Location: Calabash River, SC
Dad and I got up this morning, made some coffee and made it through Lockwoods Folly without a hitch. We were in the middle of a parade of boats and the radio was a buzz with chatter. Each sailor was trying to convey as much helpful information to the next as possible, no one got stuck. Our journey today consisted of the same salt marshes but in almost a straight line with little to no navigating involved. The sun was shining and life was good. Around 3pm we began looking ahead at the chart for good places to anchor. The options were to stop just over the North Carolina - South Carolina border or to keep going for another thirty miles. With sun set in just two hours we decided to cross the border and drop the hook up a small creek that was marked as the Calabash River. It was beyond quiet here, it was silent. There were two sand bar islands not far from us. Around five small power boats fished lazily about. Even they knew not to disturbed the scerenity of the place, no engines on, they were just adrift.
Dad and I got the paddle board launched. He bet me that I wouldn't paddle over to one of the sand bars. I told him that if I did he'd be on dish duty tonight. So I paddled over, I never lose a bet. I couldn't walk on the bar with my bare feet though, the place was covered in oyster shells that were licked clean. It looked like someone had a raucous clam bake and dumped all the shells here. There wasn't even a hint of sand, it was a shell bar. When Dad and I went to the ocean up in Wrightsville Beach I looked for shells. The pretty ones I took with me but how a shell looks isn't the only thing that makes one worth keeping. I told Dad my secret and I'll tell you too, I look for the baby hand shells or rocks. They are the ones that the ocean has beaten against so fiercely for so long that their rough wrinkles are smoothed away. They feel like baby hands, soft, smooth, and perfect. It's funny how time has the opposite effect on baby hands and shells. I have noticed two wrinkles on my forehead since we began this trip (Dad's fault I'm sure), and I'm not happy about it. However, as I thought about the baby hand shells I became sort of fond of the wrinkles. They are a mark of something much more than age but of life. A mark that we are still breathing and beating and not being washed away by the forces of nature and time, yet.
After the philosophy course, Dad got on the paddle board in his bathing suit. He used it as a seat and washed the bottom of the boat. At least the water line looks pretty now, even if we didn't make her any faster. We then prepared for tomorrow at the chart table. Tomorrow's adventure will bring us passed The Rockpile as they call it here because everywhere else is mud. New Englanders will say that we have "rockpiles" all over the place. This Rockpile is a twenty mile long canal that can be fifty feet wide in places. We have constantly heard of the dreaded Rockpile from locals and sailors so we thought we'd get a jump on the territory. Unfortunately there's not much studying to do, the charts show few depth measurements and the channel is mostly drawn as a single line. Usually a channel is drawn so it looks more or less like a road and you sail down the middle of the road. In these narrow canals one must sail on the line instead, not much wiggle room if you catch my drift. Therefore tomorrow we will be motoring the entire day, zero sailing. Motoring is not as fun but it will also rain tomorrow so motoring under our warm cockpit cover will be nice.
What we ate: Thai chicken and rice
Spotted: honestly not much
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