ONLY  IN AMERICA   

 The first segment of

Chapter Seven

GEORGIA

Five days and 350 miles after departing Ft. Lauderdale, we crossed the border into Georgia, and despite the dire predictions from the woman at the Ft. Lauderdale fuel dock, the one with the really big hair who was dressed in the height of nautical fashion, we practically waterskied our way out of Florida.

Once across the state line, we stopped the boat and gave one last salute to the Sunshine State. Seizing the opportunity, Marty placed the orange ski flag in its makeshift holder atop the reversible seat and announced, “I think it’s important that, at this time, we jump into Georgia water.”

It was another hot, muggy afternoon, and a pool party was the perfect call, prompting each of us to dive, jump or flip into the brackish water. (The entire Intracoastal Waterway is composed of brackish water — part fresh water, part salt water. Your location on the ICW determines the percentage of fresh water to salt water.)

JB was out of the water fairly quickly while Cameron, Marty and I spread our arms out wide and floated on our backs in the cool, refreshing ICW. There was a long spell of silence as the water soothed my weathered skin, and I hovered there simply enjoying the moment.

Finally lifting my head, I looked around to find Marty floating on a throw cushion. “It’s one hell of a way to travel, Mirassou.”

“You know, Burke, every once in awhile you have to stop and say—”

“You got that right, Mirassou. I’m floating here in the coastal waters of Georgia staring at your Whaler.”

Broken from his own little trance, Cameron shook the water from his head like a dog soaked by a hose. He then paused and smiled. “So tell me, my fellow travelers, what do you guys think we’ll find here in Georgia?”

“It’s tough to say. I certainly didn’t expect to find some guy in a castle in St. Augustine,” Marty replied with a grin. “But hey, given a map before this trip, I would’ve had trouble finding St. Augustine.”

Southern Hospitality

Following an afternoon of great skiing, Cameron pulled the ski line from the water as the sun hovered in the western sky. JB had gleaned from the Mid-Atlantic Waterway Guide that Golden Isle Marina on Georgia’s Lanier Island was the place to be for sunset. So, after idling down the narrow channel and securing The Whaler to the marina’s rather long guest dock, we followed a worn concrete path through the middle of a large grassy area and strolled into the bar.

I must compliment the Waterway Guide on its detailed description of the well-known establish- ment. However, what the Waterway Guide doesn’t mention is the suggested attire. It quickly became clear that Golden Isle Marina was a place for the yachting set and that we were way underdressed. Strolling in wearing our bright Billabong shorts, Vuarnet sunglasses and Connelly logo t-shirts, we were promptly welcomed with stares and frowns. If there had been a band I’m sure it would have stopped playing. I don’t think there was an official dress code, but everyone in the place was dressed a hell of a lot nicer than we were.

We sat at the end of the bar and ordered a beer, continuing to receive looks of disdain from every corner of the room. Tiring of the attitude and with the bottom of my glass getting closer with each sip, I figured it was time to test the local waters before we voted to try another spot. Looking down the bar, I caught the eye of a sportcoat-adorned Southern gentleman and walked over to introduce myself.

“Hello, Sir. I’m John Mirassou from Redondo Beach, California. We’re traveling the Eastern United States by boat. We set sail from Ft. Lauderdale last Monday. We heard Golden Isle Marina was the place to be at sunset. Beautiful spot you have here.”

The guy was a little taken aback as people throughout the bar were starting to stare, as if to see who would step so low as to converse with the bum in the funny looking shorts. However, I think his southern upbringing got the best of him, and he graciously shook my hand and welcomed me to the marina.

“I’m William Bastion,” he replied. “You navigated your way from Ft. Lauderdale, you say? In what type of vessel, if I may ask?”

“The four of us are in a 17-foot Boston Whaler. Our plan is to be in New York by July fourth, Chicago by early August and New Orleans by September twelfth.”

“Excuse me? You’re planning to do all that in a 17-foot Boston Whaler?” William asked in a well-to-do southern accent.

Bertsch was on it in a flash and raced out to the boat to get our information piece. Upon his return, JB found another local gentleman engaged in the conversation and promptly handed him our propaganda. It was pretty entertaining, and at one point I could swear I saw William motion to his friends throughout the bar, as if to say, “They’re okay!”

“How’d you guys ever come up with the idea?” the guy said after reading our info piece.

As we told our story, the number of onlookers grew, and at one point we actually walked the group to the window to get a better look at The Whaler. At the height of the conversation, I would bet half the patrons were standing around asking questions and telling stories of their own. I also noticed we were no longer allowed to pay for drinks.

During all the hullabaloo, Marty asked for a menu. “Never mind that,” William said to the bartender. “Get them four of the specials, and put it on my tab.”

The sun had already set when our dinners arrived, and as the crowd began to thin William shook my hand once again. “Good luck to you gents. I look forward to the book,” he said with a smile. “The good news is, once us old folks clear out the younger set moves in. Who knows? Maybe y’all will find yourselves some pretty Southern belles to dance with.”

“William, your Southern hospitality is beyond comparison. Thank you. If it wasn’t for you, the whole place would still be wondering how soon we’d be leaving.”

“Nonsense. That being said, I must admit we Southerners are certainly not accustomed to your colorful California attire.”

After pushing our full stomachs away from the bar, the four of us sat back and relaxed. Catching the bartender’s attention, JB tried to order another round, but before Bertsch could finish the request, I interrupted. “Not for me, guys. I’m toast. Last night did me in.”

My friends‘ attempt to change my mind was fruitless, and taking my leave, I slowly strolled back to The Whaler. Lying there in my sleeping bag with my arms behind my head, I stared up at the stars and pondered my implausible location and this incredible journey. I could have gone home right then and it still would have been an unbelievable trip, and it hadn’t even been a week since we’d left Ft. Lauderdale. I shook my head and closed my eyes. All was right with the world.