By Capt. Bill Pike

First, her modest (3'6") draft would let us get within explorational range of a mangrove wilderness so vast and remote it's nicknamed "Florida's Great Outback." Second, her brawny, skeg-shielded bronze prop could endure the area's infamous shallow-water abuse. Third, her tough, wrist-thick running surface could presumably plow through oyster bars galore and withstand a raft of bow-first beachings. And fourth, her practical, easy-livin' layout could double as an excellent base camp for back-country kayaking forays, thanks to a head with separate stall shower, an open-air on-deck galley, plenty of sheltered sleeping space, and chocks on the coachroof for the kayaks themselves.

Five of us climbed onboard that morning: David Harraden, our guide and head honcho of Everglades Rentals & Eco Adventures of Everglades City; Pearson's sales manager Jono Billings, a skipper with a Maine lobsterboat heritage; photographer Robert Holland; Holland's buddy Brian Foley; and yours truly, who, truth to tell, felt a little old, world-weary, and moss-grown at the time. Who knows why?

On our way out Indian Key Pass, we all ganged up in the wheelhouse to enjoy the shade offered by the hardtop, the ventilation offered by the opening side windows, and the refreshment offered by the Frigoboat cold-plate reefer in the galley. It was a spectacular day, with sun-washed platoons of porpoises leaping out of our wake.

"It's shallow as hell, but we'll do Coca Cola Pass, then camp on Picnic Key tonight," Harraden said, pointing at a patch of electronic cartography on the Furuno NAVnet. With a cool glance at the patch. Billings replied, "Okay, Boss," spun the wheel to clear Indian Pass light, and settled the bow on a northwesterly heading. Shallow water is no problem forjono Billings-trust me.

Setting up camp that afternoon went smoothly. After he'd negotiated the pass with a modicum of dredgery. Billings backed the oo Pearson into the beach of our secluded campsite like he was backing a stake-rack truck into a loading dock. In all of my years of operating and testing boats, I've never seen anything like this incredible performance-the boat seemed to bore into the beach like a Kitchen Aid mixer. With the clamshell-type transom doors folded back, we offloaded our camping gear onto the beach with little strain, set up the tents, and after a late lunch of tunafish sandwiches and bottled water, headed our kayaks for Gaskin Bay. Billings stayed behind to spin the Pearson end-for-end, so he could beach her bow-first and check the thruster for debris.

We paddled single-file. It was immediately apparent why sea kayaks are so popular among visitors to the 10,000 Islands and other parts of the Everglades National Park- not only are the lithe little vessels silent, comparatively light, and sweetly maneuverable in not much more water than it takes to float a flip-flop, they're fast. With Harraden in the lead spouting lore and spotting birds, Foley and I were soon zooming around too quickly for Holland to immortalize us on film. Around sunset I felt a tingle of serenity for a moment-it almost popped me free of my glum, listless mood.

Dinner back at camp was great, however. Although Harraden had bought and transported the steaks, he'd deferred to Billings on their preparation, mostly because Billings had an even-heating Magma gas grill onboard. Foley began saladizing on the beach after he'd got a campfire going. I, in the meantime, switched on the propane Princess cooktop in the galley of our still-beached boat and, with Billing's radio mellifluously wafting NPR's "Prairie Home Companion," set to concocting a whopping pot of mashed potatoes. A rois-terous banter arose, the hallmark of all good boat trips.

"Who's a rare kinda guy?" barked Billings from the stem, holding up a faintly grilled slab of sirloin.

"Nobody's as rare as you, Jono," Foley yelled from afar.

"Wanna eat or not, pardner?" Billings rifled back.

"How do these wilderness trips typically go, sociologically speaking?" I asked Harraden.

"Folks get closer," he grumbled.

"Yeah," Billings said, jabbing another slab, "and a leader emerges."

"Then come the sacrifices," Foley added.

