Surfin’ Safari 2009 

“For every Southern boy fourteen years old, not once but whenever he wants it, there is the instant when it's still not yet two oclock on that July afternoon in 1863, the brigades are in position behind the rail fence, the guns are laid and ready in the woods and the furled flags are already loosened to break out and Pickett himself with his long oiled ringlets and his hat in one hand probably and his sword in the other looking up the hill waiting for Longstreet to give the word….This time. Maybe this time with all this much to lose and all this much to gain: Pennsylvania, Maryland, the world, the golden dome of Washington itself to crown with desperate and unbelievable victory the desperate gamble, the cast made two years ago....”

“Intruder in the Dust”
William Faulkner

“I am following the river

Down the highway
Through the cradle of the Civil War”

“Graceland”
Paul Simon 

A cold, February day, dead gray snow still banked in our driveway, although a melt has started and, at last, bare ground not seen since late December, is coming visible. It’s just after noon, and we’re leaving Gloucester and going southward, four kayaks riding behind us on the trailer, two Thule boxes of gear above them.

We’re headed to Georgia and Tybee Island for a holiday involving some warm water, the presence of surf, and our fellow Sea Monkeys, some who are also traveling. Rt 128 and the Massachusetts Turnpike give way to the cold landscape of Connecticut and then White Plains, NY and the arch of the Tappan Zee Bridge. As we cross the Hudson, the River bends and reveals the outlines of New York City, its buildings gray and smudged looking in the light. Up comes the long stretch of New Jersey, the state nothing but a highway leading us southward, the dark waste of Newark, the chemical plants hidden west of us as we tick off rest areas and mileage.

The air is warming as we cross the expanse of the Delaware, Philadelphia’s lights an afterthought on the horizon. Delaware gives way to larger Maryland, which remained chained to the North but whose heart was always with the Stars and Bars. Up comes Baltimore, home of crab cakes, “Homicide: Life on the Street”. “The Wire”, and the Wise Potato Chip sign, a great owl face rising like a comic moon above the outlines of the city’s buildings.

The tunnel under Chesapeake Bay opens, swallows the cars, spits them out onto the long road leading towards Washington, DC. It’s getting warmer and warmer, this Southern night in February, and by the time we get to Fredericksburg, our bones are feeling like it’s springtime and winter is far behind.

In the morning, we follow Rte 95, that stretch of highway that follows the sad, solid march of two great armies. I think of Chancellorsville. Of Spotsylvania. Of The Wilderness, those unforgotten battles caught forever in photographs, gut shot Federal and Confederate dead littering what is now a clean, modern landscape. We bypass Richmond, with its signs for Malvern Hill, Petersburg, Cold Harbor, where the soldiers of a nation split battled, Lee and Grant plotting the next bloody move, the South coming victorious, the North losing but, in the end, winning all. Even with a fun kayaking holiday only eight or so hours away, cars and trucks flashing by, signs for Cracker Barrel and MacDonalds, Burger King and Waffle House rising above the tree line, I feel this State is still haunted by the ghosts of the invisible dead, by causes still remembered.

We pass South of the Border, its carnival colors shining like summer, and enter South Carolina, the first state to secede from the Union and the last to accept defeat, . Bare trees and flattened cotton fields, signs urging the car or truck-bound to eat BBQ, to buy cheap cigarettes, to save their souls with a dance with Jesus or to damn those same souls with a visit to “TOPLESS DANCERS, EXOTIC TOYS, FREE SHOWERS FOR TRUCKERS.” The landscape changes, the soil gets redder, palmettos appear. We’re driving in 70+ degree temperatures and dusk seeps down as we cross the Savannah River, silt brown and crawling towards the unseen Atlantic.

Quick maneuvering through Savannah with its Spanish Moss clad trees, its clotted humidity, its surrender to Sherman’s Army which spared it the destruction that Atlanta and South Carolina felt. Tybee Island lies only 15 miles ahead, and we cross the now-dark stretches of the Georgia Low Country, pass the familiar posting for Lazaretto Creek and on to Tybee. This is the fifth time we’ve been here, this little spit of land that calls itself a City, a funky little collection of palmettos, cross bred dogs, bars and souvenir shops selling endless configurations of dolphins and pirates.

“Tybee Tonic” will be our home for the next 6 days. We rented it because it’s big enough to accommodate all 11 Sea Monkeys, our kayaks, and the assortment of gear both paddling and personal – an electric tea kettle, a cappuccino machine, a Kitchen Aid mixer, a pizza stone, a guitar -- that we carried with us, much like small children do when traveling from home. After settling in, we go out for Thai food, then come back to sleep and recover from what was two days of driving for 7 of us and a flight from Boston for two more. 

