Captain Ian listened to the vapid drone of the National Weather Service's Monday morning take on the comings and goings in the Chesapeake Bay and was afforded the following news: It's going to be the hottest week of the year. It's almost 100 miles from Jefferson Patterson Park to Tappahannock on the Rappahannock River, our longest miles-per-day transit of the summer.

Somewhere in the Monday night blackness we hooked a crab pot on the rudder and drug it behind us down the Bay. We were confused by our sluggish progress as we rowed at a knot slower than normal but blamed our poor performance on the tide. Ahoy Maryland Watermen, if you're missing a black and white crab pot float, it's in front of the red roof house at the entrance to St. Jerome Creek-sorry 'bout that. After the fiasco, half of the crew slept on the boat while the others waded through a sea nettle soup to shore to camp, the heat and humidity of the late hour falling over us like a blanket.

And Tuesday was bad, really bad. On Chesapeake Beach in Virginia's Northern Neck, I evacuated my lunch into a blue plastic trash barrel with a rotten apple core in the bottom. Then I repeated the process for 5 hours until Drew McMullen, Sultana's President, drove all night to deliver me into Chestertown's recuperating arms.

As for us, well, Rebecca said yesterday, "Everything is breaking." True enough. The voyage has claimed 4 cell phones so far, and little by little everyone's clothes are falling apart. I can't sew but out of necessity I managed to stick a few buttons on last week. Ashley only brought clothes she planes to throwing away at the end of the trip (good thinking). We cleaned the boat out and discovered insects conducting their day-to-day routines in the bilge, moldy peanuts, lots of matted hair, and.O.K. I'll spare everyone the rest. The stove is rusty are probably wont make it back to Jamestown, Bill's bar of soap liquefied under the heat and ran into everything he owns which might be a blessing because soap cleans dirty things and if his bag is as stinky as mine is then, well, he'll get a free clean of sorts. The utensil bin is destroyed, inflatable sleeping pads are riddled with holes and patches, and the tents don't keep out water like they say they should. To top it off, many of the boat's rigging is coated with tar. When the tar gets wet or above 1000 degrees (both happen frequently during Chesapeake Bay summers) it gets viscous and sticks to everything: Gear, skin, clothing.

And that's what's going on inside the shallop as it majestically drifts by the next harbor.

Yesterday, a 1000 foot long, 180 foot high car carrying freighter (I have no idea how high or long these behemoths really are) altered the course it churned through the shipping channel in the middle of the Bay and bore down on us. A wall of steel, normally so staunch in the straight line course it takes from port to port, always preoccupied with the quickest, cheapest, most economic way of conducting the business of moving those BMWs and Mercedes across a lot of water, turned to port, and blew its horn 3 times to announce the captain and crew's intentions. They were coming in for a closer look of a 28 foot wooden boat. Stick figures waved from miles above as the freighter parted the waters beside us. Once past, it swung back to starboard, into the channel's main vein, and headed on to Baltimore in the most efficient way possible.

Smith sailed south after placating the crew's consternation of an agonizing death in a beautiful but inhospitable land on the Patapsco River (Baltimore). Desperate to encounter more natives and indulge in the exchange of metal trinkets for wholesome food, the expedition trudged on. For reasons unknown the men did not enter the Patuxent River on their first voyage. They chose to forage further south to the gaping mouth of the Potomac. The decision to bypass the Patuxent (they will explore this tributary as part of voyage 2, after their exploits on the Susquehanna) was probably influenced by wind and tide, variables we've been intimately introduced to.

I think most of us wanted to grab a few of the sacrificial tourists who strayed too far from the safety of the mobs epicenter, drag them over to our boat, and vociferously tell them how cool history can be. But alas, we quelled the desire to tackle people on the street, and simply smiled to ourselves as the un-ending crowd flowed by, perusing the Inner Harbor for something bigger, brighter, louder.

Living classrooms, a non-profit, outdoor, experiential education outfit opened their campus to us for the weekend. They rolled out a patch of grass in downtown for us to camp on, lending further credibility to the statement: The shallop crew gets to camp where no one has ever camped before (remember Mount Vernon?) and an air-conditioned computer lab to email family and friends from.

