A Close Call

October 24, 2015, 08:30. Temperature 48 degrees. Sunny skies, Wind east at 12.

Another blustery day in the making.

After coffee at 0930 we headed east down the Poquoson, rounded Poquoson Flats (a broad expanse of shallow water) to head south and motored back into the Bay. We ran down the Plum Tree Island Bombing Range (no bombs today) and the Plum Tree Island National Wildlife Refuge, past the entrance to Back River and Langley Airforce Base and Hampton to the west.

We made Fort Monroe which guards the entrance to Hampton Roads, site of the famous ‘Hampton Roads Battle’ a shooting match fought on March 8 and 9, 1862 between early ironclad war ships, the Union USS Monitor and the Confederate CCS Virginia (The Virginia was actually the hastily ‘repurposed’ USS Merrimack, a steam frigate.)  Who won is an open question to this day, which is pretty much the way it goes in war.

Later that year, the Monitor foundered and sank off Cape Hattaras. The wreck was discovered in 1973 and has been partially salvaged. Her guns, gun-turret, engine and other relics are on display at the Mariner's Museum in Newport News.

Fort Monroe was built starting in 1609 and completed in 1839. It was decommissioned in 2011 when President Obama, our Kenyan born, Muslim un-president, who has attempted to enslave black people with the Affordable Care Act, signed a proclamation to designate portions of it as a National Monument.

Interestingly enough, throughout the Civil War, Fort Monroe, surrounded by a then Confederate Virginia, remained in Union hands. Because of that, over time it became known as a symbol of early freedom for former slaves. Good thing too, because just to the north in Alexandria, Virginia, starting in 1828, the private firm of Franklin and Armfield ran one of America’s largest and most successful slave trading markets until 1861; a ‘farmers market’ where black people were bought and sold for the greater good of the Republic.

I get my history pearls from Wikipedia for this blog.  It’s assessable and, I think, generally accurate. I am not a professional historian and this blog is not a scholarly work. I add historical notes to my entries because, in the first place, they are fascinating. You can’t make this stuff up. In the second place I am amazed at how little I know about anything, really how truly ignorant I am and Wikipedia helps reduce that a little. And finally, I am beginning to realize how true the old adage is that unless we know and understand our history we are doomed to repeat it. That’s one reason why I oppose Ben Carson, Carly Fiorina, Donald Trump and that other guy for president.  

Traveling about in a little boat and seeing the places about which I am writing spurs me on to find out a little something about those places and the people who made them famous. I find that in my ‘advanced’ years the history of stuff in really fun and interesting, so I will continue to add it in historical notes, but hopefully just enough.

At noon, we passed over the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel and into Hampton Roads, an area of confluence of the Elizabeth, Nasemond and the mighty James Rivers, where so much of Virginia’s history was and still is being played out – a major commerce route – with aircraft carriers, battle ships, container ships, tankers and pleasure craft constantly coming and going. A ‘roads” or “roadstead” is a sheltered body of water usually associated with an estuary. Hampton Roads is one of the world’s largest natural harbors.  

Aircraft Carrier in Hampton Roads

Tanker in the Roads

We made our way past Willoughby Spit to the south and into the Norfolk Harbor Reach and the Elizabeth River, which leads into the throat of Norfolk. We dodged barge and tug traffic in the Reach on our way to the navigational buoy that marks the entrance into the Lafayette River, our destination for the night. In our zeal and extreme agitation to get that turn right we broke the first rule of boating which is, emphatically and always firstly, to maintain an adequate watch. Because we had broken that rule - not paying attention - we missed the probably useful information that we had turned into the path of a north bound tugboat pushing a barge.

The barge and tug combo outweighed us by a whole lot. I mean a whole lot. They were moving along at probably six knots and, believe me, they were not about to turn. In a grand game of chicken we were bound to be the loser. Captain Emily happened to look up at just the right moment and, in her usual laid back way, asked, “Is that a barge bearing down on us?” Not having enough time to go below and change my pants, I could only exclaim, “Why, I believe you are right.”

With little time to spare we turned away at the last moment. The gravity of the situation was made obvious to us as the captain of the tug came out of his pilot house with arms a flapping and I believe he shouted something like, “Don’t you idiots know how to use a fucking radio?” That was a pretty good clue that we had made a navigational error.

Seriously, that kind of error could have cost us our boat and maybe our lives. It was a deeply humiliating moment, but, as it goes, a valuable lesson.

As they say, “no harm no foul”. We were able to turn away in time but I bet that captain is still talking about those damned stupid as hell Californians in that damned stupid as hell sailboat. For you see our port of call is displayed prominently on Flick’s side as San Francisco, CA. So the captain never found out that we were just a couple of damn stupid as hell Virginians.

We know how to cover our asses.

On we charged, into the Lafayette River, bound for the Norfolk Yacht and Country Club, where, thanks to my good friend and VMI Brother Rat, Tazewell Taylor, we had dockage and a dinner date with him and his lovely wife Catherine. We pulled into the dock at 3:30PM, to be met by Dino, the Dock Master. I’m not making that up.

This is one of the things about this cruising thing that is so great. You get to meet the most interesting people. Dino, a spry and fit septuagenarian, is from Bosnia and Herzegovina. During the Bosnian War in the mid-nineties, characterized by ethnic cleansing and the usual senseless carnage and murder of innocents in war, he and his family fled Sarajevo, where he was somewhat of a celebrity. He had his own TV show and was a well-known and accomplished singer, dancer and artist. In fact, in the main mezzanine of the country club two of his paintings hang in prominent places. And they are very good. We heard enough of his story directly from his mouth to sense the anger and loss he still feels vis-à-vis that experience. And here he is in America, having built a new life as a Dock Master at a very fine country club. Very admirable indeed!

Dino's Picture in the Main Lobby of the

Norfolk Marina and Country Club

After getting settled in, we met Taz and Catherine for an evening of good food and drink and three hours of delightful conversation and laughter. A walk on the dock and a visit to Flicka for Taz and Catherine, our newest ‘best friends’, capped off a gratifying evening, made even better by a late evening phone call from our son Henry.

Sweet dreams.

Tomorrow more of Norfolk and the start of the Dismal Swamp Canal.