Life
aboard Let's Dance is full of surprises. Every day brings some new
experience -- for our amusement, bewilderment, astonishment or,
occasionally, edification. We rise, pull the anchor or slide away
from a dock, and await the gifts that man and nature have in store
for us. There are a lot of "ho, hums" and a great many
"oh, wows!". The weeks following our departure from
Washington provided more than a few exclamations of the "oh,
wow!" variety.
Making
our exit down the Potomac River, we reenter the northernmost tip of
(what we now know is) the Dahlgren Laboratory Naval Surface Warfare
Center "Danger Zone." Alert to potential radio
instructions from Navy patrol boats, we are not disappointed when the
captain of Range Boat One identifies himself on the radio. Sure
enough, we are the southbound trawler in his sights. "We've got
lots of eyes on you," he says. Well, that's good. We think.
Unlike our previous encounter, this day the Navy is playing for keeps
and conducting "live fire" exercises! Oh, wow! These guys
are not kidding, and fortunately, they are not targeting trawlers
today.
Following
their very concise instructions, we scoot to the far edge of the
river and hug the shore as we head south. All seems normal until
about an hour into the zone when we hear a muffled boom followed by a
definite splash! We track the sound to see a huge spray of river
water about two miles off our starboard. Live fire, indeed! We
snuggle closer to the port-side shoreline and hustle on our way.
Twice more, booms and splashes before the captain of Range Boat
Three, at the southern end of the Danger Zone, hails us to say,
"Let's Dance! The range is no longer hot! We are done for the
day. Carry on, captain." The time is exactly 1700 hours and
the patrol boat speeds back up river so the guys can begin
their weekend in earnest. We are no longer in the Danger Zone!
Some
days later, after exploring the sights (and eateries) of Baltimore,
it's time to turn our bow southward towards home. Again, we traverse
the familiar Norfolk waterfront -- home to military vessels galore -- but this
time our attention is caught by the Carnival "Glory" as she
prepares for her Saturday night departure. We anchor in a lovely
little basin called Hospital Point, directly across the narrow
waterway, with about 15 others and settle in for the show. Crowds of
happy vacationers line the decks of the giant liner, many with Mai
Tais or Red Stripes in hand as they anticipate their 10 day escape.
A female DJ encourages dancing on the Lido deck and we are close
enough to see (and hear) the revelry. A quick lifeboat drill and the
hulking cruiser throws off her lines and leaves the dock.....on their
way to endless buffets, island ports of call and, with luck, no close
encounters with hurricane Sandy.
Continuing
our migration south, we settle into a familiar anchorage at the mouth
of the Alligator River in North Carolina. The quiet of the early
evening is disturbed only by the fluttering wings of a duo of giant
moths, drawn to the lights of our saloon. After a quick dinner, with
the doors now closed to winged intruders, we settle in for the night
under a starry, starry sky. Life is good on Let's Dance!
Soon,
we share a quick glance as a deep thrumming sound vibrates though the
hull, gaining momentum until it feels like the boat is shivering
around us. Maybe we should check outside to see what is going on!
We do, and, "Oh, wow!" A quartet of jet aircraft, red and
green lights pulsing as they twist and turn above us, circle Let's
Dance in a broad, graceful arc. One by one, they dip to the horizon
for a simulated touch down, then rise in the distance to begin the
dance again. The sound is deafening as it flows outward then ebbs to
just a dull throb in the distant sky. For thirty minutes the planes
maneuver over the swampy terrain -- turning, dipping and ascending in
mock dog-fight posturing. We have anchored in the theater of 'Top
Gun'.
It
is beyond mesmerizing. We stand on the bow, ears covered, admiring
their airborne acrobatics. And then, suddenly, blessed
silence.....for about 20 minutes. Apparently dinner hour was short
for the fly boys, because they are back with a super sonic vengeance.
Blazing taillights reflect in the still waters of our anchorage and
speeding silhouettes streak across the pale arc of the moon. Again
and again they circle and swoop, until finally, fuel spent, they cede
the night back to the peace of nature.
The
next day, with time on our hands as we motor on south, we research
the previous night's parade of planes. Here is what we now know:
the Seymour Johnson AFB (secretly situated adjacent to our calm
little anchorage) is home to the F-15E dual-role jet fighter "Strike
Eagle". These little gems retail for about $32 million, have a
wingspan of 42 feet, a length of 62 feet, weigh in at 37,500 pounds,
have a fuel capacity of 35,500 pounds, a range of 2,400 miles and a
top speed of 1,875 mph (that would be Mach 2.5 plus to you and me.)
Oh, wow!
Like
Let's Dance, they have a crew of two, but there all similarities end.
We are slimmer, shorter, heavier, more fuel efficient and noticeably
slower. That, and we don't cost US taxpayers a dime.
Always conscious of Mother Nature, we hung out at the Myrtle Beach Yacht Club for
Sandy's tumultuous seas to subside enough for us to proceed safely on down
the coast.....Charleston, Beaufort and Daufuskie in our future. Back
into our safety zone.
Let's
Dance.......Carol and Bill