In all fairness, a lot of Baltimoreans were very pleased that we docked the boat beside the aquarium this weekend, and there's probably a person or two back in Brooklyn, NY with that John Smith map in their hands right now.

On Thursday we drove into the Susquehanna River and under a series of 4 bridges that carry the rest of America on their way at 65 MPH. Suddenly the low lying marshes were gone, replaced by rolling hills that tumble into the deep blue waters of the Bay's largest provider of fresh water. The giant tugs and gravel barges, the same ones that have followed our journey since the Nanticoke River, stopped to refill their burdens before once again pushing south on their way to Seaford, DE., their circle of life completed (or just begun).

A tornado watch greeted us at the dock in Port Deposit. Sooner or later we were bound to get our woopin' from Mother Nature. We all knew it was long overdo. One cannot spend all summer out on the Bay and expect to dodge them all. And while we didn't get the actual spiral of rotating air, we did get floored by a thunderstorm. Bill and Kelly's tent, along with Rebecca and Leona's took the worst of the beating as they partially flooded in a growing pool of muddy water and goose poop. Wadding into the port-a-potty in ankle deep water, while our personal effects dried in the sunshine, sunshine that always seems to form after strong thunderstorms; we realized that it would take much more than a flood to derail this expedition.

All of the crew was honored to sing traditional Irish tunes with Gov. Martin O'Malley on Saturday as we rowed into city dock in downtown Annapolis. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity to have the Governor's ear for an hour.

The man is fit. He just about put us to shame out there in his tight tank-top, so we gave him the most awkward bench to row on and kept him there for the whole hour. By the end of it, he was drenched in sweat and his left arm was numb. Welcome to our world this summer Gov. O'Malley. You gave us an experience none of us will soon forget, and we're proud to have been afforded the time we rowed together.

We made our get-away and break for the Eastern Shore at 8:30 Sunday night. And like most night departures, the promising wind died in transit and we rowed for 2 hours into Rock Hall, arriving a little before 3 am.

I was going to talk a little about why John Smith didn't spend any time exploring the Annapolis area even though he passed by 4 times. There were no Indians along this stretch of the Bay. They had been driven out by the war faring Massawomeck Indians who lived further inland towards the mountains. Without local knowledge from Native Americans regarding the rivers and adjacent lands, Smith's pragmatic explorations sat dead in the water. Therefore, he sailed quietly by this part of the Western Shore.

Note from Webmaster - The GPS onboard the shallop has been down.  They are working to get it back up.  Should be some time today.  The shallop is currently in Annapolis.

There is no denying the heat. Sweat runs down our legs and collects on the floor boards. It then runs between the cracks and into the bilge. Yes, it's so hot that our sweat rolls off our bodies and collects in the bilge every time we row. This is not hyperbole; it's gross.

Through it all, everyone is holding their own. Bill's hands are torn, Leona's foot swelled up from some kind of insect or arachnid bite, and most people's stomachs come and go, but on the whole the crew is in good health. A fair southern breeze every afternoon has helped everyone's spirits as well as our progress.

The Eastern Shore islands at the mouths of the Choptank and Chester Rivers were much larger 400 years ago. On his 1612 map, Smith, from his vantage point on the Western Shore, drew three large mash potato shaped blobs (islands) along this stretch of the Eastern Shore. The islands concealed the rivers behind them and Smith's detail ridden map is oddly inaccurate for this section of the Bay. Today one can clearly see the mouths to these rivers from many miles away.

Today is day 59. By the time you read this we'll already be halfway through a once in a lifetime event.

As I write this, Capt. Ian is mumbling his disappointment to himself regarding how much the boat is leaking now that she's back in the Potomac. She is paying the price for spending 6 days out of the water, for her planking dried and shrank despite our best efforts to hose her down during the day.

