is another whole story). I quickly learned that Janusz’s love for the ICW is woven in his conversation and written in the deep smile-furrows of his face at every turn. One evening he said to me that he wished everyone could do the ICW at least once in their life. The theme for the evening was “See the ICW before you die” and in spaces between the sentences my own dream silently took form. Janusz, perhaps not unwittingly, turned me into a believer that everyone should experience the ICW. We never know when sharing one of our own experiences changes the life of another! Today his mantra echoes in my head:

"see the ICW before you die"

So here I am, on the cusp of a voyage stretching my limits -- committed to a dream more out of instinct than rational thought -- of seeing the entire United States Inter Coastal Waterway… before I die.

I wanted to do it with Gail, but it has turned out that I am doing it alone… well almost alone. A few introductions are in order.

Travels with Chubby
Chubby, my golden retriever, and I have been attached at the hip for his 10+ years of life. We have been constant companions, and only in my darkest thoughts can I imagine a life without him. And I think the reverse is true also. I am the center of his life equally as he is mine. When we take our walks (he is almost never on a leash) he romps and prances with glee and runs out just far enough to keep track of where I am. He does a little exploring, mostly with his nose, and then runs back to my legs as if to share what he’s found, or to see if I am OK while he has been away, or to confirm exactly where I am.

It's hard to know exactly what Chubby is thinking.

I am his lifeline to security and love. I have been totally trustworthy to him and he has reciprocated. But to take him on a 1,000 mile voyage down the ICW? Where will he poop? Will he get seasick? Will he drown? In the end we both survived each other, and Chubby turned out to be both my best friend and lousy crew. More on Chubby later.

 

Dust In The Wind

Dust In The Wind only marginally deserved the appellation "yacht". She is a 1971, 32 foot Irwin sloop. Her standing rigging is old but stout, her spreaders are maple, and one of her chain plates has been repaired. She has a cantankerous Universal Atomic-4 engine which runs on    gasoline. But with her graceful sheer lines and classic look she wears her vintage elegantly. Also she is a minimalist. There is no wind indicator aloft nor a wind gauge. The depth gauge is not functioning (which I regretted on several occasions). She does not have a windlass (also regretted on several occasions), and her steaming light has to be jury-rigged at night. Nor does she have a proper heater – just a plain Jane two burner alcohol stove. So in summary she is legal, but gives new meaning to the term “sparsely equipped”.

Is it wise to do the ICW without a wind indicator, or speedo, or depth gauge? Probably not. But it is not a deal breaker, and in the end Dust has taught me to use all my senses in lieu of instruments. Through days of soft love and tough love she has taught me how to treat her. And in return she was always sail-friendly.  We faced the expected and the unexpected together. Some lessons were hard won. More on that as we go.


The Inter Coastal Waterway (ICW)

This is not a travelogue. If you want that information it has already been assembled in a book or two… by better writers than I. This is a personal account of my journey with Chubby, as the last snowbirds… meandering the Eastern US coast while resisting any particular destination or timeframe (often to the dismay of friends who wanted to meet us somewhere). My only guides were the weather, consultation with Chubby and my heart response. I learned to un-learn long-range planning and often rejected conventional wisdom. I tarried in obscure museums and charming small towns like Oriental, NC or Beaufort, SC or St. Mary’s, GA. And I hurried past boater-unfriendly towns like Charleston, SC that are too big and impersonal and in my estimation, over-rated.

I must add the obligatory warning: Do NOT read any of my comments as navigational advice!! I am not responsible for your results (either the ones you like or the ones you don’t).

I have a full time job just navigating my own life!

Snowbirds in general

There is a whole gaggle of boaters who leave New England in September or October and travel the Inter Coastal Waterway to Florida and the Bahamas and points south to escape the Canadian and New England winter. They are collectively called “snowbirds.” Most, like the birds, are smart enough to leave during autumn, in a weather window between the twin cruelties of hurricane season and winter weather. I joke that I am the last snowbird because I am leaving in November. I’m concerned that the weather will be punishing cold for this old man of age 68. (These fears were realized more than once).

