The Cruise to Aruba - Willemstad - The City

From Part Five - http://piddlepaddler.blogspot.com/2012/03/trip-to-aruba-willemstad-curacao.html

Ah, A writing pad! One of those old-fashioned lined ones from days of yore, you know, high school! A kind, but somewhat bewildered saleslady with a limited knowledge of English, dug out an old white pad from a stack of paper products near the cash register in a Willemstad dime store. She looked at me as if I were trying to pull a fast one, but, took my FL 2.90, about $1.70, without question and cautiously closed the cash register drawer. 

Now, to catch up. I actually started scribbling while we were having one of our rare soft drinks in a sidewalk cafe, oddly enough across the street from a McDonald’s. We had crossed the Queen Emma pontoon bridge over into Punda, the original section of the city, and spent several hours poking into shops and stores, generally looking around acting like tourists when we decided to take a rest break. We were sitting in the shade, chatting and watching the crowd of tourists that shuffled aimlessly along, not like us, of course.  We were joking about the McDonalds across the street when a police car rushed up, quickly parked and blocked the street. Two uniformed officers got out and headed toward the restaurant. We joked, “Man, they must be hungry!” but it turned out to be a business call. 

They met an agitated, concerned young woman wearing the traditional McDonald's management-type uniform on the sidewalk outside the store. We watched idly as they all disappeared inside. Soon, they all reappeared on the sidewalk with three young, clean cut, muscular looking young white men in tow. The tallest of the three had on a red T-shirt with “Guantanamo Fire Department” emblazoned across the back. He was obviously not happy, taking photos of both police officers, their car, the license plates, the manager, and anything else he thought would intimidate the police officers who simply ignored him.  The two police officers addressed the other two men who stood with their arms folded across their chests.  We could only imagine the confrontation inside the restaurant.

We finished our drinks and headed back toward the ship, and as we crossed the street we heard one of the police officers say rather firmly, “No one is going anywhere until the U.S. consul arrives!” A good time to speak German.

We asked a woman we stopped on the street if, by chance, she knew where the Numismatic Museum is located, the one attraction we all wanted to visit.  That is the coin and money museum run by the Bank of the Netherlands.  The lady walked us a complete block out of her way, saying hello to friends as she went, even stopping to caress a baby of a friend, just to point to the building several blocks away. We walked right past it coming in and didn't see the sign. We thanked her and slowly headed in that direction, but got sidetracked once again, this time by the huge open air vegetable market we could see down a side street. By the time we reached where the Queen Emma bridge should be, we realize we have missed the museum once again. Oh well, something to see next time!

Waiting on the Queen Emma pontoon bridge.

The Queen Emma bridge wasn't there. It was completely on the other side of St. Anna Bay. We joined the throngs patiently waiting for a tug boat to tow an ocean-going freighter slowly up the bay, taking photos as we waited for the floating pontoon bridge to chug across the river and reattach to the landing. The bridge is self powered, and within minutes of the freighter passing, the bridge reopened and hordes of pedestrians crossed the bridge in both directions.

We finally bought our goodies at the shops we knew to have the lowest prices, we never buy going in to town, only coming out after we know prices, and we picked up a bottle of blue Curaçao liqueur for a friend. Of course we bought the prerequisite trinkets and mementos, stuff that always ends up in a junk drawer somewhere, but, hey, that's one reason we're here. 

Time to head for the ship and another great dinner.

 

Next: On to Aruba 

The Cruise to Aruba - Willemstad, Curaçao

From Part 4 - http://piddlepaddler.blogspot.com/2012/03/cruise-to-aruba-day-two.html

My first impression of Curaçao was from twelve miles away. I wondered why the island was brown. I thought Caribbean islands were supposed to be green. Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands, was green even when closer inspection proved it to be far more arid than it first appeared from the deck of the Star Princess. The entrance to Tortola by cruise ship, by the way, is one of the prettiest we've seen. Its only scenic rival in my book is the entrance into San Juan, Puerto Rico, in the afternoon when the sun shines on El Morro castle. Still, the hills of northern Curaçao just didn't fit my preconceived notion of what they were supposed to look like. With oil refineries dominating the landscape, it just didn't rank up there with the picturesque ports of call in the travel brochures.

 

 Once we were in the lee of the island, a little after 12:00 noon, the trip turned into a cruiser's dream. Very little wind and the sea was calm. Passengers flocked to the top decks to catch their first glimpse of Curaçao, still several miles away. Curaçao, as it turns out, has less than 22 inches of rain annually, mostly during their three-month rainy season, October through December, so it doesn't rank very high on the lush, jungle habitat list. Actually, it isn't even on the list. The little island nation also lies outside the “Hurricane Belt,” but still occasionally catches the effects of nearby storms every few years or so. No hurricanes have actually struck Curaçao since the National Weather Center started monitoring the storms. As a result, the wind blown north eastern side of the island is really quite barren. Willemstad, the Capitol where we dock, is on the west side, the leeward side, of the island, and looks more like what we anticipated.

First impressions count, and we were impressed. Willemstad is a paradox, though, unique in more than one way. First, let me say we will come back. The city of Willemstad is very pretty and we want to see more of the island, but I have never seen so many refineries so close to a major town or tourist attraction. Clean, flame burning towers and vents surround the northern and eastern parts of town. The oil business obviously contributes to the economy of the island and its standard of living. Bustling, tree-lined, four-lane boulevards are obvious from the deck of the ship. Tourism and cocoanuts are obviously not the sustaining life force here. Tourism helps, I'm sure, but there is room for only one huge cruise ship at a time and I'm sure that's the way they would prefer to keep it. These people are busy working. While it is still a cruise ship port-of-call, the difference from most others on the cruise ship circuit is apparent well before you disembark.

Punda, old town of Willemstad, and the Queen Emma pontoon bridge, in operation since 1888

Disembarking is an art form we have mastered. When the ship's P.A. System announces it is clear to disembark, we go to lunch. By the time we are finished with our leisurely meal, we calmly and quietly disembark without any fan fare or crowds. Cool! The ship's photographers however, are persistent, and they won't let you off the dock without staged “Pirate Pictures” or whatever the theme is for the current port. For Curaçao it is the pirate gig. We try to decline, but the determined, almost belligerent photographers aren't about to let any potential dollar slip by. Damn it, we dressed up like idiots just for you! Be grateful and stand still while we take your friggin' photo while we pretend to cut your throat!

We are soon standing on the dock in the shade of the massive ship, looking back in awe at the 15^th deck. That is way, way up there and to think the spray was blowing in the balcony door that high!

Time to see the city that looks like it is the wrong continent. Willemstad could easily be in Holland. That's only natural as the city reflects its Dutch heritage, even though the name Curaçao is derived from Portuguese. The proper pronunciation is with a soft “c,” almost like a “z”, for the last syllable. As in Coorazow. No, not sew, sow, like in a female pig. Let's see, hmm, consider the Portuguese islands in the Atlantic we know as the Azores. The Portuguese call them the Açores. The pronunciation is the same, ah, you know what, screw it.

We walk past the de rigueur tents and tables set up just outside the official customs zone of the dock, checking souvenirs and prices as we go. The vendors show the same practiced tolerance found in any port, but they smile easily. And they are actually polite. We have been treated otherwise, believe me.

Strange native costumes greet visitors to Curaçao, or rather, Curaçao greets visitor's strange native costumes...

Next - The City of Willemstad

The Cruise to Aruba - Day Two

From part 3 - http://piddlepaddler.blogspot.com/2012/03/cruise-to-aruba-day-one.html

It's really aggravating for a writer not to have anything to write with. It's far worse than having a blank piece of paper and nothing to write. Writer's block passes, and unfortunately for me, so does the thought I often want to capture. I'm out of paper, scribbling this in the margins of the ship's newsletter before I wander off and forget to capture the moment.

