There’s so much going on here, in Shelter Cove. I’m still trying to get my head around it.
Before I get into all the weirdness, let me first say Shelter Cove is a really nice place. All the staff are pleasant, everything is clean, and everything you need or want is clustered around the harbor. In some ways, that’s part of what makes it so . . . strange.
Wiggling through the narrow, muddy gap in the bank to get there, I expected a small outpost type marina like we found on St. Simons Island. The entrance is inconspicuous and very shallow at low tide, after all. But the obscure little creek is a trap door into a boat-themed Secret Garden.
We suddenly find ourselves in a harbor walled in by towering pink hotels. There’s live music bouncing off the walls coming from two bands in competing tiki bars. And the harbor is full of boats. BIG boats. Some so big I can’t imagine how they got here through that skinny entrance.
We chug through the maze of finger docks at idle speed, each avenue a cul-de-sac lined with floating fortunes in exclusive neighborhoods. We radio the harbor master for directions to our slip. “Keep going,” she says, “all the way to the end. Look for Nick, he will be there to help with your lines.”
Truly we’re in the last open slip at the very end. Once we’re all tied up, young Nick, fit and tan, arrives in a big pontoon boat, with apologies. He had to jog around the whole harbor to get to a boat he could operate. Doug says his only request was a slip near the bathrooms, could he tell us where those are? Ah, well they’re at the other end, sorry. He gives us a map of the harbor that shows all the restaurants, gift shops, hotels, and the harbormaster’s office, with bathrooms indeed at the farthest possible distance from where we are. Oh well. Time for a hike.
At the top of the gangway, a sign with Mickey Mouse ears says this is a Disney Resort. The hike does give us the a chance to see what’s here, and we realize it could be worse. If we were docked near the entrance on the same north side, we would have to circle the entire harbor on foot – three quarters of a mile. So a half mile maybe isn’t so bad. Some shops are empty or closed. Rent is probably crushing for a small business crowding this prime waterfront ring.
It’s still late afternoon, but restaurants and bars are already full of people, windows and patios open to the fine weather. They’re done up in Polynesian decor, with artificial coconut palms, stuffed parrots, etc. A guy in a Hawaiian shirt with a guitar and an iPad on a mic stand is singing Jimmy Buffet tunes.
Alongside the private yachts are themed tour boats covered in jungle motif decals, large florescent graphics with names and phone numbers you can read from across the water. Captain Jack Sparrow’s Marsh Tours, Captain Hook’s Fishing Excursions. An attack squadron of the little two seater over-engined paddleboats we saw everywhere in Florida. Kayaks, standup paddle boards, pontoon boats, skiffs, all of it for rent.
The harbormaster is not housed in an office. The desk is outside at a table in a pavilion where you sign up for the various water toys we just passed. And it’s not manned by a sulky old harbormaster, but a half dozen chipper, attractive, well-groomed youth you’d find manning rides at amusement parks. We’re in a Hilton Head boating theme park, complete with E-ticket rides, street performers, food courts, bars and hotels.
Back on Tidings, we still have food in the cooler to eat before it goes bad, so we skip the restaurants. Doug cooks while I listen to the battle of the bands echoing around the harbor. There’s an odd skinny ladder from one roof to another across the way. Probably for maintenance crews, but I can’t shake the idea of Jacob’s Ladder, to lead the angels out of here and up to heaven. I don’t see any angels.
We have a pleasant time on deck watching the light fade and the people walk by. Some stop to chat. The ones that do are colorful characters living aboard various boats in the harbor. Boats like the shanties we passed on the way in, with distinctly homespun modifications. All of whom tell the same story of arriving years ago from far off places, narrow escapes from life challenges, until one day they fetched up here like driftwood. And just never left. Like Ancient Mariners telling the same tale, they’re a little wild-eyed, weather worn, and too eager to share their story. All stay in character, like costumed performers on the streets of the Magic Kingdom. Doug assures me they aren’t real, and neither are the fantastic stories they tell, but I keep getting sucked in.
