The full moon was bright, in the cloudless sky. A slight haze from a humidity of ninety-five percent clung to the horizon. At 1:00 am, it was still in the mid-eighties on that late June night. The air was like a heavy weight, without even the hint of a breeze. From a quarter mile away you could see an occasional coconut or palm frond, as it bobbed along in the glass smooth water.
     Moving to Southwest Florida from the Midwest was like dying and going to heaven for a teenage boy who loved the water. Brian lived two doors down from our new home. I was 16, he was 14. We became quick friends. An all night fishing trip, under the full moon, was just the first of many adventures he and I had planned for that summer vacation.
     That evening after supper, we met at Brian’s johnboat where it was docked in his back yard. We loaded up our gear, and made the short trip down the canal to the Caloosahatchee River. Four miles down, the Caloosahatchee opens out into San Carlos Bay. A mile or so beyond the mouth of the river, the Intracoastal Waterway makes a turn to the west as it skirts around the south end of Pine Island, before it turns north again and runs up the center of Pine Island Sound. The eastern half of this east-west leg is known as The Miserable Mile. The channel is very narrow, with shallow water on both sides. Not a favorite passage for sailors.
     We knew the fishing would be better up under the overhanging mangrove branches on any of the small islands that dot the bay, but without a breeze, the mosquitoes would have carried us away. So we decided to fish in open water. We anchored in about four feet of water, on a grass flat, just to the north of the channel, at the west end of ‘The Mile’.
     After a few hours, we were getting bored. We had a couple of trout in the cooler, and had battled and released a variety of "junk" fish. We had talked about cars, girls, rock & roll, and the camping trip we were planning to North Captiva. As the outgoing tide reached it’s ebb, the fishing and the conversation tapered off to nothing. I was just getting ready to say that, maybe "all night" wasn’t such a great idea, when, with a lurch that almost flipped the small boat, the six-foot-seven Brian shouted "A BARGE!"
     "A barge" was our battle cry. There is a steady flow of tug drawn barge traffic on this stretch of the Intracoastal, and up and down the river. Much of it is the transportation of oil and equipment for the Florida Power & Light power plant, up river, east of Fort Myers. "A barge" meant a huge rolling wake to play in. I am convinced that our survival into adulthood is due to the fact that in those days, we had never heard of Jet Skis.
     What had first caught Brian’s attention was the beam from a super-bright searchlight that we could only assume was mounted on a tug. For almost an hour we followed the beam as, what ever it was, carefully followed the channel as it worked it’s way down the Sound.
     When it finally rounded the bend at York Island and got a little closer, we could see that it was indeed, a large tug towing two barges. In the light of the full moon, we could see that the first was loaded with long lengths of pipe that had to be at least five feet in diameter. The second carried a collection of heavy equipment. Including a tractor, a bulldozer, and a huge crane that was disassembled into several pieces.
     What we hadn’t noticed, until its engine started and it separated itself from the rest of the train, was a very small tugboat that was bringing up the rear. We were surprised when it pointed its own searchlight in our direction and headed straight for us.
     Just about the time this mini-tug was within shouting distance, it ran aground in the shallow water at the edge of the channel. Two men appeared out of the pilothouse, and one hollered over to us, "Where can we buy some beer?"
     I should stop and explain something about Brian and myself… While I tended to be the cautious, don’t-talk-to-strangers type, Brian had an anything-goes outlook on life. Just keeping up with him took a lot of nerve sometimes, but it certainly wasn’t boring!
     Anyway, I was getting ready to explain to our visitors that, it was after 2:00 am, and that there weren’t any stores within walking distance of anyplace where they could tie up, when Brian shouted, "You should try Little Shell." The next thing I knew, we were pulled up next to the tug, and one of the guys was climbing into our boat with us.
