The Terrible Tongue

I am now sitting at the dock of the Nassau Yacht Haven, waiting for the customs officer to come and clear us in so I can go get a shower. After three days at sea, one becomes a bit ripe. This is to say that simple pleasures are about all I can think of after the terror on the tongue. Read on if you dare.

It was a very simple matter to once again lift the anchor and sail off on the ocean, leaving behind the banks and setting up our course to cross the tongue of the ocean. This is a deep, tongue-shaped channel that comes right in from the Atlantic Ocean. A part of the Bermuda Triangle intersects the tongue, and it is theorized that the legendary city of Atlantis may be under its fathoms of dark, unpredictable waters. We had always heard one should approach this crossing with the same sacred reverence as that of the Gulf Stream crossing. Our weather forecasts predicted for Nassau and Bimini a nice 5 to 10 knot ENE breeze, perhaps building to 10 to 15. It was no surprise that the water was far more turbulent than that of the banks, and the wind started out just as expected. The easterly component of the wind became more prevalent, while the waves were moving in a southwesterly direction, setting up what I call “bashing through the waves”. Since Max was already running full steam ahead and we were making very slow progress, Wayne decided to put up both the main and the jib (or Genoa if you prefer). The wind continued to increase, as did the amount that the boat heeled. Up and down the waves she heeled, side to side. Add to that a close-haul on an increasing wind and we were simply put, slanted most of the time. Now words of wisdom rang in my brain from my diesel mentor, Claude. Axiom number one: when in doubt, don’t go out. Corollary D (for diesel) number three: the diesel does not like to run when the boat is heeled, as the oil in the oil pan may not be getting to the engine.

Fate or a slip of the foot? We still don’t know. While attempting to gracefully climb the stairs of the companionway and join Wayne in the cockpit, my foot may have slipped and accidentally pulled on the kill cord. (Sheesh, what is the kill cord? It’s the little line that Wayne rigged to the cable that turns off the motor. Why? Because the actual cable is still too stuck and/or corroded to be usable, so you have to go down below and pull the little kill cord to turn off the boat. Boat joys.) Mere moments after I climbed out, the engine sputtered and died. I apologized and explained I may in fact have slipped on the stairs, thus pulling the cord inadvertently. At first, Max did not want to start up again. Wayne decided to try his luck with the wind instead as he could make almost as good speed with just the sails as with the combination. Soon it became evident, however, that we were not going to make Nassau by nightfall if we didn’t have a motor. I blurted out Corollary D Three, and we tried to right the boat as best as possible. We also noticed a landmass to our port side. We figured out this was Chub Cay, but having heard the marina there is closed down and knowing from last year that there is basically NOTHING on Chub Cay, we decided to press on if the engine restarted. After a few sputters, it did. Fabulous! On to Nassau then. There is nothing but tongue between Chub and Nassau, so this was not a commitment to be taken lightly. But with provisions and fuel measured for three days, we figured we had a better shot at a reasonably enjoyable life if we made the crossing. The wind was predicted to blow 15 to 20 the next day, and we did not want to be stuck in Chub with little food and no place to provision or get fuel.

As the day wore on, the wind increased. This resulted in more heeling – but what to do? One of the smartest decisions we made all day was to reef the main at this point. Max was thrumming along and we were bashing through as best as possible. Even so, we figured making the harbor by dark was going to be dicey. Then we saw them: the big buildings on New Providence. Exultation! We are making it!

Hold on there, podner. Don’t rejoice too soon because the tongue was not done with us by a long shot. Just as the tops of the buildings were coming into view, Max had enough and quit again. Shit! Shit, shit, shit! The wind is now 20 and increasing, and we are engine-less. We can see them, we just can’t get there. But we have to. So, luckily we are on a sailboat and we are going to sail the boat into Nassau harbor. We have absolutely no choice in the matter. We can’t stay out here, and there is nowhere else to go. There is no closer harbor. The only other possibility at the west end of New Providence is not really a harbor and we need to get into some protection. Wayne correctly guessed that Max’s fuel was so low that it wasn’t making it into the line when we were heeled to starboard, and our rumbline was a starboard tack. Luckily, the GPS is still working and we are determined to get there. Despite the sun being high in the afternoon sky, we knew we would not make the safety of the harbor before nightfall. Nothing to do but press on.

We started this adventure around 6am. We figured on getting in at 5pm, maybe earlier. The sun sets around 6pm, and then it is DARK. We figured that Nassau would probably give off a goodly amount of ambient light – as did Miami – and sailed on. This time, we really did sail. It was disheartening to a certain extent, but there was no use in doing anything but trying to be the best team possible. So, it’s 3pm or so, Nassau is only ten miles away. We can make it. We notice that we are losing ground and dropping below our rumbline. We are going to have to tack up. We try out Max on our port tack, and he comes right to life! We tack up almost 2 miles above our course, because we know we are going to fall back down. We get all we can out of Max, and tack back down.

