Gentle Trails journal

The magic of the Fort was tempered by a harsh reality: the sea doesn’t care about your plans.While we had spent the last few days living like island royalty, the weather charts were beginning to tell a different story. A system was moving in, and the “Indigo Void” was about to wake up. Then, the situation turned personal. Asher, our brave little king of the castle, wasn’t feeling right.A small fever had taken hold, making his skin hot to the touch and his eyes heavy. The heat, the constant motion of the boat, and the lingering effects of the “Green Room” had finally caught up to him. He was quiet and drained, his usual spark replaced by a stillness that didn’t belong to a young boy.Moe and Catherine and Andrew looked at the Captain, then at the graying horizon. The thought of putting a child who was so run-down and feverish through another sixteen to twenty hours of “square waves” was more than they could stand. A choice had to be made—the kind of choice that pits a grandmother’s and parents’hearts against a mariner’s mission.”We can’t take him back on the boat,” Moe said, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Not with a fever. Not like this.”The “Hard Choice” was made. We wouldn’t all be sailing back together.The next morning, we stood on the dock as the seaplane—a rugged de Havilland Twin Otter—bobbed in the turquoise water. It felt like a scene from a movie, but the lump in Moe’s throat was very real. Catherine, Andrew, and Asher boarded the small plane. As the engines roared to life and the floats lifted off the water, the Morgan 51 suddenly felt a thousand feet long and painfully empty. We watched until the plane was nothing more than a silver speck in the sky, heading back toward the “Stone” and the safety of land.”Well,” the Captain said, his voice unusually quiet as he looked at the remaining crew. “It’s just us now.”Only four remained to sail the beast back to Marathon. The laughter of the grandson was gone, replaced by the ominous whistle of the rising wind in the rigging. The family had been split, the manifest was shortened, and the journey home was looming. We were still “Salty Crackers,” but the sweetness of the trip had been replaced by a grim determination. It was time to batten down the hatches and face the Gulf once more.