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Shane
St. Clair's Voyage Through America
Shane
St. Clair somewhere on his "Voyage
Through America."
Note: Shane Started
his voyage in a Sea Pearl 21 named aptly enough... "Voyage
through America" on May 15, 1986. Six
months, over 5000 miles, and many adventures
later, he was back where he had started at
Marine Concepts in Tarpon Springs Florida.
Shane shared his adventures in the Small Boat
Journal issue #63 published in November of
1988.
Voyage Through America takes shape at
Marine Concepts
Seething black water folds over
the gunwale as I cut a white scar across a
wave. No stars, no moon in the midnight sky,
just clouds, and waves, and wind, lots of wind.
North Carolina's Beaufort Inlet, the next stop,
lies 30 miles ahead, the beach is 20 miles
to my left, and astern through the dashing
spray, I see a glowing pair of red "eyes!"
A
slight acceleration and feeling of weightlessness
as I drop down another swell, then an elevator
ride to the crest. The red eyes are gaining.
I shake my salt-caked hair and smile an idiotic
smile. Here I am, barreling down waves wing
and wing at 7 knots in a 500 pound sailboat
being chased by a "villain" with
red eyes 20 miles offshore at 1:30 in the morning.
Is this a movie? no, the cramping of my right
hand and the Atlantic trickling down my collar
lets me know it's very real.
I shine a flashlight on my sodden chart (It's
funny that the ocean looks so calm on paper).
Am I inside or outside the Naval restricted
zone? Whoosh! Another bend of the sea breaks
in my lap. The red eyes are closer. They're
square, possibly 20 feet in diameter, and
have black shutters across them. "Something
like a fly's eyes," I
think. My two-masted open boat pauses before
plunging two stories down, then with a splash,
shoots skyward. The red eyes have picked up
a hypnotic rolling motion.
I'm in the general
vicinity of Cape Hatteras in a region known
as the "Graveyard of
the Atlantic." With this cheery thought,
I again drop violently into the trough.
Finally,
my exhaustion-dulled brain puts two and two
together: I must be in the Naval restricted
zone and the red eyes are a surveillance ship.
Logical, but why are they following me? Are
they trying to catch me or just watch me? Do
they think I am a Russian attack boat? Unlikely,
for though I have all the stealth in the world,
my fire power is extremely limited. they are
probably wondering what a kid in a dory is
doing sneaking past their zone in a 40 knot
blow! It's funny that I am wondering the same
thing. So under the watchful eye of the United
States Navy, I sheet the mizzen hard, head
into the wind, and collapse below for a nap.
At
the false dawn, I awake and the only red eyes
around are my own. I munch a cold pop tart
and resume my dance with the sea. Two hours
later, I hit a shark with my leeboard, then
cut right down a wave to avoid detection. The
ploy works, and the last I see of Mr. Shark
he is swimming in circles looking for his adversary.
At 9:30 AM, the beach is a 1/4 mile to my left;
I scan earnestly ahead for the inlet. At 10:30,
I see it. Foolishly, I lay a course straight
for the entrance. Fifteen minutes later, a
wave larger than the rest rears skyward. As
it starts to break, I shove the tiller leeward
and aim up its face. Tons of water roll down
my side decks and slide me almost out of the
boat. I quickly clear the cockpit and furl
the mainsail. With the mizzen, I gently sail
over the shoal and through the pass backwards,
limping into Beaufort.
A week of good food,
warm weather, and pretty girls heals my failing
courage sufficiently for me to continue, but
I resolve to stick to the sounds and bays rather
than head offshore. All this took place just
one-quarter of the way along my "Voyage
Through America." In
early 1986, I was looking at an atlas dreaming
of all the places in the world I'd love to
sail. The Great Barrier Reef caught my eye
as did Norway and Thailand. Then I thought
to myself, "You really should see the
country you're from before you venture around
the world," and I turned to the map of
America. I'd already sailed and enjoyed the
West Coast, so my eyes scanned the East. "Coral
reefs in Florida, pine-topped islands up North.
Wouldn't it be neat to see it all?" And
a month later I was.
