Reflections on the water

I never met my great grandfather, but I have a photo of him standing atop the USS Maine in Havana Harbor. My father, a former submarine commander, still fishes, shrimps and gathers oysters at every opportunity. He is 82. I met my wife Jenny on a boat as her sailing instructor. We were SCUBA certified together in college and have dived from Palau and the Great Barrier Reef to Belize and Roatan. I even chose flying planes off of boats and months at sea as my first real job. Life on the water is deeply rooted in my DNA. So it is for some of you, too.

 

By necessity, and for recreation, boating has been an integral part of Lowcountry life since the earliest days. It is part of the social order. I recall Dad commented one time that some folks around here probably had more invested in their boats than in their cars or homes.

Never insulting someone’s children, dog or boat is the key to a peaceful existence here.

 

Karen Blixen wrote “The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea.” Amen. 

 

What makes being out there so magical? I think, ultimately, that it’s the images that keep calling me back. Nothing reflects, refracts or absorbs light like water. Is there a color as beautiful as the blue of the Gulf Stream? Does anything rival a nautical sunrise or sunset? I have mostly forgotten the numbers of fish caught on my various trips, but the brilliant colors of a mahi-mahi fresh from the ocean or the vibrant stripes of a marlin or wahoo are always just a memory away. 

 

When my time here is done, I hope to reach the Pearly Gates by boat and maybe take in one last sunset just before passing through.