Miami to Fort Lauderdale - March 11, 2011

Dominoes of the gods

The Intracoastal Waterway northward from Miami is an entirely different experience. Hemmed in by continuous development, it is an emasculated version of its wild and woolly cousin leading south through the Keys.  As I cruised, I passed a seemingly endless parade of massive, high-rise condominiums lined up as though the gods were engaged in a game of dominoes. I tried to imagine what it would be like to live in a cubicle with a thousand neighbors, removed from the earth, in a land devoid of topographic relief and lacking in seasons.  As a Midwestern adventure junkie fond of toting my home around, I found it beyond comprehension. 

Holland American Line cruise ship

Yesterday’s cold front had left a legacy of a stiff north wind, forcing me to zip up all opening on the flying bridge for the first time in weeks.  The brisk, cool air was actually a relief and could get no purchase on the corralled waterway.  As I approached Fort Lauderdale I passed first an immense cruise ship and then a gaggle of mega-yachts, 150 – 200+ feet in length.  Dream Quest suddenly felt like an inadequate dinghy.  The display of wealth was absolutely staggering.  I half expected James Bond to make a showing at any moment with Miss Mortgage Galore.

Does that helicopter cover by any chance come in blue?

Ft. Lauderdale Beach

I secured the boat to a mooring ball at the city marina and headed for the beach to observe spring break first hand.  It was not Girls Gone Wild but rather more like Girls and Guys Gone Cell Phone.  It was all quite subdued and highly commercialized. The only real evidence I saw of fun were fresh faced college kids sipping mammoth fruit drinks, one poor bastard puking same at curbside and another falling down drunk being dragged from a club entryway by security.  Like wow dude, like what really like cool memories man, OMG, BFF, LOL.

I stayed over a day to rest, write and to check out the giant St. Paddy's Day celebration scheduled for downtown. There was a stage, fire dancers, fireworks and a loud and discordant "Irish" band, but like the beach scene it all seemed rather forced or am I getting old and cynical?  You don't suppose?

Fire Dancer

Balloon artist

Native Americans Gone Wild?

Boca Chita Key to Miami - March 10, 2011

Dream Quest entering Boca Chita Key photo by Becky Moore

Boca Chita Key harbor

It was hard to leave Boca Chita Key, I kept finding excuses for delaying my departure and finally decided to spend another night.  Anchorages as idyllic as this are few and far between and since I’m still waiting for the sun to head north and blaze the way, I’ve got time to linger and smell the bougainvillea.  The entire pace of my voyage is linked to the declination of the sun.  My plan calls for Dream Quest to be in South Florida in winter when the sun is farthest south (the winter solstice, December 21), traveling up the East Coast when the sun reaches the Equator (Vernal Equinox, March 21), in the Great Lakes when the sun reaches its farthest point north (summer solstice, June 21) and making my way south from Chicago toward home as the sun and the geese head south once more (Autumnal equinox September 21).  As a former celestial navigator, I find the whole concept of chasing the sun immensely gratifying; an odyssey linked to the mother star.

As I crossed Broad Biscayne Bay en route to Miami, the mariner in me could sense a change in the air.  An oppressively hot and humid south wind, a falling barometer, hazy air and foreboding giant cumulus clouds billowing up over the city all spelled caution. In the onshore waters, two small boat regattas were getting under way as heavy recreational boating traffic darted about. 

Regatta

In the distance nimbocumulus clouds were edging closer, but the city, sunny and bright, seemed oblivious.  I made my way at idle speed past the downtown waterfront and under numerous bridges basking in the majesty of a great megalopolis as seen from the seductive perspective of the sea.

