The Cure for Anything Is Salt Water: How I Threw My Life Overboard and Found Happiness at Sea

by Mary South

  We were essentially bow-to John Deaton's brother's backyard, and he was having a big party. Children were running around playing hide-and-seek, a group of guys stood around the barbecue, women were going in and out with covered dishes. Everyone was holding a beer. The scene was very Americana and oddly soothing, though far from my idea of family. It was too traditional: the men were relaxing in a kind of macho way, talking about NASCAR and swearing frequently. The woman all looked a little damp and harried as they cooked and supervised the kids. John was right at home though, drinking beer with the guys in no time flat. I sat with Deaton while he filled out the towing paperwork.

  When he handed it to me, I had to stifle a gasp. That grounding and short tow had cost Boat-U.S. $750. Wow! The towing business was all right. I signed, handed the clipboard back, and thanked him again for finding us this spot. What did we owe him for the night?

  "Oh, there's no charge," Deaton said. "Slip would just be sitting here empty, and it's not like we have any services to offer you. Just enjoy the fireworks."

  That was a generous gesture and a nice surprise. I smiled when a gang of kids showed up and piled into the boat next to us. They were lugging a big picnic basket and shooed ahead by a pretty woman who turned out to be Deaton's wife. Yeah, we thought we'd take dinner, anchor out and watch the fireworks from a less crowded place, Deaton explained. That was the family I'd want to belong to.

  John and I did indeed sit on the stern and enjoy the fireworks. They weren't much, actually, but we were as happy as could be seeing the colors explode against a sky full of stars while we held paper plates on our laps, piled with barbecued chicken and baked beans. This wasn't too bad at all.

  The next morning, we decided to head for Ocracoke Island, part of North Carolina's famed Outer Banks and home of Edward Teach, the fiercest pirate of them all, better known as Blackbeard. Actually, Blackbeard's legend may be a good deal fiercer than he was, but that's the way he wanted it. With long dark hair, a bushy beard and an array of daggers and pistols swinging from his bandolier, Blackbeard projected an intentionally savage image. He was often seen with smoke curling from his ears-said to be the result of slow-burning matches he placed in his braided facial hair before a battle. Legend has it that on the last night of his life, Blackbeard learned that the British Navy was coming to the island to capture him. Unable to navigate the treacherous shoals in the dark, Blackbeard paced the night away, yelling, "Oh, cock crow! Oh, cock crow!" willing daylight to come and thus giving the island its name. Daylight did not arrive soon enough for Blackbeard. He was captured and beheaded by the British. Legend has it that his headless body circled the British Navy's boat many times before he died, though many hold that he did not, as they say, give up the ghost. There are reports that his spirit body is often seen swimming in Ocracoke Inlet, searching for his head.

  Luckily, we didn't see it on our way in but we did witness the famously tricky shoals that spelled his doom. We had planned what seemed a safe route through, but as we approached we saw a large passenger ferry coming up behind us. "Hey, John. I'm sure our route is fine, but why don't we take advantage of this guy's local knowledge and see if he'll let us follow him in?" I suggested.

  John got on the VHF and offered to pull over and let the ferry pass if we could follow him in. No problem, said the ferry captain. And we did. The ferry took the exact same route we had planned, though it was faster than we were-who wasn't?-and we lost sight of it as we neared the harbor. I'd read something in one of the guides about overshooting the obvious entrance and then doubling back at a sharp angle to avoid some new shoaling. But John suggested I should just turn and make a straight approach at the entrance. I'm pretty sure that's the way the ferry went in, said John. It'll probably be fine, I lied to myself.

  We touched ground for a second but I powered us off. I left a big billow of red behind and panicked, wondering if I had chopped a nurse shark or sting ray or some other large marine mammal. It was much later that I realized that the fancy bottom paint that's designed to shed barnacles and marine growth with ease sheds itself as easily. That had been a big billow of expensive bottom paint I felt terrible about killing. I had a good laugh, and not for the last time, at what I still didn't know about boating.