We are currently southbound out of the Princess Cays at 21 knots in fair seas. It is 5:30 pm in the afternoon, about an hour to sunset, and we have the Atlantic Ocean to ourselves. There is a huge rain storm off on the far horizon, otherwise the weather is beautiful. Sitting outside on the balcony is a pleasure we always enjoy. There is nothing else like it. We are perhaps 150 feet above the bow spray, maybe higher. The sea is Navy Blue, the dark, pure blue that only is found in the deep ocean. Low hanging clouds begin to pass by us, almost as close above us as the water is below us. And I don't have anything to write with.

Ah, the concierge! Are they on deck seven? Or six? The sweet British girl at the desk took pity on me and handed me all the blank white paper from her printer in-tray. I will forever be indebted to the pretty girl who probably thought I was a great novelist or reporter in dire straits. Well, maybe not, but at least she smiled like she understood. I got back to the room in time to change for dinner. It will be dark by the time we pass the coast of Cuba, but I'll be back, watching, trying to remember what I wanted to write about.

Nothing like Gale Force 8 winds to get your attention, even at 1:45am in the morning. I knew they were Gale Force 8 winds because the ship's television said so. I turned on the Bridge report which gives constant updates about the ship when the blowing winds and ocean spray forced us to close our balcony door. The blowing sheets of water surprised me, we were on the 15^th deck! I thought the old girl had shuddered and protested as much as she could Saturday evening coming across the Gulf Stream, but I was wrong. Sleep was out of the question as we jerked back and forth constantly. The television showed winds across the bow at 43.1 knots, around 50 mph, with seas listed as seven feet. Ship's speed displayed as 22.8 knots. We were rockin' and rollin' out here in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. Actually, we were literally around the corner from Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, some 100 or so miles away as we are just east of Navassa Island.  We were in the Windward Passage and I really don''t have any argument with the name of the place.  My wife was uncomfortable, but not physically ill. I'm sure many of the over 3000 passengers, and perhaps many of the 1,200 crew members were far worse than just uncomfortable.

By 4:20am, the winds had increased to Gale Force 9 and the outside wind noise was seriously intruding on the happy, steel drum cruise music piped through the television. Oddly enough, I was hungry.

We covered the 253 miles from Princess cays in 12 hours and 20 minutes. The wind hadn't abated in the slightest, and laying in bed was by far the easiest way to cope with the constant, erratic motion of the humble Crown Princess.  Humble may not be the correct word here.  She's chugging along at a solid 22 knots so we will arrive in Willemstad by 1:00 pm tomorrow afternoon come Hell or high water.  So to speak.  Shuddering and shaking perhaps, but she is unslowed by the elements.  The schedule will be kept.

The gap between our joy of cruising and our cost of cruising is closing more rapidly than we expected. We already dropped any plans for an Alaska cruise after seeing friend's photos of several different Alaskan cruises, most of the ports of call, and simply comparing costs. Not really our cup of tea. We now have serious reservations about our planned Panama canal trip early next year as well.

Perhaps we need to just bring more money and pay for the privilege of being separated from the mass of passengers, but then, the costs skyrocket. When I say the cost of cruising, I don't mean just the monetary expenditures of the cruise itself.  Getting on the boat is already an expensive outlay.  We fortunately do not have to fly or pay airfare to get to a cruise port.  We are conveniently located between Tampa, Ft. Lauderdale, and Miami, three of the busiest cruise ports in the U.S. and can drive to any of them if we choose. We prefer the bus, where charges are just less than two hundred dollars for the both of us to Miami and back.  And of course there's the extra four hundred dollars to kennel the dogs for just a week. It does add up.

To make matters worse, it is à la carte once you board the cruise ship and ship's prices have pretty much gone bonkers.  Once on-board, you are a captive audience!  At six dollars a Budweiser, don't expect any breaks on-board. They don't do anything for the passengers except the basic dining and an ice cream on the pool deck. If you want sprinkles on your ice cream, have your room key ready, the sprinkles are extra.

The basic dining is still exceptional, but we wonder how much longer it will last. Higher caliber restaurants are already available above and beyond the common dining rooms, as outstanding as they are, specifically appealing to the cruisers who prefer not to mingle even with the common diners. Those dining rooms carry a $25 surcharge per person per meal. 

The shows are still free, but I wouldn't be surprised to be asked to show my room card sometime in the future. They probably haven't thought of it yet. So, to be jammed in with thousands of people has to have its rewards and those rewards are fewer and fewer than before.  We are reconsidering how we will spend our vacation money.  Basically, we do not care for big boat cruising.  I guarantee you I will never sail on the Oasis of the Seas or any ship that carries 5000 passengers.

We head back to our balcony as soon as the seas and winds subside, separated from the rest of the ship. Peace and serenity once again settle over as we sit on our small, semi-enclosed balcony. We watch as white caps rip off the top of the huge waves and roll away from us instead of hitting us broadside. The wind has subsided to 30 knots and is now off our port stern. We pass Haiti on our port side, the mountains visible through the distant haze. I can only understand portions of the captain's message over the PA system, the garbled voice says the water depth in the channel is 1600 feet. We now turn more southeasterly and head into deep blue waters of the Caribbean, our final heading to Willemstad.

The old girl has settled down. Once again I fall for the charms of cruising, paradoxically in love with the incredible beauty found only at sea. The huge, slowly rolling waves firmly rise up and dominate my senses as nothing else, and gently, slowly, the massive mountains of water disappear into the long trough of spray-strewn, almost placid swells. Technically, these are swells I suppose, but I still like the wave definition. These waves are massive world-travelers. They are the dominators of the ocean. How far have they traveled, where will they eventually crash ashore? Are they from the coast of Africa? Will they crash in front of tourists in Cancun, or slam ashore in unseen by anyone but seagulls and pelicans? The period has increased to twelve seconds, double that of yesterday's waves. The period is the time between crests, and the time accentuates the massive size of each wave. The ship's log finally shows seas as “Rough,” twelve feet or so. They look higher to me, but then I'm not driving. The Crown Princess is in her element here. And if I want to see more of it, I have no choice but to go cruising.

Most of my fellow passengers don't have a clue. They are all over the pool decks, eating, sun-bathing, and generally taking a break from the cold, northern winter. They are enjoying their vacations exactly as advertised. My wife and I are enjoying the cruise as well, just in our own way. The open sea, glistening silver under the sun, deep blue otherwise is simply beautiful.

Pool is closed...

As we sail further and further south, the size of the waves increases and soon the sea is a mass of twenty foot behemoths tipped with white spray that cause our Captain to throttle back somewhat to minimize the astonishing resistance they present. They try to impede our our voyage, to prevent the incursion into their world.  The shuddering is back, but this time it is Mother Ocean causing the protest. The shuddering and and slamming is not as consistent as the night before, but when it comes, it is far more severe. Our huge vessel cedes to the power of the Ocean only slightly, probably to keep everyone in the hot-tubs from banging their knees. Actually, all swimming pools and hot tubs are closed. The water sloshing out of the main pool reaches the overhead of the sun deck just above it. I have it on video tape. We press on toward our shopping rendezvous in Willemstad. We are now just under a day away. 

We awake Tuesday morning to milder seas. The period is down to six seconds and the Bridge report say we now have rough seas. What were they yesterday, I wonder? We opened the balcony door and wiped the salt spray off the deck chairs while the Captain announced we were some thirty miles from Willemstad. He said the sea and wind had subsided and the remainder of the approach would be smooth. He also commented we were some thirty minutes behind schedule, even though we had been running at close to full speed for the entire 44 hours. My wife joked our clothes had done more dancing in the closet than we had on the dance floor.

We ate breakfast in the dining room for the first time, far more civilized than acting like foragers who hadn't yet discovered fire.

Next: Willemstad and Curacao

The Cruise to Aruba - Day One

From Part 2 - http://piddlepaddler.blogspot.com/2012/03/cruise-to-aruba-boarding.html

We joined the ranks of the forgetful fifties and the stress free sixties on our first day at sea: we had to go to the concierge to retrieve names and dates of our last Princess cruise. Not only couldn't we remember the name of the ship, we couldn't agree when we took our last cruise with Princess Cruises. We were directed by the apologetic concierge to go up a deck, find the Wheel House Bar, then locate the Princess Club director, a young officer who looked at me in disbelief when I explained my dilemma. I thought to myself, “Just wait, you'll understand soon enough.”  His computer system has a different data base from the ship's main system, and he soon had the data at his finger tips.

