The time seems much longer than it has actually been since last I tickled the computer keys logging in our Fall return trip from an outstanding four months of cruising the Chesapeake's western and eastern shores. The ending of our last log entry had us in a holding pattern, tied to the newly constructed docks at Midway Marina in the smallest of ports with the oddest of names: Coinjock, Virginia. Here we waited for a couple of days for our cruising buddies, Barbara and Chip Wyser on board their 36' trawler, Freestyle. The Wysers were waylaid at Atlantic Yacht Basin Marina at Great Bridge, Virginia about 36.6 Intracoastal miles behind us. Chip was having his boom repaired which necessitated the holdover. As for us, we just laid around waiting out the numerous low-pressure storm fronts with their nasty winds and spotty squalls go jetting by. Countess dutifully squeezed mud from under her keel on a daily basis as the moorage depths dropped to not much more than three and a half feet. Of course we never paid attention to the depth until we flicked on the instruments when we were preparing to shove-off from Coinjock and cross the Ablemarle Sound. It took a lot of 'pedal-to-the-medal' as we dug a fresh trench from our back moorage spot to the waterway, but we made it. Probably polished the prop and took any little, slimmy or crusty aquatic whatchamacallits off the bottom of her keel.

The Wysers finally pulled into Midway only to have to tie-up for the day because the current weather front decided to hang around and rock us with 25-30 knot winds thoroughly washing our decks with buckets-upon-buckets of rain for the better part of the night. The plan was to push-off the next day and, if the sea state was too rough at the Ablemarle----you never want to venture out into the Ablemarle when the weather is kicking up especially if it has a Nor'wester attitude---we would anchor in Broad Creek right around the bend from the Sound. Then, with hopes for improving sea conditions, strike out early the next day and put the Ablemarle behind us for the rest of this year. Even if we had crossed the Sound under less-than-favorable conditions, chances are the low-lying highway bridge on the other side which stretches for what appears to be about a couple a miles across the broad-opening mouth of the Alligator River, would have been closed thereby halting all boat traffic south 'til the winds dropped. Well, the following morning appeared to be a favorable window to make our break, and NOAA broadcasted its usually 'take-it-with-a-grain-of-salt' forecast for lower winds and one-foot seas. As we entered the Ablemarle we were immediately greeted with slap-happy, short-chopped two-plus footers all stacked up like infantry troops just waiting to attack, and encouraged to do so by a brisk Nor'wester at 20 knots. The Ablemarle provides the perfect funnel for these winds to blast through this relatively shallow body of water which offers enough fetch to create some fairly nasty conditions. NOAA once more lived up to its dubious reputation of not quite getting the weather picture right. It was a lumpy twelve-mile crossing, and dumb me didn't plan ahead and put up our staysail as Chip had done before entering the sound so we paid the piper and took our quartering bumps. It actually didn't appear that Chip's staysail did much dampening of the rolls and if any thing kept turning him up into the wind which would make sense. Once we were across and into the Alligator River, the rough seas abated enough and the winds shifted in a direction which let us enjoy a more comfortable following-sea condition as we made our way towards Dowry Creek. About five miles short of Dowry Creek there is an anchorage just off the Pungo River which Freestyle decided to pull-over and anchor in. Chance and I felt the anchorage and the Pungo were a little too exposed to the forecasted weather so we elected to stretch it out to Dowry Creek and the nice little marina there. Next time through, we will more than likely anchor in the creek just off from the marina which is well protected and save ourselves the moorage bucks. This day's passage added up to a hefty 83 statute miles according to the GPS.

Spooner's Creek, just five south of Moorehead City, NC, was our port-of-choice the next day, being some 78 statute miles south with a couple of notable river crossings to make: the Neuse and Pamlico. The Pamlico isn't such a big deal, but the Neuse, or Nasty Neuse as it has been referred to, can louse a passage up for a good portion of the day. Our lines dropped early enough to avoid any sea state build-up on either river which generally happens during the afternoon hours. We pulled out to one of the Pungo's green channel markers to wait for Freestyle to make up the distance from their anchorage down around the bend and up the river's main channel. Once they were insight we turned Countess' bow down river and headed to the 'nasty' Neuse. Actually we have had pleasurable passages coming and going on this river. Touch teak! The passage was almost without incident except for the 50-foot cruiser who we had previously conversed with on our radio a while back, had surprisingly caught fire and was burning to the waterline at the mouth of Adams Creek which empties into the south side of the Neuse and marks our exit from the river. We noticed a funnel of curling black smoke at least ten miles back, and learned later that is was a burning vessel as a mayday went out and the crew and the Coast Guard started conversing over the radio. As we slowly chugged past, it was quite a sad scene to witness this once lovely yacht reduced to not much more than a floating, smoldering raft piled with its rubbish of charred and mangled entrails . The Coast Guard had a number of their warp-speed, hard bottom inflatables posted to ward off gawkers who wanted to get a closer look. From all reports, the captain and crew escaped unscathed. Just hope they had enough insurance!

Spooner's Creek proved to be a great little anchorage. It's situated right in the middle of a fork in the creek surrounded by clearly upscale residences each with its own dock and yacht attached. Spooner's is quiet and very well protected, and has good holding for anchoring. There's enough comfortable swinging room for perhaps a half dozen fair-sized boats without impeding any creek traffic. We dropped Bruce and once set had the Wysers slide on up and raft to us. Now it felt like we were just part of the neighborhood. That evening it was cocktails on Countess followed just a few careful steps away to a great meal onboard Freestyle with Chip and Barb...and their lovable, schmaltzy orange cat, Bonnie---or as we affectionately call her: 'the B-cat', ensconced on her cushy perch monitoring our every bite.

There are four critical bridges to get through the way to Wrightsville Beach located just north of the Cape Fear River and east of Wilmington, North Carolina. We managed to make all but one of them resulting in a 30-minute spin-the-doughnies routine waiting for the correct opening time. At least we got through the bridge, it could have been closed for repairs---a seldom, but all too real occurrence on the ICW. Two of the bridges were restricted ones only opening on the hour so we were glad to put those behind us. It gets a little frustrating to try and time an opening only to miss it by a matter of minutes and then have to sit out a lengthy opening schedule. That's why you don't want to get caught at a bridge that has restricted times. While enroute we were still getting passed by numerous 'wave-makers' (sportfishing boats) heading south in a hurry from the Annapolis boat show to the big boat show in Ft. Lauderdale. They usually pass us in groups, some considerate, slowing down as we did so to pass with only slight rocking, but others, without any concern for safety or good seamanship, would come blazing past us delivering a series of substantially steep wakes throwing us back and forth, and on occasions, sending something inside the boat crashing and cart wheeling from one side to the other. Not a nice thing to do especially when they know better, but don't care. A neatly placed shot across their decks from our bow cannon should do the trick next time, wouldn't you think? Anyway, as we trekked south through the Camp Jejune area, the Marines were playing war games inland with all their coppers, flares and artillery included. At first we didn't realize they were dropping mortar rounds, so we were just cruising down this glassy waterway section when suddenly we felt a jolting vibration come up through our hull, then another, and another, and another. I immediately went down on the lower deck thinking we had just nailed a submerged log or tagged a sandbar or something of that nature. Then, while leaning over the railing trying to sort all this out, it came to mind that those vibrations were sequential to the distant booms of artillery. I recalled experiencing a similar cadence on many occasions in Vet Am---we called it 'walking'. Once it all came together, we sighed a relief that it was just incoming vibes and not something upcoming through Countess' hull. The passage covered 75 statute miles and at 1620 we rafted up with Freestyle who had dropped her hook in seven feet of water in a popular bay at the end of Banks Channel just off the ICW and east of the bridge which links Wrightsville Beach to the mainland.