The tacks were inelegant with me at the helm, and the subsequent trying to draw close to the wind so that Wayne could tighten up the lines was fraught with mistakes. We were back-winded. Our lines got stuck. I didn’t think I had the strength to sheet in the lines, but also didn’t really have the skill to hold the helm in what were now 25 knot winds. Somehow, we untangled ourselves and set upon what we hoped to be our final port tack. By now, we’ve been sailing quite a while but are still 8 miles away due to wind drift, etc. It still looks far. Wayne says, “It looks like we’re not getting any closer!” to which I can only respond, “Don’t say that.” I know we are getting closer because the GPS says we are. Ye of little faith, enter not into my house of pain. We hold this tack as long as possible, but this time when we drop below our course, we have no choice but to tack up again in order to avoid the coral reefs on the northern edge of New Providence. Another inelegant, struggling tack. The captain is tired but not defeated. We tack WAY up (under sail only now) because by God this is going to set up our approach and we are going to get in there!
We tack up a mile and a half or so. Yes, it’s been dark for a while but who cares? We are salt-sprayed and starving, running on high-test adrenaline and not much else. I finally come to my senses, and let Wayne take the helm for this take. I’m pleasantly surprised to find I can sheet in just fine and then change places with him so he can crank the jib real tight with the winch. Wind is howling at 30 knots now, with big, mean ocean rollers directly off the Atlantic, and we can make no better than about four because we have to sail so close to the wind. Now the next challenge, where is the entrance?

During this time, I hear snippets on the VHF and learn that our Canadian pals on High Noon and White Diamond are in town as they call to each other on 16. I want to radio them and say, “Come and get us!” but that is of course impossible. I want to see my big friend and George Town Bridge partner, Dave, and get a big hug from him. I want to get off of this boat! But there is work to do before that can happen.

The bright lights of Nassau became a sea of red, green, blue, white, and multi-colored data bits. Which ones mark the entrance channel? No use trying to use the binoculars, because the boat is crashing through waves, up and down, and heeling like mad. Wayne is a madman at the helm, holding her through this mayhem. I’m supposed to figure out which lights, in this smorgasbord of lights, are the ones we are looking for. Christ, I don’t know! (But I cannot say this, as the only thing to do in this situation is to remain eerily calm and don’t say much). I decide that I am going to write a letter to the authorities, urging them to ban the use of red or green lights on buildings and places of business as these should be used EXCLUSIVELY for nighttime navigators. Wayne asks me to look at the chart a get a compass course for the harbor entrance. This is literally impossible in the dark on the heaving boat. I urge him to use the GPS, as I know my waypoint marks the midpoint between the first pair of red and green buoys marking the harbor entrance. He submits to my logic and we bash on.

We are getting closer and closer, Wayne again requesting me to point out the entrance. I’m looking, really looking. I look at the GPS, and it says the harbor entrance is a quarter-mile away and we are a quarter-mile high of our course. Then I say, “Green, red. Green, red.” It becomes a little mantra. I think I see it. I do! I see it! I direct his attention down to where I see a beautiful sight: a pair of flashing green and red buoys, just where the GPS says they should be. OK, we are going to make it into the harbor! I keep the faith, and convert the captain to the church of the GPS.

But now what, we are flying on a reefed main and a cranked-down jib on a 30-knot wind into a major harbor with nothing but a wing and a prayer left. We form a plan; to starboard of the last red buoy marking the channel there is a little anchorage. Wayne will have to roll in the jib and I am to pilot us to a good spot to THROW OUT THE HOOK and hang on.

And here’s where the cowboy imagery comes in. Wayne turns down into the channel and we roar in there with 30 knots of wind propelling us as if we’ve been flung out of a slingshot. Wayne is flying through the entrance channel, tiller in one hand and main sheet in the other. Yeeeeeee Haw! Not a finer captain there is, he has been battling the sea for more than six hours now with nary a crack in his countenance. We pick out one buoy, then the next, the next, and finally our anchorage. We gotta slow down now! Up directly ahead there is a huge cruise ship. Wayne says, casually, don’t worry – we’ll just head over to the red and we’ll make, it. Yah, mon. By now, nothing matters and I turn on the depth sounder and take the tiller. I mean, even if we run aground we are safely in the harbor. I figure we are flat and I’ll give Max one more shot. He roars to life! I say, “Wayne, we have Max!” He says, “Yahoo! Head upwind and put the boat right there.” By some miracle I do this and we do not run aground. He gives the anchor a mighty heave and we are stuck! I mean, we are just where we want to be, not moving. The anchor is holding beautifully. We are safe. We are exhausted. We are hungry. We are wrung out. We are salty and stinky and nothing of it matters, because we are safe.

The down below looks like it’s been hit with a hurricane. There are charts, clothing, towels, dishes, and books helter skelter. No matter, Wayne puts the bridle on the anchor chain as I straighten up best as possible. When we both finish up, the boat is in working order and the captain requests a beer and some pretzels. I can’t even eat or drink anything for a while, the adrenaline is too strong. It’s 9:30pm. We were out bashing around for 6 hours in order to sail 10 miles. It’s crazy, but we are here. I manage to open a can of soup and saw through some stale French bread, accompanied by some warm Chardonnay out of a box, but it tastes wonderful and we are soon done in completely. We sleep and will figure out the rest tomorrow.

