Rainy Day At The Beach

The good news about rain is that temperatures rise. I think most people living in a van would rather have the cold crisp sunny winter days that usually arrive after the rain front passes. 

I forget who it was but some wise person pointed out to me that snow is not a problem if you dress properly but rain stops play. I remain a mortal enemy of snow but rain is no friend of mine either. However I am not inclined to surrender my life to the elements now that I’m retired so I put on a poncho, took my weather resistant G95 Panasonic camera and took the dog for a walk.

The poncho by Frog Toggs is brilliant.  I used to use the same brand of waterproofs on my motorcycle as they never made me sweat and the poncho was actually quite comfortable even when the rain stopped. I have that effect on the weather, I defy it and it calms down. 

At first the beach access baffled me. We had already followed Google maps into a dead end before locating the street parking. Then I poked around and damn me if I couldn’t find the way to the beach. I felt, once again, like the family imbecile. I was too embarrassed to return to interrupt Layne busy with her physical therapy shoulder exercises only seconds after I had left. 

I figured young Rusty might like to help me out of my embarrassment and go for a street walk instead, allowing me to return to the valiantly exercising wife only after a decent interval had passed. That was when I discovered the way forward. 

It said beach access and I needed no more encouragement; I’m pretty swift when I need to be. The endless litany of rules and regulations I figured could wait for another day when I might be feeling less impatient. I knew leashed dogs are allowed so we were good to go; the rest of the stuff can be boiled down to use your common sense and if you screw up you’re on your own. We girded our loins and started on the hike to the far distant beach at our own risk. 

It an impressive boardwalk, perfectly made and endlessly long. It even had passing places along the way. Maybe they were observation platforms but there wasn’t a great deal to observe. South Carolina’s state line cuts across the beach a couple of miles south of here: 

A variation of love locks adorned a small wind blown pine. Charming or  debris, you decide. 

Eventually the boardwalk ran out in a long ramp. It was not, I should point out, a good day for a swim. The air was 65 degrees and very windy. The water looked frigid and unfriendly. Layne wasn’t missing anything. 

I had read about a couple who used to own the land here who put a mailbox on the beach in about 1965 and left notebooks and pens for people to leave their thoughts as “kindred spirits” enjoying the wild lonely beach. I had a slight hope Rusty might care for a real walk but my hopes were dashed. 

He took one look at the endless sand and said no thanks. He fig his paws in the sand and started staring at me real hard. That means no. I surrendered. 

Despite the endless signs and rules and stuff I liked the beach and the wild windy atmosphere and perhaps the notices work because the place was spotless. 

We trudged back and I was sorry to leave so quickly but Rusty is no fun to walk when he gets a motion in his head. Middle age makes him ornery. 

Looking north behind the beach across the wild dunes: 

These rental houses remind me of the “rent machines” towering over parts of Ocracoke Village.  It’s odd how it’s a beach style only seen in North Carolina. Pilings all the way up to the rooftop widows’ walk and very often narrow buildings piled up apartment on top of apartment. 

I took a chair out of the van and sat down to read overlooking the marsh. Rusty was ready to go home and he sat in the van also waiting for Layne to finish her physical therapy exercises. 

Lunch was cooked oatmeal as rain lashed GANNET2 and the wind rocked the van and whistled round us. 

Time to go to Wilmington. 

Backwoods South Carolina

After we left Webb at his Hilton Head home the day slipped gradually but inexorably into muddle and chaos. We paused to find our way to a campsite Layne had found on the Harvest Host website. 

Apparently outside Kingstree South Carolina there is a farm and a farm store where you can buy local products and spend the night for free on the farm. Typical Harvest Host offerings give RVers the chance to spend a free night at a small business with the idea being you buy some of their products to pay them back for giving you a space to park overnight. We’ve done it dozens of times. Eventually the system had to fail us. 

I created a two part route to allow for a little I-95 to get us away from Hilton Head followed by two hours of cross country driving to enjoy the backroads. And naturally we dawdled. As we rolled along an empty road at fifty miles per hour I saw a sign to a monument. My first instinct which carried us a quarter mile past the turn was to press on. My second instinct was to find a u-turn and go back. Isn’t this why we take the backroads in the first place? 

Anderson Field is remembered in part for a group of Tuskegee Airmen, pioneer black pilots, who trained for combat in World War Two  here, after the initial group in Alabama proved their worth to some of their white critics.  

A 1995 movie of that name starring Lawrence Fishburne brought this story to life in 1995 and in 1997 by pure coincidence I’m sure, the city of Colleton, South Carolina permitted this monument. The main statue is missing from its plinth for reasons not stated but there is an informative billboard at the rather drab unloved site. 

Our journey across South Carolina left us a bit behind schedule as our pace slowed through small towns, wrecked immobile homes and heaps of roadside trash. I still thought to myself better we travel this slice of life than face the harrying freeway in a slow van. 

