Circumnavigating the Delmarva Peninsula

Posted By: catsailor
Date: 11/22/08 11:02a.m.

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From New York City to Miami, the East Coast is one long resort; condos, beach houses, and hotels are shoulder-to-shoulder for 1250 miles... except for the Virginia Coast Reserve. For 120 precious miles, a string of barrier islands has been preserved from development through cooperation between the National Park Service, state parks, and The Nature Conservancy. Here, on these scraps of sand and marsh, are preserved a few signs of the past and an irreplaceable ecological treasure for the future. It is also perhaps the ultimate cruise for the small boat sailor. The following is an excerpt from Circumnavigating the Delmarva Peninsula – A Guide for the Shoal Draft Cruiser; a story and guidebook developed over the course of three 500 mile cruises by a father/daughter team. Thursday, August 23, 2007 – 83 miles Last year we were turned back from the inner passage by ongoing concrete repairs and the presence of a construction barge under the Fisherman's Inlet Bridge at Cape Charles. This year I was determined to explore the inner passage and to visit a few of the more remote barrier islands. If we couldn’t pass under the bridge I was determined to attempt Smith Island Inlet – a notorious sand bar laden passage considered to be un-navigable for sailors. I watched small boats going in and out during low water last year as we sailed around Smith Island, so at high tide, with fair weather and suitable caution, our Stiletto 27 catamaran should have no difficulty. Wednesday the wind blew 25 to 30 knots from the northeast, persuading me to lay over a day in Cape Charles, and was expected to continue at 15 to 20 knots Thursday as well; right on the nose and too rough to tack the 40-odd miles to windward needed to reach Wachapreague Inlet. Smith Island Inlet wouldn’t be a valid choice after all – it would be breaking heavily in these conditions. Though we thoroughly enjoyed an evening spent at the Cape Charles Hotel, and a day spent lazing at the beach and wandering the town, I was ready to go, my hopes for clearing the bridge running high - in all reality, if we could not clear the bridge we would be forced back to Cape Charles to await better weather. Cherokee Sun's mast reaches 39’ 8” plus 2 feet of VHF whip antenna. The Fisherman's Inlet Bridge is listed as 40 feet at mean high water, according to the chart and assuming no settling since construction; not a certainty and there is no clearance board on the pilings to confirm this. Low tide was predicted for 9:45 a.m., and because I wished to approach the bridge at a falling tide, we were up and moving early and reached the bridge by 8:45 a.m. A slight outgoing tide opposed us as we neared the bridge, all the better to aid a slow and careful approach to the bridge. Though the wind was quite strong on the ocean-side, the approaches to the bridge are very well protected from wind and wave on both sides, and all was quiet as a mill pond. Crabbing sideways, bumping the transmission in and out of gear, and with a speed of less than 0.5 knots we eased up to the steel I-beams in a most cowardly way. A few fishermen on the bank stared, transfixed by the impending collision. From the deck of a sailboat or from the bank, the distortion of perspective always makes a mast appear taller than it is, and any bridge we clear by less than 15 feet is always a nervous affair. Slowly, with a light metallic scraping - the VHF antenna is mounted slightly forward and below the masthead - the antenna began to bend, and to bend in such a place that I could see we would clear the first beam, and all the beams having equal height, we would make it through. But not that quickly. Under each beam the antenna would touch, bend, scrape, and release. Touch, bend, scrape, and release. Repeated eight times, each time the nerves braced for at least a thud, or perhaps a crunch… and then we were through. The true height of the bridge, adjusted for the state of the tide, is probably closer to 39 feet. We continued on under the eastern span, thankfully a foot or so higher, high enough so that our antenna did not touch. My relief was palpable. A little dancing on deck. The Virginia Inner Passage (VIP) was open to us, and not withstanding the little shallow water, a wonderful day of exploration upon calm waters lay ahead; hours of pounding in the ocean, or retreat to Cape Charles passed from consideration. The passage begins at marker FL R “266” as a beautiful strait lead through cord grass marsh, promising a quiet, relaxing, and reflective passage. Why do we find beauty in nature? What is it we recognize and how is it measured? A meadow by a mountain lake, a winding path through a salt hay marsh, dawn at the beach, or stark mountain peaks. Is it genetic programming? Shelter, water, and food are to be found by the lake. A salt marsh is a calm and bountiful place. The beach may trigger our innate love of sloth, a place to