Our sailing vessel, AT EASE, sits at anchor in the Ohio River, tucked under a high, two-stage bank on our starboard side. Along this bank, Cloverport, Kentucky is visible, perched high with a million dollar view of the Ohio as it makes its way to the sea. Immediately on our beam is a small park, on both the upper and lower levels of the bank. Our boat, the only boat, lying so visible here at anchor, has drawn some local interest. With so few marine facilities and with accessibility so difficult across the rip rap and clutter along the shore, I think visiting boats are relatively rare. I think visiting sailboats must be even more a novelty. Cars stop along the upper roadside, some driving down the boat ramp to move closer to AT EASE. Some people walk out to the observation deck, others stroll along the riverfront walk. A small boy, riding a bike, chased by his black puppy, stops to ask where we have come from, then, puzzlement evident, he asks, "Why did you come here?". A few folks say hello… we look forward to more.

Here, on the site once occupied by my grandfather's blacksmith shop, the town has emplaced a memorial to those killed in the four wars of the last century, and has also developed the park as the central location of their annual Sacagawea Festival, I assume commemorating the passing of Lewis and Clark by this site, but this surely would have been well before the fabled maid joined their gallant band.

Cloverport is an old community, dating to the 1700's, and has had its moments of fame. It was a major port, shipping high quality "Coal Oil" down the river and for export well before the petroleum industry evolved. It was once the site of a major railroad repair facility and turntable, a relatively large complex of rails and workshops located in numerous buildings.

Cloverport also has some fame in that the Lincoln family, while moving from their Kentucky home to Illinois, passed through here; actually the old toll road passed over what is now my father's farm and traces, and an old bridge site, are still evident. Local oral history has it that the family paused in Hardinsburg, just east of here, while the father recovered from illness or fatigue or both. The destitute family was allowed to stay in an empty cabin there, and a beef was donated to feed the hungry family. When recovered, they traveled on down the toll road to Cloverport. Here they boarded a raft ferry and were poled and drifted across to Indiana.

Later, after the railroad abandoned their cluster of buildings, a local industry making buttons from river mussels had its moment of success before mother of pearl buttons lost their commercial luster. A canning enterprise occupied the site, perhaps contemporaneous with the button industry, but it ended in abandonment as well. The abandoned buildings were a playground for the city's children when I was growing up. Piles of perforated mussel shells and heaps of rusted can tops of various sizes littered the complex. The razor sharp can tops, if handled gingerly, could be skimmed, sailed, for incredible distances. When thrown, they would curve gracefully, climbing and swooping as the air struck from different angles and on different surfaces, a primitive Frisbee with the added feature of being weapon-like with its sharp leading edge. Children also had the delightful opportunity to throw rocks at the relatively few remaining windows in the abandoned complex. How delicious to do something so clearly forbidden in any other setting.

In the heat of summer, walking back from the complex/playground, we passed the community's ice house with an unfailing, exhilarating blast of cold air coming from its open loading ramp. By hanging around, we could rescue shards of ice broken from the large blocks as workers loaded the blocks with their great, scissoring tongs. Trucks then departed for local, daily deliveries to the remaining homes with ice boxes that had not yet been replaced with refrigerators. Children lingered or left, but always with dirty hands holding slivers of crystal clear ice to be sucked and savored, a treat all the more appreciated for being free to the taker.

Now, Cloverport has faded as a commercial enterprise, in spite of having had such a firm grasp on two of the three major transportation modalities as the country grew. A new highway, bypassing the city's downtown, has further isolated the community from enterprise. Instead, the city has continued as a bedroom community with many multigenerational families in evidence, all with a fierce loyalty to the city. A newly constructed walking trail wends its way along the river, below the historic district, with its older brick commercial buildings, some having been restored with the assistance of grants. A line of stately homes, certainly dating to the early 1900's or earlier, perhaps survivors of the massive 1902 fire that destroyed the city, looks down on the river from a commanding height. Working residents travel up and down the industrialized river basin to find employment in an aluminum plant, paper mills and power plants. Retired families abound… and the young look to leave, some to return but many to seek fortune elsewhere. It is the fate of so many small southern towns.

At night, downtown, few lights announce open businesses. Groups of adolescents "hang out" along the main street, desperate to be entertained and determined to avoid going home while the possibility of something happening still exists in the waning evening. Left on their own, boys and girls turn to each other to seek something… excitement… from what must seem empty now.

I remember that feeling, but we had a movie and we had Tom's (Tom Carter's), an absolutely classic 1930's or earlier soda fountain with marble counters and tables and twisted wire chairs and real soda drinks. Cokes, a nickel each, were still made from syrup and carbonated water. There, surprisingly well behaved adolescents could meet and linger, and push our collectively few nickels into the garish juke box and hear the very beginnings of rock and roll. We weren't driven into the streets, and into desperate fear that nothing exciting was going to happen, until Tom's finally closed each evening. Finally, fatigue and failure drove us home to look forward to the next time, the next evening, when adventure may very well strike.

I wonder now, how these children, these adolescents, see their future? There was a clear sense of one's future in my childhood. One could look forward to graduating and going to work at Murray Tile, the only real employer of note in the community, maybe the area, or, in this Cold War era, going into the service. Some kids went to college, but they were few and they seemed so different. We debated which of the services was best, listened eagerly as our elders, those kids just years older, returned from one service or another to spin yarns of difficult times or wondrous adventures. I knew that's how I would leave Cloverport… I was to be a Marine.

And leave I did. It's now been 42 years since I left. In those 42 years of experiences, I've traveled far and changed many times, and in many ways. Yet, here I am in Cloverport, trying to answer a small boy's question. "Why did you come here?" I think I know why.

