Cold Cruising

Glamping on the edge of not having fun.

Going Nowhere Fast

Angelfish 🐠 gently rocked at anchor in the sheltered harbor of Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina, the weather was sunny but unseasonably cold, and the Atlantic Ocean was still too unsettled to sail further south. Bored, we decided to restock our bulk food supplies and had a Costco order delivered. Riding in Coconut 🥥 (the tender named after our grandson) downwind to the dinghy dock was cold but refreshing. On the return trip, the flooding tide and opposing north winds jolted us over every wave. Bouncing is along. Icy spray drenched us almost immediately, leaving us shivering in the 30° air. Miserable as soaked cats, we clambered aboard, stowed the groceries, and hung our dripping clothes in the salon. Still trembling, we dove under the covers to thaw out.

Retired life on a winter cruise.

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Dinner on SV Pisces ♓

While awaiting Dragon 🐉 parts back in Beaufort, North Carolina, we met a beautiful family just 11 days into a cruise to mend the shattered souls of its crew. Aboard SV Pisces ♓ were a mother, her daughter, and her son-in-law, the captain. They’d left the lower Chesapeake in late December, seeking solace from fresh grief. The mother’s son had passed in October, and their loss was a wound still raw and heavy.

The connection began when Angelfish’s 🐠 first mate, Karen, noticed their catamaran’s name, Pisces ♓. Our son who took his own life four years ago was a Pisces, and in his honor, it was partly how we came to name our boat Angelfish 🐠 (that and his diminutive was “Ange-Ami” or “friendly-angel”). When Karen found their blog, she learned they’d also named Pisces ♓ after their son’s birth month. Knowing grief’s unrelenting pain, I messaged them, offering support from our own experience. Minutes later, their tender buzzed over.

That evening of sharing and the next morning’s breakfast gathering lifted us all. Four years on, Karen and I no longer break down into a crumbled mess in grief, but the ache lingers, ever-present. Talking with the Pisces’ ♓ crew, I realized we’d been burying our pain. Sharing stories cracked us open, easing the torment for both families. We started a group chat and continued to be there for each other.

Pisces ♓ left Beaufort a day before us, taking the longer Intracoastal Waterway (ICW) route to Wrightsville Beach and arriving there a day after us. When the Catermeran was anchored, the Angelfish 🐠 crew was invited over to share a meal.

Truthfully, I hesitated. It was cold, the tender ride risked soaking us again, and our boat would be ice cold with the heaters off while away, or so I told myself. The real reason was that revisiting my son’s death hurts. I was very glad to help this grieving family, but dredging up my loss really stings. Losing my 3-year-old brother, my father, and my godfather as a boy forged coping skills I’ve sharpened for decades. When my son died, those reserves ran dry. Over four years, I’ve clawed my way back to myself. I wasn’t eager to unravel that and feel so raw and exposed again.

Nevertheless, we dropped the Coconut 🥥 and motored over.

It was a wonderful meal, and we talked as cruisers do about our adventures, avoiding the grief for a time. But it was waiting for us all and soon we were sharing with tears in our eyes. Celebrating the life of these two fine young men. We even found laughter as we imagined them conspiring beyond the veil to bring our families together for healing.

The night closed with music and song. All of us, especially maybe me, were better for it. Angelfish’s motto, from Ian Fleming’s Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (a family favorite) rings true: “Never say no to adventure.” I nearly did, but I’m glad I didn’t. I’d have missed a night of love, grace.

There's one thought on grief I carry with me, I don't know where it originated but I keep it close when I'm lost in the throws of my sadness: The lives of our lost ones weren’t cut short. No, those lives were as full as ours, their arc perfect with nothing lost, the timing of their “walking on” are known only to those who’ve passed and God himself. The loss we feel is only ours, the living who love and miss them. They are free.

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Seeking safety from winter storms.

We spent four days anchored in Wrightsville Beach, glued to uncooperative weather reports. The seas continued to be too rough in the Atlantic for a pleasant cruise south, and the arctic cold continued to force us to stay below decks.

Somewhat cozy, we binge-watched shows, played a lot of cards, and cooked warm comfort food. My oldest son recommended a recipie for Buffalo Chicken Stuffed Peppers we have been tweaking it to our liking.

Angelfish’s 🐠 heat pumps and Genie 🧞 (our generator) have worked well, but with temps soon plunging to the low 20s, we were considering moving to a marina slip with shore power’s unlimited electricity. The Genie 🧞 burns just a quarter gallon of diesel per hour in the hooka, producing 30 amps of electricity from its 45-gallon tank (enough for seven or eight days straight). The main heat pump chews through 15 amps, leaving the rest for other needs. A small ceramic heater, set to 40°, guards the watermaker in the lazarette from freezing. Often when we are cooking, we have to manage the amperage as our stove is also electric, and the heat pumps are then turned off and the cold creeps in. Plugging Angelfish 🐠 into shore power gives us 50 amps of electricity so we can keep the heat on 24/7.

