A gust of wind jarred me back to reality. My complacency was misguided. That steady east wind—that same gentle one for which I was always grateful, that offshore wind that made the waves smooth and the trip speedy—was now blowing our boat out to sea!

The puny anchor wasn’t holding in the muddy bottom. Quickly, we tossed the smaller anchor out, setting the two into the wind at right angles to each other and letting out all the scope (length of rope) in the most effective pattern. Silently, I cursed myself for procrastinating on buying a larger anchor and hoped no one remembered my oversight.

The water was barely six feet deep, so we could set the anchors at a small angle far from the boat. The smaller the angle between the rope and the sea bottom, the more likely the blades of the anchor would grab the bottom.

We could also use the eighteen-foot push pole, which we normally only used to thrust the boat through water too shallow or weedy for the motor. We jammed the pole into the muddy bottom a few feet off the bow and tied the boat to it. With two undersized anchors and the pole, the boat barely held in place. One strong gust and we would be watching the mangroves shrink on the eastern horizon as we drifted off into the Gulf of Mexico, never to be heard from again.

But the shore was so close! Or so it looked. We could swim to it. In fact, that water seemed so shallow we could almost walk to it. So tantalizing was the thought that Rick had to try. We pulled the anchors and he jumped into the water, but it was too deep to walk. Gallantly, Rick tried to swim while towing the boat. I pushed off with the pole. Allison worked furiously with a canoe paddle, which we kept for just such emergencies. We cheered Rick on until it was obvious that we were making no progress. All our efforts did was to tire us. Rick climbed back in the boat. We set the anchors and pole again and settled down to wait for help.

With every gust of wind, the boat dragged a few inches seaward and my heart skipped a beat. Would we find our own Gilligan’s Island?

Allison declared she wasn't worried. “I’ve never been to New Orleans, and it looks like we'll get a free trip.”

Of all the days to lack our camping gear, we had to pick this one. That extra food could come in handy. And the self-standing tents for cover from the sun and rain? We could only hope we wouldn’t need them.

Hour after hour we waited, mentally measuring our progress toward Louisiana or Texas each time the anchors dragged and the push pole bent. The inches seemed like miles. As long as the anchors reached the muddy bottom and the shoreline was visible, we should be okay.
What was it that we often said to each other? “We get paid for this!” When you’ve peeled down to your bathing suit, and you’re cruising along a palm-studded, tranquil bay, with fun-loving colleagues beside you, and food in the cooler, it’s easy to forget the rest of the story.

The flip side reads something like this. Fifteen-hour field days. Humidity that drenches you day and night. Heat that could drive a camel to whine. Daily thunderstorms for the entire field season when you’re in an open boat or wading in water. Rain so intense it stings your skin like BB pellets when you’re cruising in a boat. Winds that bat your boat around like a rubber duck in a rambunctious kid’s bath. Alligators everywhere you step. Rattlesnakes and cottonmouths, too. Slogging through shoe-sucking muck to get to the nest trees. Climbing over mangrove roots till your legs feel like lead. Bumping into those same roots until your shins are solid hematomas. Brushing against the poison ivy, the more poisonous poisonwood, and the most poisonous manchineel. Getting showered with vomited fish, compliments of baby birds that are reflexively defending themselves. Getting pecked and scratched by birds with dagger-like bills that don’t know you are trying to save them. Picking your way through a cloud of mosquitoes, some of which settle on your back like a shawl. Scratching off the tiny no-see-ums that can penetrate the smallest break in your insect armor. Fire ants that sting so sharply they could make a sumo wrestler leap in pain. Your Cessna’s control panel catching afire a thousand feet over the Everglades. Carrying a twenty-pound battery a third of a mile across cacti and ankle-tripping mangrove roots. Boats breaking down in the middle of nowhere. This and more, we didn’t get paid for.