I look at the town and, in my mind's eye, I see that Cloverport of the 1950's, and the very early 1960's. I see that youth that gradually became me, and I see the town that is now, and we both have aged, neither terribly nor gracefully, just aged. Yet, there is a sense here of history, including my personal history, and continuity. Coming here, a visit home, produces a feeling not of closure, not an ending, but a perspective on the intervening years that somehow satisfies and, in its own way, renews.

I tell the boy, "This is where I grew up… some."

Off again, before 0700, on to a river with less fog but still with a chill in the air. We had a call from shore, one of the riverside homes, from a former sailor who just wanted to tell us how good we looked moving up the river. Rounding yet another bend, we moved past an early Sunday morning Owensboro, past its numerous barge facilities and its several riverside parks and boat ramps, even past one marina where we visually searched in vain for diesel pumps, and on upstream toward Hawesville, KY. I had arranged to pick up my father and brother Wayne there, at an old ferry ramp, so they could accompany us through the last lock and on the last 14 miles to our destination, Cloverport, the home town of childhood.

We passed Rockport, IN with its new, futuristic suspension bridge, passed the several power plants pumping smoke into the sky. The sunny, hazy morning deteriorated by noon into an overcast but not threatening sky. The river was broad, sweeping past small riverfront communities left and right, and past tow traffic with comfortably wide margins. The current, typically about 1.5 kts, increased through the morning until we were seeing up to 3 kts. Obviously the dam above was dumping water. We understand in anticipation of the surge moving down from the east, from hurricane Isabel.

At Hawesville, I could see my brother, then my father moving down to the water's edge. We anchored and I rowed the dinghy the short distance ashore to pick them up and we moved off to lock through Cannelton Lock and Dam. In the lock, a small runabout had several couples aboard. He motored up to chat with us, making no effort to secure his boat. I asked "Are you going to lock through without tying up?" He answered, "I work here." There are rules… and there are rules.

By 1600 we had arrived off of Cloverport, surveyed the available options, and anchored alongside the riverfront, just upstream from the city's boat ramp, in about 25' of water and about 30' offshore. With the current, we are held firmly in position. There are reports of an 11 ft rise in the next week, all secondary to Isabel. I let out plenty of scope.

The anchor will hold. I've seen it perform too well in stormy conditions with worse holding ground. There is the additional worry over debris, big stuff, trees and such, that might come downstream with higher water. Just one more thing to make life exciting.

09/20/03

On the way by 0630 and another chilly morning with surface fog up to something like 10-12'. I had the radar going, the better to see them, and had all running lights on, including the tricolor light at my masthead, the better for them to see me, and began moving north into the approaches to Mount Vernon, IN. This may be a nice city but from our view it is a very busy commercial port with barge loading facilities, small yard tugs moving barges about, and rafts of barges parked here and there. All this provides lots of metal for the radar to bounce off of, and bounce it did, creating "ghost" or false echoes at short ranges. I had blotches of black, indicating contacts, all over the screen, filling the channel dead ahead and within a quarter mile. I stopped the boat and, in the absence of a better idea, began moving laterally to the extreme starboard side of the marked channel. Then, some 100 yards away, I could see the white superstructure, the 20' high bridge, of a yard tug moving without a barge down the channel on some unknown mission. The hull emerged… on he went… and so did I, but a bit slower and more cautiously if that were possible. Within the hour, the fog had lifted and we were past Mt Vernon's busy waters and back on the largely empty and brown Ohio.

By mid day, making excellent time, we had passed Henderson, KY and Evansville, IN, more industrial waterfront with one barge facility after another, past the brief glimpse of downtown Evansville with its pretend riverboat casino and its very prominent, multi-storied "Fifth Third Bank" building. Now there must be a story behind that.

Then we arrived at Newburgh Lock and Dam and progress halted. Told initially we would have a two hour wait, we moved out of the channel and anchored. Three tows with large barge rafts were "parked" against the bank with engines running. More were above the dam waiting and more coming. Only one of the two locks was operating and they were having trouble with the main (longest) lock in the one that was functional. We waited. By 1900, with the sun gone, we had eaten dinner and were trying to decide whether we would run at night to make up for the lost time. By 2000, just as the remaining tow on our side was locking through, the radio announced two more tows moving north and approaching our location. I called the lockmaster to tell them we would remain overnight and pass in the morning.

"Your decision", he said, "but I intended to put you through the next cycle and have the tows wait." How nice… what an opportunity… we'll take it. We got the anchor up, turned on all our running and steaming lights, lit off all our electronics and moved out into the river. One tow was coming upstream. One was ahead of us slowly closing on the lock. Just beyond the dam, a large power plant pumped smoke into the air and lit up the world with a vast array of lights. Along the shore near the lock, houses had on the typical lights of evening, along with riverfront patio lights, multi-hued and competing with the more mundane. In all, it was a confusing mass of lights, bright and dim, some moving and sounding warnings, some fixed, but all demanding attention.

The radio was busy, short announcements from tows, front the lockmaster, as everyone maneuvered below the dam. At the lockmasters instructions, I moved up to overtake the leading tow, telling him on the radio I was overtaking "on the two whistle", meaning from his port (my starboard) side. He acknowledged tersely and on I went. I was 15' off the bank to my right, 20' from the tow and approaching that mass of concrete whose gates were just opening. The tow to my right stopped and I moved down the long holding wall and into the lock, the doors moving shut immediately after I passed. The chamber was dimly but adequately lighted and we hurriedly secured AT EASE. As the lock was filling, workmen were welding on one of the upstream gates. The lockmaster instructed "As soon as we hit the top I'll open only one gate… when you think you have enough room to exit, just go ahead… don't wait for my horn. Just leave when you think you can." He was in a hurry. At 2100, I blasted out the one gate, breathed a deep sigh of relief, and we moved out into the upper impoundment, empty of other boat traffic but still a very cluttered picture because of all the waterside structure and the innumerable lights of the power plant. It seemed like miles before we had the dark night to ourselves and could settle down.

