There and Back Again

Issue: Chesapeake Bay Destinations
There and Back Again
It has only one name--the Chesapeake--but a solo sailing trip from bottom to top and back shows the author a Bay of many faces. [11.10 issue] by Paul Clancy photography by Starke Jett It's midmorning, the first of October. An early rain has given way to patches of blue sky and then a burst of sunshine that splashes millions of diamonds on silver-gray water. As I slip my mooring and pass the cargo terminal and naval base a gentle southwest breeze seems to whisper pleasant tidings. I'm anxious about all this, sailing alone from my home base in Norfolk to the northernmost reaches of the Bay, 200 miles or so at a notoriously fickle time of year. But the adventure tugs me along. What's more, the following tide passing Old Point Comfort adds its small measure of encouragement. I want to see parts of the Chesapeake I've never seen before, compare what I know of the wide-open southern Bay to the narrow chasms of the north. Learn a little something about self-reliance and taste one of the sweet adventures that living in this part of the world has to offer. And maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll run into some great people. The Chesapeake is North America's largest estuary, wheeling and dealing umpteen trillion gallons of water from its rivers and the sea, back and forth, fresh water, salt water, like an over-achieving horse trader. Once the riverbed of the mighty Susquehanna, geologists say, it grew ever wider as the river rose and spilled over its banks, and fifty tributaries joined the party. Like the flood tide, I'm riding this highway from south to north. Where I've started, it might as well be the ocean. There are dolphins, sharks and sea turtles here, lots of them, and even an occasional whale. Off to starboard, black-tipped wings flashing, gannets are diving on schools of fish. I'm used to seeing them out on the deep ocean. Maybe they're after the menhaden which migrate by the millions from the Bay to the ocean this time of year, close to the surface and vulnerable. I wonder if the gannets know this and return every year to this glutinous feast. Unlike the menhaden, I'm moving from dense salt water toward fresh, from pristine toward sediment- and nutrient-laden, from good visibility toward murk. At least, that's the theory, although it's hard to tell from three feet off the water. What I notice now is that the color changes with the direction of the light: green off to port, blue straight ahead, gray to starboard and aft. So intent am I about the water, and somewhat blinded by my sails, that I don't notice the boat passing on my right. "Hey Paul!" I almost jump out of my boat. Next to me is a classy Bristol 40 and its occupants--Sonny and Meriel Wright, returning down the Bay after a long cruise. My blue-gray hull and worn sails evidently have given me away. "We saw you coming a long time ago," Meriel shouts. I jump up and down and wave with both arms like an idiot as they pass quickly and fall out of earshot. So glad am I for this unexpected sendoff, but at the same time I find myself already missing home. It's a long way, and this will be a lesson in patience. Like most people nowadays, I'm used to getting places at 65 miles an hour. Making a trip of two weeks or more at speeds that will average somewhere around four knots, 40 miles maximum each day, requires an attitude adjustment--and this ain't happy hour. I was hoping to make it all the way to Deltaville on this first leg of the trip, but the late start makes that unlikely. Well, I'm doing four-and-a-half knots, I notice, thanks to a lovely southwesterly breeze, and don't give a fig or a farthing for distance at this point. I'm on the Chesapeake and that's all that matters. As I creep past Plumtree Island at the mouth of the York River and then the entrance to Mobjack Bay, it feels as though I'm on blue water. Nowhere else does the mighty Chesapeake seem more like a great inland sea than it does here. The Eastern Shore of Virginia is nearly 20 miles away at this point--nowhere near visible--and the western shore has vanished, too. From east to west, north to south, the horizon is a perfect circle. Adding to the mid-ocean impression: There's not another boat in sight. The Maryland half of the Bay is different. Much narrower, much more intimate. More crowded. I've sailed Maryland waters, but never on my own, and I'm looking forward to seeing the middle and upper Bay. I know I should take several