From Wrightsville Beach our destination would be Barefoot Landing, South Carolina where the moorage---if there's any available, is free! Of course the lengthy dock there is part of a huge shopping complex housing lots of nice shops and several choice restaurants and a ton of, what else....T-shirt shops. Quite convenient, yet quite expensive if you're in a serious shopping mood. Barefoot Landing is just south of Myrtle Beach and is a popular stopover to say the least so it's important to have a plan "B" just in case you get aced-out of a spot or can't raft up with someone already there. Back at Wrigthsville Beach, we no sooner separated from Freestyle and slowly idled out towards the Intracoastal while Chip hoisted his anchor than we came across a grounded sailboat a few hundred yards from the ICW. As any good mariner would do, we offered assistance and ended up pulling the 40-footer off the mud shoal and back into the channel. Having done our good deed for the day, we eased out into the waterway, hung a left, and with a favorable tide, began our 72-mile passage south to South Carolina. Snow's Cut was the day's first challenge. This narrow mile long pass energetically pumps tidal waters into and out of the Cape Fear River at a fairly healthy clip. Going south the cut spits you out to a zig-zaggy course through the river's nourished shoals. You need to travel on a direct course to the channel markers if you wish to stay off the numerous sand bars that lurk on either side. Once out in the river's main channel there's no problem with the depths reaching a very comfortable 40-50 feet in many parts. Offshore ships frequently travel the Cape Fear all the way up to Wilmington so the channel is constantly monitored for changes. Our next test, as it was on our way north, would be two-fold: Locoweed's Folly and Shallot Inlet. Both sections are plagued with continually changing shoals. The waterway's channel can get surprisingly narrow and skinny as it tightly twists its way past these two inlets leading out to the ocean. This time Shallot Inlet was at high tide so we didn't sweat the pass by, but as we approached Locoweed's Folly the whole area---inlet included, was literally choked with small boats. The fisherman were fishing big-time. Prior to arriving at the inlet we had heard a couple of cruisers several miles ahead of us call the Coast Guard to come clear the channel. I guess they did---we never saw the Guard, but we did manage to snake our way through the quagmire of fishing geeks, some quite close who refused to give way as long as they had a chance hook whatever they all were trying to hook. The word was definitely out that a run was on, it looked like the whole neighborhood knew about it. The final test of the day was the infamous "Rock Pile" with it's two-mile section where both sides of the channel are lined with jagged rocks just waiting for an opportunity to rip open the innards out of any boat that strays off course. The channel through this section gets critically tight for even two boats to pass. We made it through without shedding any sweat this time. The last time through here we had just missed a fleet of shrimpers who are notorious for assuming that they own the waterway and consequently don't cut anyone any slack. Arriving at Barefoot Landing Freestyle managed to squeak into an open spot at an already packed dock so we just circled until they were tied-up and then nudged up and rafted-off.

We looked forward to next day's passage because the waterway would put us on the Wacamaw River which is by far one of the prettiest sections on the whole Eastern ICW. And we would have the opportunity to once again stop by the little country store in the backwater, tobacco road town of Bucksport and pick-up some of their delicious, artery-clogging, homemade sausage. Cholesterol heaven! The plan was to do a quick stopover and then continue on to Georgetown for the night, but by the time we were finishing up our last several miles down the Wacamaw, the weather was looking incredibly dark 'n nasty directly in front of us, and the radio was scaring us with tornado warnings and critical stuff like that so we decided to pull over just 12 miles short of Georgetown at a fairly nice-looking marina called Heritage Plantation Marina on Pawley's Island. The marina and golf course/resident development appeared was relatively new. Because we were only a couple of hours at the most from Georgetown, I had time the next morning to go for a jog through the development on their golf course. There's no question that this would be a great place to own a piece of property, build a multi-million dollar mansion and play some wonderful golf. Right, we're lucky we could afford the moorage which seemed reasonable considering its exclusive locale. I'd have to say that this place was one of the nicest resort developments I've visited: a beautiful, yet challenging golf course with gorgeous large homes flanking its lush, rolling fairways. The 'big' storm we were earlier threatened with never nailed us with its full potential, but we did have some heavy rain and winds gusting up in the 25-30 mph range. Outside of that, we spent a very peaceful night at Pawley's Island.

Last spring we passed Georgetown by on our trip north so this time we didn't want to miss the opportunity to visit this charming, historic town and spend a night. Rather than anchor in the little river which passes right next to the town, we opted to tie-up at one of several little marinas hugging the river's bank allowing us to tour the town that much easier. And the $10/day mooring charge made the land-link all that much better. Besides our good friends, the Pucketts from Naples, Florida, were close by in Mrytle Beach on a golfing weekend and were planning to stop over and go to dinner with us.

Our next layover was Charleston, a treat all of us looked forward to. We'd been 'hard-charging' on this trip south, and there could not be a nicer place to spend a needed cruising break than Charleston. Last spring as we traveled north, Chance and I spent a terrific fun-filled week with our friends, the Farleys, riding our bikes on just about every paved and cobblestoned street in the old town section discovering fine restaurants, great places to test the local brews and unique shops tucked away here and there throughout this charming waterfront city. Our first thought was to travel far enough on the waterway to anchor for the evening in one of the little tributaries just off the waterway it makes a final right then left turn and becomes part of the greater Charleston harbor. Then we could have an early morning tie-up at Ashley Marina. You'll always end up paying for the whole day regardless of what time you arrive at a marina so morning dockings are economically preferable. It would be nice to get half-day charges instituted, but I highly doubt that'll ever happen. As the day wore on, and with not much excitement other than a little nervousness as we passed over some very skinny water in a half dozen sections near McClellanville (the tide was out at this time of day), we decided to press-on to Charleston. Heavy weather reports broadcasting tornado/severe thunderstorm warnings also convinced us that a marina would be a more prudent move than hanging on a hook in the fairly flat marshland area which is prevalent immediately north of Charleston Harbor. as usual Ashley Marina was packed, but we managed to gain a couple of spots on either end of their long transient dock which parallels the Ashley River. Freestyle tied-up on the inside at the very end, while our spot was on the outside sandwiched between two much larger vessels and closer to attendant's shed. Much to our delight, our old cruising buddies, Al and Sue Martens on Northern Lights were tied-up just a few steps away from us so it was cocktail-reunion hour after Countess was safely moored. Al and Sue were planning on leaving their boat at the marina for about a month while they returned to the Minneapolis area to take care of Sue's ailing mother. The last time we saw Northern Lights was when we pulled off the waterway at Coinjock to wait for the Wysers and they elected to continue on to the anchorage which I had previously talked about thereby affording them an early crossing of the Ablemarle the next morning. I inferred from what they said later of the crossing that it wasn't as comfortable as they had hoped for, and they were pretty worn out from the ride afterwards. Listening to their account made me glad we had waited the extra day for that front to pass.

