Our first stop of the trip was on the third day. Boats were coming in and out of the inlet to Fort Pierce, Florida. Several dive boats were tied up close to shore. I didn't know what they could be diving on. We chugged inland, boucing all over the place in the confluence of wakes and waves. On the North side of the channel was a small island with scraggly trees all over it and a few boats of teenagers pulled up to it. On the other side, houses were right on the water, along with some small marinas. Cars everywhere, on a road that was maybe a hundred yards from the edge of the water, shooting up over a tall arch bridge into the sun. That was our bridge. We turned to head into the narrow channel flowing between its pilings, inched towards it, jouncing about in the waves. Josh tapped the throttle forward. We inched towards the bridge. Out of nowhere, some Sea Ray blasted around us and cut us off. The wake pushed us to starboard a bit, but we slid smoothly between the huge concrete pillars. Then we chugged along, looking for the channel markers that would lead us into the marina. Ahead, I saw three fins crest the surface together-the first dolphins of the trip. To port, there was a fairly handsome-looking waste water treatment plant, relatively speaking. A small skiff was tied up to the seawall, and...was that a snorkel? Yes, yes it was. Josh and I focused on the task at hand-there was a channel to starboard that appeared to lead to the ritzy marina there. But our channel was supposed to be a little bit further South. We kept going, using the little red and green points on the GPS. There was nothing where they were supposed to be in the water.
Turning around, not sure what to do, we radioed the marina. The dockmaster informed us that the original channel had 'shoaled up' in the hurricane last year. As we turned into the channel, a huge spotted eagle ray came right along the stern, every spot on its back shimmering clear. In front of the marina, I asked Josh about his parking plan, just like Captain Bruce had in Islamorada. He asked me if I wanted to put us in. Sure. The fuel dock was to our port side. I pulled along the seawall to our starboard, cut to idle, and cranked the wheel to port. We turned across the entrance of the marina and edged up to the dock, smooth like silk.
Josh went to find the office. I got my dock shoes on, ripped the tag off, and followed after, wearing my blackened yellow short shorts, visor, and shades. I passed a guy about my age. I had a very strong feeling he was the dockhand, but I kept going. I wanted to see the office, to see something. I thought I felt some vibe from a pair of older gents hosing down their fishing behemoths. They could probably smell me. The marina was full of top-end fishing boats and yachts. Off in another part I could see a nest of masts and stays.
Back at the boat, the attendant was holding the diesel nozzle, and I stood looking at him. "Oh, I fill it?" I said. In the instant I said it, a rush of cultural common sense hit me. What I was supposed to think was-it's our boat, why would we want some teenager spilling pink diesel all over it, rah rah. We filled up the tank and two gerry jugs, got some ice, and headed out. The sun was going down over Fort Pierce. There wasn't much to see from the water-the biggest building was the white monolithic clubhouse of the Marina. The water was still incredibly clear and green. I tried to make out manatees in the dark blotches of grass on the bottom. As we emerged, then, on the Atlantic, a huge Coast Guard cutter stood like a wall in front of us, headed in. We kept putzing along, and realized it wasn't moving. It was just out of the marked channel. We thought we were witnessing a grounding of tanker-like magnitude. Then they hoisted a bouy on board, and we noticed the huge churning going on at the back. They were holding fast in the rushing tide, tending buoys in the failing sun.