We woke early enough for this passage, but the weather had other plans. Conditions were stormier than predicted, and the swells were two to three times what the forecast suggested. We were in the middle of the Bahamas with no land in sight, crossing deep water that commands respect.
Then we approached Hole-in-the-Wall, where the Atlantic meets the southern end of the Abacos, and let’s just say: that stretch is legit. Even in fair weather, the ocean there is ancient and powerful. At thousands of feet deep, the depth finder doesn’t even register. My mind went to all the places sailors’ minds go when you’re in big water: what if something breaks? What if we misread this? What if we should’ve waited?
Conditions weren’t gnarly, just uncomfortable. And for the first time, I cried during a passage. I was tired, unsure, worried. The kids were being their usual low-key, low-energy as they do on a passage. Barrett was holding it together and helping carry the team while also feeling tired, unsure, and ready to get where we were going.
It was July 4th. We were leaving the Berry Islands and heading toward the Abacos. There were hardly any other cruisers around – just a couple tankers and some cruise ships. One tanker actually radioed us and altered their course because of the stormy weather and our speed/direction. I don’t want to know what that maneuver cost them (or do I?), but I’ll forever be grateful. That was our first real weather-passage experience: 16–18 knots of sustained wind, rain, then sudden calm, and then building swell again.
Somewhere in that crossing, I realized a truth we’d been circling for months but had yet to really connect with: we don’t control the schedule. We can plan, but the wind, the weather, and Agora decide the real timeline. Yes, we’re steering this boat, but we’re also surrendering to the pace of the sea. A new definition of “cruising life” settled in on that passage.
Eventually we reached an entrance to The Abacos near Little Harbour, but the swell made it uncomfortable, so we pushed farther north toward Lynyard Cay to meet up with a family boat we’d been in touch with through our cruising-with-kids community. We anchored in a peaceful spot, made dinner, dinghied to the beach for fireworks, and ended the Fourth of July around a fire pit with new friends. Major relaxation after a grueling day.
The next day we decompressed, acclimated back to life on the hook instead of on the move, and explored a new string of islands. We attempted a blue hole (twice) and failed (twice) thanks to the tide changes. But we played in the water, snorkeled in swelly conditions, and connected with some boats who would weave in and out of our Bahamian adventures, eventually meeting again in Great Guana.
Hard, beautiful, humbling. Those two crossings were ones to remember.
Leaving Bimini gave us our first reminder that even small departures can turn chaotic fast. From our anchorage via the channel near Alice Town, a combo of speed, current, and maybe some residual rain meant our dinghy started taking on water. So Barrett moved from the big boat to the little one mid-transit to pump out Squeasel (don’t tell the grandparents). We found some space outside the channel, waited for a moment of calm, did the thing, and carried on.
A little while later, we stopped and dropped our first open water anchor so Barrett and the kids could snorkel the SS Sapona shipwreck just south of Bimini while I wrapped up a work day. At the time, it was a little nerve-wracking, but mostly exhilarating. And looking back, it was an incredible opportunity I’ll never forget and feel so grateful to have.
From there, we overnighted off Cat Cay – apparently a private island, but we didn’t know or care. It was calm, quiet and easy to anchor. We made dinner and stayed on the boat, appreciating the scenery and feeling of anticipation for the unknown ahead.
Storms passed around us just far enough away to make the sky dramatic without being dangerous. It was one of those nights where the unexpected felt exciting instead of stressful. One of many nights in succession where we were alone in a Bahamian anchorage. Truly special.
Morning handed us a new lesson. We hardly considered the tides and didn’t plan to leave early enough for the passage we were going to make. Rookie cruiser learnings: not mistakes, because nothing went wrong, but clear reminders of how much we don’t know until we know it.
The water was shallow nearly the entire way out of Cat Cay, and while it was gorgeous, it made the day long. Add in the energy of passage-making with kids – feeding everyone, keeping the boat comfortable, staying present – and it was just an intense day.
The bank from Cat Cay to Chub Cay was stunning, though. We skipped any storms in the distance with just the occasional drizzle, avoided grounding, and navigated a day full of “what if we diverted?” conversations.
Sticking with our planned route taught us about our weather thresholds and about each other. We dropped the hook at Chub Cay just after dark (our first nighttime anchoring), and the charts were spot on. It was rolly, perched right off the Tongue of the Ocean, but our anchor held just fine. It was an isolated anchorage that left us feeling small in the best possible way.
