“Thanks very much” I replied, acknowledging the obvious, “I knew that.” “Well, don’t be droppin’ that thing off in my lock, son. It’ll jam up the gates.” So, the mangled, muddy mass swung back and forth and the gates closed, the water rose and the Not your standard catch next set of gates finally opened. South Mills is a quaint little Southern town, but since the Civil War, there hasn’t been a whole lot of activity here, unless you count the stock car races on Sunday nights. By now, the brilliant April sun had burned off the fog and it seemed like everyone in town had lined the canal to see if there were any boats passing through. That would be us, and they were not to be disappointed. We made our way slowly through the gamut to prevent our “hitchhiker” from damaging the bow. As we passed, like a receiving line, each and every one of them felt compelled to comment. “Hey, Buddy, didja know you’ve got a washin’ machine ahangin’ from yer bow?” “Hey, Mister, whatya doin’ with that washin’ machine up there?” or “Yo, where y’all goin’ wit’ my Maytag?” We smiled and waved and motored stately through “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.” Finally, we cleared the lift bridge that separates the north end of town from the seclusion of the Great Dismal Swamp—our first opportunity in what seemed like an eternity where we could address our conundrum. How to release a 75-pound motor, pulley and mud-filled drum from our 60-pound anchor? First, I tied up the anchor and twisted, pulled and pried on the unwieldy contraption—no go! Then I tied up the washer, dropped the anchor and wiggled, jiggled and poked at the anchor—no go! Finally, I climbed into our brand-new inflatable dinghy to work on the mess from water level, with the anchor secured and a line from the deck relieving enough weight from the washer to allow movement. I pulled, then lifted, then pulled with one hand while lifting with the other. Then finally, the bond seemed to break, the drum twisted and my dinghy popped around
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in response, as the mass shifted producing a pop followed by a loud “sissssssssss.” The confounded machine had sliced a gash in our new dinghy! This meant WAR!! As the forward section of the dinghy hissed and slowly colof the day. lapsed around me, I wrestled with the drum and managed to tip it to empty the mud and water. Now significantly lighter, I smashed at the pulley, whacking it with our boat-hook until it flipped over the anchor rode, covering me with mud and slid free of the anchor. My knuckles were bloodied, my clothes torn and muddied, our dinghy and my ego similarly deflated, but at last we were free from the devil washing machine. With the drum now empty and upright, it slowly floated away into shallower water—water too shallow for me to retrieve it. It was a floating menace. Our plans to traverse the entire canal and spend the night in Norfolk were no longer attainable, but we limped on for four miles to the visitor center dock to lick our wounds. A good night’s sleep works wonders. Next morning, we patched the dinghy and cast off around 11:00 a.m, bound for Norfolk. Once again, we were enjoying the serenity of this tranquil canal when, off to port, lurking in the bushes behind some exposed roots and vines, I spotted it. I shouted to Maeve in disbelief, “There’s a washing machine in the bushes!!” “Our washing machine?” She replied. Somehow, it had floated itself upstream four miles to settle in ambush for the next unsuspecting Canadian cruiser travelling through The Twilight Zone, also known as The Great Dismal Swamp. I was speechless. Maeve and Bradd Wilson have been cruising for over 50,000 miles in their Beneteau 390, Sampatecho, since leaving Port Colborne, Ontario, Canada, eight years ago.
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