Magic birds were dancing in the mystic marsh. The grass swayed with them, and the shallow waters, and the earth fluttered under them. The earth was dancing with the cranes, and the low sun, and the wind and sky.—Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings
There’s something about skimming over the shallows—the rocky bottom passing just below the hull—that I find especially satisfying. Managing to venture where deeper, heavier boats fear to tread is exhilarating, and so often the places you get to are less visited and more exotic. Many of my favorite cruising memories feature shallow-water excursions—slipping past a sandbar or cutting through a knee-deep back bay.
The Texas 200 is almost entirely shallow water. If you’re not within the narrow confines of the ICW, then you’re probably only inches from the mud or oyster-shell bottom. But even there, my favorite sections are the least navigable spots—place like South Pass Lake, where we raced along until we had to jump out and pull our boats over the sandbar to deeper water. There were no other boats or people for miles, just us muddy sailors and a few wading birds.
In Morro Bay I used to enjoy trying to navigate the Back Bay and its ad hoc collection of PVC markers, wending my way through the serpentine passage and sand dunes toward Baywood and, if there was enough water, a chance to reach Coffee & Things for a treat before the return trip.
Columbia River sailing is spectacular and diverse, but absolutely nothing is as much fun as poking into an unexplored slough or remote backwater. I remember the time Chuck Leinweber and I skidded over a just-passable entrance and turned 180º, and directly downwind through a shallow channel barely as wide as our 16-foot boat. With few options, we let the breeze carry us down the slough. No longer visible from the main river, we sailed under a canopy of trees with Chuck on the foredeck holding the jib out as we passed rusting, derelict vessels and creaky fishing shacks.
Up here in Puget Sound, Marty Loken and I chose Skagit Bay’s Craft Island as a destination precisely because the guidebooks said it was fortified by the shallowest of water and reachable only by kayak. Half a day after launching near Deception Pass, our little boats were bumping over the muddy bottom under sail and eventually oars as our destination hove into view. After a few false passages were attempted, we made our way through and even found a little deep water for anchoring where a fork of the Skagit River pours into the bay. We hiked to the top of the deserted rocky island and looked down on our little boats with a smile.
Where the land and sea meets is usually more interesting than the open ocean, and our small boats allow us unparalleled access. Where will you take yours?
—Joshua Colvin
I live in Los Osos at the southern end of Morro Bay and have kayaked in the bay many times. I especially like paddling in the fog and watching the shore disappear from view and silence surround me on my little plastic island. Great article!
Joshua, your excellent writing brings home many wonderful memories like the solo night-sail and tied bow-to the seep bank of Double Bayou on Galveston Bay. An alligator floated near the stern and would not leave, awaiting a “snack” as had apparently been provided by previous sailors.
After a couple hours keeping watch on this ‘gator , it dawned on me that alligators go on land as well as water and she could crawl from the bank onto the bow deck and into the cockpit with me! That night rather than anchor watch I had alligator watch.!