Heading back north from the Keys to Fort Pierce with my parents, I don't recall any memorable incidents. I was relieved to return them in no worse health than when they joined me. My brave wife, Ruth, came aboard as navigator, cook and crew as we resumed the trip. She did nobly!

There are many bridges where roads cross the waterway. These are of varying types -- some opening horizontally, others vertically; and of various clearances above the water from a few feet to bridges high enough to allow ships to pass. As with locks in inland canals, each one is operated by a man, but in this case he must control both boat traffic and auto traffic. Everyone is happier when the boat can go under without requiring the bridge to open. Sometimes the boat can barely clear the bridge, giving the captain a judgement problem.

Late one afternoon we came to a long line of yachts of all sizes, held up by a damaged drawbridge. We know that the only marina for many miles beyond the bridge was a small one, with room for only a few boats. A study of the situation indicated that POSARIS had exactly the same clearance as the bottom of the bridge, give or take an inch. We could either be stuck under the bridge, or barely pass under and be the first to the marina. So I had Ruth stand on the front deck and check the clearance while I eased the boat forward. She signaled to keep going and we made it to the marina just in time for a good supper!

The Georgia coast is mostly a low lying flat sea of tall grass and salt water; the waterway being a narrow channel with grass nearly overhanging the boat on both sides. This was unpleasant enough, but one hot day at least a thousand hard-biting deer flies suddenly flew into the cabin. Ruth spent hours killing flies in the hot, closed cabin while I drove the boat. That evening, when we arrived at a little village, one of the locals mentioned that this was Mother's Day. Ruth exclaimed, "Mother's Day!!!" I tried to find a gift, but all I could find was a stale candy bar.

We found more pleasant accommodations later, at the Jekyll Island and St. Simons Island Marinas.

I had forgotten to mention earlier that we freshwater sailors had to learn new tricks, with special ways of tying the ropes for and aft to allow the boat to rise and fall with the tides. A few marinas had floating docks, but at St. Simons, if I remember correctly, we woke up at a lound noise in the night to see a small boat hanging vertically down the wass, with its oars floating away.

Continuing northward through the wide shallow sounds, we came to a dock on the downwind side of a wide stretch of open water, with a strong wind blowing us toward the dock. As captain, I ordered the mate (Ruth) to stand at the bow and yell for a dockhand to fend us off. She yelled, but no-one appeared. Ruth, good sport that she is, was all ready to stick her leg out against a post and get it broken, but at the last minute a dockhand did show up.

Proceeding through the Dismal Swamp, we gingerly approached the dreaded Norfolk Harbor, Ruth with chart in hand (she hates road maps and charts) while I tried to sort out our particular line of markers amongst the maze. All at once, I saw a bridge ahead of us. When I asked the mate whether she saw the bridge on the chart, she replied, "There isn't any bridge!" To which I yelled, "God damn it, there's the bridge!" After some words, we finally found our way to the big municipal marina and a place to stay.

This was the end of POLARIS' cruising with us. She'd weathered many miles and many dangers without letting us down, and was badly in need of repairs and refurbishing. Yacht brokers had offices within sight of the docks, and we were ready to go home. So, with regrets, we sold her.