Apart from that one time between Key Largo and Miami when we thought in one order or the other we’d be pitching cookies and calling for Coast Guard rescue, we’ve basically had a good relationship with the Atlantic Ocean. The main thing is it’s about like crossing the Gulf of Mexico: something to be experienced but not necessarily enjoyed. But it has to be done if we want to see Quebec.
Thursday morning Misty Pearl backed out of the garden, weaved around the fishing boats, and left the southern tip of the Garden State.
Out the inlet we returned to the mighty Atlantic for the run up to Atlantic City. Where The Band (whose version is far better than Springsteen’s) says the sand’s turning to gold after they blew up The Chicken Man in Philly last night. RIP Phil Testa.
We don’t really see the gold part. Mostly Atlantic City is just a pit, but we can’t make it to Staten Island without the pit stop.
Between the loud music, the cigarette boats, and the people who don’t look like they can afford to be giving money to the Golden Nugget, we’ve had about all we can take, although we did get to the boardwalk early enough to avoid the worst of it. We were a bit surprised to find that Park Place isn’t blue and Indiana Avenue isn’t red.
An evening with Escapade and a different evening with Jadip, Escapade, Gallus, and Linda Anne probably were the highlights of our three days at Farley State Marina. Last time here we were the newbies. This time people seem to think we’re competent. Weird.
Tomorrow, we’re outta here.