We were heading for Hurricane Island at mile 762, just short of Owensboro, KY. To get there we had to round the two French Islands, big and small, then Ellis Island which pushed well into the channel and created among the narrowest chokes of the river. Of course there, in the midst of that choke, even before we could make out the dark shape, we saw the red-blinking orange-green and white light pattern of an approaching tow with barges. We quickly exchanged radio calls announcing intentions and I passed down his port side (a "one whistle" meeting). Nothing to it… apart from the thumping heart and feeling of relief.

Winston Churchill once said something like "There is nothing quite so exhilarating as to be shot at and missed." He may have been wrong. There may be something quite like it, indeed.

Anchoring that night under Hurricane Island, just at 2300, was just routine.

09/19/03

Brrrr! The outside temp this morning was in the 50's. A cold front was forecast and the leading edge had certainly arrived leaving a low, gray and threatening sky and uncomfortably chilly air.

We hoisted anchor and got underway by 0700, motoring upstream in a flow of traffic made up largely of bass boats with a tow here and there and apparently a local ferry running passengers only up and down the river to several small communities. I started out wearing my foul weather coat, quickly added my foul weather pants and sea boots, and considered gloves. By midmorning, I was wearing a wool sweater under the jacket. The lower temperatures and the additional chill of 15-20 kts of wind was really unpleasant. The wind stirred up the river into a confused chop. As AT EASE motored ahead she created some spray that added to the chill. The season is clearly changing.

By noon, the front was past, the skies cleared and the sun lit up the surrounding bluffs and hills and forest to reveal the subtle first changes in the leaves of fall. Russets and reds, yellowing greens and some purplish clusters are already suggested if not clearly visible. Still chilly however. Still nice sweater weather until later in the afternoon when the days accumulated sunlight finally warms to the point those sweaters come off.

The Ohio is formidable. When the high bluffs close in and the river narrows the current increases markedly. I watch our boat's speed over ground go from 6 kts to less than 5. The swirl around the daymarks and buoys gives evidence to the strength of the current. Then, as the river widens or makes those big sweeping turns, the current lessens and one can almost feel AT EASE leaping ahead. High water has been characteristic of the Ohio through the late summer. Debris litters the available banks and hunks of saturated wood, some tree trunk size, are scattered like mine fields across its face. One needs to attended to the water ahead relatively closely to see those dark shapes lurking just beneath the surface. Occasional "bumps" announce when one's vigilance has wandered.

We had to wait a short while at the John T Meyers Lock and Dam, commercial traffic having priority, then were moved through their auxiliary lock with alacrity. The auxillary is only hundreds of feet long. The main lock is over a thousand to accommodate the huge barge loads these tows manage.

By sunset, we had closed Slim Island at mile 836 on the Ohio. Again, we eased up to its downstream point and dropped anchor in relatively calm waters to share the evening with a few bass fishermen and more than a few insects. The latter scurried about trying to find entrance through our screens. The former buzzed about in burst of outboard energy, seemingly frantic in their search for the sudden strike and flurry.

09/18/03

This morning, we moved into the headwaters of Kentucky Lake, through the Barkley Canal and stopped at Green Turtle bay Marina, just below Barkley Dam, to top off with fuel and water. In the ship's store there I inquired about the 30 mile stretch below the dam and on into the Ohio. The young girl running the store looked as if I had asked her about the moon. "I don't know", she said, and then began to tell me about moving upstream. Anything I said didn't even slow her down. She even went to ask a local authority and came back with a book of maps (the same I have) to show me the way upstream. I pointed out that the maps ended just north of her location and it was what was beyond that I had asked about. Indignantly, she said "Well… hello… you'll just have to buy another book of maps for that area… I don't even know who to call." While a plethora of "Blonde" jokes ran through my head, I agreed. We left.

A few minutes later, the lock master, over the radio, gave us all the information we needed. We locked through and into the lower reaches of the Cumberland. It is a narrow, twisting river, with over two knots of current over a shallow bed typically 12-14'deep. Upbound trawlers create huge wakes that send roller coaster waves crashing to shore and back into the stream for up to half a mile. It's like riding a rocking horse. The land flattens out as we enter the Ohio. Turning upstream now has us battling that 2 kt current and AT EASE squirms, with boat speed over ground now down into the mid 4 kt range. As we round the last bend before the Smithland Lock and Dam, we meet a tow with 15 barges, immediately followed by another slightly smaller tow just exiting a lock. We maneuvered to avoid the tows, and the numerous pieces of floating debris, some quite large tree trunks, and managed to enter the lock. The lift wasn't especially large, something like 25', but that lock was monstrous… hundreds of feet long to accommodate these large tow/barge rigs. AT EASE looked pretty lonely inside this vast tub as it filled slowly with water.

Exiting the lock was like entering a large lake. The impoundment was easily over a mile across and all deep and calm. The current above the lock was less than a knot and we motored rapidly north to our intended anchorage.

Moving north, we passed one of the still existing landmarks of the early pioneer and flatboat days. At a bend in the river near Pudacah, KY but on the Illinois side, a bluff with a rock face stands some 100' into the air. A cave, a large gaping mouth above a gentle river bank, still draws the eye. Legend has it that here, in "Cave in the Rock", a band of brigands, some dressed as women, would lure flatboats with cargo or pioneer families ashore with shouted invitations to drink and dine, then knock them in the head and steal their cargoes. No sirens enticed… we moved on… but I suspect some exploration within might have been fun.