months to do this, not a couple of weeks. And even now, I feel I've got to make some time. But no sooner have I begun to worry about this than the wind does a sudden shift to the northwest, and I'm flying at six knots (!), as fast as this old boat, a Tartan 30 namedOde to Joy, has ever gone. This is glorious. A glance around and Hampton Roads is already a distant memory. Soon, in the distance is what appears to be a tall sail, but it's the elegant white New Point Comfort Light. A large pelican wheels and dives. Far off to starboard, a freighter is making its run to Baltimore. It's going to be a beautiful evening, but I'd better find a place to stop. Shortly after New Point Comfort, I duck into Horn Harbor and spend the night at Horn Harbor Marina. There's a half moon hanging over me as the fading sun fires up the night sky. It's dead quiet. A great blue heron sneaks along the dock. A dog barks somewhere on the opposite shore. As pitch dark descends, the stars are impossibly bright. A heavy dew begins to fall as I drop off for the night. At dawn, almost back on the Bay, leaving one of the red channel markers to port, I lose depth so fast that I'm hard aground before I can react. Reversing the engine, with the tide dropping off behind, just gets me in deeper trouble. But I'm lucky. A passing crabber takes pity and throws me a line from 10 feet off to the right. "The channel's over here now," he says as he pulls me off the shoal. Thank God for sympathetic locals and big favors. With the tide falling, I'd have been here half a day. There's a gentle morning breeze that I ride for about an hour, but it's pretty much on the nose and I have to fire up the Atomic Four. I had wanted to make it to Smith Island, but a shortage of fuel makes Tangier a better bet, so I zero in on the eastern approach. Again I'm reminded of the vastness of the southern Bay as the long day wears on without so much as a glimpse of another boat. My only company is a steady stream of monarch butterflies commuting from east to west, many of them pausing as they dodge the strange white triangle that is my listless sail. In the early afternoon, I spot the low-lying shrubbery on Tangier's southern spit and the welcoming water tower. It seems almost a mirage in the middle of this vast ocean. An hour later, I'm flying into the harbor with a swift-flowing tide. Several attempts to pull up to the down-current side of the dock at Parks Marina fail. I pick the up-current side and let the ferocious tide slam me into the pilings. Whew! Soon after, a big yacht, a Grand Banks 42, pulls up. I offer to help, but Jim Batistic, the skipper, has good docking skills and makes it without much more than a groan as rub rail meets piling. A bit later I meet the couple next door to Batistic, Norm and Betsy Mason of Norfolk, and before long we're all on Batistic's flybridge enjoying a drink at sunset and watching the fishermen return. Maybe it's the shared adventure of coming to a new port that makes for such instant camaraderie. I enjoy a late dinner at Lorraine's, a restaurant where locals are hanging out and listening to the "Doo Wop Cafe" on an Eastern Shore radio station. The next morning on a stroll through town--amid many g'mawnin's from folks riding golf carts, the main means of transportation--I tackle a Herculean breakfast at Hilda Crockett's Chesapeake House. (People sure like to eat on this island!) On the way back, I meet Milton Parks, who lives right next to his marina, and we talk about isolation-- Tangier-style. "It's hard to adjust to the outside world when you've experienced isolation," says the 75-year-old waterman in an accent about half as thick as his fellow islanders. "I put one of my kids at JMU (James Madison University) and she demanded a private room . . . and she didn't want to associate with the others. And she got homesick. There's a certain amount of independence--rather than independent occupation--living on Tangier. They love independence. Independence is what holds 'em here. You know what I mean? But it's hard to adjust to a strange setting, strange people and what have you. So I had to drive out there several times. Then, after a while, she didn't want to come home anymore." Parks gives me a ride to my boat in his golf cart, and I head out on a beautiful southerly breeze that allows me to part company with the island at five knots--setting my course for Solomons, my first Maryland port of call. I put on Benny Goodman'sLegendary Small GroupsCD and sing along. After you've gone, and