November 28, 2007

We are in Brunswick, GA. Have been here since November 22, Thanksgiving Day, when Journey blew in on a gale, 37 knots – 42 miles per hour – in St. Simons Sound, then up the Brunswick River being chased by a freighter, veered off the main channel into the
East River, and with the engine in neutral was wind pushed at about three knots into a slip at the Brunswick Landing Marina where dock hands snubbed the rear spring line to a cleat and Journey in full throttle reverse landed without wrecking herself or anything else. The Marina provided turkey and ham, boaters brought pot luck dishes, and we had a good feast an hour after arriving. That night we cooked a turkey breast that we bought two days before, had to be cooked or it would be too late for it.

We had invested a great deal in that turkey breast. The marina at Delegal Creek, our third stop from Charleston, offered a courtesy car to go shopping. Turned out that it was a six-seat golf cart. The four of us, Bill and Judy S, Marlene and me, took off about 4:30, some of us a bit overexcited for grown-ups to have the chance to tool around in a golf cart. It had been warm on the water and we were dressed accordingly. With a golf cart as a courtesy car, surely the store wouldn’t be that far. The marina was part of one of those planned, gated, golf communities with blacktop cart paths snaking along side streets, or a designated part of their shoulders. The sun dropped, the temperature dropped, the cart hummed along at a good 10 miles an hour, the path went on and on and on at least five miles. It was a two hour round trip. I stood by the freshly cooked chickens in the market to warm up. Marlene drove there; Judy drove on the way back with dim headlights lighting the way. I took two paper bags from the store, poked holes in them and used them as a muff.

We rented two cars on Friday, drove to Savannah about 70 miles north, toured, then Judy and Bill departed for Charleston to pick up their car and wend their way home to Boston and we returned to Brunswick. We miss them. They were great crew through southern South Carolina and Georgia, as we snaked through Skull Creek, Calibougue Sound, Cooper River, Ramshorn Creek, Skidaway, Ogeechee, Bear and Newport rivers, Johnson Creek, Sapelo Sound, Front River, Old Teekettle (sic.) Creek, North and Little Mud rivers, Buttermilk Sound, Altamaha River (where we anchored), and the MacKay into the Brunswick River. You can go five miles with two knots of tidal current against you, pass an incoming channel and have two knotswith you. The wind was southwest or non-existent which translated to sailing only four hours out of the 33 in motion from Charleston to Brunswick. That’s the story of the South Carolina, Georgia section of the ICW – nearly Maine-like tides, currents, switchbacks, porpoises, miles of golden marshes, interspersed every once in awhile by a small flotilla of shrimp boats moored to the only land that will support a road and a dock. We saw few cruising boats.

Brunswick Landing Marina is proving to be a great place because of Sherry who runs it and we’ve decided to leave Journey here, head back to Boston on Friday, but return earlier than we expected, mid January or so. Seems that boaters have to pass her test of caring about their boats and behaving. Showers are clean, the laundry is free, it’s reasonably priced, and lots of people are in boats staying long-term. That translates to good security.

For many people a boat is their only home. A couple on a big South African-built catamaran said they intended to only sail for two years. Eleven years and 130,000 nautical miles they are still on their boat, taking shore leave from time to time to help children in the military remodel their many homes. Carl at the local West Marine is “replenishing the cruising kitty” before he and his Irwin head further south.

Chronologies are illusive in casual conversations; people seem not to think much about days, weeks and years, more about seasons. They are nomads – Chesapeake Bay in the summer, Florida or the Bahamas in the Winter. Some go further north, spending the summer in Northeast Harbor Maine. Others shiver at the thought of even trying a summer in New England.

A German immigrant of many years ago was “downsized” by his company sometime in the 1990’s and has lived alone for years on his Whitby 36. Like so many cruisers, he is an engineer, and now does odd jobs on boats, but kept saying that he should have left, but now when it seems like the time is right, another little job for someone gives him an excuse to stay. On his own boat, he said, you go to fix something and it requires making a pile of stuff to clear space to get to it. Then you need a tool, and you build another pile to get the tool out. Then you need a part that has to be ordered and you don’t want to put all that stuff away. “You can’t leave with all of that stuff about and all of those projects pending.” He also said, “You know, live aboards are the lowest forms of life. Nobody wants us. We pollute, we don’t pay taxes.” He lamented that it’s all changed since the hurricanes in Florida wiped out “ma and pa marinas” where live aboards were welcomed. These marinas didn’t have insurance to rebuild, so sold out their waterfront property to developers. Now you can’t find a place to stay. “I should have left,” he lamented, “now it’s too late.” What does one do when you have no place on shore, you can’t find it in yourself to move on, you’re getting older and you’re not wanted for the long-term anywhere?

We’re heading home for awhile, eager to get there, but equally eager to return to this nomadic adventure where we’re learning a new pace in listening and seeing and living that we hope to take wherever we might be. Stay tuned.