Neptune's breath and the crustacean's revenge
A year afloat: to the Caribbean and back
Sam and Alex Fortescue
Sat 25 Jun 2011 19:10
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40:24.98N
074:01.48W
The smell of rotten fish and cooked cabbage was
thick in the air. The fog whirled and eddied, clammy and cold, leaving beads of
moisture on every surface. It was like the very breath of Neptune - foetid with
the smell of the seabed. We should have been happily riding at anchor in some
New Jersey inlet, but when we edged in to the supposed channel between the
Atlantic and the protected inshore waters, the depth shoaled quickly to less
than a metre and the swell climbed up into breakers on the shallows, so we
turned back out to sea and headed north again.
After sailing through the night, dawn did little to
illuminate the scene - it just illustrated how little we could see. At one point
a sailing boat loomed out of the fog barely 200m away. It angled in towards us,
clearly not seeing us at all until it was 100m off, then she turned away and
sliced back into the murk.
In an episode that I can't help considering as the
revenge of the crustacean, we ran into a small float marking a crab pot, three
miles from the coast. There was a nasty grinding sound as I lunged for the
engine throttle to stop the propellor. I roused Alex out of bed in the warmth
down below for assistance. Peering over the stern, we could see a rope trailing
out behind us and a plastic tube with a flag poking up from under the transom.
The contraption seemed firmly wedged, so there seemed nothing for it but to don
the snorkel and mask and dive with a knife to try and cut the prop free.
A quick check of the instruments revealed that the
water was a fairly balmy 24 degrees C, although grey and unwelcoming. Despite
the dank fog, it didn't feel cold as I clambered in wearing my Caribbean
attire. It took a second to slice through the line which was twisted, rather
than wrapped, around the propeller. The engine started without any problems and
we motorsailed off in to the gloom again, with me dripping in the cockpit
feeling oddly warm.
Summer Song is now anchored up a few miles from
Manhattan, in the lee of a spit called Sandy Hook. It was nerveracking sailing
in on the fringe of the deep water channel, eyes peeled for big ships. We could
hear waves on the beach a few hundred yards to port and the noise of marine
engines buzzing about behind the curtain of fog. When we finally made landfall
by a town called Atlantic Highlands, visibility was less than 500 yards. We
ghosted in between lines of anchored and moored yachts, and dropped the hook
near the shore. Much like the real Highlands, there was just the dimmest outline
of greenery through the mist.
Luckily, we're expecting to run ashore and spend
the night with friends. Marina is already in the US, waiting for us to rock up
and we're going to see something of the 'Garden State' and New York over the
next or so.
Fog as far as the eye can see, which wasn't
far
 The view from anchor in Atlantic
Highlands
 With Marina and family friend Paul in New
Jersey
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