A Bridge Too Many

In South Florida, we encountered bridge…

 

after bridge…

 

after bridge…

 

 

In this densely populated region, the channel is crisscrossed with vehicle and pedestrian bridges. In two days, we passed through 16 drawbridges and snuck under half a dozen fixed highway bridges, tall enough--65 feet is standard--for most masts to clear. Our mast is 42 feet. For boaters, waiting for drawbridges to open while idling in strong wind and swift currents is an adventure in patience, perseverance, and marine motoring skill.

Here’s how it works. When you approach a drawbridge that’s too low to pass under, you attempt to accomplish multiple tasks at once: call the bridge operator on the VHF radio (channel 9) to request an opening, continue to steer the boat, appraise the wind and current in case you have to idle in place for a while, take in the sail if you happen to be using the jib for extra speed.

 

Then you idle—forward, backward, zigzag, turning circles, watching the clock, watching for the vehicle gates to go down, praying for a speedy, on-time opening. When the span is raised, you rev the engine and charge forward, staying centered and  hoping to keep your mast away from the massive metal structure.

 

 

This can occur as often as every 30 minutes. You have to be on your toes, literally, to see over the deck of the boat. You have to be a master of timing and be in absolute control of your boat.

The trickiest part is the timing. Some bridges have a fixed schedule, such as every half hour or quarter to every hour, while others open on demand. A faster boat has an easy time putting on speed to make it on time from one bridge to a fixed opening time at the next bridge. For a slow boat like ours, the timing takes masterful planning.

At times we stressed our engine mightily, watching the thermostat heat up, in order to make a couple of miles in 15 minutes, for example. Other times, we drifted along leisurely because we knew we would have a long wait.

The attitude of bridge operators varied widely, from "Have a nice day, Captain" to absolutely no response to our request for an opening. I'm sure they deal with a lot of cranky captains every day!

Shock and Awe: Dropping Bombs on Amber & Pope’s Excellent Adventure

Two days ago, I had a major personal breakdown. Today, Pope had one.

 

We headed for an anchorage at Melbourne Beach, a small town on the barrier island between the Intracoastal Waterway and the Atlantic.

According to cruising websites, the town had a free municipal dock for motorboats and dinghies, a well-stocked supermarket, and a beautiful beach just a short walk over the isthmus. Sailboats with a deeper draft can anchor just offshore in 6 feet of water and dinghy to the dock.

 

Anchoring for a night is free, whereas staying in a marina costs anywhere from $1.25 to $2.00 per foot of boat plus incidentals (electricity, pumpout of holding tank, laundry, ice). We have anchored several times on this journey to save money and avoid crowds; but this was the first time we broke out the used dinghy we bought with our “good ol’ boat” (see previous blog post) in order to get ashore.

 

We had pumped up the inflatable rubber dinghy before the trip to check for air leaks.

 

We forgot to put the dinghy in the water to check for water leaks!

 

We arrived in Melbourne later than desired-- 4 pm, only an hour before sunset. We anchored 300 yards offshore. The wind and current were creating white caps cresting up to 10-12”.

 

As soon as we launched the dinghy from the boat deck, it took on water through a seam in the bottom.  I grabbed a bucket in case we had to bail water. As we dropped our body weight into the dinghy, the inflow increased. Er, I should be honest…. water poured in. I immediately paused and questioned the wisdom of going forward with the plan to buy milk, walk the beach, and return after dark with the help of headlamps. Pope immediately threw himself into the adventure.

 

I got hysterical. He began to row.

 

Most dinghies are equipped with a small outboard engine. However, while cruising, the dinghy and engine are stored separately on the big boat. Getting them both out and mounting the engine is twice as much work as rowing--any time, any place.  In wind and waves, lowering a heavy engine from a moving platform onto another moving platform and screwing it on is…(take a moment to picture this task)…risky. We didn’t take that risk.

 

Instead, we took the risk of rowing against wind and current in fading light…etc etc etc.

 

Glance quickly at the obligatory sunset-over-the-beach picture, then we'll move right to the end of the story.

