When sailing into a new port each evening, often in need of food, supplies or repairs, you sometimes have to rely on the kindness of strangers. On our trips north and south each year, Betty Ann’s crew spends a lot of time in the Intracoastal Waterway in the South, where fortunately folks tend to be very generous, even to us Yankees.

Archie, practicing “the look” at a young age

Repeatedly, we have been offered cars and trucks so that we could get groceries, dinner, or marine supplies. It’s a mystery why people let us drive off in their most valuable possessions, but Archie sure can put on the face of a saint. In Buck’s Harbor, Maine, we went to the town’s most popular restaurant (okay, the town’s only restaurant, but it was really popular) on a Saturday night without a reservation and of course they couldn’t seat us. Archie gave that sweet “no problem not your fault but what shall we do?” look with the doe eyes and before you know it, the hostess is foisting her car keys on him, telling him about a great restaurant just 10 miles away.

In Belhaven, North Carolina, upon asking where the closest grocery store was, we were lent a golf cart. Picture four of Betty Ann’s crew bumping down the breakdown lane of a highway on our way to get groceries.

But an odd scenario has played out now, three times, no less, when we have borrowed vehicles in the Carolinas.

The first time, we had sailed into Englehard on Pimlico Sound in a very rural area of North Carolina. As it turned out, the only marina in the tiny little harbor had just reopened after major repairs from a hurricane, and we were literally the only boat in the entire marina. As we stepped onto the dock, we realized that, while boaters had not yet arrived, the seabirds had. The docks were slick with bird guano. Lots of it. Eating on the boat didn’t seem so appetizing, so we asked the marina manager whether there were any restaurants in walking distance. He said the nearest restaurant was five miles down the road, but he was happy to lend us his pickup truck. After much, “oh no, we couldn’t” demurrals, we took him up on his offer. And then, just as we headed off in the truck, he came running after us, yelling, “wait, wait, I forgot something,” and then sheepishly reached under the front seat and pulled out a handgun. (Later that evening, after a great meal at a local place in the boondocks, our provocateur crew Bill W-R jumped out at every gas station on the way back to the boat asking for a cup of cappuccino and the New York Times. Amazingly, we made it out of Englehard alive.)

Provocateur

A year or so later, the exact same handgun trick happened again in Beaufort, North Carolina:  a kind Samaritan ran after the car and grabbed his gun from under the front seat just as we were headed off to find diesel filters. And then, remarkably, it happened a third time to Dad and his friend Bob at a marina along the Intracoastal Waterway in northern North Carolina, between Coinjock and Chesapeake City. Feels like the plot of Groundhog Day set in the parking lot of an NRA convention.  

The lesson? Southern hospitality is alive and well in the Carolinas. Indeed, everywhere we go, people are incredibly generous. However, even the most generous folks may be hiding a secret under their front seat.

Archie, in the first of many borrowed vehicles?