East Ridge, Tenn. — From his storefront office in this Chattanooga suburb, minutes from the Georgia border, real estate broker and vice mayor Jerry Petty can look down the road a couple blocks and see a wet and wonderful future. This summer, he boasts, East Ridge will celebrate the opening of Splash Valley, a $12 million waterpark certain to slake the locals' sun-parched spirits.

"It's gonna' be nice, 'reee-al' nice," he tells a visitor from Georgia, his face breaking into a mischievous grin. "Make sure to mention that."

Hyosub Shin/Staff Photographer (ENLARGE)

In 1818, a mathematician at UGA helped establish the Georgia-Tennesee border. It's largely accepted that the boundary is a mile below where Congress originally intended it to be.

Hyosub Shin/AJC/Staff Photographer (ENLARGE)

Surveyor Bart Crattie stands between two poles at the cornerstone where is the corner of three states Alabama, Georgia and Tennessee.

MORE ON THE DROUGHT: • Map: Heavy demands on our water • Photos: April showers bring ... • Photos: Lake rises dramatically in January RELATED: State lifts strict outdoor watering restrictions  Ban lifted on new Lake Lanier boat docks  Drought's over and Lake Lanier gets lively  Water wars judge stays patient, with Atlanta's future in his hands  Judge: Lanier use should have been decided long ago  • More on coping with the drought

Not normally fightin' words, but the idea of using precious water for anything more than drinking or bathing is pretty much abhorrent to Georgians these days, what with the worst drought on record leading to a statewide shortage. The historic dry spell means empty swimming pools, browning lawns and certainly no Splash Valleys.

Of course, Petty is talking about Tennessee water. But that's just the point: The water, some feel, rightly belongs to Georgia. And they aim to do something about it.

A group of Georgia legislators is trying fix a problem caused by an inaccurate land survey from 1818 that improperly marked the Tennessee-Georgia border south of where it should be. The mistake was pointed out in an article in The American Surveyor.

The legislators' resolution would establish Georgia's real northern boundary about a mile farther north into what is now Tennessee and, not coincidentally,

give Georgia access to the bountiful Tennessee River. If that happens — presto-chango — no more water shortage.

Theoretically, at least, the boundary shift would also envelop towns like East Ridge, displacing them from Tennessee and relocating them into border states including Georgia.

Petty's tweak aside, some border-dwelling Tennesseans are actually sympathetic to Georgia's water problems, though it might mean sudden relocation. There are even those who believe that caring means sharing.

"It's not necessarily our water," said Kate McBryar, a 25-year-old East Ridger who on a recent sunny afternoon was out doing work in her yard.

"I don't see why Georgia can't use our water if they have a drought. Why not help our countrymen?"

Petty and a few others here quickly supplied multiple reasons why not, mostly of the logistical variety.

Bob McBryar, Kate's 29-year-old husband, offered a more personal reason to just say no.

"I work for the fire department," he said. "We have to live in the state of Tennessee. I don't know how that would affect our living situation. Maybe they would grandfather us in if the boundaries are changed."

Yet, McBryar said he doesn't oppose sending some water south, for a charge.

"If there was a mistake [on the survey] years ago, I don't have any problem with them fixing it," he said. "If it originally belonged to Georgia, I don't have any problem with them taking it back. But it should come with a price. The state of Tennessee's been maintaining [the land] for the past however many years. It should be reimbursed for what's been done."

A little west of East Ridge, the Tennessee River forms Nickajack Lake. Its southernmost point all but laps against Georgia's northern tip. From the small rock and two rusty poles that unceremoniously mark the point where Tennessee, Georgia and Alabama converge, a visitor can walk down a vine-covered dirt path, past the aptly named Stateline Cemetery, to the lake.

It is a placid expanse of blue water gouged by Tennessee Valley Authority power towers and crossed over by I-24. A few ducks skitter and skim across the lake. The only other sound comes from the blowing of the wind.

In the summer, it's a different story, says Donald Jenkins. Then, the lake is filled with boaters and water-skiers and noise. On a cold, early weekday morning in February, it as serene as the graveyard up the hill.

Jenkins has family buried in that graveyard. He chuckles when asked if his ancestors — Georgians, like he — would mind if the boundaries are moved.

"Nah," laughs Jenkins, 71, brushing off his mustard-colored Carhartt coat,

his gimpy old chow-Dalmatian mix hobbling up the road.

The higher taxes the new Georgians would have to pay would be "the only thing that's going to upset them," Jenkins insists.

Sure, there'd be some confusion, too, but, as he notes, everything's kind of mixed-up around these parts anyway.

Take Jenkins himself. He has a Tennessee mailing address and his car bears Tennessee plates, but he pays taxes to, and gets his electricity and phone service from Georgia. It's not uncommon in an area where one can literally straddle across three states and two time zones.

The man who kick-started the boundary debate is a bit confused, too, at least to look at. A Georgian, land surveyor Bart Crattie drives a pickup with a bright orange "T" decal and wears a blue denim shirt with the same logo. It's a profession of his love for the University of Tennessee.

Standing atop the pile of crumbling rocks in the woods that mark the tri-state border, Crattie says, "I was pretty much just having fun," when he wrote of the incorrect boundaries in The American Surveyor last month. "I didn't expect anything to come from it."

Nothing may, but that's not stopping politicians and others from trying.

Wandering along the craggy border with Crattie, high above the Nickajack, fellow land surveyor Robert Cagle can see why.

"Everybody," he said, "wants their dirt."

Or, in this case, their water.