THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, June 5, 1994 TAG: 9406030212
SECTION: CAROLINA COAST PAGE: 38 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: Ron Speer
DATELINE: 940605 LENGTH: Medium
The Gypsy, who has taken me to wondrous places in the Chesapeake Bay over the past decade, seemed to know where she was going on our newest adventure.
{REST} I wasn't so sure. I was in the middle of the Albemarle Sound on my first sail across these historic waters, and I was a bit befuddled when I scanned the seas.
What I could see didn't seem to fit with what was marked on the charts.
Clearly, land lay behind, but ahead was only a horizon marred with occasional dark blobs of tree tops.
Staring through the binoculars as the Gypsy rushed along, I tried to pin down where I was by sweeping the horizon. I spotted the top of a high-rise bridge to the south, down where the charts said Roanoke Island should be.
It was a weird sight, this span seemingly springing out of the water, unlinked to land. And to the east, where Kill Devil Hills ought to be, a silver tower floated on water, far from the nearest dark blob that indicated land.
The sights don't merit a second look from the working watermen who ply these waters every day, but to a stranger the phenomonen was striking proof that Columbus was right - the world really is round.
As we sailed on, a 26-year-old sloop and a captain more than twice her age, the bridge and the tower climbed slowly out of the sea on to land, and the charts - trusty as always - soon made sense again.
The bridge was the span linking Manns Harbor to Roanoke Island, and the tower was on Kill Devil Hills as it ought to be.
We were right on target despite the head winds that sent us on a zig-zagging path toward Manteo, and a visit by two friendly porpoises boded well for the finishing stretch.
Into Roanoke Sound we sailed. Far ahead, at Ballast Point where we would turn into a canal to our slip at Pirate's Cove, a red squiggle waved and waved. As we neared the point, the squiggle turned into my colorfully clad wife, who at dawn the day before had thrown me the dock lines and waved goodbye as I sailed out of the Gypsy's longtime berth in Hampton Roads.
We motored all that day through the Dismal Swamp Canal, our first trip through that intriguing chunk of the Intracoastal Waterway.
When you singlehand your way down the waterway, there's plenty of time for dreaming, since the jungle limits your view on the sides and the canal stretches straight as a string.
That lonely vigil was shattered on the Pasquotank River as we neared Elizabeth City, plodding along with the motor droning steadily in windless waters. Seven jet skis, in attack formation, roared at us from around a bend.
We were back in civilization, and big crowds were celebrating RiverSpree as we took a cruise around Elizabeth City and then dropped anchor on a perfect night at Forbes Bay just east of town.
At dawn we were on our way again, amazed at the breadth of the Pasquotank, and wondering whether the Albemarle could match the charm of the Chesapeake.
When finally we got wind and raised the main and the big jenny, the trip became a delight.
It's a good feeling to know your kids are OK, your mate will be waiting when you arrive, and your boat goes best when the winds whip whitecaps on the water.
There are bigger boats than my 24-foot Morgan, and there are faster boats.
But there are no better boats than the Wind Gypsy. And when I look out my window and see her a stone's throw away, rocking contentedly in her new berth, I know there are no boats more beautiful.
by CNB