THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, July 15, 1994 TAG: 9407150510
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SERIES: AROUND THE BAY IN 50 DAYS
Earl Swift is exploring the geography, history and people of the
Chesapeake Bay on a 50-day kayak trip that began July 1.
SOURCE: BY EARL SWIFT, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Medium: 79 lines
I'd made it halfway across upper Pocomoke Sound to the stakes marking the Maryland state line, when I heard the first rumble of thunder to the south. For nearly a week, I'd managed to avoid the storms that so frequently sweep across the Eastern Shore on July afternoons. A glance over my shoulder at the dark, towering cloud bank fast approaching, and I knew I wouldn't outrun this one.
I was bound for Crisfield, a town built on crushed oyster shells, soft shell crab catches and the dollars of sightseers - a big town by Eastern Shore standards, with supermarkets, taxicabs and motels. I had to reach the post office there to pick up a package of freeze-dried food and other supplies I'd mailed to myself from Norfolk. Friends were talking about driving up to meet me there as well. But it was the prospect of a night in a motel and my first shower in nearly a week that propelled me north across the sound from Saxis.
I'd no sooner reached the north shore and entered the mouth of Broad Creek, a 2-mile cut through the marshes south of Crisfield, when the lightning began flashing directly overhead. Reluctantly, I paddled for shore. I beached the kayak on a strip of sand 200 yards up the creek, pulled it clear of the water, grabbed my canteen and whacked my way into the woods.
The clouds passed just inches above the forest, it seemed. Thunder cracked loudly. The trees around me moaned and swayed in the wind. I sat on the forest floor, swigging water and listening to mosquitoes orbit my head.
Darkness came. The storm continued. For well over two hours I sat there until the lightning began to slacken. I beat through the underbrush back to the boat, reaching the creek's bank just as a spotlight swept the water and stopped on me.
It was mounted on a large sailboat, otherwise visible only by running lights at its bow and stern. ``Where are you headed?'' asked its owner, a fellow named Bruce from Tangier Island.
``Crisfield,'' I said, ``but I don't think I'll make it tonight. I don't have any lights on my boat.''
The spotlight glided over the kayak. ``You want a tow into town?''
I told Bruce I was tempted, but I had to turn down the offer. ``Well, do you want to just follow me in?'' he asked. ``That'll work,'' I replied.
Bruce headed up the creek and I fell in behind, paddling at about five knots and keeping a few feet from a stern light mounted just above his boat's motor. All went well for a mile, until the creek emptied into the Little Annemessex River. Only a mile short of town, I found the kayak suddenly tossed by waves and wind as we left the creek's marshy protection. The sailboat's stern light rose and fell, yawed side to side, drew crazy circles in the darkness.
Waves pounced onto my port side, sneaking up in the dark and springing on me unannounced. Each moment brought a wet and potentially dangerous surprise.
Lightning flashed. Up ahead, a quarter-mile away, a large house was silhouetted. Bruce shouted that the place was vacant, that if things got too rough I could pitch my tent there.
``Sounds good,'' I hollered back. ``Could you throw me a spot to the shore so I can see where I'm going.''
The light played over water churned milky gray to a crumbling, marshy shoreline near the house, and I paddled furiously along its beam till I nosed the kayak onto land.
Lying in my tent, pitched on 2-foot eel grass, I sighed in relief and kicked myself for being so stupid. Pulling lame-brained stunts like that, I realized, gets people hurt. I should have stayed in the woods.
At dawn, I paddled into Crisfield, where I learned that the previous day's choppy waters had flipped a 21-foot boat just outside the harbor, killing two people. ILLUSTRATION: Map
STAFF
by CNB