With two of the three crossings behind us, today was the big one—the queen of the North Carolina crossings, Albemarle Sound. In fair conditions, it’s a peaceful, enjoyable open-water passage, stretching about three hours with plenty of room to breathe and take in the horizon. But in bad conditions? Uncomfortable at best, dangerous at worst. This was the one we’d been watching most closely, shaping our plans around finding the right window. And yesterday’s push had paid off in a big way.

But first—another early start. By now, waking up at 5am, still wrapped in darkness, had become routine. We moved through the motions, preparing Koko for departure, waiting for that first glimmer of light before hoisting anchor and easing into the Pungo River-Alligator River Canal. We were the first boat out, but the two others from our anchorage followed soon after.

The canal stretched on for three hours, a surreal experience in itself. A man-made waterway nearly perfectly straight, flanked by thick green foliage that crept toward the narrow channel. It was easy to get lost in its quiet beauty—at least, as much as one can with the looming Albemarle crossing in the back of the mind.

One of the joys of sailing through the backcountry is the isolation—the peaceful disconnect from the noise of the world. But sometimes, a connection is necessary, and today was one of those days. With only sporadic cell service, we brought out the Starlink Mini, linking Koko up to the satellite network so we could place a few important calls. It was Mother’s Day, after all, and we weren’t about to miss the chance to call Nana in Germany. The kids also wanted to video chat with Bettina, so for a few hours, our little boat became a floating portal back to family. The conversations made the journey fly by, laughter and familiar voices blending into the rhythm of the water. Moments like these remind us that, even out here, home is always just a connection away.

Then came the Alligator River, another two hours heading north through waters that held memories of paddling alongside the kids just a few years ago. A little tension crept in as we neared the Alligator River Bridge—infamous for mechanical failures that can leave boats stranded for hours, sometimes days. Would it cooperate today?

We hailed the bridge tender, waiting for confirmation. A long, slow pause. Then—yes, it would open. Relief. The span turned, painstakingly slow, but finally, we were through.

Now for the crossing. And what a gift it was. The Albemarle Sound lay before us, perfectly smooth, undisturbed, like glass. We had nailed the timing. Three hours of effortless open water, Koko gliding through like she was meant for this moment. With the autopilot taking over, we could sit back, relax, and soak it all in. Off in the distance, the water tower of Kitty Hawk stood against the sky. Somewhere there was Jockey Ridge State Park, the iconic sand dunes where the Wright brothers first took flight. So many incredible memories from family vacations spent wandering these very shores.

I missed the kids today. It was also deeply special to be crossing these waters now on our own boat, seeing these special places from a new perspective. And Dennis’s real-time messages, following us along, asking to send pictures and always curious about what’s happening, were extra special today. Thank you, Dennis, for always being with us!

Eventually, the nostalgia carried us toward Coinjock, our stop for the night. But not before passing under the Coinjock (US 158) Bridge—the same bridge we’d driven over countless times on trips to the Outer Banks. I could still hear my own excitement, pointing down from the car, telling the kids, “Look! There’s the Intracoastal Waterway. If we ever do this by boat, this is where we’d sail!” Their eye rolls had been inevitable.

And yet, here we were. Actually sailing through, approaching the legendary Coinjock Marina—a well-loved haven for ICW cruisers. It truly is a place unlike any other. The docks lined with boats, the hum of conversation in the evening air, a restaurant buzzing with the kind of energy only sailors can bring.

After the past two days of pushing hard, it felt right to celebrate. Filet mignon for both of us—a well-earned feast. We traded stories with our dock neighbors, swapping tips and ideas for the next legs. Behind us, four guys sailing toward New York shared their own experiences, offering fantastic insights that made us feel confident about our course.

Later in the evening, a late-arriving sailboat struggled to squeeze into the impossibly tight dock space. Inches—mere inches—between boats. But helpful hands surrounded them, guiding them in until finally, they were secured.

Tomorrow would bring another early start and its own set of challenges—like figuring out how to maneuver out of a space with neighbors barely a foot away. But that was for later.

Tonight was for good food, good company, and much-needed rest.