By now I felt like I had the hang of that first lock in the morning thing. I would dock or anchor just above the lock so early in the morning I could call ahead to let them know I was coming and for the most part they would have the chamber full and the gates open for me by the time I got there. So I called Heflin and they said they would be ready for me, great, then my day proceeded with some difficulty. As I tried to pull up my tiny secondary anchor, the one that wouldn't hold, I saw that it had hooked itself to the rode of the primary anchor, to which it held very well. It took no small amount of humping and tugging to get the little anchor and the primary rode out of the water far enough for me to lean over the rail, to liberate the little guy. It apparently had caught a bight of rode between the primary anchor and somewhere that the primary anchor rode had snagged on something below. Now when I went to haul up the primary I could get about ten of two hundred feet of rope before it became impossible. I tried humping and hauling and using the engine from several different angles, but apparently the rope had wrapped itself around some prehistoric log or submerged house. I was getting concerned about loosing my chance at the lock so I let go of my one good anchor that over the years has held me faithfully through some pretty heavy stuff, as well as my rode with two spliced ends, thimble and fancy work. Now I have no anchor that will hold this boat, but I did gain an open sore on my left palm where the skin had torn away from all the tug-o-war. I hope I can get two new anchors in Demopolis as from then on I will need to anchor in the waterway and prevent swing into bank or barge.
At least the cooling system is working properly again after over five hundred miles of running hot. At seven a.m. I was through Heflin Lock, number ten of twelve, and by ten a.m. my friend the wind was right on my nose again and making himself felt. There were also some ominous skies following and some distant rumblings. Finally the river took a turn away from the prevailing winds and at long last I had a little wind on my back which brought my rate of travel up from 4.4 knots to around a whopping 4.9 and 5 ! However, this boon of wind came ultimately with the price of torrential rain. Visibility was diminished to almost as bad as the morning of fog, but I was now afraid to use the radar as lightning seemed to be getting closer. In fact I turned off all electronics fearing they would be fried in a strike. I again feared tows coming out of the blinding sheet of rain, but eventually got a grip as a couple approached and past. After all, I was going only about jogging speed and the approaching barges about the same or slower. Freaking out and getting a grip is one of my favorite games I play with myself.
The rain eventually slacked enough to take in the milestone of passing mile marker 225 which is exactly halfway between the Tennessee River and downtown Mobile, and incidentally the boat had motored 560 miles from Nashville to that point. And finally at 4:05 p.m. after 11 hours and 52 miles of motoring we were all tied up at the famous Demopolis yacht basin.
Everybody talks about Demopolis. Big fucking deal. The place gives me a bad vibe. Maybe it was because it was so run down. And not in the quaint way Smithville and Marina cove were rustic in tiny towns and still seemed nice despite their character. Demopolis is supposed to be the epicenter of the Tenn-Tom. It's where tows buy oceans of fuel and they charge heafty transient fees, but still its just run down. Or maybe it's because as I went to check in at the fuel dock/office I saw this gigantic half rat half beaver looking thing that filled me with fear, disgust and loathing. Or maybe it is just my prissy sensibilities. They did have all I needed for a comfortable stay. The lady at the counter was very nice, and once all was setteled up I was able to take the unexpectedly fine courtesy car to get some cheap fuel for the boat and for me. I noticed that the national average for gas had gone down so I filled up. I also found a very unlikely mexican restaurant called La Gran Fiesta. Looking at the place and the surronding town I had low expectations, then when I saw the guy working the register was a Gringo and the patrons were all sterotypically rural, honkey Alabamites I was resigned to the worst possible meal scenarios. But they did have Negro modelo, so I was staying. The salsa was suprisingly damn good and the local hicks apparently have allowed them to use onions and cilantro. They had some Yucateco on the table which I added liberally to make a super fine affair. When I eeked out my few ready Spanish words of greeting and to order some tacos al carbon my waiter was overjoyed. He proceeded to rattle at me like I was an hermano, and I tried my best to keep up, catching about every third word of his and replying I'm sure like a retard or a stroke victim. We had a grand time though and I kept pounding the cervesas and nodding, as he told me about a place I think he called Guayavitas.
