It’s been raining since we got home to Seattle. The trees in our backyard are bare, and the world is solid gray, with a hint of evergreen. It’s a little gloomy, but it makes me think happily of Christmas.

What a change from the Carolinas, where we left behind a landscape of bright blue water and sky, accented with green and warm tan.

At Bock Marine, we left a bright spot of Christmas red on the landscape, in the form of Flutterby, on the hard for the winter. She’s right off the waterway, so there’s a fabulous view from the deck, 10 feet up. I had to stop and watch every time a giant phosphate barge went by, which was several times a day — they’re so wide, they seem to stretch from one bank to the other.

The boatyard is fascinating, full of boats and equipment to be curious about. Kenny Bock owns the yard; his father owned it before him and built workboats there. Kenny’s soft-spoken, but he knows boats, and everyone listens when he talks. There are probably a hundred boats in the yard, some for sale, some in storage for the winter, and some just out for a quick bottom-paint job.

The most interesting boats are the projects, some of them active, others abandoned.

Near the entrance, where visitors arrive by car, there’s a field full of these abandoned sentinels, silent boats marching across the landscape. Folks in the yard call it the “field of broken dreams.”

Closer to Flutterby, there are many active projects, and we were lucky to meet one of the owners right after our haulout.

Dan is working on a steel Roberts Offshore 44 that he’s been building for 11 years. Funny Farm is rigged and about ready to go in the water. From the outside, she looks complete, with a charming lamp shining in the pilothouse. But the interior is barely begun, just a single berth and a counter with a hotplate and lots of open space.

Dan welcomed us to the yard and gave us a ride to the nearby convenience store and restaurant in his big red tool truck. We sat in the yard lounge eating steak and cheese sandwiches and sharing stories. I found myself selfishly hoping that he wouldn’t be launching his boat too soon — he’s a great neighbor.

On Saturday, we finished most of our layup chores, and I began doing my prairie dog imitation, popping my head out the hatch every five minutes. I was eagerly waiting for my brother, who was driving down from Raleigh to spend the day with us and take us back to the Raleigh airport.

When he was an hour late, I rolled my eyes and assumed he was lost. But after two hours, I started to get worried. I called his home, but there was no answer. Had he had an accident or a breakdown? Our cell phone seemed to be working, but he didn’t call.

Finally, three hours after he was to arrive, he called to say he hadn’t left. He didn’t sound like he would be able to come.

What to do? We were in the middle of nowhere in a boatyard with no car, spotty phone service, and no internet. And two tickets from Raleigh to Seattle.

Luck was with us, in the form of Dan, who just happened to be driving back to Raleigh that evening in his big red truck. It was a miserable rainy night, but the three of us had lots more stories to share. The four-hour drive went quickly, including a stop for dinner in Goldsboro at a well-known barbecue joint called Wilber’s. I indulged my craving for pork barbecue, turnip greens, and that uniquely Southern delicacy, sweet tea (pronounced swate-tay).

When we reached Raleigh, I was befuddled by the fact that my brother was still out of pocket. Without looking at the time (it was past 9 pm), I called an old friend, Pat. He left his warm, cozy home and drove across town to rescue us from a MacDonald’s, where Dan had been keeping us company and swapping more stories.

This is not the most memorable ride we’ve gotten from Pat — many years ago, when we returned from our wedding, Pat met us at the gate, apologizing and saying that he’d had to bring our car instead of his own. When we reached the parking garage, we discovered why — he’d decorated it with streamers and balloons and crepe paper! Luckily, he didn’t tie any tin cans to the bumper.

With the help of Pat and his wife, Belinda, Barry and I were soon settled in a room at the Day’s Inn with eight pillows, enough for a great pillow fight. We had a lot of catching up to do with Pat, and when we finally crashed, we were almost on Pacific time.

I never did catch up with my missing brother, but we did make it to the plane on time.

And now, we’re home! Just in time for Christmas! I can hardly believe it — last year this time, we were heading off to Portugal. Who knows what next year will bring?

After the night of big guns, our trip into Beaufort was uneventful. The most exciting thing that happened was Margaret’s discovery that the holding tank vents into the cockpit, of all places. She was cruising along, enjoying the warm sunshine at the helm, when Barry went below to use the head. He was merrily flushing away when she started screaming, “Stop! Stop!” at the top of her lungs. ‘Nuff said.