Miami Skyline

As I approached the Venetian Causeway Bridge, a wall of black clouds rose up over the city with stupefying speed as the sea darkened.  Fun and games was about to end and survival was the new agenda. A sailor in Key West had pointed out to me on a chart a possible anchorage area in this very section of the city; but could I make it in time?  I threw the helm hard over to starboard and headed for refuge, the storm bearing down on my stern.  In less than a mile I reached the area, whipped the bow around 180 degrees into the gathering wind and released the anchor immediately as the first hailstones and engorged raindrops splattered the decks. I powered astern to set the anchor and held on for dear life.  In moments the full fury of the storm was upon me and the boat trembled under the load.  A bare-poled sailboat anchored nearby went over on its beam's end but righted itself. My world devolved into a maelstrom of liquid blur, screaming wind and rattling canvas.  Wind gusts to 60 mph assaulted Dream Quest relentlessly threatening to dislodge the anchor and send her crashing toward shore.  I stayed at the helm applying forward power in short bursts to counteract the worst gusts and hopefully lessen the strain on the perilous anchor. 

Time slowed to a standstill, water poured in through every errant stitch in the canvas that covers the flying bridge.  I struggled to keep the electronics dry. The harbor had gone mad, its waters frothing with foam, the boat was swinging wildly, tugging violently like a tethered horse anxious to be set free, to run with the wind.  Was I dragging anchor?  Was I closing with the shore?  In the reduced visibility I couldn’t tell for sure.  The decks were awash in freshwater, a much needed bath administered by a demented nanny, the only bright spot in an otherwise grim situation. I took solace in knowing that violent thunderstorms are usually short lived.  I intently watched the small flag on the bow as it incrementally transitioned from tumescent to flaccid, indicating that the storm’s climax had indeed been reached.  Ever so slowly the conditions began to improve, the gale reluctantly released its grip and moved on to other prey far out at sea.  

Within minutes, VHF channel 16, the hailing and emergency channel monitored by the U.S. Coast Guard, was inundated with distress calls.  A boat with five passengers was taking on water, a sailboat was capsized with two persons in the water, a diver was missing, a powerboat was capsized its crew status unknown.  It was very sobering dialog.  That carefree cadre of oblivious boaters had been swallowed whole by the storm and I could just as easily been one of them.

Several hours later, when I was convinced that it was safe to leave the boat unattended, I took the dinghy to shore by heading up the very narrow Collins Canal that penetrates deep into South Beach.  As the late afternoon light waned, I strolled along the beach photographing in the extraordinary light left in the wake of the storm.  

Gulls and watermelon

Feeding frenzy

The beach

Lifeguard station

Sunset

Nest of a homeless person

Miami Beach was throbbing with music as I strolled amid diverse throngs of people, dined in a trendy beachfront café and marveled at the lovingly restored art deco hotels for which it is famous. 
 

Miami by night

Art Deco hotels

After a challenging journey in the dark back out the canal, I was greatly relieved to find Dream Quest placidly floating beneath the porch light of a new moon.  It is not a home recommended for the faint of heart.

Key Largo to Boca Chita Key - March 8, 2011

Card Sound

As I proceeded north from Key Largo the Keys closed with the mainland, squeezing Florida Bay into a series of giant circular sounds each one seemingly vying to top its predecessor. They billow outward like a stream of ever expanding bubbles from the neck of the bay as one sojourns northward. Thus it was that four-mile wide Blackwater Sound emptied into six miles of Barnes Sound which flowed into eight miles of Card Sound which gave way to the vast thirty-mile expanse of Biscayne Bay. It was another ideal day for voyaging, a mild easterly wind, warm temperature, a slight chop with puffy cumulus clouds punctuating the blue above. The miles slipped by effortlessly, the autopilot doing the steering far better than any mortal. 

Biscayne Bay

As I traveled, I began to pick up VHF radio conversation concerning dockage at Boca Chita.  The boaters were discussing the merits and the more that they talked and the more questions that I asked of them, the more I became interested in stopping there myself. Anything would be easier than trying to find anchorage in downtown Miami.  About the midpoint of Biscayne Bay, I left the Intracoastal Waterway (ICW), rounded Featherbed Bank and followed a well marked channel out to Boca Chita Key, its welcoming lighthouse clearly visible for miles.

