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.
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.
