Because of the good weather and lack of boat and ship traffic, crossing the big water of South Channel and Savannah River went smoothly although not very interesting as there wasn't much to see. Elba Island cut is very short - only a few hundred yards or so, but it saved us miles of travel. Years before, Elba Island was literally cut in two by dredges to shorten the distance you had to travel to reach Fields Cut on the North shore of Savannah River. Before the cut, we'd have had to turn left into South Channel, go a mile or so up-river toward Savannah and then turn right into the Savannah river. Then another two or three miles down river to the entrance to Fields cut. Though I loved the water, all that extra travel could have been dangerous as we would have had a lot more exposure to ship traffic and rough water. Savannah river can get very rough, very fast. Sharp swells of three to six feet are common when the wind opposes the tide.
As we entered Fields Cut, a narrow serpentine link between Savannah River and Wrights River, my interest was piqued once more. The narrow cut allowed easy access to both shores. I've always enjoyed going though Fields Cut as there was always something to see - birds of all kinds, turtles, snakes, (ra) coons, otter, (ali) gators and such. You just never knew what would be there to catch your eye and teach you something about nature. As we left the cut, the tops of the big pine trees at the south end of Daufuskie laid like a dark green topping over the light green marsh - and if the tide had been higher, we could have seen our destination, the big dock of the Burn landing.
Exiting Fields Cut, we turned right into Wrights River (no pun intended) and stayed far enough off shore to avoid the shallow water of the mud flat protecting the point. Wrights River, like South Channel and Savannah River is quite wide here and must be crossed with care. Again, we were smiled on by the good weather gods and crossed smoothly to the far shore and Walls Cut.
Walls Cut is even shorter than Elba Island Cut and connects Wrights River with New River which runs along the south end of Daufuskie, makes a loop around marsh island and enters the Atlantic across from "Bloody Point", Daufuskie's southern tip. New river is wide, deep and as with other large rivers, can be very rough when the weather is nasty and the wind blows against the tide. No so today, everything was perfect and we quickly made the far shore and again kept clear of the large mud flat off marsh island's southwestern point. Looking up New River, the tall dark pines of Daufuskie were a welcomed sight. To me, that particular view was an awsome forbearer of our journey's end and in later years, a warm feeling of homecoming. In just more than an instant, a long, tall dune of bright white oyster shells wrenched my attention from the forboding woods. The huge pile of oyster shells took up half the distance between the southern point of marsh island and back river (officially known as Mongin Creek). Piled high and sun bleached, they made an impressive milestone. We were close now. Less than a quarter mile to go!
We crossed the mouth of back river and hugged the shore of the marshy point at this, the southwestern end, of Daufuskie. We could see our dock and the old house nestled securely behind huge live oaks drenched in Spanish Moss. This was my favorite part of the trip. Because boats went slower then, wonderful odors would waft over the water and we'd take in the heady scent of the big pine trees that mingled with the sweetness of the marsh, the tanginess of the salt water and the pungency of the rich dark mud. My head would reel as I took in all that I possibly could. All too soon though, we passed that marvelous stretch of shoreline and made our way to the landing next to the big dock.
Next - Up the hill to the old house
Friday, April 4, 2008
Thursday, April 3, 2008
First Trip
We quickly reached the mouth of Richardson creek and daddy had to swing wide to the right toward the middle of the creek to avoid the sandbar on the marshy point. Once clear of the bar we turned left into Turner's creek and continued our ride to the island.
As I recall, it was calm; no waves or chop on the water. Lots of life around, too. Wading birds like snowy egrets, po-joes (greater blue herons) and curlues could be seen on everywhere. Sometimes they would fly off as we approached only to return as soon as we passed to see what tasty creatures our waves had churned up for them. Mullet (a fish) could be seen jumping along the shore. Later, we'd castnet for them. They are excellent eating when fresh and one of my mother's favorites. She'd often cook up a mean breakfast of eggs, grits and fried mullet - mmm-mmm good! I can almost hear the sizzle and smell those fish frying in mother's cast iron skillet. Careful or you'll burn your fingers taking those hot fish from the patter!
