Well, I had had my favorite Crispy Mahi Reuben sandwich at the 12A Buoy Restaurant but other than that, no joy.

I ran up I-95 and then cut over to Green Cove Springs again. Some more mail had arrived that I wanted to pick up. Then I made it all the way across Georgia and spent a night at the Sleep Inn in Hardeeville, South Carolina. Just south of Savannah, Google Maps warned me of an accident in a construction zone somewhere just after I-16. My trucker reflexes kicked in and I got off on US17 at Richmond Hill to go around the slow down. When I got to GA-204, a different memory showed up. My first In-Laws lived out on Wilmington Island and suddenly it was clear that I could go all the way around the east side of Savannah and cross over to South Carolina from downtown. The worst traffic I had was in South Carolina where I had to make a left turn into the motel in front of the traffic coming off of the highway. It was a bit surreal to drive through ground so filled with different memories. As I crossed the Savannah River, I could see the Port and was humbled by the memory of a freezing cold Christmas on the water in Savannah. That heartwarming story is over on my old blog [][] link [][].

It was a pretty easy run from Hardeeville back to Wrightsville Beach and then it was time to unload the van and put my stuff aboard Mollynogger. I already knew but then I had to show my friends the embarrassing amount of stuff that I had brought with me. Allison and Gaylen, the Sail Bums, helped me roll dock carts full of my possessions down the dock and even handed things across the water to me on the boat. In the coming days, as I stowed things on the boat I made a few trips to the dumpster with the few things that I found that I could part with. I really didn’t want boxes inside the boat as bugs love to lay eggs in the curvy layers inside the cardboard, but there was so much to unpack that my only choice was risk the boxes getting rained on or bring them inside. As I gradually “moved in” more and more boxes went to the recycling bin. Nevertheless, there was one box of things for the cabinet in the head that sat on the starboard settee for a couple weeks before I was organized enough to stow those things.

Next we had to install the shift connector on the transmission with a new gasket. When I say we, I mean of course, Gaylen. It was not only a project that he had started, he had maintained this venerable Perkins 4108 for the last six years. Most importantly, he could actually fit into the lazarette and knew the cramped twisting yoga move to get all the way down into the engine area. I had started the move while no one was around and I was not confident that I would make the squeeze. Gaylen’s ominous warning to always take your phone with you just in case you get stuck also rang in my ears.

The Sail Bums did so much for me and Molly in the process of this deal. I cannot express enough gratitude to them. One of those things was replacing the propeller. Not only did they hire a diver to clean the hull. When that diver told them that the propeller seemed a little soft – they ordered a replacement right away. And had the diver put it on just before I arrived.

Gaylen made quick work of the shift connector and we decided to test the new prop. We each stood in the cockpit on a wonderfully warm North Carolina day. We were a few blocks from the Atlantic and the salt air was crisp and bright. And when Gaylen shifted the transmission into forward, the boat pulled back on the dock lines. In reverse, the boat shifted forward in the slip and a mechanical mystery revealed itself in the afternoon sunshine. We were baffled. Pre-disassembly photos confirmed the cables were connected correctly but we could not explain the results. Gaylen needed to do some research.

It had made perfect sense for the Sail Bums to have ordered a left hand propeller. All available information indicates that the Endeavor 37 was shipped with a Perkins 4108 and a left hand transmission. Yet the brand new LH prop was not moving the boat as it should. With a little research and some trips down the lazarette into the engine space, Gaylen determined that it must be that the current transmission was right hand. They knew that the previous owner had replaced the transmission but we didn’t know any details. So the hunt began for a RH prop nearby. Gaylen found one in Charlotte, about three hours away but the guy seemed more interested in why we would want to drive three hours for a propeller than in selling it. Gaylen turned the listing over to me and for some reason, I was able to break through and set up a time to pick it up.

I had already turned in my rental van a couple days before, so after all the work they had already done for Molly and me, the Sail Bums were keen to road trip to Charlotte. It was another strange road trip for me heading west on US74 out of Wilmington and across the countryside toward Charlotte. My head was buzzing with familiarity; even of the little gas station where we made a pit stop. Luckily, the guy with the propeller was on the east side of Charlotte, so we didn’t need to get into or around the city. We met in a motel parking lot behind a Chick-fil-A, an age old Southern story.

