September 1991.
I remember the weeks before the departure date.
My heart was constantly in my throat with excitement, but I also remember the fear emotion being very close at it’s side. The feelings are so close. The weeks before were filled with the thoughts of equipping the boat. And then there was the preparation of bank accounts and storage of furniture.
Somewhere towards the end of August, Bill, Sue and myself sailed Blue Grace over to Plattsburgh Marina to have the mast stepped. The realization was beginning to settle in now very quickly. Was I prepared? Better be. I’m leaving in three weeks.
On the 13th of September, 1991, we set off towards Florida, by way off the Champlain Canal System and the Intracoastal Waterway.
On my way to the boat leaving the marina for the last time was a note pinned to the bulletin board from my friend Ian. His wife Joyce had just had their first baby. They named her Grace.
I remember clearly leaving Snug Harbour and motoring towards the village of Essex , New York. As Bill and I attempted to navigate at night, we could not make out the buoys. They were not lit. As we strained our eyes passing Four Brothers Islands, we simply could not see the navigational aids. Nor could we obtain a proper bearing to establish a fix, as it was pitch dark and we could pick up no land mass to focus on.
The depth of the water was rapidly changing, becoming much shallower. I had sailed to Essex on several other occasions, so I knew this was a sign that we were indeed close to our marker. Sue happened to say something and as I turned to acknowledge her, there was our marker... less than a dozen feet off the port.
If Sue had not said something, we simply would have sailed past and not known our position.
Such is Sailing.
As some navigational aids are so seldom maintained, a lot is accomplished through luck, which is not always the most comforting way to find things out. At ten thirty, we arrived at the sleepy little town of Essex and tied up for the evening, anxious for the morning.
Morning found me too excited to sleep and both Bill and I were up before dawn. We took a quick walk and went over to untie Blue Grace. Breakfast would be prepared underway this first morning.
While the sun broke over the majestic New England Adirondacks, Sue prepared coffee and cereal, with toast, peanut butter and orange juice. The sun quickly burned off the morning mist and the cockpit became the center of activity. There was hot food being served. The weather could not have been better and the autopilot was set as we motored our way towards the locks at the bottom of the lake.
The little towns we were passing were quaint and although I had spent a considerable amount of time in this region of New York, it certainly was never from this perspective.
My sailing for the past three and a half years was centered around the northern section of Lake Champlain.
As we continued down the lake, it naturally grew narrower as it emptied into the lock system at Whitehall and then into the Hudson River. And as the lake grew narrower, we began to pay closer attention to the depth of the water. Blue Grace drew 6’2" under the water and at this point in Lake Champlain, to hit bottom meant to become a statue.
The bottom was soft, deep mud. So reading the charts and following our course became quite important, and although my vanity has always wanted to have myself remembered as a statue, it was not for being a Lake Champlain monument.
On we went, at times relaxing to take photos of the hawks that circled overhead, hunting for fish near the surface of the water or for small animals feeding by the watersides. We wondered, at times, whether they were following us, but finally realized they were watching our wake, that we were stirring up the water and the fish.
I remember, at this point, that the passage became so narrow that Bill became intense, watching the water with anxiety, and we all let him luxuriate in that state.Bill began to take control of the boat and one minute we were on a voyage and the next, we were under command.
I believe it was at this point that we christened him “Admiral Waddell”.
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