Now there aren't really anchorages on the Ohio, and apparently few if any marinas accessible to a boat our size. Shirley and I decided the safest approach would be to find an island and approach the invariable point on the downstream side, creeping forward to anchor just before it shoaled too much for safety. It seems to us that any boats bound up or down will make an effort to avoid running into an island and our anchor light, tucked in there close to the downstream side, must look much like a navigational light even if they didn't recognize it as an anchor light. Boats try not to run into navigational lights, as a rule.

We anchored at Ohio River mile 902, just south of Rondeau Island, got the screens up in time to foil the swarm of pesky bugs, and settled in for an evening of local broadcast TV like all true Americans (who are cable deprived).

09/16/03

AT EASE and crew took a week long break to enjoy Pickwick Lake and wonderful friends who arranged for transportation to and from, and non-stop parties through the game weekend at Ole Miss. It was close to perfect. Great friends surrounding, enmeshed in the community of Ole Miss alumni and students, among all those party tents in The Grove during the pre and post game intervals; food, drink and sparkling conversation. What a wonderful community Oxford and Ole Miss have achieved. The genteel , very Southern ambiance of Oxford is seductive. The friendliness and open acceptance by all was a delight. We're already looking forward to the trip back.

While in Pickwick, we had the folks at Aqua Yacht Harbor look at that smoking diesel. We could find nothing wrong. The engine does not over heat, uses no oil, the prop and bottom are clean thus no extra drag, the compression is right on and the injectors are perfect. Oh well… reassuring to know that the engine is in good shape. Maybe the smoking is fuel related and as we burn possibly "bad" fuel the problem will go away.

Pickwick is an impressive lake. The water is relatively clear. The surrounding hills are forested in both evergreens and hardwoods, some of whose leaves are beginning to turn. Much of the lake shore is developed with rather large, ostentatious homes, most complete with floating boathouses. The access to rivers heading north and south, the availability of marine services and the access to communities for shopping makes this a very desirable location, I suspect, for transient boaters as well as the locals. Motor vessels predominate. I wonder if it is like our old home, Lake Degray, where the sailboats own the lake after Labor Day?

This morning, we locked through Pickwick Dam (mile 207) and entered the Tennessee River for sure. For the first time on this trip, we have the current pushing us. With a three knot flow, we're doing 8.9 kts over ground, something like 10.3 MPH. That's pretty heady stuff for sailboaters. The dam is hydroelectric so they are pushing water through to make electricity. It was also significant in that we locked "down" for the first time, actually about 50'. We won't see another lock until we reach Kentucky Lake where we will have to decide whether to exit to the Ohio via the Tennessee (Kentucky Dam) or the Cumberland (Barkley Dam). We would prefer Barkley Dam but there is a 30 mile stretch below the dam leading to the Ohio for which we have little information. We do know there are three bridges but have no idea of the clearances. We'll glean some local knowledge as we close those obstacles. For now, it's wide open and fast down the Tennessee's heavily improved channel, perhaps as far as Cuba Landing (mile 115) if we can keep up this pace.

A challenging day. We made a leisurely departure about 0800 and motored north again, planning to transit at least four locks, perhaps all eight leading into the approaches to Pickwick Lake. I knew we had several low bridges, the minimum 52' at normal pool, and asked each lockmaster as we passed if the pool of water was normal. I have learned that is the wrong question.

How did I discover the right question to ask? I went under a 52' railroad bridge, just before the Amory lock, dragging my VHF antenna across the bottom. Scared me, it did. The sight of that antenna, bent back under the bridge, knowing that my tricolor light and wind sensor, for that matter the actual masthead, were but inches away, was just frightening. I could feel the adrenalin an hour after the event.

Instead of using words like "normal", I have learned to ask for the exact pool levels above each lock and dam. With that information, I can precisely calculate clearances. Each of these typical locks moves me up about another 30'. For example, normal upper pool at Fulton lock and dam is 270' (above sea level) but the actual water level was 270.47'. That meant I had only 51.53' of clearance under a 52' bridge. That extra six inches can make all the difference.

In these upper reaches of the Tombigbee River, the locks and dams come fast and furious, separated by relatively few miles (7-14). One starts to treat these as routine… about 30 minutes, perhaps less, from approach to departure. But when there's traffic the process slows down greatly. We ended up behind a northbound tow that simply took forever to get positioned and secure in the lock and, as we waited we heard a southbound tow on the other side, waiting as well. Of course he had priority. It took at least 90 minutes for the two to cycle through and there went our chances to finish the last of the Tombigbee locks today.

Instead, we looked for an anchorage. We passed through the Rankin lock (mile 398), our sixth for the day, just at sunset and motored a half mile north into the embayment to drop out of the channel and anchor behind some small islands. Just us and the bass fishermen… and another cool night for sleeping.

09/07/2003

Underway by about 0700 on Sunday, we planned to cover close to 60 miles, ending at an anchorage in the old Tombigbee River bed. We experimented with different engine speeds today to further diagnose that smoking diesel. No apparent smoke at 2000 or 2200 RPM but when we moved back up to 2500 RPM, our typical cruising speed, we noticed some smoke buildup on the boat's stern. Actually, the buildup was less than 20% of what we had before so cleaning the air filter clearly had benefit, but it is still smoking more than it has in the past. We're not sure what that is about.

We moved back into Mississippi today and apparently into an area much more affluent judging by the homes and development along the river. As seems typical for weekends, there were many more pleasure boats on the river, both fishermen and go fast boats pulling a variety of water toys usually crowded by multiple children hanging on and screaming. I suppose parents can decipher the good screams from the bad screams so I startled less frequently as time went by. Jet skies… ugh. They've suddenly become numerous, darting here and there, crossing our bow, rounding our stern, turning and twisting aimlessly yet always requiring attention.

