Charleston, SC 32º47.344N | 79º55.75W
Remind me not to spend so much time in graveyards. Apparently we left Charleston with an ethereal stowaway.
Yes, some long dead Southern Belle, her restless soul rambling the streets, followed me onto Cara Mia and quietly inhabited my brain today.
It's true. An otherworldly nesting urge mysteriously descended on me. I baked a loaf of pumpernickel bread, made a batch of muffins, whipped up some raita (Indian yogurt dish) and did some cleaning -- all while we were underway. I even offered to hem Chip's pants. (FYI, this is all very unusual, supernatural, if you will.)
The grip of Charleston held us until the end. We reluctantly plodded through the preparations to leave the dock in time for high tide. As we studied the docklines (I've discovered if you look pitifully at your docklines long enough, someone will eventually come help you untie), our neighbors from both sides came over for a chat. Thus we dawdled and dawdled until Chip finally said, "Whoa, we better get out of here!"
That few enjoyable minutes of chatting cost us about 45 minutes, because we missed the 10 a.m. bridge opening across the way. Ah well, we get there when we get there.
In this case, "there" is the mouth of Alligator Creek halfway between Charleston and B-you-FERT, SC, at a beautiful, quiet anchorage where life is good, very good. Bread in the oven, soup on the stove.
Our southern ghost is ready for a good night's sleep.
Remind me not to spend so much time in graveyards. Apparently we left Charleston with an ethereal stowaway.
Yes, some long dead Southern Belle, her restless soul rambling the streets, followed me onto Cara Mia and quietly inhabited my brain today.
It's true. An otherworldly nesting urge mysteriously descended on me. I baked a loaf of pumpernickel bread, made a batch of muffins, whipped up some raita (Indian yogurt dish) and did some cleaning -- all while we were underway. I even offered to hem Chip's pants. (FYI, this is all very unusual, supernatural, if you will.)
The grip of Charleston held us until the end. We reluctantly plodded through the preparations to leave the dock in time for high tide. As we studied the docklines (I've discovered if you look pitifully at your docklines long enough, someone will eventually come help you untie), our neighbors from both sides came over for a chat. Thus we dawdled and dawdled until Chip finally said, "Whoa, we better get out of here!"
That few enjoyable minutes of chatting cost us about 45 minutes, because we missed the 10 a.m. bridge opening across the way. Ah well, we get there when we get there.
In this case, "there" is the mouth of Alligator Creek halfway between Charleston and B-you-FERT, SC, at a beautiful, quiet anchorage where life is good, very good. Bread in the oven, soup on the stove.
Our southern ghost is ready for a good night's sleep.
Alligator Creek, SC 32º33.753N | 80º24.458W
those muffins look DELICIOUS. seriously.
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