Daisy

Daisy  1999 - 2013

Daisy was never an outside dog. She would only stay outside with us as long as it was cool and she could lay in shade, usually under the big live-oak tree next to the house. She would much rather lay on the living room couch in the air-conditioning. Even then she would pant.

She hated the Florida heat. With her thick, white coat, she was better suited for Norway or some other Scandinavian country that really was her heritage as she appeared to be a mixed Spitz/Samoyed type. She was a rescue dog, and even the veterinarians weren't sure of her main breed. Our daughter, Monica, found her on a highway in Georgia during a rainstorm in early 2000. Someone simply dumped one of the sweetest dogs ever alongside the road. Probably because she was pregnant.

Monica named her Daisy, and the name suited her perfectly. After taking her to a vet and getting her neutered, she became part of Monica's household, at least until we lost our dog, Sasha.

Having a pet euthanized is incredibly difficult. Watching a loved pet die in your arms is even worse, and that is what happened to our first dog, Tippy, a Beagle who died of kidney failure. Ilse and Monica did their best to comfort him and relieve his suffering, but it was incredibly difficult for both of them as they helplessly held him while he died an agonizing death.

We lost our second dog, Sasha after fifteen years. It was a difficult decision to make, and even a more difficult task to actually do. When Sasha, reached the point of being beyond help or recovery, we decided to have our veterinarian come to our house to end our fifteen year old mixed spaniel's difficulties. We didn't want to sit in any waiting room with our beloved pet, waiting for the inevitable nurse call and our veterinarian graciously complied.

It wasn't long after we lost Sasha that Monica called and said, “I have a dog for you!” We both said,

“No, it's too soon. We still miss Sasha and any new dog would just compete with our memory of her.”

“I'll send photos,” Monica said.

“Fine, but don't expect us to take her. We aren't ready.”

Daisy's first week at her new home was spent lying in the far corner of our lanai, simply staring at us. She ate without problem, and seemed to enjoy walking with us in the evening, but at night she slept in the living room with her muzzle on the low window sill. It took months before she began to show affection, but when she did, it was always on her terms. Nobody forced Daisy to do anything. Oh, she was well trained, she always followed commands, but as far as showing any kind of attachment, Daisy was a loner.

She rarely barked. She would announce anyone at the door, but that was it. We took her outside off leash after just several weeks, but we live on a waterway that runs into the Myakka River not far away, so we see alligators in the water behind the house regularly. We always checked the yard and banks before allowing her in our unfenced yard.

We found out she much preferred air conditioning to the fresh air of outdoors. She began sleeping closer to us, but only when she napped during the day. She was never aggressive. She could meet any dog at any time, and she would curiously say hello, then back away. Several years after we got her, she began to show signs of lethargy and lack of energy. She was diagnosed with a kidney problem that she lived with for years, and had a chronic thyroid problem that we gave her medicine twice a day to keep under control until the end. She also had the worst case of benign tumors of any dog our vet had ever seen. He took one off her side that required over twenty-five stitches.

Dad, I don't feel good...

One day while we were working in the yard, we noticed Daisy was laying under the Oak tree in a sphinx-like pose, looking down between her out-stretched paws. When we called her to come in, she looked at us, then looked down once again between her paws. Curious, we walked over to see what see was watching and were surprised to find she was protecting a baby squirrel. She would gently sniff it, then look at us as if to say “this baby needs help!” Daisy never barked in anger at anything, never once did we ever hear her growl.

None of her ailments stopped her from walking with us during the three months we camped across the eastern part of the country last year. She joined us on every trip, and walked hills and trails just like a young dog right to the very end.

Daisy on the Allegrippis Bicycle Trail, Pennsylvania, 2012

We ended up with a second dog, Taz, a Golden Retriever mix who was the opposite of Daisy in every way, but Daisy adored him and he became her pack leader. Taz is finally realizing something's wrong three days after Daisy's death, but we're not sure if he understands why. He hasn't gone looking for her that we know of, but he's a different dog. His fast, active demeanor is gone. He actually looks and acts depressed. He is finally realizing his sweetheart isn't here any more. 

 

Pithole Phyllis

Poor Pithole Phyllis can't even get her name in the paper. Her cousin, Punxsutawney Phil, grabs headlines every February 2nd down at Gobbler's Knob, but not poor Phyllis. No one calls to ask her anything. Great-great-grandpa Phineas made the mistake of picking the wrong town when he dropped off the back of the slow-moving buggy at the edge of Pithole, Pennsylvania, way back in the fall of 1865. He thought he had picked a town that had real potential. Oil wells were popping up everywhere since Colonel Drake drilled his first well over by Titusville, just a short buggy ride away. With fifty-four hotels, three churches, a railroad, the very first oil-pipeline, and even a red light district, Pithole had grown into a real city. Yep, ol' Pithole was on the map! Phineas decided to stake his claim and grow roots in this bustling metropolis.

