Madness in March on the AICW

Before breakfast Doug broke out the drone.  Not so much because there was spectacular stuff to video but mostly just to keep up the droning skills and to buzz The Lower Place.  Dana walked the boys.

On the subject of breakfast, Doug drafted a riff on black water and our meal with Charlie this morning.  Dana the editor then noted that the joint actually was “Backwater,” not “Blackwater.”  That makes much more sense, of course, but they really should make the signage clearer.  (In his defense, only one of Doug’s eyes works properly.)  So we took out all the good stuff since it was inapplicable to “backwater.”  Anyway the food was delicious.  Which redeemed Melbourne a bit after the Ole’s debacle.

Off at 10 for the short cruise up to the Cocoas.  The Vols were scheduled to tip off at 2:45 and one of us was determined to be tied up well in advance.

Some of the ICW has been narrow.  Not today.  Today was more like lake crossing.

In fact, it felt a lot like that time we crossed Oneida Lake behind Second Wave after what history books call “The Incident in Lock 21.”  Except today we weren’t shaking from a brush with death.

Under the bridge and a hard turn to port took us into Cocoa Village Marina.

Easy docking and then time for a quick lunch.  And time to stop by Travis Hardware.  Travis Hardware supposedly is the most awesome hardware store in the country.  Everyone said it’s a must-stop.  The place has been in business since 1885.

That makes it really old and really cool, but that’s not what makes it awesome.  Nope.

Travis Hardware has endless aisles with floor-to-ceiling stuff you typically don’t find in hardware stores.

That makes it really interesting and really cool, but that’s not what makes it awesome.  Nope.

What makes Travis Hardware awesome are the decorations.  UT stuff everywhere.  Turns out the owner, his wife, and their daughters all graduated from Tennessee.  Clearly that’s a sign from God that the Vols will win the tournament, although the close call over Colgate today may suggest otherwise.

On the way out to dinner we passed what turned out to be a big concert.  No way we were going in, but we did sneak a back-stage photo through the fence.

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If it had been, say, The Possum or The Hag, we would’ve paid and gone in, and not just because they’re both dead.  RIP Possum and Hag.  But it was that loud rock-and-roll music that leads in a straight line to premarital sex and hard drugs and then eternal damnation, so we passed.

We’ll be here for the weekend.

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