 I was initially a little worried about this heat wave, and as the old saying goes, there ain’t no shade in the salt marsh. But the clouds provided, if not shade, much UV blockage that, with the light breeze, made the day fine for paddling. We—the Shaws from Florida and I—took the winding back creeks most of the way up into Huntington Beach State Park, and we watched the green herons and the great egrets lift, and the eagles and ospreys soar above. A big barge with a bulldozer sat in the middle of the creek, though I don’t know what that’s all about. The tide was coming in fast and high, and we used it mostly to our advantage to circle through the marsh maze. Being from near Destin, they were accustomed to the salt life, and they brought a great energy and enthusiasm and knowledge to the tour. Right when we ended, the wind kicked up, churning the water into whitecaps, and we were glad for the good timing, and another beautiful day in the Murrells Inlet salt marsh.
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 Victoria and Tim met me before the sun had risen, with the skyline above the horizon flaring in peaches and apricots. We crossed the Westin Flats with just enough water not to scrape the oyster beds, and we watched the big bright orange globe rise above the Kingfisher Inn. We wound through the Charlie Cut, staying on the edges out of the incoming tide, and circled home via the mazy marsh creeks as great egrets took flight and mullet jumped. The world may be chaotic and crazy, but for this hour, here in the Murrells Inlet salt marsh, it was calm and contemplative and absolutely wonderful.
 I plucked a swamp rose and passed the flower around—to both groups, a couple from Colorado, and a local family of four—because TIL (“Today I learned”) that swamp roses are as fragrant as any rose. So, from now on, we will stop to smell the roses on River Reader trips when they are in bloom. And as we did so, a gator swam past. Terror and beauty, I joked.
This was another calm water, calm weather day with good people. What more, I often say, can you ask for? Well, a large Atlantic sturgeon leapt from the river, achieving a an aerial height of, I’d guess, four feet.  Kentucky people are generally, I’ve found, good people. And this group from Kentucky was my kind of people. They’d gone with me before in the salt marsh, a few years back, but this time it was river time. I decided to take the scenic route to the island. We went down Cow House and cut through the canal with the white mallows in big full bloom. A small wind tickled the wild rice.
The water was calm and pleasant in White Creek, with one small gator, and in Vaux Creek, too, despite having turned towards ebb. On the island, everything seemed sluggish and shy-- Even the pitcher plants were bent down, their tubes filled with the recent rain. Our group, though, was cheerful, talking in the way of old friends. On the way home, as the current was ripping, we saw in the channel marker nest two, osprey fledglings, curious and golden-eyed.  Sunrise on the river is where it’s at. I’m telling you. The water was calm, the light was gorgeous, and we had the river to ourselves. Well, except for the sturgeon leaping five feet out of the water, and the osprey circling and dive-bombing over and over again for a fish, and the alligator heads sinking under, and the swallowtail kite soaring above, and the yellow-bellied sliders popping up, and the light breeze fluttering the swamp roses, and the anhinga taking flight, and the herons croaking in their rookeries, and the obedient plants and pickerelweed blooming purply among the morning. Otherwise, it was just me and this kind, interesting, and interested family of four from Maryland. I wish I could start every morning like this morning.
 A family from eastern NC called to see if they could hop on the Sandy Island tour, and I decided to go for it--even though it was a last-hour booking--and once again, I was super glad I did because they were awesome. A sturgeon jumped in sunlight right when we got on the river, and the flooding tide scooted us right along upriver. We saw a big brown water snake in the crook of a cypress tree, wrapped around a knee. Herons in the rookery. Ospreys on the wing. Baby gators in the back creeks. On the island, we saw turkey tracks on the road and redheaded woodpeckers flying from pine to pine. The yellow pitcher plants leaned over, their tubes filled with rain. One velvet ant crawled across the soft sand of the road. Andrew, who works in historical construction and renovation, assessed the bricks in the rubble pile and concluded they were modern. He could see an oil sheen on the bricks, and the mortar was a clue, too. Back in the kayaks, a light rain cooled us off, and we crossed the river after the canal and returned on river left. We caught a current by the shoreline, and a little tailwind, and I noticed another rookery I'd never seen before, the herons just as cranky. This ancient river never gets old.
