Up at dawn for the 88-mile run from Belhaven to Coinjock, NC. Belhaven is a small stopover village. Coinjock is a long dock, a restaurant, and performance art as each successive cruiser docks.
We were in a line of northbound cruisers all day. Not exactly snowbirds. Migrating snow-whales? Snow-jellies drifting with the sun?
I called Sound Waves to arrange passage; they came back on 68, “Good morning, Irish Hurricane. How’s Katie today?” She was passed out on the bridge bench after a long day before. I waved them thanks for her new ball.
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Coinjock is the only ICW stop between Belhaven and Norfolk via the Albemarle & Chesapeake Canal. It’s crowded. Every boat is docked to accommodate those that follow. “Nuts to butts,” as they say in boot camp.
Our anchor loomed over Endless Summer’s stern. The polished chrome anchor of the sleek yacht behind us loomed over IH’s dingy. The docks were a symphony of dockhands, captains, wind, water, and crews handling lines as evening approached.
Katie and I hopped ashore. The dock buzzed with captains, crews, boats, and spectators at Coinjock’s iconic restaurant. It’s a local favorite, the only place for boaters to get a meal, and affords elbow-rubbing for everyone. Pete and I headed up for dinner once IH was secured.
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A flutter of teenage girls arrived for someone’s birthday. The young women wore summer dresses I also might try if I were 17. “They’re wearing the same thing,” Pete said, which was not true. Variations on a theme of sleeveless, short, pretty pastels. The birthday girl’s parents chaperoned. The old man sat at the head of the table beaming but misty-eyed.
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A swagged rope separates the dock and spectator promenade. Boat owners and operators walk one side admiring, querying, and chatting. Pete learned the sailboat we passed had been forced fifty miles offshore on Friday, when the Cape Fear River entrance stymied them with roiling current and wind.
Voyages are discussed. Boat cards exchanged. An unwritten departure order is generated as cruisers get a fix on each other’s experience, vessel maneuverability, cruising speed, and morning departure time. As with other human affairs, you know what you know pretty quickly.
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Everyone seemed wind-burned. The day had produced less wind than predicted but enough to take note. While at the helm, I remembered Christina Rosseti’s lines:
Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor you.
But when the leaves hang trembling, the wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I.
But when the trees bow down their heads, the wind is passing by.
It is a marvel that unseen things can exert such large effects. Force a boat offshore, fill sails and move it along. Wind, like a compass, is a low-tech phenomenon with huge implications.
Wind and water are fluids. They flow – over and around barriers, or unimpeded. They appear as negative space. E.g., a wind shadow appears downwind of a land or trees in a lee. Only the wind’s effect is visible.
Cat’s paws appear where wind riffles a patch of water as the wind picks up. As wind speed increases, friction does, too. Waves grow bigger to add resistance to the wind. High winds create stormy seas.
By the time we exited the Alligator-Pungo River Canal, the wind was gusting and had a long fetch spinning up windrows.
Windrows begin with Stokes Drift – downwind surface current. Stokes Drift leads to Langmuir Circulation under the water surface – vertical counter-rotating vortices. Langmuir cells cause upwelling: bubbles, flotsam, and nutrients collect where upwelling cells converge. The resulting lines of drift run parallel to the wind in long lines called windrows.
Even a small wind has an effect. A large wind can churn things below the surface which, as it turns out, is healthy for the water body. Redistributed nutrients and whatnot.
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The wind died considerably as IH approached the Alligator Swing Bridge yesterday. Its laconic tender radioed on 13, “Ah-rush Huacann, what’s yo Coas’ Gahd Numbah.”
I passed him our document number as I kept station into the wind, parallel with the windrows.
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The last boat to dock at Coinjock was the 72-foot Independence. She was afforded about 80 feet of space directly in front of the crowded restaurant patio. She is a beautiful Burger Yacht built in 1968. She pulled gracefully into her moorings near sunset, so close to the (also beautiful) yachts fore and aft that she drew applause from onlookers when her lines were over.
It was a beautiful thing to see. An exquisitely designed and built, classic and sturdy vessel driven by an obviously competent captain to a perfect landing. It gave me chills. Judging from the crowd’s reaction, I imagine I wasn’t alone.
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Irish Hurricane 