Two more locks behind us, Bevill and Columbus, both couldn't have been more accommodating, got us in without a wait and gave us smooth lifts with relatively little turbulence in the lock. That part is starting to feel pretty routine.

We called it a day about 1700. Our anchorage, mile 347, was beautiful… the best yet on the river. This was in an oxbow off the main river. We entered tentatively and motored very slowly up a narrowing, twisting stream with heavy forest on both sides and high ground on our left. To the right, small creeks ran through marsh grasses and tangled palmetto and ferns. We anchored fore and aft to keep AT EASE from swinging to block the channel, then visited with local fishermen and boaters as they meandered by. Before dark we had dug out some groceries, cooked some meat on the grill and settled in for another comfortable, cool night.

We must be closer to something. For the first time since leaving Mobile we had service on our cell phone.

We got an early start this morning, awakening to a cool, almost cold morning with drab and overcast skies the product of a passing cold front. The river is still with more wispy tendrils of fog here and there, and high banks of that gray-green clay that seems to resist erosion so much better than the red dirt that may have been added by man in the way of levees.

We arrived at the Heflin Lock and Dam by around 1400 and had to wait for a southbound tow and barge to lock through. Hanging there, just below an active dredge, we listened to another tow moving north. He chose to hang a few miles south waiting for the southbound to pass before moving into the more congested waters just south of the dam. The lockmaster initially wanted to put the northbound tow and barges into the lock then have me enter and tie up behind. I expressed some reservations about the turbulence when the tow fired up to exit the lock and suggested I might wait for the next cycle. The lockmaster did a neat job of clarifying responsibilities. "Roger Captain… there's room but what ever you think is safe."

Commercial traffic does have priority when it comes to either navigation or locking through. I know that, and confirmed I knew that to the lockmaster. As it happened, because the northbound had waited three miles south, and because he indicated he was in no hurry, the lockmaster decided to move me through first and then cycle the tow. How courteous of both.

The lock through was uneventful apart from the typical squirming of the boat as the water pumps in and the floating bollard rises. We secure with only a single line from our midship cleat to the floating bollard in the lock, using fenders fore and aft to hold the boat parallel to the lock wall. Our low freeboard creates some play from our mid cleat to the somewhat higher bollard. As it rises, somewhat unevenly, more slack gets in the line and AT EASE swings her bow and/or stern into the side of the lock. We have six fenders, four medium and two large, to protect the boat but it takes only a little slack in the single line midship for the boat to want to pivot. I think the fix is to be ready to take in any slack that forms as the bollard rises but that can take a good deal of muscle power when the inflow turbulence is great.

Immediately after leaving the dock, within a quarter of a mile, we had to negotiate a fixed bridge with only 52' clearance. As it was above the dam, we checked with the lockmaster, advising him of our 52' mast height, and asking if the water was at normal pool. His reply… "It's going to be close".

We sneaked up on the bridge with Shirley all the way forward and with me conning the boat. I was creeping using the transmission and dead idle. Even 10' of clearance looks to damn close when the mast goes by. It's very difficult to judge until right up on the obstacle whether the boat will clear or not. Shirley finally called "I think we've got it". A bass fisherman figured out what we were doing and came along side some 50' away. He signaled clear by about a foot. Under we went. More of our ration of lifetime heartbeats passed into history. Ain't we having fun?

Onward we motored, in somewhat cleaner water. Now there are pools, lakes, of shallow and marshy water on either side with fewer of the higher banks and bluffs so characteristic further south. Clumps of floating vegetation are in the river channel. Egrets and Great Blue Herons abound, and here and there are geese, big Canadians that may have spent the summer in the south. There are more recreational areas and boats, more cabins and houses along the banks, and a generally more prosperous visage is presented.

The sky darkened from the southeast, some rumbles of thunder grew more ominous, and it became a race to see if we would reach our anchorage before the rain hit. We lost. Another anchorage in heavy rain. But a nice anchorage in a creek mouth with good depth and enough width to allow us to swing freely while staying safely out of the river channel.

Obviously our last day has been trouble free so we decided to worry about the increasing smoke we note on the boat's stern… smoke from our diesel. Shirley had cleaned the boat's stern back in Dermopolis but now it is blackened again. Into our diesel troubleshooting mode; is it something simple like fouled prop or dirty air filter or do we have problems with jets or rings? Oil pressure and engine temperature are fine. We're not using any oil. I pulled the air filter for cleaning, it had some oil inside, but it didn't seem that dirty to me. I dove on the prop, checking it by feel as I couldn't see anything in the cleaner but still muddy water. No problems there. Tomorrow, we'll do some experimenting, running at various RPM settings to see if that helps clarify the problem.

But tonight we'll enjoy the cool air and the abundant energy in our batteries and will watch a movie. It will be a great sleeping night.

We had a three night stay at Dermopolis Yacht Basin, a stay extended by our problems with our charging system. Both the manufacturer's technical folks and West Marine concluded I had two bad regulators, as unlikely as that sounds. I had arranged for overnight delivery of replacement voltage regulators from West Marine. On Thursday, I hung around the Marina office waiting for my delivery. No joy! On Ftiday, I called West Marine to inquire about the delivery status and was told it had been shipped only that day, and wouldn't be received until the following Monday. To heck with that. I asked the marina to just refuse the package and have it returned to West Marine.

I never thought it likely that I had two bad regulators anyway. Back to the drawing board. I studied the schematics some more and then started simplifying my wiring, bypassing everything possible to rule out possible problems, and found the apparent fault. It was a ground. Of course it was a ground. In a 12 volt system, it always seems to be a ground. I found loose wire at a terminal that joined the regulator harness ground to the alternator's engine block ground. As soon as I reattached the terminal and wire, everything started working normally.

