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.
Greetings from Orange Beach, Alabama! The skies really are so blue here, where we’ve been waylaid for just over a month.
We’ve worked hard lately, as parents, as partners, and as professionals, and while we knew a haul out mid-April would entail some critical boat repair, neither of us ever thought we would spend so much time in Alabama. It sort of feels like we got stuck before we even got off the starting line for cruising this year. This is all part of our life, and we wouldn’t be doing it if we weren’t flexible and able to roll with the punches. The reality is we wanted to be looking at the Florida Keys right now, and instead, we’re looking at getting past Destin.
It hasn’t been easy, but it has been fun!
We’ve spent hours at the beach, spotted dolphins at sunset on several occasions, dyed eggs for Easter, and celebrated Mother’s Day. We found ourselves always birdwatching, getting snuggled up on rainy days to watch family movies, and returning to a wonderful local playground and waterfront park. We have a favorite hiking trail here now, and we experienced several impressive versions a bushwacker.
Agora spent exactly a month at a shipyard with the crew at Saunder’s Yachtworks, on the hard and getting some TLC after the delivery passage. After all the events Barrett shared in his previous posts, we needed a new cutlass bearing, a new propeller shaft, and a new shaft log. We had the pros install an emergency swim ladder, and we upgraded the bow roller to improve our anchoring system. Thankfully, the mystery engine issue worked itself out with all the prop and shaft repairs mentioned above.
While we’ve been here, Barrett single-handedly (with phone-a-friend support, thanks Bill, Keith, & Steve) repaired the damage done by the anchor coming loose. He totally crushed the fiberglass work on a project we got an initial $10,000 quote to fix. Way to go, Barrett!!
Agora was put back in the water on May 15 and needed time to sit before testing to make sure all the work below the waterline settled properly. We spent one night in Gulf Shores at Homefront Marina, which is connected to Lulu’s, a vibrant restaurant by Jimmy Buffett’s sister on the ICW with great live music, tasty food, and a huge sand playground for all ages.
On the sea trial the next day, the engine seemed fine, but something still wasn’t right with the throttle. So, Agora was hauled out two more times to tweak the feathering prop, a complicated installation that apparently everyone learned something from. The third time really was the charm, and we threw the dock lines yet again!
There are no words to express our gratitude for our Houston family friends, Carla and Keith, who happen to be living in Orange Beach at the same time as our detour here. We’ve been fortunate enough to feel at home in a little compound of two casitas and gazebos – perfect for our family of four. With access to two pools, laundry facilities, and reliable Wifi, there is truly not much more we could ask for. Thanks to our dear friends for their hospitality, including a loaned golf cart (land dinghy!) to get around and a borrowed Jeep when we needed to visit the shipyard or they insisted we explore places a little further away (hello, Flora-bama!). We are forever grateful.
As we prepare for our biggest adventure yet, we find ourselves planning where we’ll go now – and what’s next moving forward. Stay tuned!
While the delivery passage was underway, there were moments of stress and anxiety among what we dubbed the kid-delivery crew – Grandma Kit, Aunt Mer Mer, the twins, and me.
Despite some sleepless nights of worry for the boat and crew, there were also moments of joy and laughter in a town that was new to all of us! I am so grateful to Kit and Meredith for being a part of the journey; huge thanks to them for being there for all of us. It was a memorable trip for all of us, I’m sure.
We had a great time exploring Pensacola over the course of one time warp week. We made the most of two separate Airbnb rentals – recharging, recuperating, and repairing what we could following the delivery through the ICW from Galveston.
Tearfully watching Agora motor into the harbor at Palafox, and welcoming the boat and remaining crew to Pensacola with those first hugs after a very long, tense five-day journey.