We anchored in the creek off Beaufort, unintentionally placing ourselves as close to the public dinghy dock as possible. Initially, we stayed on the boat through a the first current change, to make sure we’d be in the correct position when every boat in the crowded anchorage did a 180-degree pirouette.

In the morning, we added air to our inflatable kayaks and paddled the short distance to the dock, where we had to jockey for space with a half-dozen rowing dinghies, inflatables, and hard kayaks. It’s frustrating to find that everyone else has used a short 1-foot line to tie up, crowding around the dock like a bunch of greedy piggies at the trough — makes it especially hard to pull a kayak alongside and get out! If you are a boater, and you are reading this, remember to be a good citizen and put a nice long painter on your dinghy.

Other than a crowded dinghy dock, Beaufort was fabulous. We walked the streets, with houses from the 18th and 19th centuries, hung out at the library and the coffee shop, and browsed a few little gift shops. We also visited the Old Burying Grounds at dusk, where tombstones reflect the town’s history, and one sad grave is marked “Little Girl Buried in a Rum Cask.”

We rented a car for a day and checked out the three boatyards we were considering: Bock Marine, Core Creek Marine, and Russell’s. All three have pluses and minuses. Russell’s is tiny, but located within walking distance of many stores and restaurants in Morehead City. They lost points for their lack of liveaboard amenities, having only a dingy bathroom with shower and no lounge, and the fact that they are very expensive. Core Creek has great bathrooms, but the atmosphere is industrial, like living in a gravel lot. Their fee structure is complex, but reasonable.

Bock Marine is our choice for the refit, a pretty but hard-working place surrounded by woods. There may be mosquitoes, but we’re willing to chance it. There are lots of interesting boats in storage, for sale, and being worked on, some of them by liveaboards like us. We enjoyed walking around, looking at boats, and chatting with a couple working on a large sloop. Val and Gigi are French-Canadians who cruised the South Pacific for 18 years and are now getting their next boat ready.

There’s a courtesy car, a lounge area, and a couple of bathrooms with showers. What a dream, after our time in Seabrook boatyard in New Orleans, where the only “amenity” was a single ripe port-a-potty, known as the Pot o’ Gold.

Sometimes, I think this blog has too much about bathrooms and holding tanks and not enough about other cruising.

We’re pulling up the anchor and going up to our haulout today. Then it’s back to Seattle for the holidays, after a much-anticipated visit with Margaret’s big brother, Stevie. I’ll write more then and do my best to keep the bathroom humor to a minimum!

Before going to bed, I clambered over the hatch boards and stood in the dark cockpit, my elegant red velvet and bunny-fur slippers protecting my feet from the cold. At first, only the quiet exhales of nearby dolphins broke the silence — chuff! chuff!

On the horizon, four bright white flares filled the sky and dimmed the stars. Then an explosion split the air, a sound so loud I wished I’d had my fingers in my ears. We’d recently met a man who bought a used Catalina with an unbelievably loud generator, and he’d discovered handfuls of used earplugs under the mattresses in both staterooms. I was wishing I had a few earplugs right now, used or unused.

I fled down the companionway to the cabin, where the sound was at least muffled.

Earlier that day, we had puttered through the Onslow Beach bridge, owned and operated by the U.S. Marine Corps, at 1 pm. We were looking forward to stopping in mid-afternoon at Swansboro, an old-fashioned North Carolina waterfront town.

Just north of the bridge, we passed the large sign warning of the Camp Lejeune firing zone, but the lights weren’t flashing, so we continued on. I went below to make some lunch, putting cheese and salami and crackers into a bowl for Barry. Just as I reached for a can of sardines for myself, he suddenly throttled back to idle speed and began a swift U-turn.

Anchored in the channel was a small gray military boat with a soldier on the bow. It was a stake boat, anchored there to stop us from proceeding into a live firing zone. The ICW was closed, probably until 4 pm. We suddenly realized that we’d shifted our radio to Channel 13 to talk with the bridge tender, and we hadn’t shifted back to 16. Since they’d been unable to hail us on the radio, they resorted to a megaphone and a blue flashing light. They were very polite.

We dropped our anchor in the middle of the channel and settled down for our lunch. A second, smaller military boat came and rafted with the first one, and two men wearing camouflage fatigues climbed into the larger boat’s pilothouse.