Charleston is worth more than a few days visit so we dedicated a week out of our cruising lives to once more enjoy this charming 'old South' city. Fall was becoming more apparent with the changing colors and the lower temps which kept me from morning jogging along the waterfront in the old part of town. But by 10 a.m. Charleston became quite comfortable allowing us the luxury of bike touring. We revisited many of the old haunts we had enjoyed on our last visit, and dined at several newly discovered restaurants---the city is packed with excellent eateries and pubs. Of course our stay in Charleston would not be complete without a visit to Pusser's on the waterfront where, in keeping with a previously established tradition, we bought one of their excellent rum cakes to bring back to Florida to share with the Farleys at Thanksgiving. This time of year the storm fronts with cold rains seem to pass through in waves of every three to four days, and the air temperatures were definitely working their way down the comfort scale. We laid over an extra day to let the latest in a series of fronts pass through before pulling in our lines and heading to Beaufort City Docks some sixty and a half miles south on the Intracoastal.

Under overcast skies and a stiff 15 knot westerly breeze, we managed to get off the Ashley docks, but not without some difficulty. The tide was going out and the wind was actually pinning us to the dock. Being closely moored behind a big sport fishing rig and in front of a 42' Krogen trawler didn't offer us any maneuvering room to compensate for the river's current and the ebbing tide. So we referred to one of those helpful hint articles you sometimes tear out of a boating magazine thinking it's good information, and maybe someday you just might be able to use the hint(s). Well, today was a case-in-point. We led a spring line from our stern to a forward dock cleat then, with the help of one of Chip's large tuna ball floats tied to our transom platform to provide us with much needed leverage against the dock and to protect our platform from getting trashed on the dock, we poured the power in reverse to Countess which swung her bow out while pivoting on the tuna ball. Then when the bow angle seemed right and we were swung out far enough, we put the power forward big-time and charged out into the river's flow with a respectable five feet or so of clearance from the stern of the sportfisher in front of us. Whew! That was a new experience, thank God it worked. I hate getting in mooring predicaments like that---all of us do, and this situation should not have been, but for the marina staff trying to use every available docking foot by packing all the boats in like a bunch of sardines. Freestyle, being on the inside and at the very end of the float, didn't have to contend with the wind and there was no one behind them. They just backed off the dock and turned out into the current to catch up with us as we hung-out at the big red channel marker on the other side of the sixty-foot Ashley Bridge. Together we pointed south once more with Beaufort, SC on our minds. With the fall tides the way they were, Beaufort, 66 statute miles away, would take us about seven and three quarters hours to get to. The morning tide was just beginning to ebb which made it ideal for us getting down the short stretch of Wappoo Creek just immediately south of the Ashley River/Charleston Harbor, and through the swift tidal currents that always surge back and forth in the narrows at Elliot Cut .

The passage was pleasant and as we rounded the last big, sweeping bend on the Beaufort River before ducking under the bridge which ties Ladies Island to the Beaufort city limits we happened upon a relatively new-looking Krogen beached high and dry like some misguided whale lying on its side on the sandbar it had obviously decided to rest upon. There was absolutely nothing we could do to assist, so we slowly passed and watched the owner, who had lowered his dink in the water, take to time to inspect his bottom. And why not? There was nothing he could do but wait for the tide to come in and refloat his boat. We had called and made a reservation at the Beaufort Downtown Marina prior to leaving Charleston so there wasn't a problem for moorage at this small, friendly port when we arrived. It's not unusual for them to be packed by cocktail hour. There's not a whole lot to do in this little town, but it sure is a romantic place to spend a day or two. There's plenty of nicely refurbished antebellum homes to gawk at and all the streets are shaded by stately old oak trees. Beaufort is what you might term a picture postcard Southern town. That evening we all enjoyed a stupendous meal at the Beaufort Inn which is where I took Chance here for her birthday last spring....this time it was for mine.

A solid sleep and an early rising had us recharged and anxious to be on the move again to warmer, sunnier climes. After backing off the marina's long dock, in no time flat we were once more part of the river's strong current easing us gently southward towards Hilton Head Island and the RV Resorts fuel dock where we planned to refuel. Arriving at the fuel dock we were forced to wait as a sizable motoryacht filled. After topping-off, it was on past Savannah to Red Bird Creek in Georgia just a few miles south of the notorious Hell Gate, a short, narrow pass chock-full of current and serious grounding potential on either side. Once we turned off the waterway and cruised a mile or so up this probably 70 to 125 foot wide creek, we each dropped our anchors in about eight feet of water and settled down to enjoy a cocktail and beautiful sunset. This creek was a much better and a far more scenic anchorage than Kilkenny Creek which is another five miles further south where we had anchored coming north last May. Outside of one other boat anchored in the creek, one whose occupants we had previously met in Georgetown a couple of weeks ago, there wasn't anyone else around and the surrounding marshland's serenity was almost haunting. A very peaceful night was had by all....even the mosquitoes who had been trying without success to join us in our salon earlier in the evening when we had our cabin lights on! Red Bird Creek reminded me clearly just how buggy the waterway anchorages in Georgia can get. Needless to say, out on the bow raising our anchor early the next day was done in record time with only a mere million or so no-seeums to contend with. Yassuh, get me outta' here now!