Attending a Blue Wahoos MiLB game (the boys’ first ticketed baseball game!)… and then seeing fireworks at the stadium a few nights later from the cockpit at the marina while debriefing the delivery with Kit & Farley
Wandering around Pensacola for a few days with Barrett and the kids, finding festivals, food halls, and fun places to play games
After throwing the dock lines yet again from Palafox, we spent a couple of days on the hook in the Big Lagoon outside of Pensacola Bay. We took the dinghy off deck to explore white sand beaches, practice our birdwatching, and observe hermit crabs at eye level. In an almost surreal welcome to cruising life, we also had dolphin visitors at dinner on deck the first night and again the next morning. Not to mention, what felt like a private Blue Angels practice show, thanks to the anchorage’s proximity to the Naval Air Station in Pensacola.
We pulled up the anchor in Pensacola on Tuesday, April 15. Then we headed west toward a shipyard that could handle Agora’s height and any repairs needed. It was only about a three-hour trip through the ICW on a pleasant day with calm waters before we arrived at Bay La Launch in Baldwin County, Alabama. We anchored in beautiful weather and had our calmest night on the hook yet. We enjoyed a gorgeous sunset after cheeseburgers for dinner, and bird songs lulled us to sleep.
Just another hour west to Gulf Shores, we pulled in at Saunders Yachtworks to get hauled out and assess the damage sustained from the passage. It was quite a shock when we pulled into the deep slip at the shipyard and immediately began getting lifted out of the water. We assumed we’d get off the boat and then the lift would engage! Once secure mid-air, though, we all climbed off, and the team there carefully operated the wheeled lift to take Agora the rest of the way, positioning her on some boat stands. We were able to pack up toys and toiletries, clothing, and fridge items, because we had a feeling we might be on land for a while.
sister time in PensacolaAgora at Palafox Pier Yacht Harbor MarinaA Blue Wahoos game, with Palafox Marina (and Agora’s mast) in the backgroundy’all, don’t sleep on Pensacola’s public parks!helping handsbye bye Mer Merwe love you Mer MerAgora leaving PalafoxAgora on the hook, our first dinghy tripthe Blue Angels overheadAgora being hauled out in Gulf Shores, ALWhat will be diagnosed as a shot cutlass bearing, a broken propeller shaft, and a shaft log that requires rebuildingmorning craft time70′ going under a 73′ bridgeheading to Gulf Shores
I’m proud of what we’ve done and smiling as the conversation begins:
Me: “North Claiborne Bridge, this is Sailing Vessel Agora with 70-foot air draft, we are in line at the Industrial Lock and looking to pass through in the next few minutes.”
Bridge operator: “Sailing Vessel Agora, please stand by… Hey Agora, is there any way you can lower your air draft?”
Like, cut down the mast?, I wonder.
Me: “No, sir, we have a 70-foot mast.”
Bridge operator: “Well, the bridge is out of order, should be running again mid next week.”
Pause… My brain stops, I don’t understand, I’m waiting for some indication this is a joke.
Me: “Can you tell me the nearest option to get through? We are trying to get to Gulfport and on to Pensacola.”
Bridge operator: <no answer>
Random barge operator (again, really super friendly guys): “Hey Agora, really, your only option is to head downriver to Baptise Collette and head up that way.”
Me: “OK, thank you.”
I look it up, and it’s 80 nm south in the wrong direction just to get to the gap. And then we have to go back up the same distance to Gulfport. We were almost done.
I go up on deck to tell the crew the news, and everyone looks at each other, shrugs, and then we turn down the river.
I could not ask for a better group. I’m sure people were frustrated and disappointed, but there was nothing to do but keep going. We spent the rest of the day heading down the mighty Mississippi, which, after the narrow ICW, seemed like a super highway. It’s 100 ft across, 100 ft deep, and because of the intense wind, the traffic is way down, with a lot of barges anchored to the side. Despite the frustrating circumstances, it’s kind of fun.
When we planned on doing the outside passage weeks before, our marina mate Tom (yes, same Tom from the beginning of the story) suggested we stop in Venice Marina via an inlet from the Gulf to rest and get gas. At the time, I said no way, because we were going all the way around offshore. Well, guess what is just next to Baptise Collette?
I’d like to say we pulled into Venice with no problem, but we managed to run aground on the way in and have our mystery throttle smoke and sludge problem, but in the end, we made it. We thought we’d be in Gulfport, and instead, we are pulling in to get fuel and stay for the night way farther south in a small town (population 500). To rest and re-plan the rest of our trip.