An even better story happened after I thought to send the seller a picture of Mollynogger. “This is where the prop is going.” He was selling the prop for his father and forwarded the picture. The father recognized the Endeavor 37 immediately; that was the boat he had had in Florida! They didn’t say it explicitly, but it seems that the propeller had come off an Endeavor and was now headed to another one. This only deepened the mystery about Molly’s transmission. Why would another Endeavor have a RH prop when it seemed that LH had been standard. We might never know. The father, however, had the son ask if he could text me sometime, but never has. If I get the chance to ask about it, I surely will.

The next morning I prepped the prop and the Sail Bums again scheduled the diver. Along the way, the faucet in the galley sink had started leaking. When I jabbed at a Lowes location on my Uber app, sadly I stabbed a Lowes Foods, a Carolina grocery chain. I had spent enough time in Wilmington to wonder why the Uber driver was taking such a circuitous route, but unbeknownst to me, the Lowes Home Improvement store and Lowes Food store were each on College Road; a fair distance apart but the same road. I thought perhaps, the driver knew of some construction or other delay. And then we pulled up to a grocery store.

By then, I needed a cold drink anyway, so I thanked the driver and got out. After slaking my thirst, I got another Uber down to the Lowe’s that actually carried faucets and other plumbing bits. The Sail Bums had already purchased a new double bowl sink drain, which I bizarrely installed first. Then I had to install the faucet by crawling under the cross pipe of the new drain.

There’s a few little projects to work on aboard Molly. There are always a few little projects on an older boat.

The day finally came for me to leave the Seapath Yacht Club dock and start my adventure on my new boat. It’s sailing, so you know the universe wasn’t going to make it easy. We had decided that the Sail Bums would come out with me to anchor in Banks Channel. The fairway was tight in the yacht club and it was not the place for me to get used to a much bigger boat than I had recently piloted. Gaylen would drive us out. Allison always ran the windlass during anchoring and she would show me her process to drop and then raise the anchor. After that quick coaching, I was to take them back to the fuel dock at the yacht club.

Of course, as we pulled out into the channel a few dark clouds loomed on the horizon. There wasn’t much wind yet, so we carried on and wiggled through Motts Channel, the short way into several marinas. Out into Banks Channel behind the beach, Allison and I had dropped the anchor and all three of us were down below discussing Molly stuff when the wind hit. The squall line we had seen in the distance came down on us like a hammer. The winds kicked up with brutal strength and leaned Molly over. We closed portlights and secured whatever loose bits were nearby …

… and then Gaylen saw a mast where there wasn’t one before.

In any kind of squall, a sailor keeps a mental image of the surrounding boats in their mind. When the actual picture is suddenly different than the one you had you immediately have to determine who is moving or worse yet dragging anchor. Gaylen and I jumped to the cockpit to assess the situation and fend off any boat or dock as necessary. We quickly realized that the other boat was dragging. The ironically named “Wind Dance” ended up dragging at least a half mile down the channel during that squall. We were fine but also now wide awake.

Once the squall had passed and the wind died, Allison and I went back to the bow to haul the anchor. I was also interested in how fast I could walk from the bow back to the helm with the boat floating free. So, we yelled when the anchor was off the bottom, but Gaylen did not put her into gear until I had danced my way back to the cockpit. I have done this a few time now on my own and Molly is heavy enough that she doesn’t start moving very fast. She will very casually drift downwind, even in a brisk breeze. I have always had plenty of time to get to the helm and the engine controls even in a crowded anchorage.

With the anchor up, we wandered back to the Seapath fuel dock. I bought some diesel and took on some water. Then it was time for some hugs and shots all around to celebrate our friendship and the passing of Mollynogger’s care to me.

… and suddenly I had restarted the life I have been meant to be living.

And Ruth Ann is still not sold, but I have some good nibbles.

