Day Three: The Lake Strikes Back

 

Day Three was supposed to be our big push: Moore Haven to the St. Lucie Lock with dreams of making Stuart before nightfall. We left Riverhouse Marina after a brief delay waiting on a train bridge—foreshadowing we absolutely did not pick up on at the time.

Our spirits were high. If we hit St. Lucie by 4:30, we could tuck into Stuart like seasoned pros. But first, we called ahead to the Moore Haven lock, determined not to repeat our last rodeo. They were friendly. We slid through the first lock without a single dramatic moment. Confidence level: ridiculously high.

Then came Lake Okeechobee.

Many had warned us: “It gets shallow out there.” But watching the depth drop from ten feet… to eight… to six… to 0.8 under the keel is an entirely different experience. I think I aged three years before we even made the turn into the lake itself. We stayed glued to the center of the channel for the greatest depths.

Once inside the lake’s belly, the chop eased, and it turned almost… pleasant? We took pictures of passing boats, watched birds gather on some bizarre mystery object (pictured above), and spotted half-submerged poles that looked like the skeletal remains of unfortunate pirates. Pretty standard Okeechobee vibes.

The Mayaka lock, which I’d been apprehensive about due to it being straight off the lake, was the easiest ever, as there was no lock. That’s right, no navigating in, tying up, or anything. They opened the doors and we cruised on through.

This was a huge time savor so we knew we’d make it all the way to Stuart now. Right?

That was our mistake.

Because in Indiantown, a train bridge decided to crush our timeline. No one answered our hails. A westbound boat finally let us know that a train might be coming. Then we waited. And waited. And… waited. We hailed the westbound boat after a half hour of bobbing about, and that’s when the controller finally answered, stating a train would be coming. Another fifteen or twenty minutes passed, and a five-car Amtrak train finally zipped through, but the bridge stayed firmly closed, probably laughing at us.

After an hour of circling like confused ducks and giving the bow thruster a workout, the bridge finally opened. We bolted for the lock.

But of course, there is always another obstacle.

We were cruising at a depth of around 4.8 under keel until we ran aground without warning.

Reality: mud monster ambush.

       

My husband threw her in reverse like he was auditioning for Fast & Furious: Okeechobee Drift, and somehow we popped free. We even saw the lock—glorious, taunting, RIGHT THERE.

Time: 4:38.

I hailed he lock just in case, but alas, the lock was closed until 7AM. the next day.

So we anchored. Three times. Naturally.

We slept in a state I’ll call “semi-conscious paranoia,” waiting for the anchor alarm to scream at us. It never did. The anchorage was quiet. Isolated. Slightly eerie. But safe enough.

In the morning, the St. Lucie Lock would open at 7 a.m.—and though someone warned us the operator was “mean,” at this point we’d faced worse: queue anchor dragging, mud,  and trains.

Tomorrow was just 7.5 nautical miles. and then: transit complete.

Stay tuned for Day Four… where surely nothing else goes wrong. Right?

Right??