It was an 0715 weighing of anchors with a sunrise that promised to deliver a day delightfully full of warmth and sunshine. We had missed anchoring next to Fort Frederica on our trip north last spring so this was our target port today. The fort is located at St. Simons Island on the banks of the Frederica River. At one time this river was part of the ICW, but now its a scenic alternate route---a much nicer section to cruise than the McKay River which is now the main waterway. About half way into the day's passage as we were about to enter the Altamaha Sound we were overtaken by two sizably large and long, menacing-looking, Rambo-type Marine PT boats---more than likely out from Parris Island. Each vessel was painted those Viet Nam, camouflage jungle color schemes. Each powered with twin ultra, mega-turbo'd/steriod-type powerplants that reverberated incredibly deep macho, macho-man rumblings. And each produced equally intimidating, mini tidal waves that washed just about everything close to shore several feet further up and on its banks as they barreled towards us. No doubt they were on a mission, it sure didn't appear that they were out for a Sunday social cruise to the ocean. All I know is that if I were a drug-runner or some sort of bandito, I'd be up to my eyeballs in cacamole by now. Both vessels were carrying at least a couple of rifle squads ready to attack, and the mega-millimeter mounted cannons they sported weren't your ordinary poop-deck pop-guns. Thankfully we were friendlies, and as we slowed down for them to pass, they lumbered by as close to idle speed as they possibly dared for fear of loading up and stalling one of their humonguous engines. Once they cleared us, all we could do was gawk as these two assault vessels literally jumped out of the water when they nailed their throttles. It was the closest thing to instant planing by a boat that I've ever witnessed. As they disappeared in just a matter of minutes I thought to myself, "sure, why not ram it to the hilt, heck they don't have to pay the fuel bill". I doubt if you'd need to think too hard as to who in the end does!

After about six hours of non-stressful cruising we arrived at the junction where the main ICW continues on down the McKay River and the Frederica River splits off to port and meanders through some scenic marshlands bordering our starboard side and St. Simons Island off to port. Eventually, a few miles further down river we came to a bend where we could anchor opposite the site of Fort Frederica. The immaculately groomed grounds of the old fort had a peaceful beauty about them accented by large ancient oaks whose broad spreading branches intermingled with each other creating a dark green shaded canopy for almost the entire area. There were still a few meager remnants of sections of stone walls to remind visitors that at one time a fort and a fairly substantial community once thrived here. We anchored separately, and neither Chip or I felt like dropping our dinks over and going ashore to walk the grounds. Besides there is no dinghy dock to speak of, only what appeared to be a three to four foot wide, three-planked little wooden pier slightly hidden in the river bank's tall grass. The supposed visitor's dock didn't really offer much in the way of a tie-off for two dinks. Anyway, I think the day had worn on us a bit, and we decided to do what all good and responsible cruisers do quite well: just kick back, indulge in a tasty libation, take in the serenity of a quiet little anchorage and feel blessed to be able to do this sort of thing!

Fort Frederica, was built in 1734 by James Oglethorpe, a well-to-do landowner, military man of sorts and founder/designer of Savannah. The fort was established primarily as a frontal defense against the Spanish who were well entrenched south in the St. Augustine area. A village sprung up next to the fort walls and soon blossomed into a community of over 1000 taking on the name of Frederica in honor of the Prince of Wales for whatever that's worth. The Spanish eventually threatened the fortress, and in due time invaded St. Simons Island in 1742 landing at the south end of the island then pushing northward towards Frederica. Ogethorpe said, "no way Jose," and quickly mustered his forces and, although outnumbered, marched south to counter the Spanish attack. There was a brief skirmish of reportedly no consequence. Then Oglethorpe, for some unexplained reason, retreated. The Spanish continued to advance, and shortly thereafter ran into a ambush which pretty well decimated their ranks. Without many surviving officers, the Spanish withdrew back to St. Augustine never to threaten Georgia again. The encounter became known as the Battle of Bloody Marsh.

From the fort it was a nice, short 46 mile cruise to Fernandina, Florida beginning with the remainder of the Frederica River which reconnects with the ICW (the McKay River) several miles south then on down past magical Jekyll Island. The only notable part of the trip was the beam slop-chop we encountered crossing St. Andrews Sound. This is the sound where, if you stick to the magenta line, you end up traveling a little ways into the Atlantic to round red buoy #32. We followed the rule book and did this on our spring trip up north, but this time, annoyed and tired of the sloppy roll we were getting tagged with, we cut the mark and, with plenty of water under us, enjoyed a little push from Mother Nature and her flood tide and a much smoother ride off the western banks of Cumberland Island---another spot we have promised our selves we'll explore next time we cruise north.

We arrived at Fernandina Town Marina just after noon with plenty of time to enjoy this charming tourist town with its numerous boutique shops and better-than-average restaurants. Everything here is pretty much located on their main street which stretches from the marina eastward for at least eight blocks. It's a nice place to stretch the legs and window shop. The marina is fairly modern and generally quite active with lots of visiting cruisers. The majority of boaters tie-up on the outside of the main dock. While an inside moorage is a lot calmer, offering protection from all the boat-traffic, depths get real skinny in there and you'll need to plan on spending part of the day on the mud when the tide escapes to the ocean. By now it had become increasingly obvious that we were nearing the land of the 'endless summer' as in more sun shine and warmer temps. Shorts and T-shirts were now the uniform of the day...and night.

St. Augustine is about 65-statue miles south of Fernandina and, outside of being nervous about one little section of very thin water on the ICW approaching Nassau Sound, the passage was pleasant and warm. The shallow section proved not to be as tense a deal as it was with our crossing last spring when we cut a marker and had to drift over a couple of minutes worth of 3.5 foot depth readings. This time of year with the tides being what they were, there was noticeably more water under our keel. We had planned to anchor with Freestyle off of Conch Harbor Marina a little east across the river from St. Augustine and only a quarter mile or less from the St. Augustine Inlet and the Atlantic Ocean. As we followed Freestyle through a series of S-turns in the narrow channel leading into Conch Harbor, we passed over several spots that gave us below four-foot soundings. The depths in the small bay were ranging from six to twelve feet at that time of the day. It was a little past slack low. There was definitely a limited amount of anchoring room, and after three unsuccessful attempts to position ourselves where we'd be safely outside the main channel through the harbor, we decided to bag the whole scene. The final decision came after dropping the hook for the last time then shortly thereafter bringing it back up along with a slimmy, old anchor rode that innocently trailed off from both anchor flukes disappearing into the bay further out. It was anybody's guess as to where the rode lead to or from. We like to anchor, but we're not big fans of doing it where there's a fouled bottom. So we decided to return to the north side of the Lion's Bridge at St. Augustine and set the hook there in the river for the evening. Chip and Barb managed to really get the only good spot remaining in that little bay, and because they really wanted to be there for several personal reasons, we left them to swing with the tides for the next couple of days.

