The kind of day that reminds us why we do this. The longest stretch we’ve ever sailed in one go—time-wise, distance-wise, and sheer adrenaline-wise. All because of one wild, spontaneous decision made while underway.

But let’s rewind a little.

We were staring down the final leg of our journey, Chesapeake Bay ahead, destination Rock Hall. The original plan was simple: three, maybe four days of sailing. Solid day trips, decent mileage, nothing too crazy. But the weather? The weather had different ideas.

Forecasts painted an unsettling picture—days of volatile conditions, rain, and some downright nasty thunderstorms with violent gusts and the threat of hail. Definitely not the kind of thing we wanted to tango with on the water. The only small mercy? A fleeting two-day window of decent conditions before the chaos set in. After that? Heavy winds with associated swells right on the nose.

So what to do? Call it early, leave Koko in Portsmouth, head home for Jessica’s prom and Bettina’s birthday, then return in two weeks to wrap things up? Not a terrible plan. But also—kind of a gut punch when the finish line was so close.

At least we wanted to get into the Chesapeake Bay. Away from the commercial madness of Portsmouth/Norfolk. Past the massive tankers, warships, and aircraft carriers that loomed like giants around us. So the call was made: we set sail today.

Another early start—5am alarm, crack of dawn, no coffee, but already lines off, pushing out.

Two hours later, we were in the bay. The harbor traffic was minimal—just a couple of mammoth cargo ships to dodge—but there’s something humbling about cruising past those behemoths, knowing they could barely register our presence. Then, finally, we broke free. Chesapeake Bay stretched ahead, and it was time to see how the day unfolded.

The plan? Loosely play it by ear. Aim for an anchorage somewhere between Portsmouth and Solomons, most likely around Deltaville. If we made it to Solomons tomorrow, we’d still have a tiny sliver of hope for finishing in Rock Hall before heading home. Big if.

With a nice breeze at our back and a sweet current push, out came the sails, and we glided along at a little over 6 knots, the kind of speed that makes you grin and settle in for an easy ride. The sun climbed higher, the threat of thunder stayed silent, and we soaked in the good vibes.

And then—too soon—we reached our planned anchorages. Already?! Midday?! The wind and current were spoiling us rotten. But with an unexpected speed boost came unexpected decisions. Do we stop here?

The updated forecasts were grim. Saturday was looking worse, with headwinds cranking up to 20 knots—not what we wanted for the final stretch. Thunderstorms were still in the mix. But today? A 60% chance in the evening. Tomorrow? 40%. After that, strong headwinds and continued thunder thread would make a continuation unlikely.

If only we could reach Rock Hall tomorrow… but that seemed impossible. No anchorages between here and Solomons, still 50 miles—a typical full-day sail—away. And the afternoon was already creeping in. So no way to position ourselves somewhere closer to Solomons for a hop over to Rock Hall tomorrow.

We mulled it over. Ran through every possibility. And then a totally crazy thought hit—with the wind and current conditions right now, could we possibly make it all the way to Solomons today? Another 50 nautical miles?

Quick calculations, triple-checking currents, watching forecasts like a hawk. If everything held perfectly—and I mean perfectly—we could eventually pull it off. It would be tight. Very tight. And risky. Everything would have to come together perfectly. Sunset arrival, sneaking past the fish trap zone before full darkness, and then feeling our way upriver to the mooring field. And then there was still a 30% chance of severe thunderstorms in the evening.

But—no bailouts. No turning around. If wind or current faltered, we’d be stuck.

Bettina and I locked eyes, no words needed. We were doing this!

Sails trimmed, iron genny humming just enough to push our pace. And we flew.

Sun sinking, entrance to the river appearing on cue, fish traps lurking in the dusk but navigable. A relief. But then—darkness.

The moon was useless. The creek toward the marina swallowed the last bits of light. Unknown waters. No idea where the mooring balls were.

We creeped in, strained our eyes, and suddenly—there they were. Mooring balls A, B, and C, exactly as the marina had described. The ones the marina told us to use. But they were all occupied, with boats tied up to them.

Where were the others? And then—ball F appeared in the gloom. Good enough.

Inching forward, scrambling in the darkness—first grab, we got it.

21:30. 98.6 nautical miles covered in one insane push.

And yet—still not done. Time to filter diesel from jerry cans, because tomorrow?

We were going for it.

One last shot at Rock Hall before heading home. A narrow sliver of opportunity before storms shut us down. The only way to make it? Another early start.

So—we go.