Marine Concepts of Tarpon
Springs, Florida, provided me with a Sea Pearl
21, which is a cross between a whale boat and
a dory. (see SBJ #26 and 45) With only a 6
inch draft, it was ideal for this cruise up
the East Coast, across the Great Lakes, and
down the Mississippi to my starting point in
Florida. I named the boat Voyage through America,
appropriately enough.
"Shake Down Cruise for
Voyage;
A hero's send off."
A few weeks after my surreal
encounter with the Navy, I was sailing up New
York's Hudson River. I'd been on the Intracoastal
Waterway about half the voyage; now I was headed
inland. The changes were quick and dramatic.
It was only mid-August, but already the nights
became colder and the scenery more spectacular
- The Palisades, West Point, the first McDonald's
with a dock, an island with a castle - all
that happened in the first two days on the
Hudson.
On my third day, I hung a left at Albany
and ascended the first flight of locks into the
Erie Canal. Though old and in need of repair,
the locks were easy enough to navigate, but
I was very glad to have an outboard to propel
me quickly through the canal.
"Canada Bound"
Leaving Oswego, New York for the northern
shore of Lake Ontario, I began my first open
water passage since entering the Hudson. I
soon discovered a major advantage to freshwater
sailing. Crashing to windward in a 25 knot
breeze, I slipped on a pair of sunglasses as
the sun began breaking through the clouds.
Sailing to windward on the ocean usually encrusted
my glasses blindingly with salt in about 30
seconds. Today, however, each splash just made
them cleaner. I even thought it had healed
my slight nearsightedness when I saw Main Duck
Island about an hour ahead of schedule. My
unballasted cat-ketch had averaged over 6 knots
close hauled on the 30 mile passage!
It was
early afternoon as I rounded the eastern point
of the island and headed for the 20 foot wide
harbor entrance. Any boat with more than a
foot of draft must line the ranges up carefully
and proceed with caution. I learned later that
I caused quite a stir when I barreled in at
7 knots and kicked the anchor over the side
in 11 inches of water. The gracious Canadians
quickly recovered, though, and welcomed me
to their soil with excellent company, a delicious
supper, and a barrage of questions about my
trip.
The next 500 miles of Canadian cruising
was my favorite leg of the trip. Over half
was on the peaceful Trent-Severn Canal traversing
the spur of southern Ontario, and then 200
miles among the myriad islands of Georgian
Bay.
On the canal, my mornings started with
a quick breakfast aboard or ashore; then I'd
start the outboard for a day of sight-seeing.
Cows grazing on riverside fields, homes built
on islands in crystal clear lakes, early morning
sunlight dancing on the capillary waves. It
is truly the best way to experience the rhythm
of a place - slow enough to see it, fast enough
to always be seeing something new.
"Island Paradise"
It took me a week to wind through
the canal, and on September 4, I sailed out
into Georgian Bay. It is said that 30,000 islands
dot this200 mile cruising paradise - an average
of 150 islands per mile! Big ones, little ones,
some inhabited, most just waiting to be explored.
The island are of glacier scarred granite,
many with trees growing out of cracks in the
rocks. Some have beautiful grassy meadows and
almost all have a natural harbor for a shallow
draft craft.
On my first day sailing the Bay,
the wind was cold on the nose and after beating
about 4 miles from Port Severn, I decided to
pull over for a break. Most of the islands
are unnamed and as I sailed close to one, a
natural breakwater with a shallow cove came
into view. I eased the main and threaded the
7 foot wide entrance with inches to spare.
One hundred feet from shore, I tossed my anchor
astern, gradually applied tension to slow progress,
and cleated the line 2 feet before colliding
with the island. I quickly ran forward, grabbed
the painter, jumped the 2 feet to land, and
tied up to a young tree. A glance around showed
that "my" island
was uninhabited, so I claimed it for the day.
The
lush vegetation blocked the wind, making it
a very still and peaceful harbor. After setting
my sleeping bag out to air, I went for ashore
for a hike. I walked over the large boulder
beach and then headed through the inland trees.
After walking about 700 feet, I turned around.
Panic hit me. Though I had walked only a short
distance, the dense forest had perfectly hidden
any clue as to the way back. Every direction
looked the same, and thoughts of wandering
aimlessly for days trying to find Voyage flashed
through my mind. Carefully, I retraced my supposed
route, and just when I was about to give up
and try a different direction, I spied my footprint
in the mud. My heart relaxed. Another couple
of minutes saw me safely back "home."