Monday dawned bright and sunny, and the sound of tour boat commentators and fishing boats prevails upon our coma-like slumber. We fall back asleep several times, with the usual confusing half-awake dreams. Finally it is time for coffee and we must rise and meet the challenges of the day. We know there is a little diesel left, but is it enough to get to the marina in a still-strong headwind? By 9am or so, I can’t stand it. I get on the radio and hail High Noon. To my amazement and inexpressible delight, Dave answers!

“High Noon, High Noon, this is Cassiopeia, come in please.”

“Hi there Cassiopeia, go to 09”

“Roger that. Hi Dave! How are you guys doing?”

“Glad to hear from you, how are you doing?”

“We’re OK. We are anchored in the west end of the harbor, after a pretty wild night sailing in…”

“How’s that?”

”Well, we lost our engine and literally sailed in, in a pretty big blow. We made it though.”

“Are you having engine problems?”

“Well, actually we ran out of fuel, but you know what it costs me to admit that to you.”

“Out of fuel, eh? Little lack of planning? Well, I have a jerry can here with 5 gallons of diesel. Would you like me to bring it over to you?”

“OK, well, will I have to worship you for the rest of my lifetime, or are you willing to put a time limit on it?”

“Oh, I’d say five or tens years will do…”

“It’s a deal! Also I will throw in a jug of your favorite flavor of Carlos Rossi.”

“I’ll be right over in five or ten minutes.”

“Dave, do I dare tell you I love you with Mary right there? You are my hero!”

“Stay put, I’ll be right there.”

Wayne and I high-five each other and scream. Dave is coming! We will have fuel! After all the foregoing drama, suffice it to say that arriving at the Nassau Yacht Haven with no difficulty and pulling into a safe, secure slip was the best end that we could ask for.

Steve the Magnificent and leaving Miami

If there is one guy you want to know in Coconut Grove, It’s Steve Visconti. This extremely nice gentleman fixed our Yamaha 8hp (the one that tried to take Wayne’s leg off, if you remember) for a pittance. He diagnosed all the problems, cleaned everything out, ordered and installed a new hub and prop, and the darn thing works beautifully! He did this on his own time as a favor to us at the request of Bill Beavers. The guy is a prince. He is a compact and muscular guy with deep brown eyes and a moderately long brown ponytail. He looks bad-assy enough that you would not want to cross him, but he is just the nicest guy. He is efficient in every sense, does not waste time, words, or resources. But when the circling helicopters in the previous blog turned out to be monitoring a boat that burned to the water line, he called us as soon as he got out of work to make sure we were alright. They don’t make a lot of guys like that. If you need your outboard fixed in the Miami area, you can email me and I’ll give you his phone number. You can’t go wrong with Steve. You can buy his cute little girl some clothes (preferably pink) if you want to do something a little extra for him. I sure had fun doing this.

Steve brought our motor back to us on Friday noontime, and by 2pm we were on our way to No Name harbor. We located our exit channel, ran all the way out and then ran it in reverse marking the waypoints for the morning’s escape in the dark. There is a playground of flashing lights out at No Name, marking several different channels. You really want to hit the right one, and at night it can get quite confusing. Having done all we could, including obtaining a full tank of diesel plus another 5-gallon jerry can as extra fuel supply, we tucked in for the night. We had discussed our plan with Bill and the boys at the bar: anchor at Nixon’s Harbor at Bimini, then on to the Northwest Channel Light over the banks, then straight away to Nassau – a three day voyage without getting off the boat. In this manner we could clear immigration and customs in Nassau at the marina, and save a lot of time and hassle. We discussed the amount of fuel we would need, and the boys gave us their blessing, stating we should have plenty to make the trip. Just three days to Nassau! And the first part was to be the hardest – crossing the Gulf Stream.

We awoke at 4am Saturday in order to get a 4:30 am start on the day. While Wayne pulled up the anchor, I couldn’t help but get a last look at Stiltsville, a strange little cluster of abandoned houses which were literally built on stilts in Biscayne Bay. The ambient light provided by the city was reassuring and took a bit of angst away from the darkness of our departure. We had obtained weather reports from all resources available to us, and this was to be our glorious 3-day window of light northeast winds and calm waters. Getting out the channel went smoothly, and then we were in the big ocean.

In order to make the crossing and account for the significant northerly current of the Gulf Stream, one must first sail south. We had been advised to sail south to Fowey Rocks – as we had last year – and then turn east, sailing about 115 degrees heading to make 90. Very soon after our turn, we felt the grip of the Gulf Stream. The waves are jumbled as the current moves north and the wind (if any direction other than south) pushes the top of the water in a different direction. The predicted wave heights were 2-4 feet, which is not too bad, and the slight NE wind would actually let us put up our main and give us more stability. Of great note is that, sailing of this kind is about 99% of the time an act which involves running the motor (whom we call “Max”) at just under top speed and adjust whatever sail we can put up according to the conditions. Getting the opportunity to put the main sail up offers not only a little boost in speed but also an important aid to Cassie so that she can cut through the water with less rolling around. Although the wind was predicted to increase that afternoon, the crossing got smoother and smoother as we cleared the main grip of the Gulf Stream and got closer to Bimini.

