Possibilities of a winter sail

A cool winter morning helped me leave the highways of the Carolinas for the waterways of Cape Romain and the destination of Bull Island. Winds were northeast, and boded a stronger flow later. It was smooth heading out Andersonville Creek: relatively still waters accompanied by the drone of barrier island surf sounding over the marshes. The waters were not as glassy as at sunrise in the past month, where swaths of clouds and sky shone in the Waterway. We took a sharp right at the Shark Hole, and ran toward the ferry route to the island’s public dock. Freshening winds pushed us toward the island; a fine view out to Sewee Bay on the turn into the route was marred by the crunch of the board on an oyster rock, and an abrupt stop. Oystermen were the only others on the water, at either end of this sail ending at the vacant dock on Summerhouse Creek.

Walking along the road helped to thaw chilled feet. I mulled over possible routes in my mind, and I initially turned on the familiar Old Fort Road, and then Big Pond Road. This time I kept going along the usually untraveled last section to Lighthouse Road, where duckweed covered ditches along the road and waterways stretching out into the forested wetlands. Considering the path out to the beach, I instead turned north toward Alligator Alley, planning to come from the east with the sun at my back to photograph basking alligators. I was wrong – the imagined group of crocodilians covering the dike in the full sunlight did not pan out. Instead, I was treated to an array of wading birds – a pair of great blue herons, a single great egret, and a trio of immature white ibis. Overhead, white pelicans soared, their natural beauty enhanced by their formation flying. Several groups provided this aerial display. The gray winter bareness of sea myrtles exposed beautifully constructed nests.

I retraced my steps to Lighthouse Road and continued on to the Boneyard. The northeast wind was living up to the marine forecast expectation, and I bore off to the southwest on the beach. One dead live oak tree near the high tide line caught my attention: a raptor’s nest was erected up high, and an eccentric yaupon reaching up along the oak had formed a bonsai-like top filled with berries. As anticipated, the visitors from the ferry were coming up to the Boneyard, and I stopped to chat with several. Around the corner, more walkers appeared, and I exchanged hellos and waves with some, while others maintained their focus on the high tide shell line. I understood.  Mainly staying away from this line, I veered over once, and a shell pairing caught my eye for their shared beauty. With the wide beach, spreading dune and shrub area, and ocean to the horizon, it appeared a deceptively flat world.

The world changed quickly walking into the island on Beach and Mills Roads. Almost simultaneously clouds darkened the path into the maritime forest, and flatness disappeared with the forested old dunes creating an undulating topography. Live oaks, palmettos, and pines dominated, the latter providing fresh straw underfoot. Possible walks appeared – a firebreak invited a turn to the Summerhouse dike. The path between two impoundments exposed migratory waterfowl, and more white pelicans, floating in the waters and whirling in the partly cloudy skies. The pair of people at the far end of the dike were Coastal Expeditions guides Gates and Rachel, on this day serving as captain and mate of the ferry Caretta transporting over 50 visitors to the island.

I stopped off at the graveyard to see the memorial stone placed by Andrew Magwood for the four members of his family buried here when Magwoods owned part of the island. I had worked to decipher the existing grave stones ten years ago, and this Magwood Memorial traces the dates of their lives in the nineteenth and early twentieth century.

Back at the dock after the three hour walk, I prepared to get underway at a fully occupied floating dock. Having taken the end berth, I offered to open it up in five minutes to a large outboard looking to land. In haste I caste off and jumped on Kingfisher prematurely. A few yards from the dock we were unceremoniously hauled to a stop by the sail’s line caught on one of the dock’s cleats. It was a precarious balance I found myself in, much beyond awkward, with possibilities of going overboard, capsizing, crashing down on Caretta, breaking gear, etc. I grabbed the line tethering Kingfisher, hauled like I was pulling in the whole barrier island until we reached the dock, and released us. We sailed off, none the worst for the wear.

The northeast wind had moderated but provided plenty of force to tack out of Summerhouse Creek and round into Bull Creek with the incoming tide helping to retrace our course. I stopped to chat with Marshall Allen and his brother Bob trying out their new Duroboat. We drifted for a while catching up until saying our goodbyes. Once in the dug section of the ferry route connecting Bull and Andersonville Creeks we began our upwind sail in earnest. Protected waters and a milder variety of northeast winds made easy sailing, and good progress tacking against the wind and incoming tide until past the Shark Hole and point of the creek. From there it was all starboard tack and incoming tide ending with the dropping of sail off the landing and paddling in.

The weather was changing, as it always does, and the next morning my run was softened by a warm rain and temperature in the 70’s. At the landing opposites ruled: warmth, strong winds from the southwest, and thick gray wet skies erupting at times in showers. I stopped as always to pause at the pier head, sprayed underneath the covering roof by the blown moisture. The warm and wet conditions were inviting, but my next winter sail would have to wait for another day.