I was driving the boat down the Intracoastal Waterway (All the East Coast boaters just call it the “ICW” or “the ditch”) today. Since it wasn’t a weekend this time, there was some traffic, but it was pretty reasonable. Sunday it reminded me of the Lake Washington Ship Canal on an equally sunny day, just after the large locks had opened. Except that the traffic didn’t seem to slow down between lockings.

Back to today, a Monday. One of the larger powerboats was coming up behind us, and was nice enough to slow down. They were no longer moving much faster than we did, so I slowed down and went over to the right side of the channel to let them around us. When the had finished passing us, I was a little distracted by something, and then noticed that the depth was decreasing pretty rapidly, so I backed the throttle off a little more and turned back toward the center of the channel. Too late. We were aground. I was acting a little unsure, so Brian took the wheel, throttled up and pushed us through a little mud or sand, and back into the “deep” part of the channel. We were back on our way, and no damage was done.

That was when I said “Does this mean we average running aground once a day in the ICW?” I’m not sure exactly what the depth is supposed to be in the channel, but I’ve usually been seeing 10-12 feet around here, occasionally under 8 feet, but so far, never under 7 feet inside the channel. Cayenne draws six and a half feet, so this really doesn’t leave a whole lot of margin. By the time we were anchored tonight, everybody aboard except the cat had run us aground! I’m not sure I’ve done the math correctly, but this assessment is way too close for Brian to want to stay “inside” much longer. In fact, we’re all looking forward to the nice easy navigation on a passage once out of sight of land and in enough water that the depth sounder can’t find bottom.

Our first day started in the familiar waters of Lake Ponchartrain, and we eventually made it to our bouncy anchorage in the lee of Ship Island. At first light Meps, Brian and Kem got up and prepared the boat. This must have included taking down the now dry sheet Prussia had barfed on, removing sail covers, and raising the anchor. I stayed in bed and on and off slept through the process, and got up later to find us sailing with a double reef in each sail.

After breakfast Kem took some dramamine and then she took the first in a series of naps throughout the day.

We were still sailing through a series of marked dredged channels through the shallow parts of the Gulf of Mexico, but the depths were gradually increasing, and the navigation became a bit easier, so the skipper went down below and took one of his quick “power naps.” With Meps steering or watching auto I started to feel like dozing in the sun. By the time I decided to get a better pillow, the skipper was back up, so I decided to go below and hit the bunk again for another nice long nap. This time I had a good excuse–I was expecting to take an early night watch, and didn’t want to be sleepy….

After lunch Meps took her nap. I think Prussia got a lot of napping in as usual, but I’m not sure–She spent the whole day hiding out in the bottom of a hanging locker in our cabin, and every time I looked in I saw two wide eyes looking back out at me.

By dinner time the wind had picked up again and we were sailing with a single reef in each sail, still making good progress. After dinner, Brian and Meps turned in, and Kem and I were on watch, sailing along with distant oil platforms and not much else. After midnight Brian got up, and we set our new course to Clearwater Florida, 275 miles away.

Since it was bedtime I just slept rather than napping again!

Our first day out from New Orleans found us in the company of barges, fishing boats, and ships. We opened a number of bridges, waving gaily at the bridge tenders as we passed through. On our second day, heading out into the Gulf of Mexico, vessels became fewer until Brian noted the last ship on the horizon during his Friday night watch.

Our crew included a couple of special additions: Brian’s sister, Kem, who flew down from Seattle to make our maiden passage with us, and our cat, Prussia, who flew down as well and will be cruising with us for the duration. So our little world included four humans, one feline, a teddy bear named “Frankie,” and Brian’s infamous Mardi Gras snake. As the passage wore on, we became goofy with lack of sleep and assigned silly names to each other, including Wheezy (me, with a cold), Queezy (Kem), Barfy (Prussia), Nappy (Barry), and Happy (Brian).

All day Saturday, we had complete solitude. The sky was blue and clear and the sun shone brightly. We all commented on the blueness of the water, hanging out over the stern to enjoy the deep azure color. Every few minutes, I’d scan the horizon in a circle, but there was nothing to see but water and sky.

That evening, a tiny black and brown bird circled the boat. Fearlessly, he landed on the lifeline. Then he discovered the windbreak provided by the dodger, so he moved into the cockpit. I was down below and snapped a bunch of photos when he landed at the top of the companionway. But he got bolder, and then — oh, no! — he was inside the boat, sitting on the nav station.

All I could think of was bird poop on Brian’s computer, so I went to shoo him back out. But he was confused and flew over my head and into the main cabin, where he circled and flapped. He found the entrance to the v-berth and started zooming around our bed, zipping over my head a second time when I tried to capture him. He ended up in the head and finally came to light on the floor under the toilet. Got him! Cupping him carefully in one hand (gotta have one hand for the boat), I carried him up to the cockpit and freed him.

You may be wondering, where was kitty during all this? Well, of the four humans, only Kem experienced much seasick queasiness. But our feline companion had a much rougher time of it. After barfing all over our bed the first night, she’d found a tiny but stable hidey-hole in a locker and hadn’t come out again. She was completely unaware that a tasty little bird had flown within just a few feet of her, and probably too queasy to enjoy it anyway.

Our little bird refused to leave the boat and was joined by two others. Darkness fell, and they huddled under the dodger all night. Sadly, by morning, all three had simply laid down and died. The guys gave them a burial at sea while Kem and I were sleeping — if I’d been awake, I’d have played Amazing Grace for them on the harmonica or something.

Sunday evening’s companions were much more cheerful — a school of bottlenose dolphins! One caught our attention by doing a back flip out of a wave beside the cockpit. Then they were everywhere, their sleek streamlined silver bodies surfing and leaping on all sides. Kem and I stood on the bow, and we could actually see them under the water, riding our bow wave like underwater surfers. Groups of three or four would come up beside us, zooming by in perfect formation. When a particularly big wave came up from astern, several of them would surf in it, leaping out of the wave crest in the blue-white moonlight.

I never saw the dolphins depart. I watched them for a half an hour, until my frequent yawns ran together into one continuous yawn. I went below and climbed into the v-berth to sleep. The last thing I heard as I was drifting off was the high-pitched clicking of the dolphins, chattering with each other on the other side of the hull.