Like Mount Vernon, the Smithsonian Folklife Festival was a great chance for non-Chesapeake Bay residents to join in the history of John Smith's exploratory voyages. Smith passed through modern day Washington on the Potomac River. He went as far as Great Falls (overland) where his men hiked above the swirling river and searched futilely for anything of value in the rocky cliffs. They did, however, meet a group of Indians laden with bear, deer, and meats of other animals which they happily traded for.

It was certainly good to rest last week, because today we begin the longest stretch between events: 170 miles from Alexandria, VA to Annapolis, MD. And if it's almost all rowing, like it was coming up this River, things might get ugly before they get better.

Smith didn't explore the Potomac alone. A Wiccocomico Indian named Mosco jumped on board near the river's headwaters and stayed with the shallop up to the settlement of Patawomeck on the Potomac Creek. From this point Smith continued on, but he returned to this creek for an intriguing search for precious metals on his way back down river; but that story will have to wait until we come back down stream as well.

Not known as the crew that strays too far from Smith's path, we spent the night on this creek in Judith, Ron, and Mike's backyard. They have a 20 year old cat named Skeeter who awoke at 4:00 am to see us off on a 15 hour push to Accokeek, MD. Skeeter is almost old enough (in dog years) to have seen the original shallop, and Mosco too. In addition to old pets, Judith wired up a couple hundred dollars worth of fireworks for us, then sat back, flicked the infrared switch, and lit up the sky over their dock.

A year earlier Smith had been captured by Powhatan while trading for corn along the York River. Perhaps saved by Pocahontas, Smith pledged his allegiance to the Indian Chief but promptly turned his back on his feigned loyalty by gallivanting around the Chesapeake and trading with other Indian tribes. A brief exchange of hostages seems to have placated both parties and Smith was allowed to continue up river.

How fun it would be to replicate this kind of suspense, this kind of danger. Imagine exchanging hostages, maybe Forest and Ashley, for two Colonial Beach residents. Tension would spike, shots would be fired into the soft shoreline, all through a melee of unintelligible, shouted words. One can only imagine what it would have been like. Instead, we have been received with open arms in Colonial Beach, something we've found to be a common thread thus far in the cruise. The pier was alive with spectators, our circuitous path to the beach lined with anchored boats flying bright flags. Just another beautiful day were having in John Smith?s eddy.

We zigged and zagged into the wind from one shore to another for most of the day out to Bishops Head and the Chesapeake Bay Foundation's Karen Noonan center, only 11 miles from Bivalve where we began. At one point it proved too rough the use the bucket toilet in the shallop's bow, impossible and unsafe to "go" on a pitching deck under torrents of water. The final 400 yards proved impossible to sail or row as the channel narrowed and the wind and tide conspired against us. Taking advantage of the shallop's shallow draft, we formed a human chain and towed our boat through chest deep water to the dock.

Smith exited the Nanticoke on day 11 of his voyage. Today was day 25 of ours; a bit slower and more methodical, we're more concerned with people discovering us than in discovering new places for ourselves. A lot has changed in 400 years.

Yes, we took the weekend off, but you all already knew that because the little virtual voyage shallop hasn't left the dock for a few days. One of these days we'll fool you and send a speed boat off in the wrong direction with the sensor. Until then we can't hide our progress.

It feels like Mother Nature turned the dial up on the humidity-stat. To combat the rising heat and dehydrating under the Bay's sun this summer, we rigged up a tarp awning with sein twine and PVC pipe. It sags, sways, and gets in the way of almost everything we do (we cannot sail with it up because it lays over the lowered sprit), but it shades 5 out of 6 benches. Smith mentions the use of sticks and branches to shade the crew, so we figure it's close to authentic.

I forgot to mention in an earlier entry that we bought 2 fly swatters. It seems Mother Nature had a bug dial to.

Hey people, anymore pampering and we're gonna get soft; remember, we still have a long way to go out here.

Hey, the Shallop will be heading to Delaware for events on Tuesday and Wednesday, who can't wait?