As I approached Demopolis on Friday I had been debating weather to stay for one or two days, but when I learned that the only chandlery in town(the Demopolis Yacht basin ship store) where I had to get my anchors would not be open untill 6 a.m. Monday my fate was decided for me. I had to have those anchors to proceed. So after sleeping in on Saturday morning I had a leisurely breakfast of two tins of kippered herring, fried and two english muffins also fried. I always feel like I'm communing with my grandmother Stuart when I have kippers with toast and strawberry preserves, and I imagine her disapproval at my gluttonous portions. I remenber feeling like I could have eaten the plate back when she introduced me to this culinary delight. After breakfast I listened to Bob Marley, drank coffee, and worked on a few projects I thought the boat needed before we put to the great wide sea. My anxiety about the ocean and the season of our voyage was steadily increasing. As I was outside fashioning some reinforcements I met my nieghbor. He had all his hatches open so I figured he had no a/c and I remarked at how hardcore I thought he was, and he said I would know hardcore when I got out in the ocean. He gave me a very usefull phone number to one of the lift bridges who apparently does not monitor the radio, and told me a confusing story of where he had stayed on his way up stream from Mobile and how at this particular bridge he struck his tricolor light and antenna. He told me he had done the trip down two years ago and kind of hung around the gulf coast. When I told him my plans he very obviously paused, and I went on about my business. I came out later and he stopped me and said he didn't want to try to talk me out of anything, but really wanted to share his idea of an alternate route. I said of course I'd love to hear any advice at all from someone who had been there, cause I really didn't know what the fuck I was doing. I then learned that his boat was a Westsail 32, a famous oceangoing vessel built to withstand the harshest weather, and usually able to outlast the people within the boat. He also told me he was staying in Demopolis for the month of August because he couldn't bear the heat of travelling on the river. This seemed very odd to me since in my experince the heat is worse when you stop the boat, and sweltering in breezeless, shitty, hot Demopolis with or without an a/c seemed like my idea of a certain type of Hell. Now the old man's sense of forboding and concern about my voyage has got my already high anxiety peaking. So I told him I would meet him up by the bathhouse later after I got the boat all squared away after my long day of projects.
Cleaning up took me a lot longer than I thought and by the time I got up to the bathhouse the old man was absolutely shit-face "D"-runk. Apparently it is his daily routine to start cocktail hour rather early in the afternoon until the wee hours with his new local dock resident freind, Bewla, who dons a backpack to stagger back and forth from her houseboat to the drinking patio.
He thought I should have had a drink in my hand, I guess I looked out of place. He proceeded to launch into his repeditive, slurred diatribe in his own thick native deep woods Tennessee accent .
"Yee' gunnah taeek uh beeug baaht outta thayut ahpple, ah meen a beeug baaht." He thought sailing from Mobile to Tampa right out of the box was absolutely crazy. When I told him I added Tampa as a waypoint just recently, that my original plan was to sail nonstop around Dry Tortugas, he slurred at me ," Yeew aint gunnah git maad at mee ifn aah say sumthin 'r yee? Yer fuhlah sheeit." "Naw , naw whutchyee wuhnnna dew eeuhs taeek thuh I C W an' cum out aroun' Purdeeduh Bay, an' eef yee wunnah gow out intuh th' guhf 'fer a cuhpla ars, faayhn but git bak eeuhn an gitcha' hamberger er sum'n . Yee downt neeyud t' be out ehr awl naaiht. th' guf'uhl keek yer ayuss. nauh shee maaht be jes' lahkkat raht thehr." He gestured to the mirrorlike conditions in the marina. "Thahs whutchu wownt raht thehr, buhtchu gownuh burn alawtuh feeyool. Th'Guf'l keek yer ayuhs. Y'aint gonna geeyt no sleeyuhp, ah doncayer haw metch crew y'got. Yeel alwaees b'wonerin wuhss thayut drunkupehrdooin'. aah donwanna tawkyee owta nut'n. Yee maht gitahtehre an' thank awhell thahyut old mayuns jest sumol drunk, butahm jessayin the Guf'l keek yerass." The old man went on and on in this circle of logic untill I had heard the gist of his argument about four times. Fortunately the more he prattled on, the more at ease I felt. I wondered what it was in his particular makeup or experience that had made him so fearfull of spending time on the ocean, especially when he had spent the money to get such a bulletproof boat. Perhaps related to the strange part of his character that would make him prefer sweltering in shithole Demopolis as opposed to making way to his home destination. Some people don't like being offshore and some people don't like sailng, which may have explained his admonition to use the I.C.W. and to always have enough gas to get where you are going. And of course he had about twenty, five-gallon jerry cans strapped to his decks. He did repeat several times that he didn't fear for saftey, and he kept stressing that we would just get so exhausted. There was no way I was going to tell him that there were no planned stops from Key West to Myrtle Beach.
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