The barman looked like Louis Armstrong's fat grandson. I am from New York, he said, but all my family came from Georgia.
Is there any racial tension around here? I asked.
Well yes, said the barman, certainly there is—a lot of tension. There are more and more Mexicans and they are after the jobs and they don't even try to speak English.
We went to our table by the big window looking over the Savannah and our bottle of wine arrived and our lamb took a long time and we drank most of the wine as we waited. I don't remember much about the rest of the evening, but we got down the gangway to the dock without incident and I took Jim for his last walk without fetching us both into the river. None of us had much trouble going to sleep.
ON A BOAT IT IS USUALLY THREE O'CLOCK IN the morning when the really dreadful things happen. I awoke in mid-air, and Monica too had slipped the surly bonds of earth. Together we landed on the bed as it was coming up on the rebound. Mercifully Jim had not yet crept in among us.
You develop a technique for dealing with wake—the first hit is always the worst so you wait, saying to yourself I am still here so I will get through the next one. But this wake was not dying—it bounced us and flung us and shook us and the ropes snatched and the fenders groaned and the water thumped and rang under the hull.
I'm scared, said Monica.
I was scared too. We pulled back the curtains and the tide was running out but the river was smooth and it was empty. Then the rocking started again and the Phyllis May was trying to roll right over and Jim was whining and the drawers and cupboards were opening and there was a rattling and a ringing that we had never heard before. My God, I said to myself—we are going down in calm water—a submarine has come up the Savannah and is pushing us over!
The far side of the river was smooth, but now and then a slight breeze seemed to stir up a tiny swell that rolled towards us in a line, not six inches high. When the first wave reached us the effect was small, but each wave was arriving just at the moment to build on the last and increase our roll so it was like one of those bridges that is torn apart because the soldiers marching across forgot to break step.
The rattling was my new tin pelican, McClellan, who is five feet long and flat and hangs on the wall outside the heads. When disturbed McClellan rings and crashes like an iron gate falling on concrete. So in times of trouble, McClellan, like Jim, adds greatly to the confusion. Slowly the boat settled, and McClellan and Jim fell silent.
I know we are on a boat, said Monica, and boats move, but I like to know why they move.
It's like my grandfather, I said, and the sailor.
My grandfather Billy Lewis had two favourite stories and one of them was about a sailor.
During the First World War Billy was a nightwatchman at the dockyard. He was sitting in a submarine in the dry dock with a rating from the ship's company. Pembroke Dock is about as far west as you can get in Wales, and it can be pretty windy. Suddenly a gale arose and the submarine began to move on its blocks. It bumped and jerked and the sailor turned white and began to tremble.
Are you scared? asked Billy Lewis. A hero who has ventured out against the Hun in a leaking sardine tin? A mariner who has plumbed the darkness of the oceans, and weathered Atlantic storms and the terrible currents and towering waves? A man like you—scared by a bit of settling down?
I don't mind it rolling about when I am at sea, said the sailor, it's just that I get scared when it does it on dry land.
MONICA WAS SPENDING A LOT OF TIME LOOKING at charts and tide tables and weather forecasts.
Now we've got to go down the rest of Georgia, she said, and there is nothing there, only wilderness. There are these huge rivers—the Savannah, the Little Ogeechee, the Satilla, the Altamaha. And there are these huge sounds—Wassaw, Ossabaw, St Catherine's, Sapelo, Jekyll. There is one sound after another, and because the rivers are always making sandbanks you have to practically go out on to the Atlantic to get across. When the sounds are emptying the current won't let you go up them and if the wind comes against the tide they throw up huge waves. We might bash through with our new scuppers and the board inside the front door but do you think you could handle the tiller? The first six-foot wave would dislocate your shoulder.
I squeezed my shoulder—Oh dear, I said—I thought the Albemarle was supposed to be the worst bit.
Then between the sounds there are the bendy rivers and lakes and creeks and corners and half the time you are going the wrong way—there is no sense in it or direction, said Monica, and you can get lost and starve to death.
