Georgetown, South Carolina

We are now anchored by Georgetown. I have four bars on my phone, and the hotspot works, so here are the post for the last few days. (The hotspot actually has been functional since we returned to the States; I just didn't realize that it was only not an option outside the country.)

Sunday, May 3

Unusually, I was awake to watch the sky brighten into a brilliant, cloudless blue. We cast off the dock at 7 a.m. and before 8 we were sailing with the main with no reefs and the genoa on a port tack. As we exited the harbor, the flat water became gently rolling waves with no whitecaps. The wind was light, so we doused the genoa, hoisted the blue and red spinnaker and sailed a deep broad reach. There was barely enough wind for the spinnaker, but we did not need the engine, so we were happy. By early afternoon, the wind increased to 10 to 15 knots, and we changed out the spinnaker for the genoa; we were able to slice through the Atlantic waters at just over 6 knots on a deep broad reach. An hour later, we changed tactics and set the sails wing in wing, increasing our speed to 7 knots. We made much better time than we anticipated. Turning into the channel for Winyah Bay, South Caroline (still!), maneuvering to a beam reach, we flew up the inlet at 9 to 12 knots! By 5:30 p.m., we were anchored in the broad bay just northeast of Cat Island, with views of marshes backed by stands of trees which block the wind at this calm anchorage. 

A couple other boats also were anchored here, having also sailed up from Charleston today. The normal custom is to socialize with others around sunset, but the pandemic has forced us all to be inhospitable, so we remain isolated on our boats and make contact by radio. One of Peter’s pleasures in boating is meeting and getting to know other boaters, so this is frustrating for him. After a cup of tea, he set off in the kayak to visit the people on the other two sailboats, enjoying chats with them from his place at the surface of the water and their places on the decks of their boats. 

On the way back to our boat, he spotted an alligator’s head sticking out of the marsh where the water was lapping against the millions of closely packed green reeds that seem to form an unvarying barricade from a distance but harbor an abundance of lifeforms. Why is it that he only encounters alligators while on his own? I would love to see one up close.

After dinner and a game of cribbage, Peter went to bed, tired from an exhilarating day of sailing (made more so by the race-like aspect of traveling near other boats heading the same way). He went to bed, but I stayed up for a while, fascinated by the sound of the water. Depending on which way we are lying against the current, it changes. Sometimes it sounds like happy children splashing water against the side of a bathtub. Sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can imagine I am sitting quite close to a babbling brook. When the intensity increases (although the movement of the boat remains barely perceptible), the water seems to be continuously thrashing about, sounding like a washing machine on the agitating cycle selected for heavy soil when you open the lid on an older appliance to check that the clothes or linens are completely, totally immersed and that there is enough detergent for frothy suds. Newer, energy-efficient, environmentally friendly, water-saving machines do not make this sound. And you cannot just open the lid; now, when you push start, the lid locks to protect you from certain dismemberment if, for some silly reason, you thrust your hand or even your forearm into the tub. Heaven forbid that a child should decide to explore this fascinating moving environment. It is amazing that so many of us survived the perils of childhood without all the safety features now available or required. (Personally, I never put locks on the toilet lids when Matthew was little. We took our chances!)

Sunset, Winyah Bay

Monday, May 4

It was bathing suit weather today, with temperatures in the eighties. This morning was dedicated to making a large pot of bean and vegetables soup, cleaning the bathroom and the floors, and washing the sheets in our little, quiet machine and hanging them out to dry on the lifelines in the bright sunshine and mild breeze, which dried them quite quickly. While I was working, Peter was busy with his binoculars looking for alligators; he kept track of two along the shore.

In the heat of the early afternoon, before lunch, we set off on an alligator expedition. The current was running out at a couple of knots, so we paddled upstream to a marshy island, where we saw the first of our alligators. We then made our way across the current to Cat Island, past the remains of a dock on which sat, even spaced, at least a dozen cormorants enjoying the sunshine. Our goal was start at the upstream point and just drift along the bank, sneaking up on the stealthy gators. In this manner, we encountered them. The small ones were brown like the color of the water, which resembles a weak cup of coffee with milk that has been left sitting all day. The larger ones were glistening black, easier to spot. As we approached them, they watched us warily and then, at a certain point, without any apparent body movement, sank beneath the surface, the snout being the last thing to be seen. By waiting patiently, we discovered that they often do not relocate and eventually their heads rise up noiselessly in the same spot. The last and largest one we saw was in the open water between us and Mantra, but, of course, alligators are not aggressive with people unless provoked. 