I will say we had a good dinner and some drinks alongside what appeared to be a large percentage of the 500 residents of Venice at the marina before heading to the boat to try and troubleshoot our engine/throttle issue and get some sleep.
The throttle issue was not solved, but the sleep issue was definitely solved, even with waking up early and heading out in hopes of a better weather window. There was a lot of discussion about wind and potential giant swells, but we finally got out of the channel and got a sail up! We were sailing (motor sailing with just the jib, but still) and felt good, except for one detail. It’s cold. With the full force of the wind and weather system pushing it, we are all wearing full foul weather gear on top of every warm thing we brought. And it is bumping – we are heading on a tight reach into waves, bouncing all the way to Gulfport. Some sea sickness symptoms and not the best sleep, but we are making good time with the jib. We eventually need to turn up a bit, so we pull in the jib and watch the speed drop waaaay down. We decide to pull it back out and take the less direct angle at a faster speed, but soon start hearing a thumping. It sounds like someone below left a door open. I went down and found Will sitting up in the V berth wide-eyed, “I think it’s the bow.”
I run up on deck and see the new 85 lb Mantus (very pointy!) anchor has come loose and is slamming and swinging into the bow of the boat.
Dad keeps me from running up there directly. We pull in the jib, and I run up to the bow. It’s bad. There are big gashes in the fiberglass of the bow and scratches all the way up the starboard side. I find myself lying over the bow, trying to pull up the anchor, but can’t get it high enough. Christian and Daniel basically dog pile on top, and we eventually muscle it up and get it back in the bow roller after much shouting and struggling. I hold it down, and they bring me a line so I start lashing it down.
I realize it’s probably been loose since we used it to try and get off the ground the very first night. These are just the first real waves we’ve seen in three days. I finish lashing down the anchor a dozen different ways, and a dolphin pops up and looks right at me with what can only be described as a “what the hell are YOU doing” side eye. This is a strange trip.
I get back to the cockpit, and I’m defeated. I’m pissed. I’m shocked. I just can’t believe we can’t seem to go 24 hours without some kind of disaster.
We continue on. It’s cold, frustratingly cold, and on the last stretch into Gulfport, I take an extra shift to save Bill from having to come up into the pounding water, waves, and wind. I realize now I’m punishing myself for the anchor. We get to Gulfport, where Daniel and Will have to leave. We are already past the expected travel time for the trip, and they have work obligations. We give them huge thank yous and good luck, and they get into a rental car and drive all the way back to Houston for work. I can’t imagine that it was an easy drive.
Back on the boat at the fuel dock in Gulfport, we have a new problem. The bilge is full of water and not draining. Turns out the filters are full of mud, which is easy enough to clean, but still a bit of a mystery how we took on so much muddy water. I look at the remaining crew of Bill, Dad and Christian, and there is nothing else to do but continue on as the sun goes down.
Getting out of Gulfport is a bit rough with unmarked channels and a big side swell, but once out of the bay, we are back in the calmer waters of the ICW and heading east to our final destination of Pensacola. Everyone is doing more driving with a shorter crew, but nothing we haven’t done over the past 4 days. It’s still cold, and we’re still tired, but we are getting closer and settling into shifts.
Because we shuffled shifts a bit, I got to see my first sunrise of the trip as we started coming into Pensacola, and at the end of the trip, it was beautiful. Bill and I watched the sun rise over white sand beaches with dolphins following for stretches. The wind has died down, so it isn’t as cold and starts warming as the sun comes up. Dad and Christian get a little breakfast going, and we all chat about the trip and life, but often nothing at all. We can now see the marina that is our final destination, with small figures of family waving us in.
We have one final engine hiccup (still investigating that mystery) as we come into the harbor, but I can see my family as we easily slide into the slip, and the harbormaster helps tie us off. I take the biggest breath of relief as I turn off the engine.
It’s done. We made it.
I rushed down and hugged the boys, Sue, and my Mom. And there are smiles and tears. Everyone is exhausted and excited and relieved and happy and just so damn glad to see each other.
