Red Solo Cup*

Except for thinking we might run out of water after seeing stranded boats all high and dry, nothing bad happened between when we posted underway two hours from Charleston and when we tied up just behind Looper boat One Eye Dog.  We last saw them in Marathon about eighteen months ago.

The next part of this post probably won’t be interesting to anyone other than us, because mostly we just hung out with Greg and Mary Jane, Doug’s friends from the Knoxville days.  Mary Jane recalls much more about their MBA classmates than does Doug, who basically has no memory of them at all.  MJ now is living Dana’s dream of working in a cool bookstore.  Back in the day Doug played lots of basketball with her husband Greg, who was a college superstar (years earlier) and still has the MVP trophies to prove it.  They have a wonderful home on Kiawah, with an amazing beach right out their back door.

Dana particularly enjoyed Bucky and Willie’s unbridled exuberance.

Greg delivered the scooters, which already have proven useful as transportation to mediocre Mexican joints that are way too far from the boat for one of us to to walk without complaining.  Greg also picked a series of fabulous restaurants where we ate so much awesome food that walking instead of scootering is a good idea.  We had such a great time with Greg and Mary Jane that we forgot to take a single picture with them.

On Sunday, the awkwardly-named “Invest 96-L disturbance” threatened to turn into a tropical depression or tropical storm, which more importantly to us threatened to bring rain and sustained high winds to the exact spot on the east coast where we tied up Tumbleweed safely.  So we bailed on the plan to move up to McClellanville on Monday, and slept in instead.  Which not only was safer, it also allowed for an easier recovery after Greg and Mary Jane kept us out way past our bedtime Sunday night.

Turns out staying was a smart call.  The “disturbance” indeed became a tropical depression—Tropical Depression Four for anyone who cares about such things—bringing forty-knot gusts directly to the awkwardly-named The Harborage at Ashley Marina.  Later on it became Tropical Storm Danny.

Obviously this ain’t a hurricane, or even a storm of significance to normal people.   And bizarrely, the definition of “normal people” in these parts includes drunk people on floating tiki-bars that can’t possibly be Coast Guard approved.  Where are the life jackets?  Fire extinguishers?  Flares?

But we’re not normal people.  We’re liveaboard boaters.  Who hate wind.  We don’t go out in storms if there’s a better option.

Still, Charleston was a great stop even the second time around.

Tuesday, by comparison, was a glorious travel day, although early on we wasted a bunch of time waiting for a tow named Pops to get through the Ben Sawyer bridge until he decided at the last minute to back out and wait for an opening.

It wouldn’t have killed him to weigh in with his intentions when he heard us on the radio discussing the bridge with Ragamuffin—the NPY 43 right behind us—but whatever.

Hey this is different.  We last saw a lifeboat like this one at Port Hawkesbury on Cape Breton.  But that was for training.  This looks like a personal toy.

We looked up the mothership.  This is a lifeboat from USNS Yukon, which was a support vessel that essentially served the  Navy as a floating gas station.  The Yukon has the distinction of being involved in THREE collisions with other boats, which frankly seems like a lot.  The other odd thing is that the stamp on the lifeboat says its capacity is sixty-nine passengers, although it’s smaller than Tumbleweed.  Going down with the big ship might be preferable to spending days adrift with sixty-eight other smelly sailors in a sardine can, fighting over the last remaining morsel from an emergency food pack that expired six years ago, and hoping that navy snipers don’t mistakenly think you’re a Somali pirate.  It’d be even worse if you were the only girl.**

Then on up to Georgetown.  We have quite fond memories of this place from when we spent nearly a week here with Mallory and Shannon and bought matching Grouper Therapy shirts and tried to turn a tennis court into a pickleball court using blue painter’s tape only to have the wind prevent us from using it.  Things were much calmer when we arrived yesterday.

Today was a great day to bring out the scooters.   A week ago the two-and-a-half miles to Walmart would’ve been a deal-breaker.  Today?  Piece of cake.

We also learned a very valuable lesson.  Although scooters can take us a long way from the boat, when the one of us who says “Na, it’s not going to rain” turns out to be mistaken, we might still be a long way from the boat.

We did score the SD cards and fly swatters we need, however, so on balance things worked out.

Ron and Cathy—celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary aboard an express cruiser named Moor Time—stopped by to discuss the joys of selling their house and buying a trawler.  We recommended it highly.

Finished off a great stop by having sushi with the crews from One Eye Dog and Gypsy’s Palace.  Good times.

