Captain Woody Rehab
By Paul Tollefson
Contributor
If you grew up in Hilton Head — or this area, for that matter — then I’m sure you have at least one good partying story from your youth, though most people have many more than that. This particular story is one of the craziest, and not only did it change this young man’s life, it all happened within a 72-hour window.
It was the summer of 1986, and Wally Palmer had just graduated from Hilton Head Prep. He was living in a small apartment in Queens Grant, inside Palmetto Dunes. In typical Hilton Head beach bum fashion, there were probably about 11 guys living in that place that summer. Wally was doing tennis court maintenance during the day and working at the Old Post Office Emporium in the evenings.
One night, all the boys in the house were home, and an intense game of quarters broke out. The drinks were flowing heavily. Soon enough, the beer was gone, and it was time for a quick run up to “The Pig” for some replenishments.
“Me and my buddy Scott drove across to the new Shelter Cove Mall to the Piggly Wiggly, where they had cases of Busch on sale for $7.99. We got a few cases and loaded up the car to head back.”
“As we got into our little apartment area and out of sight from any PD security guards, Scott had this bright idea that he was going to floor it. I remember screaming at him to SLOW DOWN, but the boy just didn’t seem to listen.”
“Before I knew what was happening, we bounced off a Palmetto tree like a pinball and barely squeezed between two more. After the first bounce off the tree, I looked up only to see us speeding out of control toward the lagoon behind the apartments,” Wally said.
“Now, if bouncing off the trees wasn’t bad enough, we were heading straight for the lagoon — and the only spot in the whole area that had a berm. Sure enough, we hit it at full speed and it was liftoff.”
“I managed to somehow open the door midair, but as soon as we hit the lagoon, my head hit the windshield. I wasn’t knocked unconscious but was bleeding pretty badly from my forehead. As we swam to the lagoon’s edge, the car quickly became submerged and sank about 15 feet to the bottom.”
Wally and Scott headed back to their apartment, scared and unsure what to do. It became clear that the police were surely on their way. Sure enough, there was a knock at the door before too long.
“The security guard knew us by name, and we had to go with him. Being a small town, I knew one of the firemen, and he was laughing pretty good when he realized it was me. He quickly bandaged my head from where I hit the windshield.”
“The funny thing is, when I was talking to the police and they were trying to figure out how to get the sunken car out, tourists started crowding around the lagoon — even sitting in beach chairs watching what was going on. But the real kicker is that folks were wading into the water because 48 beers were now floating everywhere, free to anyone willing to get wet,” Wally continued.
“Well, of course one of the police officers knew my father, and soon enough he had him on the line. Dad was headed down to the scene.”
“Dad comes whistling in, convertible top down, and I was quickly handed off to him by the authorities.”
“‘Son, I’ve heard through the grapevine that you’re living pretty loose over here, riding a little too close to the sun,’” Walter Sr. said. “‘I’m taking you to the hospital to get checked out, make sure you don’t have a concussion.’”
“After we left the hospital, instead of taking me to his house, Dad dropped me back off at the apartment with my friends. Little did I know what was going to happen the next morning that would change my whole summer — and my life.”
The next morning, Palmer awoke to not only a pounding head but also a pounding knock at the front door of their Palmetto Dunes apartment. As he got up to answer, he saw the familiar face of his father, who he’d just seen six hours earlier.
“‘Get your stuff and get in the car,’” Wally’s dad said sternly.
Still foggy from the night before, Wally brushed his teeth, grabbed his things, and climbed into the waiting convertible.
“As we pulled out of Palmetto Dunes, my dad began telling me he’d heard I’d been hitting it a little too hard lately and that he was taking me to rehab. As I tried to argue and explain that I was fine and had everything under control, I noticed something. We took a left out of Palmetto Dunes, heading to the south end. There’s no rehab on the south end, and I wondered what the heck was going on.”
“Sure enough, my dad had this snarky kind of smile on his face. I kept asking where we were going, but he just turned the music up louder and said, ‘You’ll see.’”
“We ended up at Palmetto Bay Marina, and that’s when I knew this wasn’t going to be the rehab I had in mind. The first thing I saw was this small man, with a beard and shrimp boots, leaning against an old, beat-up white truck. I immediately recognized him — ole Captain Woody, legendary waterman.”
“‘Well if it isn’t little Walter,’ Captain Woody said with a smirk.
‘You’re mine now!’”
“My dad was laughing hysterically. ‘Welcome to Captain Woody rehab!’”
“They explained I was now in the captain’s care and would be the deckhand aboard the Lynn-Sea.”
Wally loaded his small bag of clothes onto the old trawler and they shoved off almost immediately.
“I give 10% to my strikers for the haul,” Woody explained. “If you want to do it all yourself, you keep it all. But I highly suggest we get another guy.”
“No,” said Wally, slightly arrogant. “I can do it myself. I don’t need anyone else’s help.”
After the first haul, it was clear that wasn’t going to work.
“I was covered in jellyfish stings, trying to sort shrimp as fast as I could and weed out bait fish and sharks caught in the nets,” Wally said, laughing. “The worst part was that Captain Woody always headed his shrimp!”
“I finally caved and told the captain I needed help. He whipped the boat around and headed for Thunderbolt, Georgia, where he sold most of his catch.”
They picked up a new hand from the docks — a big red-haired, freckled kid from Texas who called himself “Red.”
“We headed back out, and before long, Red was just blabbering away. ‘These shrimps are tiny compared to Texas shrimp,’ he said. ‘And these trawlers? Pfft, they’re like dinghies compared to what we have in Texas.’”
Captain Woody, clearly annoyed, was plotting his response. But then Red said, “Dag-gum, these guys around here can’t drink for shit!”
“Well, that was it,” Wally said. “Woody whipped the boat around so fast.”
“‘Wait, where are we going?’ Red asked.
“‘You’ll see,’ Woody replied.”
They returned to Palmetto Bay Marina. Woody anchored, got in his dinghy, and brought Red ashore. As they approached, Red saw the sign: Captain Woody’s.
“‘Your damn right it does,’ Woody said. ‘Now let’s see you come tell us we don’t know how to drink around here!’”
Woody bought shot after shot, going round for round with Red until the Texan was a wobbly mess.
“‘Now let’s go shrimping!’” Woody said.
Red thought he was joking. But Woody, an experienced drinker, showed no signs of slowing down. They loaded back onto the Lynn-Sea.
“‘Captain, I don’t think I can work,’” Red gurgled as he threw up off the stern.
“Captain just laughed and yelled back, ‘Oh, we can’t drink, huh!’”
Wally and Red spent the next few weeks working the boat and finished out the summer with Captain Woody. Red never again claimed Texas did anything better than the Lowcountry, and Wally laid low on the drinking.
By fall of ’86, a freshly rehabbed Wally headed off to art school — and surprisingly, Red stayed on with Captain Woody.
Paul Tollefson is the Director of Tennis at the Hampton Hall Club in Bluffton. He found his love for the Lowcountry in early 2002 after graduating high school and unsure of what career path he was destined towards. After moving from Hilton Head to Bluffton he became enthralled with the history of the town and the people and cultures that called it home for many generations. He has found a passion in writing and enjoys being able to share the stories and pictures of long-time locals. He is the co-creator of the Facebook page “Bluffton Then and Now.”
