The Trojan

My dad’s second boat was a 28 foot Trojan cabin cruiser with an inboard 292 Ford Interceptor engine. It was a wooden boat. It was undoubtedly nice in its day, but that day was past. Still, it wasn’t in bad shape. It just needed fixing up and it was affordable, so he bought it.

The boat was docked near Mathews, Virginia, and we had to bring it across Mobjack Bay and down the southern part of the Chesapeake Bay and up the James and Appomattox Rivers to the marina at Petersburg. Moving the boat would be a two day outing. The first day we would drive to Mathews and bring the boat across the Bay and up the James River to Gray’s Creek. There is a marina at Gray’s Creek where we would spend the night. The next day we would continue up the James to the Appomattox River, and then up the Appomattox to the small boat harbor at Petersburg.

One sunny Saturday we drove down to West Point – “we” being my dad, my brother Ken and his wife Shirley, and myself.

We left the marina near Mathews and headed out across Mobjack Bay. The trip started out smoothly. It was going to be about a four hour trip to the mouth of the James River. The sun was shining, the water was calm, and it looked like we would have a nice trip. It didn’t stay nice for long.

Soon we entered the Chesapeake Bay. It’s really just an extension of the Atlantic. If the ocean is calm, the Bay is calm. If the winds are blowing out in the Atlantic and kicking up waves, the Bay is going to be rough water.The swells started getting bigger. And bigger. And bigger. Soon the swells were about 8 feet high. They were rolling right under us. I was piloting the boat. Every time a swell rolled past it would lift the boat up. As the crest passed under us the boat would balance on the wave-top with its prop and rudder out of the water. So every time a swell passed I had to chop the throttle to keep from over-revving the engine. The boat would just sort of twist and turn as it sat suspended at the top of the swell, and there was nothing I could do to keep the boat pointed in the right direction. It would balance on the crest of the swell and slowly rotate. Then the swell would pass us and the boat would just drop like a rock into the trough. It hit the trough so hard that paint flaked off the cabin ceiling. I would give the engine almost full throttle and turn the wheel to keep the boat on course. Within seconds the next swell would hit and we would be lifted up, the prop and rudder would come out of the water again, and I would chop the throttle again. The bow would swing lazily to a new heading and then we were falling into the trough and I would shove the throttle forward and bring the wheel over and we would climb the swell then we would be on the crest and I would chop the throttle again...

This continued for four hours. It wasn’t gentle. The boat was moving too violently for me to remain seated, so I stood in front of the seat and simply braced myself between the seat and the wheel. It was fortunate I wasn’t sitting in that seat. At one point my brother grabbed the pilot’s seat to steady himself and the boat moved so violently that he ripped the seat loose from the boat. It was about then that my father and sister-in-law began pumping up the inflatable life raft. My brother had a marine navigation chart and was trying to figure where we were. Buoys were few and far between. I tried to keep the boat going in a more or less straight line while fighting the swells. The bilge pump was now running constantly as the pounding on the hull was causing us to take on water. No one said what everyone knew: that if the boat’s engine faltered or if the bilge pump quit running, the boat would sink.

But the engine never faltered, the pump never quit running, and finally we came within sight of land, and the swells abated somewhat. We entered the mouth of the James River and the water became as smooth as glass.

We found the marina at Gray’s Creek and spent the night there. The next morning we gassed up the boat and resumed our trip up the river. Within minutes the engine cut off. I pulled up the hatch cover and scrutinized the engine. The battery wire had broken off at the ignition coil. If that had happened while we were crossing the Bay, our trip would have had a very different outcome.

We were lucky. Or maybe, that day, we had a little help.