Plans Are Great. Reality Has Opinions.

 

Last time we left off, the big question was how and where we’d meet our kids for Christmas.

Answer: beautifully. ❤️
Christmas was everything I hoped for—getting to spend it with all three of my boys was a gift I’ll never take for granted.

Then it was time to shift gears.

Back to the boat.
Back to reality.
And off to Fort Pierce for haul-out.

I wasn’t nervous about leaving Stuart—we had a plan. (You already know where this is going.) We gave ourselves 5 hours and 30 minutes to make it to the marina, even though the trip should’ve taken about 4½ hours. Plenty of cushion, right?

We glided off the mooring feeling confident… until we reached the double trouble combo: the drawbridge and the railroad bridge that sit so close together they both have to open to get through.

I hailed the bridge.
Nothing.

I waited.
Hailed again.
Still nothing.

Finally, a very kind woman monitoring the channel politely informed us, “The bridges are on Channel 9.”

Yes. I knew that.
Also yes—we have two radios, I’m still new to moving the boat, and we were staring down a haul-out.
So… let’s just call that moment epically embarrassing. 😅

I shook it off, switched channels, and the bridge opened.

Then… there was a power catamaran heading westbound that appeared to be playing bridge bumper cars, spinning and sliding like it had missed the memo on proper bridge manners. From our vantage point, it was baffling. We stared, trying to understand how things had gone so sideways so fast.

We waited.

And waited.

Because nothing says “boating adventure” quite like an unplanned front-row seat to someone else’s crisis.

Then the railroad bridge announced:
“Three minutes until closing.”

Cue internal screaming.

The bridge operator hailed us, asking if we’d make it through. With our 6-knot trawler and a catamaran still fighting physics?

Nope. Not happening. (We are happy to report the catamaran did make it through just before the railroad bridge closed.)

The operator was lovely and said she’d raise it again after the train passed, probably only take a few minutes.

It wasn't. Let’s just say our luck with railroad bridges is now 2 for 2. This one wasn’t the full hour like Indiantown, but it was a solid 40-minute wait from mooring ball to crossing under both bridges.

But the bridge did open.

We eased forward… and immediately entered what can only be described as a nautical washing machine.

The moment we steered under the first bridge span, Plot Twist began to swivel like she was balanced on the tip of a pen—left, right, left, right—caught in the grip of swirling current. Between the incoming tide, the sharp angle of the turn, and water pouring out from a dredging ship hidden beyond the bridge to our port, the forces decided to team up against us.

I watched my husband at the helm, hands moving fast on the wheel, correcting and counter-correcting like Steamboat Willy trapped in a cyclone. The boat yawed. The stern kicked. The bow swung like it had a mind of its own.

It was one of those moments where everything feels both terrifying and weirdly slow at the same time.

But he held her.
Steady. Focused. Calm.

And just like that, we cleared the bridge—slightly breathless, slightly stunned, and fully aware that the day was still warming up.

By then, we were officially behind schedule.

Add in a dirty bottom plus heavy current, and we were making 4.5 knots. The navigation app confirmed what we already knew: we’d be arriving well after our haul-out time.

Plans are great.

Reality has opinions.

Stay tuned… because this day wasn’t done with us yet. ⚓️😬