CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN: POLITICS, ART, BLOODY SUNDAY AND BRIDGES

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN: POLITICS, ART, BLOODY SUNDAY AND BRIDGES

That White House Correspondents dinner the other night sounded like great fun. Joel McHale can be quite acerbic, and apparently he was very tart in his jibes at the Fatboy from New Jersey (big, easy target), Lindsey (“The Bachelor who lives with his Mother”) Graham, CNN, MSNBC and FOX. Maybe next year we’ll go as guests of Rand Paul (Not!). He was going to bring Cliven Bundy, but, you know. As President Obama observed, any sentence that begins with “Let me tell you something about the Negro” does not turn out well. And if you are starting to warm to Paul Ryan as a presidential hopeful for 2016, do yourself a favor and read the May 3 article in Salon by Paul Rosenberg entitled: “Diagnosing Paul Ryan’s psychopathy: Arrogant, manipulative, deceitful, remorseless”. Never has one person held more contempt for the working poor, while asserting disingenuously that his economic “plan” would fight poverty. If by fighting poverty he means killing off poor people, he would be accurate, because a lot of poor people would suffer and die with Ryan’s cuts to their lifelines like food stamps and Medicaid. This is not an overstatement.

But you did not tune in for this political rant – or did you? Oh yes, the little boat trip that the Admiral and I are on is going swimmingly. We spent five full days in Charleston, the Holy City, waiting out thunderstorms which were predicted to strike every day, but in fact hit every place north, south, and west of Charleston, while dropping just one or two tiny lightning bolts on Charleston’s church spires. However, it did rain from time to time, enough to flood a few streets in the City Below Sea Level, but for that, you only need about one quarter inch of rain. The rain did not deter Carol V and me from venturing into Charleston three days in a row, making a bee line for a few artist run galleries. I had discovered Addele Sanders on a previous visit – she of the fabulous fabric art. It was Carol’s turn to fall in love with her divas and colorful ladies – and she did. But she also fell in love with the works of about four other artists in that gallery. Cathy Fuller, one of the artists, was so helpful in contacting the artists for her and getting her treasures shipped. It must be a genetic phenomenon that the artists of Charleston are also some of the most charming people you will ever meet. This was equally true of Sandra, a painter from Greenville, South Carolina, who ran a gallery nearby Cathy’s, for another artists’ cooperative. A little back note on Carol V. – she visited Cathy’s gallery in Charleston last November and fell in love with a number of paintings which she purchased on that occasion, so this is not her first foray into the Charleston art world. She describes her accumulation of art works as a “sickness”, but with her excellent eye for artistry – in many media – she is putting together a formidable collection of top quality paintings and sculptures by hard working, contemporary American artists. The artists are sooo grateful. One of them wrote Carol V. a thank you note which was gracious, thoughtful and heartfelt.

If you ever have the chance to visit an art gallery or store with Carol V., seize the opportunity, because you will learn a lot and gain a greater understanding of what makes one work of art stand out over a roomful of similar works. Carol V. has become an expert on clouds and bodies of water, especially oceans, for example, as well as still life oil paintings and watercolor landscapes – and she shares with you the dynamics of a particular work that make it “pop”. It was a good experience for me, not only for the art lessons, but also for my ability to restrain myself from buying up every painting that I fell in love with. It helps that Slow Motion has no wall space, and besides, paintings would not fare well when we travel on troubled waters.  Oh yes, and the Admiral’s admonition that one more thing “will sink the boat” was a very strong deterrent. But when I walked into the Low Country Gallery, Sandra’s artists’ cooperative, a painting in the second room beckoned me to it with a fierce gold beam of light. As I reached the painting, I saw that it was entitled “Trout Fishing.” This is fate – my brother, the trout fisherman, retires in a few weeks and has a birthday a few weeks after that. He lives in a house in the Poconos, which will not sink under the weight of a small oil painting. Sometimes you get lucky, and this time I did – this painting is on its way to his home in the Poconos. May it be the good luck charm for many trout fishing adventures.

About Carol V. – she is our first traveling guest on Slow Motion. We have had overnight guests before. The Admiral’s daughters have graced us with visits, and Sonja has spent exciting days with us at various marinas from Charleston to Thunderbolt to Key Largo. Bryan and Sabina have gone for a short cruise into the Chesapeake from Calvert’s Marina in Solomons, and Sabina and Violet have visited us a number of times. My brother, Rusty, my niece, Gretchen, and her family, and my nephew, Dwight, and his family, my cousin Shippy and his wife, Linda, and my great roundball friend, Alan, have all driven to visit us and Slow Motion at marinas from Cape May to Key Largo. We just recently showed off Slo Mo to our neighbor, Brenda, who came to a conference at Coral Gables near Miami. But, sadly, none of them was able to go cruising with us. This time with Carol V. is different. She flew to Charleston last Tuesday, April 29, and she has been on Slow Motion with us since then. It is Cinco de Mayo, so this is the end of our first week of sharing Slo Mo’s cruising days with a guest.

Slo Mo treated Carol V. to a relatively calm first day on the ocean, as the Admiral plotted a course for us out of Charleston along the coast and then entering the inland waterway at Winyah Bay, heading toward the South Pee Dee River and Waccamaw River. That was our first day together on the water, as we cruised more than 60 miles to the Georgetown Landing marina. Carol V. and I rode the courtesy bicycles into Georgetown and traipsed around the downtown area, including a lovely river walk, for about an hour. The dock master gave us the bikes without locks, because “you don’t really need them”. Wahoo! An honest community! He was right. We just left the bikes, unlocked, in front of a café, as we checked out the Front Street shops. For all of you bibliophiles – you know who you are – there is an amazing “used” book store, where the so-called used books are hardbound and good as new. The owner said that some people bring in books they have never read, which accounts for their mint condition. And we reaped the benefits – Carol got Weird Sisters in hardback and I got The Paris Wife in hardback – each for $5. Such a deal.