Not only did we get the date wrong - it was 2004 - but we weren't even close with the name of the ship. It was the Star Princess, and we had cruised to San Juan, St. Thomas once again, and finally visited Tortola.  We remembered the ports but not the ship. So much for my razor sharp memory. 

Day One - At the Princess Cay in Lucaya

Quite a lot about cruising has changed in eight short years. If you forget to return a ship's library book, for example, the charge today is $55. Who knows what it will be in another eight years. 

Also gone is the ship's drugstore. Gone with it is the cheap liquor that you could buy there and take to your room. On our 1992 S.S. Norway cruise, I bought a 1.75 liter bottle of Drambuie for me and a 1.75 liter bottle of Amaretto for my wife, for less than either bottle alone would have cost me stateside. We proceeded to finish off both bottles before the end of the seven day cruise and managed to run up a three hundred dollar bar bill to boot. We missed St. Johns that trip. They swear the boat stopped there but you couldn't prove it by us.  Those days are over, in more ways than one. First my body couldn't take it, and secondly, neither could my wallet. A built-in safety net I suppose.

We spent our first, almost summer like day anchored off the private island called the Princess Cays. Private is the operative word here. If you don't mind being shuttled to and from the island in small tenders along with 3000 other passengers, well, maybe you can call it private. We stayed on board as we did on the last three cruises and enjoyed having the ship to ourselves. We found this time we were not alone as many of the “veteran” cruisers also elected to remain on board and enjoy the peace and quiet. Many of the first timers, and those who don't normally have access to beaches, enjoyed the day swimming and eating barbecue, hot dogs and hamburgers, enjoying a sandy beach party. 

By noon, we were sitting peacefully on our balcony, hundreds of feet above the beautiful clear blue water off Eluthera, reading and writing in the warm sunshine. We watched the constant flow of shuttles to and from the beach with detached interest. Still worth the price of cruising, all the changes not withstanding.

While sitting on the aforementioned balcony, sipping the red wine we brought aboard ourselves and snacking on the five or six delicious cheeses we carried back from the lunch buffet, we were distracted by sporadic hammering and an occasional burst from a power tool from somewhere below us. The noise was from a work crew, strapped to the ship in safety harnesses, working on a lifeboat some six or seven stories below us.

The cruise industry has always taken great care of the safety equipment, but since the incredibly stupid tragedy of the Costa Concordia, I'm sure efforts to prevent any future tragedies have intensified. It was bad enough to happen to the Italian ship, but if that happened to a U.S. Cruise company, or one that departed from a U.S. Port, it would cripple the industry faster than rising fuel prices.

You are allowed to bring one bottle of wine per person on board when you initially embark, but the “Corkage Fee” is a stunning $18. So, either bring your own corkscrew, or do as we have learned and simply pack a wine box, carefully wrapped in leak-proof plastic so as not to spoil your vacation in case of dropped luggage. Easy to open, and easy to lock back up in the suitcase away from the maid when you are out of the room. The wine box actually exceeds the one bottle limit but no one checks the volume. Anything to help alleviate the pain.

We always book as high as we can afford, and as far forward as possible. We have heard arguments from people who prefer to stay as close to the center of the ship as possible to minimize the effect of ship rolling, but with the modern stabilizers and computer control, we have found engine vibration to be a bigger pain in the enjoyment than the ship's motion. The higher, the quieter, and for more reasons than just being as far from the power plants as possible.

One of the reasons we like being as high as possible is because of a guy we will always call “Pickle Dick.” Luckily for us, Pickle Dick's cabin was below us when we met him on the last cruise. He loved to stand on his balcony and harass a young, newly-wed couple obviously trying to enjoy a romantic honeymoon. They were unfortunately just below him, and even worse, their balcony protruded further out than those above them. When ever the love birds would set up an intimate dinner with flowers and wine, Pickle Dick would show up, usually stark-ass naked, and start a loud, obnoxious scene, pretending to be a “friendly neighbor.” We never saw the young couple after Pickle Dick's second obnoxious intrusion, but that didn't stop our tattooed, long-haired ambassador of southern hospitality from standing on his tip-toes, peering over the rail trying to see where they were.

So, if you have a balcony stateroom and decide to enjoy your beautiful, unobstructed view of the ocean, remember to look up before standing out there bare-ass.







Next: Day Two at Sea 

Cruise to Aruba - Boarding

From part one : http://piddlepaddler.blogspot.com/2012/03/crown-princess-to-aruba.html

Boarding the huge ship was smoothly done, but I can't say the same for just getting to the ship to start with. With the convoluted routing and redirects through the construction that dominated the port and the various security control points as we entered Port Everglades, I was really glad I left the driving to someone else. We used a charter-bus to make the 180 mile trip from Port Charlotte to Ft. Lauderdale so I wouldn't have to figure out the parking nonsense in the congested port area. We had friends of ours with us from Germany who speak very little English, and I simply didn't need the added confusion factor or a failure to communicate.

Bernd and Agnes, our friends from Germany

There were seven, huge, state-of-the-art cruise ships being boarded simultaneously in one of the busiest cruise ports in the United States. To say the port was jammed with traffic would be an understatement. The bus trip was easy enough for us, but our driver had my heartfelt sympathy as guard after guard made him move the huge bus after we finally got next to the correct ship in the terminal area. Two guards actually stood in front of the bus at one time, each pointing for him to go in a different direction. Whoever outranked whom finally won, and we again did another five point turn in the confines of a parking garage! Our driver finally got fed up once he was satisfied he was close enough to the entrance and just turned off the ignition. Hordes of porters pushing empty luggage carts descended on the undersides of the bus, and once they started unloading, it was obvious no one was going to move the bus. This driver earned his tip, even with his momentary lapse on the highway. This was his third shift in two days. Welcome to the new America.

Princess had us print everything from the Internet beforehand, so all we had to do was follow our yellow color through the terminal to our designated seating area. We never saw our luggage again, but it was also pre-tagged and color coded just like we were, so I wasn't worried. It had always shown up in front of our stateroom late in the evening on previous cruises, so I expected the same service here. 

After an hour and a half wait, we signed in with the efficient, courteous staff, they were actually quite funny, and after getting our plastic, embossed gold room keys, which are also your boarding cards, we were on our way up the forward gangplank. Ten minutes later we were checking out our stateroom, ready for a tour of the ship. I react badly when being herded and avoid places like Disney World like the plague, but Princess has this down to an art form and the whole procedure was quite painless.

Much of the chatter on deck was French, German, even Russian, with only a few passengers speaking English. The English speaking passengers were the only ones to benefit from the new, expanded safety briefing, however, which had formerly been known as the Parade of New Shoes, or technically, the Life Boat Drill. Over 800 of us listened intently to the Captain's 22 minute safety address over the Public Address speakers in the ship's theater, the “A” muster station, I couldn't help but wonder if we could all get out of the theater in time in case of a real emergency.

The first real shock of new-age cruising came shortly after the lifeboat drill. We went up to the forward pool deck bar and ordered drinks. I simply ordered a Budweiser. Apparently a brand hard to find among the many better known foreign labels. The smiling young woman presented me with the charge slip, they only accept your pre-approved credit card, and watched blandly as I read it several times. No matter how I turned it around, it still came out to six dollars and four cents, gratuity included. Wow, my first and only beer! The grand old days of cruising are over! My wife pointed out it was a sixteen ounce can, rather than the standard twelve ounce size. Doesn't matter, it was a six dollar can of Budweiser! This would be a cruise of abstinence. Well, within reason, of course. Remind me to check the futures market on beer. It may be a better investment than oil.

With heavy, overcast skies and winds steady at over thirty knots out of the northeast, most of the passengers standing outside on the railing had their arms folded tightly in front of them with their shoulders scrunched up to their ears as we crossed out of the protected anchorage and into the open ocean. Most looked like they wished they still had on their northern, cold weather jackets. 

