Seventeen Feet Down the ICWW

Historic Photos and Captions Courtesy Mary Margaret McEachern

Friends’ eyes glazed when I proudly announced our intention to cruise Mary Margaret’s 17-foot center console McKee Craft named Little One down the Intracoastal Waterway from Wilmington to Charleston for a week’s vacation in the summer of 2004. The ladies asked the polite, “Where will you stay … where will you eat?” The guys were more pointed: “Are you NUTS?!?”

We saw nothing outrageous about the idea. We shared a profound love for the water and had long harbored the dream of cruising down the waterway. The only problem was we didn’t have a cruiser. Well, a cruiser is a boat, right? We have a boat, right? Yeah, it’s only 17 feet and open. That’s close enough! Hotels could serve as our “cabin.”

We considered the worst that could happen. The good news was the water was protected, and it was summer. Of course, it could rain. Short storms wouldn’t be a problem; we had a Bimini top, rain jackets, and several marinas to dash into should the rain have electricity in it. If the whole week turned nasty? I had a couple of suckers, uh, friends, I could con into bringing our truck and trailer down to fetch us.

We invested in a couple of waterproof duffel bags to ensure dry clothes if we did get wet, and we could recuperate with hot showers in nice cool hotel rooms. We armed ourselves with a waterway guide complete with charts and local information as well as a cooler full of ice and the requisite liquid fortifications. We were ready!

The Saturday of our departure was filled with small chores that ate more of the day than anticipated. In my mind, it was too late; the wind had been up all day, the tide was falling, and it would probably be rough between Snow’s Cut and Southport.

I suggested waiting until early Sunday morning, but Miss Priss would hear none of it; she was in go mode! We left her parents’ dock at Cedar Island near Wrightsville Beach with her daddy, Sandy — a Hewletts Creek man from way back — looking longingly after us.  The faith that man must have had to let me depart on such an adventure with his baby girl.

The hull skimmed lightly on the warm water and the engine hummed along as we reveled in the warm breeze and views of wildlife and beautiful homes. Things were just lovely until we hit the shipping channel just past Snow’s Cut in the Cape Fear River. As I had feared, that’s where the fun began.

There was no comfort to be found. Too slow and we shipped water over the bow. Too fast and we were pounded senseless. Did I mention the spray? I wanted to know who had the fire hose and why was it in my face? Yeah, lots of fun so far! Why had I let her talk me into this?

Poor Mary Margaret nearly came to tears, feeling it was her fault we were in this situation until I laughed and said “So what? We’d pay for this ride at Disney!” She giggled and we pressed on.

Suddenly and wonderfully, we were in the calm waters of Southport. A little wet and concerned with Mary Margaret’s comfort, I suggested we pull in for the night. She would have none of it. She wanted to “feel like we’d gone somewhere.” No time to appear meek. How could I resist? With the afternoon waning, no reservations and no definite destination, I was growing concerned, but open the throttle I did. Neither Little One nor “MM” showed any hesitation.

A bit wet and a bit chilly we made it to Ocean Isle, pulled into a waterfront restaurant, and tied up. Some good old “down East” fried seafood, French fries, cole slaw and hush puppies eaten al fresco and we were rejuvenated. Let’s head south!

The ride was idyllic, but daylight was weakening. I felt it might be prudent to search for lodging, but the prospects in the area around Tubbs Inlet were not promising. Perchance, should I have planned a little better? Were we going to be spending the night aboard a 17-foot boat? Concern appeared nowhere on Mary Margaret’s face; I needed more of what she was drinking!

I pulled into a marina thinking we might find refuge, but it was closed. Desperation then overruled my maleness, and I asked directions from a young fisherman casting a net. Fortunately, he gave us the wrong directions, south to where he thought there was a motel. The lodgings to which he referred were actually north, and we wound up at the Sunset Beach drawbridge (yet closer to Myrtle Beach.)

The bridge was worth seeing. It was woefully inadequate in serving the burgeoning population of Sunset Beach and has since been replaced, yet it fostered wonderful images of a simpler time. A one-lane affair and low to the water, the draw portion was a small barge that floated out of the way to open and was drawn closed by a cable. As grand as we thought we were, we weren’t large enough to prompt its opening and instead slipped under an adjacent small craft passage.

We armed ourselves with more directions from another young fisherman (we’re slow learners) and confidently continued our cruise. Lo and behold, not 30 minutes later with dusk nipping at our stern we motored into Harborgate Marina in North Myrtle Beach.

Not knowing what time we were departing or how far we might get we hadn’t made reservations, and to really make my tummy tighten, I discovered that it was also Bike Week in Myrtle Beach. That could only mean that every motorcyclist on the Eastern Seaboard would be crammed into every nook and cranny for miles around.

I dejectedly trudged to the Hampton Inn behind the marina while figuring out the sleeping arrangements on our boat, not to mention imagining again how I was going to explain our humble accommodations to Mary Margaret. (Wow dear! Won’t it be wonderful to sleep under the stars on the boat?)

Wait! You have vacancies? The Lord looks after fools and lost mariners and there I stood, the happiest idiot in the area. Who needs plans and silly reservations? Where is the adventure if there is no risk? After hot showers, dry clothes, and a wonderful dinner, the first day was a raging success.

