Sad to say but word has reached me that a disgruntled fellow ethnologist (who shall remain nameless) has criticized yours truly for choosing Folly Beach, SC, - the Edge of America - as the focus of my anthropological studies. Granted, habitating Folly might on the surface seem cushier than dining on locusts in a mud hut among the Gola and Kissa peoples of Liberia; however, let me tell you, dwelling on Folly is no piece of coconut cream cake.
In addition to mosquitos, yappy dogs, sauna-like humidity, and jaywalkers, citizens of Folly must also endure the grating roar of jet skis, scantily clad retired pro wrestlers, and some of the most garish Late Empire tattoos known to man humankind. Oh, whine on nameless naysayer, but a complete anthropological portrait of our planet must include all peoples, not just primitive pre-industrial tribes.
Planet Follywood c. 2012
In addition, documenting the folkways of Folly Island poses dangers, especially around the river and ocean (I wonder how many of my critical colleagues encamped in the Kalahari have suffered jelly fish bites on their assignments?). Take yesterday, for example, when my trusty unpaid intern Jesus “Paco” Martinez and I braved the treacherous Folly River to record the Island Festival known as the Folly Float Frenzy. To say we found ourselves in harm’s way is an understatement, like saying a devout Pentecostal might find Miley Cyrus’s performance at the MVA awards off-putting or that smoking a bunch of dope and then deciding to fashion your own bungee cord might be a bad idea. Anyway, what follows is a first person account of yesterday’s festival.
Warning, some of the following images might be upsetting to young readers.
Background
One characteristic of Folly people is their propensity to party, which manifests itself in a plethora of civic sponsored festivals: New Years Fireworks, Follylapooza, St Patrick’s Day, Follygras, the Sand and Sea Festival, the Tree and Bush Festival, the Stem and Seeds Festival, etc., etc.
The Float Frenzy is an annual September Saturday morning event in which tribes build floats loaded with malted alcoholic beverages, launch them from Folly Boat Landing and see which of the tide-bourne vessels arrives first at Sunset Cay, a marina bar on the southern tip of the island (see below). At the Cay, the participants continue to consume even more malted beverages at the bar and stare at cell phones. Part mating ritual, part celebration of the Sun God, the festival offers a peek at Folly people at their most unguarded, and at the Sunset Cay, Paco and I were lucky enough to witness one female denizen twerking to the accompaniment of amplified music, a sight neither of us will ever forget.
The Round Trip Route from Moore’s Dock to Sunset Cay
One of the challenges we faced was to make it from Moore’s Dock to the Sunset Cay and back within the constraints of the ebbing tide, which could make re-entry into the creek that leads to Moore’s Dock impossible. If we were to misjudge our return, we’d have to face to daunting task of dragging our kayaks between the Scylla and Charybdis of pluff mud and oyster shells. Leaving at 10:45, we needed to be back by two or face the unthinkable. Obviously, the time it takes to navigate the Folly varies according to wind and tides, and we’d be going against both on the return trip.
Paco at the beginning of the journey (note the phallic fertility obelisks in background)
The Trip
To be as inconspicuous as possible, Paco and I donned local costumes (tee shirts and board shorts) and loaded our kayaks with malted beverages. In addition, that intrepid intern also brought a bag a boiled peanuts (a local delicacy), which became a life-saver at the Cay, providing us with much needed protein for the Odyssian trek home.
As we approached the landing I couldn’t see any floats. In previous years participants were more numerous, a veritable flotilla of elaborate watercraft dotted the river, but this year’s contingent consisted of a paltry four or five floats.
a few of last year’s participants
However, this year’s outing did feature live entertainment as a singer and guitarist floated along with us regaling the participants with a Follificated cover of CCR’s “Proud Mary.”
“floating, floating, floating down the river”
As fate would have it, this year’s most elaborate float, an homage to the endangered sea turtle, would face two horrific incidents. First, without any steering mechanism, it almost crashed into an anchored yacht.
The Turtles weren’t the only craft to suffer the fury of nature. This vessel started taking on water, and two of its occupants were transferred to a more seaworthy craft.
women first
Some chose simpler floating contraptions, like the folks below, belligerents, who perhaps sensing our otherness, bombarded us with water bazookas.
Still others.
One more.
Mr. Overalls
Eventually, the marina came into view with the current really churning. I heard my name called, and there stood Judy Birdsong, so I paddled toward her, crashing into the pier sideways. Paco was right behind me. We lashed our kayaks to the pier hold and made our way to Sunset Cay to join the natives in downing malt beverages. Paco had some bad news to share; the Turtles had crashed into the marsh.
the best laid schemes of mice and turtles
Sunset Cay Marina
Yes, we had survived the trip to the Cay. . .
Paco and Yours Truly
and we couldn’t believe our luck when we witnessed a very rare daylight sighting of Folly twerking. If only I had had the presence of mind to shoot a video instead of still photos!
It was Judy Birdsong who brought us down to earth by asking the time.
“Oh, it’s 1:05,” I said, “We’re okay. Low tide’s not till 4.”
“4?” she asked incredulously. “Low tide’s at 3! I checked before riding down here.”
I’m not going to bore you with the saga of our trip back - the gale-like breeze, the on-coming tide, the lukewarm beer - it was Kon-Tiki all over again.
An hour and twenty minutes later we found ourselves at the mouth of the creek, our paddles hitting oyster banks. Yet we made it with only about an inch of water to spare. (Note the bottoms of the kayaks below).
We had devoted 4 1/2 hours of the sake of science documenting the people and culture of Folly Beach and proven that you can get into the creek an hour before low tide. Our expedition had been a success, no matter what those elitist mud-hut living ethologists have to say.