We are docked at Georgetown, and last night watched “The Patriot” with Mel Gibson. It was filmed here, and roughly tells the story of Francis Marion who faught the Revolutionary war with a small guerilla band. This piece of history is central to Georgetown, which with its 18^th century old quarter still looks from that time period. Marion and his militia used the swamps for their hide-out, and it was exciting recognizing in the movie the very cypress trees that had thrilled us yesterday with their roots above water.

The intracostal goes down the Waccamaw river (SC), crossing untouched swamps for miles and miles. Being able to reach unspoiled wilderness is something I’ve grown to appreciate about boats. But not all boats are alike. A big, speeding motorboat passed us yesterday, leaving a path of cut branches floating in its wake. Heartbreaking to imagine how much destruction in the slow-growing environment this one boat can create (cypress can live 600 years, so some were already 80 years old when Columbus dropped by). Oh, how much I love our Peregrine, so gentle that porpoises come and play around her hull (which by now may be encrusted with barnacles). We have been going days only seeing cars when crossing bridges, and I surprise myself at wishing fleetingly we did not have them. On the picture above, you can see the cypress trees with their “knobby knees” rising above water, to provide oxygen to their awesome roots. It was also around here, at North Island, that the French Generals Lafayette and Dekalb anchored in 1777. Now, that’s my history as well.

Dickie is sitting opposite me at his computer, planning our route for the next few days. It strikes me that with the blog I write about our past, while he plans our future. This distribution of roles seems typical of our marriage, and while striking forth is obviously necessary for survival, looking back may be just as necessary. Dickie must be aware of it in his own way: he is the one who registered “our” blog, which I resisted at first, knowing very well he meant for it to become my blog.

I resisted it because writing our history has been painful since Stuart died. Even the short facebook postings can turn the knife. I was also afraid the blog format would bring more introspection on my part, and it has. But I now also see the necessity of writing about Stuart. It safekeeps his memory so that we don’t have to worry about losing him that way, but even more it allows us to absorb his death within our family history, so that our family can survive. And maybe at some point our family will grow stronger from it, his death becoming a tie of love rather than a destructive force. And maybe that’s what Dickie had in mind when creating the blog.