Harbor Entrance

As I entered the teardrop harbor I was overwhelmed with its beauty and sanctuary. To top it off, the boaters with whom I had conversed were there to take my lines and secure me to the seawall. It was then that we discovered that we knew each other having all attended the same chart review lecture in Marathon a week ago. It was a pleasant surprise and I instantly found myself surrounded by fellow loopers.

Honeywell (on right) atop Rosey the elephant

The island has an interesting history.  It was purchased by Mark Honeywell, founder of Honeywell, Inc. in 1937 to provide a place to entertain his wealthy friends.  He was a member and president of the Committee of 100, a group of influential and wealthy investors, the captains of industry.  With great imagination, he set about converting a tiny key into an island retreat.  He excavated a well protected harbor, planted palm trees and erected a house, barn, chapel, wishing bridge, fences and pavilion from coral stone blocks. He held lavish parties and even went so far on one occasion as to bring an elephant out to entertain his guests.  Before he could complete his project, his wife Olive took an untimely fall that let to her death a short time thereafter. Without her at his side, Mark lost all interest in his island paradise and in 1945 sold it to the National Park Service. Today it is one of the crown jewels of Biscayne National Park.  Remnants of its affluent past is still very much in evidence.

Happy Hour for the Loopers

At 5:00 pm all the boaters gathered under Honeywell’s old pavilion for happy hour.  Each came bearing a drink and hors d’oeuvre and the camaraderie poured forth like the incoming tide while the sun set over the bay.  They were surprised to find that this was a first for me but actually I’ve had very little social interaction with other groups of boaters on this voyage and it felt good to be included.  The light here is just extraordinary and with the setting sun the skyline put on an amazing display of light and color. What an absolute gem I’ve stumbled into here on Boca Chita Key.  It’s one of the great rewards of unstructured travel.

The Great Loopers

 Sunset on Boca Chita

 Night sky aglow with the lights of Miami

Marathon to Key Largo - March 7, 2011

Getting out of the crowded Boot Key Harbor anchorage at Marathon proved more challenging than expected but once I found my way into sinuous Sister Creek I was on my way once again to the open arms of the Atlantic.  What an absolutely glorious day it was.  A gentle northeast wind, temperature a pleasantly cool 66 degrees, moderate seas on the starboard bow and the air left dazzlingly clear be yesterday’s cold front.  Dream Quest purred her approval as we plowed our way off shore into deeper water, sparkling in the morning light.

Cuban Landmark

As I passed Key Colony Beach, a tall, beige condominium building dominated the shoreline.  I discovered that this is one of the primary landmarks utilized by Cuban refugees as they struggle to make their way to freedom in fragile homemade vessels.  Visible for many miles out at sea, it has guided many a boatload of desperate people to Vaca Key and the safe haven that the American shore provides. Cuban refugees enjoy a unique immigration status.  If they are still in the water, they are subject to interdiction by the U. S. Coast Guard and return to Cuba but once they set foot on the ground, they must, by law, be accepted.  They are bussed by the authorities to a Miami processing center and granted asylum.  Since the rise of Castro, over fifty years ago, several hundred thousand Cubans have made the journey, many by sea, but tragically, not all successfully.  This ugly, bland piece of Florida architecture has inadvertently become a beacon of hope, freedom and salvation to an island 90 miles to the south held captive for half a century by one man’s flawed ideology.

Glassy Florida Bay

 The keys slid slowly by, Fat Deer Key, Grassy Key, Duck Key, Long Key.  Some 25 miles up the chain I altered course to the northeast and entered Channel Five Cut crossing over to the Florida Bay side of the Keys. The effect was stunning. I transitioned from open ocean conditions to docile lake-like conditions in the span of a mile. The boat trolled effortlessly onward as if sliding on a vast mirror of glass, suspended between sea and sky.

