“I’m not going to hand-steer six thousand miles,” Pete said five years ago. Meaning, he wanted autohelm.
The installation required him to snake NEMA 2000 cables from rudders to bridge via small holes through inaccessible bulkheads. A lot of sailor mouth was involved. However, now Irish Hurricane can auto-steer a heading or course to make good, which are related but different things.
The autohelm is especially useful at high speeds, in heavy weather, and on long straightaways.
But the autohelm is only as good as its input, which means we’ll always be watchstanders, not bystanders. If I order it to steer across shoal water, IH will run aground. If I say make good a course that runs over a dock, someone’s property will be destroyed, including ours.
You still have to think.
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The ICW between Myrtle Beach and the Cape Fear River is a straight, slow, tedious run. The narrow channel is lined with houses and condos — and docks. It is one long no-wake zone broken by a rough inlet and swing bridge at Little River.
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I like the bridge because it’s old and pretty. I like the tender’s voice, which is soothing, patient, and kind. I envision a human when I hear her on the radio. A thinking person. Someone who’s not on auto.
Swing bridges pivot ninety degrees, often from the middle such that half of the bridge swings toward you and the other away. You need them opened if there’s not enough clearance beneath for your vessel to pass. If you’re too tall.
Charts show bridge clearances. Bridges post lower-tech but more reliable boards marked vertically in feet. If you can see, say, the number sixteen on the boards, the real-world water level gives you sixteen feet of clearance. Boards advertise verifiable facts. They can’t be hacked.
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The Little River Swing Bridge was already opening today when I sighted it, a mile away, at the other end of a no-wake zone. I assumed the tender would close her bridge before IH reached it. I’ve had to hold there before, against some powerful, eddying currents, which is not not hard so I called on the radio.
She radioed back in her sweet Southernese, “Irish Hurricane, I see you coming. I’ll keep the bridge open for you, take your time.”
Surely, she knew traffic was backing up. But I imagine she considered other factors.
The age of the bridge. Wear and tear. The fact of a viable alternate car route across the bridge. The current. The advisability of vessels holding against that current in such close proximity to other boats and docks.
When I was through the bridge, I radioed, “Irish Hurricane clear. Thank you so much.” I meant it.
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Which brings me back to autopilot. It’s a great convenience. But living requires thought. We cede something important when we travel on auto. Sure, I have something or someone to blame if everything heads south. But in the end, wasn’t I the one who ordered the course and adjusted the speed?
That’s the problem with auto-anything. Autopilot, autohelm, autocrat.
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Our Southport marina is two miles from the Cape Fear River and North Carolina’s Outer Banks. We left in sun. We arrived in sun, a 20-knot wind, and a half-knot ebb tide pushing. Now it’s dark and rainy.
Fingers crossed for Katie it’s nice again tomorrow. It looks like there’s even a beach here.
Irish Hurricane 