We are currently tied up at Port Royal Marina at Port Royal, SC. It’s raining heavily and the wind is blowing pretty hard.
In past posts I have written that I’m a bit anal about the weather, and that there have been times that we have not left someplace because the weather predictions were in that maddening groove between acceptable and not acceptable conditions. Then, when we decide to not embark, I curse the sky and tell it, “Rain, damn it. Rain!” so that my decision to stay put is justified.
Well, as we sit here getting soaked, and the boat is being pitched about on the dock, for some reason my joking is all about us going ahead and heading out. “Let’s go! We won’t have any boats to pass. We’ll have the ICW all to ourselves. Let’s get out there!” Lisa, in all her love and understanding, sits across from me in the galley. She points out the dichotomy of my past-frustrated expressions about staying put, and now joking about going out. With tenderness in her voice, she says, “Darrell, shut the fuck up.”
Perhaps, that is exactly what I should do.