"And ultimately," Holland addressed the entire assemblage gravely, "the breakfast meat starts tasting a little funny."

Was it a long night? Sure, but the steaks were luscious, the potatoes lumpy, and the honey-mustard salad dressing Harraden gets from Sam's Club good enough to slurp down by the lovin' spoonful. As the stars tumbled o out along with the no-see-ums and alligators, Foley produced a harmonica from his shirt pocket and played a medley of Stephen Foster tunes-mixed with the full moon, the firelight, and the fumes of bug repellent, it was kinda moving.

The next morning dawned early. Pulling the hook took about a minute-the deepest water Billings had found to anchor in once he'd backed off the beach for the night was seven feet-and we spent the second day of our trip in much the same way as the first, except that we all slept onboard that night, not just Billings. Breezes at anchor tended to keep the no-see-ums-and perhaps the 'gators-at bay, we'd discovered.

Our third and final day started with breakfast as usual, then proceeded to get interesting. "You guys want to stop by Mike Ward's place this morning?" Harraden asked. The response was a unanimous "Yup!"-we were all giddily positive at this point, suffering undoubtedly from sleep deprivation due to Holland's bear-like snoring. But who was Mike Ward? And where, in the midst of this huge, labyrinthine wilderness, was "his place"?

Harraden explained that he was a shy, secretive 78-year-old hermit who inhabited his very own wilderness island on the northern edge of the Everglades National Park. Although he'd made do with a tent for more than 18 years, he was now residing in a stilt house built for him a year or so before by volunteers from Everglades City. Batteries and a VHP radio comprised Ward's communication system. He used a lantern for light and a propane stove for cooking. Every summer he spent a couple of months either in Ireland doing volunteer work at a sailing school or in Canada camping and kayaking on Georgian Bay. The rest of the time, he rusticated and roamed the Everglades with a gnarled walking stick.

The universe dispatches strange teachers. prettily at anchor on the outskirts of Half Moon Bay, I stood knocking on Ward's door in a rather downbeat frame of mind-mostly, from what I could tell, because I was pushing the ripe old age of 55.

"Whataya want?" came a gruff voice. Harraden, who was standing behind me, replied, "There are some kayaking guys out here, Mike. They wonder if they can talk to you."

"Why not?" the voice replied, and a surprisingly robust old man opened the door. All five of us clomped in and found seats on camp cots and lawn chairs. A huge picture window at the rear offered a stunningly beautiful subtropical scene. Ward sat on an Igloo cooler, tapped some cigar ash on the floor, and crossed his bony legs at the knee. Within minutes he was puffing away, telling stories. There was the time he kayaked the Amazon alone from some God-forsaken spot in Peru down to the broad Pacific. Then there was the time he had the problems with the Norwegian rats ("the dirty little bastards") and the raccoons got so thick they were troubling the bobcats. And then there was the time, during the Zero Tolerance era, when Ward carried a chainsaw for protection and lay awake nights listening to drug-trade gun battles. Ultimately, though, the old fellow hit all of us with the Big One-the story that added a depth to our Everglades trip that often goes missing from land-locked, lubberly excursions. I perked up my ears.

"But the longest voyage I ever did," he began, "was when I was 70 years old-I paddled from Kerchikan, Alaska, to Seattle, Washington, in three months."

As the details of this incredible adventure began to unfold, we listeners cast incredulous glances among ourselves. It was an amazing, uplifting thing-paddling a kayak all that way! Navigating with a cheap pocket compass. Sleeping on beaches at night. Building fires to keep the bears away. And never once attempting to find a wealthy sponsor, organize a lucrative spot of media coverage, set a record, or indulge in some other act of self-promotion.

At the end Billings asked the question for all of us: "Why do such a thing, Mike?" I pondered Ward's answer all the way back to Everglades City that afternoon, dispensing with my glum, moss-grown attitude en route. "Why? Just for the fun, young man. Just for fun."