I suppose the few of you who follow my blog know me fairly well. But there are ... things ... experiences, really, that might be interesting to share. When reviewing one of my friend's chapters for her new book, I was reminded of a story. A true story. I think I'll share it. I'm getting bolder. And it's all Tammy Kennon's fault.
I must admit my butt cheeks were clenched when I read about McClellanville only because I grounded there, too. I was motoring solo on my sailboat, and it had been a long day. Just 30 minutes before, I had marveled at a deer swimming across the ICW. And then … beep-beep-damn. My motor quit in the middle of the channel, and I felt that nauseating “bump” all in the same instant. A motor sailor was kind enough to kedge me off, and I limped into the little creek entrance and tied up to the side of a ginormous shrimp boat, tires being used for fenders. The “dockmaster” was filling in for his buddy who was out fishing that night, and he fixed me the greatest shrimp dish I ever ate (“so good it’ll make a minnow hug a whale” – he got his hug, nothing more.) The next day, a very nice Frenchman was having his coffee on his very large and very fine boat. When he learned of my plight the night before, he hopped aboard my boat and looked at my engine. (“Oh, eet es nothing moore than you are low on gasoline.”) That night over dinner, he introduced me to some other French Canadians who had sailed into McClellanville and never left. They ferried me around to get fuel and supplies for the rest of my trip the following morning, and Oliver (the Frenchman) and I stayed in contact for many years. I’ll never forget that trip. Or that place. Thank you for reminding me of how lovely it can all be.
Here’s to your sunsets and marsh grasses (and oh, I have a wool sweater on over my turtleneck!),