November Nirvana
The Chesapeake Bay Always Delivers A Late Fall Window
You have to keep your eye on the long-range forecast. You have to be patient. And you have to be ready to jump when it appears. On the Chesapeake Bay, almost every year, a 3-5 day window of beautiful weather appears in early November, just as everyone else is putting their boats away for the winter. Everyone can bitch and moan about the Chesapeake Bay’s summer heat and light winds, but no one can complain (legitimately) about the Fall sailing. So we usually wait until Thanksgiving to haul Moondust because I want to make sure to be able to catch that one final weather window for beautiful Bay cruising. Sure enough, after a frigid start to November all the forecasts predicted four days of warm weather, plus a sailing wind, last week. So I jumped aboard Monday-Thursday for a supremely welcome, season-ending, solo cruise.
Three nights and four days is longer than I usually manage to steal away on the boat. So I was pretty excited about being able to range a little further afield, and set the (relatively) unspoiled and (relatively) uncrowded Little Choptank River, as my goal. Temps were forecast to be in the 60s during the day, with sunny skies and light winds (mostly from the south). Otherwise known as perfect relaxed cruising weather. And in the 40s and 50s overnight. Otherwise known as perfect sleeping weather. In short: The omens were very, very good. And they only got better when I immediately came across a bald eagle hanging out on an abandoned osprey nest atop the marker at the mouth of Whitehall Creek. He watched me approach, stood up, and decided I made him nervous enough to take to wing.
After exiting the Severn River around noon and putting up sails, I pointed the bow south toward Thomas Point. The weather was as promised and I was steadily stripping off layers. I decided to spend the first night in the West River, just a few hours away, since I didn’t get a very early start. I knew a quiet corner I could tuck into, and an early start would get me to the Little Choptank for the second night.
Late Fall sailing on the Bay is special because most other boaters (especially the powerboaters) are done for the year, and there are relatively few crab pots left to dodge. I saw a few small boats, with fellow hooky players, chasing rockfish. Mostly, I shared the water with the birds—cormorants everywhere and the usual abundance of gulls. Entering the West River I came across a few other lucky sailors. You could tell just about everyone on the water on such a glorious day felt supremely pleased with themselves, as if they had pulled a fast one on the rat race. Or perhaps I am just projecting.
I dropped anchor in the West River around 4 pm, and spent a few hours reading and then cooking up a hot dinner. I was rewarded with a kodachrome sunset tableau, a quarter moon, and Orion urning bright in the southeast sky.
And so it went. Tuesday was just as beautiful as Monday, and the south wind blew gently but steadily, giving me a relaxing beat down the Bay toward the Little Choptank. I tacked my way smoothly into its remote embrace and found my way to anchor in Hudson Creek. And witnessed another evening meditation from the descending sun and ascending moon, with chattering geese providing background ambience. I awoke briefly at 2 am to hear the deep and mournful hoot of an owl.
Hour by hour I was literally floating away from the peopled world, and being transported by sail into an elemental world of wind, water, sun, moon, stars, birds. (Ok, and some Heinecken too). My mind was not troubled by Joe Manchin or Kirsten Sinema, the inadequate “blah, blah, blah” of the global climate change meeting in Glasgow, or my imminent root canal (which turned into a tooth extraction). It was occupied with blessedly simple things: currents, shoals, sail trim, laylines, boat management, coffee brewing. Worry and stress evaporated into the crisp, chill air. My body felt increasingly loose and languid, as if I had done hours of yoga, and shifted toward a Circadian rhythm that followed the sun. By 9 pm I was ready to sleep. By 5 am I was ready to wake.
Being in nature (and for me, being on a boat in nature) sometimes does something magical to you. Not always, and maybe not even most of the time. But sometimes. And when it does, it is hard to fully describe. I don’t think I have every felt so fully transported in such a short time.
Leaving Hudson Creek early Wednesday I saw another bald eagle occupying a former osprey nest. He, too, took off as I neared, instead of staring coldly and calmly as most ospreys do. I guess our national bird is reflecting the uncertainty of our times.
I flew, too. A solid easterly rocketed me toward the mouth of the Little Choptank, giving me the best sailing of the trip. As soon as I cleared the entrance shoals the wind started to die. Unlike the previous day, it died all the way, and I motor-sailed north to the Choptank River, sailing whenever possible. I worked my way up beautiful Broad Creek and found my way to Baby Owl Cove. It was such an excellent anchorage that the only other sailboat I came across on Broad Creek, an Outbound 44/46 called Syzygy, followed me in. No matter, there was plenty of room. One final night of quiet solitude, one final night of brilliant stars.
On Thursday, I was up and underway early, with the rising sun. Time to rejoin humanity ashore, but not after airing the spinnaker out for at least a little while, as I tried to make the most of the light southerly while sailing home.
It was the last cruise of the season, but one of the best ever. Sometimes you really do get lucky in November.
Moment Of (More) Zen:
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