Tomorrow we’re heading to the Myrtle Beach Yacht Club—which is in Little River and not Myrtle Beach—to ride out the holiday craziness.  And maybe storm craziness.  Because now they tell us that “Invest 97-L really is the one to watch.”

Great.  Just great.


*Toby Keith isn’t our kind of country, but the post title is in honor of Mary Jane’s classic move at the upscale Italian restaurant, where the maître d’ failed to see the humor in it.  “And you, sir, do not have a pair of testicles, if you prefer drinking from glass.”

**This would be an excellent place to insert a line from the Emma Watson scene in the very funny but profane This Is the End, but our blog is a family blog.

“You can’t handle the truth!”

A few places along our travels are known for the free stuff.  For example, Dolphin Marina in Maine provides homemade muffins, except for the night we stopped by, but that was nearly two years ago so we’re almost over it, but not quite.  Brunswick Landing serves free beer in the lounge.  Thunderbolt—our last stop in Georgia—delivers Krispy Kreme doughnuts right to the boat.

Yes, we understand that Krispy Kreme doughnuts aren’t exactly health food.  And yes, in fifty-eight years not once has Doug needed to dress as a jolly Santa Clause with a round little belly that shakes when he laughs like bowl full of jelly.  This could be the year though and it never hurts to be prepared, so we ate some.*

In a post from Fort Lauderdale during our Loop, we commented on a super yacht with jet engines.  We didn’t mention what the captain called the “shadow boat”—which basically was a second huge boat that just carries the toys and stuff—docked nearby.   Turns out the technical name for a shadow boat is a Fast Yacht Support Vessel.  We found another one at Thunderbolt.

Pursuit is a 165-foot floating garage, owned by—and supporting a bigger boat which also is owned by—someone a service guy described as “a rich Arab with too much money.”  We figured as long as the guy has paid off his student loans and is current on his credit cards, we won’t judge his spending.  The crappy weather on Tuesday prevented them from landing the helicopter on the deck, however, which meant that we couldn’t watch the helicopter land, which in turn we found far more offensive than ostentatiousness.

Wednesday was a good travel day, so we took off well before any helicopter sightings.  First up, some bridges.

We’ve probably been under or through a thousand bridges, all without issue.  Yet somehow every time we see a confusing jumble like this one we panic just a little, because what if we realize too late that there’s not an opening and we get caught in a side current and another boat crowds us and we smash into a concrete support pillar and sink to the bottom and then the bridge and the cars collapse onto us?  If all that happens, who will care for the little dog that we haven’t yet adopted from the shelter where Dana volunteers?  Fortunately we made it through—and we don’t equate fear with cowardice no matter what others might think—so we’re good for now.

Another thing we periodically see along the way is industry.  As in big factories like this one.

Wait, that’s not a factory.   That’s a damn boat.   Melampus is an LNG tanker bigger than three end-to-end football fields, loading up some 45-million gallons of natural gas to take to Egypt.  Turns out we were passing Elba Island, which is home to a huge liquefaction and export operation.  We also observed that a road from the island crosses a small bridge and leads directly into Savannah, which frankly makes it a pretty poor place to exile a defeated emperor.

Our plan had been to stay on Hilton Head Island for a couple of days, but because of weather we used up those couple of days one each in Thunderbolt and Beaufort.  Of course, as we passed by we still got to enjoy a zillion jet-skiers, big boats throwing glass-breaking wakes, and parasailors cutting across our bow.

Here’s Parris Island again, where the water tower confirms the purpose of the place.

Two years ago, Full Metal Jacket was the theme of our post about Parris Island.  Then we followed up with littered references to some other great movies filmed around here.  Forrest Gump.  The Big Chill.  The Great Santini.  This time around, however, we’ll honor the request of Colonel Nathan Jessup, who’d rather we just said “thank you” and went on our way.**

After docking safely in Beaufort (thanks to Dana’s strong tide-timing game), we hustled straightaway to the pizza place we remembered fondly.  What we didn’t remember was the police presence.

Some “former employee” was stalking the place while we waited patiently just like the sign at the front desk asked us to do because ironically they’re having a hard time finding help.  Ultimately we got our pizza and the cops interviewed the staff and then left, but if the angry dude returns with a gun, then yeah, we nearly got killed.

Beaufort is high on our list of favorite towns.   Beaufort has all the stuff we like.  A nice marina close to stuff.  A vibrant yet quaint yet clean downtown.  Lots of places to walk.  Delicious food.  Last night’s delicacy was a combination of two southern staples, pimento cheese and grits.  That alone makes visiting Beaufort worthwhile.