With coffee and bagel in hand, I got back on I-95 and continued south. For my last semi driving job, I was on some stretch of I-95 nearly every day. All this was familiar still; down through South Carolina, crossing Lake Marion, and to Yemassee. It’s silly, and also incredible, how I could remember locations and exit numbers. I knew that there was a Flying J at exit 77, a little Circle C truckstop at exit 68 which they had remodeled but was still kind of small and sad, and the Loves at exit 38 where I stopped to fill up the Budget Rental Van. I passed the Pilot at Exit 5 for Hardeeville and crossed the Savannah River into Georgia.

Georgia is also scattered with places where I’ve slept along I-95. The most interesting might be on the service road of the driveway of a paper plant. I didn’t linger with all the trivia and memories, but carried on to exit 1 where there was a Pilot Truckstop on either side of the highway. I had always favored the west side one which is technically in Kingsland over the east side one which is technically in St. Marys, Georgia. The St. Marys Pilot has a much larger parking lot, but is busier and noisier to my ears. Also, there seemed to be a lot more trouble in the far corners of that lot than in the more easily supervised Kingsland location. I got some more gas in Kingsland.

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I blasted into Florida, took the west side bypass around Jacksonville, and careened into the Orange Park Staples store. It was late midday already, but if I could print some DMV forms and get down to the courthouse in Green Cove Springs, I might have been able to continue on to Fort Pierce yet that evening. Green Cove is my virtual base, home of my mail service, and where I can get a Florida Drivers License by Domicile Declaration rather than leasing an apartment.

I printed the forms, bought a clipboard and a report cover, and cut through Jacksonville’s southwest suburbs to rush down to the Clay County Courthouse. I almost forgot to leave my Swiss Army Knife in the van, but got inside and got my Declaration of Domicile notarized at the Clerk’s office. All my efforts might have gone for naught when I learned that the DMV uses appointments – only, supposedly. And I didn’t have one. But experimenting with an unexplained “Waiting List” on their website, I discovered that I could get in if there was a lull in their scheduled business.

Literally, a different parking lot across the same side street and I was on the Waiting List and in the lobby of the DMV. In less than ten minutes, they called my name. I thought sure they were going to tell me to come back in the morning, but no. I was instructed to present myself at the window of the dedicated and enthusiastic Destiny. She did so much in twenty minutes that she has changed my impressions of DMVs everywhere for good. She caught up the expired registration on Ruth Ann, processed my drivers license, and then titled and registered Mollynogger even with the added complexity that Molly was registered in Maine, a state that doesn’t title boats. With a little help from their office procedure manuals and from another clerk, I had all my paperwork done and I was out the door well before they were even scheduled to close!

Ahead of schedule, I had to take the opportunity to wander around Green Cove Springs; it’s one of my “neighborhoods.” I passed the little Governors Creek and sure enough there was the Gadfly. One of my favorite boat names, Gadfly is captained by Doug, a strange fellow who seems to have a deal with the local sheriff. I had anchored Ruth Ann near Gadfly in the creek because there was a little park there with some docks which was much closer to groceries, hardware, and most importantly my mail service. But one day, Doug came over to tell me that the sheriff was “bothered by Ruth Ann’s Placement.” Our chat was pleasant otherwise and it was good to get to know the quiet character whose otherworldly countenance was emphasized by his unusual gait. Turns out that he had been sailing a long while, with bigger, fancier boats in more remote places but old age and a degenerative nerve condition was taxing him. He was gradually losing the feeling in his hands and feet but kept sailing.

I wasn’t sure whether the sheriff actually cared if I was there or if Doug had wanted the little creek all to himself. Nevertheless, one of my boat life rules is to avoid antagonizing the locals; especially the local sheriff. Doug had given me some good information and advice, so I’ll happily blame it on the sheriff. At the time, I just went back to the anchorage near the City Pier. The facilities are better and it’s closer to town. It was just a longer walk to get groceries or my mail.

All those thoughts about the City Pier had me remembering how good the fish tacos were at La Casita, a little Mexican family restaurant just up the hill from the pier. I had to stop there. I also wanted to see the pier and the anchorage where I had hung out previously. Florida is cracking down on anchoring again and I wanted to see if the anchorage had been cleared out or not.