Silently promising never to go wandering without
my compass again, I set about making a fire,
drying my belongings, and warming my bones.
After it was burning, I sat back and enjoyed
my surroundings - the clouds rushing by overhead,
the trees sprouting out of the bare rock, my
boat gently pulling on its tether, birds whistling
on branches, my jeans drying by the crackling
fire. As I looked across the channel, I saw
15 other islands beckoning to be explored. "I'm
going to like this place," I thought with
a smile.
Canada has blasted a 6-foot deep "inland
passage" through the bay, and the next
few days saw me weaving in and out of the channel
past hundreds of islands and a few small towns.
Every 50 or so miles there is a major town
with a grocery store and a restaurant. Many
people own little vacation houses on some of
the islands, so good company is usually available.
The Canadian government has also put in small
docks and rest areas about every 30 miles,
making island cruising convenient even for
large boats. Usually, I picked harbors a bit
off the channel to spend the night and would
anchor astern and tie to a tree as I had on
the first island I stopped at.
The voyage's
most memorable day's run was from San Souci
to Parry Sound. A young Canadian lady had joined
me for a bit of island hopping up to Killarney,
and with the wind dead astern, I knew we were
in for an exciting passage. We left about 9
AM and quickly found the narrow tree lined
channel. The wind was puffing at 25 knots,
but with so many islands closeby, the water
was virtually flat. We played tag with the
channel, sometimes in it, more often taking "short
cuts" through
narrow island passages. At times, we sailed
so close to shore that our mainsail ruffled
the branches. For three hours, we sliced first
in front then behind boulders and islands;
all the while the channel funneled the wind
in the direction we were going, and the bent
evergreens pointed the way.
I had been watching
the chart, but somehow I missed the biggest
surprise of the passage. We were driving hard
full sail wing-and-wing,and had just banked
around a tight turn, when a bridge with a 15
foot clearance came into sight. Both masts
on the Sea Pearl are 20 feet tall, and a vision
of permanently reduced sail area caused me
to halt our progress with more suddenness than
grace. I quickly got her hove to, furled the
sails, and dropped the masts. With a good 50
feet to spare, I started the motor and headed
into town.
Parry Sound is a comparatively large
town with many stores and restaurants, but
after spending a day and night enjoying civilization,
we headed out for more wilderness.
Canoe Channel
is a half mile long passage between the mainland
and Squaw Island. The problem is that in places
it's only 20 feet wide, limiting access only
to boats under 40 feet. Since my "yacht" was
really just an overgrown canoe, we shot through
without a hitch. As we made the last turn,
the wind fell on the beam, the sails were unfurled,
and we had a comfortable reach up Shawanaga
Inlet. Amid this unimaginable plenitude of
anchorages, I believe the most beautiful was
the circular cove on the northwestern tip of
Shawanaga Island. The entrance was so shallow
that I had to raise the rudder and paddle in,
but once inside, the landlocked haven with
fall colors mixed with evergreens seemed like
nothing less than Heaven on Earth.
It was almost
Too perfect, Too quiet. A slight breeze was
blowing, but the trees were silent. Not even
the birds made a sound. Then a large animal
charged past in the underbrush. The spell was
broken. The water lapped at the rocks, the
birds sang in the trees, and even the boat
made its familiar noises. Had I disrupted its
home (whatever "it" was?)
All night I expected a bear to jump aboard,
but in the morning, I convinced myself it
was probably a beaver trying to frighten
me. It worked. I left at dawn.
I ghosted down
Middle Channel and through the narrows. As
I passed Armstrong Rocks, the wind hit and
it didn't stop for three days.
The first day,
it was almost favorable, but the offshore
leg from Meneilly Island to Byng Inlet at
times became a little intense. As I was making
the dogleg at Raft Island, a quick jibe and
a gust put my unballasted craft on its beam
ends. Quickly, I eased the main, but over
5 gallons of the bay came aboard. The next
day's course was dead to windward, so I motored.
Literally thousands of islands lay within easy
reach. There were some particularly intriguing
ones past Rogers Cut that someday I'll explore
more thoroughly. But it was late September
and the thought of being frozen in the winter
ice pressed me on.