The Mesmerized Many
There are two categories of snowbirds: the first is in the majority: those who are destination driven. Their objective is to get from New England to their southern port as quickly as possible. They have a known winter lifestyle waiting for them upon their arrival. These snowbirds may hire a captain to reposition their yacht, or they may take a week off from work to get this boat moved south, as if it were a job or a project with a deadline. Maybe they don’t have the luxury to taking more time to do it, and maybe they are wired in such a way that they can’t conceive of taking more time, or of letting go of their embedded belief in goal orientation.

The Lucky Few
And then there are the lucky few, who have cast off the notion of goal orientation. They have the luxury or have arranged their thinking so there is little concern with a specific destination. They have thrown off the cultural neurosis of focusing on results and have come to a spiritual understanding that the process is the proper focus for engaging life. "The process is more important than the goal." It is one of those clichés that is simple to say and not easy to live. Following years of on-the-job training in goal-orientation and meeting deadlines, the shift to pure process is not an easy one. Our Western paradigm is founded upon a core belief in goals and results, and verified by accumulated evidence and rewards. It is indeed a challenge to risk living solely in the moment. Those who transcend this paradigm are indeed the rare birds.

Shedding years of cultural training is not like taking off a coat. The glue of acculturation just sticks to you when you try to peel it off. We grow up with a strong work ethic, the basis of which is goal-orientation. As a society we have mastered the ability to produce a result in a specific timeframe, and it is part of our greatness in developing our technology and in producing results, collective wealth, and the illusion of security. Occasionally we are reminded that it is the process that is paramount, but generally we get as far as giving the notion that process is more important than results only lip service.

Almost everyone you meet asks you where you are going, and they expect you to have an answer. I've experimented with various answers like "somewhere" and "nowhere".  All the answers I’ve tried have been conversation killers. Sometimes I've needed the convenience of fixing a destination of time and place in order to meet friends along the way. Otherwise I have successfully resisted making up my mind, in favor of the grand experiment of seeing if I could actually live, one day at a time, one moment at a time –without much centering my life around planning or today’s goal. Sailing is the perfect venue for my grand experiment in shifting from planning to process.  How far can I go with this paradigm?  Philosophers tell us IT IS ALL PROCESS, and this point of view gradually soaks into my pores and becomes my moment-to-moment reality.

Take the road to Hana
I’m reminded of a story that one of the facilitators of the Actualizations workshops used to tell to make this point (I’m sorry I can see your face but I can’t remember your name as I’d like to give you a proper attribution).

He was on business in Hawaii and had one day off. He asked the locals what he should do and they said “take the road to Hana”. As you who have taken this road know, it is a twisty, narrow road with 54 bridges, some of which are too narrow for two cars to pass, so you must approach the bridges with caution and frequently stop and negotiate whose turn it is to go. Having only one day off, he drove the road as fast as he could, getting into a state of frustration and missing the waterfalls that are frequently under the bridges and the orchids and exceptional flora along side the road. He pushed on, and hours later he reached his destination.

At the end of the road he found only a soiled parking lot. And then he got the cosmic joke! The locals had told him to “take the road to Hana”… not “go to Hana”. When you get to the end of your road you will find there an oily rag blowing across a dirty, empty paved parking lot. So powerful was this story in my life that I pass it on to you, and I am taking it to heart on the design of my ICW adventure.

I am “seeing the ICW before I die.” By and large it is a glorious, beautiful, trip, and I realize that, having both health and wealth, I am the privileged one to be on this road. I am taking the water road south, and it is a vastly different approach than flying to a week in Disneyland. 

Have I made my whole life about getting somewhere -- even when I didn't know where somewhere was?  Both Hana and Valhalla have been my destinations. How long have I been rushing to get to that elusive somewhere? How many years have I focused on ‘getting’ or ‘going’ that I only saw friends and family pass by in my blurred vision? As the song says:  "Where is everybody going?"  We are are rushing to get through the day as if the goal were to get through life! Where have I been living along the goal-process continuum? I have only recently cast off and already I can feel a shift.  These thoughts deeply challenged me one day in Georgia.

