I first came to Skidaway Island around 1972. Through a 6th grade science competition, I won a summer of studying oceanography here through University of Georgia. There’s still a marine science center, bigger now, but back then the rest of the island was wilderness. Now the whole island is settled, with six golf courses, several private marinas, and nine themed clubhouses, all surrounded by landscaped gated communities. Quite a change.
Our little marina is the only public water access on an otherwise private island. There’s a tall observation tower with 360 degree views over the marshes, laundry, and showers. We make use of them all. There’s also a fleet of golf carts available to mariners, which are needed to get to the shopping area miles away at the north end of the island. We decide there’s enough time to take one and get supplies before dinner. I ask Doug if he wants to drive, to which he replies with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.
What I did not realize – until we were flying along at irreverent speed, careening around turns and bouncing over speed bumps, your faithful narrator hanging on for dear life – is that Captain Doug has never driven a golf cart before. When I shout the question over the roar of wind, he affirms, adding “And I may never again, so I’m making the most of it!”
He’s giving no quarter. I snatch at mutinous bits of gear determined to abandon ship, clap them in irons, and clinch cheeks deeper into my seat cushion. This is Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, but at 20mph through a Lowcountry paradise. Disneyland had a ride based on the story, but did away with it – too unwholesome, they decided, with unrestrained chaos, drunken driving, and a trip through Hell. Indeed!
Once our impertinent captain got all that out of his system, and we had groceries and ice stowed on the boat, our hosts arrive for a quick tour of the vessel. Then, thankfully, they drive us in their car to the clubhouse.
Lucky for us, the dining room doesn’t require a coat and tie. There are, however, linen tablecloths, heavy silverware, and plates embossed with the club crest. Out the picture windows are sweeping views of lush fairways and clipped putting greens. The food is equally impressive. David and Jean warn us the entrees we order are enormous – “You’ll never finish it!” – then they watch in mild horror as we devour everything down to the breadsticks. And graciously pick up the tab for the whole thing.
We spend the evening talking boats and telling stories. David is especially interested in the British origins of our little ship, which sounds just like the single cylinder chuggers that carried troops across the Channel from Dunkirk. Turns out they are Brit expats, and David is quite a sailor himself. Used to be a regular in the races at Cowes. Though old enough to be my own father, he’s in the club races here every weekend during the season, and helps manage the fleet.
We carry on late until the dinner crowd thins out and the Dog Watch arrives, the late night crew that settles in around the bar. It’s time to go.
Well fed and weary, I promise to thank David and Jean’s kids personally in Amsterdam when we meet our own kids there later in the summer. Which I do, after arriving on an electric boat rented from a vending machine on the canals, over baked pizza baked fresh on site by a Russian girl in an electric truck with a built in gas oven, summoned by tapping a few buttons on a phone.
What a time to be alive.