In Search of Paradise, Part Three

When we pulled out of No Name Harbor, it was pitch black dark.  There was no hint of a moon to give us some illumination of our route.  The water met the sky with no perceptible demarcation.  Save for the stars above us, there was no difference at all between the two.  We were totally dependent on the lighted aids to navigation in finding our way out of the Cape Florida Channel.

The Cape Florida Channel is basically an unmarked route that begins at the southern tip of Key Biscayne and parallels the shore northwestwardly along the boundary of Bill Baggs State Park to Biscayne Bay.  To utilize it coming from the Atlantic Ocean, you must navigate the first six buoys of the Biscayne Channel, then veer starboard of flashing red #6 towards the Cape Florida lighthouse.  Biscayne Channel forks to the port at red #6.  In daylight, the Cape Florida Channel is easy to maneuver because it parallels the shoreline and has adequate depth.  At night, the lack of any lighted navigational aids makes it a little tricky.  This is particularly true when you are heading back east out of the channel towards the ocean.

Following “Windy Liz,” we took an immediate turn to the east exiting the harbor, paralleling the shore to our port.  Even though John had the chart plotter on, my job was to visually find and verify the correct buoys on our route to make sure we were actually in the channel.  The first one would be #6 which, according to the chart, flashed red every four seconds and should be about one-half mile away.    

Navigating at night can be very disorienting.  Oftentimes, your line of vision will see several buoys flashing the same color.  It’s difficult to discern distances and hard to focus only on one buoy to count the sequence of flashes.  The best way to combat these challenges is to study the charts so that you have some predisposed knowledge of the bearing navigational aids have in relation to your course.  Coming out of No Name Harbor, our initial course was about 130-degrees.  Even though it was still unseen, this should put red #6 pretty much straight off the bow.  So, I was a little surprised when “Windy Liz” suddenly took a hard starboard turn away from the shore.

I strained to see if maybe I had missed something.  A ways off in the direction they were heading was a flashing red signal.  From our position, it was indeed the only visible red buoy, but it certainly wasn’t where we anticipated #6 should be.  I held the binoculars to my eyes to confirm its flashing sequence.  It was faster than that of #6 – every two-and-a-half seconds. 

While I was conducting my surveillance, John held our course, not turning to follow “Windy Liz.”  He wanted to verify the buoy number before we did that.  Utilizing the chart plotter, he manipulated the cursor to the position on the screen indicating the spot where the buoy would be.  When he did that, an information box popped up on the screen.  The buoy was actually red #20 marking the westernmost end of the Biscayne Channel, the opposite direction from where red #6 was and about 90-degrees south of the course we were supposed to take.  The most critical concern was that this heading would take “Windy Liz” over some very shallow areas, some as little as ½ to 1-foot in depth.   

John radioed to Ray.  “Windy Liz, this is Up Jinks.  You’re heading for the wrong buoy.  That is not #6.  I don’t think we can see #6 yet.  It gets mighty thin over there, so you better turn around.”

Gail’s voice came back over the VHF.  “Oh, deah.  Okay.  Thank you!”  With that, “Windy Liz” made a 180-degree turn to port and headed back towards us.  Within a few minutes, she crossed in front of our bow moving closer to the shoreline in order to follow it out to Cape Florida point.  As she did this, John’s eye glimpsed the outline of a sailboat anchored about two hundred yards from the shore.  Normally, boats at anchor have some sort of identifying light on them to make their presence known to other boaters.  But, there was no anchor light on the top of its mast or any other type of illumination coming from it.  In the darkness, it was all but invisible.  And, it was directly in the path of “Windy Liz.”

John lifted the VHF microphone to his mouth.  He spoke calmly and slowly so as not to sound too alarming.  “Windy Liz, this is Up Jinks.  You have an unmarked boat at anchor about 100-feet straight off your bow.  Make a starboard turn now.” 

As if on cue, Ray steered “Windy Liz” to the right.  Gail turned on a glaring spotlight and ran it down the length of the culprit boat so that Ray could definitively see what to do.  As they silently slid through the water to a safe distance from the boat, I wondered what the scene might have been inside as its occupants (if there were any) reacted to the phenomenon of such an intensely bright light shining through the portholes at 4:00 AM in the morning.   It could only be two things, neither one good.  Either it was the U.S. Coast Guard or an alien invasion.