Perhaps it is worth remarking upon what this looks and feels like. Leaving Miami takes a long time in that the lights and buildings are visible for miles and miles. Even as we made our turn at Fowey Rocks, the sun broke upon the eastern horizon, lighting the glass facades of Miami Beach with a new and different glow than their nighttime neon. Seeing the sun rise and sailing straight for it brings a sense of relief and hope, as a couple of hours’ sailing in the dark into the great unknown is always a little unsettling. Then, finally, Miami disappears and there is nothing but ocean and an occasional other vessel. Wayne and I had both taken some anti-nausea precautions, and had absolutely no problem enjoying the day despite a lumpy ride. Our first sight of the islands was a cause for celebration – a few ragged palm trees punching up out of the vast blue blankness. The closer we got to Bimini, the calmer the water became and we were on the hook by 3pm. This was record crossing time and about the easiest one we’ve experienced so far. The gorgeous color of the water and view of the scattered cays to our south, all under a fair-weather sky was a true joy. We settled in for a nice evening and another early am departure.

Sunday morning came easy as we had little difficulty leaving the anchorage and following our waypoints to the Northwest Channel. This channel is the most frequently used passage from Bimini/Cat/Gun Cay to Nassau. It is usual to encounter several boats along the way, as well as the occasional big container ship or other commercial vessel. We were surprised at how few boats we saw on this glorious day. We did, however, see a school of dolphins who came to play briefly with our hull and moved on. Always a good omen. We figured we sure pegged the weather window right this time, as the long sail (read: motor running at almost full bore with the main up) was practically smooth and glassy with little wind. Unlike the Gulf Stream crossing, this was a more calm and protected day out in the ocean, as the water is only 2 to 3 meters deep over the whole of the banks. White sand reflected up through the water and endless clear skies resulted in a practically seamless transition from turquoise water to pastel blue sky, the horizon a blur in some far-off place. The sun shone with a strength that rarely is felt in the great white north, and to our great delight our auto-helm was capable of holding the course due to the great calm. We read books, took turns doing little chores and sporadically scanning the great blue vista for other boats or possible hazards. We had planned to anchor by dark, and just about 6 miles shy of the Northwest Channel Marker (just off Mackie Shoals), we threw out the anchor to the setting sun. It could be unnerving to some folks to just throw your anchor out in the middle of the ocean, but there really is no other way to do it and it’s really not too deep at this point.

That night was to be rougher than expected, not at all a replay of the idyllic day. Wayne worked hard to bring the various clanging and banging noises under control, but could do nothing to subdue the rolling of the boat as the wind had picked up and we were no longer on a glassy sea. The waves tossed us side to side and nobody got a lot of sleep that night. Small price to pay for such a heavenly day we thought, we had to get up early anyway for the final push on to Nassau. That
deserves a post of it's own.

Coco shuffle

We’ve now been twirling around the same mooring ball for about a week, waiting for the kind of fabulous weather we had on our way down here. Since our arrival in Coconut Grove, three cold fronts have swept through, creating an unlikely situation; freezing Floridians. Indeed, the government weather radio station issued severe warnings yesterday and today, instructing people in central Florida to wear hats and gloves to prevent hypothermia in the 30-degree chill. It’s true, we laughed. Thirty degrees Fahrenheit…ABOVE zero? No problem! But the folks down here just area not accustomed to anything freezing without refrigeration or the application of ice. It’s not very warm in the boat, but we have our trusty Coleman Lantern which produces an inordinate amount of heat, certainly sufficient to take care of our 9-foot by 12-foot living area. We also have plenty of gear to stay warm with, and so are handily surviving the weather emergency. What we are not doing is seeing any chance of leaving for the Bahamas until the weekend, when all the cold fronts will have moved off and dissipated. Despite east and southeast winds, we intend to motor across the Gulf Stream on Saturday, throw out the anchor, repeat for two days over the banks and tongue of the ocean, and arrive in Nassau Monday if all goes well. That will doubtless be another tale.

For the second time since arriving in the Miami area, we are listening to the drone of helicopters overhead for half an hour or more. The first incident occurred at the Miami Yacht club. We assumed that the police helicopters circling overhead were part of a movie or TV episode of some sort. That is not likely to be the case today, as the wind is gusting to 25 mph, the temperature unthinkably cold, and Biscayne Bay is mighty whipped up. A large group of young athletes is here, training for an Olympic-style sailing race this weekend. Perhaps there was an unfortunate collision or grounding, with young people stranded or hurt. Unlike the recent phenomenal landing of a large, commercial airplane in the Hudson River, errant boaters would be well-advised to stay in the water here as the water temperature is 40 degrees warmer than the air. Any Yooper can tell you that 70-degree water is like bathwater for goodness’ sake. The helicopters hovered for about 45 minutes while sirens screamed onshore and air horns blasted from the bay. We are reasonably stuck on the boat, not really wanting to brave much of the weather out there and waiting for Wayne’s dinghy patching job to dry. I expect we’ll learn what happened on the news tonight as happy hour at the club seems a likely prospect.