left me crying. . . What could be better? But here's where a Virginia boater meets a totally unfamiliar Maryland landmark and takes the bait. About 10 miles out of Tangier, with the long coastline of Smith Island off to starboard, I notice a dark shape on the water that slowly morphs into a ship. Is it coming my way? My chart shows a sunken wreck,Old Hannibal, in that vicinity, but this is an above-water vessel. What in the world is it? Naturally, I pick up my handheld and hail her. It's only then that I notice she's at anchor and riddled with rust and bullet holes. A target ship! And, I might add, one of the ugliest things I've ever seen afloat, worse than the rusting hulks of the Ghost Fleet on the James. Sheepishly, I turn off the handheld and creep past. Some Navy jets scream overhead and I'm glad to be away from this sad sight. But a half hour later, passing a restricted area to port, I get another surprise. Boom! Boom! Boom! Instinctively I duck. There's some kind of shooting going on out here! From all I can tell, I'm out of the restricted area--but not out enough, I guess. There are no screaming jets, but there go the booms again. This is unnerving. I realize I'm heading into a zone dominated by the Patuxent Naval Air Station. Serious business, this. But I'm also more or less in the main shipping channel, so how dangerous could it be? I enter something called Deep Hole, and sure enough the depth gauge indicates 112, 115, 116 feet. At 2:30 p.m., as I pass a fast-moving tug and barge in the channel, my GPS informs me that I've gone 100 miles. Instinctively, I applaud my boat. Way to go, darlin'! Soon, I'm in fine company, a long parade of sailboats heading for the entrance to the Patuxent River. Just before sunset, I sidle up to one of the T-piers at Zahniser's Yachting Center in Solomons. From the 42-foot boat next door emerges a couple with golf bags. Lawyers from Oakton, Va., just returned from a sailing trip to the Tides Inn at Irvington. Must be tough, I say, and they laugh. They give me a lift into town and show me where a couple of restaurants are, but I wouldn't go wrong, they tell me, just coming back to the Dry Dock Restaurant at the marina. I'm happy to say they were right. Off again in the morning, I could swear what I see flying along the cliffs near Cove Point is an ultralight aircraft. It's got a huge wingspan, all right, but a white head. A bald eagle! At ten o'clock the Bay is glass, and I've got to fire up the engine again. Now out on the Chesapeake, with Taylor's Island to starboard and Calvert Cliffs to port, the difference between southern and northern Bay is clear. You could just about reach out and touch either shore, it seems. The great Chesapeake Bay seems much more like the great Potomac here, or maybe the Rappahannock. Another thing is the cliffs themselves. After departing from flat, flat Tidewater, it's a pleasure to see something that can be considered bona fide elevation. And all this while, I've been following autumn up the Bay. You just don't see the depth of color in the southern Bay that you do here. I guess it's the greater number of hardwoods up here that makes the reds redder and the yellows yellower. At 1 p.m., a Panamanian containership,Elena, steams by, pushing a big bow wave, and Ode to Joyrolls heavily as I surf over the wake and settle in behind. This is narrow up here! Late afternoon, I spy the Chesapeake Bay Bridge ahead and then the beautiful Thomas Point Light. What a welcome sight! I've arrived in Annapolis at the start of the big October sailboat show, and the town's harbor, on a gorgeous afternoon with the wind now picking up, is jammed with sailboats. I have to yield to a couple of them as they cross my bow. I wave, but don't notice a response. Who could blame them with so many boats flying this way and that? I've heard on the VHF weather channel that a powerful northeaster is heading this way, and I'm glad for the chance to stop for a couple of days--and lucky to get a slip at Annapolis City Marina. The show is fun, if a little wet and wild with the weather. I stroll through it several times, dreaming the dream about a modern upgrade to my 30-year-old boat. I settle for a ball cap instead, and on October 8, Sunday, with cool breezes out of the north, I jump off at first light and motor north, dodging a couple of big logs that have been liberated by the heavy weather. The water seems brown here. Sediment from the Susquehanna? At last, after a long day heading north, I reach the top of the