and ominous. The wind calms a little, and the lake is a sheet of 

 glass. We paddle a few hundred feet from shore, striking cypress 

 roots with our paddles as we maneuver through the shallow waters. 

 George snaps a few photos and makes a quick decision. 



"Let's head back," he says. "I just can't forget what Ray 

 said about the whitecaps. Things could change drastically in a 

 few minutes." 



As we reach the campground, Jenkins is cleaning up the lunch 

 dishes with water from the outside faucet. He says the water comes 

 from a well dug there on-site. He shows us a light amber-colored 

 water, like weak tea. 



"You can drink it," he says. "But I don't 

 recommend it for cooking. It'll turn coffee 

 black as ink." 



The swamp's water has sired its own set 

 of legends. The water was once a highly 

 touted commodity. Its acidity discourages the 

 growth of bacteria and other contaminants. 

 That was a plus for early seagoing vessels, 

 whose captains would order Dismal Swamp 

 water for long journeys at sea. 



Some say it'll cure what ails you; others 

 warn about drinking it without boiling it first. 

 We ask for some, and Jenkins disappears into 

 his office. He comes out with a plastic gallon 

 jug filled with water. 



"It doesn't look like Dismal Swamp 

 water to me," I say. 



"That's because this is water from Ray 

 Jenkins' kitchen faucet back in Chesapeake," 

 he says. "Trust me; you'll like it better." 



That night, I lie under the canopy of a 

 starlit sky. Winds pick up and blow away the 

 same cloud cover that made our day in the 

 Dismal less than perfect. I hear the occasional 

 drone of a Coast Guard helicopter from 

 nearby Portsmouth or the swoosh of a jet from 

 the Norfolk Naval Base. These sounds are 

 soon drowned by heavy winds shooting into 

 the swamp from the northeast, cutting across Lake Drummond like 

 an F-15 jet and hitting the tops of the trees around the campground 

 with a vengeance. The treetops roar like a locomotive convention 

 as the huge gums, oaks and maples bend under the wind's awe- 

 some power. The sound keeps me awake for a while, thinking of 

 the brave men who first traversed this morass called the Great 

 Dismal. 



"Hey George," I say between blasts of wind. "Listen to that. 

 No wonder they call this the Great Dismal. That's kind of scary." 



But George doesn't hear. He's snoozing away, zipped up 

 tightly in his sleeping bag. □ 



COASTWATCH 9 