We did meet two lovely young ladies from Quebec – Miriam and Vanessa – who are here for the upcoming race. They are both long and lean, with wiry-strong whippet like physiques. They seem unbearably young to have driven three days from Quebec in a big pickup truck, but having seen the truck with their gear in it, I have no option other than to believe them. They speak French (of course) but their English is worse than my French, so they are delighted to be able to speak French with me. I am both delighted and horrified, as I love the opportunity to practice but I’m frequently embarrassed by my vocabulary lapses. Whatever.

Two nights ago, Bill Beavers finally pulled in from the Lauderdale to Key West race. It was late and dark and he and his only remaining crew were in their foul-weather gear. It must have been ugly. Bill pulled up to the dock as fast as he dared and darted out into the blackness to find his car, home, and a hot shower I imagine. We had the opportunity to chat with him last night at the bar. His twangy southern accent and expansive use of high-faluting phraseology was as charming as ever. He did not expound much upon the race, other than to say he and his crew “made a lot of mistakes” and that the party was not nearly as good as usual. But, he was in good cheer, and we were all in good beer. Many familiar faces from last year were crowding around the bar, and we had the pleasant opportunity to catch up with a number of acquaintances. After the usual round of pleasantries, Bill and his friends Lee and Tom began the story-telling in earnest. Sailors always have such barely plausible yarns about their misadventures, the more beer you imbibe the more you seem to be able to believe. We have a couple of our own favorites to pull out and share, but the repertoire of these old salts is vast and impressive. Lee sports a long, white ponytail and is usually garbed in Hawaiian shirts. This night being cold, he was appropriately attired in a sweatshirt and jeans. Spoils his look somewhat but one must bow to the weather. Tom is about my height – somewhere between five feet five inches and five feet seven inches tall. I don’t dare guess who outweighs whom between the two of us. He is an amazing font of knowledge, has truly sailed everywhere. No matter what neck of the woods we discussed, he had been there and done that. He even sailed the Duluth to Sault Ste. Marie race one time, and was able to describe the harbor in Marquette with sufficient accuracy that we were converted. You just have to believe the guy. Who else could have described the lift bridge in Houghton and Copper Harbor with such ease and aplomb? Tom is a fastidious dresser and always totally appropriate to the occasion. His staccatto laugh and rapid-fire delivery make him an effective and lively story-teller. His seemingly inexhaustible knowledge is extremely valuable for the relative novice. If he hadn’t informed us, how would we have known that the buoys marking the entrance channel into Bimini had been, “run over by some wild Cuban sport fishermen” and were still missing.

This concept requires some explanation. The entrance channel into northern Bimini’s harbor (where we stayed at the legendary Weech’s Bimini Dock) is narrow and difficult. On one side there are rocks which of course are strictly to be avoided. On the other side are shifting shoals. Current is always flowing through as we are talking the Ocean here, mon. (OK, except at slack tide if you are lucky enough to hit it just at the right moment of the day). The placing of channel markers was heralded as a major improvement last year, as the only way to navigate this spiny stretch had been to line oneself up on a couple of range markers until arriving at an indeterminate point and take a sharp left, running parallel to south Bimini’s shore until it becomes obvious that one has to change course in order to avoid either rocks or shoals. These adjustments are, of course, visually determined. The trick here is to figure this out quickly enough to avoid any obstacles while battling the aforementioned current. Enough said. After a few horror stories, we decided to take Tom’s advice, avoid the whole mess, and anchor off Cat Cay in preparation for our two-day run to Nassau. Dodged the bullet that time, podner. It would have sucked to arrive after having made the Gulf Stream crossing, only to run aground in the Bimini entrance channel. The Dude abides.

So capping the night off last night was the appearance of Miriam and Vanessa in search of WiFi. I took them over to the library and advised them to set their laptop upon the book return, which I have done so often. I left them happily Facebooking and chatting in Quebecquois, which only Claude and Doug can understand. Prior to leaving, I asked where they would be staying. I was surprised to learn that they intended to stay on Bill’s sailboat, Finesse, which is moored directly behind ours. Apparently this has become a tradition for Canadian sailors. It is mildly concerning that, when their coach came out on the launch to rouse them this morning, there was no response. But then, they are two cute French Canadian girls in Miami with literally hundreds of sailors. Glad my daughters don’t sail.

Back in the Grove!