Bay, which splits into three rivers--the Elk, Northeast and Susquehanna. I spend some time in the charming town of North East [see "North by North East," January 2007], but I'm wary enough of the season's weather to want to start heading back home. Except for the small matter of a northeaster forcing a two-day layover in Annapolis, the journey has been surprisingly carefree. Returning might be another story though, now that I'm well into October. First stop southbound is Tolchester Marina on Maryland's Eastern Shore, and the next morning, October 11, I'm off again. Slowly heading southwest, I pass more than a dozen workboats, engines throbbing, congregated at an obviously productive spot. A couple of fast pleasure yachts, a big sloop and a tall ship cruise past. What a phenomenal commercial resource, what a vast playground this Bay is. The haze and flat surface of the water add to the timelessness. Under sail, there's the incredible bonus of silence, except for clinks of halyards and swish of bow cleaving water. I'm being helped by the tide, now beginning to ebb. Right now, I'm only managing three knots, the pace of a brisk walk. What's bad about that? I'm picking up snowbirds on my radio. A couple big-boat skippers passing to port confer about going to the Bahamas, "maybe as far south as Turks and Caicos if we get ambitious," one of them says. "We're just going to go where the spirit takes us." The full extent of the southbound migration hits me a couple of days later. I drop the hook at Dividing Creek off the Magothy River, then make a beeline again for Solomons. A couple on the T-dock next to me, from Barnegat Bay, N.J., are heading south for the winter. But the really impressive sight arrives the next morning when, at around 9 a.m., the sun bursts through heavy fog. All of a sudden, engines everywhere cough to life, and as I weave out onto the Patuxent, there are dozens of boats, many flying Canadian flags, forming into a smart line, turning at the river's mouth and heading south. It's a little unnerving at first. A few miles south of Cedar Point, we march into a wall of heavy fog. The temperature drops and so does the visibility. I don't have radar, but I'm able to keep fore and aft boats in sight. We've all set a course for Smith Point Light near the entrance to the Potomac, so there's an unspoken, follow-the-leader communication going on. We're all motoring against strong southerly winds and slamming through tall waves. And, unfortunately, my auto-tiller has crapped out. I'll be at the helm all day. Just before dark, I make the decision to head for Reedville. My cell phone doesn't work well in this part of the world, so I'll take my chances on finding a slip. Happily, when I arrive at Reedville Marina, which huddles around the Crazy Crab Restaurant, Charlie Williams, the owner, is out on the dock waving me in. Next to me, in a Hunter out of Deltaville, sailing instructor Bill Crump offers a nightcap and good conversation. With a couple of delays for weather and repairs, the trip is getting close to three weeks. I'm eager to get back; so I stretch the next leg nearly sixty miles. I don't quite make it home though. Late at night, tired and cold, I stop over at Bluewater Marina in Hampton. Behind me on the dock isGodspeed, the newly rebuilt Jamestown boat that has been up the Bay on a shakedown cruise. What great company. The next morning makes me wish I hadn't stopped. There are strong winds out of the northwest, 20 knots and gusting, and getting across Hampton Roads is going to be a workout. An even worse scenario confronts me as I leave Hampton Creek and begin to cross under bare poles. As I try to accelerate, the clutch seems to slip. The engine races, but there's no helm whatsoever. I'm heading out into busy Hampton Roads in heavy weather, and it seems I've lost power. Furthermore, because the auto-helm is broken, there's no way I can go forward and put up sails. My heart sinks as I turn around and wonder where I'm going to run aground in this heavy surf. Maybe I could go forward long enough to drop an anchor. But as I throttle down, the clutch engages again. I turn back toward home. I'm going to make it. Just take it slow. It's rough out on the Roads. There are tugs and container ships passing, and a Navy ship in the anchorage appears ready to get under way. Finally, as I enter the Elizabeth River and the protection of Craney Island, I realize I'm home. I've conquered the Bay. And, happily, forgivingly, it's conquered me. [05.07 issue]

