5/19/2025 Wrong Turn

The day started at 0520. Katie needed to go ashore. Pete and I wanted to reach the Onslow Bridge before the 0700 opening. The anchorage was quiet when we dinghied to the Mile Hammock boat ramp, where we found friends on the same mission.

Katie ran around for a few minutes. We all caught up. Back aboard, I hauled up a very muddy anchor after Pete stowed the dinghy. We got underway with three other boats. By 0710 we were all through the bridge.

The day was windy and cooler. The waterway empty. I passed one slow-wake zone, a boat ramp where one guy was fishing. After Pete relieved the helm, I lay below to work on an essay-in-progress.

*

About four miles before we reached Beaufort and Homer Smith Marina, Pete asked me to take the helm for a few minutes. “You good?” he said, meaning, “Do you know where we are and where you’re going?”

“I’m good,” I said. IH has been through here three times. I knew where we were headed and thought he’d be back quickly. I looked around.

A big, fast boat and slower sailboat were off our starboard quarter. All of us were heading for the Carolina Coastal Railroad/ Highway 70 Bridge passage. We sorted ourselves by relative speed and the Rules and went through one at a time.

As I slid through the bridge, I turned to the chart displays. I knew the marina channel would be a starboard turn. But Beaufort is thick with buoys marking different channels and obstructions so I looked to the chart plotters for assurance.

The two ipads we navigate with run different programs. When I glanced down, I saw the courses they suggested did not match. The program we prefer to use sent me left into the ICW. The magenta line, which we trust less, sent me to the right. I agreed with the less-trusted program’s course, but balked.

Suddenly, I was in an unanticipated and not good situation. One second, I was certain of my position. The next, I saw nothing but a chaotic buoy mishmash in every direction with conflicting guidance on the charts.

The sailboat I’d preceded through the bridge was astern. A tug appeared from an industrial channel on our port quarter. Tidal current rippled over shallows all around.

*

It’s not easy for me to admit I’m lost. Not easy for any of us, I imagine. But admitting you are is the first step to getting back on track. I picked a channel — it wasn’t the correct one, but it was the one I was already in, wouldn’t confuse the sailboat or tug, and wouldn’t run us aground.

When it was possible, I slowed down to get my bearings. It didn’t take long to figure things out though by then Pete had taken back the helm. As quickly as it had turned bad, all was well. We were docked ten minutes later.

*

Shouldn’t I always know exactly where I’m at and the correct way to proceed? Should I admit I was tired, had my mind elsewhere, and relieved the helm at a bad spot? IH was in the middle of a turn, in a busy harbor, aiming for a bridge where, just beyond, lay a tugboat terminal and one channel split in two.

But it seems obvious that none of us are 100% all the time. The trick is to know when and how to admit you’re lost. Without that skill, you’ll never recover your situational awareness or begin to remedy the situation you find yourself in.

Own it, as they say. If I hadn’t owned it quickly, Pete and I might be dealing with serious consequences about now. Things not so easily reviewed and reversed.

As well, in owning our mistakes, we get to own the things we did right.

I used my head. Correctly assessed what was happening. I kept IH out of danger and did not put other vessels into danger. I didn’t react; I responded. I got help from Pete, whose experience is so much deeper than my own. What takes me ten seconds to figure out will take him a tenth of a single second.

I believe we were lucky, too. There’s always that X factor.

*

Both of us were glad to reach the dock early. We napped this afternoon before dinner and a walk along Beaufort’s historic waterfront. It’s a sleepy town on a shoulder season weeknight after hours.

Sleepy except for one of us. Katie always stands ready with her ball, hoping for a fellow traveler to see her at the back window and take her ashore for one more game of fetch before the sun goes down.