The run down Turner's creek was short as its waters melted into Bull River. Looking to the right, we could see the the"steel bridge" as it was called that provided access to Tybee Island. In later years I'd drive across that narrow old landmark and dread having to cross paths with a semi. The steel bridge was built for model-T's and modern cars being much wider could barely pass each other without clipping side view mirrors, so meeting a semi truck was a hair-raising experience during daylight and a holy terror at night. Maybe that's where the term sweating bullets came from. I'm quite certain more than one motorist left paint on that old bridge and no driver in his right mind was sorry when that relic was replaced.
As we turned left into Bull Bull river, we left the old bride to rust into history as a flock of jack-daws (a black bird) flew ovehead with racus cries denoting our intrusion into their domain. The tide had started to flood (come in), so we kept close to shore to avoid the strong current that impeded our progress. Our wake, cresting in the shallow water and rolling up onto the muddy banks, would send finger mullet (juveniles) and mud minnows scurrying for deeper water. Often, a shrimp or two or even three or more would make several jumps across the water to avoid our motor's propeller and its backwash. Terripin turtles were abundant and would purch in bunches atop clumps of mud innundated with wormlike whitish-yellowish marsh roots. As we approached, the "terripins" would dive into the dark muddy water. Their heads would soon pop up like little thumbs only to vanish as quickly as they had appeared leaving only a swirl in the water as they hurried out of our way. (Sadly, we don't see many these days.) Blue crabs, too, were abundant and sometimes we would see one with his back out of the water slowy moving forward hugging the water with claws agape trying to capture a meal. FYI - they will also run up on a sandy bank, grab an unwary fiddler crab and dash back into the water with his prize. Crab-one; fiddler-zero.
A few turns later we met the Wilmington river and turned right toward South Channel. This was bigger water now and we were in the Intracoastal Waterway - interconncected inland waterways
stretching from Florida way up North and providing a natural path to Daufuskie from Savannah. Depending on the weather, the quarter mile run across South Channel through Elba Island Cut then across Savannah River (a major shipping channel) and into Fields Cut could be dangerous. And, with only six inches of freeboard between us and the murky salt water, I'm sure my dad was glad that it was calm and that there were no yachts, tugboats or ships to contend with.
To be continued ====>
As I recall, it was calm; no waves or chop on the water. Lots of life around, too. Wading birds like snowy egrets, po-joes (greater blue herons) and curlues could be seen on everywhere. Sometimes they would fly off as we approached only to return as soon as we passed to see what tasty creatures our waves had churned up for them. Mullet (a fish) could be seen jumping along the shore. Later, we'd castnet for them. They are excellent eating when fresh and one of my mother's favorites. She'd often cook up a mean breakfast of eggs, grits and fried mullet - mmm-mmm good! I can almost hear the sizzle and smell those fish frying in mother's cast iron skillet. Careful or you'll burn your fingers taking those hot fish from the patter!
The run down Turner's creek was short as its waters melted into Bull River. Looking to the right, we could see the the"steel bridge" as it was called that provided access to Tybee Island. In later years I'd drive across that narrow old landmark and dread having to cross paths with a semi. The steel bridge was built for model-T's and modern cars being much wider could barely pass each other without clipping side view mirrors, so meeting a semi truck was a hair-raising experience during daylight and a holy terror at night. Maybe that's where the term sweating bullets came from. I'm quite certain more than one motorist left paint on that old bridge and no driver in his right mind was sorry when that relic was replaced.