All of this activity occurred within the first twenty minutes of leaving No Name Harbor. The whole sequence of events underscored three very significant canons of boating – navigating at night can be very confusing; a boater’s careless lack of regard for protocol can create disaster; and cruising with “buddy boats” can be very beneficial.

At this point, as we emerged from around the southernmost tip of Cape Florida, red #6 finally came into view.  By process of commotion, Up Jinks found herself in the lead.  “Windy Liz” and “Victory” followed us out past #6 into the Biscayne Channel, between the twin flashing buoys green #1 and red #2, and out into the Atlantic.  We set a course of 120-degrees magnetic that would produce a Course Over Ground of around 100-degrees once we entered the Gulf Stream.

After all of the confusion, it was certainly nice to be out in open water where, with the aid of radar and autopilot, we did not have to be so intent on our surroundings.  John set a MARPA designation on the radar for both “Windy Liz” and “Victory” so that we would know where they were.

We motored eastward into the first light of day.  It began with an almost indiscernible lightening of the sky, faintly declaring a difference in shade from the dark sea below.  Then, with a steady progression the sky moved through ever brightening hues of blue, quietly extinguishing the stars from east to west.  On the horizon, the blue begrudgingly gave way to a rim of peach, very much like a stage curtain revealing its backlight underneath.  All of this was merely a warm-up act to the rising orb of the sun as it seemingly pushed its way out of the water and spewed vivid red-orange fingers of reflection onto the surface.  Quickly it rose into the fullness of early morning, giving us back the sense of sight we had groped for just an hour earlier. 

It proved to be a wonderful day to make the crossing to the Bahamas.  The Gulf Stream produced rolling swells as high as six feet, but they were from a following direction and about eight seconds apart, so we weren’t fighting it.  Our course allowed us to unfurl the jib and by 11:00 AM we were maintaining a motoring speed over ground of almost seven knots.  The other two boats did the same.   After the somewhat sputtering start, our collective mood became one of glee and high anticipation as we made such good headway.  We chatted back and forth over the radio, checking courses and speeds, even poking some fun now and then. 

Once the sun came up, John had rigged a rod so we could troll.  As we crossed the Gulf Stream, he hooked two fish.  The first we think was a Pompano and he fought it for almost fifteen minutes before it coughed up the lure.  The second was a huge King Mackerel that John brought to the stern and gaffed.  It was so large that we literally had to fold it up and put it in the small cooler that we kept on deck for drinks.  All in all, I was beginning to believe that maybe John was right.  We might possibly be headed to Paradise.

Around 2:00 PM we spotted the first distant, patchy signs of land.  Our entry destination for the Bahamas was south of South Bimini between Gun Cay (pronounced “key”) and North Cat Cay.  A “cay” is a small, low island composed largely of coral or sand. Consequently, it has no appreciable height which gives it a mirage-like quality from several miles out on the water.  The first distinguishable sights are the shrubs and palm trees that stick up like spindly twigs.   From a distance, the color of the cays is grey and, though one would will them to be green on approach, they continue to be grey.   Contrasted to the mental image of lush tropical islands, these outcroppings offer very little but a prop for the foliage that inhabits them.  The lack of rain combined with the ravages of weather render the trees bent and colorless.  For the most part, these drab land masses are a deflating introduction to the Bahamas. 

They stand in stark contrast to the true “siren” of the Bahamas – the water.  As we skimmed across the last few hundred yards of the Straits of Florida onto the Great Bahama Bank, the depth and color of the water changed almost miraculously.  One minute we were rolling in dark navy blue swells atop 3000 feet.  The next, we saw the Bank hurriedly rise up to greet us with a 12-foot deep azure sea so crystal clear you could see the furrows in the sand on the bottom.  It was spectacular, especially considering that the Bank would extend almost 100 miles to the west before dropping off again.        

