No stars were visible in the overcast sky. Two a.m. found my husband, John, and I on our sailboat trying to keep each other awake as we motored back and forth on the small Louisiana bayou. This was not the adventure we’d envisioned when we bade farewell to our home of many years in Vancouver. Where were the turquoise waters, the waving palms? We didn’t know they’d come later in our five-year sailing adventure.
Back to the beginning: retirement. The nest empty, we were going sailing. We had sailed on the Columbia River for a decade, took the sailing classes and lived vicariously through others’ experiences as we devoured boating books and magazines. Now it was our turn. We sold our belongings, said our goodbyes and headed down the road in our packed-to-the-gills Honda Civic. First I pulled out the tissue box; then I selected a doo-wop CD, gave John the thumbs-up and said, “Honey, we’ve done it!”
We were beginning our retirement adventure, alone together. We were on our way.
We found our Pacific Rose, a 38-foot Beneteau, in Texas. After outfitting and upgrading her from a weekend retreat to a live-aboard cruising vessel, we crossed the Galveston Bay’s shipping lanes. We knew not what lay ahead but welcomed the challenges as we stretched and grew into a new life chapter.
Overnight anchoring is not allowed on the Gulf Intracoastal Waterway, or the “Ditch,” which we were traversing to Florida. We had charts for the Waterway, and we were using an anchoring guidebook for the winding Louisiana bayous that flow into it.
Having dropped the hook in a suggested site, we sat in the cockpit and watched the sun sink below the horizon. Lulled by the gently rolling action as the water lapped into the nearby marsh, we fell into our established nightly routine, clearing supper things in the salon and reviewing the next day’s travel plans. It was then our peace was suddenly shattered.
We heard the loud engine of a large boat bearing down. John charged up the companionway into the glare from a towboat and barge only a feet away from our boat’s hull. He quickly returned to the navigation station and radioed to the towboat captain.
The captain replied that we’d anchored in a dangerous place on the river bend. He warned that other towboats with barges would be navigating the bayou that night, coming from an upstream salt distribution center. After he passed we were faced with having to find another anchorage in the dark, with only the aid of our spotlight to sight navigation markers. John pulled anchor while I handled the wheel. Carefully following our instrument depth readings as the bottom shoaled toward the marsh, we feared running aground. Yellow alligator eyes peering from the marshes added to our tension.
We ran aground. While I used the radio to transmit our location to any craft in the area, John revved the engine, rocking Pacific Rose in an attempt to loosen her from the Louisiana ooze. Ultimately he was successful. We slowly motored up the bayou.
Eventually a distant light indicated the salt distribution dock. Loading activity prevented our tying up and occasional barge traffic prevented our anchoring. Continuing, we found enough depth in the narrowing, shallowing bayou to motor back and forth across a small area. Taking turns at the wheel, we calculated that each lap took 20 minutes. Without a safe place to stop, we had to keep motoring around all night, watching out for other vessels. About midnight, Captain John teasingly muttered, “Are we having fun yet?”
Under the dark sky bereft of stars, 2 a.m. found us drinking tea to stay awake and huddling under a blanket to keep warm as we completed each circuit on the small Louisiana bayou. Barge loading noise, cold and lack of sleep proved stressful — yet were part of the balance in our adventure. That night comprised some of the longest of our cruising hours.
As the welcome daylight dawned, our attitude slowly brightened. We retraced our wanderings and made our way up the Delcambre bayou to the town of the same name. With guidance from the friendly Cajun dock master where we refueled, we were soon nestled at the public docks amid the shrimp fleet, one of the most productive in the country. (This was before the BP oil spill.) The pungent smell of the fish and the loud cries of the birds did not keep us from a long, sound sleep.
Our cruising years enriched us with many memories. This is but one.
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