I was getting more and more antsy to move the catamaran out of the southeast hurricane prone area and bring it up north. I'd have all my pet projects at least in one state. I was also concerned that someone or something could get at my boat while I was away. I grabbed some of my overnight things in a bag and took a bus down to Morehead City, NC. It turns out that this is practically the only way to get there. Flying to Raleigh or Charlotte leaves you quite far away and then there is the problem of coordinating a bus trip anyway.
One problem that manifested itself was the amount of tools I needed to bring from my old sloop down to the catamaran. Although I was traveling with just a few clothes, the tool cases made up for that. Once I was on the bus I could see that carrying just about anything along this route was not out of the ordinary. One fellow who stood out looked like a bonafide NYC crackhead with plastic garbage bags filled with CD's and apparently a good supply of fruit of various kinds that he continually chomped on. He also was carrying on a conversation with a pretty red haired girl in the seat in front of him. I assumed they were traveling as a couple or at least close friends, judging from how familiar he was acting toward her. Next to me was an old Nova Scotia truck driver who filled me in on the ports up that way. He told me the sad story of his wife and one of his sons murdered by an angry snowmobiler who was denied access to their property. The son was trying to protect his mother. Very sad. I was surprised to see the red haired girl get off the bus while her buddy stayed, munching his strawberries and peaches. Then he started bothering a young blond girl with a large tatoo on the small of her back.
The truck driver inspected the bus tires on one of our rest stops. "I always do that" he said. He found a large piece of rubber had flung off the tire and pointed it out to the driver who then proceeded to order another bus for us. Later the blond girl got off, before her intended stop, probably due to the pestering of the fruit muncher. I could see her calling either to say she'd take a later bus or asking for someone to come and get her.
When I finally got to Beaufort I found a mouse had got on board the catamaran and chewed up quite a bit of paper, put holes in my DEflatable mattresses, and generally gone on a rampage throughout the boat. Apparently it had been enjoying life afloat for some time. There was a general smell of mouse throughout the starboard hull, plus droppings here and there. There were nibble marks on most paper and plastic things. This wasn't a house trained mouse.
I noticed some activity on the other Wharram catamaran in the harbor, John Russell's "Cool Change", ex "Manihi Pahi". I rowed over and paid him a visit, helped stow a tent, and had a friendly chat with him and his wife. I went ashore and brought along my bicycle after attending to the ever present corrosion. It was Sunday and the laundry was closed. To expedite matters I brought my soiled laundry with me to the town park next to the dinghy dock and hand washed about 5 loads of laundry in an 8 gallon bucket. I let things drip dry on the post and rail fence while I went off in search of a burger and a beer. Then I would go to the grocery store, but I changed my mind and decided to pay Rob, the Christian Captain, a surprise visit. He had been so helpful when I really needed help. On the way over the bridge to Morehead City I blew the front tire and crashed. I skidded down the road on my hands and knees. I walked back to Beaufort regretting my impulsive sidetrip. Blood was oozing out of my knees and running down my shins. I stopped in a burger shop and swabbed the blood away in the men's room. Now I couldn't use the bike to shop for provisions. I went to the Back Street Pub and drowned my sorrows.
When I got back to the dinghy and the laundry there was a lady with a dog sitting in the park. Her name was Theresa and she had returned to Beaufort to take care of her 101 year old aunt. She was very talkative and gave me a history lesson on Beaufort and some of the surrounding barrier islands. I suppose every secluded seaside community has its share of history. In modern times a maritime museum is built near the waterfront and the once thriving fishing industry is now chronicled inside a building for the tourists. The town becomes "quaint" and the fishermen now are sportfishing, chartering local boats to go out for the day. As the local families die off or move away, the fishing cottages are snappped up as vacation homes.

(Continued on page #29)