Cruiser's Stories - Volume 18

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Rose of sharon: 

Cruising in the Comfort Zone, part 1

Texas to Florida

by Sharon Kratz, Sailing Vessel Rose of Sharon

Editor's Note:  Sharon & Joe took this trip in 2004.  We took almost the exact same trip in 2004 too.  How fun to re-live it.  If you haven't done it yet, we highly recommend it.

You may click on any of the pictures below for a larger view.  You will be taken to the Webshots website.  Hit the back button on your browser to return to the story.

 In over eight years of living on a boat in Kemah, Texas, I have said goodbye to several cruisers.  Sometimes, they leave and stay gone.  Sometimes they leave and come back to take care of family, health or money matters then leave again.  And sometimes they abandon ship completely, discover cruising "wasn't what they thought it would be," and become landlubbers.  

First, you make the mistake of telling people you are "going cruising," and  soon." Then, as the months become years and the years become more years, people often ask you "when" and you don't have any easy answers.  Money.  It takes money to go cruising, right?  I've read that cruisers can live on anything from $500/month upwards.  The fact is, what you can live on depends on too many individual factors to be able to set a dollar amount that is the "typical" cruising budget.  How much money you need often depends on how well you can effect your own boat repairs.  Boaters' egos seem to be particularly vulnerable, but occasionally you will find an ex-cruiser who tells it like it is: "We ran out of money," they will say, simply, and that's what often happens.

Boomers are hard workers. Often, our identities are more about what we do rather than who we are.  Quitting your job and putting yourself and your financial security on the line is scary.  Quitting your job, putting yourself and your financial security on the line and leaving land to travel on a boat full-time is quite an emotional leap for most.

How good of a boater do you need to be to be a cruiser?  Not that good, actually. What's more important is being conscious of the risks involved and always operating the vessel with a safety-first attitude.  I think the advantage of being an experienced boater  lies less in skill and more in a better understanding of different options you can utilize when operating a vessel.

My husband Joe was a marathon runner. He wasn't a great marathon runner, but he worked at it and the year he turned 50, he ran the Boston Marathon.  So he knows something about going the distance and he told me, "Sprinters look good starting out, but they don't always finish the race."  It's the same with cruising. You can easily get all the equipment, provision the boat for a marathon passage and shoot out into the Gulf of Mexico to become cruisers, but if you are not financially, emotionally and realistically prepared for it, you just won't be able to finish the way you'd planned.

So we did it.  Finally!  After some decision-changes, career decisions, health delays and just plain laziness, Joe and I quit our jobs and devoted ourselves to a plan for traveling on our boat.  It took us 8 years, but hey - life is good in Kemah, Texas!  We often wondered why we felt the need to leave the kind of place most people are trying to get to.  We are cruisers.  And I am not going to predict where we will be cruising or when.  I'm going to "go with the flow" and traverse waterways of one kind or another with S/V Rose of Sharon for as long as possible.

We are currently traveling eastbound on the Intracostal Waterway from Corpus Christi, Texas toward Florida.  It doesn't matter if you are traveling north, south, east or west in the snaky Intracostal Waterway, for navigational purposes you are either "eastbound" or "westbound."  I like it that we started near what is considered the bottom, or the end of the ICW and worked our way upwards.  There are many excellent ICW cruising guides in and out of print, and we used three on our journey:  Waterway Guide Southern 2004: Florida, the Bahamas and the Gulf of Mexico (Waterway Guide Southern Edition); Campbell's guide to cruising Texas; and Texas/Louisiana Coastal Cruising Guide, 2nd edition.  One of the books was so old and tattered we lost a couple of pages in the wind and all of its area codes had changed.  The Waterway Guide is the one I study the most but so far it's been difficult for me to follow, maybe because we are beginning where the book ends.  Charts are easier to understand: There it is! Deep water, shallow water, obstructions, anchorages . . . just look at the chart!

At any rate, we study our books and charts carefully before starting the engine each day.

NOAA Nautical Chart 11309 

The dolphin surrounded us leaving Corpus Christi and traveling toward Port Aransas.  Sometimes one would dive up and down so close to the boat the water would splash into the cockpit and we would reward it with appreciative ohs! and laughter. One or two might travel alongside, and I assigned my own competitive nature to them; they must be racing us.  "First in Show!"  I wanted to shout to them, but I suspect they knew it already.

My favorites were the ones who seemed to charge our bow head-on.  Two dolphin would steadily, up and down, up and down, drive directly toward the nose of our boat, then at the last moment, veer off to the right or left.  Now, if it were humans doing the same thing, one human would say to the other human, "Let's split up at the bow, and see who can pass them the fastest!" and they would have separated, one going left of the boat, one going right of the boat.  But these were dolphin, and they apparently had a plan in place or in some way one communicated to the other, "We're passing this ship on the one whistle..." and they would always stay together. 

I wear a necklace with two dolphins on it; one is gold and the other is silver.  As a baby, my granddaughter, whom I see infrequently, recognized the necklace before she recognized me and at each reunion she would see the bright dolphin on my neck then look up into my face and smile because she remembered.  Older now, she touches the necklace and traces the lines of the dolphin and points to the gold one.  "That's Grandpa Joe," she says.  Then she points to the silver one.  "That's you," she says.  I agree with her because like the dolphin, Joe and I always stay together.

NOAA Nautical Charts 11314, 11315, 11319

I ran us aground in San Antonio Bay, but only slightly.  It is vast, open water.  In fact, if I took a photo of nothing but water and sky, I could call it "Aransas Bay," "San Antonio Bay" or "Matagorda Bay," and no one would know the difference. 

The markers in San Antonio Bay were difficult for me to spot, but the visibility was excellent.  The wind was picking up substantially and the boat was squirrelly.  I squinted ahead and thought I was too close to the green (right) marker's side, so I eased the boat toward the left, which I thought would be toward the middle of the channel.  Clunk.  The marker I saw was in fact a RED marker (on the left side) and I was already skirting the channel's edge.  My turn took us into the shallow bottom.  I stopped the boat promptly and Joe eased us back into the channel and deeper water.  As I've often said, years of getting cars out of snow banks creates a skill that is useful on the Texas Gulf Coast; Joe has managed to get us out of some humdinger run-agrounds.  But this one was easy. 

North of Aransas Bay and in-between land masses, there was a rickety fence surrounding a grassy mounded area on our right.  The fence's original purpose appeared to have been to protect a single small tree in the grassy-mounded center.  The tree was feeble, still standing, but the fence encircling it, along with grayed deterioration, had sections collapsing.  The collapsed posts swirled in toward the tree then back outward into the upright posts, resulting in a rippling effect.  "That's ART," I thought, as I looked at the lonely area adjacent to the stark stretch of Intracoastal Waterway.  Then I looked up at the clouds.  Directly above was a cloud mass that formed a ripply circle around a darker cloud mound, mirroring the fenced tree scene.  I wanted to grab my camera, to try to capture a photograph.  What a great shot!  But I couldn't risk the disappointment that often comes when a flat photograph fails to reveal the depth and dimension of the original scene.  The boat continued moving slowly, and the clouds shifted, and it was over in less than a minute.  For now, the image is still a definitive work of art residing in my memory.  Not a safe place for it to be, by any means. 

Our docking at Port O'Connor was less than stellar.  St. Christopher's Haven Marina is managed by the Tarpon Motel (not to be confused with the Tarpon Inn), and I called ahead to ensure availability.  At this point, the winds were 20 knots.  We came into the marina, where the girl on the phone had told us to take "slip A, B or C."  We pulled into the first empty slip and Joe struggled for what seemed like forever to keep tying the boat, while I tried to get him to accept the fact that we were in someone's slip.  There was a satellite dish and a kitchen TABLE on this dock, for heaven's sake! 

Another call to the girl verified that "A, B, or C" were bulkhead spaces, not slips.  I regret the way we docked the second time, but there was simply no other way to do it.  The winds were wild and the boat had a mind of its own.  Handling a boat is a lot like handling a horse; sometimes it just takes brute strength to get the thing to go where you want it to go. 

Behind the wheel, Joe tossed lines to me on the dock and then he, too jumped on the dock and we both pulled as hard as we could to get her in.  I am still recovering from major surgery, so as soon as he had a line secure, Joe rushed over and said, "Are you ok?  Did you hurt yourself?"  I assured him that I was fine.  He went up to pay for the dockage and I got in the shower and said aloud to the boat, "Yikes, I think I HURT myself!" 

Joe came back to the boat and reported that the Astros won a playoff game and the girl behind the desk was beautiful, had a pierced nose and he thought he might be in love with her.

NOAA Nautical Chart 11319

We still have to keep a drawing of examples of "passing on the one whistle" and "passing on the two whistle" in the cockpit at all times when traveling the Intracoastal Waterway.  I've even drawn arrows on the drawing to help me in the event of a dyslexia moment.  Those tows are working vessels and this is serious stuff.  There's no time to discuss "your left or my left?"

It was hot and sultry east of Matagorda Bay, the kind of day where, even though you are not sleepy, it's difficult to keep your eyes open.  The boat continued ambling up the quiet ICW.  After the gusts of Matagorda Bay, nothing moved in the channel except the boat and it barely made ripples in the heavy, brown water.  On the shore there was a soggy-looking beach area and a chestnut colored cow reclined on the damp sand, her eyes half open, half shut.  Her long-legged cowbird buddy stood nearby, watching only her, and neither of them acknowledged our passing.