We’re grateful to be always growing and learning.
From there, we headed to the Berry Islands, which deserve their own chapter of this journey, but the crossing from the Berry Islands to the Abacos belongs here, because it was one of the toughest passages we’ve had.
And that’s Part 2.
first sights of the Bahamian blue waterscruising life -> kids on shore, parents on dinghybailing out Squeaselstorms near Cat Caystormy skies at Cat Caysurrounding weathercrossing the Bankour first anchoring after dark
We left Key West on Father’s Day – the kind of morning that felt like a channel marker. A quiet “here we go” moment after months of planning, packing, unrooting, and re-rooting ourselves into boat life. Agora pointed east, the twins munching snacks in the cockpit, and the Straits of Florida stretching out like a long blue road. It was a rocky first part of the day with unexpected swells and both kids feeling sick before we moved further toward shore and found comfortable positioning in the Hawk Channel.
Anchored Outside Marathon: Just Us & the Stillness
Our first night after Key West was an anchorage outside Marathon. Quiet and still, it was a pocket of calm where it felt like we were the only people anywhere for miles. No dinghy rides, no shore runs, no errands – just the gentle reminder that this life can be slow when it wants to be.
I don’t think we realized how quickly that stillness would evaporate.
Rodriguez Key: New Friends, a Mackerel, & a Packed Anchorage
The next day brought Rodriguez Key – and our first “race,” if you can call it that, with another sailing family aboard Paradise II. Thank goodness for open radio channels and a growing community of folks sailing with kids.
Somewhere in the friendly chaos, we caught a mackerel. The kind of catch that makes everyone cheer, even if it’s not going to win any size contests.
The anchorage that night was crowded by comparison at that point. Boats sprinkled about like everyone had gotten the same memo and decided Rodriguez Key was the place to be. Or maybe it was just one of a few anchorages along that route.
No Name Harbor: Miami’s Chaos Meets Our Floating Home
Then came No Name Harbor, right outside Miami. Miami boat culture is… an experience. Let’s say we witnessed an educational range of powerboat behavior. Speed limits? Optional. Awareness of anchored boats? Debatable. But the water was warm, the sun was generous, and the current was strong.
We stuck around for a few days. Dinghied into the harbor. Walked the sandy path with iguanas and herons like extras in our private nature documentary. Ordered groceries via Instacart and somehow experienced 50% convenience and 50% comedy and 100% human. Ate at the little harbor restaurant and reveled in the simple magic of not doing dishes.
It felt like a tiny pause before the next push.
Fort Lauderdale: Inlets, Party Boats, & My Hardest Weekend Yet
Leaving Miami meant entering Port Everglades at Fort Lauderdale – our busiest inlet so far. Boats seemed to be everywhere. Party barges weaving between fishing vessels. Vessels that fit under the drawbridge shooting through while we held position and waited for the bridge to raise. I swear Agora held her breath with us. Shoutout to Barrett for his composure, experience, and general calm/cool/collectedness.
We tied up at Bahia Mar, a marina with its own little ecosystem: laundry, showers, a pool, walking distance to the beach, and a sense that maybe we could pause again after being fully on the move for weeks.
And then Barrett left for Dallas to attend a family funeral.
It was my (Susanna) first weekend on the boat alone with the twins in a long time. No emergencies. No disasters. Just the reality that this life – beautiful and freeing and transformative – is also demanding. And doing it solo, even briefly, can wring you out.
I was tense. Tired. Probably annoyed more often than I needed to be. (I’ve learned so much since June about pacing myself emotionally.) When Barrett came back, I think relief hit me in a way I didn’t even know I’d been holding in.
We reset. Regrouped. Did some boat prep we needed to do.
Because next up was the part we’d been dreaming about:
Our first morning in Key West started with phone calls home – catching up with family, showing off the new anchorage. During one call with my parents, we realized our mooring line was chafing badly. Oops. Quick fix: we swapped it for a bridle setup (probably what we should have done from the start).
Barrett changed the oil while I tackled other chores, and then we packed up for an adventure. Dinghying over to Key West Bight, we bought a day pass to leave our wonderful dinghy, Squeasel, at the dock and hopped on a bus to the beach.
