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.

More from Charleston, South Carolina

After wonderful, refreshing showers at the marina, Peter and I set off to do some more sightseeing in Charleston. But first we needed food! It was 3:30 p.m., and we had not had lunch. We picked up our take-out order from Chipotle on King Street after a pleasant half an hour walk and ate it while enjoying the balmy weather on a park bench in Marion Square. There were quite a few people there, although everyone was maintaining social distancing. We were halfway through our lunch before we noticed the sign saying the park was closed!

Peter enjoying a burrito

Charleston is an architectural treasure trove with its many tree-lined streets with beautifully restored or maintained homes and churches from the 18th and 19th centuries. We stopped to read many signs about the buildings we saw as well as a few that provided historical information on the original walled settlement as well as on significant people, structures and events from the Revolutionary War and the Civil War, or, as the signs here call it, the War of Secession or the War of 1861-65. It was interesting to learn about important persons such as Robert Small, an enslaved African American who  was serving as a deckhand on a Confederate supply ship, the Planter, when he took the opportunity of the captain, the white crew members and the pilot not being aboard to commandeer the ship. Before dawn on May 13, 1862, he, a crew of eight men, along with five women and three children (including his own wife and two children) slipped out of Charleston Harbor. With his prior experience on board, he was able to give the correct pass signal at five checkpoints and then reach the Union blockade. The Navy was most grateful to receive the guns and ammunitions on board in addition to documents providing information on routes, mine locations and departure and docking times. Small became the Union Navy captain of the Planter for the rest of the war.

After the war, he started a school for African American children, a newspaper and a general store. He bought his former owner's home in Beaufort and generously helped out the family, who were destitute. He was a delegate to the State of South Carolina's Constitutional Convention in 1868. He and others were successful in ensuring that the constitution gave black men the right to vote, two years before the 15th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution prohibited federal and state governments from denying the right to vote to citizens based on "race, color, or previous condition of servitude." Later, he served in the South Carolina House of Representatives and then for two terms as a U.S. Representative.

Tidbits of history can be found at every turn, it seems, in historic Charleston. The history and the structures are fascinating. I took a lot of photos of houses, gardens, trees, cemeteries and churches. I did not note the names of all the houses (if they had them), but I can label the churches. Giant oaks and magnolia trees can be found everywhere, and the pleasing scent of honeysuckle wafts from the vines growing on wrought iron fences, around doorways and up the trunks of palmettos. How wonderful it must be to enter your front yard or your entrance and be greeted by such a soothing smell.

Garden Montagu Street 

House on Montagu Street 

Garden on Montagu Street

Southern generosity

Houses and gardens on Montagu Street

St. Philip's Episcopal Church Cemetery

St. Philip's Episcopal Church 

Houses on Bay Street

Homes along East Battery Street

East Battery Street house

East Battery Street house

Home facing White Point Gardens

Homes facing White Point Gardens

Oaks in White Point Gardens

House near White Point Gardens 

House near White Point Gardens

Architectural detail on house 

House on lower Meeting Street

Houses on lower Meeting Street

Side entrance to house on lower Meeting Street 

Honeysuckle

House on lower Meeting Street

First Scots Presbyterian Church

House on lower Meeting Street

House on lower Meeting Street

House on lower Meeting Street

Peter along lower Meeting Street 

St. Michael's Episcopal Church 

Cathedral of St. John the Baptist

House on Broad Street

Houses on Broad Street

Magnolia blossoms

Charleston, South Carolina

Thursday, April 30

We are still living life in the slow lane on the ICW, which is why I have not written anything in the last few days. It’s all pretty uneventful. 

We left Savannah at 7:55 on Tuesday morning, April 28, passing under the first fixed bridge with ease and maybe a foot to spare. There were no clouds and no wind, and the water was flat calm. Just before noon, we anchored up the Cooper River just before noon. After naps and lunch, we pulled up anchor at 2:25 p.m. By that time, the wind was 10-15 knots from the south, and we were able to sail for the rest of the afternoon, with speeds between 5 and 9 knots depending on our angle to the wind. We anchored with 2 meters of water under the keel in Cowen Creek, near the Marine’s base at Parris Island, south of Beaufort, South Carolina. (Not to be confused with Beaufort, North Carolina—it’s Byoo-fort, SC, and Bo-fort, NC.) It was yet another serene spot among the marshes. 