The Colorado River Locks!  Always fun!  We puttered along behind a tow, gazed at the cars lined up at the bridge, cleared the locks and the bridge with ease and turned left into the Matagorda Marina.

Do they still call the wind "Mariah"?  Transit dockage at the Matagorda Marina is always tricky, but they are quick to send marina staff to assist.  The bulkhead is the place for traveling boaters, and as I eased the boat toward the bulkhead, the wind caught the bow and took me opposite the direction I wanted to go.  Joe came into the cockpit, took the wheel, and we circled the spacious harbor, changing our docking plan to accommodate the mischievous wind.  I could almost hear Mariah taunting, "Gotcha again!  Gotcha again!"

This time, with Joe at the helm and me on deck, I carefully tossed a line toward the man on shore and it did that humiliating mid-air jerk then splashed into the water.  I won't be on the rodeo circuit anytime soon . . . I muttered my favorite cuss word, and as I scrambled to get the line out of the water and away from the prop, the man grabbed the bowline and we let the wind swing the boat into position.

After two days of battling 20-knot gusts in the ICW, we were happy to sit in the cockpit at Matagorda Harbor Marina, drinking diet beer and enjoying the music from our CD player.  Joe and I are oldies, so we listen to oldies music.  "The Age of Aquarius" was playing, not one of my favorites, and a somewhat raggedy-looking grackle flew over to us and perched on a nearby wooden pole.  He immediately began a noisy sing-along with the music, opening his beak wide and shrilling, then concluding with a "cluck-cluck-cluck" at every stanza.  This little guy was really enjoying The Fifth Dimension!  He was harmonizing himself into near rapture!  His passion for the music changed my mind about "The Age of Aquarius."  It's a fine song.

NOAA Nautical Charts 11319, 11322

Important Note: There are no Dairy Queens® on the ICW!  Also, cabbage is a vegetable that lasts a good while un-refrigerated.  Joe said "just cabbage" isn't much of a supper, but I'm getting where I can't even stand the smell of potted meats already.  For lunch, he had a lunchmeat tortilla, I had a peanut butter/honey tortilla.  He wanted meat for supper too, to go with the cabbage.  So I boiled a bunch of eggs and we ate some boiled eggs.  Today I'll make some egg salad with curry powder.  That's like meat, right?  Joe is also eating cereal for breakfast now.  This is the man who thinks breakfast is a pound of bacon and four eggs.  By the way, he looks like he's losing weight.

I must have strained myself more than I realized, climbing around the boat and in the dinghy and out of the dinghy, because I needed a day of rest.  I was a little guilty about my lack of stamina, but since I am post-op, I'm going with it.  One thing is for sure:  I will be too weak to carry laundry bags on and off the boat for a long time, at least ten years or more.

So, we spent an extra day at Matagorda Marina and while I rested, Joe installed another shower sump in the bilge, scrubbed tire marks (souvenirs from Port O'Connor!) off the starboard side, scrubbed carbon off the back of the boat, and unclogged the dinghy motor's clogged fuel line.  Ladies, this guy is a Keeper. 

There are many adjectives to describe marinas, but I think "gracious" is appropriate for the Matagorda Harbor Marina.  The staff is professional and considerate; the site is clean and accommodating.  They gave us an inscribed pen, too.  But Freeport's Bridge Harbor Marina?  "Luxurious" might be an apt description.  Their transit slips have CABLE.  They have a pool with a swim-up bar. They took our money and didn't give us anything but a slip and electricity and we were grateful. 

Between Matagorda and Freeport's Bridge Harbor Marina continues a stretch of Intracoastal Waterway that is marked by mile markers, not channel or buoy markers.  I saw that between mile markers 425 and 420, east of Live Oak Bay, the land between the ICW and Matagorda Bay had eroded more than the chart indicated.

We passed a tow on the two with two empty barges in "The Wiggles," a section of ICW that does exactly that - it wiggles a bit west of the Caney Creek Bridge and offers a challenge to boaters and tow boaters on a windy day.

We also thought the towboat traffic was light, and discovered why at the Brazos River gates.  There were 15-20 tows and their respective barges lined up east and west of the Brazos River; apparently the current plus some kind of emergency barge repair had the tows backed up for more than a mile both ways.  This particular crossing is never dull.  You enter the Brazos River through one set of gates, then you are at the mercy of the river’s strong current and the tide and the tows, and you exit through another gate.  Then you exhale.

None of our three guidebooks nor our chart revealed that the Bryan Pontoon Bridge no longer existed. It has been “upgraded” to a nice bridge over the ICW, accommodating traffic on highway 1495. We have a 51’ mast, and I have to say . . . it seemed a little close, but we cleared it.

The clay-colored Southwest architecture of Bridge Harbor Marina was a welcome sight after a hot day on the ICW. Temperatures were soaring at a record high for this particular time of year, and after a day of sticky sweat, insect repellent, and SPF 30 smeared all over us, the shower and the air conditioning and the Astros game in St. Louis on television were all we needed.

I have gone in and out of the Freeport jetties twice, and both times we felt like we were in a Cuisinart®. This time, as we puttered past the Freeport jetties toward Bridge Harbor Marina, the waters were smooth as glass. As we passed, I think I heard the Gulf of Mexico whispering, “Come on in! The water’s fine!”

NOAA Nautical Chart 11322

Freeport to Galveston is an easy run on the Intracoastal Waterway, and the day was lazy, the towboats were increasing in number, and occasionally a tow captain would offer advice: “You might want to get off those greens a little,” he would say, and we always thanked him. The captains of these working vessels know the ICW the way you know your own neighborhood, and can “steer you in the right direction” if they see a boater about to founder.

Our chart is old, circa 1998, and it showed two entrances into Offatts Bayou. One of them is nonexistent, and that’s the entrance we took while eastbound on the ICW. As Joe eased out of the channel, I studied the chart carefully, noticing the red markers that should have been there, weren’t, and just as I decided we had made a wrong turn, we ran hard aground.

Joe spent 10-15 minutes or so trying to back us out of the bottom, and then he swung into action with the energy of a man gone mad. He made a dive into the cockpit locker, throwing up things I hadn’t seen in years: bags of lines, buckets, a tackle box, my water chair/float, that old buoy he won’t let me throw away . . . and when he surfaced he gripped a shiny, never-used anchor and a huge bag of anchor rode. He raised the anchor above his head like a warrior and rushed for the dinghy, tossing chains and lines every which way and muttering something about the tide. Apparently his plan was to set an anchor, then winch us off.

I watched in complete bemusement as he tangled himself in one line, dropped another line in the water, and meanwhile drifted away in the dinghy toward the sunset. I saw him toss the anchor and start the dinghy motor. The motor died. He went into another gyration of flipping oars and lines and finally rowed his way back to the boat.

This time, he secured a line to the boat while getting the dinghy engine started, then handed me the line and told me to “hold this a minute.” He short-suited me, and as he drove off toward the anchor, the line pulled too tight and I had to drop it. It was like a Keystone Kops comedy, watching him wrestle the dinghy, the dinghy engine, the anchor, the anchor chain, the lines . . . but I got bored, so I turned around and put the boat into reverse one more time. She backed quietly into deeper water.

Hmmm. No captain and I was completely at a loss as to where the shallows were in relation to my position . . . I yelled at Joe, “I’m off and I’m moving!” and simply meandered around, barely in gear. He finally got the anchor back up, untangled himself from lines and got the little engine started, then fought a strong current and winds to get back to the boat. He kept making gestures at me to turn the boat around - first thisaway, then thataway and I didn’t know what the heck he wanted so I put it in neutral and let her drift.

When he motored close enough to be heard from the dinghy, he yelled, “Turn the boat THAT way!” so I did, and I yelled, “Do I aim for that RED marker or the GREEN marker?” and he yelled, “The GREEN marker!” and I yelled, “Do I go LEFT of it or RIGHT of it?” and he yelled, “RIGHT of it!”  When he was close enough to grip a rail of the boat, I smiled sweetly. “Would you like to join me in here?” and put the gear back in neutral.

Joe was wet with perspiration and breathing heavily.  He climbed in, secured the dinghy, and said, “You crossed the ICW!  Where were you going?  Hitchcock?!”  I replied, “You looked like Barney Fife out there.” Later, we sat in the cockpit, letting the lovely sunset and gentle breezes of Offatts sooth our battered egos, and I picked up one of the guidebooks.  If you are coming from the west, do not attempt to use the curved shortcut shown on the charts, it has filled in.

The Astros lost in the playoffs, too.

NOAA Nautical Charts 11324, 11331

Boaters on the Intracoastal Waterway should always contact the Galveston Railroad Bridge on 16 upon approach then wait for instructions to switch to Channel 10 (Texas/Louisiana Coastal Cruising Guide, 2nd edition) on your VHF radio.  (I learned this the hard way, but that’s another story.)  The bridge master told us we were safe to proceed, so we did so expeditiously.  One westbound tow received the following bridge information:  “There’s a train coming, but I think you can make it.”  The towboat captain responded appropriately, but if it had been me, I would have responded, “You THINK I can make it?  When will you know for SURE?”  After the tow slipped through, the bridge was lowered to accommodate an oncoming train.

