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The sky was a bright blue, the breeze fresh and steady; the water was a shimmering emerald and all was good with the world.

The tiny boat was among the many tiny boats crowding the river, either coming from or going to the Gulf of Mexico to enjoy this “Floriday,” as ol’ Don Blanding called them.

A crew member spotted it first, before the captain, although he should have been looking.

It came around the corner doing 20-knots easily, its propeller trim tabs in neutral, its stern digging a deep furrow in the channel.

It must have been 50 feet long if it was an inch and it was charging through the pleasure fleet like a bull run amok in a china shop.

The wake tilled by its speed blossomed into charging four-foot waves that tossed the smaller boats to the outside of the channel like marbles cast around a rolling throw rug.

Angry fists were hurled into the air, epithets flew. The captain of the giant vessel seemed not to notice — or care.

“This is my boat,” he may have been thinking. “Nobody tells me how to run it.”

The captain of the small sailboat was forced into an evasive maneuver; a 180-degree spin so the giant wake would wash more comfortably around its bow. The stern would have been swamped.

Only the porpoises seemed to enjoy the tumult as much as the big boat’s captain as they jumped gleefully from the monstrous wake.

“I can’t imagine how anyone can be so inconsiderate,” said one crew member. “Can’t that guy see the other boats? Doesn’t he realize what his speed and size do in these close quarters?”

“Maybe he sees,” said the sailboat captain. “Maybe he just doesn’t care. This is Florida. It’s expendable.

“He’s probably the same guy who blocks traffic at the supermarket while waiting for his wife to run in and pick up a few items or stalls traffic waiting for that one particular parking spot or thinks, ‘Reserved for Handicapped’ means, ‘reserved for me.’

“He’s probably the same guy who dumps gallons and gallons of water on the lawn of his Florida vacation home because, well, he’s only here for a couple of months and wants to make sure his lawn has enough water to last the rest of the year.

“He’s probably the same buy who assumes anyone in the store who is under 40 and wearing a necktie must be a store employee — ‘where are the pickled beets?’

“He probably the same guy who dumps his garbage in a wooded area at the edge of town — ‘somebody will come along and clean it up.’

“And he’s probably the same guy who takes more than his limit of fish and leaves his discarded line floating on the Gulf.

“He’s probably, too, the same guy who complains his property taxes are helping pay for the education of other people’s children.”

It’s a peculiar problem for Florida.

So many people come from other places to stay a few months here and, then, return “home.”

This isn’t “home” for them. It’s someplace tropical to come spend a few months without a care in the world — or a care for the world in which they temporarily reside.

For too many year-round residents “home” remains somewhere else, somewhere with roots and history.

“Home” has value. Things Floridian are expendable.

“I’m not going to be around, why should I care?”

“So what if I use a lot of water while I’m here? It’s cheap.”

“So what if I bully my way around? These people don’t know me and I don’t know them.”

“So what if I dump my garbage in the swamp. It’s just a swamp.”

“And who cares if I treat the land and the water and the people with disdain?”

“This isn’t home. This is Florida.”

Well, brothers and sisters. Florida is our home. Guests are welcome in our home. We’re glad you are here. Please treat it as the home of your friend.