 There was already good light in the sky at 6 am when we launched from Morse Park landing—Kimberly, her 15 year-old son, and his friend, from Virginia—as shrimp popped in the shallows on an outgoing tide. We wound through the marsh creeks, where green herons fished from the pluff mud banks and schools of menhaden shot out of the water. A low-lying cloudbank prevented the great big orange sun from coming up perfectly over the horizon, but the dawn light was still beautiful, and we paddled across the Westin Flats, scraping a few oysters but finding our way through the channel by the PVC pipes. We rounded Parsonage Creek and came home along the docks, having earned our breakfast. They were familiar with marsh life having spent lots of time on the Chesapeake Bay, and I was grateful and impressed that two 15 year-old boys would rise in the dark to paddle. This was my first sunrise paddle of the season, and I am reminded, here as I write this, that sunrise paddles are the best way to begin a day.
 This salt marsh excursion was a “customer appreciation paddle” that I offered for free to my most loyal customers, Justin and Michelle and Gabriel and Jonathan and Nanette and Frankie. I asked Dan Turner to come along, too, so that we could read from the field guide. The water today was thankfully as calm as I’ve ever seen it—blue and windless and a slack high tide—and we took a route through the back creeks as mullet jumped and herons soared and shrimp popped and fishermen waved. We got all the way to the Huntington Beach State Park causeway, where four shimmering pink roseate spoonbills flew past us. I asked Dan to read his wood stork poem from the anthology and, lo and behold, a wood stork flew above us. Total serendipity, total marsh magic. On the way back we saw a swallowtail kite dipping below the treeline, and got back to the landing right on time. I’m so grateful for these people, who have helped me with my business, which has been one of the great joys of my life.
 A family of five from Walhalla and I launched from Oyster Landing two hours before the high tide and took the winding back creeks through the salt marsh. At Brigham Hole, we watched a man on a boat reel in a small throwback flounder, but all the other kayak fishermen we passed had been skunked so far. Mullet jumped and dragonflies flitted and herons leapt from the marsh grass, and the water was calm and high enough for us to get all the way to the edge of the causeway at Huntington Beach State Park, then round back along the maritime forest shoreline, crossing the oyster flats where a wayward motorboat nearly got stuck. In our kayaks, though, we floated nicely over everything because this was really nice excursion with really nice people. N🧊!
 I was beginning to forget this was work. I had the sneaking suspicion I was stealing people’s money. That I had somehow cheated the system to be able to do what I do. And for the first one hour and forty-five minutes of our two-hour river tour today, with Tom and Tammy from West Virginia—a damn cool couple just back from a trip to Greece—everything was pretty damn perfect. We took the falling tide down Cow House Creek as egrets and osprey took flight. We returned to the river and then up the side creek that I call Little Gator Creek, where sure enough little gators swam. Yellow-crowned night herons stalked the mud flats, too, and a six-foot alligator was sunbathing on the banks as we rounded into White Creek. Tammy and Tom and I talked of travel and family and kayaking—the conversation flowing freely on the open water—but I was beginning to worry about the water levels in the canal. Would we have enough water to make it through?
Long story short: we did not. I had checked the tide charts but had neglected to account for the drought. We didn’t have enough water in the canal to ensure free and easy passage, even though the tidal range was, well, supposedly within my range. I had to get out. I had to heave. I had to ho. I had to crawl on my belly in the mud like an alligator. I had to push. I had to pull. I sank up to my thighs with every step. So much for the gym this afternoon. By the time I got them into enough water where they could push-pole the rest of the way, I was panting like a pup. Thankfully, they were cool and understanding and patient. We agreed it was a pretty good story to tell. Which is all I’m ever after anyways. And even though today’s tour turned into work, and I’m plumb wore out, and it’ll take two washes the get the mud off my clothes and gear, I wouldn’t trade this job for any job in the world. |
AuthorHastings Hensel Archives
July 2026
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