As the hours pass on our leisurely journey, we monitor the VHF radio and listen to the Coast Guard announcements, which are fairly frequent. Today there was a boat aground on Daws Island, but other boaters helped them. About the same time, a woman came on saying, “Hello,” which is not the normal form of hailing. The next thing we heard is, “This is an SOS,” which alerted mariners and the Coast Guard that this call was not from someone with experience using the VHF for maritime emergencies. Such calls usually begin with, “Pan pan, pan pan” (pronounced pahn-pahn, from a French word for breakdown). It is the internationally standard announcement that someone aboard a boat or ship (or aircraft or vehicle) uses to declare that there is an urgent situation that is not an immediate danger to life or the vessel. (This would be a mayday call.) From what we could hear—and often we can only hear the Coast Guard side of a conversation because their signal is much stronger—someone on board, we assume the captain, was having a seizure. Surprisingly, the 25-foot vessel was 60 miles offshore. We followed this situation, hearing the Coast Guard helicopter communicating with the boat and learning that a rescue had been successful. Just after we passed through Port Royal Sound into which the Beaufort and Broad Rivers empty, we heard the Coast Guard make a pan-pan announcement of a missing diver, alerting all mariners to “keep a sharp lookout.” 

There is always a strong current in Port Royal Sound and the water is murky (and there are sharks!), so we wondered what would induce someone to dive in this area. Of course, there are many unintentional wrecks along the coast, some from a couple centuries ago, and this entices some divers. (It is believed that a French ship sank in Port Royal Sound in 1577, although the remnants of it have not been found despite extensive searches.) Still, it seemed like a dangerous undertaking to us. Trying to understand why someone was diving there, I did some Internet research after we anchored. I learned that just the previous week marine archaeologists from the University of South Carolina had been diving in the area researching what is called the Stone Fleet. During the Civil War, the Union Navy loaded aging whaleships with large pieces of granite and smooth cobble and towed them south from New England to coastal South Carolina and Georgia where they sunk them to block channels through the sounds into port cities and keep blockage runners from bringing in supplies to the Confederates and carrying tobacco and cotton out as exports to support the failing Southern economy. Since the 1860’s, the actual ships have decayed and what is left are mounds of rock on the sea floor. Since there are only piles of rocks, I am befuddled as to what more could be learned about the Stone Fleet from diving among the rubble. 

Many sports divers love the area because of fossils, particularly the teeth of the shark Carcharocles megalodon. The South Carolina coast has submerged yet exposed layers of the Hawthorne Formation, a fossil bed dating between 2 and 24 million years old. Apparently, a dive consists of putting on an extra-heavy weight belt and diving down quickly to 30 or 40 feet in order to crawl around on hands and knees feeling for things which might be teeth or other fossils. Visibility in general is extremely low, and the cloud of sediment stirred up makes a flashlight practically worthless, meaning monitoring the air gauge for the tank is sometimes virtually impossible. (I’ll stick with snorkeling and diving in crystal clear waters with colorful life forms, thank you very much.)

Meanwhile, as I was doing this research in the late afternoon and evening, the Coast Guard continued to repeat this pan-pan. Distressingly, it was still being broadcast the next morning as the search for the 49-year-old diver continued. (As I write this, there is no news on the outcome of the search.)

We pulled up anchor (on Wednesday, April 29) at 8 a.m. to continue north on the ICW and find a protected anchorage for the storms predicted for later in the day and throughout the night. We passed under another fixed 65-foot bridge and then idled around and waited for the 10 a.m. opening of the Lady’s Island swing bridge. By 11 a.m., the winds were up to 17 knots from the southeast and we were able to sail again all the way to Morgan Island on the coast at Saint Helena Sound (also known as Monkey Island because of the population of over 3000 non-indigenous rhesus monkeys located there for unnecessary research on their effect on the environment). We were going to anchor near that island but chose instead to go up a creek on the south shore of the Morgan River for better protection from strong south winds. Nestled between the spring green marsh grass backed by dark green hammocks of trees on Edding Creek, we felt safe.

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View of the marsh from Mantra

After the late afternoon game of Scrabble and dinner after sunset, we got ready to settle down for the night in our snug bed as the wind was howling through the rigging well in advance of the brunt of the storm, which was not scheduled to arrive until the pre-dawn hours of Thursday. The current in the small tidal stream pushed the boat abeam of the wind. The hull shuddered and the anchor chain clunked loudly against the roller on the bow as our boat tossed and turned in the water. Peter got up and employed both the running back stays to make the mast more stable, although that did not make the thrashing decrease discernibly. A little later, as we lay awake, with the slightly vertiginous feeling of the boast spinning (although it was not), the chain began to clank and groan as it was pulled taut, and Peter arose once again to let out more chain to allow it to lie on the bottom of the creek. Peter then settled down for the night, but I could not, so I left the warmth of the bed, made a cup of hot chocolate and played solitaire while occasionally getting up to check the wind gauge. (The highest I saw was 27 knots.) 

After the wind and the current became aligned as the tide changed, I returned to bed, snuggled against Peter and fell quickly asleep. During our late breakfast this morning, both of us were able vividly to recount in precise detail our bizarre dreams from the previous night. 