  Once in Ocracoke, we found the municipal marina right next to the ferry dock. We sat in the busy harbor and tried repeatedly to raise a park ranger for an indication of where to pull up, but we got no response. Well, I figured, let's just go in and tie up anywhere, and we can move after that. Bobbing where we were unnerved me, particularly as I did not have a chart with enough detail to indicate water depth inside the harbor, though boats buzzed by all around us. Touching ground on the way in had made me a tad paranoid about taking anything for granted.

  We entered the municipal docks and I began to turn toward a temporary spot alongside the long pier when a berthed trawler hailed us on the VHF.

  "There's a spot over here that's free if you head straight back and then turn to port. You won't be allowed to stay alongside that pier," he offered.

  "Thanks for the info," John called back. "We'll give it a try."

  There wasn't a lot of room to turn once we were in the dock area and I had already started angling us toward the pier. Now I tried to turn us back in the other direction, but the wind was against us. The Bossanova was a great ship, but she had a big profile, a lot of windage, and she was tough to dock in a stiff breeze. After a moment, I realized I was going to have to make a very tight turn to port and go back to the original plan.

  It went smoothly enough with me using the technique Captain Bob Swindell had drilled into me: big, short surges of power. But the turn I needed to make today was difficult with the wind pushing us forward, so I had to alternate between surging ahead and surging back to keep us pivoting in a small enough space. What I was trying to do was wind up with my stern toward the dock so the wind could push us in and alongside. Anyway, that was the idea.

  I was controlled but tense as I executed this plan since there was absolutely no margin for error in such a tight space. Also, docking the Bossanova always created a bit of a spectacle. She was a unique little ship and her drystack exhaust gave her a throaty, chugging sound that I loved. Using a lot of power tended to amplify that, and it was hard not to attract attention. I loved it when people stared appreciatively at my boat, but not while I was docking. It made me much more nervous. What had happened in Oriental with the cheering onlookers had been a lovely exception-the last thing I needed in this tight, windy situation was people watching me.

  Adding to my stress level was a bright red fiberglass sailboat, about 26 feet long, also tied alongside the pier and directly in front of my bow as I worked on the turn. Every time I surged forward I came unavoidably close to the little boat. I wasn't worried about what would happen if I hit a dock or piling with the Bossanova. She was a tank. But the last thing I wanted to do was crush a small sailboat while her two owners looked on, terrified, from her deck.

  But luck was with me. I slowly powered us around, then the wind caught us and pushed us right up against the dock. Before we could even tie up, and well before a sense of relief overtook the adrenaline that still coursed through my veins, Heck and Samba leapt from the boat onto the dock. On more than one occasion, they had pulled this escape trick. I had much better visibility with the pilothouse doors open, but if I tied them up they'd become hysterically excited and yappy, which made concentrating completely impossible. So I left them loose, and though I kept netting across the gap in the railings, they sometimes leapt right from the side of the boat. It made me want to strangle them because the last thing I needed to think about was chasing those two down when I had a 30-ton boat to finish securing. But I tried to see it from their perspective: the sea was not their friend. They saw a chance and seized it. My advice: never make the mistake of getting dogs that are smarter than you are.

  A couple of bystanders grabbed my furry fugitives and the park ranger finally appeared to say we were welcome
to stay where we were for a few hours, but then we'd have to move. The new spot we were assigned was pretty easy to get to, so we untied and reberthed immediately, then hit the town.

  Ocracoke was hopping. The outermost of North Carolina's barrier islands, Ocracoke is only accessible by ferry or private plane, and its population swells from about 750 in the winter to more than 7,000 each summer. At one end of the island there's an adorable, historic village full of cafés and shops, but the main draw is the 16 miles of windswept Atlantic beaches, with plenty of room for both wild ponies and tourists. Despite a relaxed atmosphere that suggests time has passed it by, Ocracoke is under a lot of strain, and not just from the massive influx of visitors: the beaches are eroding at a rate of 10 feet per year and the small island would more or less disappear if hit by a large enough hurricane.

  But today, Ocracoke's worries are invisible: a raucous Fourth of July parade with a half-dozen floats had just made its way up the main street. Kids chased the end of the parade, honking horns, waving American flags and cheering. As I walked the dogs along the dock, an older boater who was sitting on the flybridge with his wife called out that I had done a beautiful job of docking. I was appreciative but admitted my anxiety about such a tight turn in that wind. Well, he said, it didn't show.