We enjoyed our stay at the Miami Yacht Club very much as it afforded us the opportunity to head over to South Beach not once but twice! Our evening expedition was a re-do of last year's experience with the kids (almost)> We started at the Delano because it is always so strikingly beautiful, then on to some happy hour Mojito place on Ocean Drive, then dinner at the Grillfish and finally dancing at Mango's. Fun! Next day we headed over on the inexpensive and quick bus for a big beach walk and general sightseeing. This was all so easy as the Yacht Club is right on the bus route - just past the McArthur Causeway a wee bit. We were anxious enough to get going however, as the weather is developing rapidly. We left this morning and actually pulled the Genoa out for the first time on this trip for a little Biscayne Bay sail. We were almost golden - having located the correct Dinner Key entry channel and having navigated all the possible hazards there. We had the Coconut Grove Sailing Club firmly in our sights, and pulled up just short of their dock for further instructions. The guys motioned to the closest mooring ball to the dock, and Wayne set himself up to turn the boat so I could pick up the mooring ball with the boat hook. At this very moment, a slew of young kayakers were launching from the dinghy dock, right into our trajectory. This, coupled with a sudden gust of wind, meant that Wayne's intended path to the mooring ball was now invalid, and he had to swing around again. Alas, a wide turn was NOT what was in order, as the red ball to our stern was not a special mooring ball but in fact marked a shoal. Yes, our first grounding of the trip was right in front of a bunch of folks at the CGSC. It was a soft grounding, but no way we could get off ourselves. The dockmaster came out in his launch, and said he would pull us off with his big motor. Wayne stayed on the bow and I had the tiller as the guy pulled one way and then another. After several attempts in one direction (which succeeded in burying the stern instead of midships as we were), the dockmaster tried the starboard side and I felt the boat heel some and give. I gave it a good little burst with the throttle - mindful of how many boats were moored very close to our present precarious location - and we came off. Wayne ran back to take the tiller and set up what was to be his final attempt at this mooring ball. With the forces of wind, current, etc. it is an inobvious maneuver. I stationed myself right over the bow pulpit and extended our crazy jury-rigged boathook to it's entire length and stretched...The boat started to drift to starboard again but this time there was NO WAY IN HELL I was not catching that mooring ball and with a last mega-stretch I was able to just get the hook under the tip of the line and pull like mad. Wayne was already dejectedly thinking we had missed it when I said, "No way, I've got it!". He now ran to the front of the boat and grabbed the line from my hands to slip it over our forward cleat. Success! We celebrated by going below for ten minutes of doing nothing prior to making our first excursion back into the world of the sailing club. It sure is nice to be back here with so many familiar places. We are looking forward to resuming our morning runs and visiting local haunts. Claude's brother-in-law, Bill, is out racing from Fort Lauderdale to Key West at the present moment, and we don't expect to see him before the weekend. He should have some outstanding stories to tell, so stay tuned!

on to Miami!

We arrived at the Miami yacht club after a successful trip with many bridge openings and closings and a provisioning stop up the Collins canal at Publix. Who did we see? Tony and Diane! Life is good. More news tomorrow.

fun in Delray - and beyond

Our evening in Delray with Karen and Wayne was lots of fun! Delray’s downtown Atlantic Avenue is full of history and eateries. The town itself was founded by folks from Wisconsin, and named for a town near Detroit, MI. It became an important part of Flagler’s eastern-Florida rail system, after which serendipitously it became a tennis center. People moved to Delray largely because of it’s excellent tennis facilities, and the charming original downtown became a playground for the wealthy rather than an urban wasteland. Businesses along the Atlantic Ave. strip range from very upscale restaurants to quirky little places like the one I found – the “Mellow Mushroom”. Wayne and Karen were unfamiliar with this little 70’s throwback, so we started out there with the guys sampling some of the myriad types of beer they had on tap. After that, Wayne T. insisted we go to his favorite “Gator watching” bar. This, of course, is a bar dedicated to Florida Gator fans of the football variety. The Gators were playing in a bowl game, and the bar was in an appropriate frenzy (as was Wayne, a die-hard Gator fan himself). We were invited to join one of Wayne’s friends for a pitcher of Blue Moon, and then moved on toward an eventual dinner destination. On the way to dinner, we stopped at Elwood’s the only remaining truly funky bar on the strip. There we had the good fortune to catch the resident Elvis impersonator for a tune or two, after which I was challenged to get onstage and dance with Ellwood. I said, “of course” and did just so. Elwood, a fine old southern gentleman, was a good dancer. After displaying my chutzpah and dancing ability, we returned to the Mellow Mushroom for great pizza and more football. The Francis team tired early, and we were back on the boat by about 9pm. It was a great, rollicking, fun Florida evening with the most excellent of friends. The next morning we already had a date with our friend Vivian for brunch at her place, and enjoyed a lovely meal with Viv and her grandson Channing. Channing is 23, and getting himself together. He has enrolled in the local community college and is figuring it out. He is fortunate to be able to stay with his grandma during this transitional time, and he is a charming young man.

Returning to the boat, we spent another fabulous afternoon walking the beach of Delray, picking up shells and sea glass and lollygagging about in general. We were hoping to spend the weekend, but regrettably were kicked out by the local constabulary that night (told we could no longer stay tied up at their public wall) and decided to leave in the early am on Saturday. Life being stranger than fiction, we happened to run into a couple of cruisers from Canada on their way to the Bahamas on that same night in Delray. We chatted for awhile, and then got to talking about our first trip down last year. The mere mention of Claude’s name brought great chuckles and amazement, as they had been on this same trip with Claude and Kathy 10 years ago. Their names are Tony and Diane aboard the Vertigo 1. We had a fun chat, then ran into them again yesterday here at the Middle River anchorage in Fort Lauderdale. We think they went out the Lauderale inlet for a calm Bahamas crossing today, and expect to see them somewhere else along the trail.