Earlier, we’d heard a warship on the radio, warning boats offshore of a firing exercise, and we’d heard sounds of distant shelling. But for now, there were no signs of the firing that was closing down the waterway.

Around us, the water was calm, surrounded by lovely marshland. A pod of dolphins came by and fished a short distance away. Then a handful of pelicans found the fish as well. They dove at tops speeds, hitting the water beak first with a giant splash, then placidly bobbing up, their heads aimed 180 degrees from the direction they landed.

Terns grabbed some of the fish, too, quick hitters and acrobatic fliers. One little tern got chased across the blue sky by a couple of large gulls, and he evaded them and entertained us with his maneuvers.

Distant firing began to the northwest, and the sky was tinged with plumes of gray-brown smoke. Then more firing to the southwest, and then, so loud it frightened me, giant explosions offshore. It seemed like they were firing all around us, but the fellows on the boats anchored nearby were unperturbed. I progressed from jumpy to annoyed with the loud noises, which sounded like fireworks, but didn’t provoke any oohs or aahs.

If the waterway had opened at 4 pm, as expected, we’d have made it to our snug anchorage at Swansboro. But 5 pm came, and the sun began to set, filling the sky with pinks and blues that brought to mind the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. The gray boats anchored off our bow were nothing Michelangelo ever painted.

The sky was almost indigo when a terse radio message finally announced that the waterway was opening. It was too dark for us to move safely; we were near a spot that we’d heard had less than 4 feet at low tide.

Our neighbors on the patrol boats came by to say farewell; they’d stopped by to chat earlier in the afternoon, wanting to know about our boat. “I’ve never seen one with two masts like that,” said one of the fellows. The other one was more sailboat-savvy, and actually owned a little sailboat.

We radioed the two boats who’d been stuck at the other end of the closed zone. We warned them of our plans to stay anchored in the channel all night, and one of them agreed that he was doing the same.

Although the waterway was officially open, the offshore firing continued into the night. The following morning, it was finally quiet, and only the dolphins and birds greeted us as we pulled up our anchor and motored north. A few miles later, we passed the other vessel who’d spent the night anchored in the waterway.

By some strange coincidence, the name of his boat was Peacekeeper.

We left on Saturday, December 1st, and we’ve now done 4 whole days of cruising. Every day is different, so here’s a little trip report on the different days.

Day 0: We decided to drop off the rental car in an unorthodox manner. We should have taken Billy and Lizzie up on their offer of a ride.

But no, I dropped Barry and two untested inflatable kayaks at a boat ramp on Broad Creek, then drove the car to the airport to return it. I hurried over to the cab stand, making a cab driver very, very unhappy. She and her fellow luckless cab-drivers had been sitting there for 5 hours, waiting. Now she was the first cab in line, watching the one evening flight land and hoping to score one big fare, maybe a bunch of wealthy golfers. Instead, she had to take me three miles to a gravel boat ramp, and the second cab in line scored the wealthy golfers.

Because of a UPS snafu (paddles came a day late), we launched the kayaks at sunset, and poor Barry had underinflated his. While I paddled along like a happy duck, he struggled valiantly, unable to keep up. Darkness fell, and we were out without a light. Luckily, we only saw one other boat in the entire 3-mile route, and they, at least, had a spotlight.

Day 1: We cast off our lines with trepidation and excitement and headed down Broad Creek into Calibogue Sound. After the previous night’s excitement, I was hoping for something a little less nerve-wracking.

And it was an excellent day, cruising behind Hilton Head to Port Royal Sound, then behind St. Helena and Lady’s Island past my beloved Beaufort, S.C. We got used to the noisy, vibrating engine and took turns at the helm, navigating with a chartbook and GPS.

This was familiar territory, since we’d done the same route, beginning at Port Royal, aboard Cayenne in 2004.

At the end of the day, we anchored in the South Edisto River, completely alone, with a glorious sunset. I heard the sound of wild pigs on shore, and once, I saw a dark shape moving around, but there were no lights or signs of humans anywhere.

Day 2: A curious dolphin cruised up to our stern this morning. He’d probably never seen anyone eating Killer Oatmeal before.

