The Nerve Goes Wild, Plugs On Reluctantly- Making The Approach to Charles-Tone

Waypoints on the GPS seemed perpetually just out of reach, due to the somewhat exaggerated scale. The little boat symbol would move a quarter of an inch across the screen, and we’d still have hours to go. The plan was to get to Charleston that night. As the sun went down, I took the wheel. The wind was very favorable, so I told Josh we should put the sails up. He was pretty reluctant to put them up in any case where two hours of good, usable wind did not seem to be guaranteed, cases where he might have to take them down again soon. It only took about five minutes to put both of them up. I was the happy-go-lucky Sunfish sailor, willing to give any bit of wind a chance. Josh had mostly only been sailing on his dad’s 44’ Reliance (which he built in the backyard), the kind of boat that requires plans. Float plans, conditions checks-you don’t just head up to the lake one afternoon with it on the roof of the minivan. I thought about those days in the Sunfish then, as the Manerva heeled over hard. The wind was perfect, thirty degrees off the port bow. There was going to be no standing on the keel and hauling her back upright, should something happen. I didn’t really think the Nerve could tip over, but who knows? Enough wind, hitting her just the right way…She didn’t tip, she just turned uncontrollably into and across the wind. The sails tore across to the other side, the boom like a deadly swing with a giant’s baseball bat. The jib lay plastered across the mast, making me cringe. Josh stood up in the cabin. “What happened?”
“Nothing. We’re fine.” Fine, and headed due South into the dark sea of the last two nights. After about five minutes with the wheel cranked to port, she finally started to come around. The sails whipped across again, like some giant man shaking out his canvas sheets, really beating the dust out of them. Or shoving the Nerve’s mast over with one finger, taunting us little people, threatening capsization.
Well, that was really stupid of me, I thought. (Losing control, not the giant man). Then it happened again. Twice. The last time it was dark out. We could see the lights of Charleston (when I got us facing North again). The lights of the channel became clear. The channel sticks out from the harbor almost fifteen miles into the Atlantic. There was no way I was going to make this official-we could easily cut in closer and not have to worry about shallow water. We dropped the sails and got in the channel maybe 3 miles offshore. It looked like a jumbo jet runway, red and green lights all the way. There was a lighthouse on the shore to starboard. Several spotlights at its base flashed in succession, like some colorless attempt at a Close Encounters of the Third Kind display. As we came between the two dark humps of land, I felt the Nerve slacken her pace drastically, and start to bounce about. The GPS screen told me we were making 1.3 knots. It told us, from its tide charts, that the tide wasn’t supposed to be going out for another couple hours. It also told us that it was about eight PM. (It was 11:30). I realized that there wasn’t any way we could have scheduled differently. We were just going to have to go till we got there.
“So, yeah, Charleston tonight…”
We were turning left at a fork by another flashing lighthouse. The green marker to port got closer. It came alongside us. Then it stayed there, flashing at us every couple seconds, mocking. After about ten minutes, we put it behind us and put the sails up. She heeled over on a reach and we gained…half a knot. A boat came along with what looked like a traffic light mounted on the roof. It was the coast guard, we realized as they passed. Another one came along half an hour later. I wasn’t sure we were going to be in port tonight. I hadn’t realized how far inland the city actually was. At about 1:30, I saw the houses, right on the water, immense three story doll houses lined with clumpy Seuss-like palm trees. Someone was jogging, someone walking their dog. We almost turned up the wrong branch of the river. The little boat on the GPS still had time to decide which way it was going.
Then, the expanse of orb-lit concrete fuel dock of the Charleston City Marina. The wind was still ripping, and the water to a lesser extent. It was clear that we were going to be comin’ in hot. We chugged along parallel to the dock, the water pushing us gradually over to it. Josh got the bumpers ready, and we eased up to the dock, smooth like extra virgin. We stepped onto the concrete, which seemed to be grounded in the very crust of the earth. We looked at the nearest fuel pump, but it wasn’t on. Then we hit the hay, the warm wind whistling over the Nerve, rattling the stays.

