Gentle Trails journal
Because every great adventure start with one easy step
Category: Uncategorized
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The Salt and the StoneThe dust has finally settled on the “Salty Crackers,” but the river air feels different now.Back in Green Cove Springs, the Morgan 51 sits quietly in her slip. She no longer looks like the desperate vessel fleeing the “Meat Grinder” of the Gulf. Under the dappled shade of the oaks, she…
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The lines were tied, the engine was silent, and the Morgan 51 was back in her slip at Black Creek Marina in Green Cove Springs. But the quiet of the dock didn’t mean the work was over. For the “Salty Crackers,” the end of one voyage was just the blueprint for the next, and the…
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The ocean doesn’t give up its grip easily. We traveled the long miles of the Atlantic coast, the Morgan 51 humming a steady tune as the salt air gradually lost its tropical bite. But the moment we turned the bow inland, the world changed.Crossing the bar and entering the mouth of the St. Johns River…
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The Captain finally saw it—the restless look in my eyes that no amount of turquoise water could cure. He knew the “Salty Dream” had been shared, but he also knew his wife was ready for the river. When he looked at the charts and saw a window of clear weather for the trek up the…
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A week in Boot Key Harbor feels like a month when you’re a woman who values her privacy. The Captain was busy “talking boat” with every sailor within shouting distance, but I was busy watching the weather and the neighbors. In a harbor that is crowded, you aren’t just responsible for your own anchor; you’re…
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There she is,” the Captain said, a tired smile finally breaking through his grit.But the relief was short-lived. Our destination wasn’t a quiet hammock swaying between two palms; it was Boot Key Harbor. Pulling into Boot Key is like navigating a landmine field. It’s a city of masts, a floating parking lot where boats are…
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After hours of being tossed in the gray washing machine of the Gulf, a thin, low line finally broke the horizon. It wasn’t just a cloud or a trick of salt-stung eyes. It was Key West.As we skirted past the southernmost point, the sight of the island was bittersweet. We could see the distant glint…
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If the journey to the Fort was a test, the journey back to Boot Key Harbor was a war. The “Indigo void” had lost its beauty and replaced it with a mean, gray temper.We weren’t just sailing; we were running. The weather window was closing fast, and a massive system was breathing down our necks,…
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The moon was nothing but silver, and the stars were blotted out by a heavy, low-hanging ceiling of clouds. Once again, we were pulling anchor in the “Ghost Hour.”I am a woman of the prairie—I like to see the horizon, I like to see the snakes in the grass, And like to see the weather…
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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…
Gentle Trails journal 