We departed in the gloom - but with a kind treat from Janet, one of the residents of the Condo who had befriended us
The very first few miles were the worst. Craney Island reach was a sloppy mess. Southbound waves were pushing into the northbound current and then reflecting off each side to make a jumble of box and pyramid-shaped seas that ate away half the speed we should have been making on a close reach in twenty-five knots of wind.
After passing Willoughby Bay, things improved dramatically as wind, wave and current all swung astern. By two a.m., we were over the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel and moving fast along the coast in the Atlantic.
Over the next day and a half, the wind swung from west to south-southwest. Since we were only a few miles offshore, we really had no waves to speak of. I was a little worried it would be rough crossing the strong currents at the entrance to Delaware Bay, but I slept well through my off-watch and Maryanne reported nothing eventful.
A cold passage - we broke out all the foul weather gear (and quilts on the bed)!
We had to race up the New Jersey coast a bit in order to make it to the entrance to New York Harbor during the flood there. The turn into the harbor required us to sail close-hauled to get through the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. The boost from the flood helped our angle just enough that we didn’t have to tack to get through.
Approaching NY City - via Lower Bay and the Verrazano Narrows Bridge (into the Hudson River)
There is a really interesting looking village at the confluence of the East and Hudson Rivers. It seemed there was a lot going on, but the choices for visiting boats are less than optimal. Two of the four main facilities for boats along the Hudson have closed in recent years, including the one where we spent a happy winter opposite the Empire State Building. Supply and demand being what it is, the others have started charging yachts, as in the quaint British term for personal sailboats, as if we were Yachts, with the big capital Y. The powers that be are apparently working diligently to resolve the issue, but for now, there is no way we are going to spend half our monthly budget to be allowed to tie our lines to four cleats for twenty hours. That’s before we even buy Metro cards and foldy pizza slices.
So, as difficult as it was to do, I left Begonia in Maryanne’s care just as were passing the site of our former marina. She was left to dodge all the ferries and other river traffic while I did my best to ignore the excitement of all the gleaming lights, turn off my brain, and sleep through my night off-watch.
She finally ran out of wind approaching Haverstraw Bay. I briefly remember hearing the engine under the opposite berth start, but I was soon back to snoozing away. When midnight arrived, we were just getting to the winding, really pretty part of the river north of there.
Sailing at night along the Hudson River and it's many bridges (this one is the Tappan Zee Bridge)
What a difference six hours makes. Every sign of the city behind was gone. Begonia was now a lone boat slowly puttering up a glassy river sided with steep walls covered in trees. Only the occasional freight train on the left or commuter train on the right bank broke the stillness of the moonlit evening. During the entire half hour that I could see the Bear Mountain Bridge, only one set of headlights appeared, crossed the bridge, and then disappeared into the woods.
The flood returned with the dawn, so we continued upriver until it finally ran out. I had only had a couple of bumps in the night, which the spotlight revealed were fireplace log-sized chunks of wood receding in our wake. Maryanne’s day watch was much more eventful. She ended up weaving through whole debris fields, which included entire trees and even one floating dock that had broken free.
Daylight arrives and the river is changed once again - beautiful scenery gets better as the sun arrives from our anchorageoff Rondout Creek
After the flood turned to ebb, we anchored in the protection of the downstream breakwater at Kingston, New York. We noticed a few big trees floating by, but the outflow of Rondout Creek always pushed them around us. There, we waited out a spell of cold weather that was definitely out of the comfort zone our years in the tropics has accustomed us. We reacclimated ourselves to a normal diurnal sleep routine, then it was time to go ashore to see what Kingston (the town off Rondout Creek) had going on.
