Blackwater Creek. I would like to call it a fine little creek. But I can’t.
We are anchored in its middle. We are here because we were (I was) caught up in a desire to locate the cottage which my grandparents owned years ago.
It was around here somewhere. I remember, very distantly, that it was on the North River. I also remember that my grandparents used to occasionally use the words “Ware Neck” when referring to the cottage. Ware Neck is the land mass between the North and Ware Rivers. But mostly they just said they were “going down to the river”, which meant a 3 hour (pre- interstate) drive from Richmond.
I went with them. Probably not regularly but often enough to remember it well. It was a two bedroom house. Old even then. Small kitchen. Large living room facing the water. But it was set well back from the edge. There was a double garage which was a separate building. Grandad once shot a large black snake just outside it’s doors. And there was a “pump house” building, which housed the well and the pump which supplied fresh water to the property. Also there was a second little house which contained fishing gear. I think it also served as the storage building to house the Johnson 18 hp outboard which sat on the stern of the aluminum v bottom skiff during the summer but needed a place to reside during the off season. These buildings were scattered around a yard which I remember as rather large – the waterfront being a football field away. This in turn was ringed by forested property, mostly pines. Except on the waterfront, of course. This was punctuated by a long dock which had a railing on both sides, lined down to the decking level with hardware cloth. It was off of this that I used to hang my minnow catcher, which was quite efficient at catching minnows and the rare eel.
Cindy has urged me to further elaborate on my southern “Huck Fin” life here in Virginia. I do remember running the property barefoot. I do remember making corn cob pipes from some of the many corn cobs left on the adjacent farm. And I do remember, quite fondly, the call of Bob White Doves in the mornings. I even remember going fishing a few times, although it never took on me.
These are mostly shadowy memories. The last time I was there was 38 or 39 years ago, as a young teenager. I am near certain that most of these memories have been replaced by a large monolith of a house by now.
Still, I thought we might be able to find the little cove which would signify their secluded lot. Unable to find it on the chart, I have been unable to find it through the binoculars either. With thunderstorms on the horizon we did not feel free to explore further and simply chose this creek. Minutes after anchoring the thunder sounded, the wind strength elevated, the wind swung around to the North, and the rain started.
Minutes before we anchored we ran aground on a small but hidden underwater point. The depth sounder had stopped working – presumably it could not read the reflected sound because the deep soft mud bottom was absorbing rather than reflecting the ping – and was indicating “last reading 8.7 feet”. The chartplotter showed us square in the middle of the channel. Then we hit. Not going fast, but the wind was blowing us into the shallow water. We reversed. Pulled up the daggerboards a few inches, and were again floating free. We did a U-turn, motored upwind perhaps 100 ft and let the chain run. We have been swinging here now for almost 24 hours. And it hasn’t stopped raining. We see the shoreline on both sides through the grey mist. A few houses. A few long docks with boats at the end. No activity there or here. Nothing noteworthy. Not particularly pretty, at least in this weather. When the weather breaks we will move to another location. So much for Blackwater Creek. A not so fine creek.