That brings us to our adventure in provisioning yesterday. We asked for directions to the Super Market, but somehow went astray and walked on a bit farther than anticipated. In fact, this error could have been avoided perhaps by asking directions at a gas station but…A nice gal here at the anchorage told us we just had to walk North on Sunrise Blvd. about a mile to find a Publix. I mentioned to Wayne that I didn’t think that was possible, given that as we were traveling south on the ICW, we had to cross under the Sunrise Blvd. bridge (ergo, Sunrise Blvd. runs east-west). Wayne didn’t seem to think that too important, gauged the direction we were walking from the angle of the sun, and we turned north on what happened to be US-Highway 1 instead. After about a mile and a half we encountered a Winn-Dixie and called it good. After provisioning, we stopped at the East End Bar, apparently a notorious Steeler fan hangout. It was like stepping into a bar in New Brighton, PA. The characters and noise level were outrageous. I sat down next to a gal who at first I thought had a strange hat on. Not so. At closer inspection, she had an Ace bandage wrapped around her head, with bloody gauze pads exuding from it. She knocked back a couple of shots of Jaegermeister, and took off amid jeers from her peers who were calling her a drug addict. Sheesh. Next up was a blond version of Dracula complete with red-rimmed eyes, a ghostly pale countenance, thin lips which opened a crack now and then to speak, smoke, or sip on a gin and tonic, and a surprisingly intact head of pale hair. The guy, who was a nice enough guy, looked to be about 80. Later he and Wayne had a bit of a chat and it turns out the guy was only 62. That is probably the effect of many years of bar-room cigs and booze. The gent had a house in the Poconos and a condo in Lauderdale and was retired, happy, and pleasant enough. An assortment of other characters populated the bar, including various guys named Jimmy, Vito, Santino, and a lady bartender from the UK named Jackie. The patrons all knew each other and were having simultaneous loud discussions about football, hockey, assholes, and bad behavior in general. Most of them had sport-related T-shirts or polos and gold chains, and short dark hair. One of the lady patrons (who looked about 60 but then with this crowd, who knew?) was attired in a skin-tight leopard skin shirt with matching baseball cap – the cap being further adorned with sequins. She had several layers of carefully applied makeup on and a large medallion hung from the chain around her neck. The effect was part Alice Cooper, part Rocky Horror rated “G”. Everyone in the bar was smoking a cigarette at one time or another, and I felt a bit out of place. After our unanticipated long trek to the store, Wayne rightly thought this might be a good opportunity to have a little snack and we decided to stay for an extremely inexpensive basket of French Fries. Good decision, a huge basket of truly fresh fries, some with the skin still on, arrived soon afterward. They were delicious. When discussing the whole scene today with my son, he advised me that this was a good decision because, “they really know their fried foods in the Pittsburgh area”. We ate up the fries, and paid up. The walk back wasn’t so bad; we had consumed plenty of calories we consumed and the blazing sun had descended in the sky, resulting in a very pleasant late afternoon temperature. A lovely full-moon night on the boat followed. This morning we got up early and had a lovely beach-walk. We located a cute little funky old section of town we had visited many years ago, and made a plan to watch the Steelers game at a little beach bar. Again we have just been visited by the local boat police, telling us we are kicked out as there is a 24-hour anchoring rule. We assured the good officer we’d be leaving first thing in the morning, but he was not happy with that answer. Wayne said, OK and the guy left. The young man next to us – who has been here for a week – was much smarter. He hid as soon as he saw the police boat coming. We decided that we are sticking to the plan of leaving in the am and taking our chances – just as we did in Delray. Further analysis of this phenomenon revealed a stock plan for such situations: say your engine needs a part which you are picking up tomorrow morning and then you will be gone asap. With this plan firmly established in both ours minds, we are going back to the beach bar anyway to watch the Steeler game.

Delray days

We arrived in Delray without problem around 10:30 this morning, sited the park and the wall tie-up, and went on through one more bridge to pump out at the Municipal Marina. This operation lasted approximately 25 minutes (including a walk to a gas station for the ubiquitously necessary quarters), after which we turned right around and were able to catch the 11:00 bridge opening and glide right onto the wall. This is a very pleasant part of the ICW, as there is little to no current and little wind. That was not the case last night, when a big north wind blew up and brought us some rain. We made it back to the boat in time from our in-town excursion, and battened down the hatches just as we were being blown sideways! It's always a strange sensation when a big gust of wind moves the boat at it's whim across the water until the anchor catches. It's hard to describe, except that you just know you are moving as the world shifts. At any rate, the nice rainstorm washed down the boat and we look clean and presentable here in Delray. Tonight we assume we are going to see our friends Wayne Tepper and Karen Stene, and tomorrow we have a date with Vivian Glass for brunch - she lives right here in Delray! It is a beautiful, upscale town with a lovely city center and beautiful beach. The photo above is taken near the sea wall in the very same park. We are hoping they will let us stay a couple of days, but we'll see. If not, it's on to Lauderdale and the Middle River anchorage. The fun never stops! I should mention I am posting this entry at the coolest place, the "Mellow Mushroom" pizza parlor. It's a 70's themed pizza and hoagie place, with a great menu and a phenomenal selection of beers on tap. The prices are outstanding and the staff is terribly nice. The place gets an A+ in my ICW rating book. As a matter of fact, I am hoping these two images will load up so you can get a look at where I am! OK, no, they are taking too long, but I'll try again when I have a more powerful connection.