It is easy to drop your guard in such idyllic conditions, to relax your vigilance and give the mind a respite.  The gulf coastal waters are carpeted with crab and lobster traps.  Each one has a length of black polypropylene line running from the trap to a surface Styrofoam ball.  In the 1000 miles of ocean that I've crossed since leaving Mobile Bay, I must have managed to dodge a million of these floating hazards.  Snagging one in your prop can precipitate an experience ranging from a minor inconvenience to a disaster.  It is a given that it will probably stall out your engine leaving a powerboat stranded at sea. With luck you can expect to dive beneath the boat and cut the line out.  Unfortunately this is not always possible and the boat may have to be towed and pulled out of the water for repair.  In the worst case scenario the wrapped line can damage the prop, shaft, bearings and even the engine. Wrapping a line in the prop can turn a routine boating outing into a very expensive maritime nightmare.  I had had a couple of very close calls over the past few months and had developed a mental contingency plan against a future emergency.  

The Outlaw Line

Lost in my own private solitude, I glided along.  Suddenly I was awakened from my reverie not by another float in my path but rather a 40-foot length of the polypro line floating on the surface dead ahead!  In an instant I pulled back on the throttle and slipped the shift lever into neutral. In all, the maneuver couldn’t have taken over a second or two. I held my breath; I had definitely run over the line.  I went astern and peered over the transom, and sure enough, there amidships, was the bitter end of the outlaw line.  I managed to bring the end of it on board with a boat hook, but when I pulled, it wouldn’t budge. “Bad news,” I thought to myself.  I killed the engine and nervously turned Dream Quest loose to graze in a field of floats.  I donned my mask fins and snorkel and plunged in.  What I found was a huge relief.  The line had indeed been fouled in the propeller and had begun to wrap around the shaft.  My quick response had limited the damage to just a few turns, which I easily removed on the first dive.  Within short order, I was underway once again, knowing full well that I had dodged a bullet. 

The meandering Intracoastal Waterway

The Bay waters, unlike the Atlantic side of the Keys, are exceptionally shallow.  I often found myself cruising with no more than a foot or two beneath the keel. The Intracoastal Waterway twists and turns its way through a series of low marshy islands fringed with mangroves and providing critical nesting habitat for seabirds.  By 3:30 pm, with my energy beginning to wane, I dropped anchor in Tarpon Basin off of Key Largo.  I had covered over half the distance to Miami with relative ease and only one minor scrape with disaster.

Sunset at Tarpon Basin, Key Largo

The Turtle Hospital, Marathon, FL - March 5, 2011

Modern man's relationship with the rest of the animal kingdom is such a disturbing conundrum.  It's acceptable to use or abuse, eat, hunt or keep animals in any way we see fit until a species dwindles to the point of near extinction and then we deploy extraordinary resources and demonstrate boundless compassion to try and save the very species we have just finished systematically decimating.  In the web of life we've positioned ourselves as the black widow.

The decline of the world's sea turtle population is a tragic case in point.  Sea turtles have been thriving in Earth's oceans for over 200 million years. They are survivors of the Triassic Period, co-inhabitants of the dinosaurs.  There are seven species worldwide, five of which are found in Florida waters, and all seven species are now severely endangered and in decline.  There is a high probability that by the end of this century one or all may be extinct.

Prehistorically an adult sea turtle was so massive, mobile and well armored that their only real predators were large sharks.  They prospered and reached populations in tropical regions of staggering numbers.  With the dawn of Homo sapiens, a new predator came on the scene, hunting sea turtles for food and gathering their eggs along the shore but lacking the technology to significantly impact their numbers.  With the advent of the age of sail and European world exploration that all began to change.  Turtles were hunted in the open ocean for their tortoiseshell and leather while the meat became a major food source for the crews of thousands of seafaring vessels as well as those colonizing distant islands. In short order, world populations began to decline.

Today, sea turtle are under a relentless multi-prong assault for which their ancient evolutionary development has left them totally unprepared.  Ubiquitous plastic, cigarette filters and fish hooks (all of which they ingest), monofilament line, ropes and nets (in which they become entangled and are maimed or drowned), boat collisions, pollution, oil spills, chemical toxins, commercial hunting and the loss of critical nesting habitat have decimated their numbers.  Add to this a recent outbreak of a herpes-like virus that causes debilitating fibropapilloma tumors on their flippers, heads and internal organs and you begin to get a sense of the magnitude of the disaster.