We crossed the busy Houston Ship Channel then circled in the ICW, waiting for a tow that had turned sideways in the waterway to straighten itself out.  As an opening between the sideways tow and two other tows appeared, we weaved our way between them and entered the Bolivar Peninsula section of the ICW.  We are learning and understanding more about the way the tows and the barges move, so we are becoming more confident in our ICW skills.  But we always give them a wide berth.

We have docked at Steve’s Landing and their marina staff and restaurant personnel there are among the finest.  But this time we wanted to visit the Stingaree Marina.  A genuine family affair, the marina is managed by Jim Vratis and his son Brad; the restaurant is managed by Jim’s brother George Vratis.  You should call ahead to ensure space availability and then call again when you are about 30 minutes away.  The marina is so busy, with fishing boats swooping in and out for bait, fuel and meals “to go” from the restaurant, that Jim and his son will keep your reserved space boat-free to ensure your uncomplicated docking.  I made my call to the Stingaree Marina as directed.  “How will I recognize the marina entrance?”  I asked Brad.  “Just look to the heavens . . .” he said in a pious voice, “And you’ll see a light beaming down that says, ‘Stingaree Marina’.”

As we slipped into a space on the bulkhead, Jim assisted in securing the lines.  “It looks like we have the penthouse suite!”  I laughed, for we were in a perfect spot next to the bait house.  The view of the ICW from a large covered porch area was delightful.  I discovered that Jim and I share a taste for dill pickle potato chips; they aren’t easy to find, and the Stingaree Marina had them!  I told him I have a friend who brings them to me from Canada, and Jim told me that so far, he and I were the only ones who had purchased the dill pickle potato chips at the Stingaree Marina.  Before we left, I purchased four bags “for the road,” leaving one bag behind for Jim Vratis.

Jim has a quick smile and an easy way which is pleasing to fishermen and boaters; he’s also a knowledgeable sailor.  He has made numerous Gulf of Mexico crossings and explained to me that his boat and experienced crew were key to a good passage.  Jim reaffirmed what I had already suspected: cruising in a sailboat is more about motoring than sailing.  He has a sturdy, seaworthy motor-sailer, a Fisher Pilot House, and leaves for another passage to Isla Mujeres November 2004.

As I expressed my delight at the Stingaree Marina, I shared with Jim Brad’s “look to the heavens” direction to the site.  He laughed, “Hey, he stole MY line!.” He also offered me the use of his pickup truck to do laundry and grocery shopping, too.  This is a very cruiser-friendly marina.  Also, the dockage is accessible enough that my 81-year-old mother-in-law was able to climb on and off our boat easily and safely.

Our family drove over from Houston, took me to the local washateria and a surprisingly well-stocked grocery store, then we trooped back to the marina and over to the Stingaree Restaurant for supper.  Have you been to the Stingaree Restaurant?  Have you tried a Stingarita?  If you haven’t, then you have something to live for: those margaritas are to die for!  My steak was cooked to perfection.  Our family sampled several kinds of seafood - fried, broiled and grilled - and every dish was excellent!  The next morning we decided to continue our culinary celebration of Port Bolivar, and Brad suggested if we were in the mood for a Mexican breakfast, La Playita was the place to go.  He was right; each of us had our huevos prepared a different way and all of us had a marvelous meal.

As cruisers, Joe and I voted absentee ballot this year and as we have in many presidential elections, we canceled each other out.  One of us voted for Bush and one of us voted for Kerry.  As I studied the names of the unfamiliar vessels at the Stingaree Marina, I reflected on how, truly, boat names are reflective of their owners.  If presidential nominee Gary Hart had been entertaining a lovely blonde lady on a boat named “Glory of Christiansted,” then he might have been able to say the bikini-clad young lady dropped her Bible, tripped trying to retrieve it and fell onto his lap just as that notorious photograph was taken.  Unfortunately, the boat’s name was “Monkey Business,” and the rest is history.

NOAA Nautical Chart 11331

As we continued eastbound on the Intracoastal Waterway, I went down below to upload our position report and send an email to family. The boat lurched to the right.  “Hey!” Joe yelled down. “Are you on the single sideband?”  I said I was and he said, “Me and the tow in front of me just turned south!  I lost my autopilot and he’s probably wondering what happened.”

I’m not sure how it works, but I guess I need to: a) not upload on the single sideband when tows are near and b) let Joe know before I hit the binary upload button.

Joe and I believe security is greatly heightened along the ICW and sure enough, an airplane with the words, “PATROL” swooped down and examined us from the sky.  We also passed an energy installation that had more than 10 visible cameras filming ICW and the site’s activity on the ground.  I could tell you where it was, but then I’d have to shoot you.

Maritime Security follows many of the same guidelines as Homeland Security and our waterway protection agency calls this MARSEC.  S/V Rose of Sharon carries a brochure from the U.S. Coast Guard for the Texas Waterways Watch Program, and I encourage all of you to get one. Go to http://www.uscg.mil/d8/mso/hougal/SecurityZonesBrochure.  Basically, it encourages all of us, as Texas boaters, to be alert for potential threats to our security.  For example, unusual, unattended boats or boats with too many people aboard anchored or transiting in an area not typically used for that purpose would be “suspicious.”  Questionable activities might include using flashing lights to communicate with people onshore or diving near a vessel or bridge. The pamphlet has a guideline for the type of information you may want to jot down. For immediate response to suspicious activity, you can hail the U.S. Coast Guard on VHF or you can call the Coast Guard at 800-874-2145.  You can also contact the U.S. Attorney’s Office Terrorism Hotline at 877-283-1809.

Just west of mile marker 290, we turned north into the Taylor Bayou Outlet Canal.  We motored along quietly for about ¾-mile then turned left into a well-cut but uncharted canal and dropped anchor.  The canal’s average depth was 16’ and we nestled between two marsh areas that form part of the Big Hill Bayou Wildlife Management Area.  A brisk breeze kept the mosquitoes at bay.

Joe and I hopped aboard our dinghy, Flor Gris, and went alligator hunting in the salt grass. Because I actually caught an alligator one time, Joe has changed the rules of the hunt and I am not allowed to carry my dip net nor even a boat hook.  In the mid-’90s, I proudly sent out holiday greeting cards with a photo of me, standing waist-deep in Florida swamp water, beaming and holding up my “big lizard.”  The response from friends and family was swift. “Do you realize you are holding a baby alligator?” one friend wrote.  “Where was the mother?”

We returned to our anchorage and while we securing the dinghy, two fishermen motored over and asked us if we’d like “a couple of fish.”  We said sure and offered money, beer or granola bars as payment but they demurred then plopped three big-o redfish on the deck!  And there was plenty more where that came from in their cooler.  We thanked them, and while Joe cleaned the fish, we discussed our amazing good fortune to be able to do this, at this time in our lives.  This is cruising at its finest, and we are blessed.

We continued to feel blessed, right up until the winds died and the mosquitoes moved in.  They sent scouts to survey the potential battlefield.  The scout reported back to Commander-in-Chief God that the boat was an excellent target and that, once again, the woman appeared to be overly self-satisfied and needed some humbling. “Go for it,” chuckled God.

The battle raged all night.  Joe and I quit spraying insect repellant on ourselves and took the lids off and began slathering.  If there was one microscopic space of skin exposed, zap!  A mosquito claimed the territory.

The next morning, I pointed to an empty bottle of mosquito repellant on the floor.  “Look,” I said to Joe.  “An empty artillery shell.”

NOAA Nautical Charts 11342, 11343

The current in Sabine River was strong, but the winds were mild as we continued eastward on the ICW.  We began attempting to contact the Black River Pontoon Bridge by cellphone in order to schedule a time to pass through Ellender Bridge.  Ellender Bridge has a 50’ clearance when closed and 135’ when open; they request you call ahead 24 hours in advance and again, 4 hours before your anticipated arrival.  The number to call is for the Black River Pontoon Bridge, which will relay the information to the unmanned Ellender Bridge.  No one answered our call, so I cell phoned my sister Gloria in Kansas.  (My mother wanted to cover all the bases by giving me a “Jewish” name and my sister a “Catholic” name.  She figured that gave us a 50/50 chance for heaven.)  “See if you can find a number for the Ellender Bridge or the Black Bayou Pontoon Bridge in Louisiana,” I requested.  She accessed the internet and returned my call.  “You should call the Louisiana Department of Transportation,” she said. “But . . . uh . . . the website said the bridge isn’t working.

This was a bad thing.  “The bridge isn’t working?” I asked.

 “Yes . . .” she replied.  “There’s some kind of problem with the bridge.”

I promptly called the Louisiana Department of Transportation.  My first call was answered by a helpful young lady, Angela, who said she would find the correct telephone number for us.  She was cheerful, but guarded as she said, “You really do need to speak with the right person.  There’s been . . . a problem with the bridge.”

My next phone call was to the office of Gene Caldwell with the Department of Transportation.  His assistant Stacy said quite simply, “There’s a problem with the Ellender Bridge.”

