We left you last time with a bit of drama.
Specifically: water geysering out of the kitchen sink like we’d accidentally installed a decorative fountain where the dishes should be.
Nothing quite spikes your heart rate like saltwater erupting inside your boat while she’s still in slings, only partially submerged.
Cue careful problem-solving.
Chris and John Williams worked their way through everything that could be responsible—engine work that had been done, the generator, all the through-hulls. Heads were scratched. Theories were floated. Meanwhile, I stood there wondering if this was how boats quietly inform you they’ve had enough.
Then John paused, looked around, and said with absolute confidence,
“I know what it is.”
He disappeared outside, leaned over the side of the boat, and called back,
“Yep. It’s the lift straps. They’re covering the sink drain.”
Of course they were.
The straps had been positioned just right to block the drain outlet, forcing water to take the only available path… straight back into the boat. John casually suggested we consider installing an anti-backflow valve (adding that to the list), adjusted the straps, and just like that—the geyser stopped.
Crisis averted. Boat dry. Blood pressure slowly returning to normal.
And with that, it was time to leave dry dock.
I was stationed on the stern, while Rick—our neighboring Kadey-Krogen owner—stood on the bow. I vaguely heard a dock worker mention something about using full throttle out of the slings, which sounded… aggressive.
Then Chris put the boat in gear.
Plot Twist surged backward, and suddenly the pilings looked one inch from our hull. I’ll admit—it gave me pause. Possibly a small internal scream.
But the dock hand was right. The boat responded exactly as she should, sliding cleanly out of the straps and back into deeper water.
Cue cheers. Applause. A few triumphant smiles.
We were floating again.
There was still work to be done.
Chris eased us into our wet slip—right next to another Kadey-Krogen, because apparently we travel in packs. I have to give him credit—he maneuvered our girl like a champ. Smooth. Confident. Calm. Watching him dock now versus a few months ago? Night and day.
But there was no time for rest because we knew the marina for a few days was as much as a month at our one in Ft. Meyers. And the electrician needed to finish the electrical side of the watermaker and the solar panel install—and time was not on our side. A blow was forecast to come through, and we were running out of daylight.
So Chris and I did what boat owners do when the clock is ticking. The night before the weather rolled in, we crawled around on the roof, determined to get the panels mounted. It wasn’t pretty, but it was effective. Out came the 4200, the screws, and a healthy dose of optimism. We worked fast, hands sticky, clothes increasingly questionable.
And of course—of course—that was when the rain started.
Progress.
And that night I was happy to be in that wet slip, because surviving several blows on a mooring ball, I was genuinely shocked at how calm the slip stayed—even in 40+ MPH winds. For that, I was deeply grateful. Being tied safely to the dock during those conditions was a gift.
But I’m a water girl.
And as the days ticked by—amid half-finished projects, constant waiting, the inside of my home resembling a mechanic's waste dump, and the unmistakable sound of our bank account quietly emptying itself one marina day at a time, I was ready to go.
We made a plan.
Two more days.
Surely the work would be finished by then.
We went to bed confident.
The next morning?
Our electrician was a no-show.
I’m not proud to admit it, but I may have had a moment that resembled a toddler throwing a tantrum at the thought of staying in the marina even longer.
Which, as it turned out…
Was longer than longer.
Because if there’s one thing life aboard Plot Twist has taught us, it’s that the real surprises always show up after you think the hard part is over. ⚓️
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