“Never mind.”
Friday morning I selected bone fragments, wrote out questions, and set the assemblage up on trays. Alex, my teaching assistant, would arrange the cards and specimens in numerical order, and time the students as they moved from station to station. The ever-popular bone quiz.
Katy showed up right on time, and by noon we were cruising south. The temperature was in the high sixties, the sky the color portrayed in Grand Strand promotional posters. We put on our shades and rolled the windows down to let our hair blow. I drove and Katy chose the rock and roll.
We took I-77 south through Columbia, cut southeast on I-26, and south again on I-95. At Yemassee we left the interstate and flew along narrow low-country roads. We talked and laughed and stopped when we wanted. Barbecue at Maurice’s Piggy Park. A snapshot at the Old Sheldon-Prince Williams Church ruins, burned by Sherman after his march to the sea. It felt wonderful to be schedule-free, and with my daughter, and heading for the place I love most on earth.
Katy told me about her classes, and about the men she was dating. In her words, no keepers. She shared the story of the rift, now patched, that had threatened her plans for spring break. She described the girls with whom she’d be sharing the Hilton Head condo, and I laughed until I hurt. Yes, this was my daughter, with a humor dark enough to house vampires. I’d never felt closer to her, and for a while I was young and free, and forgot about murdered babies.
In Beaufort we passed the marine air station, made a quick stop at the Bi-Lo, then wound our way through town and over the Woods Memorial Bridge to Lady’s Island. At the top I turned and looked back at the Beaufort waterfront, a sight that always lifts my spirits.
I spent my childhood summers near Beaufort, and most of those as an adult, the chain being broken only recently, when I began my work in Montreal. I witnessed the mushrooming of fast-food strips and the construction of the county government center, dubbed the “Taj Mahal” by the locals. The roads have been widened, the traffic is heavier. The islands are now home to golf resorts and condos. But Bay Street remains unchanged. The mansions still stand in antebellum grandeur, shaded by water oaks draped in Spanish moss. So little in life is constant; I find reassurance in the languid pace of life in Beaufort. The tide of time itself ebbs tardily to the eternal sea.
As we descended the far side of the bridge, ahead and to the left I could see a colony of boats docked on Factory Creek, a small loop of water off the Beaufort River. The late-afternoon sun glinted off their windows and glowed white on masts and decks. I drove another half mile on Highway 21, then turned into the parking area at Ollie’s Seafood restaurant. Winding my way through live oaks, I headed to the back of the lot and pulled in at the water’s edge.
Katy and I gathered our groceries and duffel bags and crossed a walkway from Ollie’s to the Lady’s Island Marina. To either side lay mudflats, the new spring shoots green among last year’s dark stubble. Marsh wrens rasped complaints at our passing, and darted in and out among the cordgrass and cattails. I breathed the gentle blend of brackish water, chlorophyll, and decaying vegetation, and felt glad to be back in the low country.
The walkway from the shore led like a tunnel through the marina headquarters, a square white building with a narrow third story running the length of its roof, and an open passage on the first floor. On our right, doors opened to washrooms and a laundry. The offices of Apex Realty, a sail maker, and the harbormaster occupied the space to our left.
We passed through the tunnel, descended a floating gangplank with horizontal wooden risers, and crossed to the farthest of the docks. As we walked its length, Katy scanned each of the boats we passed. The
“Hold here a second,” I said, dropping my bundles onto the dock.
I stepped onto the stern, climbed to the bridge, and worked the combination on a toolbox to the right of the captain’s chair. Then I dug out a key, unlocked and opened the aft entrance, slid back the hatch, and lowered myself the three steps to the main cabin. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of wood and mildew and pine disinfectant. I unlocked the port-side entrance and Katy handed me our food and duffels, then came aboard.
Without a word my daughter and I left everything in the main salon, then darted around the boat, snooping out the decor. It was a habit we’d started when she was very young, and no matter how old I live to be, it will remain my favorite part of stays in unknown places. The
Our survey revealed a galley one step down and forward from the main salon. It had a two-burner stove, a sink, and a wooden refrigerator with an old-style icebox handle. The floor was parquet, the walls, as everywhere, teak. On the starboard side was a dining nook, its cushions covered in bold pinks and greens. Forward of the galley were a pantry, a head, and a V-berth large enough to sleep two.
Aft lay the master stateroom with its king-size bed and mirrored closets. As in the main salon and dining nook, it was done in teak and bright cotton foliage. Katy looked relieved to see a shower in the master head.
“This is so cool,” said Katy. “Can I have the V-berth?”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Totally. It looks so snug I’m going to make a little nest up there, put all my
I laughed. George Carlin’s “stuff” routine was one of our favorite comedy bits.
“Besides, I’m only going to be here two nights, you take the large bed.”
“O.K.”
“Look, a communique with your name on it.” She took an envelope from the table and handed it to me.
I tore the flap and shook out a note.
