So here I am, Dear Miss Mermaid, in the Sea Islands off the
coast of South Carolina, minding my own business in May and we have the first
named tropical storm Ana bearing down this way.
Who'd a thunk
Hurricane season doesn't even start until June 1st. But here come
Ana, like a good ole southerner, not only prompt for the event, but early.
Waaaaaay early. The belle of the ball and we haven't even set up the band
Let's hope she has no where to go and leaves us alone. I am supposed
to travel again tomorrow. But my motorhome betrayed me a day early and
announced her poop tank was full to the brim. I had to break camp to go to the
Oh the joys of camping.
My stomach is not
cooperating with me. It's pitching a big fit just like it used to do when
hurricanes breathed down on me in the Caribbean. I wonder if it is
psychosomatic. I used to endure hurricanes ashore while my self-insured sailboat
rode out the hurricane on her lonesome; typically attached to six anchors with
numerous layers of chafing gear around the anchor rodes in hopes the choppy
waves and winds wouldn't bust her free. My stomach would do awful things because
typically where I took refuge ashore was no where near where I could watch my
precious sailboat bob helplessly upon the seas.
Amazingly my boat
survived every time, though there were always some damages to endure, with
repairs to be made afterwards.
A little old motorhome is no place to be
during a hurricane, but since it drives 60 miles per hour and hurricanes
typically travel at 5-15 miles per hour, theoretically I could outrun
Perhaps the Ohio valley would look good about right now.
and Sunny Regards,
Dear Miss Mermaid