I knew it was like a jigsaw dropped on the floor, I said. I didn't realize it was such a big jigsaw.
We'll get carried out to sea, said Monica, or get lost and murdered like that film Southern Comfort. And the marinas are too far apart. And there are the fogs.
It's only fifteen miles to Isle of Hope Marina, I said. We just have to go down the Savannah River and a few creeks. One day at a time, sweet Jesus.
The Westin seemed not to notice our leaving and we were too far away from Geoff the hot-dog man and Marcia on the coffee stall over the river to wave goodbye but we waved anyway. I looked back at the bow of a container ship under the cobweb bridge and saw it move and went cold but it wasn't really moving. I put the pedal on the metal and the Phyllis May hurried on down with the tide at ten miles an hour and the wind hard in our faces.
There were white horses, and cascades from the bow. But the fetch on the Savannah was not enough to brew up big waves and when you are heading straight at the weather the tiller does not swing or fight with you or dislocate your shoulder.
Solid as a rock, I thought, dear old boat. She'll need to be solid where we are headed. I squeezed my shoulder again and looked back with regret to Savannah on its forty-foot bluff. It wasn't quite raining.
TREASURE ISLAND
Georgia
We Need a Qualified Sea Captain and a Professional Weather Forecaster — Meanest Armadillo in the Whole Damn Town — Treasure Island — Leroy Was Here — Written in the Wind — The Snakebird — Fresh Transfigurings of Freshest Blue — The Sad Discussion of Sin-Drunkenness of the Deep — Rickover's Final Defence
THE ISLE OF HOPE MARINA—DEEPEST GEORGIA—big wooden houses, magnolias, curtains of moss.
This one could go either way, said Monica. We have to go across Ossabaw Sound, which is three miles wide. There is a warning for small ships off the coast. The tide will be running down the Bear River, and the wind will be five to ten knots against it. There is a risk of thunderstorms. We can't leave before ten because of the tides and we have forty miles to go and there isn't enough time before dark. And we will have Colonel Frank with us. We don't want to be responsible for breaking the line of the Williams dynasty, when they were so nice about Jim and the Christmas presents.
We know a five-to-ten-mile-an-hour wind is not much on its own, I said, but that's about all we know. Against the tide it might throw up huge waves. The forecasts are all different, and wrong, and change all the time. If we had a powerboat with a thousand horsepower we could just blast our way through. But we have a forty-three-horse engine and twelve inches of freeboard and a manual tiller. We could ring Frank and cancel. But we are never going to learn about different conditions if we stay in port. We'll lose our nerve and never make it to Florida. We know what to expect—a bumpy ride and a late arrival, and I think we should go, and if we run into trouble I will take the responsibility. Never let it be said Tits Magee hid behind the skirts of a woman.
We are going a river too far, said Monica. To be safe we need a qualified sea captain and a professional weather forecaster on board, not two useless pensioners and a terrified dog. And look outside—you can hardly see across the marina.
JIM HAD DECIDED THAT LYING ON THE SOFA and being stroked by Frank's other beautiful daughter was a good enough way to spend a morning.
There is an occluded front said Becky, and a 23 per cent chance of precipitation. Fog will clear from all areas shortly and bri
ghter weather will follow with winds of four miles an hour. You know in the studio I can't see what is on the screen behind me—it is all green.
How do you know what to point at? asked Monica.
I check on the monitors at the side, and the producer is talking into my ear, said Becky.
Jim groaned blissfully.
You're on first, Frank, I said, but I'll take her out, because I am the righteous one, the one who never fails.
I reversed off the pontoon and the current caught us and Frank ran down the gunwale and pushed me off the expensive cruiser I was about to destroy.
That was to demonstrate that great care is required, I said—that even the best steersman can make mistakes. Now this is how you hold the tiller. Are you familiar with boats?
I have my captain's papers, said Frank, and I used to command a seventy-two-foot ferry.