It has only one name--the Chesapeake--but a solo sailing trip from bottom to top
and back shows the author a Bay of many faces. [11.10 issue]

by Paul Clancy
photography by Starke Jett

It's midmorning, the first of October. An early rain has given way to patches of blue sky and then a burst of sunshine that splashes millions of diamonds on silver-gray water. As I slip my mooring and pass the cargo terminal and naval base a gentle southwest breeze seems to whisper pleasant tidings. I'm anxious about all this, sailing alone from my home base in Norfolk to the northernmost reaches of the Bay, 200 miles or so at a notoriously fickle time of year. But the adventure tugs me along. What's more, the following tide passing Old Point Comfort adds its small measure of encouragement.

I want to see parts of the Chesapeake I've never seen before, compare what I know of the wide-open southern Bay to the narrow chasms of the north. Learn a little something about self-reliance and taste one of the sweet adventures that living in this part of the world has to offer. And maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll run into some great people.

The Chesapeake is North America's largest estuary, wheeling and dealing umpteen trillion gallons of water from its rivers and the sea, back and forth, fresh water, salt water, like an over-achieving horse trader. Once the riverbed of the mighty Susquehanna, geologists say, it grew ever wider as the river rose and spilled over its banks, and fifty tributaries joined the party.

Like the flood tide, I'm riding this highway from south to north. Where I've started, it might as well be the ocean. There are dolphins, sharks and sea turtles here, lots of them, and even an occasional whale. Off to starboard, black-tipped wings flashing, gannets are diving on schools of fish. I'm used to seeing them out on the deep ocean. Maybe they're after the menhaden which migrate by the millions from the Bay to the ocean this time of year, close to the surface and vulnerable. I wonder if the gannets know this and return every year to this glutinous feast. Unlike the menhaden, I'm moving from dense salt water toward fresh, from pristine toward sediment- and nutrient-laden, from good visibility toward murk. At least, that's the theory, although it's hard to tell from three feet off the water. What I notice now is that the color changes with the direction of the light: green off to port, blue straight ahead, gray to starboard and aft.

So intent am I about the water, and somewhat blinded by my sails, that I don't notice the boat passing on my right.

"Hey Paul!"

I almost jump out of my boat. Next to me is a classy Bristol 40 and its occupants--Sonny and Meriel Wright, returning down the Bay after a long cruise. My blue-gray hull and worn sails evidently have given me away. "We saw you coming a long time ago," Meriel shouts. I jump up and down and wave with both arms like an idiot as they pass quickly and fall out of earshot. So glad am I for this unexpected sendoff, but at the same time I find myself already missing home.

It's a long way, and this will be a lesson in patience. Like most people nowadays, I'm used to getting places at 65 miles an hour. Making a trip of two weeks or more at speeds that will average somewhere around four knots, 40 miles maximum each day, requires an attitude adjustment--and this ain't happy hour. I was hoping to make it all the way to Deltaville on this first leg of the trip, but the late start makes that unlikely. Well, I'm doing four-and-a-half knots, I notice, thanks to a lovely southwesterly breeze, and don't give a fig or a farthing for distance at this point. I'm on the Chesapeake and that's all that matters.

As I creep past Plumtree Island at the mouth of the York River and then the entrance to Mobjack Bay, it feels as though I'm on blue water. Nowhere else does the mighty Chesapeake seem more like a great inland sea than it does here. The Eastern Shore of Virginia is nearly 20 miles away at this point--nowhere near visible--and the western shore has vanished, too. From east to west, north to south, the horizon is a perfect circle. Adding to the mid-ocean impression: There's not another boat in sight.

The Maryland half of the Bay is different. Much narrower, much more intimate. More crowded. I've sailed Maryland waters, but never on my own, and I'm looking forward to seeing the middle and upper Bay. I know I should take several months to do this, not a couple of weeks. And even now, I feel I've got to make some time. But no sooner have I begun to worry about this than the wind does a sudden shift to the northwest, and I'm flying at six knots (!), as fast as this old boat, a Tartan 30 namedOde to Joy, has ever gone. This is glorious. A glance around and Hampton Roads is already a distant memory.

