Learning the currents

A couple sails 1,800 miles of river from St. Paul, Minn., to the Florida Panhandle

By MARY JO NELSON

© St. Petersburg Times, published September 10, 2000

We left the land of sky blue waters on a cool September morning, watching a red sun rise over Lake Pepin on the Mississippi River. This was the beginning of a southbound journey on four river systems that would bring our home-built sailboat, The Game's Afoot, to Mobile Bay and along the Intracoastal Waterway to Florida.

Years of planning, saving, building the boat (21 years! call me Mrs. Noah) and living aboard through Minnesota winters preceded our adventure.

We knew it would not be a leisurely Huck Finn drift down the rivers. We expected problems finding safe anchorage out of the channel. Our draft was close to 7 feet.

Would we run aground trying to get out of the barge traffic at night? How about the wingdams -- rock piles sticking out from the river banks just under the surface of the water? And our mast, which rose 49 feet, 8 inches from the waterline. Could we squeak under the non-opening bridges?

We had a boat designed for deep and open water, not a river boat. My husband, John, and I studied the detailed charts and river guides, but nothing could prepare us for the experience -- which had nothing in common with two people lazing about the foredeck with trays of wine and cheese, waving at the cute little towfleets, humming Old Man River while drifting merrily to New Orleans.

The tows own the river. Our whole day's occupation was avoiding them and their wakes, navigating around them, waiting for lockage behind them, asking advice of their pilots and listening to their chatter on the radio. At night our concern was being anchored safely out of their way and yet clearly visible to their pilots.

Sometimes towfleets punch their noses onshore to await lockage or ride out bad weather. You do not want to be an unexpected obstacle between the towfleet and shore. They can take up to 11/2 miles to stop and can have a 1,000-foot blind spot extending from the bow. We saw tows below St. Louis pushing 36 barges, and they can haul 1,500 tons each. Makes you feel like a sailor ant with a toothpick for a mast and a hankie for a sail.

It is standard practice to call an approaching tow and ask the pilot exactly where on the river he would like to see you, and then get there. The pilots' sleepy voices belie the power at their fingertips. A slow drawl, "See you on one whistle, southbound sailboat." One whistle means we should pass him port to port; two whistles, starboard sides meet. Mr. Twain would know exactly what to do.

Below St. Louis, where the current gets mean, two of these pilots choreographed a midnight ballet. It was the definition of grace, performed by huge slabs of rusted steel and straining engines riding a stream of turbulent mudwater.

We had spent the day fighting the current. The land on both banks was scrubby, gray, desolate. Mysterious industrial equipment appeared along the shore. It looked like the place Bond and Blofeld would play their last scene. The river had tantrums here -- whirlpools and boils 50 yards wide. They shoved us sideways and twisted us around as if Game's Afoot was a toy, and I guess that's what our 36-foot sailboat was to the mighty Mississippi.

We anchored in the best spot we could find, out of the channel and between two wingdams, where the swift current strained our anchor line. You could've plucked it and gotten a high C.

About midnight I first felt the throbbing vibrations through the hull, then heard the engines of an approaching tow. I knew the fast current, narrow channel and sharp bend would make this piece of water difficult for a big tow fleet. John and I watched from the cockpit, the only human witnesses in this barren spot.

It was black as night can be where there is no house or town for many miles -- a few bright stars, a squeak of a moon and the running lights of the tows. Tows! There were two of them. No way could they pass in that narrow bend. I could not see the barges, but the red light on the bow of the southbound was impossibly far from the pilothouse, ditto for the green light on the northbound.

I watched the distance between the lights close, the radio chatter between the pilots calm but constant. If you want to announce the end of the world, and make it low key, you need a Mississippi tow pilot to do it.

The red light winked behind the green as the pilots guided their floating steel dancers, all the while working the controls, watching their radars, juggling information from the radioman on the bow (he was in a different zip code) and chatting with the other pilot.

"Okay, Cap, come on up there, you're doing fine." Like he was asking the other guy to pass the popcorn. A long, slow rumble later the lights parted and the tows churned their separate ways, again lone travelers in that inky night. The wake from their props rocked us long after they had gone.

The courtesy and helpfulness of the tow pilots is legend among boaters. They are the kings of the river and behave, for the most part, like benevolent monarchs.

We anchored out most nights because the approach depth of the marinas was usually not sufficient for our keel. Twice we hung up on wingdams but were able to get off under our own power. These rock piles extend from the riverbanks for the purpose of keeping the Mississippi on course. We learned to spot them by reading the patterns on the surface of the water, the same way Mr. Twain read river depth in his day.

