On deck for the second watch was a revelation. The inky blackness was replaced by a crystal clear sunny sky and moderating winds of 25 knots, but the swells had grown to 10 or 11 feet. We were now off Wildwood, NJ, and the skipper was chatting on the VHF with a large ocean tug who was drawing away about a mile from our bow.
I switched to the weather broadcast on the VHF; since gale warnings were still in effect we elected to leave the jib partially furled until we turned the corner into the Delaware Bay. In an optimistic bout of culinary inspiration I decided to make oatmeal for the crew. The stove once again was swinging like crazy on its gimbals but no one was scalded, as the kettle remained rock solid on the burner. I don't know why I found that so entertaining; must be because it was the only steady object on the boat.
We were much more comfortable sailing now, I suppose because of the daylight. Now we could actually see the bigger waves approaching, instead of being surprised by them as the boat suddenly rose skyward before falling back. Skipper reported that a couple of waves had broken over the cockpit in the night. This explained the salt encrusting all of the instruments, making it a bit of a challenge to make out the readouts....
A bird came to visit us in the morning. His name was Sparrow. And he refused to leave us alone the entire day. He was a smart one, that Sparrow. Every time someone came up the companion way he would hop over and try to get inside where it was nice and warm. Thwarted every time by our still-alert crew, he exacted revenge by crapping on most of us in turn. Matt was forlorn as Sparrow left us near an island in the Delaware; I think they had bonded. I celebrated by keeping the companionway hatch open.
We made the buoy marking the southern reach of the Cape May shoals by mid-morning, and turned north-west onto a broad reach to the north west up into the Delaware. Not a single vessel had been seen all night, save the Coast Guard intercept and the tug. We did, however, follow the tale of a sailor aboard a 28 foot mono-hull who had to be rescued 5 miles off Manasquan by helicopter around 0300 hrs; Rob and Theresa saw the chopper and listed to the unfolding drama on the radio on their watch). Now, however, there was some traffic to contend with in the wide channel leading to the Chesapeake & Delaware Canal. The channel was plenty wide with little risk of skinny water at the edges, until a gi-normous container ship closes from astern at 20 knots. I really wanted to be on the right side of the channel as per the Col-regs, but it didn't seem to make much sense to cut from our track on the left side and cross the bow of the ship just to make a pretty traffic pattern picture, so we stayed the course and studied the Danish vessel with binoculars and radar, willing him to not favor the left as he made his way up the channel. No sooner had we breathed a sigh of relief at his receding stern light when another strange structure was spotted a few miles off the bow. At first we thought it was a light house but 10 minutes elapsed and the lighthouse turned into a three story tug pulling a set of barges, heading toward us. Once again, the radar was useful, showing that it was a target in motion, and once again we remained on the left edge of the channel to give it as wide a berth as possible.
As night fell, we resumed helm duties at the entrance to the C&D canal. So calm on the canal compared to the wild ocean! But a new set of learning experiences soon were made. First, there were logs in the canal. Not sure why, or how, but there are basically telephone poles drifting in the wicked current. Matt's eagle eyes spotted the first one in enough time to take evasive action. As darkness grew our luck ran out and we struck the second one. The third one too, come to think of it. Oh well, we were still floating for the moment. The ebb tide empties toward the Chesapeake, and the boost we got from the current grew to 1.5 knots pretty quickly. We were flying through the night now. Around 2300 hrs, nearing Chesapeake City, all the sodium vapors lights along the canal edge merged with what seemed to be a low bridge ahead, and I asked Matt to throttle back until we could sort out where the heck we were going. At the Elk River, once out of the canal, the scene was similarly a bit confusing if you haven't sailed at night. The channel is well marked, but all off the red and green lights appear to be equidistant from our boat. Between the GPS, Debra's sense of direction and my sweating we managed to avoid running aground. Three hours into the watch we were counting the minutes until it was over; it was very cold, it was getting hard to stay awake, and we had run out of hot chocolate. In short, pretty miserable. But the experience of navigating the dark, desolate waters in the middle of the night was really a unique, zen-like experience, a memory that I won't soon forget.
Shortly before 0000 hrs we gratefully handed the watch over to Rob and Theresa. Seeing Rob checking the chart below a few minutes before watch hand-over was like seeing an oasis in a desert mirage, I was so happy. And I could tell that Rob was very glad to be sailing the utterly quiet Chesapeake at night, his home waters. There was very little wind or heel as we motor-sailed, and we were finally able to sleep for the complete 4 hours.
At 0430 we arrived in Annapolis in the dark and decided to motor around in circle for half an hour, attempting to find the slip that had been described as "between an Island Packet and a trawler". Yes, it was a fail. We grabbed a mooring ball, dropped the slimy pennant onto a bow cleat, and were asleep two minutes later, 32 hours and a lifetime after casting off at Atlantic Highlands.
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