The bad weather had passed, so we moved on from Destin and anchored at the eastern end of Choctawhatchee Bay. The waterway then passes into a narrow cut known as the Grand Canyon, before going into West Bay and Grand Lagoon.

We were approaching Panama City and the area which had suffered the most devastation last October when Hurricane Michael struck. We saw lots of damage to property and vegetation. In West Bay, dredgers were busy clearing the channel.

Ian had identified a suitable anchorage, listed in Skipper Bob’s Cruising Guide, at the far end of East Bay. But he decided we had time to go farther on, so that the next day’s cruise would be shorter. Instead of Skipper Bob’s anchorage, we would stay in a wide, unnamed bay on the southern shore of East Bay, which Skipper Bob had clearly overlooked.

The bay was windy and exposed, but we dropped the anchor anyway. I noticed three little planes with a rather pugnacious appearance pointing straight at us, and a check on the GPS confirmed that we were a few yards outside a high security zone. This was a little unnerving, and a few minutes later, another check on the GPS showed that we were actually drifting.

The anchor had to be pulled up, and we motored a short distance further away from the planes, and dropped the anchor once more. It was gin and tonic time, but we didn’t relax for long. We were drifting again, and Ian didn’t improve matters by knocking his gin over.

I suggested in a firm tone that it might be better to go to the nearest recommended anchorage. 40 minutes later, we found ourselves safely moored in Laird Bayou. A lesson had been learned, and it was that if an anchorage isn’t recommended by Skipper Bob, it ain’t recommended.

But tomorrow’s another day. Some mornings, you wake up early, and it’s just too nice to stay in bed.

It was the promise of a fine day ahead. We left Laird Bayou for Apalachicola, out of East Bay and along another narrow cut, where the hurricane damage was all too apparent, through Lake Wimico and into the Jackson River and the Apalachicola River.

We stayed 3 nights in Apalachicola, the first night in the marina on the riverfront, and the last two on the municipal dock, a few yards away, as the marina had no space. But George, the marina owner, kindly let us use the golf buggy to get to the supermarket to restock our depleted supplies.

Our mooring looked out over the swampy estuary of the Apalachicola River.

Apalachicola had been an important port for exporting cotton from all over the region, before the railways were built and transport by rail became more cost-effective. On Water Street, facing the river, there were once many brick warehouses, of which a few remain, converted into shopping malls and holiday accommodation. There are plenty of commercial fishing boats forming the basis of the local economy. The town has its own brewery, with a bar where everyone seemed to hang out, and several restaurants. We had a good dinner at the Tap Room, also owned by the Brewery. And on the Saturday morning, we walked a mile to the Farmers’ Market and bought some artisan bread and organic produce.

Apalachicola had a taxi company, but it only had one taxi, operated by a husband and wife team. Fortunately, it was available, and able to take us out to St George’s Island, a barrier island reached by two very long bridges and a long causeway. I wanted to go to the beach.

It wasn’t quite the deserted paradise I’d imagined, being fairly heavily developed, but there was plenty of space on the beach for everyone. There was a tiki bar too, so instead of enjoying the unspoilt scenery, we had a beer instead, and a paddle.

We had to sit out a day of bad weather, before leaving for Carrabelle, which was where we would start our crossing of the Gulf of Mexico.