Soon, in the distance is what appears to be a tall sail, but it's the elegant white New Point Comfort Light. A large pelican wheels and dives. Far off to starboard, a freighter is making its run to Baltimore. It's going to be a beautiful evening, but I'd better find a place to stop. Shortly after New Point Comfort, I duck into Horn Harbor and spend the night at Horn Harbor Marina. There's a half moon hanging over me as the fading sun fires up the night sky. It's dead quiet. A great blue heron sneaks along the dock. A dog barks somewhere on the opposite shore. As pitch dark descends, the stars are impossibly bright. A heavy dew begins to fall as I drop off for the night.

At dawn, almost back on the Bay, leaving one of the red channel markers to port, I lose depth so fast that I'm hard aground before I can react. Reversing the engine, with the tide dropping off behind, just gets me in deeper trouble. But I'm lucky. A passing crabber takes pity and throws me a line from 10 feet off to the right. "The channel's over here now," he says as he pulls me off the shoal. Thank God for sympathetic locals and big favors. With the tide falling, I'd have been here half a day.

There's a gentle morning breeze that I ride for about an hour, but it's pretty much on the nose and I have to fire up the Atomic Four. I had wanted to make it to Smith Island, but a shortage of fuel makes Tangier a better bet, so I zero in on the eastern approach. Again I'm reminded of the vastness of the southern Bay as the long day wears on without so much as a glimpse of another boat. My only company is a steady stream of monarch butterflies commuting from east to west, many of them pausing as they dodge the strange white triangle that is my listless sail.

In the early afternoon, I spot the low-lying shrubbery on Tangier's southern spit and the welcoming water tower. It seems almost a mirage in the middle of this vast ocean. An hour later, I'm flying into the harbor with a swift-flowing tide. Several attempts to pull up to the down-current side of the dock at Parks Marina fail. I pick the up-current side and let the ferocious tide slam me into the pilings. Whew!

Soon after, a big yacht, a Grand Banks 42, pulls up. I offer to help, but Jim Batistic, the skipper, has good docking skills and makes it without much more than a groan as rub rail meets piling. A bit later I meet the couple next door to Batistic, Norm and Betsy Mason of Norfolk, and before long we're all on Batistic's flybridge enjoying a drink at sunset and watching the fishermen return. Maybe it's the shared adventure of coming to a new port that makes for such instant camaraderie.

I enjoy a late dinner at Lorraine's, a restaurant where locals are hanging out and listening to the "Doo Wop Cafe" on an Eastern Shore radio station. The next morning on a stroll through town--amid many g'mawnin's from folks riding golf carts, the main means of transportation--I tackle a Herculean breakfast at Hilda Crockett's Chesapeake House. (People sure like to eat on this island!) On the way back, I meet Milton Parks, who lives right next to his marina, and we talk about isolation-- Tangier-style.

"It's hard to adjust to the outside world when you've experienced isolation," says the 75-year-old waterman in an accent about half as thick as his fellow islanders. "I put one of my kids at JMU (James Madison University) and she demanded a private room . . . and she didn't want to associate with the others. And she got homesick. There's a certain amount of independence--rather than independent occupation--living on Tangier. They love independence. Independence is what holds 'em here. You know what I mean? But it's hard to adjust to a strange setting, strange people and what have you. So I had to drive out there several times. Then, after a while, she didn't want to come home anymore."

Parks gives me a ride to my boat in his golf cart, and I head out on a beautiful southerly breeze that allows me to part company with the island at five knots--setting my course for Solomons, my first Maryland port of call. I put on Benny Goodman'sLegendary Small GroupsCD and sing along. After you've gone, and left me crying. . . What could be better?