There is champagne and snacks, and more hugs. I toast the crew and thank everyone who made it possible. We did it. And I was able to do it with my dad, which is something I’ll never forget, friends that I may never be able to repay, and with the support of my family and so many others who provided guidance and encouragement along the way. Thank you all – we did it!
Agora at Venice Marina, LAVenice Marina, LAthe crew at Venice Marina, LAthe crew at Venice Marina, LACaptain Barrett“the seas were angry that day”Farley on the approach to PensacolaBilly and Barrett, approaching Pensacola on the final morningChristian on the approach to Pensacolasunrise on the final day, approaching Pensacola
After the debacle of the night before, I say I’m driving. If this goes south, I want it to be me at the helm and responsible. It isn’t a complicated plan, but it’s still blowing 30 kts, and once we commit to going backward, there is no stopping. The crew will have to jump on board as we push off to make the turn. The walk goes relatively smoothly with Will, Christian and Daniel passing bumpers forward and rolling the boat along the land. But when they jump on and I go to reverse back into the docking area, the wind takes the bow faster than the stern.
We are now blowing quickly sideways toward a parked barge and the shore beyond. Lots of yelling. I reverse back to go into the channel, but now I’m tracking to slam backward into the other side of the docking area. I shift hard forward to avoid this, but now I’m drifting deep into the shore. I see Mr. Shell Morgan and his crew running to try to catch us. I go to neutral, the bow has to drift down so I can turn. So much yelling. I wait. More yelling. The bow drifts down, and I rev it into reverse and clear the far side parking lot by less than two feet. We have escaped Shell Morgan. Everyone is OK. Agora is OK. It could have gone so wrong, but we are on our way.
Everyone has gotten some sleep, and after our narrow escape, there is a fair amount of back-patting. Christian’s flying leap, Daniel turning on his SCUBA superpowers, and my narrow escape from the fumbled departure. We fall back into the hours of relative calm of motoring down the ICW in daylight. Spotting bald eagles and random swamp shacks.
In between, I’m planning the next bridges and fuel stops, the twists and turns. That’s about the time I realized our backup digital fuel gauge shows we are about empty. It’s been a long time since Shell Morgan, but not enough to be running empty. I could go into a lot of fuel burn math here that Bill walked me through, but the end result is the fuel gauge isn’t reading correctly, and due to my own short-sightedness, we didn’t actually fill up at Shell Morgan. We just filled up on what the fuel gauge was reading. So, we basically know nothing about the fuel level. But we’re pretty sure it would be extremely close to running out of fuel by Gulfport, and running out of diesel is a terrible option, especially since we would likely be in the middle of crossing the Mississippi River when it happened.
After much searching and talking with Oscar and a team of ICW experts who are now following the trip, we determined our only stop is at Morgan City. Only problem is that the fuel dock is just on the wrong side of a 50-foot bridge. Agora’s mast is 70’.
After some interesting calls with very helpful traffic control around Morgan City, we learn there is a public dock just on our side of the short bridge, and it is probably only a 10-minute walk to the fuel dock on the other side of the bridge. I sure am glad I bought four 5-gallon jerry cans instead of two 10-gallon ones. It took two trips and some sore shoulders, but we got Agora 100% filled up and even got some local BBQ to-go while we were there!
The adventure continues.
We’re over halfway there and feeling more comfortable with bridge and lock procedures, but there was a bigger lock just after Morgan City which wouldn’t be a big deal except as we go to stop in the middle, Bill (who is driving at the time) makes the “uh oh” sound, and says “I can’t get into reverse.” I look back to see black smoke coming out of the back and look over the side only to see what can be described as black sludge floating around the boat. I jump back and work the throttle, which suddenly engages and seems fine for now, but enough to give us a scare.
Things get back into a routine. Sleep, drive, watch, eat, sleep and continue. Scenery changes, swampland, industrial, neighborhoods, ports, shipyards, repeat. But, the procedure is about the same: radio any barges, bridges or locks you’re coming to, and be clear on your next steps and traffic. That is until we encounter a bridge operator we’re going to call “The Rose”.
