Day Four: Locks, Legends, and a Knight in a Dinghy

Day Four of our Okeechobee crossing began like all great boating stories do: in the dark, at 4:00 a.m., with something just unsettling enough to jolt us fully awake. Plot Twist had swung completely around in the anchorage—nothing unusual—but considering the anchor had already proven to be more enthusiastic than reliable, we weren’t exactly comforted. We lay there for a while, trying to drift back to sleep, but the kind of rest you get between 4:00 and 6:00 a.m. 

The day ahead felt big. We knew we might need to anchor in a windy bay, and with an anchor we didn’t trust, uncertainty makes itself very comfortable in your mind. Rumor also had it that the lock operator we’d encounter next was, reportedly, “downright mean.” Nothing like a little morning dread to go with your coffee.

Before we even raised anchor, a boat motored up the channel and hailed the lock operator. We quickly hailed to be second in line. A third boat slipped out from the campground and marina across from us. Then a fourth hailed from behind. And just like that, before sunrise, we were part of a four-boat parade into a lock that would take nearly an hour to turn around due to the thirteen-foot water-level change. Instead of waiting for another cycle, we decided to slide right on in with the group.

It was our first lock with that many boats inside, and one of the captains was single-handing, struggling a bit with the lines. But Chris and I slipped into our teamwork rhythm—one of the best parts of cruising together. We snagged our lines cleanly, adjusted our position, and settled in. Just when I thought we were set for the descent, the lock operator came outside and headed straight for me. “Ma’am! Your rope might not be long enough for this drop. I’m going to get you another one.” Before I could answer, he hustled to get a longer line, worried that even tossing it might splash mud on me. He passed it down gently with the biggest smile. After all the warnings of a grumpy lock operator, this man ended up being one of the friendliest we’d ever met. Whether Mr. Grumpy Pants had the day off or the stories were exaggerated, we’ll never know—but our experience was nothing short of stellar.

Once free of the lock, we pushed through some of the shallowest water we’d seen yet as the St. Lucie Canal twisted ahead, narrow and bordered by palms and cypress. We watched the depth sounder like hawks until suddenly the waterway widened, the air shifted, and we swore we could smell the ocean. After days of freshwater, tight channels, and more learning curves than we could count, that hint of salt in the breeze felt like a promise.

But the anticipation of reaching the coast was overshadowed by a new concern spinning in my head: grabbing a mooring ball. I pictured chop, swell, whitecaps slapping the hull. I imagined reaching for a ball with a hole the size of a thimble from the fourteen-foot-high bow of our boat, boat hook extended in a desperate, wobbly stretch that ended with me falling dramatically into the water. In my mind, it was a nautical comedy gone wrong.

Reality, however, had a different plot twist.

Just as we entered the bay, out of the shimmering distance came a dinghy—a sleek little vessel cutting across the water with purpose. And at the helm was our unexpected hero: Chuck. He pulled up with an easy smile and a casual confidence that immediately calmed every frazzled nerve in my body. Without judgment or hesitation, he offered help. Thank goodness he did, because it turned out we had been shown the wrong way to moor our boat. I’d never been comfortable with the one line method we’d been taught. Especially when it hadn’t held the weight of our boat. Chuck explained the correct technique with patience, kindness, and not a single hint of superiority. He even positioned and ran the lines through the mooring ball for us.

Once again, my vivid imagination had run away without me. There were no white caps or strong current. And the mooring ball, once the star of my anxiety-filled disaster fantasies, felt perfectly manageable. Chuck motored off into the anchorage as casually as he’d arrived, leaving behind two grateful boaters and one properly moored Kadey-Krogen.

And just like that, Day Four didn’t end with fear, chaos, or the disaster reel my imagination had prepared. It ended with community, kindness, and the kind of unexpected hero who reminds you why cruising is worth every early wakeup and every nerve-wracking moment—because out here, you never know when a Chuck will appear on his silver steed to save the day.