From Cabbage Key, it was but a little way to the mouth of the Okeechobee Waterway.  The Okeechobee Waterway cuts across Florida to the lake of the same name, the largest body of water in the state.  The waterway itself is shallow, puckeringly shallow.  A channel had been dredged along the way that was marked with pylons—red even-numbered and green odd-numbered—but even the channel was only ten feet deep.  So, we bumped from pylon to pylon, with one of us on watch out for the next pylon and the other with eyes glued on the depth sounder.  It was a bit like boating by numbers.

 

Our passage today would take us under a number of bridges, thankfully, all tall enough that we would not need to wait for them to open.  It would also take us into manatee territory.  The manatee is a slow moving sleepy-faced aquatic mammal.  It cannot tolerate cold waters, so is principally found where the water doesn’t drop below 70F.  In the summer, manatees can be found farther north, but by now, the manatees are starting their migration to Florida, where the water remains warm year-round.  Sadly, fast boats and slow manatees don’t mix, and many manatees are killed or scarred from encounters with boats.

 

It was easy to believe.  It seemed to me that boaters in Florida are enamored of going fast.  Fortunately, many of the boats we saw today going fast had so little in the water their wakes were negligible, because it also seemed to me that boaters in Florida had what I would call boundary issues.  On more than one occasion, we were passed between the markers (some maybe 50 yards wide) by boats going on plane.  The first time it happened, Robert horned the oncoming boat, which did get the other boat to slow, but also earned him some dirty looks.  But it happened so many times, we finally just gave up, and just hung on.

 

Mind, the waterway was marked with manatee zone signs telling boaters to slow down, but it seemed like we were the only ones abiding by the signs.  Still, I kept an eye out for manatees.

 

We did see dolphins.  As I remembered from my high school internship at the Pittsburgh Zoo, the dolphins in Florida are pink.  Not joking.  Their bellies are the pink cookie pink.  And today, I was able to confirm that the dolphins in Florida are, indeed, pink.

 

It’s really not funny that a dolphin playing in your wake sounds very much like a person going overboard, but Robert and I were both sitting in the pilothouse putting along at a manatee-friendly six knots, when we heard a great splash.  I was on the helm, so Robert looked and then I had to take a look, too.  Dolphin playing.

 

We pumped out and took on fuel at the Fort Myer Yacht Basin.  They had an amazing setup there.  The dock attendant was friendly and helpful, and reminded me of Sean Austin, who played Samwise Gamgee from the Lord of the Rings.  We were able to take on fuel and pump out all in one stop.  They even had a gadget for pumping out that prevented the dreaded poop spray if you accidentally broke the vacuum seal mid-pump.

 

Our final destination for the night was only a few miles away from the fuel dock.  Unfortunately, the marinas and bridges were not spaced conveniently enough.  We could have a short day or a really long one, and we opted to avoid trying to bump around in close quarters in the dark.

 

So, we tied up at the Sweetwater Yacht Basin just after 1600 hours.  They had a Jimmy Buffet style beach bar not 100 feet from the top of the dock, complete with faux thatched roof, Jumbotron sized TV, and live music.  We had ourselves a fruity adult beverage each, Robert a piña colada and myself a Hurricane, and shared a plate of mediocre nachos (lots of jalapeños) while a mostly unappreciated guitar player sang and played.

 

But the most amazing thing that the Sweetwater Marina had was the country’s only drive-thru boat cleaner.  Not kidding.  You drove your boat into a cradle, and mechanized brushes scrubbed from the waterline to your keel.  If you desired, marina staff would wash the topside.  We just did it the hard way.  Breaking out the hose and the Salt-Away, we filled up a bucket of suds and gave the girl a mostly cursory scrubbing.  She had remained remarkably clean for the miles we’d traveled, but she still needed a bath.

 

 

It never fails to rain just after you wash your car, and it seemed that that same axiom held true for washing your boat.  As the sun set on our cockpit, a nasty storm was brewing in the east.  It lit the east greenly for about an hour as the sun slowly sank.  The last time I’d seen the sky turn green, it was tornado weather in Pittsburgh.  We tightened lines, buttoned up the boat, and made ready to get wet, again.

 

As I write, the storm is overhead.  The flashing lightning warring with the flashing of the Jumbotron at the bar.  The rain washes away the oppressive heat and humidity of the day, and in the oven, I’m baking cookies.

 

Ding.  Ohh!  There’d done.  I’m out.