Parting is such sweet sorrow, or We’re so over this “old tree” crap, or How much poo can we work into one blog post?

Blog posts will be a bit hit-or-miss until we get up to Beaufort (rhymes with go-fert) North Carolina for the weekend.  Another storm’s on the way so we need a few longish days, starting Monday when we left Georgetown on the Waccamaw River.

The Waccamaw is a darn cool river, although it seems to defy the physics of hydrology.  We timed things perfectly given the tides but still fought current pushing in the wrong direction.  Or maybe everything we thought we knew was just so much poo.  However, the scenery reminded us of Canada.

What else reminded us of Canada and poo?  Those honk-honking poo-pooping geese.  We’ll take more pelicans and fewer geese please.

Of course, there’re more cypress trees with Spanish moss in these parts than we ever saw in Canada.  The scenery is absolutely gorgeous through here.

On such a beautiful travel day, most everyone was out sunning.

Dana had no qualms about invading their privacy with her camera.

One absolute truth about boating is that the perceived size of a wake is directly inverse depending on whether one is on the giving end or the receiving end.  Doug is quite confident Misty Pearl barely causes a ripple.  The slobs along the way who yell at us seem to disagree.  Regardless of who’s right and who’s wrong, nobody can dispute that we need more folks with a sense of humor.

Anyway, we pulled in to The Marina at Grande Dunes.  Beautiful marina.

Excellent stop.  Mellow Mushroom is always a good choice for a meal when Mallory’s along.  The one we found happened to be one we hit up last time she was with us in Myrtle Beach.  We enjoyed one last evening of cards before Mallory followed Shannon’s lead and headed back to school.  We’re always sad to see them go.

This morning, the four remaining Belknaps turned north under the Grande Dunes bridge and headed for Southport.

This stretch looks nice, right?  Just about the same as yesterday, right?

Nope.  This is known as the “Rock Pile.”   Because there’re rock ledges all along the sides.  Underwater.  For about ten miles.  And it’s narrow even without submerged hull-popping hazards.  Well that sucks.  It’s hard to enjoy the scenery when you’re focused like a drunk walking a sobriety checkpoint line.

What else sucks?  Having the nickname “Poo” stick with you your whole life and then into eternity.  That’s what happened to the local dude who recently had this swing bridge renamed “Captain Poo” in his honor.  No joke.

Maybe even worse, if possible, is having a nice home in a sedate neighborhood but then Gypsy Rose moves in next door.

We know Gypsy Rose lives here, because she plastered her name all over the place.  She’s probably not even a real Gypsy, of course, since they prefer to call themselves Romani.  Either way, her house is damn ugly.  There goes the neighborhood indeed.

Just before Southport we passed the place where channel markers go to die.  RIP old friends.  Thanks for your service.

The ICW around here runs much closer to the coast, which means periodic views of the Atlantic but without the waves.

After a second day of mostly fighting current while enjoying the weather and scenery, we docked at Southport.  Now we’ve officially seen every state we’re going to pass on the Loop.  As a prize they stuck us out on the fuel dock, unprotected from jackasses on the ICW who don’t appreciate the size of their wake.

Now about this tree nonsense.  We thought the Lovers Oak was impressive enough to walk a mile, take a picture, and then devote valuable blog space to discussing it.  After all, it was over 250 years old.  And had a commemorative plaque and everything.

Then we hit Georgetown.  The Champion Oak.  Nearly 600 years old.  It also had a commemorative plaque.  We felt foolish about once thinking Lovers Oak was special.  So we devoted valuable blog space to putting Champion Oak on its rightful pedestal.

Except Southport has Indian Trail Gnarled Oak.  The damn plaque says it’s over 800 years old.

This time we looked it up.  This isn’t even the oldest tree in North Carolina.  Some cypress some place around here supposedly sprouted in about 350 A.D.  Why do these people bother with plaques at all?  So we’re done with trees.  Unless we find one carbon-dated back to The Big Bang, we ain’t giving up any more valuable blog space.

Tomorrow off to a destination as of yet undetermined between here and Beaufort.  North Carolina.  Not South Carolina.  We’ve already been to that one.

Your thoughts?

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