  When the dogs were back aboard, John and I decided to look for a fun place to celebrate. On the way up the sandy main street that runs along Silver Lake Harbor, we decided to stop at the beautiful British cemetery.

  Ocracoke's history dates back to 1500, when the Ocracoke Inlet was first used as the lane to Pamlico Sound and the North Carolina coast. But it has an interesting modern history, too. In 1942, American ships were busy patrolling the eastern seaboard, but only one American ship was sent to protect the southeast coast. Eager to defend important supplies bound for England through U.S. shipping lanes, Churchill sent a flotilla of antisubmarine craft. The HMS Bedfordshire was torpedoed by a German U-boat on May 11, 1942, and all hands were lost. The bodies of four British sailors washed up on the island, and the people of Ocracoke declared the land where they are buried to be British soil. Each year in May there is a ceremony to honor these dead, attended by officers of the British Royal Navy and the U.S. Coast Guard. The famous Rupert Brooke quote marks the spot: "If I should die think only this of me: that there is some corner of a foreign field that is forever England."

  The sound of Independence Day on the Outer Banks firecrackers exploding, kids yelling, horns honking-sucked us back to the present once again. We returned to Harbor Road, with its cute cottages and restaurants, in pursuit of a cold adult beverage.

  We decided to try the first waterside joint we stumbled across, where the Jolly Roger flapped in the soft breeze. The proprietor should have been keel-hauled for the bad crab cakes, but we had a great time relaxing with cold beers, and then crossed the sandy street to a little upstairs bar that had been furnished like somebody's idea of a living room in Tiki paradise. It was kitschy and cool, but it must have drawn a late night crowd because absolutely no one was there. We had a drink and chatted with the bartender, then tried a tropical-looking but dark bar that advertised a dozen shrimp for $3 at Happy Hour. As we sat with drinks and waited for our order,

  John braced himself against the bar with both arms and said, "Whoa. This is very weird, Mare. I can't stop the sensation that I'm rocking." I can testify that his sense of undulation was not at that time related to overindulgence. I'd heard of this happening to sailors before.

  I left John after a couple of iffy shrimp and started back to the boat, noting on my walk that what the town lacked in haute cuisine, it more than made up for in old-fashioned charm. Since it was almost dark, I took the dogs up to the park, and we sat on the grass to watch the Ocracoke fireworks display that their historical society sponsors each year. They were absolutely gorgeous. There were about six surges toward the end, each one worthy of being the grand finale, but every time I thought it was finally over, there would be yet another spectacular display. I wondered how a little town like this could fund such an extravaganza-it was one of the best pyrotechnic displays I'd ever seen, and I'd seen some George Plimpton-narrated Grucci Brother beauties. Maybe it was just the setting, but I had to give it to Ocracoke Island: they know how to celebrate the Fourth of July better than anywhere I'd ever been.

  The next morning, we got underway fairly early, but we couldn't get the computer to work once we'd left the dock. Loaded with digital charts and navigation software, it was our lifeline. And to make things worse, I soon discovered that this was the one portion of our trip for which I did not have a paper chart backup. It was not until after we'd arrived and were wandering through some T-shirt shops that I learned that the water off Ocracoke's coast is nicknamed the "Graveyard of the Atlantic." Over a thousand ships have sunk in the waters off North Carolina. In other words, there are better places to discover you don't have a nautical chart.

  The computer had been working fine before we left the dock, but nothing I did now could get the display working again. There was no choice but to turn around and go back. I wasn't going to risk running these treacherous waters without a chart. Hopefully, I'd be able to find one back in town. It was blisteringly hot outside and I noticed that John was looking a little green around the gills after his extended Fourth of July celebration. When we were once again tied to the dock, we walked up to the air-conditioned splendor of the nearby tourism office to use the soda machine and ask for some advice. The attendant looked doubtful but mentioned a few places that might carry charts. John went back to the boat, and I walked into town with my fingers crossed. I wistfully eyed a couple of $3 laminated placemats with maps of the island on them, but I was pretty sure that points marked "Here be treasure" and "Thar be sea monsters" were indications that these might not be accurate enough for navigational purposes. I wound up paying $45 for a paper chart that would be useless once we were 5 miles offshore, not to mention $30 cheaper anywhere else.