Upon approaching the anchorage in front of St. Augustine and the fort on the north side of the Lions Bridge it was obvious that there was not enough room for us with the number of boats already anchored. So it was plan-C next. We held of 'til the next bridge opening and scooted over to the city marina to tie-up. As we backed in to our assigned slip, everything would have been all right had it not been for the dock attendant's not fending-off Countess as her stern was slowly being forced into the rubber bumper on the corner of the floating finger dock by the river's current. Unfortunately a couple of unseen rusty nails protruding several inches from underneath the dock bumper seriously scored our boat's port side rip-chipping an ugly eight-inch long gash as Countess crept inside the slip momentarily rubbing alongside the finger dock's side. I was really upset over event and both Chance and I let the attendant know there was no mistake how we felt. This was the first serious ouwee for Countess in over 4500 miles and two years worth of cruising. Eventually the dock manager came over to check the situation out. I showed him the damage, and even went as far as to discover and point out to him the two nails--- now covered with gelcoat dust and particles---which caused it all. I suppose you're at the mercy of the elements or whatever, and the best he could or would do was to offer us a free night's moorage. The way I look at it, it should've been at least a week's worth with all meals and drinks included! But I graciously accepted knowing deep down inside they should've given us a gelcoat repair. After fairing-out some white silicone sealant on the scar the next day sort of hiding it from view, I was in a better mood. The ole "outta sight-outta mind" mentality prevailed. We spent the next day as a true lay day with not much to do but take in a scenic jog through town, a little shopping and a pleasant lunch with Chip and Barb who decided to spend an extra day or two at Conch Harbor. It seems they knew one of the dock hands who was from their home town, and wanted to visit with him when he returned from a couple of days off work. That was fine with us. But from our viewpoint, it was time to cruise on south and leave St. Augustine for another year. So we planned on making it to the Halifax Yacht Club in Daytona Beach the following day.

Pulling away from the St. Augustine Municipal docks at a late 0855, our main concern for the day was not going aground at a little section on the Mantanzas River just about opposite the Mantanzas Inlet and Rattlesnake Island where, if I remember correctly, a bunch of shipwrecked Huguenots tried to make the most out of their bad situation only to eventually end up on the receiving end of numerous Spanish swords. All that remains today of that bloody episode are the remnants of their old fort walls still standing on what is now national park grounds. Anyway, through this river section last spring we inadvertently drifted off line just a little and managed to bounce the bottom three times as we charged over a sandbar or two trying to get back in the channel which really hugs the river's bank at one particular bend. This time we were ready and knew from experience where to take Countess. However, a good-looking 27-foot sailboat out of Shelbourne, Vermont was immediately in front of us as we and two other boats behind us approached the critical section of the bend. We backed off and began drifting while waiting for the sailboat to put some power to their otherwise putt-putting diesel, out-for-a-Sunday, lah-dee-dah kind'a cruise and get on with it. Obviously they must have read the scary notes in Cronkite's Waterway Guide and were a bit apprehensive about the bend and the elusive river channel somewhere near the red marker afterwards which you must actually head directly at as though meaning to ram it just to stay away from an encroaching sandbar. Finally, with Countess just about to jump into their cockpit, we yelled directions from the bridge and kept them from causing a for-sure traffic jam and potential groundings for more boats than just ours. Once through the bend and into a broader section of the river we hurried by the 'honeymooners' and enjoyed the rest of the passage unstressed and unencumbered by other boats. Passed eight more sailboats along the way without any difficulty and, while the trip was only 53 miles, it seemed a lot longer with more no-wake and manatee speed zones now cropping up and four bridges to get through. Freestyle would be coming down today's trek sometime later that day and it had been agreed upon that we'd rendezvous at the town marina in Titusville. Having talked so much about the famous, delectable rock shrimp (all-you-can-eat) at the Dixie Crossroads restaurant, there would be no way the Wysers would be allowed to cruise past Titusville without sharing a night of gluttony with us. Yes, we all did ourselves proud without much embarrassment to the heaps of rock shrimp shells and empty lobster tails artistically piled on our plain cafeteria-like white plates.

It's pretty much a straight shot down to the St. Lucie Inlet from the near upper reaches of the Indian River. We cruised in tandem with Chip and Barb down to Vero Beach where Chip had previously arranged a meeting with a prospective buyer for Freestyle. For some time Chip had been talking about selling his classy traditional downeast Jarvis-Neuman, lobster-style trawler in hopes going to a little larger craft. We boaters usually call this a bad case of footitus, and every so often, Chip would come down with a serious case of it. Anyway we rafted up with Freestyle on the last buoy at the far end of Bethel Creek at Vero Beach. We had planned to press on to Stuart the next day while Chip wheel n' dealed his boat. So we left the Wysers de-rafting from Freestyle at 0740 and making our way back out into the Intracoastal once more. It was understood we would meet up with them at Stuart that evening.

Nearing the St. Lucie Inlet we needed to take a right and work our way up the St. Lucie River to Stuart. But before we got to the inlet/river junction we had an unpleasant encounter with a large 50-foot plus sportfishing boat that came charging at us at about mach two throwing up a horrendous wake as it rocked everything it passed. At first Chance wanted to radio the boat which was about a quarter mile away from us to tell them we'd slow down and would appreciate it if they'd do likewise, but I said I thought he'd surely back-off before getting too close. Boy, was I wrong. This jerk just kept coming on strong and as he passed us at full bore not more that 15 yards off our port side I hollered with all my vocal-cord worth, "Hey, slow down!". I think I might have verbally associated him with a particular orifice in the lower section of the human body. Obviously the two bozos on the bridge heard me because they both quickly turned around and glared at me while continuing northwards towards the bridge we had just passed under all the time unfazed by all the violent side-to-side havoc they had just subjected us to. Then, just as we were about to enter the river, here they came again, same boat, same bozos, same speed. And as they passed, without any intention of slowing down, the guy on the helm just turned to me shrugging his shoulders and posing with bent arms and hands held palms up as if to say, "hey man, what's wrong?" By now there was steam coming out from the collar of my T-shirt, and I radioed him---the jerk probably didn't have his VHF on---and told him in no uncertain terms that I was going to report him to the Coast Guard. We watched as the sportfisher, still at full bore, steeply banked into the river and proceeded up a ways eventually turning into Manatee Pocket, a place where we had anchored in last spring. Progressing a little further up the river we came upon a Coast Guard auxiliary boat making its way down. We hailed the captain and crew and explained what had just happened about thirty minutes ago and told them where to find the vessel giving name and hailing port (Denver, Colorado of all places!). The auxiliary informed us that they had received other complaints on this boat and were on their way to do whatever Coast Guard auxiliaries do which I sort of figure is not much. But anyway, I felt better having this guy at least get a reprimand. I would have preferred that both the skipper and his buddy would have been gently keel-hauled under a hundred-foot, barnacle-encrusted barge though!

We anchored off of Stuart at the wide-sweeping bend in the river where quite a few other boats drop hooks. The river's broad here, and the holding is very good even if you have to put up with an occasional rude boater who won't mind his wake. We were about two hours ahead of the Wysers and when they finally showed up we all decided to hang out here for the evening in lieu of pressing on up river to Lake Okeechobee.

