Morale Trip

I want to go back to the island Where the shrimp boats tie up to the pilin' Give me oysters and beer for dinner every day of the year And I'll feel fine, I'll feel fine

'Cause I want to be there Want to go back down and lie beside the sea there With a tin cup for a chalice Fill it up with good red wine And I'm-a chewin' on a honeysuckle vine

-Jimmy Buffett

Tin Cup Chalice

After limping through a morning and midday of practicing law from the farm, yesterday we decided to venture out ahead of the bad weather I'm watching outside the window right now and do a little boating in Steinhatchee.

Once a secluded fish camp and favorite fishing spot of Jimmy Carter, Steinhatchee has grown a bit, now with luxury homes and condos tucked between the family fishing companies with their crab traps piled along the edge of the river.

There is still not much to do there besides fish, and folks come from all over to venture out into the Gulf in search of scamp and snapper, or ease up the river for speckled trout.

We made no pretense of going fishing--we didn't bring poles or tackle. We just wanted to pop a beer (well, I did anyway) and ride around on a pretty, windy day.

Once we made it out of the mouth of the river and into the Gulf, the wind picked up to a gale out of the southwest, spraying us with each swell that crashed into the port side of the boat. I wished for higher gunwales, or maybe a Grand Banks that could pound through the waves. Finally, we turned around and started easing back toward town, which made for a much smoother ride.

After puttering around the village, which took about five minutes, we saw folks sitting at an outdoor bar at the Sea Hag Marina, and decided to give it a try.

Turns out there is no bar at all--the patrons walked into the marina store across the way, bought a Budweiser out of the cooler, and drank it out along the river. As I said, P doesn't drink beer, and I really shouldn't, so this wasn't going to work out for us.

While we were there, we happened upon a fine mess of fish fresh from the Gulf, along with the proud young men from Williston and Gainesville who'd caught them all. They went forty miles out in a boat not any bigger than ours. I get slightly seasick just thinking about it.

We were thankfully sober, more or less, when we walked out onto the Sea Hag's decrepit floating dock to untie and look for another adventure. The structure was incredibly tippy, and standing close to one edge nearly catapulted us into the water.

The pelicans on the next dock over sat judging us.

They seemed to have no trouble standing on the edge. What was our problem?

Still looking for that elusive glass of wine, we idled out toward the mouth of the river again, figuring we'd go to Roy's for a bad glass of something out of a jug. We'd eaten there before, and knew this was a sure thing.

But then adventure beckoned when we tied up, climbed off the dock, and saw a packed parking lot at Crabbie Dad's Bar & Grill across the street. We decided to take a chance and venture inside.

Crabbie Dad's is obviously a local hangout, dark and reeking of cigarette smoke. The bar was crowded with leathery old people (well, maybe not that old--this climate ages folks who spend too much time outside) drinking longnecks and engaging in animated conversations. We noted a deck out back, and took our libations out there to get out of the nicotine haze.

Shortly after I snapped this pic, Peg poured out most of that Sutter Home Zinfandel, which had obviously been sitting for years waiting for someone to order it, and now had separated into a stew of grit and nastiness.

Watching the weather draw closer, we decided it was time to drive home to Wyldswood. After surviving a near disaster when the boat came partially untied while I was backing the trailer down the ramp, requiring intervention from a nice young man who bounded down the dock to grab a line before Peg was pushed out to sea on a vessel she didn't know how to drive, we drove the scenic route past Dark Island and Keaton Beach and Dekle Beach and, finally, Perry and home.

It being Cinco de Mayo, we feasted on red chile and margaritas for supper, then adjourned out to our former toolshed known as Splinters, now a lovely but unfinished guest house.

We renamed it in honor of George Good, who has spent the last nine months hammering a nail ever few weeks to gradually bring the project to fruition.

We rearranged the rocking chairs on the screen porch, and admired the sunset and our wonderful canopy oak out front.

We're fortunate to live in this place, in what's left of old Florida. The coast used to be strung with fishing villages like Steinhatchee, before 18 million people decided to call the Sunshine State home, and the developers obliged with ugly tract houses and condo towers. You can see the first hints of that in Steinhatchee, and even more so in Crystal River and Homosassa right down the road. But at least for now, we occupy a space that still feels like an old Jimmy Buffett song, a refuge for this weary sojourner.