But here's where a Virginia boater meets a totally unfamiliar Maryland landmark and takes the bait. About 10 miles out of Tangier, with the long coastline of Smith Island off to starboard, I notice a dark shape on the water that slowly morphs into a ship. Is it coming my way? My chart shows a sunken wreck,Old Hannibal, in that vicinity, but this is an above-water vessel. What in the world is it? Naturally, I pick up my handheld and hail her.

It's only then that I notice she's at anchor and riddled with rust and bullet holes. A target ship! And, I might add, one of the ugliest things I've ever seen afloat, worse than the rusting hulks of the Ghost Fleet on the James. Sheepishly, I turn off the handheld and creep past. Some Navy jets scream overhead and I'm glad to be away from this sad sight. But a half hour later, passing a restricted area to port, I get another surprise.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Instinctively I duck. There's some kind of shooting going on out here! From all I can tell, I'm out of the restricted area--but not out enough, I guess. There are no screaming jets, but there go the booms again. This is unnerving. I realize I'm heading into a zone dominated by the Patuxent Naval Air Station. Serious business, this. But I'm also more or less in the main shipping channel, so how dangerous could it be? I enter something called Deep Hole, and sure enough the depth gauge indicates 112, 115, 116 feet.

At 2:30 p.m., as I pass a fast-moving tug and barge in the channel, my GPS informs me that I've gone 100 miles. Instinctively, I applaud my boat. Way to go, darlin'! Soon, I'm in fine company, a long parade of sailboats heading for the entrance to the Patuxent River. Just before sunset, I sidle up to one of the T-piers at Zahniser's Yachting Center in Solomons.

From the 42-foot boat next door emerges a couple with golf bags. Lawyers from Oakton, Va., just returned from a sailing trip to the Tides Inn at Irvington. Must be tough, I say, and they laugh. They give me a lift into town and show me where a couple of restaurants are, but I wouldn't go wrong, they tell me, just coming back to the Dry Dock Restaurant at the marina. I'm happy to say they were right.

Off again in the morning, I could swear what I see flying along the cliffs near Cove Point is an ultralight aircraft. It's got a huge wingspan, all right, but a white head. A bald eagle! At ten o'clock the Bay is glass, and I've got to fire up the engine again. Now out on the Chesapeake, with Taylor's Island to starboard and Calvert Cliffs to port, the difference between southern and northern Bay is clear. You could just about reach out and touch either shore, it seems. The great Chesapeake Bay seems much more like the great Potomac here, or maybe the Rappahannock.

Another thing is the cliffs themselves. After departing from flat, flat Tidewater, it's a pleasure to see something that can be considered bona fide elevation. And all this while, I've been following autumn up the Bay. You just don't see the depth of color in the southern Bay that you do here. I guess it's the greater number of hardwoods up here that makes the reds redder and the yellows yellower.

At 1 p.m., a Panamanian containership,Elena, steams by, pushing a big bow wave, and Ode to Joyrolls heavily as I surf over the wake and settle in behind. This is narrow up here! Late afternoon, I spy the Chesapeake Bay Bridge ahead and then the beautiful Thomas Point Light. What a welcome sight! I've arrived in Annapolis at the start of the big October sailboat show, and the town's harbor, on a gorgeous afternoon with the wind now picking up, is jammed with sailboats. I have to yield to a couple of them as they cross my bow. I wave, but don't notice a response. Who could blame them with so many boats flying this way and that?

I've heard on the VHF weather channel that a powerful northeaster is heading this way, and I'm glad for the chance to stop for a couple of days--and lucky to get a slip at Annapolis City Marina. The show is fun, if a little wet and wild with the weather. I stroll through it several times, dreaming the dream about a modern upgrade to my 30-year-old boat. I settle for a ball cap instead, and on October 8, Sunday, with cool breezes out of the north, I jump off at first light and motor north, dodging a couple of big logs that have been liberated by the heavy weather. The water seems brown here. Sediment from the Susquehanna?