  Back at the boat, and already drenched in perspiration at 10:00 A.M., I fired up the engine again and for the heck of it tried rebooting the computer one more time. It worked, of course. I decided I could have a temper tantrum about wasted time and money or I could just be grateful that I had my software and charts back and wouldn't have to replace the whole shebang. I loved it when I talked some sense into myself. We were now ready to go and I asked John to prepare to cast off the bow line. I heard a groan.

  "Cap, I'm sorry. I don't think I can do it. I just threw up over the side. I was fine when we went out this morning, but when I got back aboard, everything started rocking again." John turned and heaved over the railing again just to drive his point home.

  I was disappointed, but there was no doubt in my mind we should stay. John was making this long trip for the sea time, without pay, and I knew he was getting more than he'd bargained for. The least I could do was wait for him to feel better. I was pretty sure that a massive hangover and the disgustingly hot day were adding to his rocking sensation, and I suggested he indulge himself in some creature comforts. I didn't have to ask twice. John promptly headed to a nearby hotel for air conditioning, ESPN and lots of Coca-Cola. The boys and I paid for another day at the dock (which was delightfully inexpensive!) and made the best of it with open portholes and multiple fans.

  The next morning, John showed up in excellent spirits and we set our course for Oregon Inlet, the next good place for us to get to the outside again. We were following the almost universal advice to run inside Cape Hatteras, not out-side, where the weather could be dangerously unpredictable.

  Oregon Inlet was at the northernmost end of Cape Hatteras, though, and seemed like a safe place for us to exit back into the Atlantic.

  Shortly after we were underway, we heard the Coast Guard broadcasting to all mariners to be alert for a man overboard. He'd gone over the side of a vessel called Wild Man, 37 miles southeast of the Oregon Inlet at approximately 0630 hours. All day long, we listened to the same information, repeated every half
hour or so. Our hearts sank as the day wore on and the search continued. When we tied up at 1800 hours, the Coast Guard was still broadcasting the same information.

  We motored in to Oregon Inlet Fishing Center as the sun was starting to sink. The entire marina was already full of big, beautiful sport fishers -a fleet of boats with tuna towers and fighting chairs, charter boats for those seeking big fish. They glistened in the tawny twilight, all lined up and tucked in for bed. We got the very last berth. When I took the dogs for a walk and glanced back at Bossanova in her slip, it was hard not to play "Which of these things is not like the other?"

  I'm not a big fan of sport fishers, but I had to admit these boats were sexy. Sleek and shiny, with a dramatic curve where the hull meets the deck known as a Carolina flare, each of them cost well over $1 million. The fishing center was where the entire charter fleet docked, about fifty boats, I'd guess, and where they sold their extra catch at the end of the day. We watched as local people pulled off to the side of the road and ran across to the dock. A man was bent over a large fish with a flashing blade and a small throng waited to pick up dinner. When he finished cutting, the crowd had dispersed and the entire fish had vanished in under three minutes, except for a slick of blood that was soon hosed off the dock.

  The next morning was beautiful, and John and I were dying to get back outside and make up for lost time. We'd spent the better part of a week in North Carolina and-no offense to the tarheels or their lovely state-we were sick of it. Some of the joy had gone out of the journey in the last week, but I realized later that, for me, the frustration was due to not being offshore or underway. There'd been too many days off, punctuated by the bad weather that forced us into the ICW. Today, we were rarin' to go and determined to leave North Carolina and our malaise in the Bossanova's wake.

  Yesterday's man overboard was still on our minds, and we monitored the VHF all day, hoping to hear some news. When we didn't, we decided that maybe it was a good sign-they'd stopped looking for him because he'd been found. But months later, as I read Soundings magazine on a Maine fall day, I saw a short item. The Coast Guard reported a man overboard off Oregon Inlet who was never recovered. I didn't really need to, but I checked the dates against my logbook. That was our guy It still made me sad.