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It was May of 1992. Outside, the thunder cracked and long ragged shards of lightening tore at the dark night sky. Below, I cowered in the pram cabin of my new SeaPearl 21, “Sanibel”, cringing with each loud crack. I was anchored behind an Island on the great Altamaha River, the longest and most storied of Georgia’s east going rivers. Having connected and thrown jumper cables from each mast into the swift dark current, I hoped the rumors were true, that somehow the static electricity would be bled overboard or at least shunted there in the event of a direct strike.
Fresh in my memory was the story of my friends the Berry’s, who while waiting out a severe squall in Tarpon Basin on Sanibel Island, had taken a direct lightening strike which blew three large holes in the bottom of their beautiful blue hulled SeaPearl 21. Luckily, they survived, albeit shaken and wary of the power of a lightening strike.
This trip had been a bold adventure for a neophyte sailor determined to strike out on the high seas of Georgia’s wild coastal waters. So far, I’d seen no boats less than thirty feet in length compared with my diminutive craft of 21 feet in length weighing only 650 pounds. I felt vulnerable and downright scared when the fast moving tidal flow of the Altamaha nearly capsized my small craft. Then I instinctively dropped the lee boards and found stability hanging off my Bruce anchor in the chaos of the six knot current which was threatening to capsize me.
So far, it had been a most challenging adventure. I had put in on Tuesday at the town of Saint Mary’s, happily following my Chart Kit maps of the Georgia Coast. Going north along the waterway, I noticed that all the markers seemed wrong and I ended up on the wrong side when taking the reds on the port side as is customary when traversing the waterway in a counterclockwise fashion. This discrepancy was later to come back to haunt me!
As I pushed north, I decided to turn up the Brickhill river and stop at Plum Orchard. It was not a long stop, but I enjoyed the old house and the great scenery of Saint Simon’s Island. Someday, I hope to tour it more thoroughly. But that day, I had to press on as I had yet to select a place to spend the night.
Yes, I still hadn’t thought about an anchorage, hoping to luck onto some good spot. As the afternoon wore on, I came upon Jekyl Island, lush and beautiful playground for the well to do. Not far from the marina which bordered the waterway was the four stars Radisson Hotel. After obtaining dockage for the night, I pulled together my rumpled belongings and sneaked in the side entrance to the grand hotel. The gracious clerk offered me a room for $90 which I deemed not a bad deal considering the luxury of this place. In my tacky boat clothes I felt quite out of place. Stowing my belongings I then set out to bicycle around the Island. Later, I had a nice dinner and retired for the night to my room.
The next morning found me exploring the wonders of the Brunswick River and Saint Andrews Sound. The scenery was awe inspiring, but the currents were treacherous. I worked my way all the way up through Buttermilk sound and the great Altamaha River. Sailing in Duboy sound I marveled at the wonders of Sapalo Island and wished I had time to land and explore. A fresh breeze had the sound whipped up to a froth as I gingerly sailed seaward with several reefs in my sails. Knowing that the day was not young, I reluctantly turned around and planned to find a small creek to anchor for the night.
Having found a narrow spot I put down anchor in a small shortcut to the Darien River. But somehow the place didn’t seem right as the wind was whipping down it’s unsheltered pass. Reluctantly, I pulled up anchor and headed back down the waterway in the cut from South River to Buttermilk Sound.
The sun was just setting as I worked my way down and across the Altamaha. And it was flat dark as I dropped my anchor in what I thought would be a protected spot behind an Island in the great river. I had just settled into my cabin for the night when the boat started to rock violently making me fear it would capsize. I had a scrap of sail up on the mizzen to hold the craft into the wind. As I looked out, I saw the fast moving current had the boat cocked at a ninety degree angle to the anchor line. Taking the cue, I rolled up the sail and dropped the rudder tying the tiller amidships. Finally with both leeboards down the boat settled down to a relative calm. Outside though, I could hear the leeboard pennants singing as they do when the hull speed of the boat is reached at around six knots.
I had barely settled in again when distant thunder caused me to sit up bolt upright on the floor. It was then that I looked out and saw the jagged scars of lightening approaching from the west. For two hours, the light show and sound effects kept me riveted to my viewing windscreen. With my jumper cables out, I could only hope that no strike would find my two inviting metallic masts piercing the ion filled sky.
With the pink of dawn, I had enough of this scary place. Having slept less than an hour, I was never the less ready to shove off. As I headed south along Sea Island, I picked up a brisk tail wind. I was still a little too intimidated to unfurl the sails and take advantage of it. I had my trip tank up on a makeshift shelf with its hose running back to my trusty Tohatsu 3.5. You see, the fuel pump just couldn’t quite pull the gas mixture up from the bilge so it worked just fine up on a teak board borrowed from the forward cockpit rowing seat.