The wind had died down by the time I arose, but it was dismal and dreary and I needed my wool socks and hoodie. With hours stretching before me, it was impossible to settle down to anything productive. I could have studied Spanish, exercised, cleaned, or written blog entries, but I chose to burrow in the bed and watch YouTube videos. Eventually, there was enough bright sunshine to entice me to emerge from my comfortable cocoon, and after a snack (a bad habit for dealing with boredom that I have resurrected since we returned to the States and have ready access to groceries), I indulged myself in a couple of games of solitaire (I cannot believe how I can pass so many hours mindlessly playing this!) and then started writing. Now it is nearly 3 p.m., and Peter is indicating that lunch would be appreciated!

Saturday, May 2

We are now in Charleston, South Carolina, but I will backtrack to Thursday. After a late lunch, we set off in the kayak, exploring the creek and a couple of its tributary. The tide was down, and wading birds pecked for food in the exposed, sludgy dark brown mud. We saw great blue herons, great egrets and snowy egrets and well as smaller birds. Perched high in a dead tree was a beautiful wood stork. Later, we saw a small flock of them flying above us. And then it was Scrabble, a late dinner followed by cribbage--a very quiet evening. 

Yesterday, we finally got back on the open sea, pulling up anchor just after 8 a.m. and weaving out Saint Helena Sound in 15-20 knots of chilly northwest wind. I stayed down below, my feet in wool socks on either side of my hot water bottle, popping up on deck to help raise and reef sails but otherwise reading and napping while reclining on the lee side of the boat. Even with 2 reefs, we were able to sail 7 to 10 knots, making it to Charleston quickly. We maneuvered in to our place on the Charleston City Marina’s Megadock against the strong current of the Ashley River. Our decks covered with sea spray, our pilot house windows nearly impossible to see through, we took our place among the mega yachts, some about 3 times as long as we are. The real difference, however, is that they are all spotless and gleaming with not a millimeter of rust or chipped paint to be found. (We have not yet washed our boat since arriving. How déclassé!)

The young full-time crews on the megayachts are busy during the day cleaning and polishing and doing boat maintenance. Later in the day they can be found stripped down to their shorts maintaining there physiques doing sit-ups on the docks and lifting weights and doing lat and tricep work on the railings while flashing dazzling smiles. They need to meet the job requirement of being dishy and hunky at all times. 

Four of numerous crew members working hard and looking good on the Megadock

We could not be bothered to beautify our boat after docking. Locking up, we set off to find take-out food and then take a long walk to enjoy the sunshine and admire the lovely old Southern homes. We ordered dinner at a nice waterfront restaurant with lovely views of the marshland and then ate it at a picnic table with the same view. 

Black crowned night heron

View along the waterfront

As we were walking along the attractive streets of Charleston, having gone about a mile, Peter turned his head to look down the side of a building while still walking and stepped on the back of my right flip flop, causing the strap to rip off from the sole. It was irreparable, at least there on the sidewalk, so we had to turn back. When we made it back to the waterfront, with me barefoot on the fortunately clean sidewalks, Peter jogged ahead to the marina to get another pair of flip flops for me. Eventually, I found a bench on which to wait. He returned as the sun as setting, but we decided to continue our perambulation as darkness settled in. We walked for another two hours through mostly deserted streets. King Street, a fashionable shopping area, had a few restaurants open for take-out, and the trendy storefront windows were all illuminated and showing tasteful displays of merchandise, but it was all look but don’t buy. 

We returned to the boat at 10 p.m., fairly tired, but we checked email and looked a couple of websites before retiring. We had continued to hear Coast Guard announcements throughout the day of the search from the diver missing since Thursday afternoon. When I had initially tried to find out more about it on the Internet a couple days ago, what initially popped up was reports of a successful search and rescue for two divers in approximately the same place. These divers went missing on the afternoon of March 12 of this year, less than seven weeks ago. The 66-year-old diver, Jimmy Armstrong, was found by a Coast Guard helicopter around 1 a.m. on March 13, and the other diver, a 49-year-old local man, was recovered by a charter fishing boat around 8 a.m. south of Parris Island. I speculated that the diver who went missing on April 28 might be the same 49-year-old man, Alan Devier. Sadly, this is the case. His family, of course, had been traumatized by the incident in March and had purchased and insisted that he wear a GPS device on future dives. Unfortunately, he forgot it. He was diving with his same partner, who apparently searched for him for a couple of hours before notifying the authorities. It is still a search and rescue mission even though the Coast Guard and other responders have found not trace after covering more than 785 square miles. It is very tragic.

Peter and I are relaxing on the boat this morning and catching up with things in general. This afternoon we will head out for take-out lunch and more exploring of this elegant old city.