I went below and Jim was still lying on his back being stroked. I turned for comfort to my leather armadillo, Leroy—the meanest armadillo in the whole damn town. I had bought him for my grandson but Leroy and I had bonded before the time came to hand him over, and to split us up would have caused unnecessary suffering. Leroy was the name I originally chose for Jim, but Monica wouldn't let me.
The Phyllis May drove into the warm wind and bounced and banged. Colonel Frank on the tiller was rapt—she holds her course so well, he said, and she's so solid.
Look, said Monica, over there is the Moon River, like in our song. It is supposed to be the actual Moon River, wider than a mile.
I know where it's going—it's going our way, I said.
Becky left our Huckleberry friend asleep below and came along the gunwale to take the tiller and steer us out into Ossabaw Sound. Her slim arms held firm as we pounded for mile after mile, and her blue eyes were on the horizon—no doubt seeing occluded fronts hidden from mortal folk and calculating the chance of precipitation.
There wasn't room for me on the back of the boat and I went down to have a nap, but the Atlantic was only hundreds of yards away on our left and I looked anxiously through the front window, riding each wave, checking the electric beetle on the computer screen in the galley, accomplishing nothing but feeling that I was on the scene. After all I had made the decision to set out today, so I was in charge really.
In order to find somewhere to moor for the night we had to go off the Intracoastal Waterway and up a river for six miles. The river was full of shoals and I went up on top with Frank in case he needed some quality back-up.
This GPS of yours is grand, said Frank.
I was pleased—praise for my little global positioning screen from a man who fired artillery and must be able to read maps and compasses and things and know where he is all the time.
You could cruise at night on this, said Frank. I love the colours.
Nevertheless Frank decided to go up the river the old-fashioned way using daymarks and compass settings, and to my great satisfaction he got lost in the shoals and had to reverse and turn right round and go a different way and we made it to the marina seven minutes before sunset.
In Georgia there is none of the lingering shadows lark, none of the duck-egg skies, none of the red fish netted in the trees—the sun is there, and then the sun has set, and if you haven't found safe landing, tough luck.
Don't worry, I said—you haven't demoralized the crew. It shows them that great care is required, because even the best steersman can make mistakes.
The colonel smiled, but not very much.
We had come six hundred and fifty miles of our journey.
NEXT MORNING MONICA EXPLAINED THAT WE had to cross St Catherine's Sound, and it was four miles wide, the biggest sound in Georgia, and the current would be against us. What's the wind speed? I asked.
Four miles an hour, said Monica.
Let's boogie, I said.
Our crew had gone home and I set off in a rush of spray down the brimming river, determined to do better than the colonel.
Each time I turned the boat the little beetle on the GPS screen turned and hurried back into the white deep-water channel. I would not have needed to look at the river, but there were crab-pot buoys in my path every so often—Don't want one of those round your prop, the colonel had said.
Hey, it's like a video game, I shouted to Monica—I'm having a great time!
Monica had a great time too, then a couple of hours later I took us on to St Catherine's Sound. A bloke on the dock had said the water here ran at six knots, and I didn't believe him, but I went through my usual performance of losing the markers and panicking in the face of the limitless waters and the Atlantic waiting on our left, but you can't stay scared when you ride on melted air and the sun is warm and the current is only a knot against you and the dolphins are sucking great breaths and jogging alongside for company.
Jim slept below—I had taken him out chasing squirrels before breakfast and he had treed half a dozen of them, running flat out and disappearing and coming back rolling his eyes and gasping—Look, I'm having a great time!
Here we are—this is the creek—and a couple of miles along it Creighton Island—the colonel's island, three thousand acres of forest.
We tied up to the dock and went up on to the walkway, a hundred yards long, over the marsh grass and into the woods.
It's Treasure Island! said Monica.
Palms, creepers, live oaks, pines; above the trees the hawks soaring. A hunting lodge. Behind it a sunny field and two fine black bulls.
I'll take Jim for a walk, said Monica. It's winter and there shouldn't be too many insects and things.
We found other buildings by the waterside, said Monica when they came back, and Jim ran off. Then I heard a commotion and he was chasing a piglet. It was brown and hairy and the size of a hot-water bottle and it was squealing. He got it by the scruff of the neck just as I caught him. I was terrified in case a sow came out for us. Frank said they reach three hundred pounds and have tusks.