Turtle Hospital ambulance

So its man to the rescue.  Marathon is home to a state-of-the-art turtle hospital equipped with all the high technology of a modern hospital emergency room and operating theater.  Sick and injured sea turtles from throughout the gulf region are rushed to the facility for treatment (three arrived today), rehabilitation and eventual re-release into the wild when feasible.  Saving a single turtle can take not weeks or months but years of painstaking attention by a highly motivated and dedicated staff of veterinary professionals, rehabilitation specialists and committed volunteers. And while the results are rewarding, and the need is great and increasing, unless the root causes of their impending demise are addressed, all may be to little to late. I personally don't see a significant decrease in any of these deadly ocean intrusions and contaminants on the horizon.

So my visit to the Turtle Hospital, while highly educational, was very much a bitter-sweet experience.  I walked past tank after tank of sick and injured turtles, heartbreaking in their innocence.  Many were deformed, some partially paralyzed, others had amputated limbs, some were bloated with gas from impacted digestive tracts while others were recovering from surgery or treatment and progressing toward eventual release.  

It was hard to know what to make of it all.  I couldn't help but admire the facility and the scope of the humane rescue effort being undertaken.  It's also apparent that the hospital is making significant progress in raising local awareness of the crisis.  But in reflection it all seems to be a rear guard action mounted too late against overwhelming forces that man has unleashed on the world's oceans.  In spite of the financial contribution that I made to this highly worthy nonprofit organization, as a boat owner and consumer, I came away feeling more like the problem than the solution. 

 All this debris was eaten by a single loggerhead turtle who died from the blockage it caused in its intestines.

X-rays showing: upper left - ingested plastic; upper right - severed flipper from line entanglement; lower left- triple sport fishing hooks lodged in throat; lower right - commercial fishing hook lodged in bowels.

Green turtle recovering from a boat propeller strike to the shell.

Green turtle recovering from removal of multiple tumors.

Key West to Marathon March 1, 2011

The prudent mariner always defers to Ma Nature, tries his damnedest to stay on her good side, recognizes her mood swings and above all never, given the option, locks horns with her. When I arose at dawn on Monday to get an early jump on my departure for Marathon and found strong easterlies blowing at 15 to 20 knots I paid homage to that Mother-of-all-Mothers and stayed put.  I knew from experience, hard gained on this voyage, that such conditions would bring harsh steep seas in the Atlantic Hawk Channel and give a top-heavy trawler a real thrashing. I retreated to the womb of Key West once again and spent a delightful afternoon laying on a chaise lounge beneath a palm tree on the beach, rereading William Least Heat Moon's "River Horse," sipping the occasional drink and watching the big breakers, that could have been my torturers, bare their teeth harmlessly at my feet. Oh yeah, suck up to Mother Nature, Captain Bob, you wimp, and don't spill your margarita.

Tuesday morning broke serene, light southeasterly winds under 6 knots, clear skies and a steady barometer, patience rewarded.  I quickly finished stowing all loose items throughout the boat for even in such mild conditions an errant wave or large passing boat wake can send things flying. With a split second touch of the starter switch, the big 300 hp Caterpillar engine, which hadn't been started since Jan. 24th., roared to life, sweet wayfaring music. I cast free of the mooring ball in Garrison Bight, on the north side of Key West, my home for the last seven weeks, and headed for the ship channel which leads south to the open Atlantic. I felt giddy with excitement, practically euphoric, to be under way once again. As I fetched deep water south of the island and rounded a red buoy to alter my course from south to east a huge manta ray came sailing out of the water, crossed my bow and returned to the sea with a spectacular splash.  What a thrilling sendoff from Key West, more memorable than a 21 gun salute!

I settled in for the journey, running through my navigation checklist, setting my way points, double checking all safety considerations and stowage, rechecking the weather and firing up some music.  As I slipped along the thought occurred to me of just how natural the complex operation of this trawler has become. What just a few months ago I had found to be so daunting was now second nature. Coming on the heels of a lifetime of sailing, I had been intimidated by power boating which in a very real way represented mastering boating anew.  It was not a fact that I admitted openly to others but in many ways I was a neophyte and knew it. Now for the first time those insecurities seemed to fade, the Atlantic welcomed us with gentle arms, the rising sun flooded our way and we, Dream Quest and I, embraced the day.