As we watched the pilot disembark well outside the protection of the channel and head back toward Ft. Lauderdale, we wondered just how rough it has to be to get these people worried.  

The Crown Princess weighs over 112,000 tons, and that was probably before they loaded us, the fuel, the food, and who knows how many cases of Budweiser.  Actually, the net registered tonnage is only 83, 977 tons, so the gross tonnage of 113, 561 tons is when we cast off from Port Everglades loaded to the gills.  In that bloated condition she draws 28 feet of water.  In other words, you couldn't put her in your swimming pool unless your pool was 29 feet deep.  At 950 feet long, (that's over three football fields, I think, or over three soccer fields, or something else that makes you say, “Wow, that's long!”) she still shuddered and shook in the 30 knot crosswinds like my Golden Retriever when I give him a bath. 

The in-room television said we had “moderate seas” at four to seven feet, with an across-the-deck wind of 30 knots. We were constantly shaking. Of the five cruises we've done, this one was unique. We had lulled and waited all night in 20 foot seas not far off Palm Beach on our very first cruise many years ago and thought the slow, rolling wind blown waves were as bad as it got, but that ship, the old Sunward II hadn't protested like this one. The constant, quick jerks back and forth that occasionally caused quick side-steps and spilled drinks were new to us.But then we went to dinner and all was well with the world! Our decision to cruise once again was affirmed. Excellent food and outstanding service! I'll even wear a tie if I have to. Personally, the casual dining at one of the three buffets is great for a quick lunch, especially when everyone in your party is off doing their own thing, but the dining room is one reason we cruise.  The food is really good at the buffets, and table service is excellent there as well, but it is not personal.  When you eat in the dining room, you get to meet people like Antonio, our waiter and Alphonse, an assistant Maitre D' who cater to your every whim.  We only wore jackets twice, which to us was a nice change from the Mickey D atmosphere that surrounds the deck area that many of the passengers seem to enjoy.  Love great food!  Love great service!

But, times they are a'changing.  A guided tour of the ship from the bridge to the engine room is still available, but now instead of gratis or free of charge, it costs a staggering $150.00!  Even airline executives must look with envy at the cruise ship industry's ability to gouge their customers. 

Five of the seven cruise ships boarding passengers at Port Everglades, Florida.
The Oasis of the Seas is on the far right

Next: Day One to Aruba

M/S Crown Princess to Aruba

The old lady is still fun to sail. Showing her age with an occasional loose carpet strip, a few unobtrusive paint blisters, and generally in need of a carpet deep cleaning, the M/S Crown Princess still showed her stuff as she shuddered and twitched her way out of the Bar Cut Channel in Ft. Lauderdale into heavy seas and near gale-force winds. She's a seasoned veteran at six years old, and not to destined to be at the top of the Princess list much longer.

She will be surpassed by the new M/S Royal Princess in June, 2013, which will carry 3,600 passengers, 500 more than were on-board as we cast off from Pier Two at 4:00pm on a recent Saturday afternoon. If you think 3,600 passengers is impressive, remember Royal Caribbean's Oasis of the Seas already carries 5000 passengers spread between 18 decks. That behemoth was berthed near us at Ft Lauderdale, also prepping for a seven day excursion into the Caribbean. “Massive” was the only word I could think of as I looked at the Oasis from the fantail pool deck of the M/S Crown Princess. 

Astonishing to think they unload 5000 people, beginning at 7:00 am, clean the ship, load a new group of 5000 glassy-eyed vacationers, refuel, restock and stand ready to cast off by 4:30 pm. All in a day's work! I was already impressed with Princess's streamlined boarding processes which got 3224 of us on-board with as little stress and trepidation I have ever encountered boarding a cruise ship. This was our fifth cruise, and by far the one of the easiest to board. I found out later the Crown Princess also takes on over two hundred tons of food and supplies every Saturday during that same, short window of time. Amazing, simply amazing. 

But, I'm getting ahead of myself. The trip to Ft. Lauderdale from Port Charlotte on Florida's west coast had it's own moments, including when the bus driver's head slowly slumped to his right shoulder while we were doing 65 miles an hour on a long, straight, boring section of I-75 in the middle of the Everglades known as Alligator Alley. My wife and I were luckily sitting in the seats directly behind him, and I leaned over and gently tapped his shoulder until his head snapped up in surprise. He gave me a glance that showed more fear than gratefulness, but I wasn't about to condemn him. I simply smiled and pretended to be looking for alligators along side the adjacent canal and the event was never mentioned. He made a point to shake my hand when we got off the bus.

Next: Cast off - Underway on the Princess

Everglades Restoration Groundbreaking Ceremony

I didn't know what to expect as I waited in the parking area at the Homestead General Aviation Airport to board one of the chartered buses that was to take us to the Everglades Restoration Groundbreaking Ceremony that cool January morning in 1997. I read about the ceremony being open to the public, so I decided to drive down to and take a look at the future of the Everglades for myself.

Most of the people who boarded the bus seemed to know each other. Members of several service clubs and growers associations chatted among themselves as our bus drove back to Krome Avenue and then turned and drove down the dirt access road adjacent to the C-111 canal. I watched out the window as the bus made the short trip to the ceremony area, thinking it was about time something was going to be done to save Marjory Stone Douglas's wonderful "River of Grass." We disembarked and were directed to one of several large tents that had been set up not far from the waters edge on the other side of the canal. We walked across the road that was created by the pumping station to the large tents set up to accommodate the many speakers and guests. Even the Homestead High School Marching Band was in attendance. There were three helicopters parked discreetly behind yellow tapes back on the other side of the canal. I noticed that none were marked with television station logos. A nearby metal sign showed numerous bullet holes and dents.

The program started on time, but it didn't take long for me to wander out of the tent and away from the social/political scene. The ceremony was well into the speeches and remarks as I walked past the refreshment area and over to the canal bank. I was looking in the water at the canal's edge when two other fellows walked up, talking among themselves. One man soon walked back to the ceremony, leaving the other alone just a few feet away. He stood for a few moments, then reached down and pulled a few weeds from the canal bank, and tossed them one by one into the water. It was Dexter Lehtinen, the former U.S. Attorney who had first filed suit against the State of Florida in 1988 for allowing polluted water to flow into the Everglades. Lehtinen's suit, along with the thirty-nine additional lawsuits the original lawsuit triggered, actually began the legal actions that eventually led to the ceremony we were attending. It appeared he also would rather be fishing.

We started chatting about Florida and the Everglades, and finally about the Everglades ceremony behind us. He would occasionally glance back at the crowd to see if he was missed, but was far more content to toss weeds in the water. It was one of those times when the bus ride was worth it. Dexter's wife, U.S. Representative Ileana Ros-Lehtinen (who at the time was a State Representative) sponsored my daughter, Monica, to serve as her page for a week in the Florida Legislature in Tallahassee. We met the Lehtinens while giving our daughter her sendoff at Miami International Airport. He politely "remembered" meeting us, even though it had been ten or eleven years earlier. Shortly, others who had seen Dexter and wanted to say hello joined us, so I made my goodbye and slowly wandered back to the main tent in time to hear the Honorable Dante Fascell begin his speech.

The program had him listed as Mr. Dante Fascell, Esq. as he had retired from 38 years of service in the U.S. House Representatives some five years earlier. Somehow, after all those years, it just didn't seem right not to say Honorable. I listened intently as Mr. Fascell soon strayed from the political correctness that earmarked all the other speakers. He soon was talking to the people assembled in the tent as if we were all family. Everyone remembers him saying, "...seems to like to me we've been discussing the same thing now for about 50 years... There is only one way to get this thing done, and that is for everybody to work together...” Those comments are still heard today whenever Everglades restoration is discussed.