There, we met up with friends – Megan, Jon, and their son Thomas. The plan was a beach BBQ, but another group had claimed the grill and fire Jon had started and refused to share. Classic curveball. Instead, the night morphed into sushi appetizers by the ocean, followed by dinner at their house. The kids got to play, the adults caught up, and laughter filled the evening. Sometimes the best memories come from plans gone sideways.
Our week in Key West unfolded in a groovy rhythm – a mix of work, play, and wandering.
Highlights included:
Fresh baked donuts at the docks.
Uniquely cruiser laundry and provisioning experiences.
Shopping, splash pad adventures, and long lunches.
Spotting horseshoe crabs in the marina.
Daily dolphin sightings around the anchorage.
Sunset after sunset that left us in awe.
Making phone calls on a vintage, yet functional, pay phone (for free) at Pepe’s Cafe.
The kids chatting with folks on the wharf, spouting fish facts as tarpon and parrotfish swirled below.
Meeting local artists, enjoying delicious food around town, and exploring Mallory Square.
A slightly rolly but beautiful Father’s Day sail north to Marathon.
Like most of our favorite stops, this one felt like more than just a stopover – it felt like a little chapter of our story. A Key West address, even if only for a week.
On June 5, we set out for our third overnight sail – this time from Marco Island to Key West. It turned out to be our most exciting one yet.
We pulled anchor in the late afternoon, around 5:30 or 6:00 p.m. Dinner was on the stove, Barrett was juggling some charting and kid-wrangling, and spirits were high as we pointed south. The air felt beautiful, buzzing with that mix of anticipation and nerves that comes with an overnight run.
Storms hovered on the horizon but never touched us. I took the first shift and kept us steady, even as the weather radar lit up in the distance. Through the night we had good wind – mostly 16–17 knots, with gusts creeping into the low-to-mid 20s. The forecast hadn’t quite captured the reality: rockier, rolly seas with bigger swell than expected. It’s becoming a bit of a theme – no matter how many times we check PredictWind, the ocean writes her own script.
Still, the sunrise was magic. After a long, intense night shift, Barrett got some rest while I took the helm and watched the sky turn from ink to watercolor. By morning, the water shifted to the stunning turquoise we’d been dreaming of – our first glimpse of the iconic Key West palette. We were giddy, knowing this was the kind of view we’d get to soak in for the next few weeks.
Our plan was to grab a mooring ball at Garrison Bight, just around the corner from Key West Bight Marina. Protected? Yes. Pretty? …Not so much. The water was murkier there than the clear shallows we’d just passed through. But we were tired, happy, and ready to tie up.
That’s when the real comedy began.
Mooring Ball Grab Attempt #1: I leaned over with the boat hook to snag the mooring eye, only to find it stuck. With too much momentum, I had to let go – sending the boat hook floating away. (Thankfully, it bobbed up “stick side” first, sparing us a loss and any lectures.)
Ball Grab Attempt #2: We lined up again, this time certain we’d nail it. Nope. Same problem. This time the hook went in the water again and started sinking instead of floating. Cue another scramble.
Ball Grab Attempt #3: We regrouped. I took the helm alongside Barrett. He lined us up, then ran forward and grabbed position on the bow. With one last try – success! He hooked the mooring ball, secured the line, and exhaled in relief.
Showers. Laundry. A tiki bar around the corner. Bingo (we even won!). Live music, ferrying laundry, fish-cleaning lessons. That night, we slept like rocks, grateful for our safe arrival in Key West.
Facts: We’re in St. Augustine, FL, and the last blog I drafted is dated 7/26/25. We’ve been to the Bahamas and back since the latest post here (6/27/25). There are many stories to tell and memories to recap.
Feelings: I miss writing for us, and I think daily about writing. I’ve even voice-typed drafts that I keep meaning to clean up and publish sooner rather than later. But I haven’t gotten there yet. I’ve felt overwhelmed by being behind. I’ve felt distracted and stressed by the daily operations of boat life. Things like finances, laundry, provisioning and meal prep, boat projects and repairs, logistics for ongoing and future travel, and balancing our jobs while alternating childcare, all while trying to stay present at the same time. I’ve felt disheartened by news headlines around the world, many from places I’ve called home at one time or another.
For now: I’m standing in the galley while some lentils simmer and Barrett is off with the boys, flying a kite to get their wiggles out. I figured the least I can do is share one timely update.
Here’s a brief recap, knowing that (eventually) we’ll properly document the trip with blogs galore.