But we can’t stay.  Out this morning, under the Forrest Gump fake Mississippi bridge, and on our way to Charleston.

Although by definition any word that ends in “poo” is supposed to be funny, historically there’s nothing humorous about the Ashepoo Cutoff.  In part that’s because, historically speaking, Misty Pearl and The Lower Place get stuck at the mouth and have to wait for the water to rise and/or a barge to plow a channel to follow.  Turns out, however, that it’s no problem if you enter at high tide rather than low tide.

This is one of the rare occasions on which we post while underway.

We’re anticipating an action-packed weekend in Charleston, beginning when we dock in a couple of hours.  No time for blogging, what with all that action.

We might even go to Costco.


*It does give us a pause, though, when we’re reminded of the affectionate line the great Roger Alan Wade penned about his girlfriend: “I’ve been to two tent revivals and a chicken fight and I ain’t never seen nuthin’ like when my little wildebeest tears into a dozen jelly-filled Krispy Kremes.”

**RIP Private First Class Willie Santiago, “whose death, while tragic, probably saved lives.”

Next up, South Carolina, or “Bring two bottles of Dom Pérignon to Cabana 1”

We had a nice easy trip up to Sunbury, although it started off a bit rough.  At 2 a.m.  When Oscar demanded to go use the restroom.  By “restroom” we mean grass, or dock, or deck, or anything handy.  And by “demanded” we mean he reminded us that if we didn’t jerk into immediate action—at 2 a.m.—he’d just let fly in our bed.  So we jumped up like the boat was on fire.  Cancer medicine surely stinks for the little guy, but it’s not that great for us either.

But hey, we made it to our reservation at the crab company and the shrimp nachos were awesome.

One of the many great things about traveling at eight knots is that we can explore lots of places that otherwise we’d never know existed.  When zooming down I-40, for example, the stones we unturn generally are limited to Pilot truck-stops with clean facilities, Funyuns, and Mountain Dew.

In the whole stop-and-smell-the-roses vein, it turns out that Sunbury, Georgia, is really cool.  For one thing, Sunbury was the home of many famous persons.  We now know this because there’s a sign.

It’s probably true, though, because this once was a seaport of significance even before the Revolutionary War, when cargo ships and warships from both sides came up the Medway River and docked right about where Tumbleweed spent Thursday night.

During that same Revolutionary War, Fort Morris was captured by the British, held for a time, and then essentially abandoned once the losers went home with their tails between their legs.

We walked the mile or so to check out the fort, but wound up going home with our tails down just like the other losers.

On the way home, however, we found ourselves strolling along the historic Sunbury Road, which in the 1700s was the main highway/carriage path into what then was the second-largest seaport on the lower Atlantic coast.  We probably walked right where many famous persons once walked, although there wasn’t a sign to confirm it.

Then on to the Sunbury Cemetery, where presumably many famous persons are buried.

If showing up in a Google search is a requirement for fame, however, Adam C. Dunham wasn’t one of the famous people who once populated Sunbury.  Perhaps that’s because—according to one of the saddest gravestones we’ve seen—he buried his many hopes rather than acting upon them.

Sunbury was so cool, in fact, that here’s another photo of Tumbleweed, bathed in the early morning glow, completely untouched by the mosquitos and biting flies that were supposed to be here but mercifully never materialized.

Like old Adam, we had hopes.  Friday’s hope was to make it to Delegal Creek and a joint that even has a place to play pickleball.   Another nice easy cruise.  The worst thing we saw was that the retro Shell sign at the entrance to Kilkenny Creek has fallen down since the time we stayed up in there despite being disappointed because the restaurant was closed.  Even Hell Gate—which terrified Loopers like us in years past—has been dredged.  No thrill at all as we rode Bob432’s recommended line and never saw less than about ten feet of water under us.

Okay, to be honest there was one scary part.  We’ve never been to this marina before, so even with a warning from Steve on Gypsies Palace we weren’t prepared for the jarring disconnect between what we saw out our windows and what we saw on our charts as we entered.  Not a single channel marker where Garmin and Navionics and Aquamaps agree they should be.

But we made it.  There we are, way down at the end of C Dock, across the marsh, looking quite tiny.