Down the hill from the main drag, I passed the lush Spring Park. There is a public pool literally fed by a natural spring, a creek running down to the river, many trails with benches, a kids playground, and a couple picnic areas. Hence the town’s name, Green Cove Springs, there had been a long history of Native Americans and later White Settlers believing in the medicinal benefits of the waters of the springs. At the end of the street past the park was the pier which hosts fisherfolk nearly every day, has a nice dinghy dock for boats in the anchorage, and even 5 or 6 rental slips for boats. A few times, if my solar panels had been thwarted by the weather, I got a slip there for just $20 a night to plug in and charge my batteries.

There were fewer boats in the anchorage but there were some there still. A hopeful sign.

Back up the hill, I parked the Budget Van along a side street and went inside La Casita. After fish tacos and a Negra Modelo, with chips and salsa of course, I picked up some dried peppers and a frozen treat from their store next door. They didn’t have my favorite frozen mango bar so I picked a spicy pineapple one. It was way spicier than I expected and just not what I had in mind, so I didn’t finish it. South out of town, I headed east across FL16 to get back on I-95. More roadwork expansion tearing up the landscape and a planned bridge replacement. Some would call it progress, but some of us would call it the homogenization of the landscape.

I had made a motel reservation during supper and rolled into Fort Pierce well after dark to the Sleep Inn, right near a Loves and a Pilot where I’ve also slept many times. In the morning, I talked to my new insurance agent and got coverage established for Mollynogger. I also got together all the paperwork for Ruth Ann and typed up a Bill of Sale on my laptop. The motel’s morning desk clerk refused to charge me for just two pages. I thanked her, packed up, and headed to the boatyard to see Ruth Ann.

Along the way to the boatyard, I stopped for a ladder and a bike lock. On arrival, I had to hike around to find Ruth Ann as she had been moved at least once. Turns out she was right on the main drive around behind the office and near their workshop. It was pretty warm for this out-of-shape guy from Michigan, but there was cleaning and organizing to do. By mid afternoon, I was cooked and soaked with sweat. I locked the ladder to a jackstand and headed back to the motel for a shower.

Then there were the potential buyers. I had listed Ruth Ann on Facebook Marketplace and heard from ten people or so. Three I thought might be serious nibbles. And there was one I even joked about with Allison and Gaylen. I am a social media skeptic and clicked through to see the profile of all the people who responded to the ad. The particularly perplexing one had no profile picture and no posts, not one. But when I messaged all the respondents to tell them I was going to be in Fort Pierce for a couple days, I decided to message that person too.

“Carlos” had been bugging me on FB Messenger and I was ignoring him because his empty profile felt like a scam. He offered me $3500, then a couple days later $4000. When I didn’t respond to any of his offers, and just before I had arrived, he messaged “OK, I’ll pay your $5000.” Textbook scam to this grey bearded netizen. But after my in town message, he responded “I’ll call you in five minutes.” Twenty minutes went by and I was convinced more than ever that he was a scam.

Then he called.

He was very enthusiastic. And as a truck driver, he had some sympathy from me already. He was in Maine but would have his wife come over in the morning with the money. And maybe we could meet in North Carolina when he was on his way back home. We had several messages and a couple conversations; elaborate arrangements. I went back the next morning to do some more work on Ruth Ann. I’m a pretty patient guy. It was almost lunch before I messaged him to check in that I was back at the boatyard. No answer. Later in the afternoon, I explained that I was not leaving town but I was done at the boat. No answer. Now I was frustrated.

Literally, on my way back to the motel, I heard from one of the other serious nibbles. “John” was off the coast of Fort Pierce, working on a tug boat. He was waiting on another tug to help pull a large barge into the port. He wanted to meet up and talk about buying the boat; mentioning he could be at the boat yard at 7:30 the next morning. He hit me with a low ball figure. I called Carlos again. No answer, full mailbox. So I responded to John that the monthly yard rent was due again in a week but if he would take over the yard bill, I would take his offer. He agreed. I messaged Carlos that the boat was sold and organized to get some supper.

Right around the corner from my motel was a La Granja; one of a chain of Peruvian fast food restaurants in Florida. It was one of my regular spots in Fort Pierce. In fact, when I was driving a semi I would often stop at the Loves Truckstop next door just long enough to walk over to get some fried yuca and beans and rice. It is fantastic. They have a condiment bar where I slather the fried yuca with their garlic and rocotto pepper sauces. The wonderfully flavorful black beans come in a styrofoam tub next to mound of rice on a platter. I always dump a couple scoops of their creamy garlic onions from the same condiment bar on top of the beans. Once seated at a table, I just dump the beans and onions over the rice. It is an inexpensive feast. They also have lots of chicken, fish, steak, and pork offerings as well, but I’m a plant based guy anyway and why mess with perfection.

