Skinwalker Log, March 26, Saturday Her smooth and silky skin glowed in the bath of golden morning light accenting the fine sculpted muscles forming the soft endless curves of her exciting body. My desire to reach out and touch her beauty overcame me and as I turned to her she seemed to sense my presence and turned on her side to meet me with an economy of motion, then she looked directly at me and our eyes locked, not with the look of satisfaction drawn from a tawdry fun filled night, but with a sense of mutual respect. It was a soul searching look of acknowledgement, not one of simply sharing fluid, which we do. It was a look of mutual curious desire, a look of wonderment and more than that a look of common bonding between equal intimates. She turned away inviting, turned back quizzically then perhaps acknowledging the brief encounter and not wishing to share the coming sadness in both our eyes she rolled one more time over our quarter wake, dove, never to be seen again. Life waits for no man or dolphin and I quickly exchanged her visit for the deep and watery wonderment that is the maze of creeks and streams of the Waccamaw River, South Carolina. It was a good day yesterday. Our cruising rpm which normally produce an average of 7.5 mph across a day found a favorable ebbing then flooding tide that carried us on a 9 mph shoulder of speed and deep water from Elliot Cut on the Stono River side of Charleston to deep in the watery forest of the Waccamaw only minutes from this mornings fueling stop at Osprey Marina. It was thrilling to run a hundred miles in eleven hours and cover so much ground. It felt like Skinwalker had a huge mouth full of chomping, mile-eating teeth that bit off and ground through mile after mile of savannah and forest swamp. The Waccamaw feels like the forest primeval. As we lie to anchor in the quiet and solitude we expect at any moment to encounter a fairy queen kneeling on a log to dip one hand into the water, raise it to her lips and refresh herself by sipping the coolness from her palm. We search into the dense foliage amongst the cypress trees in hopes to glimpse a hobbit peering at us or perhaps to see ,Gandalf, special staff in hand, walk across the waters on the backs of turtles that rise beneath each foot as he moves toward us in glowing splendor. We glance skyward with each strange sound so as not to miss a Tolkien creature or events that may magically unfold in our anchorage. Yesterday, and this morning the Waccamaw, later today the trials of Shallots and Lockwoods Folly, tomorrow, Mile Hammock and the magic provided by the USMC with their Osprey and helicopter troop ships practicing landings and take offs. We anticipate the sound of tracked vehicles. Tanks. Their formidable unmuffled diesel engines and the terrifying clank and squeak of massive heavy treads tearing and eating anything in their path. Who knows maybe the boom and crump of the Navy shelling the practice range will entertain us on the ICW. Perhaps we will encounter menacing, heavily armed young men, faces armored with paint, in small boats whizzing by who cant help themselves and wave back at us and for a moment reveal they are but boys, our boys. Soon enough it they will not be boys playing at war in South Carolina, but our men living with whatever realities of real war is served them in some distant land. I think my friends and list moderators will forgive me if I say unequivocally war is bad, cruising is good. Think Ill continue cruising the world and pirating in Baltimore Harbor. Bones