You horrible animal, I said.
Jim grinned and rolled his eyes. He was having a great time.
NEXT DAY JIM AND I WENT FOR A WALK TO SEE the island. Along a track, across clearings bigger than four cricket pitches and into the jungle and we were at the waterside. Jim vanished and I worried lest the hogs took their revenge. But he came back and I petted him and he set off again.
A fearful commotion—Jim was somewhere in the dry undergrowth and I could see creatures rushing about—the hogs, I thought—he's at it again. Then a little face appeared at my feet, little pointed ears, a spotted body, a hooped tail, little yellow eyes looking up at me—Can you advise me what the hell is going on?
My God, it's Leroy!
Jim was chasing Leroy's mate, who leaped into the air and fell sideways into some scrub, then he came back for Leroy. I thought Leroy might roll up, but he put on a fair turn of speed and with Jim hard behind vanished in the same direction. An armadillo is not a graceful creature. Leroy looked like a rugby ball bouncing into touch.
They would have been a bit crunchy, Jim, I said.
Back towards the dock and there was Jim standing by the door of the hunting lodge.
Jim has many expressions, and this was the abandoned whippet, the dying whippet, the whippet that none has ever loved, the whippet that gives so much. He was right by the door—Here is a house, on an island where there are hogs and armadillos to chase. We used to live in a house before we started going around on that damn shaking boat. We did the same things every day and we were happy. It's all so simple—I have worked it out—we can live right here, in a house, in a house.
NEVER HAVE LAND AND WATER MORE RELUCTANTLY parted than in Georgia. They lie in a lascivious embrace, and the late sun turns the water to silver and the grass to gold.
There is my island, shouted Frank, and slipped sideways and down three hundred feet—an armadillo manoeuvre, written in the wind. And there was Creighton Island, and the dock and the Phyllis May the size of a louse, and the field where Jim chased the armadillos, and all the
trees like moss.
The water lay languid in curls and whirls and swirls and meanders and wanders, and the grass was engraved with runoffs and runnels and funnels, and every ten miles a sound leached into the Atlantic, releasing water from land and bringing resolution, relief.
Colonel Frank turned round in the pilot's seat.
Happy seventieth birthday, Monica, he said.
PIGGLY WIGGLY IS A SUPERMARKET CHAIN AND I had bought one of their T-shirts. It was pink, with a drawing of a pig on the front, and a slogan on the back I'm Big with the Pig and it was too large for me. I looked terrible. I bet I'm the only Englishman wearing one of these, I said.
You are the only man in the world wearing one of these, said Frank Jr.
We had spent the night at Frank Jr's dock and now he had come down on his walking sticks to wave us goodbye. Waterside houses commonly have docks, with walkways on stilts striding a quarter of a mile across the marsh grass. Frank Jr's house had a proper stone causeway. You are not allowed to build causeways any more, but Frank Jr's house had been there a long time.
Steve was joining us for the day. He was the business partner of Colonel Frank. According to southern custom he had brought gifts—satsumas from his mother's tree in Florida, and grapefruit from his own trees, both with leaves still attached, and bottles of mosquito repellent made from lemons. As well as these citrus tributes Steve had brought two bags of ice and a sack of aromatic cedar logs. We put the logs on top of the boat and they smelt too good to burn.
Monica had worked out that if we left at nine the rising tide would bear us forty miles to a marina near Brunswick, and float us off if we went aground. We waved and set off down the creek.
Mud and oysters and a metre above us the yellow grass—the cosy sweaty smell of the mud. I love warm smells—tobacco, mud, a baby's hair, plaster in old houses, chip shops, cedarwood, Jim.
Jim was below and not shivering. Maybe he knew it was a calm day and Steve would make sure we got there alive or maybe he is getting used to the boat after five years or maybe he has just given up. I think he would have liked to come out on the bow but the currents are strong and although these are saltwater creeks there are alligators.
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