Mr. Fascell also reminisced about the flooding that swamped Greater Miami after the hurricane of the late 1940's. My uncle had told us about rowboats being used to pick up people during one flood, so I knew Mr. Fascell wasn't exaggerating when he repeated similar stories all over Miami. It was his duty to the people of south Florida to not let that happen again. He and others in political power implemented the legislation needed to protect the citizens of south Florida with a series of drainage canals and dikes. The resulting flood prevention construction by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers was exactly the reason the Everglades had deteriorated to its present state. It wasn't done by accident or through stupidity. It was a deliberate plan to protect the citizens. It was, and remains a very effective flood control program. Now we have a different set of goals and ideals. While we can never restore the Everglades to it's original state, we can restore portions of it and reclaim much of its lost beauty while maintaining the safety of the citizens of south Florida.

I caught one of the last buses back to the parking lot, thinking maybe I should attend more of these government ceremonies. I had answers to questions that had been bothering me for years and had finally accepted the answers as something I would have done too, if that had been my responsibility. Besides, it was fun tossing weeds into the water, something everybody should do every once in a while.

George Mindling
Miami, Florida ©1998

[Author's update - July 20, 2018 - To put this in perspective, here is a photo of my brother Dean, on the left, and me, on the old Ingraham Highway to Flamingo, 1953.]

I Envy Artists

I envy artists. You know, the people who put their talents, and quite often their very souls, right in front of you to see. You see their effort, their product, their thoughts and interpretations as they meant you to see them as soon as there are created or unveiled. I, however, am a lowly writer. My product, as individual and original as I intend, never gets to the printed page without someone altering what I create. When I use my fingers and my wit to translate my verbal image into a permanent record, no one but me see can see the original. Even the original is only a nebulous thought that often contorts and becomes a victim of intellectual metamorphosis. Sometimes an entire thought is swept away by a simple distraction, lost forever. Like the purpose of this paragraph! Seriously, I have often wished a thought could miraculously appear on my computer screen before I compound what I was trying to say! If I only had a paint brush!

Editors can say I didn't following grammatical protocol when I used the blue oil from my palette. It should have had more green than yellow because my color simply shouldn't look like that. That is regardless of the image I, and I alone, created, but they can not see because they have to focus their vision through the eyepiece of academia.

Maybe it is my shadowing. It simply can't be applied in the corners of my description because of some 18^th century rule about gerunds, or infinitives, or some other idiosyncratic restriction that detracts from the image I alone want to portray. When Henry Alford wrote in his 1864 book, The Queen's English, he admonished writers from splitting infinitives. It is a good thing the writers from Star Trek weren't looking at the past when they wrote “to boldly go where no one has gone before.” And the restriction against beginning a sentence with a conjunction sucks, too! Sometimes my image only has one word! There! That blasts the idiom rule and the one word sentence restriction rather easily. Perhaps that is the problem. No one but me can see the image I create. Or is it, I alone can see the image I create? How do I get my image to you without corruption? How do I get it in print without being filtered, trimmed, or perhaps simply misinterpreted completely? If someone plays with an interpretation, alters it and makes it their own, it would be is as if every sculpture, every monument would have the corrections of a critic applied before you see it. Every statue would have a plaster patch stuck on somewhere. Every painting would be touched up, color corrected before being hung on a galley wall. In writing, the editor is the critic who controls the creative results that end up in front of you, the reader. I apply my creation to a mechanical medium and find immediately it must conform to certain constraints and limits.

Without an editor, an author has little chance in the literary world. You may purchase a work of art based on your tastes regardless of a critic's comments. As long as I have an editor, however, there is a chance you may not see what I saw. My image then belongs solely to me. Can I get it to you without sounding like an uneducated cretin? Certainly, but you have to like the box it comes in. And I didn't get to design the box. How I envy artists!

But now the World Wide Web offers a resource unlike any other in mankind's history. One that allows anyone with a computer and access to the Internet the ability to offer the electronic world pages of writing that can be read anywhere in the world at any time. Entire books are written, shipped and read all over the world without using a single piece of paper! The written products by-pass the editors and are delivered directly to the critics, the ones who read, or delete, what ever is available. Readers, bloggers, and down-loaders have become the de facto editors. Writers have a brand new medium! We even get to design our own boxes.

"I Envy Artists" was published in the "The Florida Writer" Vol 5, No. 2, 2011 

Bringing Baby Home

The following article originally appeared in the Charlotte Sun-Herald, Waterline Boating Supplement, July 15th, 1999

________________________________________________________________________ 

"Would you like to take a four day boat trip with us?" some friends asked over a glass of wine and a great Italian dinner. 

"We're picking up our brand new 25 foot Larson Cabrio in St. Augustine and would like you to join us as we bring it home on the water!"

We know spending four days on the water in a small boat can be a true test of friendship, but our friends had lived on a boat for several years and knew what to expect as well as we did. Since they had lived on a boat, we assumed they were knowledgeable and safe boaters. We answered an enthusiastic "Yes! Sounds Great!" and we all started making out the grocery list.

My wife, Ilse, and I left Port Charlotte a little after noon on a beautiful, sunny Thursday and drove down to Cape Coral, about twenty five miles away. We joked on the way this was only the first leg of an epic journey. In retrospect, we had no idea! We were looking forward to the trip down the Intracoastal Waterway from St. Augustine to Stuart and then across the 154 mile Okeechobee Waterway to Ft Myers as we brought their new boat to their equally new home in Cape Coral. I had never crossed Lake Okeechobee before, and really anticipated the trip as a great way to see one of Florida's great waterways. I double checked to see I had film and batteries for the camera before we left.

Ilse and I drove our friend, who shall forever be known simply as “our friend,” over to the Ft Myers airport to pick up a one-way rental car to save time. She and her husband, who shall be forever known as “our friend's husband,” and occasionally as "skipper," had rented a van so we would have room for all the clothes and coolers we were taking on the boat. As it turned out, the van had far more room than the boat! Our friends' husband was waiting at the house when we returned so all we had to do was load the van, lock up the house, and head for I-75. We stopped at a family buffet restaurant in Lakeland in the late afternoon and we all ate as if it were our last supper. Probably in anticipation of the what was on the grocery list, and what we knew would soon be in the galley. After a bloated ride up I-4 through Orlando during a beautiful sunset, amid jokes of antacids and overeating, and a short trip on I-95, we arrived at St. Augustine.

It was well after dark but that didn't stop us from finding the new boat. It was tied up at the city marina at the foot of the Bridge of Lions. We looked it over from the floating dock, but didn't board her. She had her canvas on and apparently, according to our friend, it wasn't acceptable to unsnap it and take a look. It was an unspoken protocol, I suppose, as they hadn't yet received the keys. She didn't have her registration numbers on her yet either, having only a temporary registration. We took a short side trip to their old tie-up at the Conch House and chatted with a few of their old friends. We finally pulled into the Quality Inn a little after 11:00 pm. My lingering doubts about his boating skills vanished as we had walked along the dock where they had lived for two years. We relaxed knowing they had actually lived on a 43 foot Hatteras. 

Maiden Voyage! Baby has her 60 gallon fuel tank topped off, St. Augustine, FL

The motel was spotless, but we didn't sleep well as a squeaking room air conditioner was unbearable. We couldn't silence it except for shutting the thing off. That didn't work as the room got stuffy. Oh well, my wife always has earplugs (she swears I snore!) so I borrowed an extra pair and turned the A/C back on. After a Friday morning breakfast at the adjoining IHOP, I went with our friend's husband to pick up the boat and do a short sea trial while the wives drove to Daytona airport to turn in the van. They took a shuttle ride back to the dock and arrived just as we finished up topping off the 60 gallon fuel tank after our short, lurching sea trial. The sea trial raised flags I should have picked up, but somehow in my eagerness to accommodate our friend's husband, I let them slip by. When our friend's husband treated the throttle like an on-off switch, almost knocking the salesman over the seat, I didn't correct him. Neither did the salesman doing the checkout. He probably thought it would be rude to explain to our self-proclaimed, experienced seaman that the throttle can be gently manipulated as well as slammed from one side to the other. If I hadn't been seated, I probably would have gone over the transom. A warning sign I stupidly ignored.

It took two carry-alls to load all the food and bags. We were ready for some serious cruising. After everyone made their last trip to the facilities and a final, wide-eyed tour of the new boat, we were ready. After an awkward castoff, we were on our way down the Intracoastal Waterway on the first leg of our journey. Again, I chalked up the cast off to first time nerves. Wrong.

