“Into The Mystic: A Journey Through Time and Tides” has been a work in progress for many years. From 1993 to 2003 I was a staff writer for a small local magazine called “The Water Log” where I had a monthly column called “Harbor Highlights.” The editor gave me great latitude in writing these articles so I was able to write about things that interested me the most. I have run into many people through the years that collected these articles and I have always believed that they would make a great “year book” or collection of short stories. My wife, LeeAnne, and I began sifting through the articles and chose the ones we thought most appropriate and polishing them for publication. What has resulted, surprisingly enough, is not only an overall view of the workings of Charleston Harbor but a statement on my career. We have been very excited about bringing this to people. This is my first attempt at self-publishing so at present it is only available through Amazon as a 6×9 paperback and also as a Kindle download. Put my name in the Amazon search engine and it will come up.

 

Oh yes, he was. During my summers he would take me with him to inspect lighthouses. He was actually in charge of all navigation lights in this district so we inspected not only lighthouses but beacons and ranges and bridges. I will never forget when I was ten or eleven years old we inspected the Hatteras light. The wind was blowing more than 40 knots and my fearless grandfather drug me out onto the catwalk. The wind felt like it would blow me away and I could feel the thundering of the waves breaking against the base. Jimmy and I were as close as two people could be. He bought me my first car. That’s a story unto itself. I bought a 1949 Plymouth Deluxe from a boy at school for $75. My grandmother and my mother threw a fit and did not think as much of the car as I did. It didn’t run well, the brakes were shot and I had to use the handbrake to stop it, but the AM radio worked. They were in the kitchen, causing a commotion, when my grandfather got up from his favorite chair, picked up his keys, and said, “Follow me, boy. We’re taking your car back.” Unfortunately, for me, no one ever argued with Jimmy. His word was law. We returned the car and got my money back but instead of going home he took me to the old Ft. Sumter Chevrolet dealership on East Bay Street. He had a private cup of coffee with the owner and came out and threw me the keys to a 1962 Chevy Impala with all the bells and whistles. When we returned home, Jimmy sat back down in his favorite chair, and I bounded through the door with my keys and announced that he had bought me a car. The silence was deafening.  

” As I prepared to write this article, I went to Magnolia Cemetery and sat along on the cold marble coping that surrounds the graves of Captain Horace L. Hunley and his brave crew.  A gentle breeze blew through the oaks and the gravestones, carrying the fragrance of the salt marsh and the rumblings of a tug off in the distance making its way up the nearby Cooper River.  I reached down to remove the remains of dried winter grass and touched a small stone with the initials JM…. misty memories floated thick beneath the trees.

 

 

The story of the Hunley is really the story of the brave men who sailed her. The vessel was originally designed to operate in Mobile bay. When it was brought to Charleston, the swift tides and choppy seas worked against her. It was toward the end of the war and the cause was becoming desperate. I cannot imagine the courage it took these men to crawl down inside what was basically an empty boiler and dip beneath the sea. Furthermore, what kind of men does it take to press on when so many others had given their lives to the cause? It could only be written in the first person because it is the story of men with courage and honor – not about the mechanics and construction of the submarine. Without opening a can of worms, I love my heritage, I honor those who fought and died for it, and I cry for the way it has been incorrectly portrayed, as it has been said that the victors write the history books.  

 

 

The fire on the Sea Witch took place in New York Harbor when she was assigned up there. I have never worked in New York and was not part of that crew. Capt. Don Waldeck, who was later a docking pilot with Moran Towing, showed me his award and told me the story from his perspective of that fateful night. I have not heard anything about the recent troubles on Staten Island. I have, however, spoken to many people who survived the “Perfect Storm” of book and movie fame, and most recently, I have heard the stories from several captains that took part in the evacuation of Manhatten on 9/11.

 

 

“(Our ancestors) harbor was alive with steam engines and smoke, whistles and bells, orders shouted and answered, and vessels of every shape, size and purpose. All the communication now flooding the thirty-plus VHF radio channels was once passed by steam whistles and brass bells.  Ship dockings were a noisy and complicated maneuver.  The docking pilot passed his instructions to the after-tug by using the ships whistle and to the forward-tug with a brass whistle that he wore around his neck.”

 

Absolutely. Deeper waters and wider channels bring in more and bigger ships. The mere size and number of the ships require modern communication methods. The radios make for wonderful, error-free, directions between pilots and tug captains. In the old days, tug captains used to assign one deckhand to stand on the wheelhouse to relay information – a practice that is decidedly unsafe. What I was trying to point out with that particular article is that the harbor was alive, there was more interaction between the residents and the waterfront. Because things are more removed now and life goes by at a faster pace people just don’t realize what is all involved in bringing the ships in and out. In fact, a few years ago, a lady wrote a letter to the editor of our newspaper saying she never saw ships at the Columbus Street terminal so it should be closed and developed into condos. She just wasn’t paying attention because I was on a tug that docked ships there that very week. The terminal is still very active and used almost daily. Although more ships equals more prosperity, it is recognized that we must reduce the emissions from ships and tugs and there has been a great move toward that in recent years. Most recently, the West Coast has received its first hybrid tug in which the propulsion engine is all electric although the generators are still diesel.

 

 

Yes, there are more people on the water here in Charleston, as there are everywhere else, simply because there are more people. Types of vessels have changed. There are more go-fast boats and more jet-skis, but the price of fuel has driven more people toward sailboats. The number of boats don’t concern me as much as the lack of experience exhibited by the owners in operating those boats and the varying states of inebriation. For the most part, the overwhelming majority of people you meet on the water are competent and courteous but the few tend to ruin it for the many. I recently bought a VHF radio from a man who had taken it out of his boat in order to put in a music radio for his children. He told me he didn’t need it anyway because he had a cell phone. I asked him if the pilots on the big ships all had his cell phone number in order to communicate with him. People like that scare me. I have always wanted to write an article entitled “Stupid Human Tricks on the Water” but I haven’t done it yet.

 

 

I think I have finally really retired. I have spent some time helping my mother with her place and I am teaching captain’s license prep courses at Sea School on Daniel Island. Mostly, I’m really concentrating on my writing. 

 

I am a direct descendant of the Dewees family who owned the island prior to the Revolutionary War.

 

 

 

It is my fondest wish that this interview appearing on your blog will spark an interest in my writings among the residents of the island. I believe we have encapsulated an era and a way of life which is slowly vanishing and I thank you for getting the word out.

 

 

I miss the quiet early morning runs to the island on a crystal clear summer day. I miss communing with the wildlife. I saw more and varied wild animals and birds during my time on the Dewees ferry than at any other time in my life. I miss the beauty of storms as they paraded by the island. I miss showing off my skills with the boats. But most of all, I miss the people. I made great friends with some of the crew that will last forever. The residents of this island are a special breed. Many such as you and your family, the Winsteads, the Kennedys, the McIntires, and numerous others made my employment with Dewees very memorable and I miss you all.

We miss you too! Best of luck with book sales and beyond!