About 9:30 pm, on my way back to the motel, I got a message from John saying he had gotten back to the dock and wondered when we could meet. I explained that I had had a late supper and thought we were meeting at 7:30 the next morning. No answer.

I hauled my tired ass out of bed and got to the boat yard by 7:00 for my 7:30 meeting with “John.” At 8:30, I messaged to ask if there was a better time. No Answer.

I finished up my work cleaning and recovering my tools and other things from Ruth Ann. With the van packed, I stared bleakly at my phone. No answer. So, I drove out Seaway Drive which turns into the Jimmy Buffet Memorial Highway apparently (that’s new), and drove out to the South Causeway Beach where I wasted some time and watched the ladies in the sand and the boats at anchor in the inlet. After a spell, I figured the 12A Buoy was open.

The 12A Buoy is a dive bar with aspirations. They have a wonderful seafood menu literally a half a block from the commercial fishing docks. I always ate at the bar where Gene, the bartender, held court. As soon as you sat down, he would get your name and introduce you to the handful of others sitting in stools. Just his magnanimous presence made it easier for all of us to talk as we drank and ate. There were fish stories, boat adventures, and other lies, but we all seemed to have fun. Gene was not a young guy and I was afraid to ask about him. They had sold a t shirt with their logo on the front and “Hey, Gene! Where’s my damn beer?” on the back. None of the Gene Merch was on display anymore. I hung my head for a moment and hoped that he was just retired and fishing these days. The ladies that had taken over the bar duties were very nice and nearly as efficient, but I had gotten there almost as soon as they had opened and sat at the bar by myself.

I had a Crispy Mahi Reuben Sandwich; one of my favorites. I was going to have coleslaw on the side, but the wise and efficient barkeep suggested that there was coleslaw on the reuben and that slaw would be redundant. So much for the marginally healthy choice. I opted for fries which I would have done before anyway. The sandwich was as good as it had always had been and I waddled out to the van to start my trek back to Wrightsville Beach and to my new-to-me boat, sv Mollynogger.

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It’s just been two weeks and it feels like forever, but also like yesterday. I’m kind of caught and feel much like the proverbial dog who finally caught the car. What do I do now?

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I’m caught because the ridiculously corporate dental office I’d been using (I was too lazy to change) could not get me in for a procedure before I left town. This wasn’t last minute. It was over a month of wrangling. They’d sent me to an endodontist, but could not schedule doing what he recommended for months. So I did what any good vagabond sailor would do: I left town for a boat.

Luckily, I found a great dentist right here in Wilmington. I’m getting my tooth fixed next week, but that means I can’t go too far too soon.

I wanted to tell the whole story of the odyssey of acquiring sv Mollynogger. It’s a long story so I’ll serialize it here. Here being Substack! I’ve moved the blog from Blogger and Patreon because I think Substack will be a better fit for this project. Thanks for being here.

It all began when my friends Allison and Gaylen, dear friends and the Trop Rock duo Sail Bums, began talking about their hunt for a bigger boat. I watched for some time and then finally asked “Just for insanity’s sake, let me know what you’re going to ask for Mollynogger.” They made me such a bargain, I could not resist. That means that sv Ruth Ann was for sale in Florida and I was headed to North Carolina to meet Molly.

The irony, as I’ve told some of my sailing friends, is that I knew Molly very well, I’d been aboard her for suppers and even cockpit concerts, but I had never been on her while she was moving. Molly is an Endeavor 37 with the Plan B interior and has about three times Ruth Ann’s interior space. My sailing life was about to change for the better; more comfortable and arguably more safe as well.