Great news greeted us on Friday about the time we pulled in.  Thanks to a brilliant idea from the girls’ Aunt Liz, we exchanged birthday presents that will expand our ability to explore new places efficiently.  Two scooters were delivered yesterday and are awaiting our arrival in Charleston.  Woooo!

Although Doug has coveted a SoloWheel Glide 3 ever since we left Fishtown, these bad boys are a solid compromise.  They’re gonna be game-changers.

Skidaway Island—which the immature one of us figures was named by a dude who manufactured underwear cleaning solutions—is home to The Landings.  The Landings essentially is a master-planned community with a bunch of private clubs and private restaurants.  Very swanky.  The nice marina folks gave us passes into all the private stuff that we don’t have proper clothing to enjoy, and a private golf cart to take us to all that private stuff.

Very swanky indeed.  And very helpful when we went to Publix and to play pickleball at the private courts.  Once the locals realized that our skill level is neither offensively good nor offensively bad, they welcomed us warmly.  Actually even more than warmly.  More like hot and humidly.  But great fun was had by all, as they say.

Even better than pickleball?  We docked across from Honey Queen, a Gold Looper boat that we likely passed without notice in Virginia two summers ago.  Wes and Amanda live right around the corner and invited us to dinner Saturday evening.

What a great treat to hang out with them and a few of their boating friends.  Loopers are the best.

Sunday the wind was a’howlin, so we mostly stayed aboard. Which was okay because both the Longhorns and the Volunteers made it to Omaha for the College World Series, with televised games.  Unfortunately, Doug single-handedly jinxed both our teams by prematurely thinking up zingers to use on Charlie after the anticipated Vol win and Bulldog loss, neither of which materialized.  Grrrrr.

Among the swanky amenities offered by The Landings are miles of gorgeous walking paths, which we thoroughly enjoyed.

Although when Oscar is along they’re not really walking paths. More like dawdling paths.

When we arrived at Delegal on Friday, the plan was to leave Monday.  But then the weather was horrible yesterday so we decided to leave Tuesday.  But then it looked a bit better this morning so we thought maybe we’d go on up to Thunderbolt.  But then Thunderbolt Marina somewhat predictably was struck by lightening last night so all their phones and internet were out so we couldn’t confirm that they had a spot we safely could claim in 25-knot gusts.  But then we reached them by VHF and they said come on, so we scurried around untying ourselves in the wind so we could catch the last of the creek water before it was carried out to sea.  Whew.  Because we now knew we’d be going across charted land it was marginally less scary this time through, but just by a smidge.

Here’s Moon River, made famous by Savannah’s own Johnny Mercer (although technically it’s more of an inlet that was renamed to take advantage of Johnny rather than the other way around.)

We apologize for recycling the reference, but frankly it’s impossible to pass Moon River without a nod to Irwin Fletcher. “Thank you Doc.  You ever serve time?”

After tying up and eating the obligatory lunch at Tubby’s we popped over to River Supply, because it’s also obligatory to pop over to every marine supply outfit within striking distance.

Unfortunately they were able to sell us exactly none of the things we need, so of course we bought two drink holders that’ll come in handy but weren’t on the list.  We’re staying here until Wednesday because of the wind, so we’ll probably go back tomorrow.

From here we’ll hit up either Hilton Head or Beaufort, depending on the weather and our mood.  Done with Georgia.

Raining sunshine

First of all, this post title proves—contrary to a common misconception—that we’re pretty darn hip when it comes to current pop culture.  Because we once were parents of pre-teen girls, we watched from afar as precocious Summer transformed into precocious Carly and then started a short-lived singing career.

Lots of rain and lots of sun over the past few days, starting Monday morning.  Up early to beat both the Bridge of Lions dead-time and the impending storm.

Not too bad for a start.  Plus we were able to pass under the bridge with a few inches to spare so left it in our wake without even needing the opening.

Most of the day was just gray and dreary, but at least the rain held off.

Well actually the rain held off only long enough for us to get tied up at Palm Cove and walk a half mile to get lunch thinking we were safe.  Then it started coming down.   We have umbrellas, of course, because we’re not dummies.  But we left them on the boat.

Historically we took rain photos through Misty Pearl’s porthole.  No portholes on Tumbleweed, however, which sadly means no more additions to the PortholefolioTM.  But the rain was significant, which really sucked for the one of us who needs to pee outside.

By Tuesday morning, the sun was back in its rightful place, right behind the orange sky.  More epic than usual.  Gonna be a beautiful day.

