With Lenny's charts aboard, we headed for Albemarle
Traveling now and then, getting out of town and seeing other places, is fun. But it’s the people you encounter that can be the most interesting aspect of traveling.
Last week we trailered Nellie Lankford, the Delmarva explorer, out of familiar territory. We left Lewes at 5:30 a.m., watched a new day dawning as we drove southward, and made the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel by 8:30. An hour and a half later we dropped Nellie into the tea-colored waters of the Pasquotank River in Elizabeth City, North Carolina, and motored off toward the mouth where it empties into our ultimate destination: Albemarle Sound. Tannins from needles and bark of vast expanses of cypress trees in the swamps surrounding the sound permanently color the water. There must be a little acid in there too. After six days in the sound, Nellie never looked cleaner except for the day we brought her home from the dealer in Baltimore 12 years ago.
At Pelican Marina in Elizabeth City where we dunked Nellie, Mike told us about the restored Vietnam-era patrol boat tied up beside the ramp that had seen duty in the Mekong River. The boat’s designation, stenciled on her life ring and elsewhere, was PBR. “That stands for Patrol Boat River,” said Mike. “It also stands for the kind of beer that boats like these carried a lot of.” Mike wore a Vietnam veteran’s hat so I figured he knew what he was talking about. He pointed to a green canvas cover protecting a bulging shape on the boat’s bow. “That’s a 50-caliber machine gun under there. It’s all been totally restored.”
Heading down the Pasquotank, we passed the Coast Guard’s Elizabeth City air base, a massive installation on the banks of the river. A large, oblong and round-topped windowless building that would cover at least two football fields stood at least 100 feet high. It made me wonder whether dirigibles are part of the Coast Guard’s air fleet there.
The PBR vessel and the Coast Guard base helped affirm information on the roadside sign we passed as we crossed the state line driving south on Route 17: “North Carolina, Our Nation’s Most Military Friendly State.” Five hours and 50 water miles later, after dodging scantily marked gill nets and slaloming around early-set crab pots, we eased our progress and slipped into the public marina at historic Edenton.
People enjoying spring
Beautiful and well-kept 17th and 18th century homes and commercial buildings throughout the waterfront community evidenced the prosperity of the once-thriving cotton and tobacco crops on plantations surrounding the town.
At the park by the public marina where we tied up, people of all stripes enjoyed spring’s first warm weather. Along a bulkhead, Joyce and Joe were reeling in six- to 10-pound catfish. “They’re not Missouri catfish, but they’re pretty good,” said Joyce. She held one up for a photo and pointed to a cooler filled to the top with their fresh catch. She also shared their secret: a small, white plastic pail filled with a dark-brown, vile-smelling concoction the consistency of wallboard spackle. “It’s Sonny’s stinky catfish bait,” said Joyce with a big smile. “It’s from Missouri, just like me. Nothing works better. Take a little piece of sponge, put it on your hook, dip it into that stuff and you’ll catch catfish.”
Joe nodded in agreement, while keeping an eye on the rods he had propped on crotched sticks stuck into the muddy grass softened by a recent rain.
We rented bicycles in Edenton. Mary and Pat drove up from Wilmington, N.C., and spent a couple of days with us riding around town, talking with the local folks, taking in the history and the sights. “How are you folks doing?” we would say in greeting. On at least two occasions their reply was one I hadn’t heard before: “Doing fine, I hope you are too.”
There’s a lot to see in Edenton, and I recommend it.
Next week I will write about the amazing free-dockage Albemarle Loop program and how the weather conspired one day to keep us in Manteo, on Roanoke Island, at the eastern end of the sound.
Ending on a sad note
But I have to end this column, as our journey ended, on a sad note. The charts we used to navigate the sound and its rivers were part of a magnanimous gift a few years ago from Lenny Nelson. Lenny and Roxanne fulfilled a lifelong dream several years back when they bought a trawler and headed off on a yearlong journey looping up through the Hudson River, into the Great Lakes, down the Mississippi River into the Gulf of Mexico and then home again, home again, jiggity jog up the Atlantic Coast and the Intracoastal Waterway to Lewes and Rehoboth. Lenny and I would cross paths from time to time over the past several years on the Boardwalk benches at the end of Rehoboth Avenue where he liked to hold court. We would talk about boats and his and Roxanne’s amazing adventure.
When Becky and I were leaving for this most recent voyage, I grabbed the phone book and wrote Lenny’s phone number, big, on the front of the Intracoastal Waterway chartbook. “I want to call Lenny some evening when we’re in a pretty anchorage and tell him how much we appreciate these charts,” I told Becky.
The night before we pulled Nellie, we were anchored above Elizabeth City in the Pasquotank, within eyeshot of one of the endless cypress swamps and an active osprey nest.
“I can’t forget to call Lenny,” I said, taking out my phone and pushing a few buttons.
Roxanne answered and from the tone of her voice I could tell things weren’t good. “Dennis,” she said tearfully, “I have to tell you, Lenny died today.”
Lots and lots of moguls on skiing trips he organized for area young people, and other athletic pursuits, had hammered Lenny’s knees; he had problems walking, there was a fall, Lenny didn’t recover. Roxanne said boating, exploring and the possibility of another adventure never left Lenny’s mind. “Just last weekend,” she said, “we were off looking at boats again.”
So there you have it. Don’t wait to let people know you appreciate them. It’s people who make our lives interesting. Let them know. As Ricky Skaggs likes to sing, “Spread a little love around.”