Following a couple of days in Myrtle Beach we were well fed, well rested and ready to set out for Georgetown, South Carolina. The sun was brilliant, the skies Carolina blue, and the breeze balmy. With Mary Margaret at the helm and I as first mate and bartender, we cruised.

The waterway is surprisingly narrow from North Myrtle Beach through south of town and clearly bears the scars of being manmade. From there it completely changes character as it joins the Waccamaw River. On either side the river spreads and disappears into cypress swamps. There are no houses, no development — only water, trees and silence.

Aside from other boats of all sizes on the waterway, about the only signs of civilization for miles at a time were tiny little floating fishing shacks. Then, out of nowhere, as we rounded a bend, a seawall of docks and buildings appeared. It was the delightful little oasis of Bucksport. Complete with restaurant, fuel dock and convenience store, it was the perfect place to reprovision.

We met an interesting older fellow who claimed to be local but had an astonishing brogue I can only compare to something of a cross between Cajun and Irish. Though nearly impossible to understand, he was delighted to be of any assistance. He spoke, I smiled and nodded.

He did, however, seem a bit out of touch with the last oh, maybe century of history, at least as it related to women’s rights. He watched with no more wonder than if she had walked on water as Mary Margaret expertly brought the boat up to the dock. He studied us carefully the entire time as we made our purchases and simply had to comment upon our departure about how brave I was to let a woman run the boat.

Wickedly I baited him. “I had to.” Poor fellow bit, and innocently as a child asked, “Why?” I landed him hard. “Because it’s her boat.” I swear to you the color drained from his face, he staggered a step, and I thought we were about to lose the old boy. He managed to collect himself enough to wave as we headed for Georgetown, but I am willing to bet you he hasn’t been right since.

The trip to Georgetown was smooth sailing. Slick river water, friendly waves from passing boats, scenic views, and neat little marinas. Forget shrinks. This was real therapy!

Our arrival at the marina in the early afternoon was greeted as if we were big. Seventeen feet was treated like 70. Everywhere we went, whoever was at the helm was called captain with genuine respect and every courtesy extended.

Georgetown itself is a small jewel that invites all the clichés about Southern charm and hospitality. Aside from the delightful shops, restaurants, and scenic riverfront boardwalk, we found a wonderful wine, cigar and chess bar where we idled away an entire afternoon. We fell in love with the carved Egyptian wood chess set we were playing, and the owner of the bar graciously agreed to sell it to us. We promptly shipped our new treasure home.

Could it get any better? On to Charleston.

Further down there was a fabulously fragrant section of the waterway, a smooth narrow channel with white blooms all over the bushes on the bank. I had no idea what they were. It then opened into sandy beaches, wide open spaces, huge beach homes, and finally Charleston Harbor.

Crossing the harbor, we arrived at Charleston City Marina’s mega dock, which can easily handle yachts in excess of 100 feet. Rarely the soul of originality, I simply had to ask whether they could handle us. An extremely courteous young man, whom I’m certain had heard the idiotic question countless times before, smiled politely and assured me they could.

Once secure in our slip I went to the dockmaster’s shack to check in only to be asked by the lovely young lady behind the desk whether we would need shore power. Fresh from my last chance to make a fool of myself I simply couldn’t resist another and said yes, allowing how I might want to run the air conditioning later. “Really?” her eyes huge at the prospect. The young man next to her elbowed the sweet girl and chided, “Don’t be THAT blonde!” She gave him a look that could decalcify your spine. She was painfully polite to me; I slithered back to the boat.

My pathetic performance forgotten by the time I got to Little One, I grabbed Priss and we headed downtown via the marina shuttle bus.

If you’ve been to Charleston, you know; if you haven’t, for heaven’s sake, go! We spent days exploring wonderful shops, historic homes, the Battery on the river, fabulous restaurants and the view from the rooftop bar at the Pavilion Hotel with the best tuna tartare ever. We rammed repeatedly through the Market and indulged in private carriage rides down oak canopied streets while guides proselytized about the colorful history of Charleston.

Does it sound like raving? It is. The adventure was everything we had hoped for and more than we had imagined. Though relatively short, the trip provided endless opportunities for fun and relaxation. I haven’t come close to telling you everything; you need to discover it for yourself.

If you have ever contemplated a trip like this and thought you would do it later or you needed more justification, I offer you this: as we were leaving our hotel to depart Charleston, a handsome woman in her mid-60s stepped into our elevator. Spotting our duffel bag she said, “You’re traveling by boat, aren’t you?” We said yes and her eyes clouded.  She said she and her husband had so often discussed taking a cruise down the waterway from their home in the Chesapeake area. They had a nice cruiser, but her husband wanted to wait until he retired and had more time. Two years before he reached that milestone, he passed away.

She wished us well and stepped quietly from the elevator. We barely spoke as we took each other’s hand and strolled to the boat in the glorious summer sun.

As for us, we were so excited by the entire experience that within a month of our return home we purchased a brand new, 30-foot Mainship Pilot courtesy of Ron Worthington and Yacht One in Wilmington. We christened her Curlz and our saga continues.

Our cruises may be a tad more “luxurious” now, but Little One still tags right along, toting grand memories of what she started.

Being overtaken by a rare cancer, Rob left this earth too early on December 22, 2022. He and wife Mary Margaret enjoyed a very special marriage.