In the past two months, we spent a week in Key West with some friends – new and old – before scurrying up the Florida Keys to spend a full week at a marina in Fort Lauderdale. Some of those days were planned, but the stay stretched longer than expected while we juggled repairs and prepped for international travel.
We spent just over a month in the Bahamas. Five weeks we will cherish forever because it was our first extended stay abroad as a family. It was a one-of-a-kind snorkeling experience that we will all remember for a long time. It was homesickness and frustrating parenting moments. It was rough seas and surprise squalls while underway. And it was still so much more.
There were sharks and sting rays, coconuts and conch shells, beach bars and wreck dives. We met amazing fellow travelers and the kindest locals. The water is unbelievably gorgeous – and though I will try through pictures and videos, the photos may never do justice to the natural beauty we experienced.
We learned a ton about living aboard, about boat ownership, and about ourselves. We laughed a lot – with joy and delirium. We cried a little bit – happy tears and some of deep sadness. Most of all, we loved each other and our time together living this dream while figuring it out as we went.
About three weeks ago, we checked back into the U.S. at Cape Canaveral. We had a broken generator that needed fixing, and then a major hurricane was passing in the Atlantic. Again, what was expected to be a short visit at the docks turned into a two-week-long marina stay.
We’re grateful to be on the move again, because our plan for what remains of hurricane season has been to spend a couple of months at a protected marina in southeast Georgia. We’ve been wanting to get there over the past couple of weeks, so as fun as it’s been to explore unexpected places, this particular delay has been far less than ideal and costly – in both time and money – for the summer.
We’re also grateful for calm waters, for the support of friends near and far, and for the laughter and chaos of the kids along the way. It’s gratitude that keeps running through all of it – for what we’ve navigated, for the seas (calm and stormy alike), and for the chance to set some things in motion on our own terms.
There’s so much hope and excitement in being right here, in this moment, knowing the wind has carried us exactly where we need to be.
We can’t wait to reach our next harbor, where we’ll finally tie up to a dock long enough to catch our breath, take stock, and reflect on just how far we’ve come on this journey.
Cruising life is testing the limits of my vanity (and teaching me new ones).
When we lived at the marina, water was easy – we could refill our empty tanks with no issue. Agora is a racer-cruiser sailboat that leans toward racer, so we don’t have many of the amenities traditional cruiser boats do, like solar panels, dinghy davits, or a watermaker.
We’re extra conscious of water usage – it means minimal soaping, saltwater rinses when possible, and short showers. Shaving is a luxury, and when it happens, it’s logistical. Still, I’ve joked for years with Barrett that I’m a lady of luxury.
Here’s the truth about life at sea: we do have hot days, salty skin, and limited water. But we don’t go to bed dirty or forsake hygiene for happiness. We live in a constant state of camp clean.
It’s kind of like glamping. It’s not “we have company coming” house clean, but it’s not fully off-the-grid middle-of-nowhere living either. (Though it is closer to the latter.) We’d love to install a watermaker onboard someday, but it’s a pricey project we’re not prioritizing yet. Sometimes Barrett and I have to choose between a full French press of coffee or two bags of tea. And that’s OK.
In the meantime, we get the dishes mostly done every day – and completely done in a big batch the next morning. There’s salt on every surface, but the sun dries things quickly.
This chapter is teaching us to be more connected to our bodies and the earth. To feel less vanity and more freedom. I hope it’s doing the same for the kids – though they don’t have the same societal norms burned into their brains yet.
Messy today looks different than it did eight months ago, but there’s not much in our boat life that looks the same. Most things look better.
One thing Barrett and I reflect on often is how grateful we are for our time living at the marina before heading out to cruise full-time. That’s how we got to know the boat, its systems, Agora’s quirks, and our rhythms. Our priorities haven’t changed much – they’ve just come into better focus.
We arrived in Marco Island on Memorial Day, expecting to stay a few days and find a weather window to make the passage to Key West. When Friday came, we were both pretty worn out from the past week and ready to rest and explore – so we stayed put. Little did we know at the time, we were opting out of a potentially great weather window and ended up having to stick around Marco Island for another six days.
In retrospect, we would have left sooner than we did but our time there was good for a few reasons. It forced us to slow down, literally and figuratively – laws mandate idle speed in the bays and waterways of Marco Island. We observed wildlife and lived in the moment. It helped us settle into this cruising life and cherish the wonder on the kids’ faces, enjoying life on the hook and learning how to adapt when the weather has its plans.
