Tuesday's weather forecast stank. For the next three days a 40-mile-an-hour north wind would be whipping Lake Okeechobee into a lather. Tom envisioned a colossal wave slamming us down onto a rock in some spot where the lake is only little more than four feet deep. I envisioned us crossing on a beam wind and feeling miserable for half a day. Flags at the lock stood straight out and we stayed put, safe on our swinging tethers.

The day was cool, sunshiny and bright and it emphasized streaks and spots on the windows. A rigorous application of Windex took care of that but Tom had a much bigger job - unclogging the vents. He moved the sofa and took off the wall panels for access and then checked the hoses which, to his good fortune, were clear. It was the thru-hull fittings that were corroded and plugged up with some powdery substance and it only needed to be scraped off. So, we had nothing to do for the rest of the day but lounge around in our slippers, eat strawberry crepes, and read paperbacks as Pura Vida tugged at her lines. 

Next morning the readings on our 5-year-old battery were too low for comfort. We'd have no more sitting at anchor for three days. We had to go somewhere, and there were only two choices: go across the lake or back where we came from. Flags still stood at attention. Tom's next move was to unhook the lines, lift them off the cleats, as I turned us around to go back to the St. Lucie Lock, 24 miles away. There was virtually no boat traffic or radio traffic. Every couple of hours some distant coast guard station would crackle over the airwaves with an updated notice to mariners or hazard warning to break the stillness. But we had a new problem. Pura Vida was burning way too much oil and exhaling blue. Tom hoped we'd make it to Dunedin where he'd try to figure out what to do. 

Thursday morning's forecast hadn't changed, according to NOAA, but the wind had calmed down. We got back to Port Mayaca - at least we were going in the right direction - and Tom called the lockmaster about lake conditions. The lock blocked our view but the lockmaster has a clear field of vision over the lake. "Looks like a light chop but I don't see any whitecaps," he reported. Tom said, "Let's go for it." We sailed on into the big bad lake; it was a pussy cat. 

At Clewiston we turned right to go up the canal and saw more alligators than you can shake a stick at. Not surprisingly, there wasn't a turtle in sight - to gators, they're hors d'oeuvres. Hundreds of bare tree trunks remain, poking through thick tangles of growth, years after the Corps of  Engineers sprayed poison on thousands of slash pines because they're not "native" to Florida. Along the canal, eagles and ospreys look down from their lofty roosting places, colorful red-winged blackbirds perch in tall, dry grasses, cattle egrets stand like flocks of yard ornaments, and long-legged herons stalk the shoreline, waiting for tasty morsels to swim by. This is the sort of place they refer to as "the real Florida." 

At the Moore Haven Lock we slid right on through the open gates without having to stop and wait for the water level to change. We tied up for the night at the City Dock to plug in our dying batteries, fill the water tank, dump the trash and best of all, get a real shower. My hair didn't feel like straw any more! A walk into the town of Moore Haven showed little improvement since the last time we'd passed through: Boarded up windows, vacant crumbling buildings, sagging houses, and booby-trapped slanted sidewalks constitute the town. On Friday as we approached Florida's west coast, communities appeared more affluent. Near Fort Myers, luxurious homes are surrounded by sprawling green lawns and usually have a boat or two tied up at their private dock.

Putt-putting across Florida through the canals on weekdays was like a quiet stroll down a country lane. Contrast that with a sunny Saturday morning in the ICW between Fort Myers and Long Boat Key, dodging break-neck traffic on a busy interstate. Radio traffic was heavy too, one transmission stepping on the next. One group of young revelers flew by us, one after another, in ear-splitting cigarette boats and smaller race boats, each one trying to be faster and louder than the last.

You can't expect to find room in a popular anchorage on a Saturday unless you get there early. We pulled into Cayo Costa State Park before two o'clock and slipped into one of the last openings. The park's beach and surrounding water looked like a weekend playground for locals. Those with smaller boats just ran them up on the sandy beach next to the sunbathers. Sundown brought on a golden silence until the last faint glimmer of light had faded. "What's that ratcheting noise?" Tom asked. "Don't you hear it?" I did, but when we went outside it disappeared. I got on my knees and put my ear to the floor. "It's under the boat," I said. We determined it must be pistol shrimp, those finger-size crustaceans with oversized claws that resemble boxing gloves used to stun their prey by snapping their claws shut. It's that snapping that produces the sharp cracking sound. It's said that when whole colonies of pistol shrimp snap their claws, submarines can take advantage of the noise to hide from sonar. We were rat-a-tat-tatted to sleep. 

Sunday night's anchorage at Longboat Key was just as scenic as the night before, but without the pesky little shrimp.