RIYER IN TIME Watching the moonrise while anchored on the St. Johns River just off Lungren Island.
So that’swhat we are? Emotional desperadoes? Clearly we are seeking a geographic cure for something out here. Why else would we be on this remote blackwater river, churning along at five miles an hour, overwhelmed by the exotic flora and fauna—and the deep history—that engulf us? Below: alligators, turtles, snakes, manatees, shellcrackers. Above: herons, egrets, eagles, kites, and, in the words of one crew member, “more ospreys than pigeons at the Varsity.”
“Like the emotional desperadoes who came—who still come—to Florida seeking a geographic cure for their past, this river has a complicated persona.”
—Bill Belleville, River of Lakes: A Journey on Florida’s St. Johns River
Aiming to see as much of the St. Johns River as we can in a week, my crew and I had gathered on a brilliant May afternoon at a marina on Lake Monroe in downtown Sanford, Florida. Close by is the spot where the last paddle wheeler, once a ubiquitous craft on the river, concluded its final voyage in 1929. Our vessel is not a steamboat, but the fifty-five-foot houseboat Southern Belle—provided, outfitted, and delivered by our new friends downriver at Holly Bluff Marina in DeLand.
Whatever houseboats lack in handling ease or élan, they are ideal for excursions like ours. The river and its string of lakes, creeks, and canals can become suddenly and treacherously shallow, and these boats draw very little water. The dearth of civilization on our route—no grocery stores, drugstores, or liquor stores, and few restaurants—requires a self-sustaining vessel, and the Belle’s accommodations are capacious. Her open bow is a railed deck with a dining table, a gas grill, a ceiling fan, and comfy chairs. Just inside sliding glass doors is a big open room that includes the helm station, a living room, and a fully equipped galley with a real refrigerator, a four-top stove, a microwave, a TV, and a sink. Beyond that are three staterooms and two heads, each with a comfortable shower. We have stuffed this floating box with the necessities of life, as we see them: coolers of food and beer, cases of wine and drinking water, snorkeling gear, rum, binoculars, cameras, whiskey, and a stack of books on birds, fish, history, and paleontology.
Four kayaks are stacked on our stern, and behind us we trail a sixteen-foot aluminum skiff with a twenty-five-horse outboard. Up top is a deck big enough to hold a dance on, with lounge chairs, another steering station, and a Bimini top.
Call me captain. My wife, Kate, is navigator. Two friends from my college days complete the crew: Susan—blessed with an encyclopedic recall of birds, plants, and fish—is our naturalist. Her husband, Don, is first mate and mixologist—enormously handy, coolheaded, and patient.
Each of us has our with gators and fish and boats. A piquant memory from early in our relationship stars a brother-in-law of hers arriving for Thanksgiving dinner by airboat.
