[caption id="attachment_5803" align="alignright" width="350"]
Remote cemetery on World's End Creek. Photo by Michaela Urban[/caption]
If you make it to the Honga River, you’ve stepped into the heart of the Bay. From here southward, you have the mystical destinations of Smith Island, Bloodsworth, James Island, Tangier Island, and miles and miles of marsh and wilderness that belong more to nature than man. A sense of peace settles on you once you enter these waters. Every time I come down here I feel as if I’ve traveled halfway around the word, when in fact I’m only a stone’s throw from home.
Sharps Island lighthouse, abandoned, leaning on its side, overrun by birds, is your first indication you have entered a new dimension of the Bay. As you pass this structure, try to imagine the life a solitary lighthouse keeper had on cold winter nights trying to launch his little dingy in a bad storm. This is the place of legends.
We arrived at the Honga early in the evening and barbequed steaks while watching the sunset with a nice glass of Cabernet in hand. I’ve been here many times and have had great luck with the weather, but this was the first time I’ve been here in fall. The September winds rocked us all night long.
That is one danger of the Honga: On the map it looks like there are plenty of coves where you can tuck in, but the water is shallow close to shore. There are few trees to block the wind. That being said, there is good purchase; so we survived the night. The next day was beautiful and calm. We pumped up the dingy, made some sandwiches, fired up the 2.5 Mercury outboard, and headed out to explore a mysterious little creek called World’s End.
As we entered the creek, we passed a number of decayed and dilapidated docks that seemed to resonate with the creek’s odd name. As the marshy creek twisted and turned, we got lost a couple of times, and shallow water and dead-ends forced us to retreat. Eventually we abandoned the motor and used the oars. Most of the creek was desolate and empty. Suddenly, we came upon a dock so new, you could smell the freshly cut lumber cooking in the warm September sun.
[caption id="attachment_5804" align="alignleft" width="295"]
Grilling steaks at sunset. Photo by Michaela Urban[/caption]
It was odd to find a new dock in the midst of what seemed like a forgotten world. But since it was the only sturdy dry structure we had come across, we decided it was a perfect place to stop for lunch. Still, there seemed to be a kind of weird eerie feel about the spot. After dining on ham and cheese sandwiches, we noticed a trail leading into the woods and decided to explore further (if you’re thinking this is starting to sound like a B horror movie, you’re correct). As we moved under the cool canopy of a stand of loblolly pines, we entered an abandoned 19th century graveyard. Many of the people had died in their early 20s, and each gravestone has a passage of poetry on it.
One grave, an aboveground concrete tomb, contained the remains of a 72-year-old woman. It was broken open. At first I though some kids or grave robbers had vandalized it, but it seemed as if nature slowly deteriorated the concrete. Inside there was a puddle of water and a couple of frogs. One of the frogs was perched on top of a ball the size of a cantaloupe. On further inspection, it became evident that the cantaloupe was the woman’s skull, pretty much all that was left of her.
The creepiness factor had reached a high point, so we decided to head back to the boat. Leaving the site, it felt as if we were flying through history: grave to dock, dock to World’s End Creek, creek to Honga, Honga to Merritt. And the trip back was fraught with difficulty, as we couldn’t seem to find the channel. One-foot deep water plagued us and kept burying the outboard in the mud. When we finally got back to the boat, it was as if we had passed through a dream in the middle of a sunny day. The Bay has many mysteries, and I feel I have just scratched the surface.
By Eric Vohr
