In which we leave again on a sailing adventure.
Five minutes until five on a Thursday afternoon, we point ourselves north. We are going to the 2013 Flying Scot North American Championships (called the “NACs,” to rhyme with “stax”) on Lake Norman, North Carolina.
Captain Winnebago takes the first shift at the helm of the camper with the small dog riding shotgun and our boat, the Speckled Butterbean, trailing obediently (knock wood!) behind. I have assumed my dual role as Snactician and Navigator with a first course of deviled eggs.
We hit traffic (as expected) and torrential rain (as usual this time of year), but the trip is mostly uneventful.
I spotted an emu, an EMU of all animal sightings, by the side of the highway, far too fleetingly to snap a picture. It did look, I thought, strangely a propos -- a strange, large, near-dinosaur standing idly by a wire fence under the rain-soaked emerald trees along the road. Talk about your primitive Florida. Reading my mind, evidently, Captain W. pointed into the middle distance and said, Hey, is that a pteradactyl? Nope, a turkey vulture, but still.
I did manage to boot up the camera in time to catch a snap of this hot-rod. It was so modified that I couldn't even guess the original make. Its rear wheels were about 2 feet wide. Clearly someone's pride and joy.
Dozens of farm-stands can be found along rural 301 in central Florida. Between the stormy weather and the late hour, sadly, it’s too late to score one of those fat, green “home-grown” watermelons. Just south of the little speed-trap hamlet of Hawthorn, a U-Pick farm advertises blueberry bushes for sale for $3.70 each. Captain Winnebago is growing half a dozen blueberry bushes already, but we covet more. Maybe we can time it on the way home so we can pick up a few plants. We could carry them in the Speckled Butterbean.
And if we can stop for blueberries, I suggest to the skipper, maybe we can also make a visit to the Taxidermy Museum? Captain W. says he doesn’t think we’ll be able to stop. This is not the first time he's expressed such a doubt. Huh. Who’s afraid of a big stuffed wolf?
We pull into the nearly deserted KOA at just past ten pm, having crossed our first state line of the trip. A walk with the dog while the endless hum of I-95 shushes beyond the leggy pine trees, and then it’s off to bed.
The RV slip we were assigned turned out to be a bit small, but we scooted the rig in. It’s good to bring the cottage with us.
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