Amy laughs at the thought of my intelligence operation, pointing out that Ms. Wonder found our intel in a Facebook post from Edgewater 122, the same Southport Yacht Basin restaurant where I'd filmed behind-the-scenes footage of The Waterfront.
So yes, Poopsie handed us the key to the kingdom, once more. The woman's brain is like no other. I'm sure it comes from eating so much wild-caught Alaskan salmon. With a brain like hers, I genuinely wonder how she finds a hat large enough to fit.
At any rate, when a restaurant announces it's "closed for filming," a production crew is sure to be filming nearby. Amy and I instantly looked at each other in my imagination and said in a single voice, "Summer I Turned Pretty!" If you don't know what that means, crawl out from under that rock and join the rest of society. Also, please follow us.
Thanks to our Waterfront experience two years prior, I was familiar with the set location and the little-known sneak-arounds. After my repeated inability to capture a single frame of The Runarounds, I was ecstatic to finally get some b-roll.
"I'm not merely ready," I told Amy. "I'm seasoned."
"Seasoned like a cast-iron skillet left out in the rain."
"A seasoned professional, Amy."
"We'll see about that when we get to Southport," she grumbled.
The next day, I parked outside Port City Java and walked toward the Yacht Basin, buzzing with anticipation. The buzz dimmed when I reached the production truck labeled Summer LLC and saw the lighting equipment still covered.
I reasoned that the crew had set up the night before and, with the current overcast skies, would likely start rolling around four in the afternoon, the magic hour for filming. That meant a long, beautiful day in Southport, waiting for the crew to materialize.
After wandering the set, chatting with a nearby vendor, and generally soaking up the atmosphere, we retreated to Port City Java for an early lunch. Two coffees, several podcasts, and a good deal of Amy's commentary later, I was restless and thoroughly tired of waiting.
"No big deal," I said. "I'm feeling particularly confident about doing a professional job when the film crew arrives."
"You walked into a sandwich board," Amy noted.
"That was the wind," I said.
"Sure it was," she said, with the enthusiasm of someone counting ceiling tiles. "And now we have hours of waiting to enjoy."
She had a point, so I proposed we drive home, freshen up, and return when things were underway.
"Anything to stop your whining," Amy said.
"It's a simple, elegant plan," I said.
"Famous last words," she said.
We headed for Ocean Highway and drove directly into a traffic jam of geological patience stretching from the junction to the horizon.
"So much for simple and elegant," Amy observed.
I decided to divert through the small municipality of Half Hell. I'm not joking; that's the name of the place. The plan was to take Port City Highway and get around the backup, a longer route, but quicker than sitting in what had become a monument to automotive despair.
The drive was pleasant enough. Light traffic, Wind Horse performing admirably, Steely Dan on SiriusXM. Then came the small matter of the exit.
I missed it, and not narrowly, but in the manner of someone who didn't know the exit existed. Eight miles into the countryside, I spotted a grain storage facility and stopped for directions. The operator was helpful and issued one memorable warning: "If you come to the road through the swamp, you've gone too far."
"Put that in the notes," Amy said.
I put it in the notes. Shortly thereafter, Wind Horse was skimming along the road deep into the swamp.
"You used the notes as a suggestion," Amy said. "Always taking it to the next level, Bucko."
In what seemed much longer than it actually was, we found ourselves back in Half Hell for the second time that afternoon, a distinction that qualifies, mathematically, as Complete Hell. We pointed Wind Horse toward home, and Amy went mostly quiet, in the way a fire goes mostly out.
We agreed, in the way of two people who have been through all of Hell together, that the return trip to Southport would wait for another day.
"Next time," Amy said, as we pulled into the driveway, "we'll ask Ms. Wonder before leaving Waterville."
She wasn't wrong.
The Summer I Turned Pretty will film at Southport again. The production has a schedule, a crew, and several more locations to get through. Amy and I have experience, determination, and, thanks to the grain storage operator, a working knowledge of swamp-road geography.
Surpassing all that is a bit of intel I picked up from a fellow just outside Edgewater. He had one of those supposedly trustworthy faces I've heard so much about, like he'd been practicing in the mirror. He leaned in, all conspiratorial, and said:
"Next time, search for a project called 'The Exactuals.'"
We'll be back, baby. Oh, yeah.
That trims roughly 250 words. The two Amy lines I cut were the "most people don't go somewhere twice" exchange and her harrumph — both good, but the swamp payoff is funnier without the pile-on. Want anything restored or adjusted?