Rain followed us downstream during our first weeks. The exceptional sunny days were my idea of heaven: high, round river bluffs in fall colors; fresh, cool wind streaming down the river valley; hot coffee in one hand and the wheel in the other; water rippling against the hull; eagles circling high above; plain stilt houses on the Missouri banks; and evening anchorages in sun-spilled river bends where bird song mixed with water song.

We saw no pleasure craft or marinas in St. Louis. The Mississippi is always business here, fast water, heavy barge traffic, intimidating industrial equipment along the banks. We entered the 11-mile Chain of Rocks canal, which is used by all river traffic to avoid a dangerous rock dam. In case you haven't studied your charts, a huge billboard looms smack in the middle of the river, an arrow pointing to the left bank. In this ominous place, it looked like the sign at the end of the world: There be dragons.

We entered the low, rock-lined canal and made fast time through St. Louis. Our only pause was a McDonald's that was set up in an old paddle boat. Its backside was stuck in the river, but it was not set up to handle river traffic. We were supposed to be the view.

This did not deter John. There was a cheeseburger with his name on it. Employees waved us off as John buzzed by and called out his order. We made two passes, one to pay and one to pick up. Guess who got to hang outboard in that swift current to make the transaction? We left them with their french fries hanging out of their mouths as we swept by the Gateway Arch, munching our cheeseburgers.

Every mile of the Upper Mississippi is measured according to its proximity to the mouth of the Ohio River. We began our journey at mile 830. When we hit 0, it was time to hang a left and head up the Ohio.

Most pleasure craft avoid the Lower Mississippi because of the heavy tow traffic, the wide areas that are hard to navigate, fog and a lack of facilities. And there are a lot of us snowgeese. Crewed yachts from the Great Lakes to ma and pa adventure seekers, thousands of us float downstream every year in search of our dreams. I thought one of these dreams had ended when I heard mayday called on the radio.

After 47 upstream miles on the Ohio, we turned onto the Tennessee River on a lazy fall morning. Lazy curves, flat banks with few trees, sun glinting on dark water. We were heading for our first uplift in the Kentucky Dam Lock when we heard the mayday call. A barge had hit a sailboat on the other side of the lock. It was overturned but floating. I whispered a prayer for the crew.

Our longest wait for lockage was at this dam. After contacting the lockmaster, we waited 41/2 hours for our turn on the water elevator, not an unusual wait at this busy lock. Long enough to drop anchor, have a meal, read some and joke with the lockmaster.

Told him I was expecting delivery of my first Social Security check by riverboat. I did this respectfully, as rude demands of lockmasters get you nowhere. Noisy jerks wait longer for passage no matter how expensive the yacht. I think the amount of gold neckwear enters (negatively) into the locking schedule, that is, if the lockmaster can get a glint of it through his binoculars. Lockmasters are second only to tow pilots in river hierarchy, and even tow pilots are at their mercy when locking through.

We had been lowered in 26 locks on the Mississippi, but those locks were kindergarten. We were in graduate school now. Locking up is a more turbulent ride because water is rushing in rather than seeping out. Sailboat crews have to keep masts and spreaders from banging on the walls.

The usual lift on the Mississippi was 5 to 15 feet. We were about to lift 67 feet. We slid between the King Kong doors. Another ant-like feeling. The moldy dungeon rose 80 feet over our heads. Somewhere up there a faceless lockmaster was going to throw a switch and let a river in there. He did. It was a ride.

Our most memorable ride was the Bay Springs lock on the Tenn-Tom Waterway, where we were lowered 84 feet. We attached ourselves to a floating bollard in the forward part of the lock where we were told the turbulence would be less. As we descended, we were drenched with spray from cracks in the lock walls.

I thought about the thousands of tons of water behind those walls. I was always relieved to see the lock doors creak open. Some lockmasters are deathly slow at opening them. One couple told us about a lockmaster who teased them by opening and closing the doors repeatedly -- just a crack. They would have put it down to a malfunction if they hadn't argued with him before locking through.

We escaped the Kentucky Dam Lock and ran into the closest marina just as the sun was setting. We heard that the sailors involved in the accident had survived. The woman had jumped from the boat before the barge hit; the man had stayed with the boat until it overturned. They were shaken up but not hurt.

Whenever we could get into a marina, we took advantage of every possible service: laundry facilities, showers, paperback book exchanges, water hoses to fill water tanks. Some had courtesy cars to restaurants and grocery stores, one even had a bathtub. They know what transient boaters are looking for. Besides someone to talk to, for heaven's sake. The couples wanted to talk to someone other than their mates, and the single-handers would talk anybody's ear off.