Now I don't know how I could measure voltage through the harness with the ground being bad… and don't know how it could have been a sometime okay and sometime not okay ground… but for whatever reason, the damn thing works now. What a relief!

It certainly wasn't a bad stay. We had the advantage of a courtesy car to use for runs to Walmart, to grocery stores, and to go out to eat. The latter was a disappointment. The best restaurant in town was at the marina… and yes, we did get our catfish. We also stocked up with some more perishables, picked up some used books to read from the Dermopolis library, and chatted with folks who know the river well.

In the early afternoon of Friday, we motored out of the Yacht Basin and turned north. Within five miles a loop of the Tombigbee, called Rattlesnake Bend, has been removed from commercial traffic by way of a cut, a canal, across its base. In the old river itself, tow boats have created something of a harbor; a place to park barges, both empty and full, until tows stop to pick them up. We motored past the numerous barges tied up to the heavy forest on either side and dropped our anchor. It was a beautiful anchorage but a busy evening and night. An Alabama Marine Police officer stopped by to chat and a tow went by to pick up a couple of barges. That night two separate tows came into the area to make up their raft of barges, one waiting until daylight to move south and lock through at Dermopolis. We left the radio on in case anyone needed to contact us. None did. But the noisy rumbling of large diesels, the repeated flashes of spotlights across our boat, and the routine radio chatter of working crews did make it difficult for Shirley to sleep.

09/01/03

Early morning travel on the river is an unexpected delight. In the cool of the morning, one just feels invigorated, excited to be on the move… on the water. In the stillness of the morning, there is a broken layer of mist, uneven in its surface, moving in wisps and whorls. The boat seems to hang suspended and, as she moves, to gently push aside the water and mist, creating a giant arrow with us as its point, and with endless echelons of feathery waves pointing to where we have gone.

We had one of those special mornings today. We left Bobby's Fish Camp about 0630 and motored out into a river more restrained. Above the dam the current is now down to less than a knot. We still twist and turn, heading all points of the compass at one time or another, sweeping around both sharp and gentle bends, with heavy forest left and right. In these turns, one side, the outside of the curve of the river will be a bluff, frequently a levee, heavily eroded on the face and reaching upward some 30-40 feet. The striations are revealing… telling stories through the layers of sedimentation, the different kinds of soils deposited, telling a history of floods and droughts, of fierce flow and gentle pools, of an endless cycle.

It is there against those higher bluffs, the outside of the bends, that the current is stronger, the river deeper. On the inside of the curve, the banks will slope to the water, revealing a sandy beach or bar reaching out into the stream. Here the current is slower, the water much shallower. The pattern of erosion and deposition is endless… eating away at the outside and filling in the inside of the bends as the river snakes its way across the bottoms, finding its way to the ocean.

There are few signs of human occupation apart from the occasional buoy, day marks or ramshackle camp houses, mostly in ruins. As the day progresses, we see more fishermen, more recreational boats, but never more than a few and mostly we have the river to ourselves. We've seen only 4-5 tows a day so even commercial traffic is muted. The radio, always clamorous on the coast, is quiet. Even scanning multiple channels rarely finds activity and then it may be two tow boat captains chatting… making small talk as they thread their winding way along the river they know so well.

We made it through our second lock, Dermopolis, AL, where we planed to spend the night and take on fuel… maybe enjoy the air conditioner… and were tied up and plugged in by 1700. Tonight I bet we'll find that catfish dinner.

08/31/03

AT EASE slipped those surly bonds and headed out from Dog River and up through the rest of Mobile Bay, into the main commercial harbor and through to the Mobile River and the lower Black Warrior. That long trek up Mobile Bay seems to go on and on, those hazy, then distant, then ever closer derricks and cranes and cargo handling superstructures along the commercial port growing ever larger until little AT EASE is dwarfed among the tankers and container ships, and barges and tows. Lots of BIG traffic moving hither and yon, and AT EASE, her captain acting a bit like a long tailed cat in a room full of rockers, claiming her place in the flow.

In the northern fringes of the commercial port, I went from autopilot steering to manual to move away from some large lumber floating in the harbor and immediately lost all steering. The boat yawed dramatically and started heading for some berthed barges alongside the river. I powered down, assured myself that the wheel was absolutely disengaged from the steering quadrant and rudder, then shifted back to autopilot which did steer well. We broke out the emergency steering tiller, piece of stainless steel which will directly drive the steering quadrant from a tiller arm in the cockpit, and proceeded upriver a few miles to the first safe anchorage.

Here comes the exciting part. After safely anchoring, Shirley and I cleaned out compartments to gain access to the steering machinery and began taking things apart to diagnose the problem. AT EASE is steered with a wheel. The wheel turns a shaft which has a sprocket with a heavy "bicycle" chain that connects on either end directly to a stainless steel cable. The cable goes across turning blocks (pulleys), then feeds to groves on the outside of a large, horizontally mounted wheel called a quadrant. The quadrant is connected to a central shaft that goes down and is part of the rudder. This arrangement allows the rudder to be turned by turning the wheel at the steering station. The connection of steel cable to chain had parted. No spares on board for fixing that… and a messy, nasty and contorted job it would be. The autopilot would continue to work, and the emergency tiller worked, since the drive motor and tiller were connected directly to the quadrant.

Options we had. We could proceed north, up the rivers, and traverse about 200 miles of river and locks and obstacles before we would be close to any kind of marine services, that would mean steering with the emergency system or our autopilot alone, or we could run screaming and whining to the nearest boatyard. We chose the easier course. We headed for the nearest boatyard.