The next day was not the nicest weather to travel in, winds driving out of the southwest at 20-knots and dark clouds promising nothing but heavy rain, yet we intended to take the rim route on Lake Okeechobee which affords better protection from the wind, and at least we could make it to Pehokee about a third of the way around. And if the time and conditions allowed, perhaps continue on to Clewiston and a visit to the infamous Roland Martin's Marina---bassin' bubba heaven. We pulled anchor at 0700 and awaited for the Wysers to connect with us. Because there was a spot open, they had decided to tie-up at a small freebie dock at Stuart about a mile or so from where we had set our hook for the night. Once Freestyle made it off the dock and through the maze of anchored boats, we churned our way in single file up the river to the first of two locks we needed to get through before entering Lake Okeechobee. At the St. Lucie lock we ended up having to drift around in the river's lazy current for 20 minutes waiting to be loaded after they dumped out their east-bound traffic. Further up at the Mayaca Locks, which would spill us into Lake Okeechobee, we were faced with another short loading delay while a couple of boats going the other way were locked through. Last Spring this lock was open due to the later level of the lake, and we just cruised through. This time, however, we weren't going to enjoy that luxury. When the gates of the lock opened presenting the panoramic of Lake Okeechobee in all its fury right in front of us, there was no question that the rim route would be the only route any sane boater would to take today. The winds were howling and whipping up some sizable chop over this remarkably shallow-for-its-size lake, and it was very apparent to us that the lake conditions were going to be unpleasant for about the first ten miles. Working our way through the beam-busting slop and along the first part of the rim was not only uncomfortable, it was also tense and intimidating. The depths along the marker line we needed to take were averaging a skinny four feet and the lake was throwing 3-foot slop-chop smack on our beams while the wind was doing its hardest to drive us to shore. And as we fought to make headway, seemingly inching our way along the lake's rim surely not more than fifty yards off the boulder-strewn embankment that lines the this portion of the lake, we remained nervously confident that either of us wouldn't end up there. That is as long as we didn't lose our engine. I remember having on several occasions mental snippets of how horrific the consequences could be if just such a problem presented itself during this portion of the passage. Thank goodness, the closer we got to Pehokee, the more we were getting into the protection of the shoreline and the better the lake conditions were becoming. By the time we arrived at "do we or don't we" decision time about staying in Pehokee, we were feeling a much better about our situation and the conditions. So without much deliberation, we agreed to hack on to Clewiston with all its 'bubba buddies'.

The southern rim route is actually a nice way to travel across Lake Okeechobee, especially if it's sunny and warm. The rim's channel maintains a respectable average depth of around 12 feet, and is serenely beautiful all the way from Pehoke to Moore Haven where you enter the Caloosahatchee River. The thick foliage and majestically tall malaluka and other unidentifiable trees mostly shrouded with long, dangley strands of Spanish moss do a fairly good job of blocking out any decent panoramic views of the lake. You can get numerous peek-a-views of the lake affording some idea of just how immense this inland body of water really is. When we crossed the lake in lieu of the rim route last spring, we were amazed at losing sight of land once in the middle portion the trip. Truly, this lake is large, but relatively shallow with depths generally hovering between 11 and 17 feet depending on the season! I guess there were a couple of big hurricanes back in the twenties which actually blew all the water out of the lake. Can you imagine that? Anyway, back to the rim's waterway. The remainder of the passage became actually very pleasant as Freestyle and Countess, motors droning that monotonous diesel beat, peeled back the chocolate-colored water and fanned uniform sets of small, smoothly curling waves out from their hulls. We were entertained by several large flocks of buzzards---estimated up into the fifties to seventies, all squawking, flapping about and switching perches in the upper reaches of the fifty-foot trees separating us from the lake. As we passed by a couple of these flocks took wing just about blanketing the overhead sky as they circled cursing over our disruptive manner. Thankfully they weren't too displeased-off for we didn't receive any aerial ca-ca bombs just a lot of blatant buzzard blathering before they eventually settled back in the treetops again. We arrived at Roland Martin's Marina with its long, long wooden dock and tied-up in time to partake of a relaxing happy hour. Tomorrow we'd try to get a space at the freebie short dock at LaBelle a couple of locks, two bridges and 37 statute miles away.

Another day of winds and overcast skies greeted us as we parted ways with Mr. Martins' mecca for bass-luv'n bubbas and headed north up the remainder of the rim route and west onto the Caloosahatchee River passing through the first lock of the day at Moore Haven and the second a little further down river known as the Ortona lock. La Belle is a sleepy, little single-road-through agricultural town that was totally packed (no pun intended) with migrant workers (Mexican) when we pulled up to the tiny dock on the south side of the river immediately on the other side of the town's short drawbridge. The dock was full....naturally, it's free, housing one sailboat and two motoryachts. But there was just enough room for one of us to back in perpendicular to the dock and throw out a bow anchor ala Mediterranean moorage. Freestyle with her lesser beam than Countess gave this a shot and 'squeezed' in between the blow-boat and the motoryacht while dropping her hook and paying out the rode 'til her stern was secured to the dock. Then, just as the book says, Chip winched in the rode setting the anchor firmly in the river's muddy bottom. Pretty slick. Afterwards, we came in bow first parallel to Freestyle and rafted off. It really looked like an unnatural act and drew some attention from the day's boat and shore traffic. Even though we had our doubts at first---considering the river current and the wakes from passing boats, the moorage proved to be fine, and we had an enjoyable rest-of-the day's visit in LaBelle. Did a little shopping at the local grocery store which was loaded with field workers stocking up on tons of tortillas, frijoles and other South-of-the-border goodies. It must have been a pay day for the grocery store was absolutely jammed with migrants. It was definitely our turn to feel like the minority. Maybe we should have been the ones carrying green cards. One thing for certain about LaBelle, you could find all the preps for any Mexican meal you might want to create right here.

From LaBelle, it's a short, leisurely 33.5 mile putt straight down the river to Ft. Myers and not much transpired other than negotiating one last lock, the W.P. Franklin lock at the town of Olga, and two more bridges. With fair skies and lots of sun our the passage was pleasant arriving at Ft. Myers' around noon time. We needed to top-off our fuel tanks and the price has always been reasonable by Florida standards at the Ft. Myers Yacht Basin on the east side of the river in front of the downtown district. The place was crawling with people and rightfully so, there was one of those fall boat shows taking place and the looky-loos were out in force. Still, there was no trouble getting fuel dock space, just had to hold-off for about 40 minutes until things cleared up and the large motoryacht ahead of us finished fueling. Once topped-off, we caught up with Freestyle across the river at Marina Town. The channel approach to Marina Town made us a little nervous as we watched readings bounce around grounding depths of 3.5 feet, however, we crept from buoy-to-buoy and gingerly entered the marina's well-protected inland harbor where the depth increased to 12-feet. The dock fee is very economical, but you're away from all that's goes on across the bridge in Ft. Myers. However we all had our trusty bicycles which made several of the tourist spots in Ft. Myers accessible to us like Tom Edison's labs and house. I never realized how devoted Mr. Edison was towards creating synthetic rubber mainly for tires.