I actually have a note from Oscar about this particular bridge operator, saying she is “a sweetie,” and we should be nice to her, but we caught her at a rough time. The wind is howling (it never actually stopped howling), and when I call her, she tells me the bridge can’t be raised in this much wind, so all traffic is stopped until the weather improves. Crap. We are now circling, burning fuel and time.
I come up for my shift to find Christian and my dad shining a spotlight on trees, random docks, and rusted-out barges, and arguing about what to tie up to. They have been circling for three hours and are both noticeably irritated.
Christian starts with, “We should just call the bridge again.” I tell him, “Go ahead, but they were clear they have to wait until the wind dies down.” Christian says, “I’m calling them.”
I would pay large sums to have a recording of this call, because after about 20 minutes, he comes up and tells us, “She’ll let us through, but don’t say it on the radio, so no one knows.” We laughed until he emphatically told us to go to the bridge as fast as we could. Maybe at some point I’ll get Christian to write a post about this, but my memory of the retelling went something like this.
Christian: “Hey, we are the sailboat that’s been circling around. And well, we’re getting low on fuel… any chance we can open the bridge soon?”
Rose of Larose: “We can’t in this wind, it can twist the bridge.”
Christian: “Oh, of course, and we wouldn’t want you to get in trouble or anything, but what if we came right up to the bridge, and <insert Christian swooshing sound here>, we speed under real quick so we don’t run out of gas.”
Rose of Larose: “Hell, get up here and don’t say anything on the radio, these barges have plenty of fuel.”
And sure enough, without horn or green light or public notice, the bridge was raised. And with Christian emphatically telling me to go faster, we scooted under and we’re back on our way again.
At this point, it’s Sunday morning. We’ve been going for about two and a half days of an estimated three and a half day journey, and we are gearing up for our final boss of logistics: the Mississippi River. I’ve been warned by multiple people – the Mississippi is wide, fast and full of large commercial tankers. You have locks and bridges on both sides of the river, so it’s an hour or two of nonstop radio comms and logistics while playing a big game of frogger with tankers.
But if we get past this final stretch, it’s basically a free pass to Gulfport, and an easy street to Pensacola. I flubbed the comms coming out of the first lock because at the moment I forgot the name of the lock we were leaving from, but a random barge jumped on and told them where we were leaving from and headed to (side note: these barge guys really are extremely nice and helpful).
We make our way across the Mississippi without issue, and the final lock gets us on its schedule behind a barge. I call ahead to the final lift bridge on this grand adventure – and our crash course in ICW navigation – to tell them we’re coming through. It’s been a bumpy road, but we’ve made it through groundings, crash landings, and fuel scares to the last bridge call of our three-day adventure. Just one more bridge.
ICW on the deliveryAgora and crew in a lockWill in a lockAgora passing under bridgesAgora prepared for a lift bridge on the ICWBilly on the ICW
As we got more comfortable and practiced with the hour-to-hour motoring down the ICW, we started realizing something interesting about Agora: she never used any fuel, not even a little bit. The fuel gauge was pinged at 100% after 24 hours of nonstop motoring at 2500 RPMs. I checked with Bill, and he agreed it probably isn’t right. Luckily, I had wired in a digital fuel gauge, so we had some reading. But, after working with Bill on calculating burn rates and estimates, it became clear that we don’t have a fuel gauge we can trust.
Something to note about the ICW is that it’s mostly industrial, so there are plenty of fuel stops for barges that will pump in diesel fast enough to rupture the tanks and flood a boat like Agora, but not a ton of stops good for fueling up a sailboat. For the record, we never saw another sailboat this entire trip on the ICW. Luckily, we were coming up to one of them in Shell Morgan, LA. Unfortunately, we were about 7 hours early. So, it’s the middle of the night, and they don’t open until 7 AM. And the wind has come up even more.
We’re tired; it’s dark, and we are some version of running out of fuel, and we come around the corner to this place and see essentially darkness. Maybe a building, could be a dock, perhaps a shrimp boat? I’ve been told there is a dock, but also a shallow spot to watch out for, and the wind is blowing us into the shore. So, no easy way to look for the right place to go.
