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October 12th, 2009 – At Sea, 33 26N, 077 20W
by Herb McCormick
The year was 1994 and I was sitting in an excellent restaurant in Charleston, South Carolina, having lunch with a group of local businessmen, all of whom shared deep roots in the community. This was not an unusual occurrence in that most eventful year: I’d been hired by the senior members of the administrative staff of the BOC Challenge – specifically, race director Mark Schrader and media relations manager Dan McConnell (currently playing an equally crucial role in the shore-side team for Around the Americas) – to serve as a traveling journalist and representative of the event, a job that sometimes entailed socializing with great people. Yes, someone had to do it.
Anyway, this was a righteous gathering of good ol’ boys, and I mean that in the best, most respectful sense of the term. Landing the prestigious, international round-the-world race was a source of deep pride in Charleston, and everyone in town treated us like royalty. This was my first experience living and working in The South, and frankly, when I’d first arrived in town I was very apprehensive about how the experience might unfold. I was, after all, a native New Englander, a lifelong Northerner, and I’d heard unsettling tales about the sort of sorry welcome folks like me might encounter. But my time in Charleston, to a minute, had been fantastic, and as the meal progressed I confessed to my hosts how anxious I’d been at the outset, and how pleasantly surprised – and thankful – I was about how well everything was working out.
At that, the table fell silent, and it was a long moment before the senior member of the group replied.
“We like you, son, we really do,” he said, in an easy, languorous drawl. “In fact, we like all Yankees like you. And do you know why?”
I was clueless. My blank expression and mute response confirmed the fact. The pause was perfect for his punch line.
“Because we know y’all are eventually goin’ back home.”
Hearty laughter, and another round of drinks, ensued. I wasn’t the least bit offended and have told the tale often in the years since. In Charleston, I learned – and that little anecdote crystallizes my feelings – everyone understands one another perfectly, senses of humor are firmly intact, and if you happen to have a problem with that, well, that’s your problem.
On Monday, in new roles, skipper Schrader and I, along with crewman David Thoreson and scientist Michael Reynolds, were again closing in on Charleston, with an ETA of early Tuesday morning, and our impending arrival was churning up all sorts of fond memories. One of the absolute best parts of the BOC job was greeting the competitors right after they crossed the finish line, and on countless nights, in every sort of weather imaginable – vicious thunderstorms, searing heat, fresh gales – Mark and I were the first ones aboard, delivering a fresh snack and hearing the tales of adventure as we helped sort out the boat and get it towed into the docks. We had many an adventure ourselves in those nights off of Charleston.
So it sure seems fitting, somehow, that we’re returning on our own boat, on Ocean Watch.
We’ve had yet another adventure this time around. After an excruciating beginning of the voyage south from New York City, things onboard have taken a decided turn for the better. We logged a solid 24-hour run under sail on our second, much less bouncy transit of the Gulf Stream, and as the day progressed we saw the first flying fishes of the voyage. For that matter, we also saw our first fly. All were outsized, obviously living the good life. It’s something the folks in Charleston know quite a bit about.
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| As a native of the “Northern Newport,” author Herb McCormick says it’s hard to beat the gorgeous coastal harbor in the Low Country of the Carolinas. |
To sailors, Charleston has been referred to as a “Southern Newport,” and as a native of the “Northern Newport,” I certainly understand the comparison. Both are waterfront, port cities, with all the good and the tenuous that the designation implies. There is certainly no lack of establishments serving cold drinks and tasty chow in either place, and both locations are literally dripping with history. But to me – and trust me, I don’t make the following statement lightly – I think in this example that Charleston gets the short end of the stick. For a sailor making a landfall after a long trip, it’s pretty hard to beat this gorgeous coastal harbor in the celebrated Low Country of the Carolinas.
First of all, except for the humid summers, the weather is sensationally better. The sailing is year-round, and the caliber – whether racing or cruising – is pretty superb. The College of Charleston has one of the best collegiate sailing programs in the country, churning out All-American sailors year after year. And old friends like Bunky and L.J. and Robby and Patrick, and so many others, are talented watermen who can hold their own with anybody, anywhere.
The restaurants are sensational. Our biggest current dilemma is where to have our first meal ashore, though the captain and I have come to the conclusion that we’re both craving the shrimp, grits and sausage at Vickery’s – Low Country cooking at its finest – before anything else gets in the way. Sorry, Magnolia’s, 82 Queen and Slightly North of Broad, you’re going to have to wait your turn.
Live music – jazz, folk, rock, and symphony – is flourishing in Charleston; the entire downtown nightlife scene is as good as it gets. For a stroll down memory’s lane, a wander through the wonderful Battery section of town is like walking back through the ages. The horse-drawn carriages offer the same appeal, and the waterfront is close at hand and totally accessible.
We also can’t wait to see old mates Brad and Meaghan Van Liew, who have taken Charleston by storm and are at the controls of the excellent Charleston Maritime Museum and playing key roles in growing, burgeoning events on the yacht-racing calendar like Charleston Race Week and the Charleston-Bermuda Race.
Anyway, Charleston: You’ve been warned. Another bunch of good ol’ boys are heading your way – us! – and our arrival is imminent.
After all, we’re the ideal northern visitors: We don’t stay long! But like it or not, Charlestonians, your city is part of us now, and we’ll never, ever stay away for good.
- Herb McCormick with photographs by David Thoreson
This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos
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