lay down with a good book or relax in the waves. Mountains appeal to our sense of awe. There is beauty in utility of man's constructions. There is beauty in the hustle and bustle of humanity in a city or small-town. Today, we will absorb the two-dimensional green and gray sameness of these back bays, seeing them as they might have been thousands of years ago, with only periodic reminders of the passage of time. A few watermen wading after clams. A few distant radio towers. From this point on a subsequent trip I visited the southern tip of Smith Island at low tide via the Thorofare Channel. Turning south at marker R “262”, the channel approaches the curving spit within 30 yards, still carrying 8 feet of water. I was able to get within 30 feet of shore in 3 feet of water. There was a small protected cove, and yet still I placed three anchors; oyster shell bottoms scare me, and I was paranoid that my boat would leave for England. I found the island pleasant but unremarkable. There is less sense of isolation, wilderness, or discovery in clear sight of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel. This is all in my head, of course. The passage soon opens into Magothy Bay, and somewhere near marker G “261” we lost the channel. The 20-foot deep channel had turned and I had followed, but 50 feet too late, confirm by the sound of my rudders kicking up (3-foot draft). No harm done, and a few stressful moments later we relocated the channel and were on our way, a little less innocent and more attentive to the depth sounder. A quick examination of charts for the inner passage reveals that the natural channels through the wide but shallow bays are remnants of submerged creek and riverbeds established when sea levels were lower during the last ice age, now covered with a thin smear of water. The markers give a suggestion of where the channel is, or was, or should be. There remained a lot of shallow water in front of us, and hundreds of opportunities to run aground; our passage was on a rising tide and that helped. Through the entire passage to Wachapreague we never sounded less than 3 feet of water, corrected to mean low water (MLW), unless well out of the channel; we only bumped our rudders on the bottom twice during the entire circumnavigation. With the tide included, we never saw less than 6 feet. Eighteen miles of winding passage though marsh and shallow bays - the only notable event a hail from a local watermen who thought surely a sailboat in this passage was lost, and desired to direct us to the town of Oyster - brought us to Cobb Island, one of many barrier islands now belonging to The Nature Conservancy. Once resort town, then a Coast Guard station outpost, it is now a lonely place, visit by an occasional fisherman or researcher, but home only to birds and deer. The neighboring Wreck Island and Little Cobb Islands are bird sanctuaries and are not open to visitation. We had read of the 1936 Coast Guard Station and its move to Oyster and subsequent restoration. We had scoured satellite imagery and knew there to be a good harbor, the harbor the Coast Guard used, hiding between Cobb and Little Cobb Islands. The 2006 NOAA Coast Pilot stated the approach to the harbor was guarded by a 3-foot bar, and with a heavy swell in the ocean, we observed breakers all across the inlet. I'm a stubborn sort when I have an adventure firmly in my teeth. We pushed further out into the inlet seeking a better vantage point, and sure enough, there appeared a serpentine path through the breakers that looked calm enough, and with my heart in my throat we found a passage to the harbor, smooth and never less than 6 feet in depth. Once over the bar, a calm harbor with 20 feet depth (8 feet within 50 feet of the beach) was revealed. We motored over to the remains of some pilings and a broken-down house – subsequent inquiries revealed this tilted ruin is the wreck of the 1890 Lifesaving Station - anchored fore and aft, and hurriedly set out for shore. Excitement for exploration was high, and Jessica and I ran all over each other as we bustled to get our things together. Where to begin…. There is excitement inherent in exploration and discovery. Not that we were the first people to visit this island. Not that someone else won't be here tomorrow, not that someone else might not be on the island, somewhere, right now, but because it feels isolated, looks nothing like Ocean City or even Assateague, and because anything might appear just around the corner. A shipwreck, buried treasure, sea monsters washed up from the deep. Anything. The entire southern end of Cobb Island is subject to overwash during winter storms - our walk to the ocean side beach was across fields of common reeds laid flat, and the boathouse we anchored near had been knocked off its foundation. Aware of the potential for ground nesting birds, I watched carefully for signs of nesting and parental behavior, but there were no birds on the island this late in the season, save a few laughing gulls on the beach. Neatly