As we turned left into Bull Bull river, we left the old bride to rust into history as a flock of jack-daws (a black bird) flew ovehead with racus cries denoting our intrusion into their domain. The tide had started to flood (come in), so we kept close to shore to avoid the strong current that impeded our progress. Our wake, cresting in the shallow water and rolling up onto the muddy banks, would send finger mullet (juveniles) and mud minnows scurrying for deeper water. Often, a shrimp or two or even three or more would make several jumps across the water to avoid our motor's propeller and its backwash. Terripin turtles were abundant and would purch in bunches atop clumps of mud innundated with wormlike whitish-yellowish marsh roots. As we approached, the "terripins" would dive into the dark muddy water. Their heads would soon pop up like little thumbs only to vanish as quickly as they had appeared leaving only a swirl in the water as they hurried out of our way. (Sadly, we don't see many these days.) Blue crabs, too, were abundant and sometimes we would see one with his back out of the water slowy moving forward hugging the water with claws agape trying to capture a meal. FYI - they will also run up on a sandy bank, grab an unwary fiddler crab and dash back into the water with his prize. Crab-one; fiddler-zero.
A few turns later we met the Wilmington river and turned right toward South Channel. This was bigger water now and we were in the Intracoastal Waterway - interconncected inland waterways
stretching from Florida way up North and providing a natural path to Daufuskie from Savannah. Depending on the weather, the quarter mile run across South Channel through Elba Island Cut then across Savannah River (a major shipping channel) and into Fields Cut could be dangerous. And, with only six inches of freeboard between us and the murky salt water, I'm sure my dad was glad that it was calm and that there were no yachts, tugboats or ships to contend with.
To be continued ====>
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Me and my first memories of Daufuskie Island
This is my first attempt at "bloggin", so please be kind (feedback welcome).
My given name is Gene Anthony Burn and I currently live in Port Wentworth Georgia, a small town just north of Savannah, Georgia where I was born. Daufuskie is a small barrier island just south of Hilton Head Island, South Carolina {If you want to learn about Daufuskie, you can buy a copy of "An Island Named Daufuskie" written by my mother, Billie Kay Burn}. Unfortunately you can no longer get an autographed copy as she passed Jan 6th 2008 and we miss her greatly.
My first memory of Daufuskie (the island) is a trip made from the public landing at Whitemarsh Island on Richardson's creek near Savannah. I still remember how old, weathered and rickety the dock was. It was narrow, there was no railing and you had to be careful where you stepped so as not to fall through. The tide was low and the marsh and the mud and the fiddler crabs all vied for my attention. Dead marsh racks, tree limbs, shells and all sorts of debris littered the high tide line. I remember, too, the smell of the place. The air was heavy with the smells only those familiar with low country salt water rivers, creeks and marsh could possibly know. It was sweet and musty and dense and wonderful. It must have been early-to- mid-morning because that's when the outdoors smell best.
The boat, a wooden batteau with a 10 horse power Evenrude outboard motor, was tied to the outside of the floating dock. The floating dock was in worse shape than the dock. To make matters worse, one side was up on the mud causing it to slope toward the water at a rather precarious angle and you had to lean back to keep your footing. The boat was alaready loaded and only a foot or so of freeboard (the part of the boat above water) was showing. My mother and I took our place on the middle seat. She sat in the middle and I sat outboard on the starboard (right) side. There was so much stuff we barely had room for our feet. My father, Alfred Lance Burn, "daddy" to me then and "Pop" in later years took his place in the stern to run the engine. He tightened the cap on the fuel tank, gave the pressure button a few pumps to force fuel to the engine. He pulled the choke on the engine, grabbed the starter cord handle and gave a quick, sharp pull. The engine started on the first pull with a loud "ruuuuummmmm". A dense cloud of white oil-smoke and a spray of cooling water erupted from the exhaust and quickly attacked our nostrils. It was invigorating! The bow (front) and stern lines were untied; daddy put the engine in gear, eased the throttle up, angled us away from the dock and we were off. Oh my! It was wonderful. We made a wide u-turn to get us headed down the creek toward the island and gave it the gas. We were really moving now. The bow wave curled and splached as we plowed through the water. Looking back the, dock was retreating quickly into the past and our wake was making its way to shore. Fiddler crabs scurred out of the way of the breaking waves only to rush back to the water's edge as soon as they could. Daddy stayed close the left bank. The shore here was sandy, not muddy and high on shore there was a thin crop of scrub cedar and palms. Had they been farther from the shore, they would be called a hammock but being right next to the creek, it was just an interesting interruption to the marsh which stretched out toward the horizion. The water flowing past was just inches from the gunnel and withing easy reach. I know I dragged my fingers it the water because I remember how salty it tasted. My mother must have had the patience of the biblical Job because I don't remember her saying anything to deter my boyishness. I watched as the little sandy beach gave way to mud and the trees succomed to marsh.