Deep Blue Part Deux

Leaving St. Augustine, Josh said one thing he had learned from the cruising lifestyle was…shitty boat names (Memories passed by at that moment). I meant to make a list of all the ones we came across-believe me, there were some plain stupid ones. That night, I watched the mast slicing through the handle of the big dipper for about four hours straight. I woke up again in blue water. It was like being at Seabase, and waking up when your head bumps against the railing of a dusky. It seems you have skipped dawn in the oven-like green tent and the runny crepe pancakes and the wading out in cool morning sargassum, yelling back at the crew members who are dillydallying in the campsite. It seems you have awakened to find yourself already fifteen miles out, in that deepest of blues. And it’s just as incredible as the first time I saw it, two and a half years before, riding out Kemp channel with Captain Joe, Marky Mark, Leah, Sugarloaf, Gumby, Levesque, and Derek Pate, no cushions on the bow seats, ass bones taking a beating through the green water. Then, Mark and Leah, wise old island mates- “Is that not the most beautiful blue water you’ve ever seen?” Polarized glasses making things unbelievably vivid, a piece of plywood sticking out of the water… turned out to be a sailfish. Waking up to the clicker on the trolling rod is even wilder. It’s like you’ve been keeping half-alert during your four hours of sleep, waiting on that noise. I barreled up the steps and into the cockpit, reeled it in whoopin’ and hollerin’ to find nothing but a slightly chewed- up skirt. I did not, by any means, think that the two Spanish Mackerel we had already caught would be the only catches of the entire trip. Then, somewhat abruptly, it was evening again, we were about thirty miles off of Charleston, and I was halfway through A Farewell To Arms, enjoying it very much after two previously unsuccessful attempts to get into it.

Deep in the Blue

Sleeping in shifts eventually turned to living in shifts. Read for a bit, fall asleep for a couple hours, then wake up to take over driving and start it all over again-a cycle that could eat up three days pretty quickly. During the offshore run from St. Augustine to Charleston, Miss Manerva rode down the fronts of swells that were about eight or ten feet tall, all day and all night. These guys were with us for the greater part of the three day leg.

We might have dreaded starting our shifts. It was a scramble to get anything you might want to do during the next four hours done, or ready to be performed in the cockpit, at the wheel. The one being relieved would step down, the new driver taking the wheel and setting down his water bottles, the bag of craisins. The one being relieved would stand at the bottom of the steps, looking up at the new helmsman, and ask “Are you hungry? Do you want some espresso? Wet Mango (energy drink)? Wake me up if ya need me.” And then it was just you and the Nerve. A few minutes before, you were dreading starting your shift with every ounce of exhausted will in your body. But sitting down at that wheel, you feel purposeful, fulfilled. You are sailing a boat 1200 miles up the East coast.

Alone at night, then, leaning against the railing, things get weird. The vibration of the motor is like a back massager spread out over the entire stern of the boat. With it going at 2000 rpm virtually 24-7 the entire trip, it becomes a steady drone. You sit there, in the red light of the compass, dozing. This dozing is just slightly less irresponsible than dozing at the wheel of a car-after all, you’re in the middle of the ocean, with nothing around, traveling at about five miles per hour. Your head begins to droop, sometimes staying down for a minute, then pops up. This happens a couple times, but the last one snaps you awake, opens your eyes all the way. You stand up, slap yourself in the face a couple times. The mango energy drinks don’t seem to do anything except give you a very short-lived (as long as it takes to drink the can) sugar buzz. Even the espresso seems to just make you feel physically uncomfortable, like you should be lying down on a bed.

One night, I was thinking about things when I heard some birds chirping over the noise of the motor. It seemed like maybe just a sound between bumps in the motor, a sound that could fit in the clickety-clackety rhythm but wasn’t actually there. I began to hear the beat of a song sometimes, perfectly clear, and somehow in sync with the 2000 rpms of the motor. Josh said that as the sun rose one morning, he heard the sounds of morning at Seabase-alarms, birds chirping, Scouts singing songs and crazy staff members yelling at 7 am.

