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.