situated in an alcove between dunes, as though intentionally placed and ready for customers, was a fiberglass bait sales tank; I can only assume it washed down from Chincoteague or Wachapreague, the nearest places where this item could have been found in proximity to the ocean. The beach itself is heavily littered with shells. These islands are in quick retreat to the west, and as they move west and into former estuaries, the clam and oyster shells left behind are heaved onto the new shoreline. Oysters grow in estuaries, not in the open ocean, and their presence in quantity tells a story. We strolled around the southern tip of the island, walking in the surf, investigating the flotsam line, and prospecting for shells, weaving all over the beach, my daughter and I. The bayside shallows teamed with hermit crabs, scurrying about after bits of food the tide swept in, so crowded it was often impossible to place a foot without stepping on several. Large conch snails cruise the shallows. The remains of a loggerhead sea turtle, 3 ½ feet on the shell, made a home for a bustling community of ghost crabs. A kid’s paradise. Our only mammalian company; a white tail deer far in the distance. On the bayside the wind and the waves were distant. But no silence. Little Cobb Island is a crowded bird rookery and terns and skimmers filled the air, not screaming at us as we were at a respectable distance across the water, but at each other. All too soon, about 1:00 p.m., it was time to depart for Wachapreague. It would be good to spend an evening in this place, or near some other barrier island, but we were due to meet my wife at Chincoteague on Friday, and that was something we were looking forward to as well. By chart it doesn't look far from Cobb Island to Wachapreague, but it’s a windy road and it took us every bit of 5 1/2 hours at 7 knots. Though the weather had not changed during our brief stay on Cobb Island - it continued to blow powerfully from the northeast. However, a swell had arrived from the east and our S-shaped approach to the harbor was now breaking across its full width. The tide had come in and there would be no risk of grounding, but heading out through five-foot breakers was a daunting prospect, but the only way out we knew. I retraced my original path, but no question, the conditions had changed. Though breaking along the crest, the waves were not combers, so I raised the centerboard, squared the bows, and drove through where I knew the deepest water to be. Catamarans are good at punching through surf, and we have ample motor. The deck was well washed and at times the bow was 15 feet above the water, but the swell was long and we didn’t slam down the backsides as much as surge outward and into the next swell. The waves were not close together, allowing a few moments to steer and prepare before climbing up to the sky again. After a few exciting, actually fun moments, we were over the bar and sliding through the deeper water of the main channel to Oyster and Wachapreague. A brief side trip to the town of Oyster revealed a quiet fishing town that would make a fine stopping point. There's a nice anchorage basin, public boat ramps, and a state-operated marina, but no stores or restaurants. The 1936 Cobb Island Coast Guard Station has been relocated just to the north of the harbor entrance and is quite elegant, overlooking the approaches to the harbor. There's not much going on in this quiet town - an old fish packing plant and a few houses - but it's peaceful, the anchorage is roomy and secure, and the view across the water is breathtaking. The navigation from Oyster to Wachapreague is relentless. One eye on the depth sounder, one eye on the chart, one eye peeled for the next marker, glasses on, glasses off, binoculars up - the markers often very close and serpentine in arrangement - there's a lot going on. Red to the west, green to the east, connect the dots for hour after hour, and like connecting the dots of some elaborate scene, it’s easy to get dots out of order. Occasionally marks zigzag back on themselves across Outlet Bay. I missed one of these and zoomed quickly out of the channel across a shallow short-cut, harmlessly as it was high tide. The depth sounder alarm screamed and there were exciting times, until the missing mark was spotted, precisely where the chart showed it. The best passages are channels deep in the salt marsh; smooth as plate glass, relaxing, deep, and easy to follow. Quiet scenery that I cannot convey in a photograph or simple words. Wakes flow into the flooded cord grass, vanishing silently, hinting that nothing changes the marsh. It doesn't fight back - it absorbs all that comes, bends, and continues. North of mark R “194” we met with confusion. From this point to mark FL R “186” a new numbering system had been inserted, and if your chart is more up to date than ours, you will find markers in the teens (Http://charts.noaa.gov/onlineviewer/122210.shtm). By now, there are several characteristics of charts for this area that should be apparent: 1. Markers around inlets are not charted as they are changeable. 