The second day of cruising with Carol – catchy title – Slo Mo returned to the Intracoastal Waterway, gliding up the Waccamaw River – the river made of tea water with picturesque cypress trees covered in Spanish moss growing along the banks on both sides. If you are going to fall in love with the Intracoastal Waterway, this is the place to begin the courtship. Whatever the season – we have cruised here in the summer, fall, winter and spring – this stretch of water brings you peace. Serenity now!  Do you like turtles? There were whole villages of them tightly packed together on logs near the shorelines, catching some rays. What about birds? The ospreys were most plentiful and easiest to spot in the huge nests they build atop day markers. All of them were either readying some eggs to hatch or searching for food for the new chicks. And porpoises, you ask? Sadly, the tea water of the Waccamaw does not appear to attract porpoises in great quantities – at least not during our cruise from Georgetown to Barefoot Landing in Myrtle Beach. We went on alert at the Osprey marina, where we stopped for a pump out, diesel fuel and hot pepper jelly, when the young, and very able, dock hand warned us of the copperhead, which had been rearing its ugly head around the fuel dock. The only other “animals” which attracted our attention yesterday were the Sunday boaters, who should all be in church rather than terrorizing mild mannered cruisers on the Intracoastal Waterway. Alcohol and water do not mix – I would repeat that, but it’s too obvious. And please, if you have any children, care enough about them to put life jackets on them. If you insist on dragging them on rafts or inner tubes behind your powerful, high speed boat, for their sake and the sake of other boaters who would like to avoid hitting them, please have a spotter on board to check on their wellbeing at all times. One guy, alone in his speedy boat, was recklessly dragging a raft carrying two young boys, heading straight into other boats’ wakes and then making donuts in the water – basically doing everything he could to shake the boys off the raft – he was last seen roaring past us, the boys hanging on to the raft for dear life, heading north. Where are the law enforcement patrol boats when a travesty like this is being committed? Suffice it to say, Sunday is not the Admiral’s favorite day to travel.

Monday, Monday, so good to us. No weekenders risking their lives and ours on jet skis, paddle boards, unsafe rafts, loud outboard motorboats and drunken boat drivers. We were the second boat off the docks at Barefoot Resort marina at six dark fifty – it wasn’t really so dark, not like the morning we left Charleston at 6:10 a.m. Our first major test was “the rockpile” a narrow strip of waterway just north of the marina, where you have to announce your presence and ask if any commercial boats are heading your way. If a commercial boat comes to the rockpile when you’re in it, you simply turn around and go back to where you came from. Industry and commerce are what made this country great – not pleasure boating. So it’s a no brainer that the commercial craft has priority. Fortunately, no commercial boats responded and we cruised effortlessly through the rockpile on our way to Seapath Yacht Club. This marina was our safe haven during Sandy Superstorm. It’s in Wrightsville Beach, which was totally abandoned at the time of Sandy (end of October). On May 5 the only problem that presented itself was that there were very few avocados left at Harris Teeter. Apparently, there were some Cinco de Mayo celebrations in this distinctly southern town and guacamole was a must. After a dinner of superb salad and gourmet gumbo, Carol V. and I went fast walking into a charmed neighborhood in Wrightsville Beach, where the trees all bough in toward the middle of the road, azaleas bloom in every yard and live music emanates from balconies. After the walk, I barely staggered to the shower – one shower for women, which is totally inadequate for what they charge per night. The day had gone beautifully in every way until then – the weather was sunny and cool, the birds were swooping all around, the boaters were civilized. But then there is the shower experience. I don’t want to get graphic – let’s just say that a very large person takes a very long time to shower and an even longer time to dry off, lifting each fold meticulously to wipe away the residual soap and water. My oh my. The shower door was translucent. I tried to look away, but this was a very small bathroom. I staggered back to Slow Motion after my shower and hit the pillow falling asleep – I am happy to report there were no shower nightmares.

And today, we received assistance from the crew of Master Plan as we left the dock. Then we buddied up with them (Jennifer and ?) for the dreaded bridge openings. There were three bridges that needed to open for us today. Two of them opened only once each hour. If you get there too late, you’re screwed. And if you get there too early, as the Admiral can tell you, you fight the currents, the winds, pushy boaters who move to the head of the line, and shallow water. Waiting for a bridge to open is the worst part of the Admiral’s day, always, bar none. Today the wait was not too long, but Mr. New Jersey took the cake, when he cruised past us, Master Plan, and a sailboat to get closest to the Onslow Beach Bridge (the Marines’ bridge in North Carolina), then just sat dead in the water when the bridge opened. What chutzpah! What has happened to common decency and courtesy in New Jersey? I limit this rant primarily to Northern New Jersey troglodytes (see my blogs on Manic Manasquan), because I know a few people from Southern New Jersey who couldn’t be nicer. Apart from the exasperating bridge openings, the cruising from Wrightsville Beach to Casper’s Marina in Swansboro was lovely – one porpoise sighting early on, then birds, birds, birds. It’s osprey season on the Intracoastal Waterway. They do not appear to be endangered in North Carolina. The temps soared into the mid 80’s, so when I picked up two dozen clams fresh out of the waters of Bogue Sound, I hoofed it from the fresh fish store back to Slow Motion for a mile at record land speeds. The clams survived, and so did I, amazingly.

Let me say this about Swansboro – visit this town. If you don’t enjoy yourself, I’ll give you your money back. Seriously.