The trip to Daytona was uneventful and kind of pretty. In the beginning, the girls had a field day checking out landscaping and the foliage. It was fun just getting used to the boat. I took some long distance photos of the Fort at Matanzas and of the many porpoises that we saw along the Intracoastal. Porpoises were everywhere. Weather looked threatening inland, but the clouds soon passed behind us.   Our first leg to Daytona was intentionally planned as a fairly short run in case of "newboatitis", the common inability to propel a new boat as anticipated.  We had no problems at all except the newly installed trim tabs didn't seem to keep the boat from leaning terribly to the left.  Fuel economy seemed great and the Larson was running beautifully.

The Halifax Marina at Daytona is very nice. We pulled in about 5:30 in the afternoon, and after refueling, were lead to our overnight berth by the same fellow that had greeted us at the fuel dock. We followed him as he toodled along in a small skiff. The marina has security and it is exceptionally clean. The toilets and showers were great. After getting cleaned up we walked over to the nearby Chart House restaurant. Another delicious meal, but I passed on the seafood. So far the groceries hadn't been opened. 

Sleeping on the boat was a different matter. Our "bunk" was a nightmare. It was like sleeping in a matchbox. No, more like sleeping under a row of dining room chairs. We couldn't sit up until we turned sideways, toward the rear of the boat, and slipped out like toothpaste being squeezed out of the tube. I had a strange recollection of a Japanese hotel for busy businessmen where they rent little horizontal tubes, like honey comb, that you slide into and out of. Scratch Japan. At least we had a small, clip-on fan that we finally mounted to dissipate the body heat that builds up in an unventilated, closed space.

Friday was great, we were under way by 8:00 AM. Our friend's planning again proved to be meticulous.   She had made all the reservations and coordinated the entire logistics of the trip, from the rental car to making sure the spare prop was on board. I told her she would make a great project manager. She was not impressed, she's already a manager. I asked her if she had arranged the great weather. With a big smile, she said, "of course!" Like I said, she's already a manager.

We saw many Manatees, and, unfortunately, one that was mortally wounded. The gash wounds were deep and the poor animal was absolutely helpless. They should make all the boaters who want to speed in Manatee areas clean up the carcasses. That would slow them down as it is a gruesome, unforgettable sight. The Inter-coastal Waterway is a busy channel, with boats of all shapes and sizes, and speed limits would have little effect with most large boats. Knowing the areas where manatees favor is a big help, but encounters will still happen. Our skipper slowed down, just barely staying on a plane. All eyes were on the channel for the next several miles, but the injured manatee was the last one we saw.

It didn't take long to get back up to speed, so to speak, and we were soon cruising at three-quarters throttle.  A big cruiser, probably bigger than the 43 foot Hatteras our "skipper" claimed to have piloted, approached at full speed from the other direction.  The oncoming cruiser made no attempt to slow down or alter his course.  Its wake was considerably higher than any wave we had yet encountered.  Our "skipper" apparently thought he could jump the approaching four-foot bow-wake like a nimble jet ski.  Wrong again.  Rather than throttle back and turn into the sizable wall of water rushing at us as any experienced boater would have done, our "skipper" simply turned into the wake as the yacht passed and we immediately went airborne at 30 knots, crashing heavily back down with a bone-jarring, frame rattling announcement that our "skipper" was an idiot.  We wallowed and bobbed as the engine had died, we were rolling around, dead in the water.  We had no electronics!  The impact had knocked out the fuse panel!  To make matters worse, the impact had twisted the frames of the cabinets below decks and he couldn't open any drawers!  They were all jammed.  It took twenty minutes or so just to access the tool kit and the spare parts to replace blown fuses and reconnect wires.  We never did get one of the main pantry drawers open again.  We finally got back under way without any comments from our "skipper," but that was the last time he tried to make the cover of Boating magazine.          

We met our only law enforcement officers at New Smyrna Beach, the strictest section of the entire trip.  We got a friendly wave from the officers, but other boaters were stopped.  Our "skipper" was sweating not having the registration numbers on the boat, but we had no problem the whole trip.  New Smyrna was also where we saw our one and only floating hot dog stand! We weren't quite ready for that yet. Besides, there was the off chance we might have rammed and sunk him.

Floating Hot Dog Stand, Sebastian, FL

The run down to and through Mosquito Lagoon is straightforward, but with many local boaters in the ramp access areas we had to throttle back and be careful. The lagoon was flat and wide, and we picked up a steady, heavy cross wind. The right turn into the Haulover canal seems out of place in the middle of a long run down the lagoon. Many boaters were tied up here fishing. Several of the not real bright ones were anchored right in the middle of the channel. We had an uneventful run to the Banana River except for some woman in a bowrider that wanted to follow in our wake's flat zone. She was so close at times we could see the spaces in her teeth. She had a boat load of kids and finally passed us when we decided to throttle back and see if she would go around us. She did.

The Main Assembly Building at the Cape can been seen across Mosquito Lagoon and you can't help but want to watch a shuttle launch from the Banana River. It must be awesome. We trundled on, getting soaked from the spray that incessantly drenched us once we passed Titusville. We were running in a moderate chop and the boat seemed to be wetter than it should have been. We decided to put up the front snap-in weather screens and plexiglass on the Bimini top, but the "skipper" didn't really want to soil the new canvas.  After a half-hearted, symbolic attempt to put up the canvas, it was again rolled up and put away and we "sailored on."  By the time we got to Melbourne I was soaked with salt spray.  An uneventful but bumpy ride until we were well out of sight of the last bridge.

Then we almost ran out of fuel. We think. The "skipper" had misjudged how much farther we could have comfortably traveled on our morning fuel top-off. I didn't really see a problem as we still showed a little better than a 1/4 tank of gas, but it is always better to err on the side of safety, or even convenience. So we throttled back and went in to our first "local boaters" marina near Sebastian. I don't know the name of the place, only that the channel is only four feet deep and the attendant at the fuel pump said he had only worked there for a week.   Another guy playing the guitar in the tiki bar was absolutely alone, although loud and boisterous customers were gathered around the cash register in the adjoining restaurant.  The attendant at the fuel pump looked like he envied us. Until he watched us untie and shove off, I'm sure. After flailing around and narrowly missing the dock and several pilings several times, we slowly struggled out the shallow channel.

A short time after leaving the marina, and for the first time since we left Daytona that morning, I went aft and sat with my wife in the back of the boat. Our friend sat across from us, leaving her husband alone at the helm for the first, and as it turned out, last, time. The three of us were chatting, having a soft drink when the skipper turned violently at full speed to miss the huge steel frame of an Intercoastal Waterway marker. We were all thrown to the floor, and as I fell head-first toward the still pristine fiberglass deck, I glimpsed a huge red marker as it passed almost directly overhead. Our skipper missed the red mark in the channel by mere inches while doing 30 mph because he had been playing with another expensive new toy, a brand new GPS. He had his head buried in the cockpit instead of watching where he was going! He was fascinated watching the mark appear on his GPS screen and it finally dawned on him to look up and see where it actually was! Our friend's husband saw the mark at the last possible second and turned VIOLENTLY to miss it. It was the first time he had been by himself at the wheel while the rest of us relaxed. We missed being killed or at the least severely injured by mere inches. The boat would have been destroyed and we would have been flung against the wreckage like the proverbial rag dolls. None of us had on life jackets, and I have often reflected on that incident, perhaps the closest we have ever come to being killed.  Our stunned shock soon dissipated and we again began to enjoy still being in one piece.  From then on, nobody left the "skipper" alone.  The "skipper" was on his toes from then on, but so were we.  I only spent five or ten minutes with my wife while we were under way for the next two and a half days after that incident.