St. Augustine Part III-

We headed to the little pedestrian tourist street wanting ice cream. I got that feeling I get in Florida. The sun’s heat is like a yoke on my shoulders. I shuffle along, feet barely leaving the pavement. After a time, then, the release-my head seems to lighten, my legs start to move on their own. The motion becomes fluid and I gravitate towards food, drink, bright displays. We walked through the screen door and back to the ice cream counter of the old-fashioned store. We tried some flavors and decided on their famous butter pecan. Back on the street, the ice cream ran down our hands quicker than we could eat it. Wonderfully big bites of waffle cone started to come off, with intermittent wrist licking.
“You know what we need?” Josh said.
(pause) “Meet some girls?”
“Well, yeah, but we should pick up a bottle, then meet some girls and head back to the boat, grill out, drink it up.”
“Sheeeeeit.” We circled the small touristy district, which was also the historic district. Buildings from the 1600s were decked out with banners for Bud Light and bright plastic junk for kids. An entire store of fuzzy lizards on wire leashes, here in the oldest continually inhabited city in the country. And not a single place to purchase liquor? We headed into a no-name-brand-sandals-and-boardshorts beach store. Techno music bumped. A gay employee greeted me. I headed to the back wall where the sandals were. My Kinos had been reduced to ripped, broken flaps of leather, whisking across the linoleum. The no-name sandals were twenty or thirty dollars.
A group of girls was in the front of the store. I saw, from behind, a wonderful, slender body in a bikini top, with an enormous tattoo I couldn’t make out. When this girl turned around, speaking in French to her friends, I felt something I haven’t felt in a while. When I was fourteen or so, I would see a girl, or look into the eyes of a model in a picture, and think that was it-superlative beauty, a perfect design I could look at forever. It happens with cars, paintings-anything designed to be even remotely aesthetically pleasing. I would listen to “Scar Tissue” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and it would sound better than anything else ever had or ever could. I had been telling Josh a few days before that I think I’ve become jaded, that these feelings don’t really come to me much anymore.
I’m not really sure we made eye contact. I think she was making a sweep and maybe hit me with those paralytic eyes. I was wearing sunglasses, regardless. She left with her friends. Josh and I walked about thirty blocks in the afternoon sun to ABC liquor. It took me a good twenty minutes to decide what to get, while Josh waited outside. We had grilled steak, potatoes, and rum, and fell asleep on the deck, looking over at the Bridge of Lions and the orange-lit waterfront.

St. Augustine Part II- That's humble

In the marina shower room, an old guy shuffled in, moving in a way that hurt to watch. He took his shirt off to reveal a lanky, hunched form. Another patron was standing in the mirror, in another crisp polo, slicking back his hair. The old guy started garbling something like “Its so hot, It’s been so hot since the operation.” I got in the shower and enjoyed the hot water.
Within minutes of stepping into the sun in my thick cotton polo, it seemed to be soaked. We walked along the main road for a bit, then turned down a side street. Lush greens were everywhere, along the stone street and the wrought iron gates. Spanish moss was in the trees. At an intersection with another small road, a few construction workers were shoveling. The guy closest to us had one arm. He paused as we passed, looked at me, and said “What’s up?”
“Hi,” I said. I had been at sea for a time.
We wandered around the residential streets for a bit more, then headed in the direction we knew ‘town’ was. Flagler College appeared like a mountain. We took note of the coffee shop and the bookstore, and pushed on to the hardware store. The storefront looked like a Norman Rockwell painting- a Radio Flyer wagon loaded with tools, shiny beach cruiser bikes. The sixty-something man there talked to us like we were characters in Home Alone or Blank Check, buying a gallon of bleach and paper towels. We walked another block to the Post Office. For some reason, the line was out the door. What day was it? We headed back to the bookstore. I flipped through an obscure art book, then a fishing book. Pictures from the eighties- Caribbean deck hands grinning over nine-foot marlin, teak decks and gaudy names like “Screamer.” I looked as long as I could, till my stomach was folding over on itself and the images didn’t make any sense.
After eating at the coffee shop, we crossed the street to the massive structure of the College. While we were standing inside writing postcards, we got to hear the beginning of the tour. The building was originally the Hotel Ponce De Leon, one of the most luxurious in the world. Guests stayed for three months at a time, during which spouses slept in different wings of the hotel. The circular mosaic design on the floor of the main entrance was the only instance of imperfection and asymmetry in the entire hotel. A single tile is a different color than the corresponding ones around the circle. Every other tile, every brick, every bit of clay in the entire structure was designed and built in perfect symmetry. Ponce De Leon knew that only God could be perfect, so he made this one tile off-suit to represent his humbleness.