She told us the bridge was hit by a tow 5 days ago and had been closed since then.  I had a brief panic attack and began babbling.  “CLOSED?  As in, nobody can go to Florida on the ICW, closed?” I gasped.

“Well, nobody higher than 50 feet,” she said cheerfully.  “Let me talk with Gene and see what’s going on,” she continued.  “They have been working on it and depending on the kind of damage . . . whether it’s simply electrical or also structural . . . I’ll get a better idea for you when it will re-open.”  Stacy contacted us several hours later.  “They are going to attempt some practice lifts tomorrow,” she said. “You might be able to slip through.  Gene will call you tomorrow and let you know for sure.”

I asked Joe if maybe we couldn’t just anchor at the edge of the ICW near the Ellender Bridge.  The moon was full and provided much light, and I was feeling safer on the familiar waterway.  “If a tow’s barges can go out of control and hit a bridge, they can hit us,” he said.  So we will continue to find anchorages off the Intracoastal Waterway and away from the waterway traffic at night.

We anchored off Pavell Island near mile marker 265.  A channel encircles the island, but there is a stretch of spoil area and submerged piles on the east side of the island that boaters should avoid.  The canal on the west side of the island provides an excellent wooded anchorage, and we nestled there that afternoon and watched the working vessels of the ICW.  We sat in the cockpit until sundown, checking our charts to be sure we had the necessary one(s) for an exit from Port Arthur into the Gulf of Mexico.  Once again, as if a battle trumpet had sounded, a battalion of mosquitoes swooped in and ran us down below.

The next morning, oyster boats made the only ripples on the calm waters.  As I recalled my conversation with Stacy of the Department of Transportation, I realized she didn’t understand that we were 20 miles, or 3-4 hours west of the bridge.  I made another call to the Department and this time spoke with Gene Caldwell, who felt confident we would make it through Ellender Bridge that day.  He said there were more boats waiting for the trial run and said, “Once we get it open, we’ll probably keep the bridge up for awhile.”  He encouraged me to call his office when we were closer.  I thanked him for his and the Department’s consideration for our passage making.  They were very professional and expressed genuine interest for our safety on Louisiana waterways.

NOAA Nautical Charts 11331, 11348

When we approached the Ellender Bridge near mile marker 243, we sighted a Hunter sailboat circling west of the bridge.  It was about noon, and I was of the impression that the bridge was going to open any minute.  We circled around for awhile, and I hailed S/V Harmony Isle, only to discover they were cruisers from Friendswood and members of the Waterford Yacht Club.  They were en route to Florida and from there to destinations unknown, just as we were.  Unlike us, they had been hanging out at the Ellender Bridge two days.  “TWO DAYS?!” I responded.

Shortly after that, S/V Rose of Sharon was hailed on the VHF radio by the Department of Transportation.  “We plan to open the bridge in an hour-and-a-half,” we were told.  We thanked the anonymous voice on the radio and Vernon Downing yelled across the ICW that, “An hour-and-a-half is one of their favorite times!”  The Downings were halfway into Day Three of the Ellender Bridge Saga, and I figured they knew what they were talking about, so I began losing hope.

A Coast Guard cutter on the other side of the bridge quickly tired of waiting and sped off.  I fixed lunch then took a nap in the cockpit.  We circled . . . and circled . . . at one point a tow we thought was continuing beyond us westbound on the ICW cut in front of us to dock.  We got close enough to the pilot house that I could smell Dr. Pepper® on the captain’s breath.  That’s too close.  Several circles later, in 6 feet of water, we hit a rock.  In the words of former President Nixon, “Expletive deleted.”  I got on the radio to chat with Debbie Downing.  “Do we know how to have a good time or what?!” we laughed.

They opened the bridge about 3:30 p.m. and we shot like a rocket underneath it, closely following our Texas neighbors.  This is quite an interesting bridge: it doesn’t swing open like a pontoon bridge, nor does it separate and create an opening, like a typical bridge.  The entire bridge section rises in one piece.  In order to raise the bridge, sacks of water were stacked somewhere on or near the bridge and I don’t understand what the water-weight had to do with the electronic technical magic of the bridge raising, but I figured we needed to hustle in case the thing fell down.  I waved to the engineers and workers above us and shouted, “Thanks, guys!”

The Downings of Friendswood, Texas continued on toward Lake Charles and the Kratzes of Kemah, Texas turned into Choupique Bayou.

This anchorage near mile marker 242 is not for the faint of heart.  I was reading instructions to Joe.  Joe thought we were supposed to stay on the starboard side of the marshy waters.  I was reading a guidebook that was routing its readers from Louisiana to Texas, so when it said to make a starboard turn, I thought it meant starboard for westbounders, so that meant port for eastbounders . . . well, you know how it happens.  Here’s the bottom line: ease in, hang to the right, and try to stay off the crabpots and good luck.  We ran aground twice but our anchorage for the night was in 12’ of water in the middle of a circle of reeds, just 300 yards north of the ICW.  It was a great anchorage, a comfortable night’s sleep, and we still aren’t sure how we got in there or how we got out.

NOAA Nautical Charts 11348, 11350

Devil’s Elbow at mile marker 240 bears close watch; there are two dead-end canals that are appealing to eastbounders, but they are just that . . . dead ends.  Once we made the curve around Devil’s Elbow, we notified the Calcasieu Lock, as instructed.  Cruisers are told to plan for a two-hour wait at the Calcasieu Lock, mile marker 238.  This was an incredibly busy section of the Intracoastal Waterway and we were in a holding pattern about two hours, as predicted.  After we passed the lock, the Black Bayou Pontoon Bridge lockmaster instructed us to proceed through.  The stretch of ICW between the Black Bayou Pontoon Bridge and the Grand Lake Pontoon Bridge at mile marker 231 is not an area where you can put on the autopilot and relax.  The ICW snakes around and the deepest area was only 14 feet, so the banks came up to meet me a couple of times.  Still, it was an isolated and relaxing stretch because there was no traffic.

At each bridge passing, the bridge masters came to their windows or came outside to wave at us.  “Where’re y’all goin’?” yelled one man as we motored through a bridge channel.  “Avery Island . . . Florida . . . Mexico . . . Guatemala . . . as far as we can for as long as we can!” I yelled back.  “Sounds good!” he responded.

It is good.

Bayou Lacassine at mile marker 205 is a sweet little anchorage.  Simply enter the Bayou on the north side of the ICW and stay in the middle; you might see an orange sign that reads “TION.”  That’s what’s left of a caution sign that was plowed into by . . . well, not barges, I hoped.  Stay well to the left of it.  When the bayou entrance widens into a large body of water, continue on if you wish according to the guidebooks.  After collecting mud samples from all over Choupique Bayou, we were gun-shy.  When the depth dropped to 6 feet, we simply turned around and dropped anchor, facing the ICW about 500’ feet south of us. We slept quite nicely in approximately 8’ of water.

The Intracoastal Waterway was busy - that’s an understatement - the next day.  We felt more like workers than cruisers, as we plowed past and got passed by all the tows and barges.  We tucked in behind an eastbound tow as we went through the Leland-Bowman Lock at mile 162; then we followed it to Intracoastal City, where the traffic picked up!  I was getting a slight stress headache from the hard-traveling day; the handheld VHF radio went out and only the stronger radio down below would transmit, when two shrimp boats blocked the ICW.  I handed off the wheel to Joe and rushed down below, “This is the eastbound sailboat; shrimp boats, are we safe to pass or should we turn around?”  The only answer came from the tow with what seemed like a mammoth load of barges too close behind us:  “Be careful,” he said, “They’re in the middle.”

When I returned to the cockpit from down below, prepared for sure disaster, Joe had already weaved past the two shrimp boats and was making preparation to turn into Shell Morgan, mile marker 160.  A shore patrol boat zoomed past us toward what we later discovered was the foundering shrimp boat and his friend who was trying to help him.  His friend begged the oncoming towboat not to “hit him,” but abandoned his buddy and fled for safer water.  The drama continued without us, for we had our own situation.  We had to ease into the Shell Morgan Landing, on the northwest side of the ICW with 20-knot gusts from the southeast, a tow in front, a tow behind, a tow pulling out of its dock to our starboard, and we had to do it without hitting anything.  I tried and failed to ease in and handed off the wheel to Joe, who made it with little difficulty.  “You’ll learn,” he said, as we touched ground for the first time in 5 days.

We needed fuel, water, and beer, in that order.  After topping off the tanks, we eased over to the other side of the facility’s small channel and tied up.  As a record-breaking heat wave continued, we were looking forward to air conditioning for the night, thanks to the 30-amp electricity available.  A short walk to the Chevron® station provided a surprise: the little mini mart carried fresh vegetables and meat.  I recommend you buy the hamburger meat, buns, and Edwards® ready-to-serve Georgia Pecan Pie.  It was a great meal.

The Shell Morgan Landing is primarily a dock for shrimp boats and is located on the ICW, so dockage there was rolly that night.  We could hear - and feel - the shrimpers leaving the next morning.  I figure if you don’t like rocking and rolling, a boat is not for you in the first place, and I was grateful the shrimpers’ departures helped us get an early start on the new day.  If you feel the same way, this is a terrific dockage for you.