“Whoa Nelly, is this gonna be fun!” Phineas thought to himself as he waddled across Holmden Street. “We even got us a theater and a newspaper,” he mused, then scurried as fast as his four short legs would go to get out from under the flailing hoofs of the horses being ridden wildly through town. He looked back from under the safety of first wooden porch he came to.

Early the next morning Phineas waddled to the top of the highest hill to see what he could see, but all he could see were oil wells! The forests were gone. Even the cow pastures had been torn up to build big, ugly structures that looked like they would blow down in a storm. By the time Pithole had 20,000 residents just a few months later, poor Phineas and his new family were stuck deep in the woods, terrified to venture anywhere near the farmers on the outskirts of town who would shoot at them on sight, or anywhere near the smelly oil fields where they would get covered in the dark, sticky goo that just wouldn't come off. Phineas was in despair, how could he have been so wrong?

His brother, Percy, had warned him not to be so impetuous. Percy stayed in Punxsutawney, some seventy miles further south. “There are only a couple of thousand people here in our little town, and that's all we'll ever have,” Percy told Phineas. “There's no reason on earth for anybody to ever move here! We'll never be bothered with traffic and noise. Stay with us and we'll all grow old and fat together, my brother.” But Phineas would have none of it and jumped up on a passing buggy axle the first chance he had. Percy never saw Phineas again.

Percy became something of a local celebrity in Punxsutawney. He always seemed to be where ever there was a fresh crop of sweet corn, and never missed a ripe garden that was within five miles of town. Life was good in little Punxsutawney. Percy was in the process of living to a ripe old age when he was caught off-guard by a freak blizzard one day in early February while trying to make his way slowly up to Gobbler's Knob. He saw his shadow that morning and decided sunshine meant good weather. He loved lying in the sunshine, and decided the top of the Knob would be a great place to soak up the warm rays of the sun. Unfortunately, like most groundhogs, Percy just wasn't very fast, and his old age made him even slower. He was too far from his burrow when the cold sleet of a late winter storm snuck in and caught him in the middle of an open field. Percy struggled desperately, but finally exhausted, he fell still in the winter snow and froze to death. Percy's oldest son, Phil, swore they would never again get caught off guard by the weather. Every year since, on the exact anniversary of Percy's fatal journey, Phil cautiously sticks his head out of his relocated home near Gobbler's Knob and decides for all groundhogs everywhere if they get to sleep in for six more weeks.

Phineas always kept abreast of his prudent, rational brother through the fuel of all envy, gossip. The polecat family that lived down by the hollow always seemed to know everything. Phineas heard about poor Percy, but he didn't make the trip for the funeral. He was too proud to admit his brother had been right, his dreams had been just too grandiose. Phineas's family eventually suffered just like the ill-fated town. Twenty years after moving to Pithole, the town was gone, only a blur in the memory of a few. Phineas never went back to the hill.

His family endured for generations after he passed away, but just barely. Most of his offspring departed for places unknown. Only a handful of grandkids stayed in the empty, cold family burrows, devoid of laughter and mirth. Every year on the day poor Percy froze to death, the current Punxsutawney Phil gets his photo on the front page of every paper in the country. Even Brian Williams raises his eyebrows to new levels to show Phil the 6th, or 7th, maybe it's now the 8th, being held aloft for all to see. Poor Pithole Phyllis waddles back to her den and pulls the covers up. The farmers still shoot at them, and if they aren't careful, they'll get run over by one of the few cars that travel down the usually empty roads. Groundhog Day just isn't very special in Pithole.

 

Mirror, Mirror

I look in the mirror and I see an old man's face staring at me. I wonder if he is as upset as I am about these things a doctor had to cut out of my chin. Those little stinkers weren't there last time I saw the dermatologist, just six short months ago. Or, at least they weren't visible then. They were masked by my beard, right at the chin line. The gray and dark intermixed beard colors masked a blemish that belied the unwanted presence of cancer cells. Once found, they had to to be evicted as soon as possible, sent immediately on their way to a lab for analysis. I don't want those microscopic aliens chewing on me any longer than possible. Thirty damn stitches across my side of my face. I look like I fought with Zorro and lost.