St. Augustine Part 1-First Impressions

Coming into St. Augustine was entirely different. I was doing the early morning shift, singing to myself in the dark and drinking mango energy drinks. Finally I came within sight of the inlet and woke Josh up. The sun wanted to stay in bed with the clouds, behind us in the East. Ahead, strangely lit gray beaches on either side. Then came the fishing boats. Huge ones, big ones, all with the puffy-eyed guys on deck shooting whatever shit there was to shoot at 6 am. Turning to see them head out, I saw it-the picture that could make me a fishing addict. The boats burbling out at idle, the sun a fierce orange globe resting heavily on the horizon, and the haze, the salt in the air-it was all like a grainy 16mm film image.
We began to see the manicured houses, Sea Rays in lifts, colors and things we had forgotten about. The Castillo De San Marcos was visible around the bend. When we came around it, the town sat there, right on the water, cars buzzing along in front of the historic façade. The Bridge of Lions raised for the historic schooner, making its way out with a big group. We tied up among the other boats, and I headed below for a nap.
Two hours later, Josh began to row us in the baking sun. We came out on the other side of the bridge and turned under the traffic-control looking tower that was the marina office. Two geriatric-looking guys were on a SeaDoo jet boat, one nosing in and out of the slips while the other stood on the bow with a light rod. Like shooting into a barrel. They started working into something big. The “angler” got it to the boat, and then it took most of their energy combined to finagle a fat amber jack out of the water and into the boat. We tied up at the dinghy dock and I walked back down the dock to the office, noticing some richies tossing a couple sandwiches into the water. I climbed up the gangplank to the office and opened the door to a blast of cold air. Again, I was wearing my blackened yellow short shorts, shades and visor, and four days’ worth of sweaty, sunburned body odor. The man standing in front of me had a shaved head, sharp, violent eyes, and a crisp, white St. Augustine City Marina polo shirt. I gave him my credit card. “Isn’t that illegal?” I asked, pointing to the jet boat.
“Technically, as long as they’re not on the dock there’s nothing we can do,” he said, not looking at me. I bet those two were regulars. As he put the ten-dollar charge through, I asked him, to be sure, if we could use the showers with our dinghy dock privileges. Yes, he said, without looking at me. I mumbled something about being sure I needed one. I signed receipts, got a little sticker for the dinghy, and left, stomping down the ramp. I was sure the dockmaster had seen dirtier transients than me.

Our first stop of the trip was on the third day. Boats were coming in and out of the inlet to Fort Pierce, Florida. Several dive boats were tied up close to shore. I didn't know what they could be diving on. We chugged inland, boucing all over the place in the confluence of wakes and waves. On the North side of the channel was a small island with scraggly trees all over it and a few boats of teenagers pulled up to it. On the other side, houses were right on the water, along with some small marinas. Cars everywhere, on a road that was maybe a hundred yards from the edge of the water, shooting up over a tall arch bridge into the sun. That was our bridge. We turned to head into the narrow channel flowing between its pilings, inched towards it, jouncing about in the waves. Josh tapped the throttle forward. We inched towards the bridge. Out of nowhere, some Sea Ray blasted around us and cut us off. The wake pushed us to starboard a bit, but we slid smoothly between the huge concrete pillars. Then we chugged along, looking for the channel markers that would lead us into the marina. Ahead, I saw three fins crest the surface together-the first dolphins of the trip. To port, there was a fairly handsome-looking waste water treatment plant, relatively speaking. A small skiff was tied up to the seawall, and...was that a snorkel? Yes, yes it was. Josh and I focused on the task at hand-there was a channel to starboard that appeared to lead to the ritzy marina there. But our channel was supposed to be a little bit further South. We kept going, using the little red and green points on the GPS. There was nothing where they were supposed to be in the water.
Turning around, not sure what to do, we radioed the marina. The dockmaster informed us that the original channel had 'shoaled up' in the hurricane last year. As we turned into the channel, a huge spotted eagle ray came right along the stern, every spot on its back shimmering clear. In front of the marina, I asked Josh about his parking plan, just like Captain Bruce had in Islamorada. He asked me if I wanted to put us in. Sure. The fuel dock was to our port side. I pulled along the seawall to our starboard, cut to idle, and cranked the wheel to port. We turned across the entrance of the marina and edged up to the dock, smooth like silk.
Josh went to find the office. I got my dock shoes on, ripped the tag off, and followed after, wearing my blackened yellow short shorts, visor, and shades. I passed a guy about my age. I had a very strong feeling he was the dockhand, but I kept going. I wanted to see the office, to see something. I thought I felt some vibe from a pair of older gents hosing down their fishing behemoths. They could probably smell me. The marina was full of top-end fishing boats and yachts. Off in another part I could see a nest of masts and stays.
Back at the boat, the attendant was holding the diesel nozzle, and I stood looking at him. "Oh, I fill it?" I said. In the instant I said it, a rush of cultural common sense hit me. What I was supposed to think was-it's our boat, why would we want some teenager spilling pink diesel all over it, rah rah. We filled up the tank and two gerry jugs, got some ice, and headed out. The sun was going down over Fort Pierce. There wasn't much to see from the water-the biggest building was the white monolithic clubhouse of the Marina. The water was still incredibly clear and green. I tried to make out manatees in the dark blotches of grass on the bottom. As we emerged, then, on the Atlantic, a huge Coast Guard cutter stood like a wall in front of us, headed in. We kept putzing along, and realized it wasn't moving. It was just out of the marked channel. We thought we were witnessing a grounding of tanker-like magnitude. Then they hoisted a bouy on board, and we noticed the huge churning going on at the back. They were holding fast in the rushing tide, tending buoys in the failing sun.