Saying Goodbye Is Hard To Do

On Monday around 12:30 we untied from the dock and headed out of the marina. It was a beautiful day, we could not have asked for prettier weather. Nevertheless, I was so sad.

The night before we left we had dinner at Anchor Grill, the open-air bar and destination eatery of choice while spending time at the boat. A few too many beers and chicken wings later, we took one last dip in the hotel's jacuzzi and pool, managing to wrap ourselves in about 4 of their great beach towels (we needed to round out the set).



On the walk back from the pool I was jonesing for something chocolate, so we called Ruth's Chris to see if we could get a nice chocolate dessert. The guy who answered the phone totally hooked us up with 2 slices of chocolate decadence (their version of super-dense chocolate "cake" which was more like slabs of fudge and nearly made me sick from sugar-shock) for a mere $30. They HAD been closed for an hour and a half.



It took a couple of tries to force myself to go to bed. I stayed up pretty late, looking out over the marina for the last time. I can't count how many nights I spent doing exactly this, but knowing it would be the last time, I wanted to take it all in for as long as I could.



We got a pretty good night's sleep, then arose around 9:00 to start final preparations and load the cars with our overnight stuff we'd be taking to Mom's - as we were going to spend Monday night at her house while we waited for the truck to come get the boat and take her back to Lake Norman. We drove my car down to the Anchor Marina in Cherry Grove where we would return in a few hours by water to deliver the boat.

***

As we pulled out of the slip I started hyperventilating, trying to cry but just stood there as we pulled out of the marina that has been my second home for over a year now. It was truly grief I felt. I always do this when I move. Thank goodness it was NOTHING like the sob-fest I had when I moved from Baltimore to Charlotte in '04, but it was like a bad dream.



This is the place I have come to cherish as a sanctuary. It's my happy place. It's my hiding place. It's where I spent countless days just watching clouds go by, or watching rain drops fall. It's where I have written, where I have thought, where I have lived - and much of that time I was alone - and now I was watching it slip away from the back of the boat. A huge lump in my throat, I just wanted to stare - to burn the images into my memory.



As we made our way into the waterway, I waved to people sitting at the Grill. When they waved back, that did it for me and the tears starting flowing. They didn't know they were waving goodbye, but they were. We passed another few boats in the waterway and the same thing happened. They waved, and the lump in my throat grew larger and larger. A woman and her little girl were sunning themselves at the edge of an infinity pool in their yard. They swung their arms enthusiastically and I reciprocated with good measure. Goodbye lady, goodbye little girl. Thanks for seeing us off.



I was having a such a hard time coming to terms with leaving, and these courteous gestures from strangers made it a little more tolerable. In my mind I needed a proper send off, and this was perfect.



I even quietly waved to the mannequin that stands at the sea wall of one of the many homes along the waterway. This is always such a warm sight, and I've seen him (or her?) standing there hundreds of times as we whizzed by on jet skis. Goodbye mannequin. You're quite a sight.



All the sights of this journey north on the ICW are so familiar now, compared to the first trip we made down here back in May of 2007 when every turn, every bend, every bridge was new to us. Now, I can visualize where we are on a map by the bridges overhead. Like this one: Now we're at Highway 22 and these three branches take you to either 17 South, Kings Road (to the outlets) or to 17 North.



The farther up the waterway we got, the easier it was for me to accept what was happening. It's like when you dread something - like the worst case scenario that you could possibly endure - and then it happens - and you survive. Then you're like, "OK, I thought this would actually kill me, but as it turns out, I can handle this...". A feeling I've experienced few times in the past year, but one I will probably never get used to. I guess I really like to feel the emotion of things, it's my interpretation of "living in the moment" and feeling grief (or joy) while its happening, so as not to be bogged down by it later.



Meanwhile G was all smiles and happily coming up with marketing slogans for when we invite customers out for a day on the lake. "Save the Boat" was one - meaning, by having customers enjoy a day on the boat they will surely send more business our way, thereby saving the boat (from being sold, neglected, re-po'ed, etc.). He was dreaming of diving off the swim platform into the cleaner, clearer lake waters. He was envisioning all the hamburgers and hotdogs that would be sizzling on the grill he would soon be adding to the back of the boat. He was singing to the radio and not looking back.



By the time we got to Barefoot Landing and passed Greg Norman's where we first tied up and celebrated the arrival of the boat to the SC coast with champagne and real glass ware, I had to snap out of it. It was time to get to work.



Goodbye Barefoot. Goodbye South Carolina State Palmetto Tree and Crescent Moon flag.



I hopped out on deck to rearrange the bumpers and tie them up. Then I readied the lines for the deck hands, got my pole which might be needed to push off any stray pylons or other boats we might get to close to. I was on the lookout for signs indicating what channel the bridge tender would be on when we got to the Little River swing bridge.



I was actually relaxing a bit before we began our approach to the swing bridge, but as the bridge tender barked orders at us to "ease up" and informed us he'd seen us coming from a mile away (literally) on camera, I started to tense up as other boats were coming in all directions, and a squadron of jet skiers passed on either side of us. We made the turn into the Anchor Marina while no less that 6 jet skiers took their sweet time crossing in front of us. Helllllllooooo? Who's the bigger boat here??? So we made our way v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y along a very narrow creek, alongside old docks and a mixture of boats new and old, large and small, up to the slip where we would soon load on the travel lift.



At this point all sentimentality, all longing was GONE. It was do or die now - or at least do or take out someone else's boat or dock. So I just kept quiet and stood guard at the bow with my pole that fortunately I did not have to use to push us off anything! We made it into the slip to our great relief. Then turned the controls over to the dock master to turn the boat around, since we went into the slip the wrong way. Oh well, can't win 'em all.