Pax River and Points South...

When I left off my cruising stories, Tyche & I were in the Pax River boat basin, dragging anchor in a storm. The next morning, I packed up Tyche and headed south, hoping to reach Deltaville, VA. It wasn't to be as the day turned into a Chesapeake broiler... hot, sunny, no wind. Days like that make for slow going, even with the smudge pot engine putzing along.

After some coffee and a quick breakfast of fried fish & scrambled eggs, the good boat Tyche and her occupants started heading towards the Chesapeake. The Patuxent River is a very large, deep river. Here are some facts...

• River Length - 115 miles but only navigable for 52 miles
• Widest part - 2.3 miles
• Deepest point - 130 ft below sea level
• Named in 1608 by Jamestown settler, John Smith of Pocahontas fame

Anyway, putzing along with the sails up to catch any whisper of breeze, the going was slow. Many hours later, towards dusk, we were off Point Lookout. Ahead of us was the mouth of the Potomac River, a place where you can encounter open ocean conditions on the Bay, if the winds & tide are right. Of course, now the winds were up and blowing against the tide making for a lumpy ride. There isn't any place to anchor, so... "Hi Ho! Hi Ho! It's cross the river we go...." Here are some Potomac River facts...

• The river's mouth is 11 miles wide and it is the 21st largest river in the USA.
• Drainage area - 14,679 sq mi.
• Length - 383 miles
• Avg flow (in Wash D.C.) - 7 billion gallons/day

While Jim was on the helm, I went below and made dinner. After eating, I was off watch and went below to sleep for 6 hrs. About 3 hours into my nap, the motion of the boat awakened me. Going topside, I asked, "What's wrong?" The mainsail had about an 18" rip in it and he was dumping wind to keep it intact. Sigh...

I had mentioned that my friend was suffering from pancreatic cancer. By this time, he really wasn't feeling well. After reefing the main, I suggested he cut short his watch and go below to sleep. He made me promise to wake him when his watch rolled around again. "Sure Jim... I promise."

The night was interesting. We had a lovely full moon and the sails were full. It was a beautiful night for a sail. Around 3am, I noticed that the running lights were getting dim, so I swapped batteries. Hmm... no improvement. Wonderful. Expecting that the batteries to die during the night, I broke out a large flashlight and extra batteries to keep next to me in the cockpit. Throughout the night, whenever I'd see or hear a large vessel (think tugboat, tankers, cargo ships), I'd shine the lamp on the mainsail, illuminating us for them. Fiberglass doesn't show up well on radar.

Sometime after sunrise, Jim poked his head up and chastised me for not waking him. And, we pulled into Reedville, VA on Cockrell Creek off the Great Wicomico River. Next job? Get the mainsail fixed!

Pax River

One nice thing about sailing is you learn how to relax, how to slow down and take life as it comes. As a society, we have forgotten how to slow down, how to relax, and how to take life on its terms. When sailing, you take the good times and the bad as they are thrown at you. You either survive or you go down.

After hoisting anchor at the Rhode River, Tyche and I headed south. It was a slow go as the wind had changed and we no longer had a beam reach. Progress in a sailboat is slow when the wind is on your stern. The Rhode River is about 65-70 miles (as the crow flies) from the Potomac River. With the wind behind us, we were making about 5-6 knots (6-7 mph) meaning a 10-11 hour sail. We could only hope for better winds.

We moseyed along, slowly but surely heading south. As Tyche & I passed the Pax (Patuxtent) River, 50 miles south, I briefly thought about pulling in there for the night. Then, I remembered that the Pax's boat basin has an iffy bottom for holding an anchor fast.

The year before my journey, a friend (Jim) and I anchored there. Jim had the aft port quarter berth & I took the forward V-berth. Late that night, a storm blew in and through the anchorage. Awaking with a start, I sprinted through the boat barefooted in my nightshirt, hollerin' as I went through, "WE'RE DRAGGING ANCHOR!!!!" I hit the wet fiberglass deck, slipping and sliding my way to the bow where I desperately fed out more & more rode, begging the anchor to grab. **Grab! Dammit! GRAB!** All this time, we're heading stern first towards a multi-million dollar yacht! EEK!

Finally, I felt the anchor bite into the bottom and snubbed the line on the cleat. Tyche fetched up and her stern slid into an open spot on the quay wall, missing the yacht by a mere 12 inches. Way too close for comfort. We spent the night tied to the quay wall. That was when the Pax boat basin in Solomons became one of my least favorite places to anchor.

Days Like Today...

It is on days like today, cold, wet, and dreary, with a weather forecast for more snow, up to 12" more, that I want to be someplace sunny, warm and tropical, preferably on my former sailboat, Tyche. It is on days like today, I dream about sailing in tropical places, sans dogs, places like Bora Bora, St. John's, Exuma Cay, Belize.... I long to feel the motion of a sailboat beneath my feet, to see the deep blue of open water, to feel the gentle lap of water against the hull at anchor...

I lived aboard and sailed the good boat, Tyche, for five years. She & I went to many ports of call, a few in exotic places. One year, Tyche & I went down the Intercoastal Waterway and headed east out of Lauderdale towards the Bahamas. That was an interesting trip!

We (Tyche & I) left the Baltimore Yacht Basin in October and headed south down the Chesapeake Bay. We had a good wind and our first port of call that day was in the hurricane hole on the Rhode River, which is south of Annapolis and north of Shady Side.

This is one of my favorite anchorages. At my last visit, there were three islands and I normally dropped anchor behind & south of them, using Big Island as my guide. Most of the shoreline is owned by the Smithsonian Environmental Research Center. However, to the north on the peninsula and well hidden in the woods, is Camp Letts. At dusk during the summer months, I'd be sitting in the cockpit with a drink in hand and I'd hear the sweet, mournful sounds of taps gently wafting over the air.

The mornings in the anchorage are special. Again, I'd be sitting in the dew covered cockpit with a steaming cup of coffee and I'd watch the dawn break. In the grey, predawn hours, life would begin to stir all around you. A cabin light would turn on and twinkle on a neighboring boat; a heron would be fishing for his breakfast along the reed lined shore. It was quiet, but you could hear the sounds of life. It was a reaffirmation of life. All too soon, people would be up & about and it would be time to hoist anchor and be on my way.