 

Pope bought milk, I glanced quickly at the beach and snapped this shot, and we started back pronto, under the most beautiful sunset ever. Take my word for it. Pope was too busy straining at the oars and I was too busy bailing to take a picture. Under pink and blue stripes, we struggled and bailed and then tried for another 10 tense minutes to grab hold of anything at all on the heaving and weaving big boat.

 

Some time later, safely tucked into our v-berth, I broke loose with a torrent of tears that lasted well into the night.

 

Risk of drowning in the sea: 0.5%. (The water was only 6 feet deep, remember.) Risk of drowning in hysterics: 65%.

 

Today, I got down the log book and calculated expenditures to date. Time for Pope’s tears! Counting purchase price, repairs and renovations, operations and maintenance, food and provisions, and activities on shore, we have broken the $30,000 level. We’ve been out 48 days. That averages roughly $600 a day. For that, we could have stayed at an over-water cabana with floating pool in Bora Bora or be massaged and pampered at a Caribbean spa.

 

Are we having a $600/day experience? Hmmmmm.

 

Have you been reading my blog?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cruising by the Numbers

In case you were wondering what it’s like, what it costs, or how long it takes to travel by boat, here are a few examples of how the numbers add up:

$11,700 purchase price for Integrity, a 30-year old, 30-foot sailboat; later renamed Echo II after the boat Pope’s dad lived on, Echo

 

$12,627 spent on restoration and renovation (the cushion photo is prettier than the engine photo)

 

$2,631 spent at West Marine alone; we are helping to put the owner’s kids through college

1,097 miles on the Intracoastal Waterway--a series of channels and rivers just inside the Atlantic coast—from its start on lower Chesapeake Bay to where we will leave it in Miami; at press time, we had reached mile 980!

5.5 mph, average speed of Echo II when motoring down the waterway; can increase to 7 mph with jib sail up and wind behind us, or decrease to 3 mph when current and wind disagree with us (do the math--1,097 miles at this speed...)

176 heart-stopping moments when the water shallowed up suddenly under the boat, according to the depth sounder (this is an estimate; there may have been more); an experienced sailing captain we met suggested: “Turn off your depth sounder, so you can relax and enjoy the trip!”

176 gray hairs earned and awarded

 

1 panic attack when the dinghy split open and water rushed in, while rowing through current, waves and strong wind as the sun dropped below the horizon, at Melbourne Beach, Florida

1 time running aground, requiring a tow from Towboat US (like AAA for cars), in Troup Creek, central Georgia

1 engine breakdown, for four days; water pump replaced, at North Myrtle Beach, S.C.

14 leaks through the deck and ceiling during rain; 7 or 8 successfully patched so far

11 species of "wild" life: dolphin, manatee, pelican (see photo), teenagers on jetskis, hawk, heron, seagull, anhinga, deer, raccoon, sailors in waterside pubs 

 
27 degrees Fahrenheit – the coldest night we endured on the Intracoastal Waterway without heat, near Myrtle Beach, South Carolina; ice on the deck in the morning

44 days in which things on the boat got damp, out of a total of …. 44 days

50 times a day up and down the companionway ladder between the cabin and cockpit

8 pm bedtime, an hour after sunset; 6 am wakeup, at daybreak (but for the first month, wind, cold, noise, worry, and dampness kept us awake, so we didn’t really get 10 hours of sleep; now, it's just dampness)

2 folding bikes on board; invaluable for getting provisions in small towns bypassed by major highways, where all the shops moved miles away from the waterfront

55 miles—longest distance motored in one day on the boat, somewhere in North Carolina and again in Florida

11 miles—longest bike ride, alongside Dismal Swamp Canal, Virginia, where we anchored for the night at the Welcome Center along with four other boats

6-gallon water heater

6 bottles of red wine and 1 bottle of rum consumed in 44 days, including sunset cocktails and four happy hours with relatives and friends, old and new

27 sunsets and 17 sunrises, approximately—I’ve lost track of where each photo was taken, but this one is sunset over the parkway to NASA's Cape Canaveral launch site; I took it last night

 

2 oz. of sunblock used during the first 37 days, when the weather was freezing cold and cloudy; 8 oz. used in a mere 7 days in Florida.

