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.