Here are some Marco Island highlights:
A significant current in the wide channel coming in from the Gulf
Beautiful beaches, full of shells worth staring at
The joy of fresh water – washing the boat and our clothes!
A too-shallow slip assignment in which Agora was sitting on the keel for hours when the tide went out (the marina apologized and refunded the stay)
Trouble finding Dolphin Tiki Bar & Grill, only to realize that their tagline is half the fun is finding us
Circling to find an anchorage after option one was too shallow and shifty from the river current
Manatees and natural beauty & a small-town feeling
Dolphin close enough to touch from the dinghy (we didn’t)
Canals for days
Gold Star rating: the public dinghy dock for boat parking while shopping at Winn-Dixie
Leaving Panama City for Port St. Joe somehow felt like a bigger, more meaningful departure than leaving Pensacola for Destin, even though it was a shorter day hop and generally closer to shore. Departing Pensacola marked the first time the family went offshore together, while heading to Port St. Joe marked the reality of a longer crossing to the other side of Florida’s Big Bend.
The trip into Port St. Joe lacked the excitement of our approach to Panama City (Barrett and the Coast Guard chatting on the radio while I was on a work call) or Destin (crashing waves on shallow shoaling plus Spring Break 4.0 boating community under the bridge). In all honesty, it was unremarkable other than being the first place with water clear enough we could see the anchor on the seafloor below. It was our first anchorage where we were the only boat in sight overnight. Also, it was there that we decided to skip Carrabelle and cross straight to Tarpon Springs. The weather looked great, and going up to Carrabelle added 12 hours to the trip, so we consulted our weather expert and prepped for our first overnight.
When we started this adventure, we said we’d mostly travel in day hops and short sails. We knew a longer crossing from the Florida Panhandle to South Florida would be necessary, and in the early days, we even discussed how to pull in additional crew for the passage. Little did we know 1. how much time we’d lose while Agora was on the hard in Alabama, and 2. what we’re capable of as a team when it comes to tackling overnights. When we decided to take the perfect weather window and go to Tarpon Springs, it felt like a big deal.
I took the first 5ish hours from 8 p.m. – 1 a.m. while Barrett wrangled the kids for their first bedtime underway. They knew something big was going on, and I think they reflected our excited but nervous energy. I gathered my goodies for going on watch (hot tea, sour patch kids, resistance bands, and a romance novel… IYKYK), and settled in. I knew if I paused long enough to really think about it, I would feel anxious, scared, or intimidated. Because it was kind of my idea to just go ahead from Port St. Joe, and I knew it had to happen, I went with my gut and leaned into the unknown. And let me tell you, I have always loved the unknown.
The sun slowly set. The temperature cooled. There was no moonlight, but there was starlight. Otto was on Autopilot, so I was the eyes on the water, paying attention to what’s ahead and on the side of us – monitoring the charts and, most importantly, staying awake. In between looking out from the cockpit, I painted my nails, read my book, spotted bioluminescence, and observed a satellite launch and a lightning storm far away. We’d been discussing for days leading up to this what it might mean for our little crew and how to approach it, and also what to do if, at any point, something didn’t seem quite right. So when the steaming light started blinking in the middle of my shift, I knew I had to say something. It needs some more attention to see what is going on, but it was otherwise an uneventful shift.
When Barrett came back on deck again around 1 a.m., it felt like a big win – and I felt proud of myself in a new way. I brushed my teeth, snapped a sleepy selfie for posterity, and read a chapter to settle down for some required rest. I checked in at 4:45 that morning, and when Barrett – in all his morning person glory – told me I could sleep for another hour, I ran with it.
We traded watch shortly after sunrise, and soon I had an under-six morning person in the family join me for some early chatter. Even once everyone was awake and fed, we still had about 5 hours to get to our destination. We knew Clearwater or Tarpon Springs were in the general direction, but because we’d lost service offshore and couldn’t call ahead to marinas the evening before, we didn’t know exactly where we were going.
Turns out the Clearwater marina was closed due to lingering repairs from last year’s hurricanes, and one in Tarpon Springs was closed due to present power outages, we called the Anclote Village Marina. Barrett learned we wouldn’t be able to fit in the marina, but we could anchor three miles away and dinghy in for a fuel refill. So he emptied our onboard diesel cans to be ready upon arrival while we dodged crab traps and fought the current coming into the anchorage.