8 gallons of denatured alcohol on board for the galley stove—has to last all winter; they don’t sell it in the Bahamas!

Have I convinced you yet to come on board and join us for a while?

St. Augustine

We are on the San Sebastian River in St. Augustine, founded in 1565. This is what Florida is supposed to be like! Sunshine; warm, humid days; palm trees; and sandy beaches.

 

Waterfront houses are crammed in tighter than matchsticks in a box.

People screen their porches against no-see-ums and try to outdo their neighbors with boat docks bigger than homes.

I rummaged in my duffle for a pair of shorts, and cycled three miles to the ocean.

 

 At low tide, herons and egrets converge on the oyster beds in the lagoon behind the sand dunes.

We have an added bonus here in St. Augustine--people to visit. Our friend Bobby led us by bike to the town square, where we watched an ice sculptor and sampled free Hannukah latkes. The city is preparing for the holidays with tens of thousands of twinkling white lights on every tree branch, telephone pole, and storefront.

Flagler College is housed in the former Ponce de Leon luxury hotel, built in 1888.

We headed next to the American Legion hall, for the best deal in town for chow! Half-pound hamburgers for $5, and for vegetarians, a generous cheese and mushroom quesadilla for $4.50.

On Day 2, we emptied our wallets. We hired a diesel mechanic, a sailmaker, an electrician, and a marine jack-of-all-trades to fix about half of the problems on the boat. On Days 3 and 4, we spent hours fixing another one-fourth ourselves. We are tied up at a full-service marine center, which specializes in BIG boat work--replacing $20,000 props on mega-yachts.. Our 30-foot sloop Echo II is dwarfed by our dockmate, a 77-foot catamaran.

Time to reward all our hard work: happy hour on Echo II with Pope's cousin Laura.

And finally... dear readers, can you stand yet another sunset? This time, a swirl of pomegranete and cornflower over the docks.

Sound of Music

Some people tune in to jazz or classical music. Other prefer country. To sailors, the sound of wind in the sails when the sails are trimmed just right is music to their ears. For a fair-weather boater like me, however, the most welcoming sounds are the hiss of a gentle breeze, birds twittering, and gentle waves lapping at the hull.

The worst sounds, on either a short spin around Chesapeake Bay or a long-distance cruise down the Intacoastal Waterway, resemble rock 'n' roll. That is, the boat rockin' in the waves and rollin' in the current. The water slammin' at the hull. The wind shrieking through the lines, halyards, and other protuberances on the boat. Between the noise and the anxiety about the anchor holding, it's hard to get any sleep.

In the Bahamas last winter, we spent a day in the Atlantic, rolling on 4-foot waves. On our Vancouver Island excursion, the waves reached 10 feet offshore in the Pacific. But nothing prepared me for the violence of Fernandina Beach, Florida.

The Sunshine State? Hmm. According to the chart, we crossed the border from Georgia. Naturally, I expected palm trees and tanning weather. For a while, I thought we were. The backdrop was gray and cloudy, and the band was in full swing--we were rockin' and rollin' to the wind's signature accompaninent.

 Worst of all, we were stone cold chilled.

If you remember from the previous blog post ("Captain Runaground"), we have had some difficulty staying afloat in the waterway because of the sneaky shoals trying to grab the bottom of our keel. Cousins of the sirens of ancient legend, I guess. In Fernandina Beach, a particularly snarky sandbar kept us holed up overnight waiting for just the right symphony of high tide and gentle wind.

One night turned into two! A dozen boats paraded past the first morning. Let's go! We cried, wishing to leave the cacophony behind and follow the big guys with deeper keels across the sandbar. But alas, the wind and ripping current conspired to keep our anchor firmly entrenched on the bottom of Fernandina harbor.

After a half hour of ripping his hands on the taut rope, Pope's shoulders sagged in defeat.