Later that night I offer to buy us dessert if we can find ice cream, so we take another hike. It’s obvious businesses come and go faster than the map is updated. Frosty’s Italian Ices and More is long gone, a gift shop in its place, which is also now closed. Disappointing.
It’s getting late and places are closing up for the night. In one of the alcoves I spy lights from a pizza / bar / cafe sort of affair under an awning with a couple of patrons bellied up on barstools, so we wander over. The barmaid greets us and I ask, would you happen to have ice cream? “Why yes! And milkshakes. And pizza. And subs. And burgers and fries. And beer and mixed drinks and frozen daiquiris. I can make whatever you want!” Though working alone, she appears to be a true sorceress of culinary delights. A fairy princess to grant every wish.
While she’s in back scooping ice cream, we get into conversation with the barflies, obviously regulars who already know each other. The first is one of those Ancient Mariners, a new one I haven’t yet met, but same story. Maybe Disney laid off scriptwriters to cut costs. The others are a nice couple with voices ragged from a lifetime of whiskey and smoking, who explain that they live in a trailer back in the woods. Got here by boat over a decade ago, then the boat sank. Moved into a trailer temporarily. Decided to just stay in the trailer and leave the boat where it was. Been here ever since. Love it here, never leaving.
This seems to be the universal consensus among everyone we meet. “Love it here. Never leaving.” Apparently, they never do. The whole time we’re here we never see a boat leave the harbor.
There’s a seductive quality to this sort of comfort and safety that many people find hard to shake. It’s reinforced by the fact that you have to work hard to get here – at the very end of a barely navigable creek, then pass through that turnstile entrance, something bigger boats could only do twice a day at high tide. Whereupon you aren’t exactly trapped, but it does require effort and planning just to leave. Once you’ve made it in here, why go?
Then there’s the other thing. It’s well known, when you spend any time around the water, that many people like the idea of owning a boat, even very expensive boats, especially very expensive boats – with all the added costs of insurance, maintenance, and dock fees that are a constant burden, year after year – they are willing to bear it all, but they actually don’t like the boating part. Too much risk. Things go wrong out there on the water. It can be dangerous. Easier to just stay in port where you can lounge on your boat in comfort, and show it off to other people who do not have boats but who also like to walk the docks and admire them. A dreamworld for dreamers.
I realize this is the factor that makes theme parks like DisneyWorld so successful. Everyone has heard of Venice and Egypt and Athens. Many even dream of going to see them one day. But most people would rather just pay to visit an imitation Venice nearby, than take the trouble of traveling to see the real one. When you go to the real ones, people speak strange languages, eat strange foods, have strange laws, maybe even will take advantage of you. Las Vegas is another classic example – just like, DisneyWorld, but for more decadent grownups. Maybe those huge cruise ships, too; going on a ship without ever feeling like you’re on the water. If you can offer a safe alternative to the real thing, even only a thinly disguised theatrical version of it, you can turn safety and comfort into a marketable substitute for the real thing.
Many, many people will pay good money for that. A lot of people would rather eat familiar food in the same chain restaurant wherever they go, than experience something new and unexpected in a one-of-a-kind local kitchen. Surprisingly, most people don’t like surprises. Even if what they already know is not very good, even if they know it’s a fictional approximation of what it pretends to be. A LOT of people prefer that. Maybe most people.
In a sense, the old guys who wander the docks, looking for people like me to tell their stories, really are just the character actors in a collective fantasy. They play the part of a world traveling captains anchored in some exotic port that’s been trussed up, but not too convincingly, as a fantasy paradise. One you can drive away from after dinner.
This notion is even more odd when you realize that Webb Chiles is docked just a little further north from here, where he now lives. The opposite extreme, he’s a bonafide seafarer who sailed around the world six times, often solo, enduring great risk and discomfort, nearly dying several times over. And in a much smaller boat than any of these. I don’t believe he wanders the docks of Skull Creek looking for new people who will listen to his tale. Instead, he drinks his scotch and writes a book now and then, pondering another epic voyage. There are not very many people like Webb.
To each his own. I have no idea where I fit in all this, but I know I am vastly outnumbered.