I do not know who this woman is.

Tarpon Springs, FL. Arianna is backed into a slip at the Anclote Harbors Marina where she's been tied up for about a week now. Arianna's owners and I have been idling away our days waiting for conditions in the Gulf of Mexico to shift in our favor. A medium-sized storm system is blowing through the area this morning, driving winds and mild rain at some thirty to thirty-five knots. This is the one that we've been waiting for - once it passes we should be able to head back out to sea. That will probably be tomorrow morning.

Tarpon Springs is a fairly quiet, interesting little town that's overflowing with Greek culture and sea-sponge related art. Thousands of Greek divers immigrated here in the early twentieth century seeking a livelihood in the then booming sea-sponge harvesting industry. The town's sponge industry flourished with the infusion of their skilled labor, and soon budded into a thriving immigrant community which produced millions of dollars in sponges each year. The red tide in 1947 decimated the sponge diving industry. Residents turned to shrimping and fishing, transforming the relics of the sponge harvesting era into a moderately successful tourist attraction.

The Howard Park beach is six miles from Anclote Harbors Marina

I've been spending my time wandering around town, running, working and reading. It's been nice to be able to run again, although after several months of lazily acquiring sea legs my calves have demonstrated their obstinacy with gusto. I've finished Carlos Castaneda's A Separate Reality, Herman Hesse's Magister Ludi and reread plenty of Keat's poems and letters. I'm working through Hector Perez-Brignoli's A Brief History of Central America and am familiarizing myself with the night skies using a small star book that was given to me by Jim in Key West.

On sunny days and weekends the Anclote Harbors Marina is aswarm with Ford truck driving, wide backed men and their contented suburban families. They load ice, beer and fishing gear into muscled motor-boats and head out of the harbor one behind the other in a consistent, bustling queue. The floating dock is alive with bright, familiar chatter and the syrupy scent of sunblock, and the dock hands run to and fro operating the fork-lifts that lower tidily stored boats from giant warehouse shelves into the placid harbor waters.

If we're able to leave at a reasonable time tomorrow morning, we may make it to Mobile, Alabama by the weekend. The bus ride to Key West is about twenty-four hours, so it looks like at least Monday before I'll be home. I left a scribbled note and some cash for Lobster Lee on my way out of town, hoping that he'd be able to keep an eye on my boat while I'm away. I just heard from him the other day with an "A-OK," so I'm feeling a little less anxious about my absence. With any luck I'll be cooking in my own kitchen and diving Rock Key by this time next week.