This afternoon, we agreed. We'll try again. But by afternoon, the winds had increased to 25 mph, whistling with glee at the plight of stranded cruisers. We settled down with our books for another evening and night of kick-ass music, wishing it would just pipe down!

The Adventures of Captain Runaground and His First Mate

Old friends of Pope’s know that, being from a historically distinguished family, he is a big fan of titles and tradition.

Several years ago, on one of my very first sailing trips, Pope, his old friend Jack, and I chartered a boat in the Bahamas. Documenting the shifting sandbars and shallow water in the Bahamas would be like counting pebbles in an earthquake. So nobody bothers much.

 

 

Pope, being the last person to pay attention to any official charts, frequently tested the waters, deciding for himself whether he could cross certain sandbars in the rented boat with the 6-foot keel.

 

 

 

Fortunately, there are plenty of powerboat owners around to make sure you lose face by pulling your boat off the bar, accompanied by great glee and peals of laughter at the hapless sailboat skippers.
 

It was there that Pope earned his esteemed title, and established a tradition that, to this day, Jack and I respect and honor.

The Intracoastal Waterway (ICW) resembles the Bahama banks in many places. Shoaling and sandbars build out into the channel, and sailboat skippers zigzag back and forth (sometimes in vain) seeking deep water.

This Thanksgiving (yesterday), Captain Runaground and I celebrated the holiday on a shallow sandbar, with pelicans for company. Back at the marina we had left at daybreak, boaters were enjoying sweet potato soufflé and grilled turkey about the same time we were listing to starboard and shifting our temporary anchor to prevent being blown farther into the marsh by the howling winds and rushing current.

We had one holiday visitor: a licensed captain aboard the boat titled “Towboat USA.” We had invited him to visit us via VHF radio, knowing he was employed by our boat-towing-insurance company. (Yes, it’s a lot like AAA for cars, though more expensive.) After exchanging the usual holiday pleasantries, he tied a yellow line to our bow and tugged, to the cheers of thanksgiving from Captain Runaground and his First Mate.

 

 

Later he kindly presented us with a holiday memento—a yellow invoice for a hefty sum, fortunately covered by our policy. 

 

We bid a fond farewell to our dear friend and savior, and continued down the waterway, successfully negotiating all the other sandbars, shoals, wrecks, weeds, marshes, and other hazards we encountered that day, finally arriving safely at an anchorage in the marsh--where the sunset and sunrise were picturesque, as usual, but the First Mate was sure we would be hard aground by morning, giving the proximity of the weeds and oyster beds.

After yet another freezing cold night, we awoke with optimism that the winds and weather would favor us for a change. Instead we had many close calls with powerful gusts and currents leading us astray into waters much shallower than described on the charts.

We  shivered our way into Florida, still bundled in ski caps and layers of fleece, only to hear on the radio the distress calls of sailboats ahead of us, stuck in the mud around green marker number 1, just past the town of Fernandina Beach. Welcome to the Sunshine State!

We crept up to the offending territory at low tide, about 11:30 am, watching our depth sounder fall from 8 feet to 7, to 6, to 5. Enough of this foolishness! the captain cried, rapidly calculating the consequences of reinforcing his title and reputation a second time in 24 hours. We promptly doubled back and dropped anchor near the town’s marina in 2-foot waves and white caps.

 

 

 

At 12:55 pm, securely tethered to the end of a 90-foot anchor line, we warmed up with hot soup and waited for the tide to rise, and larger sailboats to pass through, before we even considered making another run.

 

It's now 2:35 pm, and the winds have risen to 25 mph, howling through our mast and halyards and scrambling our already addled brains with their incessant whine. No sailboats have challenged the sandbar at marker 1 in the last few hours, choosing instead to follow our exemplary example and throw out an anchor. We gave it one more fleeting thought before we decided to give up for the day, place our trust in our anchor, and wait for fair weather. That could take a couple of days.

