By Yvonne Michie Horn

It is daybreak on the Intracoastal Waterway and I have the promenade deck of the Nantucket Clipper to myself. Overhead, night birds wing their way home, flapping silhouettes against the lightening sky. Our watery path, herringbone patterned by the Nantucket’s pulsing engines, turns from steel gray to silver to soft rose to deep salmon. Yawning passengers clutching cups of coffee have joined me on deck. Another day on the Intracoastal Waterway has begun.

We were sailing north to south, from Charleston, SC, to Jacksonville, FL, on an eight-day exploration of the antebellum South—a journey into the days when cotton was king, when the South was steeped in gracious languor, dripping with Spanish moss, magnolia scented. If the antebellum South lives on anywhere, it dwells in the Nantucket Clipper’s seven ports of call: Charleston, Beaufort, Savannah, St. Simons Island, St. Mary’s, St. Augustine, with a turnaround during the night to disembark at Jacksonville.

Clipper boasts four small ships; of the four, the Yorktown and the Nantucket, sparkling little vessels built by American craftsmen, fly the American flag. They sail with American captains, officers and crew—rarities in today’s cruise ship world.

Tricky sailing, the Intracoastal Waterway. Tides of seven to eight feet come and go. Heavy currents sweep through, taking away any “given” of width and depth. Night cruising is done with headlights, so that banks and markers can be seen. Not dangerous waters, Captain John Ayer reassures, but a challenge.

Taking advantage of the 207-foot Nantucket’s shallow draft and maneuverability, we tie right up in the antebellum hearts of our ports of call. Walk down the gangway and step directly into a yesterday where “the war” is still spoken of as if none occurred before or since.

At Charleston, dedicated history buffs arrange to make their way to tour Fort Sumter, situated on a tiny harbor island but a cannonball’s reach from the docked Nantucket. Confederate South Carolinian troops fired upon the fort on April 12, 1861, and so began “the war.”

Most opt to visit Middleton Place Plantation, a National Historic Landmark. Middleton is at its most breathtaking in the spring when sweeps of azalea kaleidoscope in exuberant color.

Walking the cobblestone streets of Charleston’s revitalized historic district, I find myself at Catfish Row, immortalized in Porgy and Bess. I peer through gates into hidden gardens; take gravestone-reading short cuts through cemeteries. At the revitalized Public Market I can’t resist buying a sack of Edna’s Three-Bean Soup, guaranteed to “make your liver shake, shiver and quiver.” Returning to the ship, I walk the Battery, a sturdy retaining wall built to retain the harbor, its length lined with exquisite mansions.

At Beaufort (pronounced BEW-ford), a tiny but important dot on the map of South Carolina that somehow remained untouched by both the Revolution and the War Between the States, I pass mansions built on the back of Sea Island, cotton moldering behind ancient oaks draped with Spanish moss. Ghost stories and gossip come to mind—plenty of gossip, for Beaufort’s charms have not been lost on Hollywood’s movie makers.

I returned to the ship early from a Savannah shore excursion—our promised marsh walk cut short by threatening skies and “gnats with flying teeth”—I stroll the length of River Street. Paved with ballast stones from sailing ships and lined with old cotton warehouses, the street is now home to boutiques and restaurants. A sturdy piano beat draws me to an open door just as a woman’s husky voice swings into, what else, the joyfully cynical lyrics of Hard-hearted Hannah, the Vamp of Savannah.

It’s on to Brunswick, where I take the ship’s shuttle to St. Simons Island, one of Georgia’s chain of lush, subtropical Golden Isles and home to a picturesque shrimping fleet. A bicycle awaits, as does the island’s virtually flat terrain. And I, reared on West Coast Dungeness crab, eat my first soft-shelled version of the crustacean—deep-fried, tucked into a hamburger bun with crispy, skinny legs dangling out on all sides.

Jekyll Island, on the Nantucket’s excursion agenda that afternoon, is a trek into the gilded age of tycoons. Purchased as an enclave in 1866, only the very, very rich made it ashore to what was called the Jekyll Club. With the island closed to all outsiders, the likes of the Rockefellers, Vanderbilts, Pulitzers and Morgans indulged in their version of rustic simplicity. With World War II, the retreat disbanded. Today, complete with exquisitely preserved “cottages,” Jekyll Island is a Georgia State Park.

Next day, docked at St. Mary, we board a 45-minute ferry for a full day on Cumberland Island. Designated a national seashore in 1972, it is one of the few barrier islands off southern Georgia to elude resort developers. Alligators and snapping turtles, nine-banded armadillos, loggerhead turtles, raccoons, wild horses and fiddler crabs live in a maze of saltwater marshes, freshwater ponds, dunes, murky quagmires and jungles of spiky palmetto.

Another fine day on the Intracoastal Waterway comes to an end, enhanced, as usual, by the ship’s exceptional food. From the galley, staffed with young culinary academy graduates, comes delectable meals that take a bow to regional cuisine.

But one day remains on my journey along the waterway. Ahead, St. Augustine’s Spanish towers and steeples, red-capped roofs and overhanging balconies bask in four centuries of history—the oldest permanent settlement in the United States, 42 years older than Jamestown, 55 years older than Plymouth colony.

We arrive at noon to dock in the shadow of St. Augustine’s famed Bridge of Lions. Some jump aboard a sightseeing trolley, others opt for a clip-clop carriage tour, still others stroll narrow streets and walled gardens and shop in the restored Spanish Quarter.

At sunset, I stand on deck and watch the fading light turn St. Augustine into a silhouette from yesteryear.

Sometime during the night the Nantucket’s engines spring to life. Morning finds us in Jacksonville, packed up, bidding goodbye to the Nantucket and the Intracoastal Waterway.

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