As we cruised up the Hawk Channel, at a leisurely 7 knots, the Keys slowly slid by, Boca Chica, Saddlebunch, Cudjoe, Newfound Harbor, Big Pine, No Name, Bahia Honda, names to pique the imagination, steeped in history and intrigue, the refuges of long forgotten pirates and buccaneers.  The light danced on the sea, Portuguese Man-of-Wars, their tentacles trailing akimbo, drifted by, dolphins came by to visit and played in the bow wake, gulls trailed our stern looking for unearned handouts, huge yachts bound for Key West passed close to, the temperature climbed to 86 degrees as a line of nimbo-cumulus clouds approached slowly from the north promising the possibility of the first rain in over a month, the breeze clocked to the south west, the forerunner of an approaching front. I felt more attuned to the voyage than ever, at one with my worthy vessel and the welcoming sea.

With the Seven Mile causeway bridge to our port, we approached the south tip of Vaca Key, home to arguably the safest port in all the Keys, Boot Key Harbor. It is a haven for hundreds of yachtsmen from the world over and despite the fact that there are over 300 mooring balls permanently installed by the city of Marathon, none were available.  I dropped my anchor in a crowded corner of the harbor and headed for Keys Fisheries restaurant on the Gulf side of the island.  I sat on the balcony of a second story thatched bar, watching the sunset, drinking Yuenling Beer and eating stone crab claws caught that day from Florida Bay, sprawling before me and dared to exhale.

  Dolphins escorting Dream Quest in the bow wake.

A Fish Story

This tale actually took place last Saturday while Dream Quest was still moored in Garrison Bight off of Key West.  In preparation for my impending departure, I decided it would be prudent to check the condition of the bottom of the boat.  I had sprung for an expensive new coat of anti-fouling paint before beginning my voyage last November and I was anxious to see how it was holding up and how effective it was proving to be at keeping marine growth at bay.  In addition, there are zinc anodes beneath the water line that protect the boat from electrolysis that need to be checked periodically. The rudder, propeller, shaft and water intake grates are also components that need routine inspection.

I donned my new wet suit, weight belt, mask, fins and snorkel and quietly slipped off the swim platform on the stern of the boat. I was immediately pleased to see that the hull was absolutely free of marine growth, the new paint was doing an excellent job.  I checked the large zinc on the stern, cleaned off its surface scale and then surfaced for air.  I headed back down and checked the rudder, so far everything looked good. On my third dive, I went deeper to check out the prop and shaft. As I worked, I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye.  I turned to my right and there beneath the bow, not fifteen feet away, in limited visibility, was what appeared to be a six foot shark, watching my every move. Then suddenly I spied more movement off of the port beam, and there lay another monster, even larger than the first. I froze in awe, studying there movements, which can telegraph their intent. I have learned over the many years that I was an avid scuba diver that any sign of sudden body twitches and it's time to get the hell out of the water, otherwise sharks are a fascinating species to behold.

I grasped the prop shaft with my left hand and held absolutely still.  As I did so, they began to circle in unison and then, here they came, straight for me, but in a non-aggressive manner. I held my breath, my lungs were begging for oxygen but it was certainly no time to even think about moving.  As they came closer out of the haze, I first noticed their enormous eyes, then their crooked upturned mouths and finally their large scales. Wait a minute, sharks don't have scales, these were tarpon! and curious ones at that.  They were simply immense, both dwarfing me in size and as docile as house cats.

I regrettably could not hold my breath any longer and surfaced as quietly as possible, hoping not to spook them. When I returned, there they were, waiting patiently, and as curious as ever. I worked methodically to complete my inspection, covering every square foot of the hull in the process.  They never left my side, these mammoth assistants from the deep and I never called them shark. Tarpon hate that.

My Assistant

Tarpon hate the S word.