Ironically, I posted a quote by Alice Walker, 1997 Humanist of the Year, just before I had to have the surgery. She wrote, “What the mind doesn't understand, it will worship or fear.” Here's this microscopic creature that eats me alive from the inside out when its good and ready, and I can't do a thing about it. Apparently, we carry them around, incubating these adaptive little one-cell eating creatures until they have our body-map figured out, then they pop up and multiply rapidly in one of several different variations. But I'm fortunate, the ones that decided to pop up under my skin aren't the terrors they used to be. Not at least if I take them out now. Their nastier pack-brothers are still out there roaming around though, as are so many, many more of their unsavory relatives.

I don't understand them, and I don't worship them. I don't fear them, either. I don't like them, and if I knew how to stop them, I would. Wide brimmed hats are now the order of the day. I know I have to keep my head and especially my ears covered when I go out to play, along with a liberal application of chemical sun-screen. Why ask for trouble?

Anybody who still smokes is an idiot. Sucking those flesh-eaters through your lungs every chance you get might invite a few of them to pick a soft crevasse of your lungs and incubate for a few years. Try and get them out! Freedom? Freedom has nothing to do with it. Smokers are victims of good ol' American advertising. If you think cigarettes are expensive, wait until you get hit with your first prescription for chemo. You ain't seen nothin' yet!

Say, maybe we're going about this the wrong way! We should hire the advertising agencies to lure cancer cells out in the open. Given the right incentive, Madison Avenue would develop a marketing program to lure the little stinkers out into broad daylight! We might not be able to afford the advertising charges up front, but I bet given enough time, the marketing industry would figure out a way fake those nasty little guys right out of everybody's body. The cancer cells would march right out in the open to die and be happy about it. They'd think it was their right to do so. 

Facebook

As a writer, I'm usually prepared to take heat for what I write. The six years I wrote a business Op-Ed column for the Charlotte Sun Herald thickened my skin considerably. I have been blistered for just about everything under the sun. Having a friend toss one of the barbs, however, is a new one. It is so frustrating when a good friend inadvertently sticks you in the butt, especially in public. My first reaction is to ask my friend, "WTF?" The smarter move, however, is to find why the failure to communicate happened in the first place. 

I know no one reads my material exactly as I write it. No one else in here with me as I type and review the thoughts that tumble out, usually faster than my fingers can find the right keys. I do my best to write exactly what I want to write, that doesn't mean whoever reads it, reads what I wrote. Not exactly, anyway. Like listeners who hear only what they want to hear, readers only read what they want to read. I often cloak my dogma in humor, and I am disappointed when the point of what I write is misunderstood. What really surprises me is when the reader responds with what they feel is an honest rebuttal to an argument I didn't make. Well, not intentionally, anyway.

I set myself up for this new problem by using Facebook. You can post photos of your friends and relatives as you wander around the globe for everyone to see. You can express your political views, as well. When you do, be prepared for rebuttal. People you once thought were friends will dump on you if they disagree with you as if you were having a conversation in the local sports bar. I've found there are “friends” on Facebook who are just plain rude. They can't resist telling you, and your family and friends, and everyone around the world, the error of your faulty thinking, and they will do so vociferously. They should stay on their own pages where they can freely post their own viewpoints, but they don't. They want to rain on your parade and they will if you let them. I don't want anyone dumping on me on my own web page, nor using my page to promote their beliefs. That's what the “unfriend” button is for, and I have used it liberally ever since the last two Presidential elections. But this posting on my Facebook page wasn't meant as an insult; it was merely an honest response to one of my blog postings I referenced on Facebook.

I'm tempted to remove the comment, but that would be at the expense of our long-time friendship. A rebuttal to the comment will have to be diplomatically crafted to prevent essentially the same reaction. On the other hand, I can't leave it as it stands as it is completely misleading to anyone who comes across it. I'll see if I can manipulate this article in some way as to convey my thoughts. Oil on the water, so to speak. But, then my friend will probably say he doesn't swim in that stuff and we'll be off yet once again..

The predicament does tend to take the fun out of writing. Well, for a while anyway. I'll be back. I just won't post anymore on Facebook. As Paul Simon famously sang in The Boxer, "A man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest..."

My Daughter, Monica, and I at the American Cemetery in Hamm, Luxembourg, in front of the grave of Gen George S. Patton

My Memorial Service

I want my memorial service to be a book sale. I want my wife, or heirs who inherit the duty of executor, to put copies of my autobiography discretely around the memorial display, preferably close to an American flag, and my old U.S. Air Force uniform, which I want hanging on a wooden hangar on the left side of the display. My book, Confessions of an Old Liberal, in a tasteful white book jacket, will have to be unsigned, unfortunately, as it hasn't been published yet. My eulogy can be the forward to the almost factual book; short, concise and in the current marketing scheme of selling books, inflated as possible. Maybe they can just read from the jacket liner.

