NOTE: This is Part Two of a multiple part story.
Read Part One here.
Thursday morning I headed to the airport in the wee hours of the morning. After I checked in with the agents at the gate as one of their standby passengers, I watched the room fill up with people. A flight had been cancelled the night before making this plane packed with people; frustrated people. I sat nearby and watched everyone board the plane. Then I watched a ridiculous family of four get turned away. They had arrived so late that the jetway was closed and locked. When I asked the agents if I would just get rolled to the next flight, they just looked at each other. I realized then that if I had been hovering near the gate, acting annoying, I might have gotten on that flight. They switched me to the next morning. Same flight. Same time.
|Bro & his kids with me on Muskegon Lake|
Some time after midnight, I rolled over, awakened and checked my phone. I never check my phone in the middle of the night. Sherry had tried to call and sent a couple texts. I work third shift and sleep during the day, so my ringer is almost always off. Friday’s flight had tightened up and it was looking grim to be able to get out of Grand Rapids in the morning; just a few hours away then. I shook myself awake and got online.
I found an amazingly cheap flight yet that afternoon, out of O’Hare in Chicago. I booked the flight, checked the South Shore Rail schedule, and was out the door by 02:30. At 03:15, my alarm went off and scared the hell out of me. I was already 45 minutes down the road before I had actually planned to get up.
|Carroll Ave Station|
After touching down at Myrtle Beach International Airport, I grabbed a Lyft ride up to Little River, SC where the boat was gently rocking at the dock behind Don’s house. The driver and I had to get buzzed in at the island’s gate, so Don was waiting in his drive when we arrived. The house was a gorgeous, perfectly tropical-looking home, all stone and spanish tile, on a canal with a jeep in the drive and a hot rod pickup in the garage.
We chatted a bit and went out back to see the boat. Don was eager to answer any questions I had but let me crawl around the boat; to peek into all her nook and crannies, check the rig, the deck, the bilges, and whatever else I needed to check before making my decision. He’s a low key guy like me and we got on well right away. Don gave me a Danforth anchor and some lines out of his dock box. We started the engine and listened to it purr.
|At Don's Dock|
Some money changed hands but Don was asking so little he was basically giving me the boat. I spent more last year on boatyard storage. He really just wanted to find the boat a good home and only asked that I not flip her right away.
I was prepared with a bank check and a home-brewed Bill of Sale. We walked back to the house to do the paperwork; past the perfect South Carolina ICW backyard deck with gazebo, pool, etc. Don’s girlfriend, Deborah, with the precise timing of a wonderful hostess, came down from the main level with a couple bottles of ice cold water; just what we needed! We each signed both copies of the Bill of Sale and I handed him the check. The last detail remaining, Don and I had to run to the bank to get his North Carolina title notarized.
We had talked about Latitudes and Attitudes Magazine back when we first talked on the phone. Both of us had read it and appreciated regular guy perspective, absent of any yacht club pretensions. As we drove to the bank, Don asked me if I had written for the magazine. He had noticed my BubbaThePirate.com signature block on my emails and was remembering the regular Bubba Whartz columns. I assured him we weren’t the same guy, but that the column had originated in Sarasota where I had lived. I had been reading Bubba Whartz long before it was in a national magazine.
Don, being low key, let me tell him that I was going to organize the boat and then walk over to the grocery store and maybe to West Marine. I was planning on heading out in the morning. It was a really hot week in the Carolinas but I went to work cleaning up a bit and organizing the lines and spare equipment.
Then my phone rang.
“Is this Bubba the Pirate?” a now familiar voice asked me.
Deborah’s charming southern accent cascaded over me. “You are NOT walking to the store. It is too hot. In fact, you can take a shower downstairs when you’re done and then we know of a nice place for a steak or some ribs. After that we’ll go to the store, so you can get whatever you need. You just let us know when you’re ready.”
We had a great meal and a nice chat. Afterward, at Walmart, I grabbed some toiletries that I couldn’t carry on the plane, and provisions for a couple days on the boat; including four gallons of water. With all that and my sailing dreams rolling around in my head, I prepared to sleep on the boat. It was a sticky Carolina night, but I drifted off, dreaming about red and green buoys, seagulls and pelicans.