After the antibellum houses of Beaufort, there were few houses for many miles, then the Charleston suburbs began. We went through narrow cuts and waterways with melodious names, like the Ashepoo river and Toogoodoo Creek. At the Wappoo Creek Bridge, we had a slight problem — on the radio, the bridge tender said she didn’t see us, so she was going to open the bridge for another boat, and we’d have to wait when we arrived. We were frustrated, because we were within sight of the bridge! Finally, the bridge tender saw us and held the bridge open for us for a long, long time. We figured she was embarrassed — 99% of the boats are traveling southbound, so she wasn’t looking on the south side of the bridge, where we were clearly visible.

In Charleston Harbor, we passed within hailing distance of a sailboat, and the skipper called out, “I’ve seen you here before! I know that red hull!” I don’t think this boat has been up to Charleston, though…maybe he remembers Cayenne? We do look like her little sister!

Speaking of other Freedoms, our Charleston destination was Cooper River Marina, where we rendezvoused with Doug and Donna of Phoenix, another Freedom 33. She’s actually their second F33; when the first one was lost in a fire, Donna found this one for sale. She’s in beautiful condition, much better than ours, and we enjoyed looking at all the nice touches. It’s fun to see the differences and the similarities in the two boats. We especially enjoyed sharing sea stories and fairy tales with Doug and Donna, who took us to a wonderful Irish pub in North Charleston for dinner. I can’t wait to come back to Charleston after our refit and do some buddy-boating with them — we could have a two-boat race!

Day 3: Today was my first grounding, when I went too far out of the way of a huge motor yacht and got stuck in the muck. Luckily, the tide helped me off, and we were only held up for about 5 minutes.

All morning, Barry had been futzing with the sails and rigging, begging me oh-please-oh-please could we raise the sails today? I was hesitant, because despite the fact that the wind was perfect for sailing, we were traveling in a ditch with no room to maneuver (as evidenced by my grounding).

But he was so persistent, we raised the main, and then we just flew like an arrow down the waterway at speeds up to 7 knots. It was two hours of delightful sailing, and it reminded me of an article I read about the famous Joshua Slocum, who came through this area in 1888 aboard the Liberdade. He’d gotten into one of the harbors, but the weather turned and he couldn’t get back out. So he started sailing through the marshes, and he got lost. He hailed a local hunter to ask him where this particular “ditch” went, and the hunter said, “Why, stranger, my gran’ther digged that ditch.”

So this local pilot, who had never heard of a vessel sailing from Brazil through his backyard, came aboard and led him practically to Beaufort, N.C.

If Slocum could sail in a ditch, so could we!

However, we lost valuable time sailing, and when we reached the anchorage we’d chosen, it was too exposed. I throttled up and headed for Georgetown, but the sun was setting as I did so. Unlike our kayak adventure on Day 0, we did have lights, and the computer was a great help for navigating (Slocum didn’t have either of those).

Navigating in the dark, in a place marked with something they call day markers, is not a good idea. We were lucky that this one spot happens to be suitable for nighttime navigation, with lit markers and ranges for big boats coming in from the Atlantic.

After we dropped the anchor, I told Barry, “You couldn’t pay me to do that again!”

Day 4: Ah, a short day. We cruised up the Waccamaw river, lined with trees dripping with Spanish moss. We saw a deer swimming across the channel, dolphins, and hawks. No bald eagles, but we’d seen one yesterday.

A yacht that looked like a converted fishing boat passed by, with the name Frog Kiss on the stern. We were commenting on the boat when they hailed us on the radio, saying, “Red Freedom 33, this is Frog Kiss.” We had a nice little chat with them — former owners of a Freedom 44 who have gotten too old for sailing, but who miss their Freedom. We are realizing that we are now part of the Freedom Fraternity!

We dropped the hook early today, in the exact same place we anchored in 2004. It’s an oxbow off the main channel with an old wrecked boat on shore. Then it was time for a nap (for me), and some futzing (for Barry). Later in the afternoon, we hoisted the sails and I took one of the kayaks out for some photos. We took some photos of ourselves inside the sails — one of those weird things you can only do with wraparound sails!

Our resident gecko came out this evening, and we took some photos of him, too. He lives in the mizzen sail somewhere.

Tomorrow, we’ll pass through the long narrow canal behind Myrtle Beach, and we hope to find some wi-fi signal there to post this and some photos. We’ve been getting lots of requests — actually, demands — for photos of the boat.