At some point—which we’ve already passed—the ICW through north Florida and Georgia all starts looking the same.  Not ugly, mind you, but one of us finds it not particularly interesting either.  Especially the second time through.

That’s not to say there’s nothing interesting in these parts though.  For instance BAE busily was working on some Navy ships, which always are cool.

And how about this?  This dock is at the end of an absurdly long walkway from the houses on shore, barely visible as it fades into the distance.

Here’s the Google Earth photo.  Doug measured it using the handy-dandy Google Earth measuring tool.  Four-tenths of a mile from the house to the boat.

Not surprisingly, we have a few observations.  First, maintaining nearly a half-mile of elevated wooden walkway can’t be easy or cheap.  Second, we imagine it’s the source of many family arguments that start after schlepping the coolers and fishing equipment down to the boat on one of these ridiculously hot and humid days: “Honey, I forgot my phone.  Would you run back to the house and get it for me?”  Third—and probably related to the first two—it doesn’t seem to get used much.  The same lone boat from the Google Earth photo is still the same lone boat stuck out there.  We saw no evidence that it’s been on the water anytime in the recent past.

Anyway, we made it into the new docks at Fernandina Beach, just past the fishing boats that looked a lot like the fishing boats in Nova Scotia.  Which means that this photo looks a lot like photos we posted while on the Down East Circle.

Fernandina Beach is one of these small towns we missed last time but are trying to catch this time.

We’d like to catch them without this wet-stuff though.   Because once again the driving rain smacked us and the wind whipped up two-footers in the river.

The good news about the Fernandina Beach storm is that after it left, we got a spectacular, painting-worthy, dusk, although Tumbleweed’s view of the golden rays was significantly impeded by all of the non-boaters who crowded the dock two feet from our stern to take selfies with OUR amazing sunset.

Yes, we felt possessive of the sunset view from Tumbleweed.  And no, we don’t feel bad about it.  (Here’s a simple trick to avoid feeling bad about wanting annoying strangers to get the hell out of the way.  Just assume that they’re Alabama fans.  Works every time.)

Gypsies Palace convinced us to take the outside route up to St. Simons Island, which would put us back in the ocean.   But we could avoid that treacherous stretch in Jekyll Creek that nearly stopped us last time through.  Great call.  The St. Mary’s Inlet was smooth as whipped butter, which is exactly what we want for inlets and toasted-bagel spread.

The inlet entrance is guarded by Fort Clinch, at least as much as an abandoned fort turned into an historic site can guard something.

The fort mostly was built in 1847, initially controlled by the Confederacy, then the Union, then the Union again during the Spanish-American war.  To the Tennessee fan aboard Tumbleweed, however, it looks like the Florida cannons were aimed at Georgia, just across the inlet.  Which raises the theoretical specter of a moral dilemma equivalent to choosing between Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer.

Then out into the Atlantic.  We last saw this water when we rounded Cape May heading to Virginia on Misty Pearl almost a year ago.  Not surprisingly, it looks just about the same as we remembered.

Dana and Oscar enjoyed naps on the watch berth, which now arguably should be renamed the nap berth.

Did someone say something about golden rays?  Speaking of golden rays, in September of 2019 the 650-foot Golden Ray was carrying about 4,300 new cars out of Brunswick, heading to Baltimore, when it sank in the very alliterative St. Simons Sound.  As of about seven hours ago when we passed by, the salvage operation still was underway.  So apparently is the squabbling about strategy, cost, pollution, and responsibility.

Before today’s storm arrives, we thoroughly enjoyed a courtesy-car ride to town and a delicious meal with Steve and Debbie and Joann, their guest aboard Gypsies Palace.

We had a great time swapping stories about Charlie and Robin and The Lower Place.

Tomorrow a long slog to Sunbury Crab Co. Restaurant and Marina, which Coastal Living magazine says is one of the “Best seafood dives of all time.”  That’s a pretty bold claim, and a claim that’s hard to prove or disprove unless one (1) fashions some sort of objective standard for judging seafood dives and (2) invents a time-travel/teleportation machine.  We’re just hoping we get there by our 6:15 reservation slot and the food is decent.

Wild Kingdom, or “You want a toe? We can get you a toe.”

First off all, this is getting creepy.  Oscar has been peeing on a rug that tied the room together, although we’ve now moved it outside for him.  The day after including a line from The Big Lebowski AND noting that “Tumblin’ Tumbleweeds” is the movie’s opening song, we step off the boat in Daytona Beach just down the dock from El Duderino (“if you’re not into the whole brevity thing”).