To be continued --->
My given name is Gene Anthony Burn and I currently live in Port Wentworth Georgia, a small town just north of Savannah, Georgia where I was born. Daufuskie is a small barrier island just south of Hilton Head Island, South Carolina {If you want to learn about Daufuskie, you can buy a copy of "An Island Named Daufuskie" written by my mother, Billie Kay Burn}. Unfortunately you can no longer get an autographed copy as she passed Jan 6th 2008 and we miss her greatly.
My first memory of Daufuskie (the island) is a trip made from the public landing at Whitemarsh Island on Richardson's creek near Savannah. I still remember how old, weathered and rickety the dock was. It was narrow, there was no railing and you had to be careful where you stepped so as not to fall through. The tide was low and the marsh and the mud and the fiddler crabs all vied for my attention. Dead marsh racks, tree limbs, shells and all sorts of debris littered the high tide line. I remember, too, the smell of the place. The air was heavy with the smells only those familiar with low country salt water rivers, creeks and marsh could possibly know. It was sweet and musty and dense and wonderful. It must have been early-to- mid-morning because that's when the outdoors smell best.
The boat, a wooden batteau with a 10 horse power Evenrude outboard motor, was tied to the outside of the floating dock. The floating dock was in worse shape than the dock. To make matters worse, one side was up on the mud causing it to slope toward the water at a rather precarious angle and you had to lean back to keep your footing. The boat was alaready loaded and only a foot or so of freeboard (the part of the boat above water) was showing. My mother and I took our place on the middle seat. She sat in the middle and I sat outboard on the starboard (right) side. There was so much stuff we barely had room for our feet. My father, Alfred Lance Burn, "daddy" to me then and "Pop" in later years took his place in the stern to run the engine. He tightened the cap on the fuel tank, gave the pressure button a few pumps to force fuel to the engine. He pulled the choke on the engine, grabbed the starter cord handle and gave a quick, sharp pull. The engine started on the first pull with a loud "ruuuuummmmm". A dense cloud of white oil-smoke and a spray of cooling water erupted from the exhaust and quickly attacked our nostrils. It was invigorating! The bow (front) and stern lines were untied; daddy put the engine in gear, eased the throttle up, angled us away from the dock and we were off. Oh my! It was wonderful. We made a wide u-turn to get us headed down the creek toward the island and gave it the gas. We were really moving now. The bow wave curled and splached as we plowed through the water. Looking back the, dock was retreating quickly into the past and our wake was making its way to shore. Fiddler crabs scurred out of the way of the breaking waves only to rush back to the water's edge as soon as they could. Daddy stayed close the left bank. The shore here was sandy, not muddy and high on shore there was a thin crop of scrub cedar and palms. Had they been farther from the shore, they would be called a hammock but being right next to the creek, it was just an interesting interruption to the marsh which stretched out toward the horizion. The water flowing past was just inches from the gunnel and withing easy reach. I know I dragged my fingers it the water because I remember how salty it tasted. My mother must have had the patience of the biblical Job because I don't remember her saying anything to deter my boyishness. I watched as the little sandy beach gave way to mud and the trees succomed to marsh.
To be continued --->
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