Kentucky Lakes gave us a series of stunning, rose-colored anchorages surrounded by forested hills. We sauntered along without the stress of fast current or narrow channel. But it eventually became a river again, and with a vengeance. The currents were swift, the bends sharp, and we were still pushing upstream. On this piece of water we were advised to use our radio constantly to determine where we might meet a towfleet.

More earth was moved during construction of the Tennessee Tombigbee Waterway than was moved for the Panama Canal. Completed in 1985, it handles barge traffic through a series of rivers, canals and lakes that stretch from Tennessee to Mobile Bay. The locks, and therefore the towfleets, are smaller here, and the current is lazier. Some miles of the Tenn-Tom were lovely, tree-lined pieces of river. Some miles resembled large drainage ditches. We were heading downstream again.

I believe you could drift down the Tenn-Tom without spying one human on land, which made Lady's Landing a pit stop for a lot of waterborne snowgeese. The proprietor stood midway up a steep bank calling out her wares on an amplifier that was attached to a tree.

Like a circus barker she hooked us in, plying us with those seductive words, "Hey, southbound sailboat, we got ice, cold beer, Twinkies, milk!" We tied off to the inaccurately named floating docks and climbed steep, rickety stairs to the dusty store. We had to push three goats out of the way to get there. They like the stairs.

This is where I learned to bend the bill of my cap so I wouldn't look like a Yankee. I guess my sticking-out-straight-nerd cap gave me away. After the owner assisted me with this fashion consultation, she advised us to feed the cash register receipts to the goats. It was their favorite treat.

The quiet flow of the Tenn-Tom poured us into the great expanse of Mobile Bay approximately three weeks after our sunrise departure from Minnesota. The wide, bright bay made me blink. Land was barely visible on either side of us. Shrimpers moved across the water accompanied by their constant sea gull escorts as we followed the markers to Dog River and Turner's Marina.

We were personally acquainted with 10 of the snowgeese boats and crews on our dock. We had shared lockage, dock space, meals and tall tales somewhere on the rivers. Turner's was my first pelican marina. There was one assigned to each post.

Four days later we crossed Mobile Bay and entered the Intracoastal Waterway heading east. We put up our sails for the first time, doing a broad reach in fresh, 2-foot seas. We dislodged a lot of startled Minnesota spiders. They had no idea where they were. Poor Yankee spiders, little spider cap brims sticking out straight.

We moseyed along the Intracoastal, pulling into a marina now and then for supplies and mail. Places like Pirate's Cove, a marina so laid back it was comatose. A ramshackle splash on a sandy spit. The kind of place you'd expect to see a dissipated writer sitting way back in the corner, drinking tequila, thinking about big fish. It was quaint, as in old, moldy and decrepit, yet it had charm.

The whole place listed to port, the wood floorboards conformed to the shape of waves in the bay, the dust was an inch thick, and the ladies' toilet had a sign over it, "urine only."

The marina dogs dozed in sand nests under a Jeep in what was surely dog heaven. Pirate's Cove cheeseburgers were famous from Kentucky Lakes on downstream. They were served up by a shirtless, hairy-pitted, barefoot refugee from Woodstock. We ordered two, and we knew we weren't in Minnesota anymore.

Rain, fog, arguments. Black nights listening to the anchor drag, wondering if we'd end up on a wingdam. Close-up views of looming barge hull. Counting seconds while we drifted under unmarked cable crossings, no crew member willing to touch the metal helm. Locking through a Tenn-Tom lock tied to the right hip of a towboat (talk about your close-up view). Backing under non-opening bridges, ready to scoot if the rigging touched the bridge.

Tedious days of navigating in the rain, the off watch handing mugs of coffee to the unfortunate at the helm. Tedious days away from civilization, awaiting that glad cry all sailors long to hear: "Burger King, ho!"

But I give you Ingram Bayou. Cool brown water linked in a series of pools, tucked into groves of pines and low, bushy palms. Not a human habitation in sight, just an occasional sailboat nosing in to pass the night. My first successful loaf of homemade bread baking on the grill.

A lazy dolphin swam by, huffing air, as day turned to night. Our anchor light came on -- one white light at the top of the mast -- a low, bright bayou star. It's where the angel lives. Hoped that angel would lend a hand with our gulf crossing.

Mary Jo Nelson lives in St. Petersburg. She is, as she puts it, in "unstructured work."

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