Thud.  My red cheeks immediately tighten as the front of my matchbox sized car dove directly down into another pot hole.  I grimace, my skin, taught from the slight sun burn on my face, stung a little as the Twingo car bounced into a divot amidst the rocky one lane road.  This was, according to my trusted GPS, the road meant to lead me to the marina. I’m no boat owner, but I do know that no one would be towing a sailboat on this glorified farm path. GPS is a funny thing. It’s so reliable, and then, when you need it most, it quickly morphs into your mortal enemy. …