Day Two: The One Where Lake Okeechobee Tried to Teach Us Humility

We woke up on Day Two to the gentle, comforting sound of…
dragging.

Yes. Our anchor—our beloved, trusted, “she’s got us” anchor—had decided she’d done enough work for one night and was going on strike.

Now, before we left Snook Bight Marina, a lovely lady aboard a fellow KK48 Whaleback had mentioned she wasn’t sure our anchor would hold well in mud. I smiled, nodded politely, and filed it under “things to think about later.”

Turns out “later” was sunrise, with the boat sliding along like an unattended shopping cart on a windy day.

Lesson of the morning:
Always listen to seasoned boaters. They know things. Important things. Like which anchors behave and which anchors have commitment issues.

After a night of not sleeping (because it’s your first time using an anchor alarm that you don’t know if you can trust), we pulled ourselves together and headed toward our first bridge of the day.

Now, I’m a planner.

I had a beautifully printed sheet with every bridge name, height, opening schedule—color coded, highlighted, probably laminated in spirit if not in fact.
Except… there was fine print on this bridge’s rules.

Fine print I failed to notice.

This particular bridge does not open before 9:00 a.m.

So yes, we arrived early like eager students, only to be told the classroom doors were locked.
We shrugged, turned the boat around, dropped anchor (again, with hopeful optimism), and bobbed around like lost bath toys.

At that point, after the zero hours of sleep and the one philosophical crisis about anchors, I decided what I really needed was a new plan.

A friend had recommended Riverhouse Marina so I called.
The lovely woman who answered told us they had a side-tie open and—bless her soul—it was easy to get into.

Done. Sold. Take my money. Give me a dock.

My husband—who is a rockstar—agreed this was the right move. Docking a single-screw boat with only an electric bow thruster and no stern thruster is… well… it's ballet with a refrigerator. But he said yes. Because he is amazing.

At 9:00 sharp, bridge opened and we headed out.

The Lock of Destiny

The first lock of the day?
Not like yesterday’s gentle “welcome to locking” experience.
No, this one was feeling feisty.

One of the doors wasn’t working, so we had to enter through the starboard side door only.

Remember:
Big boat + no stern thruster + tight space = Oh Lord, here we go.

Cue Rocky music.

My husband absolutely blew me away.
He drove our Kadey-Krogen through that single open door without touching a thing, then maneuvered her to the port side where we tied up.

I was speechless.
He made me speechless.
That never happens.

Of course, because drama is part of boating life, we also went crunch when I had to stop the boat with the bow line before we drifted too far forward. My heroic husband took one look and said, “It’s fine. If there’s damage, we’ll deal with it.”

Spoiler: he meant it.
Even bigger spoiler: no damage. Thank goodness for rub rails.

In the middle of all this, he had to sprint from the pilothouse to the stern, only to discover a missing rope… and then a half-rope. He grabbed that half and held on like a champion until the ordeal was over.

And then—because he’s apparently auditioning to be Boat Husband of the Year—he drove us back out through the starboard door without a scratch.

After that, we called it a half-day. We needed sleep. We needed peace. We needed… anything that didn’t involve anchors.

We cruised past derelict boats left from storms, taking in the strange beauty of them—ghost ships of Florida waterways—before reaching Riverhouse Marina.

The Sweetest Docking Crew Ever

I called ahead, and the staff could not have been kinder. Strong current? No problem. They talked us through the approach and even returned from an appointment just to help us dock. A fellow boater on the pier joined in, too.

That’s boating life:
Out here, everyone helps everyone—and thank goodness, because we needed every willing hand. We’d come off a floating dock that sat perfectly level with our deck and were now staring at a fixed dock positioned awkwardly between the stern doorway on the lower level and several feet below the bow exit. There was no world in which I could simply step off and secure our lines. The only option involved climbing up onto the dock like I was auditioning for an action movie.

And speaking of movies—picture the scene where the elevator jams between floors and some poor character considers squeezing through the gap while the entire audience yells, “Don’t do it!”

That’s exactly where my brain went.

And now, I’d love to tell you I tossed the bow line with grace, strength, and Olympic precision into the helpful man’s waiting hands.

I did not.

I threw it straight onto the dock.
A whole foot away from him.

I've never done that before, but hey—Day Two was apparently all about firsts.

Fortunately, my husband drove the boat in beautifully, and we tied up, secure, safe, and ready for…

No Sleep Yet

Instead of crashing, we ended up chatting with our new dock neighbors… and receiving an invitation to the Eagles Club for dinner. Naturally, we said yes. After a quick nap, we joined them for a lovely evening—learning a ton, listening to the captain’s stories, soaking up every bit of wisdom like true newbies.

We’d need that wisdom, because the next day we’d be anchoring again.

And there was no way—absolutely none—we were making it all the way to Stuart in one shot, not when you have 70+ miles to go, three more locks, more bridges, and you travel at 6-7 knts.

So we crawled into bed, ready to rest.

Except…
At 4:00 a.m., I was awake. Wide awake.
Staring at the ceiling.
Thinking about anchors.
Thinking about mud.
Thinking about tomorrow.

Day Two had taught me many things, but mostly this:

Boating will humble you…
and then reward you with kindness, adventure, and the best stories you never wanted to live through in the moment.