At last, after a long day heading north, I reach the top of the Bay, which splits into three rivers--the Elk, Northeast and Susquehanna. I spend some time in the charming town of North East [see "North by North East," January 2007], but I'm wary enough of the season's weather to want to start heading back home. Except for the small matter of a northeaster forcing a two-day layover in Annapolis, the journey has been surprisingly carefree. Returning might be another story though, now that I'm well into October.

First stop southbound is Tolchester Marina on Maryland's Eastern Shore, and the next morning, October 11, I'm off again. Slowly heading southwest, I pass more than a dozen workboats, engines throbbing, congregated at an obviously productive spot. A couple of fast pleasure yachts, a big sloop and a tall ship cruise past. What a phenomenal commercial resource, what a vast playground this Bay is.

The haze and flat surface of the water add to the timelessness. Under sail, there's the incredible bonus of silence, except for clinks of halyards and swish of bow cleaving water. I'm being helped by the tide, now beginning to ebb. Right now, I'm only managing three knots, the pace of a brisk walk. What's bad about that? I'm picking up snowbirds on my radio. A couple big-boat skippers passing to port confer about going to the Bahamas, "maybe as far south as Turks and Caicos if we get ambitious," one of them says. "We're just going to go where the spirit takes us."

The full extent of the southbound migration hits me a couple of days later. I drop the hook at Dividing Creek off the Magothy River, then make a beeline again for Solomons. A couple on the T-dock next to me, from Barnegat Bay, N.J., are heading south for the winter. But the really impressive sight arrives the next morning when, at around 9 a.m., the sun bursts through heavy fog. All of a sudden, engines everywhere cough to life, and as I weave out onto the Patuxent, there are dozens of boats, many flying Canadian flags, forming into a smart line, turning at the river's mouth and heading south.

It's a little unnerving at first. A few miles south of Cedar Point, we march into a wall of heavy fog. The temperature drops and so does the visibility. I don't have radar, but I'm able to keep fore and aft boats in sight. We've all set a course for Smith Point Light near the entrance to the Potomac, so there's an unspoken, follow-the-leader communication going on. We're all motoring against strong southerly winds and slamming through tall waves. And, unfortunately, my auto-tiller has crapped out. I'll be at the helm all day.

Just before dark, I make the decision to head for Reedville. My cell phone doesn't work well in this part of the world, so I'll take my chances on finding a slip. Happily, when I arrive at Reedville Marina, which huddles around the Crazy Crab Restaurant, Charlie Williams, the owner, is out on the dock waving me in. Next to me, in a Hunter out of Deltaville, sailing instructor Bill Crump offers a nightcap and good conversation.

With a couple of delays for weather and repairs, the trip is getting close to three weeks. I'm eager to get back; so I stretch the next leg nearly sixty miles. I don't quite make it home though. Late at night, tired and cold, I stop over at Bluewater Marina in Hampton. Behind me on the dock isGodspeed, the newly rebuilt Jamestown boat that has been up the Bay on a shakedown cruise. What great company.

The next morning makes me wish I hadn't stopped. There are strong winds out of the northwest, 20 knots and gusting, and getting across Hampton Roads is going to be a workout. An even worse scenario confronts me as I leave Hampton Creek and begin to cross under bare poles. As I try to accelerate, the clutch seems to slip. The engine races, but there's no helm whatsoever. I'm heading out into busy Hampton Roads in heavy weather, and it seems I've lost power. Furthermore, because the auto-helm is broken, there's no way I can go forward and put up sails. My heart sinks as I turn around and wonder where I'm going to run aground in this heavy surf. Maybe I could go forward long enough to drop an anchor.

But as I throttle down, the clutch engages again. I turn back toward home. I'm going to make it. Just take it slow. It's rough out on the Roads. There are tugs and container ships passing, and a Navy ship in the anchorage appears ready to get under way. Finally, as I enter the Elizabeth River and the protection of Craney Island, I realize I'm home. I've conquered the Bay. And, happily, forgivingly, it's conquered me.

[05.07 issue]