We had another slight problem in that I wanted to empty our loo. We weren’t critically full but I like to keep ahead of the head filling up. So when we saw a sign to a boat ramp or a trail head or similar I pulled off the highway and went searching. In many states such places have vault toilets perfect for responsible portapotty dumping. Not South Carolina. Not only are the highways made out of petrified rocky road ice cream, the state which hates fresh pavement is also reluctant to offer roadside picnic areas, rest stops, parks, trails or other public spaces. It’s on a par with Mississippi, the worst of all. I was missing Florida’s smooth roads and hundreds of public open spaces equipped with vault toilets. 

We paused for a dog walk or two, and of course the afternoon crept on though eventually we found Vicki’s country store just as dusk was settling over the land. Layne went in eager to peruse the produce and spices and jams that make up her van life shopping sprees. After I walked Rusty I joined her. Boy they still allow smoking in food stores in the Palmetto State?

Down to the crossroads they said and turn left. You’ll see the farm. Easy peasy. Too easy if you think about it. Layne found the farm  address on Google maps and with that the last of our cell service faded to dark. Like the light outside. We found a sign for the farm and a mailbox with their street number, 1284 Sam Browne Road, and when we turned in we met a large black dog playing through the fence with a lonely large black horse all by itself in a paddock. 

I stopped and went to knock on the door of the house. There was a collection of blankets on the porch as a form of dog bed and a pile of cigarette butts on the table and no answer from the lighted home within. Rusty was frantic to get out and meet the black dog and as much as I indulge his every whim this didn’t seem to be the time nor place. 

“Shall we press on?” I said pointing down the dirt track. 

“On private property?”my wife said, her tone clearly identifying the idiot in the family. Just then headlights came down the track. Saved! They will know…I edged GANNET2 to one side and the car… whooshed straight on by. We gave up. As you can see on the iOverlander map below Kingstree is in the middle of the abomination of desolation when it comes to overnight options represented by the various green discs on the map.

We actually handled it well. Luckily iOverlander works  offline, to some extent, and I figured a route to coastal Georgetown which got us online and back on Google maps. Walmart was not our first choice of overnight spots but in this case we were quite happy to park behind the garden center and fall asleep in total ambient silence. Morning brought rain of course: 

There was a time when not finding our planned spot might have made us sweat. This change of plan was easy especially as it gets dark at 5:20 around here and we had lots of time to regroup! We usually have a back up spot in mind if our hoped for sleeping spot doesn’t work out. This time we had to make it up on the fly and we did without losing our minds or our tempers. In a van there is no one else to blame and that can make close quarters living awkward.  

Up next: the plan is for a quiet night at Cracker Barrel in Wilmington North Carolina on our way to the Outer Banks and our rental house on Ocracoke. The Carolinas shock -horror-drama of no state parks or free dispersed wilderness camping may continue! 

Hilton Head

The thing about moochdocking is you get a glimpse into different lives, places you wouldn’t otherwise see. I suppose you could say that about van life in general. 

December in Hilton Head requires patience as traffic is surprisingly heavy on an island of 40,000 residents with, I am told two and a half million visitors. The numbers remind me of Key West. 

Hilton Head is a sandy island filled with vast live oaks throwing shade everywhere. 

Neon is banned and paying a visit to a grocery store has the feel of participating in a fairy tale reenactment down in the woods…

It is charming, low country swamps, winding tidal rivers and mansions masked by greenery. In the middle of all this we landed and spent a few days. I had a visitor’s pass to the largest gated community on the island and I was keenly aware of the privilege. A place of rare beauty.

The thought that goes through my head is that a million bucks goes a lot further here than it does in Key West. Complete buildings and basic facilities like parking and functioning utilities. No compromise construction. 

Walking Rusty is a solitary business here as the population seems weighted toward the older age groups. I could see Rapunzel-like figures sitting in windows looking out like urban house cats forbidden to take the fresh air. Perhaps they were elderly enough that walking may be a past art for them. 

Hilton Head has a history of occupation by planters and slaves going back to the 18th century. The biggest disruption to the genteel side of life, for slave owners, was the arrival of the unpleasantness between the states. The Union took over Hilton Head to use it as a base to blockade Savannah. They built, as soldiers are wont to, a fort and they put half a dozen canon in to control the waterways. 

There was one other couple wandering Fort Mitchell when I was there but they exuded no visible signs of personality so I tried to refrain from irritating them. We took our chances with alligators and stepped off the path to give the other couple room. 

I found the history explained on site and bring it here for you to study: 

But we had places to go…

…and construction to see. They are building more homes where the old Fort Pub used to serve excellent food. 

“Respect for History is the Soul of Citizenship,” that and I guess paying taxes! 

I sat at Von’s bench and had a splendid view indeed of Skull Creek. 

We walked the pier “at our own risk” and were rewarded with views down the creek. No one was harmed in this risky expedition.  

Back at Webb’s place we watched Argentina run rings around Croatia. 

I thought Argentina’s national anthem was rather mild and inconclusive but three goals concluded that in high style for them.  

With the sun out I could see myself under the live oaks. Narcissist…

The man responsible for getting me through the gate: 

And his boat: 

See you Webb, in a few years I hope. Thank you for everything.