Eventually all good times have to end even if it's temporary. We were becoming antsy to get on down to Naples. The Wysers on the other hand were planning to store Freestyle for a while at Marina Town while they returned north to Newburyport, MA. It's really wasn't saying goodbye to our fellow cruisers, it was more of an aloha. Sooner or later, our wakes will cross again and we'll pick-up where we left off. Besides, there's always e-mail which has proven to be the greatest source of communicating we've had with all our friends and family. The Wysers were no exception as we began to stay in touch electronically within a couple of days after we left them at Ft. Myers.

Leaving Marina Town gave us another opportunity to get nervous negotiating the shallow course out to the river's main channel. I really think that our short readings could well have been caused by the silt being churned up by the river's current. We never felt any nudge or subtle lurch indicating bottom touches. Anyway we were in the main channel in a matter of twenty minutes and heading towards San Carlos Bay and the Gulf. It's 50-plus miles to Naples, and when the weather's nice and the sea state settled, it's a super offshore day cruise. And today for a change we were blessed with such a scenario. In the past we have had nothing but gnarly conditions in San Carlos Bay and a couple of fairly lumpy trips in the Gulf too, but today we just dialed in the autopilot and took in the sun and light onshore breezes for the next five and a half hours. Just a little past noon on November 18th we pulled into one of our favorite haunts, the Naples City Docks, where the staff had a great slip reserved for us.

From now through the Christmas holidays we enjoyed the charms and friends of Naples. But we had planned to move on and spend the rest of the winter in the Florida Keys before jumping over to the Bahamas for an extended visit. We got mail from the Martens on Northern Lights informing us that they were up in Ft. Myers and would be coming south past Naples on the first on their way to Marathon in the middle Florida Keys. We agreed to rendezvous with them outside of Naples of thereabouts and cruise in tandem to Marathon. On New Year's day the Marten's radioed us that instead of coming into Naples for a stopover, they decided to press on to Factory Bay at Marco Island---an hours run south of Naples. From there they'd have an early start to get past Cape Romano before the afternoon winds began to play havoc with the northerly currents that come up from Florida Bay and make for an uncomfortable passage off the Cape's point. We answered that we'd leave Naples tomorrow, and hopefully pick-up their stern wake near Romano or at least catch-up with them at Little Shark River in the Everglades some 66 miles away.

The following morning the Martens gave us a wake-up call at 0645 on our cell phone announcing that they were within ten minutes of weighing anchor and heading out into the Gulf. We quickly hauled in our lines, and in record time were off the docks and heading down the creek, out through Gordon Pass and into the Gulf. Well, the Gulf wasn't the best of places to be that day with northeast winds gradually building from this morning's 12 knot blow and broad-hitting waves also gaining scope. By the time we got to Marco Island it was obvious that going past Cape Romano would not be fun at all. We radioed the Martens who were now just off the Cape and told them that we'd just as soon pull into Factory Bay and see what tomorrow would be like instead of bashing our way down to Little Shark. They said conditions were not too good, but they needed to keep moving because they had family on board who had plane reservations out of Marathon and needed to be there within the next couple of days. Well, when you're cruising with deadlines and strict schedules, you open yourself up for some possible stressful cruising experiences. It's more preferable to have the option to sit things out until conditions are in your favor. We know, we've been caught in similar circumstances of 'having-to-be-there', and have learned that trying to keep to a schedule or trying to make an appointment when conditions are marginal just isn't worth the predicament you might end up in!

Well, the weather didn't lighten up for the next three days which we found out later kept Northern Lights anchored in Little Shark an extra two days. Can you imagine how high their anxiety levels must have been? They told us later that they barely got their family to Marathon in time to catch the plane. In contrast, we decided to explore an inside route which would allow us to avoid Cape Romano and cruise a mile or so off shore more or less along the boundary buoys that mark the Everglades Reserves. This course would allow us to visit Everglades City and the famous Rod & Gun Club when we got to Indian Key. It's only a six mile jaunt up the Baron River from there through numerous thickly grown mangrove islets and some truly beautiful, secluded anchorage's. It proved to be one of those neat 'jungle cruises'.

While anchored in Factory Bay at Marco Island with the wind blowing a steady 15+knots we decided on this backwater route which would take us behind Marco Island and south past the tiny community of Goodland to Coon Key Pass. We were particularly concerned at the depth readings on the chart---four feet at the good sections and who knows what in others. So the following day while the tide was beginning to flood we raised a Capt. John, who operates SeaTow out of Marco, for some of his local knowledge on the channel which leads through the mangrove forests to Goodland then out through Coon Key Pass. He just said wait 'til high tide (1500 hrs) and there should be no trouble. Also remember to hold a true course towards the far green marker on the other side of the Marco Island bridge, and don't cut short the red marker just on the other side of the bridge. Words to live by. When the time neared we weighed anchor and began the short 7.5 mile cruise passing numerous boats, none much larger than twenty feet which got me speculating as to why there weren't boats of our size going this way. Surprisingly we didn't push mud and, after an hour plus elapsed, found ourselves in front of Coon Key Pass looking for a good spot to anchor off the channel. Just off marker-3 Bruce the anchor grabbed the mucky bottom with its usual resolve and there we held fast for a fairly silent night of swinging with the tides. Later a couple of multi-hulls slipped by us, and anchored about 500 yards from us around a bend at the entrance to little Sugar Bay. Outside of an occasional slight rocking from passing fishermen returning from the Gulf, we counted on an uninterrupted sleep. That was until around O-dark hundred when, with no city lights or moon to illuminate the surrounding area, we heard this deep guttural rumbling and felt the vibrations of an obviously very powerful speedboat come throbbing by us. The area around here is notorious for drug smugglers who stealthily appear to drop their cache and disappear just as mysteriously. You can bet your last barnacle I wasn't about to pop my head out as this dark mass of macho-sounds slithered its way past Countess.

As twilight cracked the horizon, we had Bruce pulled and stored by 0630 and were slowly on our way out Coon Key Pass on a heading of 150 magnetic over depths not much more than four feet. This sounding remained agonizingly constant for about a couple of miles then, as we working our way more into the main body of the Gulf, the depths increased very gradually to nine feet and held all the to Indian Key Channel. By 0800 the winds were picking up and the water was getting choppy, but nothing to get concerned about. Our course was taking us close enough to the shore that any serious wind would do little to trouble today's trip. It's a 20.7 statute mile passage to Everglades City and getting up the Baron River was no problem depth wise. I understand that fairly large pleasure ships readily visit the historic Rod and Gun Club which was precisely where we were heading. Having visited this facility last year by car with our Naples connection, Roberto Puckett, we knew it would be a memorable to visit it by boat. There's a long bulkhead to tie-up to right in front of this once very stately and private 'men's' hangout . The Rod and Gun Club was built on the original structure of the first permanent white settler who founded Everglades City in 1864. In 1922 Baron Collier, banker and railroad man, bought just about all of southwest Florida and in doing so snagged the club. The club house is basically a mansion with an interior of rich, dark mahogany walls adorned with various stuffed surf and turf trophies and collectable fishing gear. The high heavy-beamed wood ceilings and glossy hardwood floors add to the overall opulence of the interior. There's a large dining room that spills out onto a spacious verandah where you can enjoy meals and cocktails along with the all insects. The State of Florida does not conduct their insect spraying campaign further south than Marco Island so this place can get pretty buggy. Many a celebrity has also spent time and money here, and I suppose we can add our name to the list of the not-so-famous visitors who have enjoyed the club's hospitality even if, as the Club forewarns: we do not intend to meet all the needs of the vacationer! This attitude probably adds to the facility's ambiance anyway.

