Day 284 June 6

We pulled out a little later than our normal time allowing everybody to enjoy an extra few minutes of sleep.  At 9:30ish, we left the last marina of our Great Loop Adventure.  We went up the Mackay River and the Altamaha River.  We crossed the Altamaha, Doboy, and Sapelo Sounds, as well.  Other than some oddly placed and missing markers, we had no real challenges.  The tide was our friend more often than foe, granting faster than normal speeds. 

The highlight of the day was our encounter with a shrimp boat.  We passed by the shrimper, off to the side of a dredged creek.  His boat, the Warhorse, looked like it had weathered several wars.  Old, tattered, and ragged, he told us later, he had just acquired the boat, was from South Carolina, and was down here trying to make a living.  The tide was outgoing, but I figured a shrimper knows far more about the water than I ever would, so I waved and kept going.  He pulled in line between Steve and me, churning lots of mud in the process to get back in deeper water.  Had he not left right then, he would have been stuck for 4-5 hours, waiting on the tide. I called him on the VHF, offereing him the opportunity to pass if he wanted.  He said, “Naw, I’m aight.  Mada wrong turn back dar ‘n I’ll be headin’ back fo jus a lil wile, so don’t need no pass.”  He didn’t need to pass, but he did like following a little too closely for my comfort level.  His outriggers were down and my fear of possibly finding a sandbar first, and an outrigger shishkabobbing the Honey Queen, I called him and said I would be slowing down so he could ease around me.  He made a few other comments in his Geechee, South Carolina dialect, something to the effect that he would pass but would be turning off shortly. As he eased by, I called him once more.  “Throw me a couple shrimp as you ease by,” I called.  He responded, “Yont sum?”  “Absolutely!” was my answer.  I asked how many pounds he could let me have and how much did he want for them.  “Got any cigarettes?” was the response.  I apologized, “No sir, no cigarettes.”  He said, “Pull up on heah hind me, and I’ll give you some.”  So he stopped the boat, and I eased up to his transom.  Amanda perched up on the anchor pulpit and he handed her a trash bag full of fresh shrimp.  He didn’t want money.  I pulled a safe distance away from him and called him once more on the radio.  “I’m sorry I didn’t have any cigarettes for you,” I called.  He said, “Dat’s aight. I’ll be able to git some in a few.  Just say a little prayer for us, instead.”  I promised that I would be happy to do so.  I immediately asked God to bless this man for his faithfulness, and if it was God’s will, to fill his nets many times over.  I’ll probably never run into him again, but the experience was fun and I hope he does well as he tries to make it on his own as a shrimper.

Arriving just before 4:00 pm, the anchorage at Wahoo River (McIntosh County) was as pretty as so many before today.  Seems like yesterday (late April 2019), we were anchoring between Savannah and Beaufort, on our first night on the water. Nervous and completely oblivious to most conditions, we have enjoyed God’s hand of protection over this little trawler for more than a year, having been granted favor as we learned what we were doing.

Traveling with open doors and windows today, we did accumulate a few green headed, carnivorous flies.  They love to be inside, with people.  They were so thick, that after getting the anchor set, we closed up the boat, turned on the air conditioner, and killed a few dozen. Afterward, we were finally able to focus on dinner preparations.  I headed and cleaned all the shrimp while Amanda prepped okra and made a banana pudding.  I splashed the dinghy in the water for the last time, we loaded up the dinner groceries, and puttered to All Talk II.  Steve is a pretty good cook, having grown up with a mom in the restaurant business. He loves to don the apron and put on a show.  He cooked spaghetti squash and made his famous (to us anyway) Caesar salad.  We pulled out the shrimp and he sauteed them to perfection.  We ate like royalty. Stuffed and depressed, we sadly looked at one another, knowing this was our last dinner together on The Loop. 

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We rode the dinghy back to our boat in the dark (100 yards away) and shut down for the night.  Our last night on the water, like our first, was spent anchoring out, away from the sight of anything man-made, and away from sound, other than the restful rhythm of the water pattering on the bottom of the boat, comforting like a mother’s hand on the back of her child as he falls into a deep sleep. I will miss this.