We’ve noted some extreme coincidences before, but if we run into a band of angry nihilists any time soon this will jump to the top.

Now back to boating.  Shortly after heading north out of Titusville Thursday morning, we angled a bit east through the Haulover Canal, which connects the Indian River to  Mosquito Lagoon.  Apparently, before someone dug the canal, Native Americans used to haul their canoes over the strip of land that blocked easy access to the ocean.  Hence the name.  None of that means much to us, but we had to get through it, dodging alligators along the way.

The Haulover Canal Bridge is significant to the country because it carries a road to the NASA Shuttle Landing Facility, which is pretty cool.  For us, however, this time through the bridge was significant mostly for its insignificance.  With Misty Pearl’s air draft we had to wait for an opening.  On Tumbleweed, we slid right on under.  Very nice.

In several prior posts we’ve lamented the lack of information after someone reports a maritime emergency.  Often we’ll be riveted by the radio traffic, but never find out what happened.  When Fishy Fishy’s Captain called in a man-overboard Mayday someplace off the coast near New Smyrna, however, we were able to follow the action until the Coast Guard officially reported that one of their boats had pulled Robert—38 years old and 5’11”—to safety.  To United States Coast Guard Sector Jacksonville, Florida, thanks for the closure.  We also enjoyed saying “Fishy Fishy” out loud more than a few times.

At the southern edge of Daytona Beach, the Ponce de Leon Lighthouse stands 175 feet tall, and since 1887 has guided weary sailors to wet t-shirt contests and Jell-O shots. 

Obviously it needs to be renamed now that we know Ponce had to push John Cabot out of the way just to step on Florida’s shores.  Plus, what kind of a name is “Ponce” anyway?

Our Daytona Beach destination was Halifax Harbor.  As we turned into the channel, horrible flashbacks of our last visit to Halifax Harbor gripped us.  In fact, based on our experience, 100% of the time we enter Halifax Harbor we’re blinded by dense fog and nearly crushed by every manner of huge fast ships we can’t see.   Our panic subsided, of course, when we remembered that the fog was in Halifax Harbor, Nova Scotia, and we probably wouldn’t hit any on a June afternoon in Florida.  So we went on in.

A few things about our sixteen-hour Daytona Beach experience.  First up, Brownie the Town Dog.  The Waterway Guide says that Brownie’s grave and memorial are guarded by a topiary Brownie in a lush park and is a “must see” attraction.  Brownie apparently was a street dog that captured the hearts of enough locals to justify a grave, memorial, topiary replica, and park.  Since we’re Contributing Editors and all, we felt obliged to brave the 90° sauna to take a look.  WTF?  The park is a construction site, the grave is covered, the memorial statue is in a crate, and the topiary dog is nowhere to be seen.  What a huge disappointment.

The minor-league team is the Daytona Tortugas, which we think is a cool name.  The chocolate store has Christian books and a sign on the door telling anyone in a bikini that they can’t come inside.  The newly-opened hot dog place is pretty good.

The best part of Daytona, however, was getting to know Doug and Pat on Talisman.  They cruise at twenty knots so we can’t keep up, but they were docked at our marina when we reached St. Augustine, which gave us the chance to host them—as our first guests—last evening.

But before we hosted Doug and Pat, of course, we had to get to St. Augie.  The tricky part was at the Matanzas inlet, allegedly the shallowest stretch of the Florida ICW.

Last time through we tucked in behind Clark and Evelyn on Sunset Delight, close enough that we could stay in their wake but far enough back to avoid a collision if they happened to stop suddenly on a hidden shoal.  This time we were on our own, but never saw less than about nine feet under us.

What we did see, sort of, was a shark.

Which reminded us of the bear we photographed on the shoreline a few legs back.  Somewhere a little girl has learned a valuable lesson:  “I told you if you kept biting your brother I would put Miss Fuzzy in the rock pile.”

Yup, lots of wildlife along the ICW.  Dana bagged her first roseate spoonbill, which may be even more odd than a giant pink stuffed animal or a shark on a golf cart.

We spent a good deal of time doing touristy stuff last time, and memorialized much of it in our post.   So this time we mostly just did chores and stayed out of the rain, although Doug was able to work in a drone flight and two three-mile round trip hikes to Home Depot in sweltering heat.  Because it’s fundamentally impossible to get everything you need for a project on just one trip to Home Depot.  Even if you make a list.

To round out the animal theme of this post, here’s the marina cat.