What can one say about paddling in 58 degree water when the air is in the 70s, and the Triangle twirls around itself in the wind blown sunlight? There’s enough action out there to suit most tastes and it feels good to be in a boat again. We play in the waves until the sand bars start appearing, pelicans and gulls staking out their territory as the water gets shallower and shallower. A tired line of us paddle back to Inlet 3, load boats, and drive back to the house. Jason jumps into the pool, wades across it saying ‘” COLD, COLD, COLD”’. I stick my hand in and it is, at least, 50 degrees and cooler than the salt water we’ve just paddled in.

Werner had arrived earlier and we all go for a walk on Tybee Beach. The tide has run out to sea, the waves leaving their shadows on the exposed sand. Clouds gather, clotting the sky, but a square of rainbow appears between them, like a bright ladder leading towards heaven. We take pictures of each other, get our feet wet, and then go home to a fine meal of Suz’s lentil soup and Rick’s whole wheat chapattis, followed by the Sacrament of The Carrot Cake as dispensed by Werner, its biggest disciple. This is just one in a series of great suppers around the long, pine table, big enough to seat all of us. We laugh and talk and tell stories and plan for the next day, our gear drying on the big porch, its screens outlined by little lights.

There is an aching sadness in the morning when Billy phones Werner to tell him of Lisa’s passing. The house quiets at the news as we think of her sweetness and kind ways, and of Billy who must now go on by himself. Most of our little band goes out to paddle again in the Triangle with a possible trip down the side of Little Tybee to Wassaw Sound, a trip that doesn’t happen as the surf is clean and welcoming and fun for all.

It rains the next day, southern, warm, Palmetto-scented rain that stops around 9 AM. We head to 18th St and the Mega Surf Boat demo that Werner has arranged with Nigel Law of Savannah Canoe and Kayak. While there isn’t a whole lot of desired bumpy water, we try various boats that do fine in the conditions. The water is warm and everyone seems to be having a good time in what we have to work in. The rain has stopped and it looks like it’s going to clear, although the clouds remain even after we go into Savannah for lunch and a little walkabout around the city.

Sunday’s sun rises over a cool and windy land and seascape, and for the last day we head out to the Triangle, which is having one of its more restive, less temperamental days. Still, we play in the waves and paddling-jacket sized zippers and try to forget that tomorrow means a trip north to cold, and the clotted remains of dirty snow.

As it’s still early, it’s decided to make the trip around Little Tybee Island. The last time I’d paddled off there, a 6’ – 8’ swell was running, pushed up by the distant and unseen hand of a November hurricane well off the Georgia coast. Today it’s much milder, with some sneaky Pete surf along the beach, and we head down into Wassaw Sound and then up the Bull River towards the opening into Lazaretto Creek. 

The water of the outgoing tide is warmer and siltier and we’re paddling into a quickening headwind. We slog onward, isles of marsh surrounding us, the sky collecting clouds as we move north to the Creek’s opening. The dropping tide reveals rows of brown oysters, stacked like some sort of alien cacti along the banks. We bear northeast, the dull water snaking through more marsh grass, the wind sliding against our paddles. 

We’ve reach the fork where Lazaretto runs north and Tybee Creek heads east. As we swing into the Inlet, the thin arc of the Tybee Island bridge, which spans the Lazaretto Creek as it pushes into the South Channel of the Savannah River, appears in the distance. Further east, the black and white striped Tybee Light house pokes into the sky. We’re on the last leg of the paddle and houses and docks start to appear along the banks of the Creek.

A young raccoon dithers on a bank, worrying its long fingered paws against its marsh-brown fur. Small, likely from the previous year’s litter, it isn’t sure what to make of these people swooshing by in boats. Little eyes peer out from its black mask as it scuttles into the grass, perfect camouflage. 

For most of this trip we’ve been working against an outgoing current, the tide running back into the sea. Now the current turns and works with us, pushing us towards the Inlet as it empties south towards the Triangle. We round the bend and paddle down into smoother water, the familiar docks and gazebos of the beach coming into view. Our boats seem to move faster now, as if the thought of land draws them forward without our help.

Under a cool sun, we load boats, head home, shower, change, pack up gear and clothes. then go out to dinner at a local seafood restaurant. The morning will find us cleaning up then leaving in groups, some to Savannah Airport for flights home, others into their cars for the trip home. 

The road heads north this time, new piles of sand in the car, ridges of silt still clinging to the kayaks. Georgia’s warmth remains with us until we reach Virginia, where snow is predicted. Again we pass the remnants of the Southern cause, and I think of how things have changed when we drive over the Potomac and see the dome of the Capital in the distance. We’ve had 6 days of paddling, of being with our friends, of seeing a different landscape from what we call home. By the time we cross the border into New York State, Tybee has become dreamlike and, in the cold and gray of New England, we awake again to winter.

To the memory of Lisa Marie Gwynn (1964-2009) who sat on many beaches reading, while her Billy played in the enveloping waves of different seas and different tides.