Leaving Lantana

We will be pulling up the anchor tomorrow after a lovely brief stay in Lantana. We enjoyed a little happy hour and hors d'oeuvres at the Old Key Lime House last night (where we also tie up our dinghy). This historic building suffered terribly in a hurricane in the 1930's, and it's roof was completely rebuilt using the Seminole chickee hut method. The gentleman who directed the entire proceeding was a Seminole chief, and was meticulous about the selection of materials. It has lasted in good stead until this day, and is capable of withstanding winds of up to 130 mph. It's also a lovely place to watch the sunset and enjoy some outstanding corn bread. This morning we walked over to the beach and had a nice run. The mansions were incredible, as well as the Palm Beach Ritz Carlton. I just could not resist going into the lobby to take a look. Even in our shorts and T-shirts, the staff greeted us as if we were guests and treated us marvelously. This is probably due to the fact that we pretty much looked like the actual guests, and our suntans are browning up nicely. The lobby was exquisite, in pale creams and marble. There were some very modern, abstract paintings which echoed the shades of cream, along with flashes of red in just the right places. Very old "period" paintings and furnishings were mixed in with the modern marble and gleaming gold highlights, and cleverly placed mirrors added to the overall effect of chic but not overdone. It was so lovely, but we really couldn't stay for more than a peek as I am sure we would have been found out soon enough and probably couldn't afford a glass of sparkling water even...Interesting to note that this is in fact ground zero for the Madoff money scheme which is so much in the news ( the "Ponzi" type scheme ). Apparently the number of mansions for sale has risen, and they are up for grabs all over this place for just a few millions. We have not put an offer in yet, so go ahead and buy 'em up, guys.

We did find this anchorage more friendly last year, and the waterway in general is relatively deserted. We have been given a good steer by our friend Wayne Tepper, and will be tying up to a public wall (hopefully) in Delray tomorrow as the anchoring is not great in Boca Raton. Then a couple of days puts us back at the beloved Coconut Grove Sailing Club, from where we will undoubtably be able to post up some photos and discuss the whole Gulf Stream Crossing.

Stuart-Port Salerno

Our trip from Indiantown to Stuart was relatively uneventful – there was one lock (15 feet) to go through but we arrived at a good time and only had to wait about 10 minutes. That was especially good since the Indiantown Marina had no fuel (!) and we had to make it on the ½ tank leftover from last year. This is an unusual lock as there is no pumping whatsoever. The lock door closes behind the boat, and then depending on your direction, the other one opens either letting water in or out. It was quite breezy and at times a little bit hard to understand exactly what to do with the combination of current and breeze but ultimately no big deal. It was a little bit more edgy coming in to the anchorage here at Manatee Pocket, but we were forewarned that the water is sometimes no more than five feet deep and given our 4-½ foot draft we should be fine. We managed to fuel up a one of the nice marinas here in “the pocket” and then explore our way into the Pirate’s Cove anchorage. Indeed, depths of 4 feet were showing up on the depth sounder, but we “know” we have about another foot of water under that, so incredibly enough I did not even come close to panicking. Another reason could be that this was a 30—mile trip down the Okeechobee waterway and a long, exhausting few days to get this far. Running aground in a nice, safe anchorage doesn’t sound too bad in comparison. We did NOT run aground, and since then we have learned there is a three-foot tide in this area. We have subsequently been aground now and then for bits of time, but always float off again when the tide comes up. We intend to leave here about half-tide rising, as apparently there is a tricky little shoal just at the ICW entrance. The we’ll go only about 9 miles or so to the Hobie Sound, where it’s a piece of cake just to pull of the ICW to starboard and throw out the anchor. There is nothing there save some birds, bushes, and occasionally another boat. It’s a peaceful, restful place. We intend to go there Monday afternoon, and then make a much longer haul to Lantana on Tuesday – provided nothing screws up between now and then. We have profited from access to commerce here, and have purchased a number of things including, unfortunately, a new car-stereo. For whatever reason, our one-year-old Sony died an untimely death. The XM radio comes in (poorly) but perhaps we just need a new antenna for that. We purchased new bedding, filled the propane tanks, obtained endless little supplies and finally bought a solar panel. That should keep all of our “house” power needs met, as well as serving as an emergency charger. The weather has been too beautiful for our winter-white bodies, and we have been putting on lots of sunscreen and avoiding the midday sun if possible. When not possible, we get into the shade immediately after exposure and stay there for the rest of the day. Even with this careful regimen, we are beginning to look browner and leaner from all the walking and schlepping. In a lot of ways, it is glorious to be back, floating around in sun-drenched Florida instead of shoveling like crazy in snow-soaked Marquette.