My last morning on Georgian
Bay, a cold polar wind kept urging me back
to the thousands of islands left unexplored.
Ignoring its siren's call ( and my outboard's
racket), we made it to Killarney at 7:30 that
evening.
Beverstone Bay, 20 miles
from Killarney, was about a mile away, and
I was looking forward to its protected waters
after a rough open crossing. The passage
is rather tortuous, with several quick turns,
exposed rocks, and worse, unexposed rocks.
It was windy and cold as I entered the passage,
and as I looked ahead, I saw a large powerboat
that appeared to be anchored a little off
the channel. As I drew closer, I realized
it was lying broadside to the wind, and rather
than bobbing up and down, it was as stationary
as a stone! I approached even closer and
noticed several rocks barely awash directly
behind and beside it. I realized then that
it is a lot more dangerous to miss your turn
here than on the freeway. Later, I head the
story of what had happened.
The yacht in question,
a 38 foot Hatteras, had approached the entrance
just as the sun was setting. Either through
a miss sighted or misplaced buoy, the skipper
had wandered off the channel. He had turned
back toward the channel when he realized
his mistake, but moments later had collided
with a submerged boulder. The strut collapsed,
and the prop cut a neat 18 inch hole in the
hull. Within seconds, the boat came to rest
on the rock garden.
As I tied up at Killarney
that night, it occurred to me that every
paradise has its serpent. Georgian Bay's
is the many islands that lie below the water's
surface. Still, it keeps navigation interesting,
and the hidden hazards often form private,
protected coves, concealed treasures for
shallow draft boats. That's why I found Georgian
Bay's 30,000 island paradise the most inspiring
section of my voyage through America.
Almost
home in Panama City Florida.
"Epilogue"
Winter
was fast approaching as I left Canada
for a quick passage down Lake Michigan, Fall
flooding had raised the water level of both
the Illinois and Mississippi Rivers, which
increased the current in places to 10 knots!
Fortunately, it was going my way, which helped
me get back to the warm South in no time. I
used the Tennessee-Tombigbee waterway to get
to Mobile Bay and, 6 months and 7 days after
I began, I slid back up on the only familiar
beach on the trip. "5,000 miles is a long
way to go just to get back" someone joked
from the beach. "It's true," I nodded, "but
you should see what's out there!"
Shane St. Clair - 1988
Marine Concepts , 243 Anclote Road, Tarpon Springs, FL 34689, 800.881.1525
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"Small
is Intense"
It's amazing how little one actually needs
to live on boat for months at a time. The
important thing is to get out there and actually
do some camp cruising. You'll soon discover
that Henry David Thoreau's advice is still
the best for planning and making a successful
voyage - "simplify, simplify, simplify."
My standard gear consisted of five changes
of clothes (two nice shirts to avoid looking
like a bum), one foul weather suit, a Polarguardsleeping
bag and foam pad, a hand bearing compass,
a one burner stove, one pan, a small anchor
(my Bruce worked well), a small light (I
used an "ultralight" backpacker's
lantern), a couple of buckets, binoculars, lots of
books ( I carried everything from the Bible to Kon
Tiki), my camera, a toothbrush, and a bottle of Joy
(great for shampooing, dishwashing, and hull cleaning).
Food was never a problem. I carried a two week supply
of bread, cheese, V8 juice, Poptarts, spaghetti, and
donuts. Fortunately, there are plenty of restaurants,
and I made lots of friends along the way, so I usually
had a full-course dinner three to four times a week.
When I ran low on provisions, I just sailed into a
town to stock up.
Regarding finances: It cost me just under $2000 for
food, fuel, and dockage for the entire 6 month voyage.
(Much cheaper than living on land). Nothing broke on
the trip! But if it had, repairs are always cheap on
simple boats. In choosing a cruising boat, I'd get
the BEST boat you can afford, rather than the biggest.
An unsinkable and self-rescuing 16 footer would be
a better value than a 30 footer, especially since the
16 footer is easier to transport and can get to many
more secluded places.
Many people think it's such a hardship to travel by
small boat. It's true. At times it is miserable, but
the smaller the boat, the more intense the experience,
both good and bad. If the popularity of adventure films
and roller coasters is any indication, I'd say people
are looking for a little excitement, and small boat
voyaging provides it in its purest form. |