Lakeside Living

Well, spank me and call me Judy. (I’m in the Carolinas, and I learned that saying from a beloved Carolina friend years ago, so I’ll use it.) Lakeside living is pretty damn fine.

I am currently shacked up in my trailer, lakeside. Junebug, meet Lake Murray. Wow. It’s been so long since I’ve “lived” on a freshwater lake that I forgot what it’s like to walk mere steps down to an inviting shoreline and to paddleboard without predators. Seems I’m always making sure I don’t just step onto the sand (stingrays), leap into water before I look (sharks, jellyfish), or jump into a bunch of microscopic “what just bit me?” forms of microscopic skin-biting phytoplankton. Don’t get me wrong: that’s all good stuff, and not much can beat the crystal-clear and life-filled waters of the Gulf, but this? This is like eating cotton candy right out of the air-spinning machine without having to a) pay for it, or b) worry about the calories.

Dreher Island State Park is my third stop on my journey north to Willow, my cabin in the Smokies where I’ll be ushering in the glorious smells, sights, and sounds of autumn. It’s an unplanned stop–one that formed an acceptable layover between the bunnies of Blythe Island and my cabin in Tennessee. “Acceptable layover,” indeed. If a layover can be “bliss,” this is it. (And anyone who travels–right, Kristel?–will tell you that layovers are never, ever “bliss.”) But THIS? This freshwater lake just northwest of Columbia, SC, and smack-dab in the middle of a woods-filled state park with campsites perched right on the rocky, red-clay shores of one of my favorite Carolinas? This is good shit. I’ll buy. Hit me. Sign me up.

I’m here for five nights. And, as I become a more-experienced RV nomad, I’m learning that a duration of five to seven nights is kind of perfect for me. Just long enough for the kitties to unwind, get their sea legs beneath them again after a long road trek, and stop hating me for putting them in the car crate. For me, five to seven nights gives me time to unwind after a stressful drive, explore the surroundings, consider how I can stay here longer and postpone life for a bit, and finally, decide I’m ready to move on to the next adventure.

My paddleboard hasn’t seen such consistent use since I bought it. Somehow, the commitments of life and the heat of Florida summer kept Biscuit shelved in the garage for far too long, her shiny little fiberglass hull gathering too much dust. But this journey–this stop–allowed Biscuit and I to rediscover each other, and to partner up in one of life’s great explorations. My first morning here, just as the rising sun peeked over the massive pine trees on the surrounding island and cast its shimmery shadows into the cove out in front of my site, before my coffee was brewed or I had finished my daily wake-up yoga routine, I rose from bed–not unlike a child on Christmas morning–and stepped outside, carried Biscuit down to the shoreline, and boarded her soft landing pad. The water! Warm as bathwater, but not too hot. Immediately, I assumed the corpse pose and rolled off Biscuit into the freshwater, letting it envelop me like a warm embrace. THIS is a morning shower.

After work, when lunchtime rolled around, Biscuit and I roamed the lake again. At dinner time, a paddle on Biscuit was in order before my veggie burger dinner hit the grill. Lake. Water. Paddling. Swimming. That is what this place is for. I took full advantage of it, and even scheduled myself a vacation day to ensure I really enjoyed this place. That’s the secret of the life of a nomad, I think: finding balance between the world around you and the work you must do to earn it. Live hard, play hard. Okay, I will.