While you all enjoyed a sumptuous feast and the lazy lethargy of the day after, we endured punishing winds and floundered in shallow water, questioning whether we were completely out of our minds to attempt this trip, or just unlucky in our timing.

Oh, how we wish we were just out shopping on Black Friday like everyone else! Happy Day After Thanksgiving!

 

Living a Dream? Actually, a Fantasy

I retired in July from my job with the U.S. Government. Though I'm relatively young--in the 55-60 category--Pope had been retired a long time, and begged me to join him on one of his sailing expeditions.

We fantasized about living aboard a boat. We settled for wintering in the Bahamas. To test the concept, in March Pope and I spent two weeks aboard a 27-foot sailboat in the Berry and Abaco island chains with friends Mike and Ellen.

We passed the mid-term exam on how to get along in a small space (hmm, could be what prison is like...?), and a pop quiz on entertaining ourselves while stuck at anchor, waiting for calm seas.

We earned a C in comfort, a B in compatibility, and an A in fun.

After retirement, I had only a few weeks to pack, put my affairs in order, and make our own boat liveable (as opposed to mechanically reliable--that was Pope's department). On October 24, we launched from Chesapeake Bay, aboard the 30-foot Echo II.

Photo by Sam Paleschic 

 

Heading south on the Intracoastal Waterway (ICW), we assumed, the weather would get progessively warmer. Picture beaches, bathers, and palm trees. And each day would take us closer to our target: the Exumas island chain. A dream trip, many of our friends said. Courageous, others acknowledged.

I agree with the first set of friends: it was only a dream.

Heading south, the weather got progressively colder. Picture us huddled under summer blankets, wishing for sleeping bags. The water pump broke, and we waited three days for parts. The wind huffed and puffed and threw us off course. Because the narrow, corkscrew course requires motoring rather than sailing, boats with more horsepower left us lonely in their wake.

Our hope of spending Thanksgiving in southern Georgia dimmed. And I pondered whether our target was beyond reach. .

Until a few days ago, we had persevered--earning a B+ in adventurous spirit. But then the forecast deteriorated.

I know that several of you are experiencing storms with ice and snow. But in many places, winter normally begins in late November. Can you spare a shred of sympathy for those who fled to normally sunny climes, yet still suffered?

For two miserable days, we have motored in blustery winds, with gusts to 30 mph. Strong currents knocked a knot off our speed. Pope, normally a tough guy, was wretchedly cold at the wheel. When my turn came, I bundled up in stocking cap, double gloves, and four layers of clothing. I steered with one hand and hung on with the other.

There is little shelter from wind in marshland--just knee-high grass and small stands of trees.

At anchor, we tossed and swung like a monkey in the treetops. We slept in intervals, between checking the anchor, praying to stay off the bank, and coaxing blood into fingers and toes. The temperature dropped to 34. Yesterday, gusty wind and raging current prevented us from getting the anchor up until mid-day. We made only seven miles before re-anchoring. Today we left at daybreak and suffered for 40 miles.

Gotta assign that experience a D in comfort and a C in endurance.

The sunset, as usual, topped out at an A+.

Three days until Thanksgiving. But tonight, I am already giving thanks. At 1:30 pm, we conceded the battle and left the ICW in search of a marina. We are tied up to a dock, safe and secure, enjoying real bathrooms and a washer/dryer. Neighbors Gary and Joan served merlot and muscato--in real glasses!--on their luxuriously appointed trawler, Lady Jacqueline, with recliners, oven, and queen-size bed. Just like home. It is home, says Joan.

The wifi is free here at the marina, and a big boaters' lounge is furnished with TV, comfortable sofas and easy chairs.

 

Outside, the wind hasn't slowed down for a moment. The water races past pilings, as if pumped with pent-up energy. Skies were gray long before dusk. The forecast for Tuesday is for 100% rain, and for Wednesday, winds gusting higher, to 40 mph. More misery ahead out on the waterway? Or just stay put?

Another feature in the marina's luxurious lounge is a large wooden dining table and eight chairs. I am gazing at the lovely teak and thinking: perfect size for a makeshift Thanksgiving feast.