Adding to our concern was news of a freak southern storm, threatening six inches of snow in North Carolina. We needed to head to a marina or further south or both soon!

With the Atlantic still too unsettled for a passage, the ICW was our only option South. In two days, we could cover nearly 90 miles to Osprey Marina, plugin, and maybe dodge the worst of the storm. Osprey Marina is a favorite among ICW cruisers, this family-run spot was new to us, and we were eager to see it.

On Monday, January 20, 2025, we hauled anchor, letting Dragon 🐉 push us toward Southport, North Carolina. It was frigid, and the ICW was deserted, save for Angelfish 🐠. A north wind blew, but sunshine warmed our enclosed cockpit, well sort of. Four of our six Isinglass panels of the enclosure have cracked and split in the cold. The vinyl gets brittle below 40°and breaks with any stress at all. We have patched them with clear packing tape on both sides, but it is only a stopgap until UV rays degrade the tape and force a full Isinglass replacement.

Transiting Snow’s Cut from Carolina Beach to the Cape Fear River, we followed “Bob423’s ICW Tracks” and dodged a stump jutting six inches above the water that could have punched a hole in Angelfish 🐠. I marked it on the map and shared it with the community. Two weeks later, word came that someone hit that “deadhead,” suffering serious damage.

After four hours on the ICW, just past Cape Fear, we pulled into St. James Plantation Marina. Shore power awaited, our next leg to Osprey Marina would be a long one from here, but doable if we started early.

Except we never made it. That night, the storm hit, and freezing rain covered Angelfish 🐠 with a quarter-inch of ice, as the storm developed, four inches of snow packed the gunwales. The next day, more freezing rain added another quarter-inch, sandwiching the snow. We extended our marina stay, hunkering below to keep warm.

In four years of cruising the East Coast, we’d never faced such bitter cold. We had been casually discussing putting a proper diesel heater system aboard that would run off our generator tank, but so far it was an expense we couldn't justify. That might need to change. Our two air conditioners double as heaters, but feebly. In Beaufort, I ordered two ceramic heaters: a small one for the watermaker, and a larger one for the cabin. They guzzle electrical amps, so even plugged in to shore power we have to manage electrical use. Nevertheless, I was very glad to have them both during this arctic snowstorm that blanketed the entire Southeast coast down to the Florida panhandle.

We have tried to make the most out of the situation, but this year’s pilgrimage south has been one delay after another. It started last summer when we were delayed many times from getting our damaged davits replaced. When that was finally done, we felt we missed our New England cruising window so we pushed a late September run to Martha’s Vinyard. But before we could get there we were held up in a hurricane hole waiting for a tropical storm to pass. We loved our fall cruise through the Elizabeth Islands but left Narragansett Bay in late October in cold weather. That had us rushing down Long Island Sound and Jersey coast, and skipping Delaware. Then, a mid-November refit in Deale Maryland, dragged into December, and Beaufort repairs sapped our momentum. Cold, wet, and weary, we needed to plan our nomadic cruising winter life better, but who knew it snowed in North Carolina?

Glamping’s great—until it’s misery.

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Spatula as Snow Shovel

On the afternoon of the second day, the sun came out. The temperatures rose above 30° and the first layer of ice started to melt. K and I went out to clear off the side decks of snow and ice, as well as free up all “working” lines we might need to move the boat.

The first challenge was what do we clear the snow away with? A shovel? There's nothing like that aboard. Our hands? Our gloves are not waterproof. Dock water? The lines are turned off in the cold.

The brilliant first mate came up with two cooking spatulas, one metal and one plastic. Armed with our tiny shovels we cleared the decks one scoop at a time. The bottom layer of ice brought up big chunks of snow when using the metal spatula, the plastic was good at clearing the remaining debris. Before we were half done the metal spatula broke off its handle, so I used only the blade with my increasingly cold and wet hands.

We cleared 4-5 inches of snow off the side decks and about 1.25 inches around the working lines before the cold temperatures kicked in again and we went below. The solar panels were still covered with about 2 inches, we tried to push the ice and snow off with a broom, but I didn't want to damage a solar panel in the process so we left it.

That night, Karen and I didn't love the “Cold Crusing” life. We were wet (again) and cold, stuck below decks. This isn’t what we imagined our retirement would be like, and we started to rethink our adventure. “Is this really how we want to spend our time?” We needed a good champagne sail to make us forget all our tribulations.

Poseidon just might have heard our prayer.

Stay tuned…