The run through Vero Beach and Ft. Pierce was really pretty.  The water there was a beautiful bright blue, so bright you think they colored it with dye.  The weather was absolutely perfect and whoever wasn't on watch got to enjoy a beautiful cruise.  We stayed that night at the Marriott Plantation Marina in Port St. Lucie and ate dinner at the Italian restaurant there.  We still hadn't hit the pantry except for lunch sandwiches.  The Plantation Marina is really nice, but it is geared for bigger boats than our 25 footer.  In fact, if "Jack," the skipper of the biggest Carver I've ever seen, hadn't been a true gentleman and helped our "skipper" bring us in, we would still be there floundering around between tide and prevailing winds.  As we finally tied up and packed away the loose ends, Jack told us about bringing his beautiful Carver down from St. Petersburg. He had come through the Okeechobee waterway, the very trip we were going to undertake for the first time the following day. The first hand knowledge is always welcome and usually comes with good tips. One of Jack's tips was to stop in Indiantown for lunch at the Seminole Country Inn.

We showered and cleaned up at their facility, which, although not in bad shape, wasn't as good as the city facility in Daytona Beach. After a tram ride to the restaurant and a marvelous dinner, it was time to pack it in for the evening. The young woman we had asked outside the gift shop had told us it was a short walk to the Italian restaurant which is another quadrant of the Plantation and not part of the main restaurant. We would still be walking if not for a cook outside the main restaurant taking a smoke break. He told us to wait for the tram. He even went and checked the tram schedule for us. You do meet nice people in these places sometimes.

My wife and I had a serious discussion when we got back to the boat, one of those "This is Really Important!" type chats where the decision has complicated ramifications. The decision whether to abandon ship and rent a car to drive home, or stick it out and face the possibility of a nasty confrontation with our friend and her husband was very serious.   I had asked at dinner how much actual sea time our "skipper" had piloting his Hatteras.  He reluctantly informed us he had only somewhat helped the captain he had hired to bring the boat up from Ft Lauderdale to St. Augustine!  The boat hadn't been out of the dock since!  Not once!  I had had about enough of his suffocating ego and dangerous ineptitude, and wanted to head for home right then and there. However, after deciding we could keep him under constant watch and supervision, we would stick it out if for no other reason than to see our friend get home safely. Sleeping was the same punishment as the night before, except the boat rolled more. I used my wife's extra earplugs for the third night in a row.

The St. Lucie River is the entrance to the Okeechobee waterway, and the first few miles show off the beauty of the waterfront homes there. We had shoved off at 9:00 am, a little behind schedule as the skipper had wanted to pump out the holding tank.  The poor dock master kept telling the "skipper" there wasn't anything coming out of the fifteen gallon holding tank, perhaps a valve was set wrong. Actually, the holding tank was still empty as everyone was afraid to baptize the new head.

After the first several bends in the river, and watching a sailboat try to extricate itself from being out of the channel near the new US 1 bridge, we settled back into the "who sees what first" mode of communal navigation. After a few bridges, we began watching for the I-95 and Florida Turnpike bridges. My family moved to Miami in 1953, so I've lived in South Florida since I was a kid. I've been over the Thomas B. Manuel bridge on the Florida Turnpike many, many times. My dad used to honk the car horn every time we crossed over the bridge headed south, a celebration of being home again. It was a strangely exciting to go under it for the first time.

The St. Lucie lock is the first lock and is several miles upstream. We were the only boat going west, and after reading the posted signs and giving the requisite two long and two short blasts, we tried channel 16 on the VHF radio. Basically a waste of time when the waterway is busy. Just watch the light next to the lock-masters station. When it flashes red, stand by and don't run into anybody. By the time the lock opened and five eastbound boats motored out, we were no longer alone in the arrival zone. We were first in line and slowly started in after the light turned green. What a thrill to motor into a dungeon. A vertical, slimy dungeon.

The Lock-master yelled down at us from what seemed to be hundreds of feet above us, "Stay on the port side, do not secure the bow line or the stern line, but run them under a cleat and pull up the slack as the boat rises." OK, so far so good. There are many pairs of lines (ropes) hanging from the rim of the lock. You grab one for the bow and one for the stern, then take out the slack to keep from floundering around the lock. The lock is maybe 15 or 20 feet from rim to low water level. To a sixteen foot runabout it must look like the grand canyon. The lock starts filling up with boats of all shapes and sizes. We ended up with a 16 foot runabout directly in front of us, and before the lock closed, they actually stuffed another sailboat in front of the runabout. The sailboat, the Phoenix, was flying a German flag. The skipper was cursing loudly in German, though were weren't sure at what. My wife is German and is a great translator. She is also very discreet. 

Water pours into the lock at St. Lucie.  Between us and the Phoenix is a small outboard runabout.

It is an impressive sight when they crack open the upstream lock and water starts pouring in from 13 feet over your head. The Myakka River isn't that deep! Come to think of it, neither is most of Charlotte Harbor! I didn't realize the inland water level was that high. When the lock finally fills and they open the upstream lock all the way, you can actually hand the lines back to the Lock-master as you are then at eye level. We got through just fine and were the third boat out into the St. Lucie Canal. The guy in the runabout, however, was terrified. He couldn't restart his outboard and he was about to drift into us as he banged against the wall of the lock. He finally got it started but his eyes were the size of saucers. I sat on our bow, but didn't need to fend him off. His wife was actually pale.

The waterway from the St. Lucie Lock to Indiantown is pretty much an uneventful ditch with several slight bends. A lot of tugs and construction barges early on, then some nice homes scattered along the north bank. We docked at the Indiantown Marina by 1:15 pm and went by van over to the old railroad hotel, the Seminole Country Inn, and had a delicious brunch. They pick you up and bring you back to the dock when you are ready to return to the boat. Just ask at the marina. They'll call the Inn for you. Delicious, but you had to put up with a smiling, signed photograph of Burt Reynolds placed conspicuously on the food counter.

We did not fuel up at the Marina. Our "skipper" had absolute faith in his books and his GPS and his float plan was cast in concrete. Fuel was to be taken on only as scheduled. We cast off and headed back to the waterway. Just after we turned back into the waterway, we met the couple in the runabout. They had tied to a tree along the bank and were eating sandwiches. They didn't wave.

The Port Mayaca lock at the lake was wide open, and we took a straight shot across the lake. The first mark is on the horizon, but not hard to pick up. It looks like you're going across the ocean except it is calm and fairly shallow, running only 12 to 14 feet deep. You can turn left as you leave the lock instead and hug the perimeter of the lake, but the weather was great and we chose the straight across channel. Our "skipper" had me drive the boat for the first time so he could play with his GPS.  I was beginning to think that was the only reason he bought the boat.  After a solid forty five minute run, we entered the channel that leads to Clewiston. He took over again, and at Clewiston we turned and went up to the waterway to Moore Haven. From Clewiston on we had the waterway to ourselves, meeting only two other boats coming from Moore Haven.  One was an airboat that seemed terribly out of place.  We saw alligators and many, many ospreys. The Melaleuca trees alongside the channel are dead or dying, as are the Australian pine trees. They are officially nuisance trees in Florida, and I made a note to see if these trees have died because of a state eradication process or if this is a natural die off. It certainly doesn't look natural. 

Lake Okeechobee rim canal, the run to Moore Haven

 We were the only boat at the lock at Moore Haven. The channel turns left from the lake rim and immediately enters the lock. The Lock-master told us we were the day's 19th lock, joking he had had enough business for one day.  He would have one more as ten miles downstream from the lock we met "Vivian," a big, red tug boat headed past us for Moore Haven.  We couldn't help but be mesmerized by a group of kids and young adults swimming in the waterway right after we left the Moore Haven Lock.  They had put a stepladder down into the dark,  murky water to get up and down the steep bank.  A local sheriff sat with his car parked alongside the pickup trucks and chatted with the adults watching the kids swim and have a grand time. Yes, there is still an America out there. Charles Kuwalt would have been proud.

