Video of the concert on the docks.
Links to Chapters in the Series
It’s almost full dark when I get back to the marina. From the shore I can see Doug has a boom light in the cockpit, playing guitar.
We are tied up by the dinghy dock, where people come and go in zodiacs to their big yachts out in the mooring field. Some boats are too big for the docks. Many stop to ask questions and marvel that we travel so far in a boat so small.
There’s universal (initial) appeal to traveling so simply. You can see them running the numbers in their heads – tallying the price and cost of upkeep for an ocean-going yacht, against a boat that realistically goes almost all the places they ever go, and then some, at a fraction of the cost and hassle. There’s a quiet pause as they process answers to all their questions, which Doug is happy to provide. Then they climb into their inflatables with groceries and sometimes a dog or two, and motor off into the dark to some very expensive but, alas, far more comfortable very large boat.
Doug starts to pack up his guitar for the night when a new, very cheerful group walks up. In a delightful French accent a lovely lady asks if he will keep playing. How could he resist? This is a far better looking audience than the old blokes he’s been stuck with for months. An impromptu concert begins.
As we get older, our ears play tricks on us. On the way to St. Augustine, Doug told a story of an earlier leg with Pete, another of our sailing group and also a musician. Doug idly commented on a passing yacht full of people. Seeing the maple leaf ensign, he said “They must be Canadians.” With all the wind and flapping of sails and splashing of water, Pete heard what he wanted to hear, and some time later wondered aloud where a boat load of comedians might be going. Where did they come from?
This line of questioning confused Doug. It took a while to get things sorted out, with much hilarity until they backtracked to the wrong turn.
So it was all I could do to contain an eruption of guffaws when I, too, first misheard the lovely lady when she announced “We’re Canadians.” French Canadians, apparently, who had just arrived by boat from the Bahamas.
They were an appreciative audience. We clearly added some local color to their evening.
After the serenade, I wander the streets some more. When I lived in Savannah, I often took long walks after dark. These old coastal towns in the South take on a whole different persona late at night. The streets are empty, the air is syrupy with Magnolia and Confederate Jasmine, palm fronds rattle like cellophane in the wind, and every garden gate hides a secret.
