“There’s nothing to eat,” Pete said last night without looking up from his laptop. It was an hour past dinnertime, an hour before sunset.
I opened the freezer. “There’s lots of stuff.” Sapphire gin, chocolate chips, and a gold beer holder that only fits Stellas. Plant-based breakfast sausage, half a bag of Tater Tots, and five ice packs.
“What’s this slab o’ meat?” I held it up for his inspection, adding, “See, we have stuff.”
Pete had asked Thursday if we needed anything from Publix before we returned the rental car. But it was rush hour. I had interstate fatigue. I hate grocery shopping. “Nope,” I said.
True, when shopped at the NAS Commissary, the list included provisions, not groceries. E.g., commissary-cheap things, like crackers. Bulky-to-transport things, like TP and pita chips. Things too heavy to carry to the boat without a car.
Like canned goods. Like tuna fish. Like soup. Also true, there is plenty to eat.
*
After dinner, Katie and I walked to the historic district. I’ve wire-tied her artificial turf to the larger piece on the bow, which she is now using for leisure, so I’m encouraging her in other ways to do her business on the boat.
“You should be doing this on your grass,” I said during our walk. She looked at me blankly.
The path to the Jekyll Island Club is lit, but only the last few hundred yards, where streetlamps grace the adjacent road. Strings of other lights hang from the Club Pier— beach music drifted from it over Jekyll Creek. Channel markers blinked in the distance. I thought of Jay Gatsby watching Daisy’s dock. The green light across the water, the longing for power and wealth.
The Club’s iconic turret and porches are also prettily lit. I took a picture. Through my iphone lens I noticed the darkening sky and remembered the pitch-dark marina path, alligators, and snakes.
We reached IH just as full darkness set in.
*
Today is sunny, windy, clear, and clouded with biting flies with which I came to an understanding this morning.
They will die if they enter the bridge. I will do my best to prevent that by enduring the hothouse-like atmosphere generated within the bridge’s zippered isinglass.
Georgia’s winding, interconnected, and heavily shoaled creeks are not an ideal place to use auto pilot steering, so I only did so when enough flies broke the rules, and I needed to use the swatter. Soon, the deck was littered with their bodies.
Pete brought the dust-buster when he relieved the helm. To dispose of the fallen though I suggested he leave them as a warning to others. Katie trapped one or two to play with, which at least kept them from biting.
Now we are docked at beautiful Kilkenny Marina, thick with live oaks and a clutch of old, well-maintained Cracker houses. There’s a lovely sea breeze which is keeping most of the flies at bay, though I’m thankful we have screens on the sun deck and a/c below.
The slab of meat turned out to be the second half of St. Patrick’s Day corned beef. We still had half a head of cabbage, too, something which, as true sailors know, lasts forever, along with carrots, onions, and red potatoes.
Pete’s had them in the crock pot all day. Tonight, there plenty to eat. And after battling flies and sweating all day, I can’t wait to try it.
Irish Hurricane 