Dad is driving, and I’m trying to guess if we can make it to the next fuel stop while Christian is trying to see through the darkness, and Daniel is on deck, about to start his shift. Bill & Will are both asleep. Dad says, “Let’s get closer. I think that’s the fuel dock.”
I want to be clear before we get to the next part: I’m the owner of this boat. This is my family’s home at this point. I am responsible for every decision, and it’s my job to keep the boat and the crew safe. At this point, I say nothing.
Dad points the nose down toward the dock, and we can see the fuel dock, but there is also a concrete parking lot 10 inches above the water before we get there, and very little room to maneuver. Dad says something to the effect of, “Get the bumpers, we can make it.”
My last chance to stop us, and I don’t. I feel we’ve committed. Should we have had all the crew on deck? Yes. Should we have discussed the approach? Yes. Should we have secured the dinghy first? Yes.
The next few minutes are very fast yet painfully long in memory, but they boil down to a few key moments:
“15 ft from parking lot, bad angle, reverse!” -me at midship as I point to the corner of cement we are being blown into
“Pull in the dinghy so we don’t run over it!” -Dad
Christian and Daniel scrambling to get the dinghy
Engine revs and abruptly stops
“Shit!” -Dad
Drifting toward the cement parking lot aimed about 10 ft back from the bow
“This is going to destroy the boat” -me
Christian makes a flying leap off the bow of the boat, probably an 8 ft drop onto uncertain ground, and I can’t believe he doesn’t break a leg. He saves the bow through some miracle of strength.
Daniel and I jump down and hold off midship, bumpers passed down and wedged between the boat and shore.
I scream every profanity I’ve ever learned.
It’s a bad situation but stable. The prop is fouled with the dinghy bow line, and the howling wind is blowing us against the shore, but the bumpers are holding, and Agora’s tied off. I don’t want to stay here, but there is nothing we can do until we get the bow line off the prop, so I start looking for sharp knives.
I’m holding a box cutter while Bill calmly explains that I’ll get in the water, swim under until I feel the shaft, and find a very tightly wrapped line and start cutting. It could take dozens of trips. I look down at the cold, dark, muddy water splashing in the 12-inch gap between Agora and shore as the boat shakes and bounces in the wind and waves. “I don’t think I can do it, guys.” There is a lot of talk of options or lack thereof until Daniel says, “I’ll go.” I’ll never forget this brief, but powerful interaction.
“Daniel, I can’t ask you to do something I’m not willing to do,” I say.
He puts his hand on my shoulder, “You have two kids. I’ll go.”
Daniel takes the box cutter and lowers himself into the water.
Daniel is an absolute legend. This isn’t easy. He is visibly nervous; it’s cold. It is a blind swim with a knife, and there are multiple times I’m holding my breath waiting for him to come back and about to jump in after him. It does take dozens of attempts, multiple knives are needed as some are dropped, but small bits of line are coming away. At some point, he just has to stop.
I decide to take a small gamble and try to reverse the engine, which does in fact work, and we are back in business – it’s a small victory. We can’t agree on an actual way to get off the shore, and everyone is exhausted. At this point, Agora has been stable and tied to shore for hours. We decide to wait until morning, get gas, and make a plan to get off the land, hopefully with less breeze. I’d like to say I woke up every hour to check the bumpers (Christian did) or that I researched ways to reverse off an obstruction. I lay down, sent a text to Sue explaining the situation, and fell instantly unconscious and slept.
The next morning, we meet Mr. Shell Morgan, the proprietor of the gas stop, who apparently has been running it for decades and lives up the hill. Quite the character from deep in Louisiana, but also someone who has barge experience and a few options about how we can definitely get clear without issue. We transfer jerry cans of fuel to Agora to fill her up (not as much as we thought – more adventures to come). The plan is for the crew to push Agora backward along the shore about 20 feet until we can swing the stern into a docking area so we can then motor forward into the channel and be on our way. Best laid plans…
Agora in the ICWChristian in the ICWDaniel in the ICWthe ICW at nightAgora passing through the ICW