Dragonfly that hitched a ride as we kayaked

Cormorants respecting social distancing

Small alligator 

Another alligator

A bigger alligator

An alligator cruising the waters between us in the kayak and our boat

That was our adventure for the day and the rest of it passed quietly. Peter took a long nap while I edited photos and read. Then we played Scrabble up on deck until the bugs drove us inside. 

After all the tasks (if one could call them that) of the day are done and we get ready for bed, our senses become more attuned to sound. Unlike last night, there were no splashing sounds. The boat was aligned with both the wind and the downstream, two-knot current. It took us a while to determine that the sustained resonance was the sound of the water flowing through the links of the heavy anchor chain and being transmitted up the snubber and over the roller to reverberate in the hull. There are so many little things to observe while living a life of ease on a boat.

We continue to make our way slowly north. We need a window of a couple of days of favorable wind and sea states to go out around the North Carolina capes and into the Chesapeake Bay (a two day sail), and this is not in the forecast for the foreseeable future. At times I am anxious to get the boat on the hard and get home to California, but mostly I am appreciating that our somewhat unique situation allows us to travel and explore unspoiled areas of the Atlantic coast (not to mention Charleston, which I loved) while most people must stay at home because of the COVID-19 pandemic. 

Although I am not far from towns and cities, I seem far removed from human suffering. Contentedly, I admire the sunsets, marvel at the expansive universe at night, delight in the wildlife, explore natural surroundings and pleasant city streets, and while away the hours in mostly unproductive activity, wondering if the value of leisure has its limits. Perhaps I have exceeded them.

Still, I feel great distress about the plight of the general public. The pandemic has resulted in the loss of so much life, the disruption of routines and economic chaos. Behind the numbers lie untold grief and suffering. People die without the comfort of their family and friends being nearby. These people struggle to deal with their normal feelings of loss as well as their inability to be there for those they care about. As we walked past a large hospital in Charleston, I couldn’t help but notice the empty, closed Ronald McDonald House across the street. With sorrow, I thought of those children with serious or acute medical issues in the NICU’s, ICU’s and other sections of the hospital whose parents and family cannot visit them, and about those mothers and fathers and grandparents and siblings who cannot be physically nearby yet yearn to be so.

Across the world, loving, close-knit but extended families are separated. Meanwhile, the members of families in abusive homes are virtually trapped inside with verbally or physically abusive spouses, parents or children whose inability to deal with frustration and lack of control can only be exasperated by their confinement. A sharp increase in the number of calls to hotlines and other support systems indicates the plight of these victims.

I fret about students whose schools have been closed for the months or even the remainder of the academic year. Those with good access to the Internet and technology have been managing to participate online, but what has happened to children whose homes do not have reliable electronic connectivity or whose do not have parents to support them as they attempt to increase their knowledge and skills without teachers there to guide them? As a library volunteer, I have seen how much that invaluable place of community is used by students to meet their needs not just for books but for technology and support. With libraries closed, the needs of these children as well as adults are not being met. And in places such as the U.S., how are those children faring who relied on school breakfast and lunch programs for their basic nutrition? Are they starving?

What is it like for children and adults who did not even have a home before this crisis? I have seen homeless people huddled together in their makeshift beds on cold nights in parks, in underpasses, in doorways. Social distancing is not really a possibility as they continue to endeavor to survive in their marginal situations. Trash cans and dumpsters, which unfortunately are sometimes their source of food, sit empty behind restaurants and bars. 