Through the outpouring of support we have been motivated to bring our own story of history and conservation to this small town. Had it not been for the friends we've made this weekend, we would have never been able to interact with the waves of people that came down to the marina to see the Shallop and exhibit tent. I know we've led a pampered couple of days in Onancock, but by doing so we were better able to convey our message-history is alive, we can learn from it and work to protect this beautiful estuary.

The first leg of our expedition is over. The journey from Jamestown to Onancock via a shallop may never happen again. Week by week we better realize what we're really doing out here.

Oh yes, that alto-cumulous cloud prediction did prove to be at least partially accurate. We were dealt a goodly blast of wind and rain 36 hours after the cloud formations were sighted. I was off by 12 hours.

Shout out to the town's people who made this weekend special. You know who you are and we thank you.

Back in the boat.

Wednesday, May 16, 4:45 PM-After another solid 20 knot wind from the south, we made 20 miles and are now in Onancock, VA, the first leg (90 miles+) of our 1,500 mile journey complete. We're here early. I guess that's what happens when the sailing is good.

Shout Out to Doug Kennedy and his sons for letting us turn their backyard into a modern-makeshift-historical site last night.

We continue to push toward Onancock, leaving Rebel Marina yesterday at 9:45 AM. A 3 hour row took us out of the James and into the Chesapeake Bay, ever closer to the Virginia Eastern Shore. John Smith crossed the Bay at this exact place on the first few days of his voyage. We did the same, calling on the town of Cape Charles at 6:00 PM.

Crossing the Bay in a Shallop is no small task. In 23 miles of open water, anything can happen. We already know the boats limits while under oar. It is impossible to row and make headway into a tidal current. In other words, if we're headed down river and the tide is coming in, we will not move. It is impossible to move forward into a 12 knot headwind. A 1 foot chop will send us in the opposite direction. We are very much at the mercy of the wind, waves, and current, as John Smith was, timing his entire voyages to the weather. Crossing the Bay yesterday was entirely dependent on these variables and the direction from which they were flung.

Lucky for us, we can sail the Shallop. With a South wind we made it across by dinner.

Shout Out: To the people of Cape Charles for handing us the key to their town (or at least the shower) on such short notice.

We have 6 three-person tents. There are not 18 of us and the extra space, while appearing like a hidden luxury, sounds bigger then it really is as tents comfortably accommodate fewer bodies then they can physically hold. A good formula to use when purchasing your next tent is to take the number of people the tent manufacturer recommends can squeeze inside, and subtract 1. 3-1=2.

The second thing we did with the tents (we set them up first, of course) was name them after Eastern Shore Rivers, a tribute to Sultana Projects geographic location in Maryland. Large indelible letters in Sharpie pen make it easy to find the correct tent in a grey Rubbermaid bin full of identical brown tent sacks. Ian and Ashley live in Choptank, Kelly and Bill live in Pocomoke, Donkey and Austin live in Kuskarawoak, Leona and Rebecca have Sassafras, Liz and Forest are in Wicomico, and John Mann and I live in Bohemia.

Along with the tents, we also hashed out the camp stove, propane tanks, and how to cook simple, delectable meals for 12 using only one pot thanks to Bill and Leona's rice and bean surprise. When it's dark and raining and cold, or dark and humid and hot, we'll be sleeping and eating like this (only if we're lucky and not sleeping on the boat).

It is amazing to sail into Jamestown. I can think of no better way to drink a dose of history then by sailing up the James River to this countries birthing room. After winding through commercial shipping lanes, the U.S. Navy, and a ship graveyard (where big boats go to float out their final decades') it was a welcome site when the banks of the James began to sink into the water and turn to marshy wetlands. All human presence recedes, leaving behind a pristine looking shoreline. With little to wrestle ones imagination back into the present, it is possible to land-for the first time-on Jamestown Island.

Mate Kelly Poole took us there yesterday. She has sailed dinghies across lakes and schooners across oceans. She sails the Shallop a little harder and a little closer to the wind, to make it around the next point, then everyone else. If waves are breaking over the rails, if the boat's straining toward her top speed, Kelly is probably at the helm. Where as Captain Ian has a massive responsibility to many, many people, Kelly, as mate, has the enviable job of making our boat better, faster, and a whole lot cooler.