     Little Shell Island is a half-acre pile of oyster shell with a few mangrove trees growing on it. It sits In the middle of the river, right about where it opens out into the bay. In those days there was a small restaurant on the island. One of those "Cheeseburger In Paradise" places. (The real subject of the famous Buffet song is located a few miles away, in Pine Island Sound, but that’s another story.)
     As the little tug backed off into deeper water, the three of us in Brian’s boat buzzed on ahead of the slow moving conglomeration. I was a little uncomfortable with the whole situation, but at least we were heading in the right direction. We would soon be delivering our guest (probably empty handed) back to his buddies, and then we could call it a night.
     Eventually, we tied up to the end of the long dock that jutted out from the restaurant, and our passenger headed for the door. Brian and I couldn’t see much from the boat. The tide was low, and the dock was a couple feet above our heads, but pretty soon, the porch light came on, and we could hear muffled voices. There was no shotgun blast, which I considered to be a good sign. After a few minutes, our man came back and deposited four cases of warm Busch into the already overloaded boat. When we asked him how it went, he just mumbled something about it costing a fortune.
     When we arrived back at the tug, it had just negotiated the turn, and was chugging its way towards the mouth of the river. As we got closer Brian and I were greeted with praise from the crew, who could see that our mission had been a success. As we maneuvered up to the aft end of the second barge, our passenger asked if we would like to tie up, and ride for a while.
     By this point, I was over my uncertainties, and all wound up in the whole adventure. Besides, they were going our way anyhow, and it sure would feel good to get out of the small johnboat and stretch my legs. We both said, yes.
     It felt strange to be moving along on something that large, and that low in the water. By the time we passed Little Shell again, Brian and I were exploring the big flat deck and the heavy equipment tied down to it. One of the crew took us across a catwalk to the lead barge, where the huge lengths of pipe were being carried, so that we could go forward and have a look at the tug.
     What a sight! Ropes as big as my arms formed a ‘V’ as they came back to the front corners of the barge. The rumble of the diesel was deafening. Under the bright lights that illuminated the deck, I could see that the prop wash was filled with mud as the huge screw sucked it up from the river bottom and pushed the muddy water back, under, and around the bow of the barge were we were standing.
     Soon we noticed as we headed up river, that we were passing by our own neighborhood. Brian and I just looked at each other and shrugged. This was all too interesting to pack it in and head home just yet.
      We returned to the rear barge, and finally got to see the little tug in action. As we approached the Cape Coral Bridge, it was used to keep the tail end in line as we went through. Even with the efforts of the mini-tug, the barge we were riding on bounced and scraped along the heavy wooden guardrails that protect the bridge pilings, and for a second, we all lost our footing.
     Once clear of the bridge, the small tug returned to its place at the rear where Brian’s boat was tied up.
     Before shutting down, the pilot asked us if we would like a tour of the big tug. That was an opportunity we couldn’t turn down. We jumped aboard and he headed forward to the port side of the small ship, made fast, and we climbed aboard. The winches, bits, and other equipment on deck were huge. When the mate opened the engine room door. It was like looking down into a basement. The deck where we were standing was just above water level. I was amazed at how much boat there was below the water line. It wasn’t hard to picture it occasionally bumping along the bottom even in the 12-foot deep channel.
     To top off the whole experience, he led us up two decks to the pilothouse. Someone must have radioed the captain, and told him about us stowaways. He didn’t look too surprised when the mate brought us in, but he did look busy. The thing that struck me about the helm was that there was no wheel. Just a couple of small levers that the captain somehow used to control this huge boat. We were coming up on the first of two bridges at downtown Fort Myers. So we took a quick look around, thanked him, and left him to do his job.
     Well, we had seen everything and we were getting further and further away from home. So halfway between the Caloosahatchee Bridge, and the Edison Bridge, Brian and I cast off for home. A breeze had picked up and was kicking up a light chop as we headed back down river. The sun was just becoming visible on the horizon as we turned into our canal. It felt like it was going to be another hot one. Time to get some sleep! We can wash up the gear later.

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