I have great sympathy for those whose means of income are no longer available to them, and I realize that for many of them, economic recovery will be a mighty challenge. However, I worry even more for those who were already living in areas of extreme poverty, famine or social injustice. The countries of the developed world are fighting for the health and lives of their citizens and the well-being of their societies, and, although these are not unlimited and perhaps not always well-managed, financial and medical resources are available to these governments to deal with the pandemic. What happens when responsible and responsive leadership is not there to rise to the occasion? For so much of the population, there are inadequate health care and sanitation resources, and the money to help people is just not available to the public (although the ruling class may be living in luxury). There are statistics and there is political analysis, but in the end, people in some parts of the world—not just a part of a community but every single member--are suffering and perishing not directly from COVID-19 but from starvation, displacement and treatable diseases. The stress on resources is exacerbating their conditions. The lives of those who have been afflicted by hardship and who have suffered from lack of basic necessities for a long time will become even more wretched, with a terrifying increase in mortality. 

This is all very depressing and distressing. I have little optimism about the ability of government, particularly the U.S. Federal government, to guide the nation through this crisis and perhaps even use the opportunity to reorganize health care and social services, redistribute wealth and focus on environmental protection. However, despite my continued befuddlement at the moral values and political agendas of a population and a system that could elect Donald Trump to the Presidency, I have faith (not limited by national boundaries) in individuals and communities. In small ways, they will continue to love and support each other and cope with the crisis and medical personnel and scientists will find treatments, vaccines and cures in the long run. Unfortunately, however, what we desperately need is effective management of the larger response to the pandemic, and this is not only disjointed and incompetent at many levels but lacking in any true compassion from the leadership in the executive branch of government. Yes, we need intelligence and articulateness, but what is most sadly lacking is basic human sympathy.  

Tuesday, May 5

Today we were particularly lazy, although Peter did make a minor repair on the spinnaker. Around 4 p.m., after the strong current switched to an upstream movement, we raised anchor and motored north six miles along the ICW to the small city of Georgetown, the third oldest city in South Carolina. Its wide streets have live oaks arching over them, and large lawns surround old homes, some pre-Revolutionary. The riverfront is lined with docks and old three-story brick buildings now housing restaurants, bars and museums along a raised wooden boardwalk. The Rice Museum, the Georgetown County Museum, the Kaminski House Museum, the South Carolina Maritime Museum and the Gullah Museum are all closed due to the pandemic. It would have been pleasant to spend time learning about the local history and culture by visiting them.

Home in Georgetown

Kaminski Mansion

Yellow rat snake on the steps of the lawn

A closer view of this constrictor

Many bars and restaurants are open, however, for outdoor dining and drinking. While some seemed to be seating groups of people at least six feet apart, others had customers standing shoulder to shoulder and tables were close together. Of all of those that we passed, only one had a server who was wearing a mask. We were looking for a place to eat when we spotted an ice cream parlor. We have been craving ice cream for a while, so we decided to have a sweet treat instead of a big dinner and then have some soup back on the boat. Each of us ordered two scoops (which turned out to be large ones) in a waffle cone, and we savored them on the boardwalk. 

Peter on the boardwalk

Kayaking back to our boat, we stopped to visit another sailboat, where two families (one from a nearby boat) were enjoying the last of the sun’s rays. It seems that everyone we meet is heading to Deltaville, Virginia, to put their boats on the hard. It has always been a popular place, but it is now even more so that all the boatyards and marinas in Maryland are closed for the pandemic. 

Peter chose the anchorage based on reviews that rated it highly for wind protection and good holding. They also mentioned that it was much quieter than it had been previously because the waterfront steel mill adjacent to the town was closed. What that they did not mention was that the hulking, rusty metal monstrosity was still visually present, a real eyesore. The cruisers’ information is also outdated, as the mill has been re-opened, although currently there is no activity due to the pandemic. Paper production must be an essential business, because International Paper Company’s huge factory is still belching out steam and smoke and causing light and noise pollution. Luckily, we do not need to keep hatches open for ventilation because the temperatures are mild, so the noise is minimal, and I have closed the blinds so these industrial wonders are blocked from my view. We have read that the stench is nasty, but fortunately, the wind is blowing in the opposite direction.

View from the bow: Liberty Steel mill 

Scenic, isn't it?

Tomorrow, we do some shopping at a supermarket, mostly for snacks and drinks, because it could be a while before we stop in another town, and then we will leave here and get back to nature.