Get On The Train
In the movie The Polar Express, the Conductor says, "The thing about trains...it doesn't matter where they're going. What matters is deciding to get on." So it is for me sailing this season of my life. I am getting on my own transportation, Dust In The Wind, and pointing her in the general direction of south. Of course there will be twists and turns. After rounding Cape May, New Jersey I’ll be heading north up the Delaware River, and then west through the C & D canal. But generally the direction of my destiny is south. For the first time in my life I am a certified snowbird.

Not only am I getting on a train going somewhere; I’m driving the train. So I can stop as long as my fascination with a new town captures me… as long as my moods and winds please me… and then drift on. I have carefully avoided timetables and destinations. I am not attached to any goal… save for a safe trip for myself and my dear companion and friend Chubby.  It has been a long time since I've been free.

Free to be delighted:

Free to learn from nature

Free to go anywhere... or nowhere

Free to be without friends... or with

Free to know broken dreams:

And contemplate the end of the road


 

The last snowbird: valuable pluses

I never intended to be the Last Snowbird going south for the winter.  It just turned out that way, and I found several unexpected advantages.

There is no competition for space in tight anchorages and there is no need to raft up.  The waters are quiet because shrimp boats and commercial fishing activity is out-of-season.

There are several advantages to being the last snowbird. Chief among them is the availability of transient docks.  Occasionally you can tie up to restaurant docks that are closed for the season, enjoying the security and convenience while saving the expense of a marina slip. And there is little competition and great great convenience at town docks.

By avoiding the autumn crowds, there is no crowding at small anchorages, or for laundromats or for restaurant tables – anywhere.

Not all of the advantages are obvious. You are transported into a bygone era pre-commercial, bygone era.  Most places are barely open; some are deserted. You can stop at shrimp docks where the local industry is asleep and wander the equipment and wonder how it works, or if the owners will return next season.   You can wander through a town where houses seem devoid of human life and imagine the lives of those who lived here without being disturbed by a human voice. You can walk a main street that feels like an abandoned movie set.  You can be the only living soul in a ghost town or an abandoned cemetery where the only sounds are those imagined in your head.  Everything is quiet.

Another phenomenon exists.  The tourist towns have stopped casting their seasonal tourist nets and have reverted to their natural state.  Town citizens treat you like a person, not like the possibility of a sale. 

When population is thin, strangers welcome each other in a different manner.  The few people you meet become a great pleasure.  They have taken off their work images and are casual and real. They have time to actually make your acquaintance and walk beside you for a while and willingly disclose how they feel.

The last snowbird: a few minuses and how to work around them
There is a price to be paid for being the last snowbird.  The principal one that drives people to go south earlier in the season is the cold passing cold fronts. I didn't suffer many weather related delays, however sometimes it was just plain cold.  If you have a trawler or an enclosed cabin your have plenty of protection. But I live at the helm of an open cockpit sloop – without relief crew. And with only a two-burner alcohol stove. I have learned the art of staying physically comfortable outdoors, all day, in cold and windy weather. Think ski clothing! There is no need to be cold if you take full advantage of modern clothing -- including gloves, long underwear, and yes, the occasional use of a face mask. I have found the tops and bottoms of Underarmor to be an invaluable first layer against my skin.

Secondly, there can also be problems obtaining fuel. Some marinas are closed for the season; some marinas are open but out of fuel; and some are on vacation for a few days when you arrive there. I arrived on January 01 in the town of Thunderbolt and the only marina in town was closed. I went another 10 miles to Isle of Hope and the local marina there was closed until January 03. It's an easy problem to fix.  Just tie up at the fuel dock, get out a good book, and someone will eventually show up.

I couldn’t risk going on while low on fuel. I’m an old pilot who knows the anxiety and risk of being low on fuel. I just won’t do it, so I was marooned there until days later when someone showed up at the fuel dock with the key to the pump.

And finally, it may be challenging to get maintenance assistance, should you need it.

