Sound, we picked our way through grass 

 beds and sand flats to find a wide bay in 

 which to spend the night. The sun set 

 over calm waters while Bellamy fired up 

 a grill. I tossed out the anchor and 

 unloaded marinated steaks from the 

 cooler. We ate under a bright half moon, 

 then crawled into sleeping bags stretched 

 out on the boat. 



When I woke, 

 however, it was not to a 

 sublime sunrise but to 

 black sky and Bellamy's 

 voice straining over a 

 lashing wind and 

 whitecaps pounding the 

 boat hull. "Get the 

 anchor!" he screamed 

 from the stern. "We gotta 

 get into deeper water!" A 

 rising, violent wind had 

 pushed us toward the 

 shore. I leapt to the bow 

 and grabbed the taut 

 anchor line, yelling 

 instructions to Bellamy 

 as he eased the boat into 

 the chop to lessen the 

 tension on the rope. 

 "Forward! Forward! 

 Now to the right!" I 

 screamed directions over 

 my shoulder and hauled 

 rope hand over hand. 



Three times we 

 were down to the last 

 few feet of line, but each 

 time the gale caught the bow and 

 whipped it past the buried anchor, ripping 

 the rope from my grip and burning my 

 palms. On the fourth try Bellamy 

 expertly gunned the motor to counter the 

 raging wind, and I finally wrenched the 

 anchor from the mud and heaved it 

 aboard, my arms and legs shaking with 

 fatigue. Only then did I realize that I was 

 standing on the bow in sodden socks and 

 boxer shorts, the rising sun cracking over 

 Currituck Sound in front of me. 



It took us another hour to claw 

 through heavy seas and shallow water 

 back to the waterway, where I wormed 



into my sleeping bag and huddled 

 behind the windshield as Bellamy 

 threaded us through white-capped froth. 



No such trouble is in store on our 

 Neuse River crossing. From the mouth 

 of the Bay River we set a compass 

 course for 120 degrees and plane over 

 gentle swells toward the channel marker 

 at the Neuse River junction, two miles 



what longtime waterway cruisers know 

 so intimately. The smokestack of a long- 

 vanished menhaden plant looms ahead, 

 a beacon from the past, and I realize that 

 this waterway road trip is nearly over. 

 But in my hands, in the chart book we 

 used to plot our course, the telltale 

 purple line that marks the Intracoastal 

 Waterway skirts south farther still, 



On waterway cruises, all boats become objects of intense scrutiny. 



from land. Bellamy and I have spent 

 long tortuous hours on a wind-whipped 

 Neuse, but this time the water is like a 

 silk blanket. Plains of flax-colored 

 marsh stretch to the eastern horizon. 



We take a break in the peaceful 

 little sailing village of Oriental, then 

 skirt through the Adams Creek-Core 

 Creek Canal. We have only the quick 

 crossing of the Newport River to funnel 

 us into Beaufort Harbor, perhaps one of 

 the best-loved of the intimate waterway 

 harbors in the route's 3,000 miles. 



It is at Phillips Island, in the 

 Newport marshes, that I am struck with 



behind Bogue Banks and around 

 Onslow Bay, to Cape Fear and Cape 

 Romain, to the Sea Islands of Georgia 

 and around the horn of Florida. 



As we motor through the familiar 

 waters of Taylor Creek, along the 

 Beaufort waterfront, I figure out perhaps 

 the finest thing about the Intracoastal 

 Waterway — finer than its endless 

 parade of boats, finer still than its entree 

 into lands of endless sky and marsh. It is 

 that every waterway trip's end, no 

 matter the port or harbor, is simply the 

 beginning of another one waiting to be 

 taken. □ 



COASTWATCH 13 