The Captain has requested that the journal entries be a bit saltier. It's too bad this request came on a Sunday evening (Wednesday for the rest of the country) because the only salty thing we've done this weekend was go to the beach. The beginning of our "epic voyage" is now only days away, but that doesn't mean there aren't a few spare minutes in the bilge to play around with, especially after an 8 day work week that included 5 days of public appearances and the time it takes to row between them. So, without further adieu, here is how the crew of the John Smith shallop spent our two days off:

Forest caught a flounder and fried it up with Old Bay seasoning.

Austin also caught a flounder, but he threw it back.

Liz got her teeth cleaned and found out she has no new cavities.

Ian worked a lot (is it really good to be the king?).

Kelly convinced everybody, again, to watch American Idol, the greatest television show ever, period, no arguing, be quiet it's on!

John Mann watched Captain Ron. He was the last crew member to see this inspirational film.

Ashley went swimming at the YMCA and ate a really big smoothie with a spoon.

Andy almost won a contentious game of Bocce Ball, but it was suspended because the fish were biting.

Bill cooked Tai food for everyone even though it wasn't his turn to cook Tai food.

Leona drove Austin's car up to Chestertown, MD.

Donkey (Don) went on a Virginia Beach tourism tear, purchasing olde tyme photos, a funny towel, aqua socks, and 100 Pop Ices.

Rebecca found 6 bottles of suds in the park's recycling dumpster (did we drink them?).

And that's how we spent our weekend. The Shallop crew, we're just like everyone else.

The kids couldn't believe anyone would want to live in a Shallop for 121 days, couldn't believe that during the approaching summer while they visit summer camps and sleep in late, we'll be rowing and sailing around the big body of water beside their hometown. By the end of their 2.5 hours with the Godspeed, a replica of one of the 3 ships to first arrive at Jamestown, and us, they had only begun to experience the living history we could share before those yellow buses returned and swept them away. Whisked back to their 3, 4, and 5 grade classrooms, they spent the rest of the day studying other subjects, eating lunch, and playing on the jungle gym.

For a lot of us on the crew, yesterday defined what we love to do: making a small impact in a child's malleable life. That's a lot to believe in, but if we didn't believe it, we wouldn't be here.

Kids from the Gloria Dei Lutheran School, it was a joy for the Captain and Crew of the John Smith Shallop to have met you all.

Our day on the Lynnhaven River was structured, and we were treated like royalty among common people. Dressed in our period correct clothing, we were asked to row the Shallop to the river's beach to commemorate the first expedition by Englishmen into the river in 1607; we did. We were then asked to row upriver with some local kayakers, and we did that. After working up a voracious appetite, we were offered lunch with some of the organizers, a lunch complete with as much delectable food as we could eat, so we did that too.

Hampton was a different story. Dropped into downtown with our boat and major attraction display tent, we were un-tethered and engulfed in a city that had other events besides the John Smith Project to deal with. Like a child on his/her first day of school, it was tough being away from our home base in Virginia Beach for the first time. We weren't sure how to act at first, or how to carry ourselves. Ultimately, we decided to meet as many people as we could. We didn't lambaste folks with obscure historical facts, nor did we pontificate about the natural state of the Bay. Instead, we discussed the journey we're about to begin, the wild idea of living in a small row boat, and how haggard we'll be come September 8-the tale frequent visitors to this web site know so well.

This is all new to us. While we're figuring out how to operate the boat, the public events still puzzle us. What do people expect from us; what would they like to see? If you at home just heard about us, we did our jobs this weekend. If you haven't, we'll try harder tomorrow.

It wasn't a glorious day. We had to strip down to our underwear and wade out to the Shallop, holding our clothes above our heads, trying to keep them dry. The plan to deliver the actors aboard the Shallop onto the beach was scrapped. Instead, they emerged from behind the bleachers before the gathering crowd on the sand.