NOAA Nautical Charts 11350, 11345

Avery Island!  Getting there is half the fun.  Turning north at about mile 146, Bayou Petite Anse will take you to the legendary island.  Staying left of the red markers, we eased our way through an average water depth of 8’.  There are many tempting turn-offs and I think I could probably spend several days in that area, exploring the cubbyholes and interesting small canals in a dinghy.  This is clearly a fisherman’s paradise, and we passed numerous sportsmen in the bayou.

If Avery Island is your destination, make a starboard turn just past marker 14.  If you have the time to explore, we were told continuing on northward up the Delcambre Canal is lovely and it opens into Lake Peigneur.  This lake was formed by a collapsed salt dome.  Water depth is not a problem for sailboats in this area; Delcambre Canal averages 9½’.

After the eastward turnoff, we saw barges anchored on the north shore of the channel.  One of our guidebooks said to make a left turn north into another canal “before the barges,” but it was outdated and there are now more barges moored.  Consequently, we made our left turn into a canal before the barges and the water depth plunged rapidly.  We eased back out.  We continued east with the barges on our port side and discovered another canal.  Turning left into the center of that canal, the water depth continued at 8-9’, so we moseyed along at a safe speed, ever mindful that the bottom could rise up to greet us at any moment.  “Do you feel like we’re in ‘African Queen’?” Joe asked me, and I laughed, “Yes!  Especially since I know I’ll have to be the one to get into the water and tow us if we hit bottom!”

Beautiful white Snowy Egrets were in abundance.  We passed a lovely blue heron staring into the water as if hypnotized, waiting patiently for his supper to swim by.  I heard a jungle sound, “Caw! Caw! Caw!” reminiscent of Tarzan movies and excitedly asked Joe, “What do you think that was?”

“A crow,” he replied.

When we saw patches of pristinely manicured golf-course-green lawn, we knew we were heading in the right direction.  Floating hyacinth plants seemed to greet us as we quietly motored along the scenic channel.  A few moments later, the purple top of a tiny Buddha temple appeared.  The Buddha is dated from 1000 A.D. and was a gift to the McIlhenny Tabasco® sauce family in 1937.

Then we saw it: the edge of the Jungle Gardens of Avery Island, a stunning hill-covered 200 acres of abundant plants, wildlife and waterfowl.  While some walking is recommended, most people tour the Gardens by auto and as I hung over the lifelines with my camera, taking picture after picture of the Spanish moss-draped trees and tropical lushness, I saw that people were taking pictures of us from their cars! One lady on the shore and I laughingly took pictures of each other taking pictures.

We continued on until the canal opened into a small, round basin. A boater’s instinct (especially a sailboater’s) is to stay in the middle of any waterway, but at low tide there is a small mud flat directly in the middle of the entrance to the basin, so sailboats especially should hug the right side of the basin as they pass the private dock and motor over to the public dockage, which is adjacent to the road.  That road is the only one which leads to and from Avery Island.

That night we met one of the private dock boatowners, Cameron Simmons.  Cameron was dressed in workman clothing and as we chatted, he said his specialty was boat plumbing, so I thought he might be a plumber by trade.  Even though we were sticky with perspiration and “travel-grime,” he invited us over to his big Hatteras powerboat.  The air conditioning was a blessing, but nothing, and I mean nothing ever tasted as good as the light beer he served us.  He keeps his boat refrigerator one degree above freezing, and after a day on the water in extreme heat, he could have served us swill at one degree above freezing, and we would have been in rapture.

We discovered Cameron was not a tradesman, but was in fact a city judge.  More importantly, he said he is the 2004 Tournament champion in Marlin tournament fishing!  I was fascinated by his explanation of how he and his fellow sports fishermen travel 50-100 miles offshore in the Gulf of Mexico in his Hatteras, Tia II, participating in tournaments.  Even with a diesel engine, the per-day fuel cost is high.  I’m sure judges earn a fair salary, but considering how much a good plumber can earn, I wondered if perhaps Judge Simmons might want to subsidize his fishing hobby with a little plumbing work on the side!

We told Cameron about the fishermen who had given us the three large redfish, and he told us the proper way to grill the redfish is “on the half shell.”  Instead of scaling and filleting the meat, the best way to grill it is to leave the scales on and lay the meat, scales down, on the grill.  The sides curl up, forming a bowl, and the garlic-butter basting sauce (and of course you would use a garlic-butter sauce), remains inside the bowl, coating every piece of savory fish during the grilling process.

The next morning, we paid our fifty cents’ “admission” to Avery Island and walked about a mile to the Tabasco Pepper Sauce Visitors Center and factory.  The tour was 20 minutes and included an eight-minute video.  The video emphasized that a member of the McIlhenny family samples every batch of sauce before it is approved for bottling, and at the Country Store, free samples of the sauces were available.  (My favorite is the green.)  Joe and I then walked another mile to the Jungle Gardens entrance.  There is an entry fee, and much as I wanted to, there was no way I could make the four-mile walk through the gardens, which is geared toward vehicular travel.  But arriving by boat had given us a pretty good look, so we settled for a purchase of Tabasco-flavored crackers and really tacky Tabasco-themed Mardi Gras beads for the grandchildren then walked back to the boat.

LOUISIANA CHICKEN, PORK & SAUSAGE JAMBALAYA

Do not drain the canned tomatoes. Heat 2 Tbsp. of vegetable oil in a large saucepot over med.-high heat. Add chicken and brown on all sides. Remove and set aside. Heat remaining 2 Tbsp. of vegetable oil in saucepot. Add pork, sausage, celery, onion, green pepper, and garlic, stirring often. Cook until meat & veggies are tender then stir in remaining ingredients except the rice. Stir in the chicken, cover and simmer over low heat about 10 mins. Stir in uncooked rice and cover. Simmer about 30 minutes or until chicken and rice are tender. Add additional broth if rice begins to stick.

NOAA Nautical Chart 11350

This is where Joe and I disagree:  I think we made a tactical error by leaving Avery Gardens at 11:00 a.m. and heading back into the ICW.  Joe says it was “no big deal” that we didn’t have a clear plan for our destination that night and “it all worked out, didn’t it?”

One of the season’s first big cold fronts was headed our way and was taking longer than predicted.  We knew we would have to find a good stopping place to let the weather pass through, and we’d thought Avery Island might be the place.  But the sun was shining and the weatherman predicted a delay in the big storm, and because we were eager to be underway again . . . Well, we left beautiful Avery Island and as we turned eastbound into the Intracoastal Waterway, I said, “Now, where’s our next stop?”

Joe’s loosely-planned plan had been to spend the night in Cypremort.  Both guidebooks claimed Cypremort had marinas and a yacht club, but neither one mentioned any by name or gave any contact information.  As we motored along, I again cell phoned my sister and asked her to check the internet for information about Cypremort.  She came up with a name and number of the Bayview Marina.  It was the correct phone number, but it had been switched to fax.  “The yacht club has a membership application, but no contact information,” she reported.  When we were within range, I hailed Bayview Marina on 16 VHF and a man came back; he let me know there was no dockage available there.

Joe said, “I think we can make it to Morgan City.”  I did the math, using worst-case scenario (5 miles/hour) and best-case scenario (7 miles/hour) and best-case scenario had us motoring for an hour after dark, and then coming into an unfamiliar dockage at Morgan City.  I told Joe I thought he was being overly optimistic, and he said, “We’ll see.”

We did see.  We saw heavier tow traffic, light barges, loaded barges, and “six-packs.”  Then we saw wind gusts up to 26 knots.  We saw whitecaps in the ICW.  Eventually we saw lightning and torrential rain.  We saw our rate of speed sink to 4 miles/hour.  I went down below and rummaged through the first aid kit. “Where’s the Valium?” I shouted up into the cockpit.  “Where’s lunch?” he replied.

“LUNCH? You can think about food at a time like this?” I exclaimed.  “What do you mean ‘time like this?’ ” Joe replied.  “It’s just raining.”

As I prepared lunch, I fussed about our travel plan for the day, which appeared to be not much of a plan at all at this point.  After lunch, I poured through the guidebooks looking for a possible anchorage.  Eastbound between mile marker 145 and Morgan City at 95, there was nothing that appeared to be a viable anchorage option.  “We should have waited until tomorrow morning!” I fumed.  Joe laughed.  “You sure can turn on a guy,” he said.  “Yesterday I was your hero and today . . .”

We continued to pass and be passed by working vessels as we pitched and heeled in the storm.  The Cote Blanche Cable Ferry responds to VHF and it was as if they knew there was a hysterical first mate aboard; the ferry contact radioed Joe, “We’ll get that cable outta yer way, boss.”

When the weather deteriorated further, even Joe began to be concerned.  He studied the charts carefully.  There were plenty of canals and channels in the area, but their depths were uncharted.  He began asking the towboat captains if they were familiar with the area and if there was anyplace we could “duck into to” to wait out the storm.  The responses were discouraging; no one knew of anywhere deep enough.

Finally, a voice came on the radio and said, “You can get into the Charenton Drainage Canal,” he said.  “It’s deep enough.”  Joe replied, “I thought it was a barge traffic canal,” and the man said, “It is, but it’s not too busy.  You should be safe if you anchor on the side.”  Joe thanked him and we located it on the chart.  It was at mile marker 123.