I was about to quit my job and rejoin Ruth Ann, so many of the pieces were already in place. I just changed my destination. So here’s the beginning of that story:

After a rough start when Uber’s app first lead my driver to the former location of Budget Truck Rental, I got home Friday afternoon to load my Michigan possessions into a Sprinter van. The first thing in was the Nutshell Pram, a dinghy that I had bought in 2024 almost as soon as I got back to Michigan. Then it was a few boxes that I had staged in the breezeway and everything else that was still in the basement. Saturday morning I packed the last of my things and hit the road.

I had been missing the sunsets and palm trees, but I grew up there in Michigan. The Midwest scenery is what I grew up with. Mid Michigan is not quite far enough north for lots of pines, but the decidedly deciduous forests are majestic. I drove past familiar farms and towns as I crossed the state. I drove a truck to support my boat habit and had passed that way many times.

I used to deliver groceries in Ohio for a Michigan based trucking company, so my route was nearly a habit - I-96 across the state and under Lansing, over to US23, down to Toledo, I-75 south to OH68 which connects with US23, and down through Delaware, just north of Columbus. I stopped there at a Meijer Store where I used to deliver. I gassed up and grabbed some lunch. From there on into Columbus was a stretch of stoplights and traffic, until I jumped on the bypass and went around the east side of town to get to US33 which took me down to Athens and then over to Ravenswood, WV.

That last stretch had been one of my favorite drives when I was trucking; remote and quiet. The road wound its way through the Hocking Hills, through river valleys and over lushly forested hills; the foothills, in fact, of the Appalachians. Sadly, on this trip heavy equipment was in the process of rending the landscape, deep on each side of the road. I was jarred by the massive construction project. Ohio DOT was ripping up the forest and widening my favorite little two lane U.S. highway into a mundane limited access highway split by a median. It was heartbreaking.

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US33 crosses the Ohio River to Ravenswood, WV on my favorite bridge. I can’t explain it. The bridge is beautiful but not spectacular and tugs at my weird heart whenever I cross it. The beautiful cantilever bridge is just the right shade of light blue against the verdant forested river banks. It seems majestically out of place, yet perfectly at home. In a panic, I looked up online and to my dismay found that the bridge is scheduled to be replaced as the highway is expanded. More heartbreak.

Just outside Ravenswood is I-77, my route south. It was getting late but I enjoyed the lushly green mountains for the first half of West Virginia. After Charleston, I grabbed a bite at Kanawha City and made my way down to the Beckley Travel Plaza. I often made it this far on a first day delivering truckloads of office furniture to Charlotte or other points Southeast. The plaza had been transformed since I had been there last. The new iteration seemed to have been modeled after a chain gas station; like a Sheetz or, heaven forbid, a Bucees. I had brought a sleeping bag and a pad and I thought I would just boondock on my way, but it was cold! It got down into the 40s that night and I was trying to sleep in a big metal box that basically became a cold plate refrigerator. Sleep did not come easy and my old joints were stiff in the morning. I did not boondock again the rest of the week.

My last days in Michigan were filled with planning and packing; and especially catching up with old friends to say goodbye. Actually, they’ve all been invited to sail, so it was more “see you later” than “goodbye.” In the chaos, I hadn’t really done the math about my drive time. Even after, leaving late, I was much closer to the Sail Bums and Molly that second day than I had planned. We were set to meet in Wrightsville Beach to do the deal so that I could take the paperwork with me to Florida. That way, I could most easily register the boat on my trip to pick up my tools and other things from Ruth Ann where she sat in Fort Pierce, Florida.

I called Gaylen and Allison to see if I could meet them a day early. On Sunday, rather than Monday, we did the deal and Mollynogger was mine. I’m still getting used to all that. Nevertheless, the reason to meet early was so that I could get down to Florida, clean up Ruth Ann, get my stuff, and possibly meet with some potential buyers. After lunch with the Sail Bums, we made a video to commemorate and announce the transition, had a shot, and then I hit the road.

I really thought that I could get past Savannah, Georgia, but the chaos, the driving, and the sudden reality of getting myself back on the water began soaking the energy right out of me. Florence, South Carolina was coming up. I’d spent many nights there driving a semi in the south. At a rest stop, I made a reservation and ended my day in Florence.

The next morning, I bought some gas at a truck stop where I had slept many times and headed across the road to grab a coffee and a bagel. It would be an easy stretch to get all the way to Fort Pierce and set up for my projects there.

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