The Little Shark River, 47 miles to the south and right in the heart of the Everglades, was our next destination. The two-day weather forecast wasn't too promising so we decided to spent one more night at the 'club'. We'd split the next day for the Little Shark counting on the winds to clock around by the second day there by giving us more favorable sea conditions. Plus, we'd be within comfortable striking distance (52 miles) of Marathon.

At a lazy, late 0911 we pulled away from the club's bulkhead and retraced our previous course back down the Baron River and out into the Gulf. Remaining fairly close to the Everglades boundary buoys kept us from constantly having to zigzag through a what seems to be a never-ending maze of crab pot clusters scattered all over Florida Bay. Crabbers are not supposed to drop their pots inside the 'Glades boundaries, but some how they're pots find a way of locating themselves inside the dotted line. At least they're not present near to the extent as outside the boundary signs. The depths along the 'marker trail' run about six to eight feet, and coupled with the crab pot syndrome, we were unable to fully kick back and relax on this leg of the trip. About two hours into the trip we were approximately fifteen miles and just a little north of Cape Sable when we passed a sailboat who was obviously dead in the water, drifting in the midst of numerous scattered crabpots. We radioed if they were all right and was there anything we could do. Apparently their prop picked up several crabpots and they were in the process of cutting and untangling the twisted mess of polypropylene lines. Appreciative as they were, the sailors declined our offer so we continued on to Marathon. It's comforting to know that cruisers do look out after one-another.

The entrance to Little Shark River is south facing and fairly well hidden. The heavily foliated shoreline hides any topographical features like inlets to rivers and bays, and makes the entire shoreline appear to be a singular stretch of bushy, tree-topped greenbelt. But we had a good waypoint in our GPS and were dead-on to the entrance to the Little Shark. On the way south we ran through a couple refreshing squalls that helped keep the day comfortable and the winged buggies off our backs. Just after entering, the river takes a wide right-angle turn and then disappears around another bend about a quarter of a mile further upstream. We decided to anchor in 10-13 feet at the first bend with plenty of room for any approaching boats, and out in front of the tallest mangrove trees you'll ever see. These trees in this particular locale easily reach 60 feet and more. I understand they're the largest Mangroves in the state. They're incredibly majestic considering that we've been so used to seeing mangroves not much higher than 10 feet, and the line of trees along the river's bank behind us made for a natural fortress against any so'easters that might blow up. The Little Shark is absolutely wild, and outside of not seeing any gators, is an outstanding introduction to what the Everglades offers. Regretfully, we should have ventured further upstream, but didn't feel like it. So far removed from civilization were we---completely out of radio range---that outside of the occasional cries from assorted waterfowl and shorebirds, the only thing I remember hearing as the night wore on was the blow-hole breathing of approaching dolphins who'd swim up to Countess then around her a few times before disappearing to presumably find a late night river-snack. This anchorage definitely ranks as one of the better ones on our cruising list, and we look forward to visiting here again even if it does get quite buggy.

The favorable weather reports and predicted Florida Bay conditions had us pulling Bruce up off a very muddy river bottom at 0645 and leaving the Everglades for the Gulf with all those crab pots by the time the sun was beginning to bounce off Countess' bridge. Florida Bay is wide open and subject to serving up some fairly nasty conditions, but today there was only a moderate chop and a light breeze so any discomfort today was directed towards crab pot dodging...the new Florida Bay aquatic sport. Unbeknownst to us as we got closer to the Keys was the Coast Guard's recent renumbering of markers on the Gulf side. Although the marker numbering didn't match our charts---a bit perplexing at first, our waypoints were dead-on to where the markers were anyway. And that's what really counted. After a while, still keeping a sharp vigil for crab pots and looking out for brown spots (rule: see brown, go aground) which accent the beautiful blue-green color schemes of the ultra clear waters down here, we were passing through Moser Channel and under the 17-mile bridge, heading for the second red marker where we would turn to port and line-up on the entrance to Boot Key Harbor. Surprisingly, the roughest part of the today's passage was on the oceanside of the Keys where an easterly wind generously gave the seastate an annoying choppy attitude. We rocked and rolled the last several miles before conditions calmed as we entered the protection of the channel leading into the harbor. The water all around us was a brilliant azure-blue with exceptional clarity, a fact that makes the Keys such a great place to dive and snorkel. There's a drawbridge part way into the harbor just before the main harbor broadly opens, and much to our surprise was the bridgetender's request if we wanted the bridge raised. The chart indicated the bridge's vertical height to be 24-feet which is what we consider to be minimal for Countess to clear. So we said sure still thinking how odd it was. On the other side Boot Key Harbor opened up into the main anchorage, and it was jammed-packed with cruisers. In fact, I've never before seen so many boats anchored in one place at one time. Our reservations were at the Sombrero Resort Marina which was down at the very end of the harbor and part way up a small inlet. The moorage rate was very reasonable with no charge for electricity or cable TV. It even had a junior-sized Olympic pool! So we chugged around the parameter of the harbor following a path created by the shore-lined residences and condos on one side and all those anchored boats on the other. Once at the marina we settled into slip #29 which will eventually be our 'home' for the remainder of the year.

Some of our cruising plans such as the extended stay in the Bahamas were put on hold due to what the El Nino conditions were serving up over there....lots of wind. Additionally there was a death in the family in late January which took us out of state for two months, and has since necessitated that we stay pretty much in one place at least through the end of the year. So here we sit making the best out of not cruising, but still enjoying being on board Countess and on the water. We did have some super times with the Caywoods, our friends from Kemah, TX, who happened by on their way back to Texas onboard their boat, Manana. Tom and Ann managed to stay a month during which time we spent time snorkeling at Sombrero and Looe Key Reefs as well as a cruising weekend down to New Found Harbor off of Little Torch Key. In a few months, more of our cruising friends like the Martens, Baschs and Lowenstiens will be returning to Marathon for the winter, and it'll be just like old times. During the winter, Chance and I will start planning our cruising itinerary for next spring and summer which will include another passage north on the ICW all the way to New York and up the Hudson River into Canada. We would also like to make good our extended visit to the Bahamas when we get back down to Florida. So we'll be logging in more cruising adventures in '99 and hope that all our readers will continue reading about them next year. We certainly appreciate everyone hanging in there with all our travels these last two years. Hope you'll be with us again! Aloha.