Bright and early this morning we pulled anchor and headed downstream, back through Mobile's busy commercial harbor, out into that huge Bay crowded with barges, ships and shrimpers, to make a sharp turn west and motor into Dog River once again. With our cell phone, we called and arranged for a slip at Turner's Marine Services. They knew I would be steering with emergency tiller. They gave me about a paragraph of instructions for finding my way around once inside their marina and directed me to a particular area of pier near a 65' MacGregor and a 42' Catalina… included were instructions about steering between the café and sign, then point to a two-storied gray building, etc, etc, etc… They would gladly be available to help once we arrived. The last line of instruction was "Be careful now."

As we approached, we called on the VHF. No answer. I slowed AT EASE to a creep and turned into the marina, picked the most promising of the various lanes , all narrow, and motored deeper into the maze of piers and slips becoming more sure I would have to stop and turn around at some point. Then, deep within the maze, I saw the 65'MacGregor, a particularly unattractive boat, but the space they had directed me to was taken. Quick decision… we saw an empty slip, perhaps a long term resident gone temporarily, and decided that would do, thank you very much. We eased in rather nicely, Shirley captured a piling with a spring line and by golly we were secure. A salesman came out promptly to make sure we hadn't damaged a 45', or so, Island Packet in the next slip. I noticed he didn't come out until we were secured… but he was complimentary once he saw we had managed maneuvers with only our emergency tiller. We, of course, glowed in his praise.

One more day/night before we head north. One more set of repairs. Out came the power line and we had the air conditioning going in minutes. We're spoiled. The night before, in our anchorage, we had to contend with that peculiar, very Southern phenomena of late summer heat… a moistened blanket of glutinous air, moving only when stirred by our fans, refusing to cool our fevered, glistening bodies… and bugs, lots of bugs, and mosquitoes, lots of mosquitoes. Lordy how we miss the lovely islands and refreshing air of the Caribbean.

08/31/03

AT EASE is underway, up the muddy rivers, that reliable chocolate water of the south, and already deep into the backwoods if one is to judge from such factors as cell phone coverage, broadcast TV or houses and roads. We do see cabins, maybe even houses every few miles, most dilapidated, some collapsed, very few apparently occupied even on this holiday weekend.

Our journey Friday, back through the upper reaches of Mobile Bay and Mobile's commercial harbor, was exciting. We watched one of the numerous local thunderstorms build to the southeast, booming and crashes with lightening and thunder, move out over the water and track northwest across our northerly heading. Once again, we were treated to a waterspout along the leading edge, probably about a mile away, churning and thrashing and throwing up a froth of water probably 50'-80' high. The several boats moving, a shrimper, a small Coast Guard tug, a barge and us, all maintained course and speed but I'm sure we were all watching closely. It finally dissipated as it moved ashore, doing little damage apart from causing us to expend a few more of our lifetime limit of heartbeats.

Once inland, we moved to an anchorage and settled in for the evening and again addressed maintenance issues. We are still working out all the kinks and glitches secondary to installing so many new gadgets all at once, getting everything to work smoothly and together.

Here's some more of that boring technical stuff. I have finally gotten the AC inverter/charger working efficiently, reading the battery temperature probes and sending the right amount of energy into the cells without over heating and boiling. However, the DC system, Balmar alternator and Balmar 3-stage voltage regular, has decided to quit working. Every test I run suggests it is the regulator. I get voltage on all leads except the field. When I short across a 12 volt source to the harness and to the field wire, also in the harness, the alternator produces normal output. However, I happen to have another, new voltage regulator, one of the extensive sets of spares carried by AT EASE. It's a simple matter to plug the new regulator into the existing harness, the one I know works. The "new" regulator acts the same as the old. Now it is possible that both regulators, both new regulators, are flawed. But that isn't likely. I'm stymied.

This "short" or jumping is called a "full field test" and causes the alternator to go to full output. Now there are cautions galore not to continue this beyond the minimum time necessary to verify the alternator is charging… but I don't see why.

The first stage in charging, even through the "smart" voltage regulator which is a small computer, is "bulk charge" which is pretty well full out… about 80-90 amps. That continues until the voltage in the battery increases to some computer determined point, somewhere around 13.6 to 14.2 volts, then the regulator reduces energy to the alternator's field which causes the alternator to go into its second stage which is "acceptance charge", a stage that produces less output. If all went normally, it would eventually reach "float charge" where very little energy would be sent from the alternator to the batteries.

When I jump across the 12 volt source to the field wire in the harness, I am essentially telling the alternator to go into "bulk charge" mode. The amps out and the voltage of the batteries all seem well within normal charging parameters for that stage of charge. As long as I monitor and either control output by reducing engine rpm's or by shutting the charge down (pull the jumper), I can't see that I am doing anything damaging.

This accommodation allows me to continue upriver until I can find someone who knows more about the system than me. It is an expedient repair that keeps AT EASE functional. Do any of you engineers or sailors out there see something I am missing?

Oh yes, our new autopilot decided to quit working… it started sending a series of error messages basically telling me the drive motor was malfunctioning. We drove manually through the afternoon.

Last night we eased out of the main channel, marked here and there by floating buoys, snuggled in close to a mud bank and dropped the hook. The current, consistently about one knot, kept our boat aligned well so we felt safe although within probably 12'-15' of shore. With the anchor light on, with thoughts of the morrows repairs, we went to sleep.

About midnight, a tow pushing about six barges came through, chugging along upriver within about 50' of our anchored boat. It all seems a bit tense but passing speeds are low and those barges are so well under control that it is only when meeting in sharp bends, where the tows really swing those barges, that one has higher probability of getting in trouble. With the radio, we call ahead to ask the tow boat captains where they want us and how they want us to pass. Our experience is that the tow boat captains are very professional, courteous and eager to respond, unlike many of the salt water merchant seamen we encounter. How nice it is to be thanked for being cautious and careful.