We had planned to stay at the Hendry Isles Marina, but after a cursory examination of the facilities, and not seeing the fuel pump, we decided to travel on to Labelle. After several minutes back on the waterway however, our "skipper" again got the grim look on his face and throttled back to idle. "We're almost out of gas," he said, as he tapped the gauge with his finger. It was now an hour to sunset. We had between 1/8 and 1/4 of a tank of gas, more than enough for the run to Labelle. But now worry and dread set in. After the refueling yesterday, I wasn't concerned. We hadn't taken on a little more than 40 gallons yesterday, so we should have had twenty or so to go. No matter. Nothing, absolutely nothing, makes boating more fun than two wives who are scared out of their wits.  We motored on slowly, and found we were just around a bend from the Ortona Lock.

The Ortona Lock master came through, as they all did.  He told us the next gas was at Port LaBelle, about five or six miles downstream. He also handed us a copy of the official waterway guide, a folded handout, listing all the marinas and dockages.  The Ortona Lock was another lock we did alone and again, without problem. We were getting to be old hands at the locks. We started off for Port LaBelle with some relief, and of course, still with some trepidation.  Even the cows drinking water alongside the waterway failed to distract our intense "skipper."

We pulled into the Port LaBelle anchorage with a sigh of relief. I noticed the gas gauge still read over 1/8th of a tank. We struggled not to crash into their fuel dock, it doesn't look like it could withstand much of an impact. We tied up and looked around the lagoon at the various power boats and sailboats tied up around the place. Except for the herons and twenty or so turtles, there were no other signs of life. The gas pumps were locked, with a sign that says, "We'll be back at 8:00 in the morning." The showers were open, and the sign at the dock-masters office says, "take time to smell the flowers." This is the perfect place to do just that. The place is past its prime, but clean and well lighted. The frogs serenaded us well past midnight as we finally ate food from our galley. We were the only people there. There was one other boat at the marina with a light on, but we hadn't seen any sign of life. We carefully lit citronella candles and sat outside on the boat free from the mosquitoes. We watched as the first of the season's thunderheads built up north and east of us. We saw a beautiful Florida sunset that no artist could capture. The colors would not be believed if seen on a canvas. This would be our last night on the boat, and we couldn't have had a better evening.

We noticed that the bread was going stale and the lettuce was past eating. Our refrigerator wasn't set cold enough. We started to feed the many turtles that swim up to the back of the boat, but a small alligator immediately joined the turtles and that ended that. We do not feed alligators as we don't want them hanging around the back door, so to speak. It also happens to be against the law as well as against good sense. After dark we sprayed ourselves with one of the new generation insect repellents. We sat on the back of the boat and played with our flashlights on the dark water, counting the pairs of orange, fireball eyes we could see in the lagoon. We counted three pair at one time, though none very close. The new insect repellents actually smell nice, instead of like poison or machine oil. The new stuff works better, too.

We found out the next morning the marina had a restaurant. In fact, the marina is part of the OxBow Golf Club. A fellow surprisingly emerged from one the other nearby boats and stopped to talk to us on his way up the short walk to the facilities. We walked the short way to the hotel and had another great buffet breakfast. By the time we got back, the dock-master was setting up his guitar and his electronic tuning harp on the screen porch of the office. He said, "just wave when you want me," and continued tuning his guitar. We waved a few minutes later, and after a full tank of gas, we were on our way.

From there to the next lock at Franklin is really pretty. After LaBelle it is more like a real river than a ditch. Most bridges are no problem, not counting the railroad bridge over in Port Mayaca if you are in a sailboat with a mast over 49 feet, but there is one swing bridge that even a canoe would have problems with. Well, a really BIG canoe with a Bimini top would have trouble. OK, canoes wouldn't have any problems at all, but we had to put down the canvas Bimini top. We passed underneath without problem. 

"Vivian" is hidden behind the huge barge as she enters Franklin Lock. 

Just before we reached the Franklin Lock, we again met "Vivian". This time she was headed west toward Ft Myers, going our way, so to speak, but pushing a 255 foot barge. We passed "Vivian" and one more bend in the waterway, then had to idle back for the flashing red light at the lock's arrival point. At first, it seemed to be just another wait for the lock to clear, with the "skipper" jockeying the boat around a little bit amid idle jokes and chatter. It was a beautiful morning. Then the barge slowly emerged around the bend in the river behind us. "Vivian" was gaining on us as we now waited a little nervously for a green light. She was looming larger and larger in the waterway behind us. Soon, "Vivian" and her huge barge were directly behind us. Our "skipper" began to fidget, he was not happy.

After we realized we were going through the lock together, I got on the radio and asked "Vivian's" skipper if he wanted us in front or behind as we entered the lock. Actually, commercial traffic has right of way, but the lock-master said we would both fit in the 400 foot lock. The slow, southern drawl that came back said we could do as we pleased, but it would probably be better for us in front of the barge. So we went in first. "Vivian" put a spotter with a radio on the front bow of the barge. The spotter said they were headed back to "Nawlins, finally, after seven months here in Florida". He said mama was gonna be happy.

We were on the starboard side of the lock, as far up as we could go. The "Vivian" and her barge stayed on the port side, actually quite a distance back. It still looked like an aircraft carrier from where we were. All went as smoothly as we dropped the two feet or so down to the Caloosahatchee River and the lock-master signaled our departure. As the lock master opened the gate, a huge fish rolled right in front of us. I yelled up. "Hey, you got porpoises in here!" He laughed and yelled back, "No, those are tarpon!"

It isn't far from there to the familiar red and white smokestacks at the FP&L plant on the Caloosahatchee River. They'll be gone soon as the plant switches to a new generator. Boaters were popping up everywhere soon after we past the I-75 bridges. Traffic was heavy by the time we got to the Tarpon Point turn off at marker 92. The run through Ft. Myers is filled with traffic headed out to the gulf, even on a Monday afternoon. We passed by the Robert E. Lee Motel, where we had spent a couple of weekends many years ago while our daughter sailed in the Florida State Pram championships, the old COPCA, Clearwater Optimist Pram Class Association, series. The regattas were held in the river just behind the motel. The river was quieter then. There were many state regattas over at the Lani Kai on Ft Myers Beach, too, but those days are also past. I couldn't help but muse there were no more bridges to the gulf after the US 41 bridge then.

We got to the house at Cape Coral by 12:30 PM without a major mutiny or serious grounding, although I pulled a boner by not finding a mark after we passed the US 41 bridge. No problem, just a course correction that needed to be implemented prudently and efficiently. After finding the right canal, and slowly idling under the low bridges that dot Cape Coral, we pulled up right behind the house. A small round of applause and after the bath room breaks, a glass of iced tea and lunch. We unloaded the boat and prepared to take it over to it's berth at a nearby Marina

The last part of the adventure was without doubt the most dangerous. The skipper and I took the new boat from Cape Coral to a marina on Ft Myers Beach. Idiots crossed our bow by a few feet under full throttle with complete disregard for right of way. Many, if not most, boaters showed absolutely no regard for safety, much less courtesy. From off shore racing catamarans cutting channel markers to flats boats running through sailboats, it didn't take me long to see this area is just like Biscayne Bay in Miami, perhaps worse. I was glad to get out of the area. It was a good feeling to finally tie up at the marina and see the wives waiting on the dock. While we were loading the car, we heard a marina employee tell a new boat owner, "Oh, you don't need any boat courses! Just remember right on red returning and you'll be just fine." We finished packing in silence. I couldn't help but think our "skipper" would be right at home here.

The boat got good performance marks, but I couldn't honestly give any credit for comfort. With only one seat to see forward, (not everybody wants to rub knees with the Skipper) and being far wetter than I thought she should be, it wasn't much fun to ride in other than in absolutely flat seas. But I didn't buy the boat, and I'm sure the new owner was thrilled with the new "Baby."

I had been standing in the hatch well for the last two days, field glasses and charts in hand. It was the only way I could stand "watch." My wife saw only what was visible from the side or over the stern, and rarely got to look over the front of the boat. Personally, I think it is a great lake boat, but then, I don't think much of many of the new designs.

How did our friendship stand the trip? Well, we all need a break, but we won't be taking any more boat trips with them. We talked on the phone last Friday, we've all got our photos back. We may get together next week, have dinner and swap photos... maybe.

Right now we are still catching up on sleeping with our legs stretched out.

George Mindling
Port Charlotte, Florida
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