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 --->