River Trip, Day 4: Astor to Satsuma/Welaka

Day 4 (Monday, Dec. 1) Astor to Satsuma

This marks the first day I did not write in my paper journal at the end of the day’s leg. I was simply too tired. The day began at Astor Bridge Marina where SR 40 crosses the river. Though we had lost a day to forecast high winds that never really materialized, I am growing philosophical about the timing of the trip. This was never about meeting schedules so much as exploring this amazing river, meeting the people who love it and educating others about the need to protect it.
The day started clear and cool and we pulled out and passed under the draw bridge just before noon. (Even though I always wake early when sleeping aboard, I never seem able to cast off the lines as early as I would like.)
After making our way north along the winding river, we passed through the Volusia Bar, which marks the entrance to Lake George, which has a reputation for steep choppy waves during high winds. We were lucky and faced only a tiny swell. The lake stretches 14 miles from south to north, with channel markers set at just about the right distance apart to been seen with the naked eye on a clear day. In rain or fog, one could easily become lost without good navigational skills or a reliable GPS.
Our plan had been to cut across the lake and spend a night at anchor at Silver Glen Springs. But due to the cold, we decided to bypass this gem and hope for warmer weather on the way home. To keep on schedule, we motored into the wind along the rhumb line rather than tack back and forth across the lake. The latter would have been more fun, but would have cost us a couple of hours we didn’t have to spare. Oh, the human penchant for measuring time and how it costs us the simple joys of living! Damn the inventor of the clock!
Around mid-lake, we spied a pair of stately Bald Eagles sitting atop a channel marker. This is unusual because the birds prefer higher perches, but perhaps the size of the lake limited their options. They flew off as we approached, giving us a perfect view of their majesty in flight.
After the lake, the wind direction became more favorable and we motor-sailed downstream, toward Welaka, a small community situated across the river from the mouth of the Ocklawaha. My soul wanted badly to cruise up that dark beautiful river, but a shallow entrance and overhanging branches persuaded my mind otherwise. Having canoed, kayaked and camped along the middle section of that stream near the confluence with the Silver River, I yearned to return to a place that is in many ways unchanged from the days when Native Americans fished and hunted along its shores. On a winter canoe camping trip with only my dog Winston (God rest his soul), I spent more than a full day on the river without any sign of human activity – no boats, no fishermen, no buildings or bridges – the cries of monkeys introduced for the filming of Tarzan films the only proof that man had touched or seen these shores.
With the sun beginning to dip behind the hardwood swamp that borders the river and fades into pine and scrub oak as the land rises to sandy hills within the Ocala National Forest on the west bank, we began looking for a place to stop for the night. Three days without Internet service put that at the top of the list and we found our sweet spot at Acosta Creek Harbor Marina. A small marina and boatyard set at the foot of a sloping bank on which sits a restored 19th Century river house, the marina was a welcome stop. Laundry facilities, restrooms with showers and other amenities we take for granted in our land-bound lives were welcome treats for us.
In the early evening hours, a small group of live-aboard cruisers who call themselves the Liars Club, gathered ‘round a pair of picnic tables set beneath a canopy of oak trees near the bank to swap tall tales and small gossip.
Overnight, there was a light rain and the weather turned cooler, but we slept well despite the propensity of my bunk to sometimes collapse without warning due to an engineering mistake on my part. (I am determined to make the small fix required this evening, the time required for the job less than what is required to reset the bunk after each collapse.)
This morning we will set sail for a destination as yet undetermined. We had thought of Palatka, home of the SJRWMD, but the distance is so short as to make it almost unworthy the effort. Perhaps we will continue on to whatever port presents itself at sunset and stop at Palatka on the journey home.