Rock me like a hurricane

Greetings from Beaufort (Be-you-fert) South Carolina, where we are precariously tied to the very outside dock of a marina, which is perfectly aligned to allow us to fully experience the 1984 hit by the Scorpions entitled "Rock Me Like a Hurricane." It is not technically a hurricane, but when the toaster oven and the coffee maker become deadly projectiles, it seems that way.

We have been cruising up the coast, from Key West now to Beaufort, soaking up the history and geography as well as soaking up a fair bit of salt spray. The locals tell us all the wind and waves are distinctly unusual. Gubmint is thought to be the cause.

The history of this area is complex, but I can simplify it for you. Basically, take the Dutch, the English, the French, the Spanish, some Irish and the native population. About every two or three years one of the above would invade the colony/settlement/fort of one of the others, then burn everything down and slaughter the people in the other uniform. After a few years, everyone would regroup, and the previous loser, or runner-up, would massacre and burn the incumbent. If there ever were a few years of peace, half the population would die of yellow fever, or the whole shebang would burn down when a drunk left a candle burning. The only consistent winners were the bugs.

From Palm Beach to Beaufort, we saw the fabulous homes of various magnates, robber barons and plantation owners. I would describe the style as routinely over the top, as the wealthy sought to imitate anything Roman, Greek, Italianate, or whatever passed for Vegas in the 19th century. If there was any doubt about a stylistic decision, hose it down with gold.

The homes and churches and monuments in Savannah (where we experienced sort of a lame eclipse) were stunning, as are those here in Beaufort, at least the ones I could see without being rocked by the hurricane. All very cool, but the queasy subtext to the whole magnificent architecture thing is the funding mechanism, which was enslaved labor. Talk about treading carefully - the tour guides and the tourist information plaques are a masterpiece in diplomatic language.

The waves slapping against the side of the boat sound like machine gun fire. The motion of the boat is that of a mechanical bull on a particularly sporty dose of methamphetamine. To my shame, I look on Expedia for a motel room.

As a couple, Pam and I have never figured out what it is about us that isn't, well, cool. Hostesses at restaurants take one look at us and put us next to the restroom or behind a post. If there is a table overlooking the ocean, they'll make sure we can chat with the dishwashers.

Same with marinas. The cool kids get spots (and I know we called before they did) tucked well inside, protected from the waves and winds, and we are told there are absolutely no other spots. We took a picture of an empty spot just to document this, and the lady smiled and said that empty piece of water was reserved. For the whole hurricane. We keep rocking.

I think it must be a common human emotion to think everyone else is cooler than you are. I feel like I am always getting out of the way of other boaters, moving to the side, backing up to avoid a collision, and rocking. Maybe you feel the same way - always picking up the extra shift, taking care of your mother while your siblings make excuses, picking up after some very closely related slob.

Essentially the Biblical "going the extra mile" is not about benefiting others, although it does, but is about what it does for us. When we are not so full of ourselves our vision and hearing become more acute. Humility brings clarity to our senses and our judgment.

If this keeps up, I will not be full much longer.