We reached it shortly and turned north into the canal.  As soon as we left the ICW, the sun came out and the winds lay down to 15 knots.  Joe raised his eyebrows at me and I could tell he was considering pushing on.  “I can’t take the excitement,” I said, in response to his unasked question.  “I don’t want to be moving in the ICW after dark today.”

The Charenton Drainage and Navigation Canal is considered to be a poor anchorage.  It is a difficult one, because even though the water in the middle of the canal is 20’ deep, it quickly becomes a wading pool near both banks.  There is a teeny, tiny section near the west bank with 6-9’ water, and that was where we were trying to anchor.  Joe dropped the bow anchor in the shallows and we backed off to set it.  With the winds unpredictably gusting, and because of the possibility of barge traffic, he decided to set our small Fortress anchor off the stern.  He dinghied toward the shore with the anchor, tossing it out where it set well.  Too well, as it turned out; we had to wrestle for a quite a while the next morning to retrieve it.

The winds dropped to 5 knots and as the sun went down, we sat in the cockpit enjoying our own “sundowners.”  The bad weather that had seemed so scary became a distant memory.  Only one tow passed us during the night, and we hardly moved.

The next morning, Joe wanted eggs to go with his bottle of Tabasco sauce, and once again he was My Hero, so I cooked a hearty breakfast and was eager to begin a new day on the Intracoastal Waterway.

NOAA Nautical Charts 11350, 11355

Where the Wax Lake Outlet crosses the Intracoastal Waterway at mile marker 108, the currents are strong and unpredictable.  Boaters, especially sailboaters, are warned to hold up if a tow is crossing and wait until they have cleared the intersection before making your own passage.  As S/V Rose of Sharon made the crossing, Joe and I couldn’t tell which direction the current was flowing.  Joe said since the winds from the southeast were again gusting over 20 knots, perhaps they were offsetting the strength of the current.  (I think that was supposed to be the good news.)

We entered the Berwick Bay Traffic zone at mile marker 102, and that was the first of several radio contacts with this marine traffic control service.  I hailed them on VHF 11: “Berwick Traffic, this is eastbound sailing vessel Rose of Sharon, checking in at mile marker 102.”  A woman’s voice came back and requested our destination.  I told her Morgan City and she responded:  “Check back in at the 99.”  I thought I had called them too soon.  “No, that’s how it works,” Joe said. “You have to check in at several points along the way.”

At mile marker 99, I called Berwick again on VHF 11.  “Check back in at the High Lines,” she responded.  The “high lines” are overhead power cables between two towers at mile marker 97.  Now, at this point, we were dealing with some serious working vessel traffic.  Joe listened closely to their radio transmissions, especially oncoming traffic, to determine if they were going westbound on the ICW or turning south on the Atchafalaya River.  When we again contacted Berwick, she told us to “hold back” until another vessel cleared, then to proceed under the raised railroad bridge, which is 73’ when up.

After we passed the railroad bridge, we turned to starboard toward what we thought our dockage would be:  on the wall where the words, “Morgan City” is visible, bigger than life.  I had called ahead and was told there were four spaces with electricity available.  This site was bow-to-stern crammed full of shrimp boats and one odd little boat that had a  collection of potted plants and a porch swing!  Uh-oh.  We knew we were supposed to be in-between two bridges, and we were, but this didn’t look like the spot.

We were between the railroad bridge and the first highway bridge.  We took our time, circling around, and finally figured out that the dockage was between the two highway bridges.  The first highway bridge was supposed to be 73’ and the second highway bridge was 50’.  Between those two bridges on the northeast wall were pilings without piers.  Joe aimed our nose into one of the spaces and with 20-knot winds on our starboard stern, we clumsily but tightly secured the boat with one minor incident:  our boat’s stainless steel figurehead, the vapid and buxom “Maggie the Mariner,” hit a piling and was spun sideways on her bow railing perch.  Joe quickly retrieved her before she fell into the briny deep, and placed her temporarily on the deck.  I think she was complaining bitterly about a headache.

The cost for dockage at the Morgan City Municipal Marina is $20/day.  Fees are to be paid at the nearby City Hall’s tax office.

Joe and I showered and set out to explore a bit of Morgan City.  I was tired, and trudged along willingly but slowly.  As we walked down one of the side streets, we spied the library and it was all Joe could do to keep up with me as I rushed to it.  With photo identification, we were allowed to use their computer terminals.  Surrounded by nine-year-old students, Joe and I happily checked our email, bank accounts, and charge accounts.  The librarian gave us a map of Morgan City, the phone numbers of the two rental car agencies in town, and walking directions to Rita Mae’s Kitchen, a must-visit for Morgan City visitors.  The homey restaurant specializes in Cajun cooking and most entrees are served with homemade potato salad.  Joe had seafood gumbo and potato salad, while I went for the Cajun pork chops and shrimp jambalaya.  I strongly recommend the bread pudding with rum sauce for dessert!

Joe had expressed concern that the auto traffic on the overhead bridges would disturb our slumber, but not a problem . . . we slept quite well, thank you.  The anticipated storm blew in the next day and all day, as we nestled snug in our dockage, I said to Joe, “Aren’t you glad we’re not out there in this?”  It was November 2, 2004.  The winds howled, the rain pelted the boat, and the visibility was seriously compromised but we were snug and safe in our Morgan City slip, where we were able to pick up two television stations.  We eagerly awaited the presidential election returns.

NOAA Nautical Charts 11355, 11351, 11354

S/V Rose of Sharon left Morgan City, Louisiana and was back on the Intracoastal Waterway before 0800.  We scrambled to find sweatshirts, knit caps and gloves, for it was cold!  You’d think we would welcome a break from the heat, but nope, I’m okay with heat.  When the water splashes up into the cockpit and on me during a heatwave, it’s like a gift from God.  When we are traveling in an isolated area and the weather is hot, I can take off my blouse for awhile.  I can spray refreshing lemon water on myself to cool down.  But cold?  The only defense against cold is to layer clothing and stay dry.  I found my gloves and put a pair of red knit booties to accompany my Wal-Mart-blue sweatshirt and ski pants.  I looked like a finalist for the Worst-Dressed contest.

“It will warm up today,” said Joe, but it never really did.

The Bayou Boeuf Locks were busy and the anticipated wait was more than an hour, so we went back the way we came and turned off the ICW at the 99, continuing southbound in the lower Atchafalaya River.  The average depth of the river is 20-24’ and at the first turn, our depth gauge showed 120’.  At the green marker 23, we turned left into Bayou Chene and resumed our eastward course.   This was, so far, the most picturesque stretch we’d seen since leaving Corpus Christi.  The banks were adorned with stately cypress trees and evergreens, all wearing Spanish moss that waved gently to us as we quietly passed.

The Bayou Chene flows into the ICW just west of mile marker 85.  The traffic picked up again, but this time, there were fewer working vessels and more sportsmen in a parade of modified powerboats.  There were plenty of those airboats, or swampboats - you know, those tiny boats powered by huge, noisy fans.  They go pretty fast! But my favorites were the duck hunters’ boats.  We passed one that was so big, I couldn’t stop myself from hailing him on VHF.  “Where are you going in that big-o Winnebago?”  I asked him.  “It’s not a Winnebago,” he replied loftily.  “It’s a homemade duck-hunting boat.”  He said he was going “duck hunting in the Delta,” and we chatted awhile.  He said he had twin diesel engines and got about “three gallons an hour.”  When we said farewell, I said, “Well, as far as I’m concerned, you’re in the Winnebago and we’re in a Toyota!  Have a safe trip!”

We passed many additional, smaller “houseboats,” and I mean “house” in the literal sense - each one was a water vessel with a homemade shelter built atop.  On this particular portion of the waterway, it is so wide that seaplanes use it to take off and land, and sure enough, one seaplane took off directly in front of us.  But the best sight of the day?  We spotted a total of four, majestic eagles!

A westbound sailboat passed us, bound from Florida to Corpus Christi, where he worked for a sailing school.  Joe talked with him briefly and they laughed that we were essentially “trading places.”  He told us the Harvey Locks were closed and we might need to plan an alternate route through the Algiers Locks.  We thanked him for the valuable update and continued on toward Houma.

I usually wave at the tows and they usually wave back and it’s all very friendly on the ICW.  This time it got a bit too friendly as a couple of randy towboat captains encouraged me to “show us your hooters!”  I stayed off the radio and pretended to study my crossword puzzle with intensity, but it was difficult for Joe and me not to laugh.

At this point we were putting the “pedal to the metal,” for the DuLarge Bridge closes at 4:30 p.m. and does not re-open until 6:00 p.m.  We got close enough to the bridge at 4:25 to begin a mad dash, but the bridge tender refused to begin the opening of the bridge because she could see that we would not be directly under the bridge at 4:30.  She was right of course, but we still sulked.

And so we began our 90-minute circling as sunlight began fading to black.  One of our spotlights needed a battery re-charged.  “You need to do that,” I called up to Joe in the cockpit.  “I know, but I’ve been busy,” Joe replied.  He began his Saturday Night Live George Dubya Bush imitation that never fails to make me laugh:  “I work hard.  Come in weekends, work Saturdays.”