It may be difficult to convince whichever funeral home ends up with me to fend off the clergy who will try to claim authority over my soul. Funeral homes seem to have a divine link with local religious powers, giving them an inside track to grieving family members who are then led to believe without some kind of formal religious guidance, my soul may just wander around North Port looking for a way out.

I often wondered about the overwhelming number of Christians buried in the oversea American War Cemeteries. I visit the American War Cemetery in Hamm, Luxembourg, where General George S. Patton is buried, every time my wife and I go to Germany to see family. The cemetery is located not far from the Luxembourg airport.  An occasional Star of David breaks up the symmetry of the row upon row of crosses in the somber reminder of the incredible price America paid to free Europe. The cemetery in Bastogne, Belgium, is the same way, and so is the memorial cemetery just outside Liege. Where are the atheists and the agnostics? What kind of marker did they get? Or did they just get drafted a second time?

The religious powers added “Under God” to the pledge of allegiance when I was in fourth or fifth grade, and changed the law about headstones in all the U.S. Military cemeteries about the same time. Before the early fifties, fallen U.S. service men and women were buried with round headstones with inscriptions. After the religious pressure successfully lobbied Congress, the markers were changed to Christian crosses, the Star of David, and the Crescent Star. The Wiccan Pentacle was added only after a lawsuit by Americans United for the Separation of Church and State in 2007. If you are a veteran, your survivors can choose from among different symbols offered for your old style round headstone by the Veterans Administration, now including the option for “none.” But they don't have a marker for me. My marker would be a question mark.

Even though the club obviously isn't as exclusive as it used to be, apparently there are no agnostics buried in any American military cemeteries. So up in smoke I go.

As Willie Nelson says:

“You won't see no sad and teary eyes

When I get my wings and it's time to fly

Just call my friends and tell them

There's a party, come on by

So just roll me up and smoke me when I die”¹
 

By the way, there will be no discounts on the book. I may be a liberal, but I'm still basically a Capitalist. Now's the time to yank on the heart strings. If the churches can do it, so can I.

George Mindling © 2013

1 "So just roll me up and smoke me when I die"  Copyright © 2012 Willie Nelson

The Tree Joyce Kilmer Never Met

“Out, Damn Stump!” I swung again, aiming the mattock at the only visible remnant of the Brazilian pepper tree I had cut down over thirteen years ago. I sweltered for hours back then, digging out the base of the huge, invasive pepper tree that dominated the walking path through my planned garden. The invasive Brazilian Peppertree is of the few trees the government wants you to take out, no permit needed! I was more than happy to oblige.

I dug to where I could stand in the trench around the tree stump up to my knees, but, try as I might, I could not budge the huge stump. I had used a chain saw to cut the pesky, unwanted tree down to size. It took me hours just to cut and drag away the limbs that spread over the path. The depth of the root system mocked me, no matter how deeply I dug around it. I dug, cut roots, and pried constantly, but to no avail. There was always an unseen root I couldn't sever to free the burdensome stump from its commanding location in the middle of my planned walkway.

After three days of digging, I stood in the trench around the firmly rooted stump, my shoulders even with the top of the visible remnant of the formidable tree. I could not break through the incredible root system that buried itself into Mother Earth as if to say, “We are one: you will not win!” Digging was simply not the answer.

I went to my garage and rummaged through my cans of chemicals, intent on killing this thing I could not defeat with an ax or a saw. But I would win, come hell or high water. I returned with a battery powered drill and a huge auger bit that allowed me to open the stump as a magician might open a window to another world. Mother nature never counted on Makita drills and human ingenuity. Or the ounce of pure weed killer I poured directly into the the circular wound I inflicted on my now defenseless adversary. One tap wouldn't do, I thought, boring five more deep holes into the trunk. Using an old kitchen funnel, each new avenue into the heart of the tree got a full load of weed killer. Now, I thought, we'll see who wins!

Every visitor's trip through our garden was prefaced with a warning not to trip over the stump that protruded defiantly in the middle of the path, receding ever so slowly each passing year. Rot finally weakened the stump. It actually moved when I kicked it. It took a half-hour of solid work to bust out all the old rotted roots, looking like a huge molar that needed a gigantic root canal. I filled my wheel barrow with dried, rotted roots, some as large as my thigh. I was left with a hole that belied the stubbornness and tenacity of the Peppertree that once stood there. No sign of the valiant struggle. I feel like I should commemorate the battle the tree put up in its fight to survive. Perhaps a marker of some sort, just not another tree. Especially not a Peppertree.

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 over in St. Augustine and would like you to join us as we bring it to its new home on the water here in Cape Coral!"

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 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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