It was a spot with serious tide changes, and a clear and sudden shift from deep to shallow while dropping the anchor. I’m grateful for whatever intuition told me to stop and drop anchor when we did, because later that evening we realized just how dramatic a shift in tides. What was 13’ became 8’, and in the not-so-distant-distance, there were birds walking on land that used to be underwater.
We paused just long enough outside Tarpon Springs to get fuel and recharge for an overnight before pulling anchor and moving along again. It was yet another morning when we left the anchorage and kind of knew where we might end up for the night.
We thought we were headed toward St. Petersburg, but the best place for us to pause overnight would be a marina located three hours up into the bay, which meant another three out the next day for departure. After weather consultation and co-captain conversation, about two hours into the trip we decided to bypass St. Pete altogether and make another overnight trip to Marco Island in South Florida. Some storms showed up along the shore as the sun set, and some fishing boats popped up on the horizon, but it was a generally quiet trip. Overnights are quite fun when weather isn’t an issue, and technology is on your side.
first solo overnight shiftcalling ahead to marinasemptying diesel cans on the gothe tiki bar next doors to Anclote Village Marinachanging tides in Anclote Key
After a month of the boat being out of the water for repairs, EVERYBODY here was excited to get back on the move. While we had a bit of a false start with a complicated propeller reinstall, Barrett and the team at Saunders made sure the throttle felt normal before we officially launched again.
We spent one night on the water near Orange Beach – for a final round of bushwackers at Pirate’s Cove, and so we could get the remaining mail deliveries on our way out of town. Carla and Keith saw us off in fabulous style with a handoff of packages in the middle of the ICW.
We waved goodbye and blew kisses, and only some of us cried. (Spoiler: it was me, Susanna. It’s almost always me.) It was a strange, stressful, and surreal month in Alabama. Leaving Orange Beach, I felt the way I expected to feel on our initial launch from Pensacola. Relief, excitement, gratitude.
We took an exciting trip east back toward Pensacola on Friday, May 16, in which the engine began making strange noises. Barrett diagnosed the issue as a loose (read: very worn and tired) alternator belt. So, as any normal cruising family would do, we turned the engine off and drifted for a little while as Barrett tightened the belt a bit… a couple of times.
It was an otherwise calm cruise down the ICW in reverse of our very first trip as a family – and we even landed in the same perfect anchorage outside Pensacola. The Big Lagoon, where it all began a month prior. We had been dragging the dinghy (aka Squeasel), so it was an easy bop over to the beach where the kids played in the surf and new friends were made. We knew the next morning would be the start of more travel, so we mounted Squeasel again, had a sunset dinner, and everyone went to bed early.
Just one night in Pensacola, where we replaced the jib roller – the last repair from damage done on the passage, then it was on to Destin for a night. We were finally able to put the sails up for a part of the trip there. It was everyone but Barrett’s first real experience offshore, and the boys both had funny tummies. A little bout with seasickness followed by lots of rest time, but everyone was OK at the end of the trip. Destin Harbor was busy and loud during the day, but quiet and lovely during the night. Entering the channel there was our first sight of clear, turquoise water. The kids noticed, and one said, “This is the most beautiful water I’ve seen!” The entrance to the harbor has some serious shallows and shoaling, but it all turned out well coming and going.
Following one short night in Destin, we moved right along to Panama City, where we needed to pause and spend the work week. Or at least our current work week. Since Barrett works three days a week, and I have flexibility in my work, we arrived on Monday afternoon and left on Thursday morning – so, it was also brief, but beautiful.
Knowing we’d stay put for a few nights, we launched the dinghy and the paddle board in Panama City for some sandcastle creations and snorkeling practice. The Lower Grand Lagoon Anchorage is nestled up against St. Andrew’s State Park, and we loved it. Quiet and still when we needed it to be, but full of nature (dolphins, hermit crabs, osprey, starfish, stingrays, and countless moon jellies). Plus other fun observations like tiki-themed pedal parties, sunset cruises, and live bait boats moored nearby. Truly a unique location.
We lived along the northern Gulf Coast of Florida, one day at a time. From our return to a familiar anchorage in Pensacola to a hot minute visit at what felt like Disneyland for boaters in Destin, then paradise in Panama City.
Sailing Agora 