Motoring out the channel on Saint Andrew sound to avoid the sand spit took my small craft very near the frightening breakers of the great Atlantic Ocean. As I gingerly motored around the eye of the wind to come across the mouth of Saint Andrews sound a giant breaker caught my bow and caused a dramatic broach. The snapping action on the hull threw the trip tank full of gas upside down in the cockpit spilling 50:1 gas and oil all over the cockpit and my pants. Highly alarmed, I righted the tank and replaced the lid. Immediately I killed the motor fearing my possible fate as a flaming offering to the goddess of the sound. What to do: I frantically tried to think of how to dilute the gas so as to reduce the flammability of the cockpit and its occupant. “I know,” I mused, “I’ll take my bucket and sluice sea water through the cockpit allowing the volume of contaminant to flow out the rear cockpit drain.” Meanwhile my legs were stinging badly from the gas in my cotton pant legs. After restarting the motor I found myself skidding around the cockpit as if on black ice from the sea water and oiled gas mixture. What a bright idea!
Having thus regained a modicum of my composure, I unfurled full sail on both sails and began one of the most exciting sails of my life. As I slid wildly down Saint Andrews Sound, I had a vague sense that somehow I would pay for all this fun. With a knot stick aboard, I threw it out back again and again and marveled at the rising numbers. Seven, eight, ten and then eleven knots showed on the knotstick going down on a broad reach. The boat fairly lifted above the water it seemed, and rode on a cushion of air. I had no bow or stern wave just a magic carpet of downwind bliss. Behind me, the sky was darkening and I had a deepening sense of impending doom. I was going so fast with so much wind I would surely broach if I tried to slow and turn upwind.
With some luck the waterway eased off to a beam reach and I was able to furl some sail. After restarting my high speed journey I was looking for a certain marker number that signaled my turn up the Saint Mary’s river. I distinctly remember saying to myself, “I know that is the marker I should turn at, I remember it.” But then the chart showed another number and I stubbornly continued on, determined to follow the charted numbers as if sacred. Too late, I realized why I had questioned the chart. Kings Bay nuclear submarine facility had been built since my charts and thus all the Starboard markers were to port as this was now an entrance rather than a standard waterway port and starboard situation. Of course the numbers were different too. By now the wind was howling and as I shortened sail to four and five reef turns on main and mizzen masts respectively, I tried to tack back up to the marker. Back and forth I tacked with the wind all the while building. Then my lee board caught in the shallows and I nearly capsized. Just then the wind caught my mizzen boom and did a 270 degree turn on it. Boy was I in a mess with the boat nearly on its beam ends and the sheets all afoul. “OK” says I. “I’ll start the engine and get out of this mess.” Several pulls on the engine reminded me that all the gas had washed out into the cockpit and the only gas was in a Jerry can toward the front of the front cockpit (and on my burning legs). Having finally sorted out the sheets I started desperately trying to tack up wind. By now, I had drifted well down the sound and was headed out the Saint Mary’s inlet toward the Atlantic Ocean. The wind is gusting to 40 knots and I had no control over my boat. I dare not leave the tiller and go for fuel in the front cockpit.
Then like an inspiration from above, it hit me. “Sheet the mizzen in, go forward and throw out the anchor.” What a great idea. (Now I know why the anchor is such an important part of the safety equipment). So I went forward flinging the anchor out as far as I could letting out about 100 feet of line and then cleated it off. What a relief! The boat settled down. I was able to furl the sails and climb below just as the full force of the squall hit. The rain was like bullets: much like riding a motorcycle at sixty miles per hour in the pouring rain. Of course I was soaked but safe at last. I hunkered down below for about fifteen minutes as the squall passed. So this is how you pay when you enjoy such a great downwind ride!
The wind was down to about twenty knots by then; and I gassed up the motor and headed back up to the Saint Mary’s river. The farther I motored, the colder I got. I was soaked to the skin and was suffering mild hypothermia. I’m glad it wasn’t any farther up the river to the town dock, or I would have suffered severe hypothermia before landing. As I reached the dock and started to tear the cabin down it started to rain, again! Oh joy. But I had survived everything so far. No fire, no capsize. No death from hypothermia. I learned about using the anchor to save myself. I learned what a great sailing wind on the coast of Georgia can mean. My safe return was a testimony to the forgiving nature of the SeaPearl 21 and dumb luck of a neophyte sailor. It was indeed, a memorable three days and two nights on the coast of Georgia.
© Larry Whited 2006
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