Our other spotlight plugs into the 12-volt socket in the cockpit.  We tried it out and it worked fine.  I contemplated the cord.  “But how can I sit right on the bow, looking ahead?  The cord won’t stretch.”  Joe said I could ride sidesaddle next to him in the cockpit.  In another life, this would have led to a lengthy discussion (see: argument) about the dynamics of navigating the ICW in the dark, but I simply let it go.  Whatever happened, we would just deal with it.  I did, however, discuss moving my jewelry from the safe box under the v-berth to the abandon ship bag just in case we hit something and sunk.  “It’s no more than 20 feet here,” Joe said.  “We’ll be able to see where we sink and you can get your stuff later.”  Makes sense to me.

I turned on the steaming light and the tricolor light.  “Red sky at night,” I chirped as we circled and sun eased down faster than I’d hoped.  We were joined by a tow with two empties and listened as he begged the bridge master to open up.  “Just like I told the sailboat, it’ll open up at 6:00 p.m.,” she replied.  I hailed the towboat captain: “Lonnie B, we are going to tuck in behind you, so when she opens the bridge, please go on through and don’t worry about us,” I said, adding, “Wish you’d gotten here sooner, we could’ve played gin rummy.”  He came back and we left the navigational channel 13 to chat on another channel.

As I told him of my love for Mexico and desire to spend more time there, he told me how he too had spent a great deal of time in Mexico, often in areas where he was “the only gringo.”  Then he told us that when we followed him in the dark, he would let us know where to turnoff to the Houma City Marina.  Great! We didn’t need a spotlight, after all.

It was dark, real dark, until the lights of Houma provided some visibility.  We followed the Lonnie B, and when he reached two highway bridges, he radioed us.  “That’s it,” he said.  “Turn left between the two bridges.”  We thanked him and wished him a safe trip.

What a difference between Morgan City and Houma!  “Any port in a storm,” I know, and Morgan City provides safe, secure dockage, but this was scenic, new dockage adjacent to a nicely landscaped city park.  As we tied up, Bill Ellender, the conscientious marina master, hurried over.  He had been waiting for us and was unaware we had been trapped on the west side of the DuLarge Bridge.  He had also been trying to call us, but I had turned the cell phone off.  Then he reminded us that being on the ICW after dark is a no-no (I KNOW-KNOW!).

Bill Ellender is a WWII veteran.  It turns out that his first cousin was U.S. Senator from Louisiana for almost 40 years and - small world - that’s who the Ellender Bridge is named after!  He took Joe to a nearby fast food restaurant to get carryout chicken.  Bill Ellender is a sweetheart (and a ventriloquist!) and the Houma Downtown Marina is a lovely stopover for ICW boaters.

The next day, we were joined by two more boats, both from Texas.  One of them, a Catalina Mark II, Bearboat II, invited us over for sundowners.  Mike and Betty Anne Ferris dock their vessel at Legend Point in Kemah, Texas.  They were returning to Texas from Florida and had some good advice about anchorages and dockage east of the Harvey Locks.  The following morning as we prepared to leave Houma, I pulled on my raggedy red slippers and blue sweatshirt again and recalled my first impression of Betty Anne:  her clothes matched.  She looked very put-together when they came into Houma.  We had discussed clothes and laundry, and I discovered her sense of humor regarding cruising matched her sense of style:  “Don’t wear clothes whenever possible!” she told me.  “Go naked, and you’ll cut down on laundry.”

NOAA Nautical Charts 11355, 11367, 11369

The coffee is strong at Café Du Monde, and the doughnuts are too hot to touch.

Just like a fool, when those sweet goodies cool, I eat way too much.

’Cause I’m living for things that excite me, be it pastry, lobster or love .

- The Wino and I Know, Jimmy Buffet

Louisiana’s Intracoastal Waterway between miles 50 and 15 is lovely for the most part.  The ICW is wide, wooded, and the ever-present hyacinths floated by as we continued eastward.  Apparently the hyacinths are a problem for boaters in the spring, when their abundance poses a navigational hazard.

Joe hailed the “Blue Bayou” pontoon bridge at mile 50 and was politely but promptly corrected.  “It’s Bayou Blue Pontoon Bridge,” he was told.  Saying the bridge’s name correctly is not only common courtesy, it’s a rule of the road.

Between mile markers 45 and 40, I studied the chart.  “Let’s see . . .” I said.  “There’s ‘swamp’ over here.” I pointed to the starboard side.  “And there’s marsh over there.”  I pointed to the port side.  “Except of course, when there’s marsh over here and swamp over there . . .” It was an easy ride with very little traffic.

The West Larose Bridge near mile marker 35 near opened promptly for us.  At mile marker 15, we turned south into the Fleming Canal and fueled up then tied up in front of the now-abandoned Texaco fuel storage building.  The Fleming Canal Store is located in the town of LaFitte.  Though no electricity or water is available to boaters, this site provides a peaceful and quiet shelter.  And believe me, that’s what is needed the night before the trek into New Orleans.

We left the Fleming Canal Store about 7:30 a.m. the next day.  A slight haze on the water offered a bit of limited visibility, but nothing insurmountable, although we passed several moored tows waiting for the haze to lift.  A sideways tow blocked our passage under the fixed bridge at Crown Point, and we waited patiently and carefully for him to get turned around.  The ICW banks of LaFitte presented many lovely and some luxurious upscale homes.  Joe spoke with one of the tow captains about the Harvey Locks.  “The locks are fine,” the captain told Joe.  “But they are putting a floodgate in the Lapalco Bridge, so it’s down for now.”  This meant we would take the Algiers Alternate Route to get to New Orleans.

I learned most ICW eastbounders take the Harvey Canal and westbounders take the Algiers Alternate Route in order to go with, not against, the southern flow of the Mississippi River.  I was also told the Algiers Alternate Route is the waterway most preferred by working vessels, which makes the Harvey Canal preferred by recreational boaters. In this case, we had no choice.

Within the first 90 minutes of our journey, we passed 11 tows and three “six-packs.”  I began wishing I had gotten the teeth guard my dentist had recommended, because even though we were never in any danger, I found I was gritting my teeth because of the nonstop activity.  Until we entered Lake Ponchartrain, there was never, not for one minute of this day, a time in which we could lean back, relax, and put the boat on autopilot.

These banks were lined with boats, lots of boats.  Many were dead in the water, so to speak, and many were fixer-uppers.  This was one of the busiest, most marine-oriented industrialized areas I’d ever seen.

The Belle Chase Bridge lifted upon request.  As we prepared for the Algiers Lock, Joe and I had a discussion about which side of the lock we would be tied to.  Since I was behind the wheel, it was important we had The Plan in place and both of us had the same plan.  (Sometimes, one of us has a different plan in mind, and that almost always leads to a problem.  So we have to talk a lot about The Plan.)

“I want to be tied to the left side of the lock because I have the dinghy secured more on the right side of the boat,” he said.

“It seems to me that if the tow ahead of us is locking on the left side, they will want us on the right side,” I argued.

“Well, the guy on the radio told me I could pick a side, so we’re going left,” Joe responded.  Fine by me, I thought, then I launched into my dialogue about lines and cleats.  “Bad things happen when you secure the boat with the bow cleat,” I said.  “Bad things happen when you secure the boat with the stern cleat,” I added.  “GOOD things happen when we secure first with a middle cleat.”  Joe nodded.  I thought it was one of his I-agree-with-you nods, but it turns out it was one of his shut-up-I’m-thinking nods.

As we entered the Algiers Lock and I eased toward the left wall, a man from above shouted, “I want you on the right side of the lock . . .” so I turned the wheel the other way and eased over to the right side of the lock, careful to keep off the tow in front of me.  Joe grabbed his line (you know - the one with which he was going to secure the boat on the left side of the lock), and then hooked it to the bow cleat and the lock cleat, and sure enough, the stern swung into the middle of the lock.  He struggled with the bow line and another wall cleat, while I put the boat into forward and reverse, following his instructions, and finally the lockmaster decided to heck with us and began closing the lock doors anyway.  We finally - finally - snuggled into the wall as the waters rose.  Joe chatted with the man on the ground above us.  “You probably couldn’t tell this was our first time,” Joe joked.  The man smiled.  I thought to myself, We are doofuses and this guy knows it.  I continued, Well, at least we’re humble doofusses.  Nothing worse than a cocky doofuss.

We locked through the Algiers and entered the Mississippi River at 10:40 a.m. Joe checked in with Gretna Light Vessel Traffic, as we had been instructed.  They wanted our destination and vessel type.  I don’t know for sure, but I think this was a slow day, traffic-wise, for the Mississippi River.  It was busy enough for us!  We passed 2 tankers, one ferry, and 10 more tows and barges.  “Well, at least we’ve got plenty of room to work!”  I said cheerfully, as Joe slowed to let the ferry pass then eased left to let the big-o tanker have his space, and looked over his shoulder at the towboat with six empties bearing down on us from behind.  Joe smiled.  In fact, all day long, Joe responded to my witticisms with a smile that looked more like a grimace.

