Every year since the late 1940s a group of men has departed from Hawkinsville on a three-night river trip to the Atlantic Ocean. Fourteen to twenty friends usually ride two per boat and share tents as they camp along the water. 

They launch on the Ocmulgee River, which merges downstream with the Oconee to form the Altamaha. Four days at a leisurely pace gets them to St. Simons Island.

 The first Wednesday in January is their standing departure date. Ernest Mashburn, a longtime friend of our family, can attest that inclement weather doesn’t allow for delay. On his first outing in 1990 the temperature was 17 degrees. 

Sometimes the water level is ideal. At other times it can be challenging, either too low or too high. Ernest only skipped one trip during three decades. He and several others decided not to go when the Ocmulgee reached 21 feet, an unforgiving stage. Those who went navigated the currents without major incident, but had difficulty finding dry ground for campsites. 

Hawkinsville residents Roger Lawson and Thomas Bembry decided in the late 1940s that a boat ride to the coast would be a fun and rewarding experience. What began as a lark evolved into a cherished tradition that’s still going strong.   

A newspaper article from around 2004 includes a group photo of 13 men. Hugh Lawson and Johnny Bembry, son and nephew of the event’s founders, are pictured. River-trip enthusiasts have continued to surface in later generations of several families. 

The late Hugh Lawson, a federal judge, assumed the organizer’s role at some point. Ernest described him as having a great sense of humor and being a superb storyteller. His response to the mishap of a close friend offers proof.     

Ramsey “Bub” Way was a regular participant on countless excursions. One year when his boat had mechanical trouble, he held the bendix gear in place so it could be cranked. As the starter was engaged it sheared off the tip of a finger. During the following year’s trip, Judge Lawson nailed a metal sign to a tree commemorating the minor tragedy: “On this spot, January 3, 1991, Bub Way became Nub Way.”

In the 2004 newspaper story, one unnamed fellow offered an assessment of their annual adventures. “Don’t quote me,” he said, “but there are four things we enjoy. One is the ride, two is the cooking, three is the bragging, and four is the libations.”  

We’ll focus on the rides today. Ernest hasn’t been since 2019, but trips down that river blessed him with a boatload of memories, such as the partially-submerged steamboat. It was discovered on the Lawson-Bembry maiden voyage, resting in the middle of the Alapaha a little below Baxley. It hadn’t been there long as everything was still intact. The adventuresome duo went aboard and took a couple of pots and pans from the galley as souvenirs. 

Metal sections of the boat outlasted the wood, but the flood of 1994 moved the entire vessel. The steamboat’s history remains a mystery.

Another memory Ernest shared is of abandoned liquor stills. Remnants of a once-vibrant operation were located near Penn Holloway Creek. A shallow ditch which veered off the creek offered limited access to the secluded spot. It was a favored camping site with empty barrels repurposed for conversation.

Ernest wistfully described the expansive confluence of the waters where the Altamaha forms. He said they’d tie their boats together and drift in the swirls for a while, just relaxing among good company. If I ever make a bucket list, I’ll put that near the top.

I can’t begin to capture an 88-year-old man’s recollections of multiple trips down the river. But a few old-timers will gladly share their memories if you ask. 

Thomas Bembry went on those jaunts until his late eighties. He’d sing little ditties like “Shoe Fly” as others grinned and sang along. Ernest recalled the January launch when Mr. Bembry had decided to stay home. As the boats eased away from the landing, he stood on the banks of the Ocmulgee to say goodbye to his friends. And a rugged old man cried like a baby.  

River trips are filled with laughter and tales of yesterdays, but teardrops on the water’s edge show streams of love displayed. What began as a lark became a lasting tradition. And a river of memories keeps flowing toward the sea.