American Paradise (Part 3 of 17)
(This entire 17-part story can be found in the “travel” category.)
We shoved off from Isle of Palms by 8:30 the next morning. But something was wrong. One of the diesel engines, which had given them problems earlier in their trip before I joined them, was acting up. “I don’t know how far we can go before that engine goes down,” the captain said, obviously distressed. “We’ll just have to take it slow.”
We headed south, but traveling at half the speed of yesterday, the going was slow. We shared the captain’s concern, but there was little the first mate and I could do. We tried to be extra nice to him, but being underfoot in his pilot house annoyed him. “Go up top and relax,” he told us. “There’s nothing you can do.” We got the hint and grabbed the binoculars and a few Heinekens and exited his territory.
The waters were always calm except when we crossed a large bay. The mouth of the Cape Fear River near Wilmington, NC and the St. Helena Sound near Beaufort, SC were particularly choppy and windy. During these times, the first mate and I got off the roof and retreated to the sanctuary of the pilot house. Since many of the navigational buoys had been displaced by Hurricane Hugo, we acted as spotters for the captain. We had to help determine if a buoy’s location was genuine, or it had blown there in the storm.
That night we docked at a marina in Hilton Head, SC. Frustrated by the underperforming diesel engine, the captain was ready for some relief. We inquired at the marine store as to a good restaurant, then had them call us a taxi cab. Four hours and a lot of beers and good food later, we stumbled back onto our boat. At least temporarily, the captain had forgotten about the mechanical troubles.
The morning found us soon past Savannah, Georgia. The engine was no worse, so the captain ran a little faster than yesterday. “We’ll get the engines worked on in Miami before we head to the Caribbean,” he said. My ride had only been guaranteed to Miami. There, the owner would board for the cruise to St. Thomas. The captain was undecided whether to ask if I could come along. He didn’t want to alienate the owner, especially since he was owed a lot of money for piloting the ship from Connecticut.
One of the first towns we passed in Georgia was Isle of Hope. Through the binoculars, it looked like a picture postcard version of a small southern town on the water. It was drawing me, calling out. I couldn’t answer. I often follow my whims when such an opportunity knocks, but not this time, not here. What was I gonna do, jump off the boat?
That night found us stopping at a marina at St. Simons Island, stopping short of crossing the sometimes treacherous St. Andrews Sound. Following the previous night’s routine, we showered, then hailed a taxi cab. More beer and fine food awaited. Life was good.
We tackled the Sound first thing in the morning, through the fog of a hangover. After crossing the Sound, we found Cumberland Island National Seashore on our left. For the next 20 miles, the binoculars took center stage. I combed the island, hoping to spot the fabled wild horses. They didn’t disappoint. A group of six or eight wild horses were tearing down the beach. Their grace and elegance blended smoothly with their flat out speed, which pulled their manes straight back like a flag in the wind. If only I could be one of them, if only for an hour.
- Mountain Man