2. Paper charts aren’t updated for years at the time, at least not the old inventory found in marine stores. Markers that have moved or renumbered recently will be incorrect. 3. Markers that have been moved significantly will generally be renumbered, adding to the confusion if you have an out-dated chart. 4. Revision of shorelines, sand islands, and sand spits are rare. Don't expect the islands and sandbars to look just like the chart; some move so frequently they don't resemble last year’s satellite image. 5. Soundings are often more than 30 years old, for areas that change yearly or monthly. We wandered aimlessly across the wide open inlet, offering guesswork amongst ourselves as to what new markers should be close to what old markers, and found a few shallow spots in the process, but nothing to cause a grounding at high tide. We wandered out through the inlet and into the North Channel, in part to confirm its condition and in part to establish our position, reentered the inlet, and easily followed the channel to the continuation of the inside passage to the north. We made a side trip into Heather Channel, between Hog Island in Rogue Island, and after crossing a 3-foot entrance bar found a nice cozy harbor. Unfortunately we had no time to go ashore. Continuing north for 5 miles to the former town of Broadwater we found varying depths, but never less than 6 feet. The town itself is long gone, swallowed up by the surf, salvaged, or moved. Homes were floated to Oyster, Quinby, Willis Wharf, Wachapreague, and Chincoteague. All that remains are a few narrow guts – 50-foot wide waterways that accessing a few crumbling docks, a radio tower, and a modular building used by researchers. A few shacks here and there, and the remains of the road across the island that passes the foundation of an old Coast Guard Station destroyed by fire, but no visible remains of the town. Most of Broadwater, we later learned, was located to the east and south and is now under the Atlantic along with the island's extensive pine forests. We retraced our path south to Great Machapingo Inlet, disappointed not to have found a ghost town, but glad to know that much had been saved. GPS is nice here, not to locate a channel or deep water, but to accurately locate old markers and old dredged channels, and thus we had no difficulty confirming the entrance to North Channel (FL R “186”), where the old numbering system resumed. Watch for shallow areas in the first one half mile. Shoaling has been a recurring problem. Also, the start of Sloop Channel is a little thin, but deeper than charted - travel at high tide. Navigation challenges ease at this point. The winding passages through salt marshes were a pleasure, though the transition from one marsh to the next required attention. Often the channel turns abruptly, veering into the heart of a march through an improbable entrance. Aquaculture areas appear at the channel margins, where clam and oyster beds have been planted, always clearly marked. Watermen place brush and pipe markers wherever there is a troublesome shoal near the channel. The closer to Wachapreague the more frequent the marking. We reached Wachapreague at the dinner hour. Captain Zed’s Marina had a slip available, gas, and a comfortable restaurant accepting of worn-looking clientele that have been on the water all day. We ordered lots, made it disappear quickly, and enjoyed desert as well. We’d earned it. The self proclaimed “Flounder Capital of the World”, Wachapreague is a small town crowded with charter fishing and boat rental opportunities; everything from bill fishing trips to the continental shelf and off-shore wreck fishing, to bottom fishing in the backwaters. There are several good marinas, two fuel docks, several restaurants, a small Coast Guard Station, and a motel. A comfortable town for a short break, to spend the evening, or even a rain-day, with easy access to Cedar Island, good fishing, and beautiful marsh country. A sailboat in Wachapreague is a confusing oddity, and a catamaran even more so, attracting stares and questions. Overheard in the early morning, while I was having breakfast below: • “Two boats together? That's called a Catalina, son.” • "The ropes and the pole the middle? They use that with those fishing nets." • "Really fast - they use those for drug smuggling." (With an 18 hp outboard... yeah.) • “Sailboats just aren't safe. I wouldn't go out in that.” (Preparing to rent an 18-foot john boat.) We were the second sailboat to pass through that year, and none are based in Wachapreague; other local harbors see fewer. None in Willis Wharf or Quinby. I met a live-aboard on a small sloop hanging out in Oyster – maybe he’s still there. The growth on her hull and cluttered decks suggested he had put down roots. _________________________ Our trip continued for another 2 weeks, but nothing could match the solitude of these few days spent with only nature and my little girl for company.