With daylight we were refreshed. We had both been very hot all the previous day. Our awning over the cockpit is designed for ocean cruising… it is low, an extension of the dodger. It works well but obstructs the all around, standing vision we need on the river. But standing in the full sun is no treat. Shirley quickly designed a higher cover, anchored to our after solar panel arch and going forward to our topping lift. A few nips and tucks, a bit of "small stuff" (string) to secure it all, slide in an expanding pole to support and behold… we are shaded again.

And I climbed yet again into that lazarrette locker, yet again stuck my head into the engineering spaces aft, tugged and checked fittings, followed wire, forward to the autopilot computer mounted to a forward bulkhead in the locker… and I found the wire loosened by vibration. Behold! A functioning autopilot again.

By noon we were past three of the first barriers… low overhead clearances. They would be dangerously low if the water was high. We hoped for and found low pools and passed beneath the two bridges and one power line with feet to spare. I've been worrying about those clearances for months. What a relief!

The river is down enough for there to be extensive sandy river banks exposed which have always been the rural Southern beach. On this holiday weekend, Southerners abound on most. There is the American clutter of lawn chairs, ice chests and folding tables. There are the predictable clusters of tents and awnings. And there are a host of 4-wheelers, here there and everywhere. It's a mystery… there are more 4-wheelers than people.

Coffeeville Dam is our first lock. We were a bout 3 miles south when we called but the lockmaster decided to await our arrival. We motored into the lock, tied midship to a floating bollard, put fenders out fore and aft and rode the actually mild turbulence up about 20' or so. Just as we entered the lock a local thunderstorm came booming in with lightening and thunder and rain. That persisted until we motored the few miles north of the dam to tie up overnight at Bobby 's Fish Camp. The camp is noted for a pier for transients, fuel (which is remarkably scarce along this river) and catfish at the camp restaurant. Unfortunately, the same storm which hit us blew out the local electricity so no catfish. That's about the only thing traditionally Southern that's missing. We have Confederate flags, trailers and campers, a horde of kids, and enough pickups to convoy the Lawerence Welk Show.

08/23/2003

After two more sea trials to get all the electronics fully calibrated and interacting, AT EASE finally was ready to get underway. We had a final dockside party with our wonderful friends at Ocean Springs, feasted on shrimp and beans and rice, made our last runs to Walmart and West Marine, and on Saturday morning we motored out into Mississippi Sound for the run east.

Our initial plans were to run out to Petit Bois Island, a short jaunt really, but the day was beautiful and AT EASE was moving well so we changed our destination and went to the extreme eastern end of Dauphin Island, right to the mouth of Mobile Bay itself. Arriving just at dark, we motored in to Pelican Point and anchored just under the Civil War guns of Fort Gaines. It was here, against Fort Gaines and Fort Morgan, just across the Bay's entrance, that Admiral Farragut brought the fleet in and fought the ("Damn the torpedoes… full speed ahead") Battle of Mobile Bay. In keeping with the spirit, we ignored the torpedo danger too.

This was a rolly, exposed anchorage that introduced us again to the joys of ocean swells. Trying to sleep with all that rolling action requires one to spread out and keep low… but it is possible. However, we weren't sorry to pull the anchor Sunday and motor into Mobile Bay itself. This is a huge bay with numerous oil platforms, tugs everywhere pushing and pulling large barge rigs, and a huge number of pelicans and gulls swarming around and in the wake of the multitude of shrimpers working just out of the channel. The long entrance channel is deep (49') to accommodate the ocean going traffic moving in and out of this very busy harbor. Between tugs and tankers and container ships we were moving back and forth in the channel giving them all the room they wanted.

We turned into Dog River and tied up at the Dog River Marina to top off fuel tanks and change the oil. This seems to be a boater friendly area. There are at least four, probably more marinas on both sides of Dog River immediately before it empties into Mobile Bay. There are sail and power boats both on the hard and tied up along piers lining the banks. Moving upstream, against the considerable tidal current, made it relatively easy to control AT EASE. The dock master is a real pro… knew exactly what to do with our spring line… and we gently eased alongside to rig our fender boards and get that power line over the side to fire up the air conditioner.

We decided to stay over Monday and get some faxing and copying done… wrapping up our lightening strike insurance claim before we get too far from the surveyor who is working with our insurance company. The folks here couldn't be nicer. There seems to be a good bit of local knowledge among the boaters about the Black Warrior-Tombigbee system and that's always a good supplement to what the books say. I'm still anxious about overhead clearance at the several bridges that are only 52' at normal high pool. The folks at the marina even have a relatively new courtesy car that they graciously make available to transient boaters.

After two more sea trials to get all the electronics fully calibrated and interacting, AT EASE finally was ready to get underway. We had a final dockside party with our wonderful friends at Ocean Springs, feasted on shrimp and beans and rice, made our last runs to Walmart and West Marine, and on Saturday morning we motored out into Mississippi Sound for the run east.

Our initial plans were to run out to Petit Bois Island, a short jaunt really, but the day was beautiful and AT EASE was moving well so we changed our destination and went to the extreme eastern end of Dauphin Island, right to the mouth of Mobile Bay itself. Arriving just at dark, we motored in to Pelican Point and anchored just under the Civil War guns of Fort Gaines. It was here, against Fort Gaines and Fort Morgan, just across the Bay's entrance, that Admiral Farragut brought the fleet in and fought the ("Damn the torpedoes. full speed ahead") Battle of Mobile Bay. In keeping with the spirit, we ignored the torpedo danger too.

This was a rolly, exposed anchorage that introduced us again to the joy