In 1607, Captain John Smith was not among the first colonists to walk the Virginia beaches and claim this land for King James and England. He arrived in Virginia bound in shackles, confined to the hold of the Susan Constant, the largest ship of the original three that would in a few days time make their ways up the James River to Jamestown.

The highlight of the day, for us, wasn't this refurbished piece of history, but our exhibit tent. Inside this tent, people are immersed in what we're doing and what happened 400 years ago. It is impossible to walk through it without learning something. The Shallop is our method of hauling ourselves around the Chesapeake Bay; the exhibit engages people and takes them to a different time and place. Where a reenactment is a snapshot of an isolated historical event, our exhibit is a traveling time capsule, and it's here for everyone.

Well folks, the boat works. We made it sail. We can row it forwards, backwards, turn it around, and even dock it. My arms are burning, my fingers quivering over this keyboard, but the boat works. What John Smith did 400 years ago is possible to do, with a lot of help, today. I understand that to the casual observer this may all seem like a foregone conclusion; of course the boat works, that's what it was built for. Well, in the fickle realm of 400 year old boat building there are no predetermined conclusions. For the captain and crew, this week has answered many nagging questions.

Rowing isn't all that easy. On our first attempt, we managed to drift into a marina break-wall. Leona and Ashley, both experienced rowers, took control of the fiasco and a day later we're no longer fencing each other with 16 foot oars, but we're rowing in time. Captain Ian wants us to be sore, wants us to pull harder, longer, and wants to do it all again tomorrow. He wants this Shallop thing to work. My God, it just might.

We're here to learn and to pass on what we learn, but all we really want to do is get in the boat and row. Yes, we know there will be more than enough time to do this; however, working on other things, while the Shallop sits like a wounded animal beneath the Elizabeth River, is killing us. She is our tool, our 13th crewmember; we long to see her.

O.K., no more quips concerning how the Shallop sank. It's been raised above the water, pumped and bailed out with 5 gallon buckets and a hand pump that by the end of the job was exploding under the strain. Though she surfaced laminated in slime, she cleaned up nicely. Ask anyone what their favorite part of training has been, and their response would overwhelmingly be--today's work, and that's in no small part attributed to the difficulty and filth that comes with raising a sunken vessel. Sailors like to work on boats, enough said.

Nowhere does it say how John Smith went about sinking and floating his shallop. We asked around, the best guess being that his boat didn't need this treatment. It would have been done for him by the dampness in the hold of a ship as it sloshed around for 4 maybe 5 months during the Atlantic crossing, giving it ample time to swell. Our Shallop was under from March 30-April 14.

Adorned now with lee boards, a rudder, floor boards, and a mast--it still leaks. Under tar infused ropes, running at varying angles from the deck to the sails above, Captain Ian crammed some oakum, a stringy material made from hemp, into the seams where water pushed in. He didn't use water proof, two part, marine epoxy, nor did anyone buy the Shallop pre-assembled with factory directions (in French, Spanish, and English); we put the thing together, like Captain Smith did 400 years ago.

It's great to be a part of this. Given enough work, we know we can rely on our boat.

Spending the first 4 days (April 2-5) in Chestertown, Maryland, we were introduced to the Sultana Projects staff, the organization responsible for the John Smith 400 Project. John Smith and his crew struck out into the Chesapeake Bay with the instructions from their governing body, the Virginia Company, and in a few weeks we will do the same with the objectives of Sultana Projects.

Chestertown was a brief stop. On April 6 we moved into out terrestrial home, a cabin at First Landing State Park in Virginia Beach, Virginia. In front of a fire in our living room fireplace, experts on Bay history, culture, and ecology have a chance to teach us a portion of the material they have dedicated their lives to study.

So, who are we? Who are the 12 crazy people signed up to slowly chase history? We are a mesh of 7 men and 5 women, each with impressive backgrounds, teaching experience, and a love for the outdoors. The mean age is 27. Our Captain, Ian Bystrom, epitomizes the 11 crew he selected. With years of professional sailing experience, he will now depend on his crew to row and sail the 1,500 mile route in 121 days.

Heaven could be waiting for us in the Bay this summer, or it could be hell; we do not know.