My inconvenience was fleeting, and I liked little sleepy southern Isle of Hope.    

it was just an unexpected part of the process... I was delighted by architecture and sundials -- and success in knowing I was in the perfect place (a cliché I've often resisted) and and practicing "it's all process."

In summary you can mitigate the few disadvantages by following these four rules:

(1) buy the best clothing you can afford.  There is no need to be uncomfortable with proper clothing.
(2) never, never run low on fuel  The anxiety is not worth it.
(3) keep fully provisioned
(4) carry your own spare parts and manuals.  Up to a point.
(4) have a few good books accessible.  Time disappeared in Thoreau's Walden, which I hadn't read in 40 years.

The Last Snowbird is a title I’m increasingly appreciating.

A mark of The Last Snowbird is the ability to tarry. It’s easier in Virginia and in the Carolinas. By the time you get to Georgia almost no one tarries. Cold weather is persuasive, and the thought of continuing on SLOWLY wears thin. The pull of the warmer Florida weather is great. Georgia waters are shallow and sinewy, and on the surface Georgia appears to have few attractions.  Not so.  Tarry when you are most impatient.  Remember to tarry in Georgia, or miss half the journey.
 

Happy New Year
I awoke in Isle of Hope in South Carolina on New Year's Day, January 01, 2008 to see my exhaled breath and to find frost on the topsides of my boat. A front came through during the night, and the cold winds howled in the rigging and rocked Dust to and fro. It was physically uncomfortable and emotionally unpleasant. A boat chafing at her lines like a wild horse is disconcerting.  But howling rigging can drive a man mad. All I wanted to do was to get to warmer weather, and the idea of going offshore and speeding to Florida became a compelling thought, and I could hardly resist sitting down and working out a plan to do so.

And my self-talk started up as fierce as the winds and louder than the howling.
I have been at this sometimes beautiful and often arduous journey for several months, and I am getting impatient to settle somewhere and swing from the boom in a hammock and swim in warm water and sing “Margaritaville" in a tiki bar.. and live the Caribbean life.

Can I really stay in the present and embrace this cold and relish this moment like any other? Or am I going to do sacrilege (violence?) to this God-given day and destroy it by wishing I were somewhere else?  What irony to want to change the very circumstances that I have created with my choices? What arrogance to wish for my circumstances to be different! What hubris to even think I am in control of anything.

I shiver and light the alcohol stove and smile that I have further to go on my physical, emotional and spiritual journey.  Living in the moment is easy when everything is going right.  We are only tested when things are going "wrong" and discomfort is high.  My New Year's resolution is to practice living in the moment.  I can only cup my hands around the stove and calm my self-talk and amuse .myself with the thought that I have more to learn.  

 

See the ICW before it dies.

 I’ve encouraged many boaters to “see the ICW before you die”.  But I’m thinking of changing the phrase to “see the ICW before it dies.”  The ICW is under siege on two unchecked fronts. 

First:  the consensus among the Washington lawmakers is that “the waterway just isn’t a priority this year.”  I continue to be amazed how forgetful our government lawmakers are about their obligations.  Letting the ICW decay into disuse is the same as letting I-95 fall into disuse, or not replacing a fallen road bridge.  I’ve touched bottom well inside the channel several times in the past few days.  And I’ve run aground fairly hard twice. Once I had to be towed off by TowBoat US and the second time I kedged off by myself (because I had been going slower in known shoaling areas).  On two other occasions I kissed the bottom but continued on.  And my draft is only 4’ 6”.  At the current rate of silting in there will be little sense to “see the ICW before you die” because, like an animal going extinct, it died before you did.

Secondly the shorefront of the ICW is being transformed by development.  Rural areas are sprouting mega-homes.  In some places one story shacks are being replaced by massive condo complexes.  Instead of homes tucked under local trees that blend into the environment, the wealthy are building massive homes that stand upon the landscape. Everything seems to be for sale, and there seems to be no building codes to moderate gaudiness and garishness.  Every year this blight on the natural land marches forward into pristine wilderness.  Better get the last glimpse of what it used to be and what it could be before it’s completely cemented and painted over.