But we were in the mighty Mississippi! Beginning in 1959 and every year thereafter, my family crossed the Mississippi River from Texas en route to Florida and back.  I would stare down from the huge bridge at the swirling, brown waters below and they had a magical appeal to me.  Some years, we would visit a relative who lived on Canal near Bourbon Street in New Orleans, but my mother had a hard time - the stress of protecting her daughters from getting mugged or kidnapped kept her on alert 24/7 in New Orleans.  It’s always been a wild town, and I’ve always loved it. So there I was, finally!  IN the Mississippi River!  IN New Orleans and IN it in my boat!  I couldn’t have been happier.

We left the river and turned north into the Inner Harbor Navigation Canal.  We proceeded under the St. Claude Bridge, which opened in conjunction with the Industrial Lock.  We passed an outbound tow and slipped into the locks, which we had, this time, all to ourselves.  “Middle cleat, middle cleat,” I chanted to Joe as we entered the lock.  The line handler tossed a line down to Joe and said, “You’re a single screw.  Stern line first.”  When he dropped the line, Joe hooked it on the stern cleat then went forward to receive a second line, which he secured to the bow.  This time, we and the waters were lowered.

“What’s a single screw?” I asked Joe.  “One propeller,” he replied.  Oh.

The Claiborne Avenue Bridge lifted upon request, then the Florida Avenue Bridge lifted upon request, then the L & N Railroad Bridge lifted upon request. I-10 had a fixed bridge, so we motored underneath it and Joe hailed the I-90 bridge. No response.  He hailed it again.  Nothing.  We began circling between I-90 and I-10.  “Get on the big radio down below,” Joe said.  His handheld radio has a limited range.  I transmitted, “I-90 bridge, this is sailing vessel Rose of Sharon requesting permission to pass,” and a gruff voice came back on.  “Don’t expect him to answer if you don’t say the bridge name right.”

Yikes!  “Thank you sir,” I responded.  “What is the correct bridge name?”

“Danzinger Bridge,” he responded.

I tried again.  “Danzinger Bridge, this is sailing vessel Rose of Sharon requesting permission to pass.”  Nothing.  I tried again, louder, even though we were so close I could see the bolts and screws holding the bridge and the highway together.  I got a list of bridges and phone numbers and began calling the bridge on the cell phone.  No answer.  We continued circling and discussing Another Plan.  “We’ve only got so many hours of daylight left,” said Joe.  “If we don’t get this bridge to open soon, we’ve got to skip New Orleans, turn around and make a run for Rabbit Island.”  Even then, we would be pushing the envelope, sunlight-wise.

I went back down and this time, hailed the railroad bridge.  “L & N Railroad Bridge, is there something I need to know about contacting the Danzinger Bridge?"  No answer.

Well, heck.  I had to either call my sister in Kansas or call the Coast Guard or the Department of Public Transportation.  I called 411 and got the number for the Coast Guard.  The first phone call led to another phone call, which led to another phone call, which led to someone in the correct jurisdiction who wanted to help.  We spent some time confirming which bridges Rose of Sharon was in-between, which direction we were going, and I finally gave the Coast Guard our coordinates.  Joe could hear the Coast Guard hailing the bridge on channel 13.  I called the bridge phone number and this time it was busy.

We continued circling and watching the New Orleans Sunday drivers.  “Do you think this bridge closes on Sunday?”  I pondered aloud.  Joe looked at his watch then looked at the sky.  No, traffic is non-denominational, even waterway traffic, I thought.  They can’t close a working bridge to go to church all day, can they?

The cell phone rang.  “The supervisor is going out to the bridge to see what the problem is,” said a Coast Guard officer.  I thanked him profusely and a few minutes later, I thought saw the wheels of the lift bridge move slightly.  “I think it’s going up!”  I said to Joe, and we saw an SUV parked on the bank under the bridge.  We made another circle then proceeded toward the I-90 Danzinger Bridge.  Just as we began to pass underneath the bridge, Joe hailed it again,  “Danzinger Bridge this is the little sailboat. Are we clear to pass?”  No answer.

Joe sped up and I looked above us, once again hoping the bridge wouldn’t fall.

The Seabrook Railroad Bridge was up, so we proceeded through it without incident.  The Senator Ted Hickey Bridge is a bascule bridge, which means it opens up by separating and creating an opening through which we could pass.  They responded to our radio request and opened quickly and then . . . by golly, we saw WATER! Lots of water!  The most water we’d seen since the Gulf of Mexico!  We passed the Lakefront Airport and were in Lake Ponchartrain with nothing but sailboats and powerboats.  No tows, light or heavy; no tankers; no ferries; nothing but deep, open water.  And unlike Galveston Bay, there were no hidden shallow spots; the lake was consistently sailboat-deep water wherever we roamed.  There seemed to be a trail of crab pots lining the left bank, so I kept them to port as we motored along.

I called the Orleans Marina and received explicit instructions from Stuart, the security guard.  “Turn into the channel next to Joe’s Crab Shack,” he said.  “Go past the fuel dock, then turn right at the big crane.”  The channel was narrower than the Clear Lake Channel at the Kemah Boardwalk, and the buildings were completely water-fronted.  It looked like what I imagine Venice looks like, and I liked the feel of it.  Stuart had directed us to dock 5, slip 18 and was there, waving at us, as we approached.  Good thing, because the dock numbers are not easily identifiable from the water; they are clearly marked at the other end for pedestrians and parking lot visibility.

The charge with electricity at the Orleans Marina is seventy-five cents per foot.  The security is excellent, and the marina is within walking distance of restaurants and a grocery store.  A West Marine store is nearby, but a bit of a stretch . . . Joe walked there in about an hour to get the electrical parts we needed and caught a taxi back to the marina.

Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?  There are some places that beckon when you’ve been away too long, and New Orleans is one of those places.  This city is so rich in cultural heritage that whatever your nationality or ethnicity, there’s a representation of your ancestry to be found in New Orleans.

Our first night docked in New Orleans, we walked to the nearby Jaeger’s on the Lake restaurant and had lobster.  It was a necessity.  The Orleans Marina on Lake Ponchartrain is located in the Westend Park area of New Orleans, and a taxi downtown is about $20, so we took advantage of public transportation.  For $1.50 per person, Joe and I could catch a bus at the stop in front of the huge, now-defunct Robert E. Lee movie theater, ride it to a trolley pickup at “cemeteries,” then take the trolley as far down Canal Street as possible.  From there, it is about a 6-block walk to Jackson Square, Café Du Monde, and more art galleries than you can possibly visit in one day.  I contemplated the purchase of a Chagall painting, but it simply did not go with my boat décor, so I passed on it and got Mardi gras feathered masks for the grandchildren instead.

When traveling on a cruising budget, you can still visit excellent restaurants . . . for lunch. Luncheon menus are usually lower priced and the cuisine is just as well-prepared and presented as for the evening diners. We stopped in at Mr. B’s Bistro, where the Bloody Marys are $1.50 apiece and the chicken roulade is to die for. Their beans and rice will take you to another level of epicurean rapture.

We visited the Jean LaFitte National Park on Decatur Street, where we learned of “the six sites of Jean LaFitte” in the area known as Acadiana. In the heart of the French Quarter is the St. Louis Cathedral.  Inside it, I sat in a pew for a reflective few moments, studying the ornate ceiling artwork and contemplating the architecture.  Another stop-in was the New Orleans Jazz National Historical Park, where I purchased my souvenir for this visit, a Fats Domino CD.

We split one muffuletta at the Central Grocery, understanding that one muffuletta is the size of three medium pizzas stacked on top of one another.  We drank Dixie beer, because we were in the heart of Dixie, and listened to street musicians on every street we traversed.  We had beignets and Café au Lait at the Café Du Monde, where the tables, chairs, and diners are lightly dusted with the powered sugar that accompanies the hundreds of orders of beignets served there per day.

And finally sated, we spent a day in the boat, feeling fat and decadent and wonderful.  It was VA Day, and Joe Kratz is my favorite Vietnam Vet, complete with Purple Heart and scars, not all of them physical.  Every year, I thank him for doing what he did for our country.  He truly is My Hero.

It was time to put our charts together, wait out another wet/cold weather front, and organize cold-weather clothing for the next leg of the trip.  This time, we would not have to go through the numerous bridges and locks to return to the ICW; we would simply cross Lake Ponchartrain.  I say “simply,” because after locking and bridging into New Orleans from the east, the solitude of Lake Ponchartrain would be a welcome relief.

NOAA Nautical Charts 11369, 11367

I found out what they meant when they said Lake Ponchartrain “can get rough.”  With a north wind at 20 knots and seas 6-8 feet, Lake Ponchartrain was at her most turbulent finest.  I was completely unprepared for an offshore trip, having puttered around in the ICW for over a month.  I had become accustomed to a gentlewoman’s (see: lazy woman’s) mode of travel.  So, the drawers were not locked, the hatches were not bungeed, the stuff that should have been stowed was not stowed and in about 5 minutes, the belly of the boat was in complete upheaval.  I rushed downstairs and began fastening, tucking, stowing, bungeeing . . . and before I knew it, my own belly was in upheaval.  I rushed back to the cockpit.

“How long did you say it would take us to cross Lake Ponchartrain to get to the ICW?” I asked Joe.  Or what I could see of Joe.  He had several layers of clothing, a knit cap and a dishcloth on his head that covered much of his face.  He said the dishcloth he