Maybe this notion is more fanciful than factual, but in my mind the flashing red "8" that marks the southeastern tip of the long Stove Point Neck bar not far from the mouth of the Piankatank River, is a kind of Chesapeake DMZ. That is, it's a kind of decision-making zone. A right turn here takes you to the world of recreational boating--from cruising yachts to racing dinghies, while a left turn leads to the world of the working Bay and a centuries' old tradition of service to the sea. More specifically, the right turn at red "8" takes you into Fishing Bay and Deltaville, Va., a famously popular haven for transiting cruisers, daysailors and racers, with its broad protected water for anchoring, its full-service marinas and yacht clubs. It is a place so popular with world cruisers transiting the Bay that it's the nearest many of us will come to experiencing what anchoring in a foreign port would be like. On the other hand, a left turn takes you into the pocket-sized world of Milford Haven, which separates Gwynn's Island from the Mathews County mainland--a world of working watermen and unchanging Chesapeake traditions, an area populated with families who have, since the nation began, produced perhaps more merchant mariners and Naval officers per capita than anywhere else. It's a seductive world of shifting shoals, deepwater creeks and silent shallow bays, quiet little settlements, a 70-year-old swing bridge and the dodgy back door known as the Hole in the Wall.

My friend Hal and I reached this Chesapeake DMZ in the failing light of an early fall day. Our decision: turn left, toward yesteryear, and head for Stutts Creek, which lies at the eastern end of Milford Haven and forms the south side of the mainland side's Crab Neck. Even though the entrance to Stutts Creek lies opposite the inside terminus of the Hole in the Wall, we chose to enter Milford Haven the easy way, through the Narrows bridge at its western end. We had left Reedville, Va., on the Great Wicomico River that morning and had dawdled our way south, poking into a few creeks and generally making a lazy day of it. Now in the Piankatank, we left "8" behind and dutifully followed the markers that shuttled us along the invisible channel of deep water across the wide open spaces of Hills Bay and then funneled us into the narrow entrance to Milford Haven. (The name "Milford Haven," by the way, is a kind of misnomer for a body of water on the Bay, since it's not a typical geographical water feature like a river, creek, gut or sound. In truth, though, Milford Haven would be none of those since it is open on both ends. Milford Pass or Thoroughfare would have worked though.) Rounding Gwynn's Island's Narrows Point, we passed the empty shell of the Islander Motel, which once anchored this enviable location with rooms, a pool and long sandy beaches. Now it was an eerie spot, a concrete and stucco shell, a vestigial remnant of happier times--haunted, it seemed to me, by the echoes of long-ago music and laughter. Hurricane Isabel apparently had delivered the death blow to the aging resort. Now it seemed to cast a pall over one of the Bay's loveliest spots.

Entering Milford Haven, we idled past Narrows Marina, nestled beside the old swing bridge. Once associated with the motel, the marina is still in operation and its slips are full of boats. Hal and I hailed the bridgetender--ensconced in a nifty little cottage that seemed to be suspended above the roadbed of the bridge by its roof beam--and waited for the middle section to pivot before proceeding along Milford Haven and Gwynn's Island. We could have stopped by old Callis Wharf and walked about the island from there, or dropped anchor in Edward Creek just beyond, but I was determined to make it all the way around Point Breeze on this trip to explore Stutts Creek.

It was a great decision. The gentle west wind that had seen us through the day, petered out entirely as we entered the creek. Looking over our shoulders as we split red "2" and green "1", we could see through the Hole in the Wall to the Bay beyond, where pale gold ribbons of tidal water undulated in the late afternoon light. Turning back toward Stutts Creek, we were nearly blinded by the sun until it sank below the horizon moments later, tugging all the day's reds and golds and blues along after it. Now the creek was utterly still. The blue herons had faded into the shadows or flown into the trees, and the green herons had yet to set off on their night flights. To our left, lovely, marshy Billups Creek hosted a dozen or so workboats, stark and still in the failing light. We slipped our Albin 28 into neutral and ghosted by docks and homes, marshes and unnamed inlets. Ahead we could make out the boats of Mathews Yacht Club. We drifted on, riding the last of the flood tide beyond the yacht club and finally let go the anchor where the boat drifted to a stop, just out of the channel and just opposite a tiny creek that had no name on our charts. The tide was now slack, so we slipped into reverse to set the anchor, choosing the direction based on the coming ebb, but with plenty of room for both eventualities. As darkness overtook us completely, we set out folding chairs in the cockpit and sipped cold beer as the stars emerged and the night birds set to work. Then came the moon, as big and as round as a full wheel of cheddar.

The next morning, we awoke to find ourselves on a creek lined with a broad stand of trees and in the company of a few very dignified but friendly looking old homes . . . and on the horns of a dilemma. We sipped our coffee, admired our surroundings and tackled our dilemma: Do we leave by way of the Hole in the Wall or do we go back around the way we came? Since we were headed farther south, the Hole in the Wall made more sense. Unless, of course, we got stuck. We consulted our charts--print and electronic--and then the tide and current tables--print and electronic. A depth of five feet in the channel we could live with, we decided, but those couple of fours had us worried. Then there was the shoaling--all summer long it had seemed to me that the depth readings in channels all over the Bay were consistently a foot or two less than the charts showed. And if that held true in the spots marked as four feet . . . well, four feet minus even one foot added up to big trouble for a boat with a draft of three and a half feet. It was then that Hal remembered last night's moon.

"Neap!" he said simply, and that sealed the deal. The fact that we would already be leaving Milford Haven on a falling tide made the trip through the Hole in the Wall bad enough, but doing it on a neap tide would make it nearly dead certain that we'd end up high and dry until the flood tide set us free--if we were lucky. No, our course was clear. We would retrace our route and go out the way we came in. 

"Let's stop at Callis Wharf this time, though, and see if we can rustle up some breakfast," 

I suggested. "I'm sure the Seabreeze will be open."

We stowed the folding chairs, and I went forward with the water bucket to pull up the anchor since it was my turn for that thankless task. Pull and rinse, pull and rinse. Repeat until done. Yuck.

"We're up," I said finally and scampered back to the cockpit to rinse myself with the stern shower.

We slipped the Albin into gear and motored slowly out of Stutts Creek with the ebbing tide. We paused to let a workboat leave Billups Creek and watched as it headed straight for the Hole in the Wall. We followed its progress a little enviously then turned to port and started back through Milford Haven. A light breeze picked up off the shore and Crab Neck shone like a new penny in the bright morning light. After we had had breakfast, our next stop would be Pepper Creek, only a few miles away on Mobjack Bay. We had plenty of time and plenty of water beneath our keel. The long way was not always the wrong way.