For some reason, I had not comprehended the archipelagic nature of the Bahamas.  My only other times in the country had been in Walker’s Cay, at the northernmost tip of the Abacos when we flew from Fort Lauderdale for a scuba diving trip, and in West End on Grand Bahama Island when we made the infamous first crossing of the Gulf Stream that had spawned my apprehension this time.  I hadn’t experienced the sensation of the Bank on either one of these trips.  I hung over the side of Up Jinks mesmerized by the beauty of the water. 

Once we came to the Gun Cay waypoint, “Windy Liz” pulled in front to lead us between Gun and North Cat Cays.  Unlike in the U.S., aids to navigation are non-existent in the Bahamas.  Cruisers must educate themselves by the charts and experience to know where reefs exist and where the passable depths are.  On their previous trip to the Bahamas, Ray and Gail had come through this cut and knew how to maneuver.  All three boats had keels of five feet or more, so it was imperative that we carefully follow the channel. 

“Windy Liz” approached the eastern side of Gun Cay to about 100 yards.  She then took a hard starboard turn and followed the shoreline to the southern end.  Progressing a little beyond the tip, she turned to the port and rounded the cay, then headed up to the waypoint of Honeymoon Harbor just even with the north end of the cay on the Western side.  From there, we took a course across the Bank south of Mackie Shoal. 

For the next two hours, the three boats sped along.  There were no swells on the Bank.  Its water was placid and welcoming.  As Gun and Cat Cays faded from our stern, there was no other land in sight, not from any direction.  I truly marveled at the phenomenon of being on such an incredible expanse of water that was so shallow yet so open.  This was certainly more evidence to support John’s Paradise theory.  Maybe I was becoming a believer.

Around 4:00 PM, Ray called us on the VHF to say that it was time for us to drop anchor.  We were going to spend the night on the Bank and our current position would leave us a good eight hour’s travel to Chubb Cay the next day.   He then invited all of us to join him and Gail on “Windy Liz” for frozen rum drinks as soon as we had anchored and freshened up.  They had a generator on the boat which could run one of their favorite appliances – a blender. 

The three boats easily found spots a suitable distance apart to drop anchor.  John called Oliver and Victoria on “Victory” to say that we would put our dinghy in the water and come pick them up.  There was no need for each of us to do that.  John and I hoisted “Little Jinks” (our dinghy’s name) up from the deck and over into the water.  We then lifted the dinghy motor off of the outboard bracket and settled it onto the transom.  By the time we headed over to pick up the Hitches, it was almost 5:00 PM. 

Ray and Gail greeted us with wide grins, bright Hawaiian shirts and equally colorful frozen rum drinks.  The six of us gathered in the cockpit of what Gail fondly called the “Pahty boat,” raising our glasses to each other and thoroughly enjoying the social end to a long day.  We must have been there for about an hour when it became apparent that as the sun was setting, the wind was whipping up and the water was responding.  At first, it didn’t seem to register.  But, when it came time to leave, “Windy Liz” evidenced a pretty good roll as the whistle of the wind climbed into the higher decibels. 

Oliver, Victoria, John and I climbed down into “Little Jinks” and shoved off from “Windy Liz.”  John gave the motor a full throttle as we headed towards “Victory.”  By then, there were almost four-foot wind waves.  The bow of the dinghy would rise up over the crest, bang back down and fling water over all of us.  Fortunately, we all had on our life vests.  We had to come up portside of “Victory” because her design made it impossible to board her from the stern.  Once there, Oliver shakily stood and tied our painter to a deck cleat to keep the dinghy from drifting away.  Then, he gingerly moved to the bow of the dinghy in preparation for getting off.  John reached up to grab at “Victory’s” side to keep us parallel to the larger boat.

There was a step hanging from one of the stanchions.  As the dinghy rose up, Oliver caught the lifeline, planted his foot on the step and catapulted onto the deck as “Little Jinks” plummeted back down.  Safely aboard, he turned to help Victoria. 

For the next several minutes, we starred in a scene that would have been funny had it not been for the frightful conditions.  With every wave, “Little Jinks” would go from about four feet below “Victory’s” deck up to even with it and back down again.  This meant that John’s arms would start out above his head, drop to waist high and then stretch back up again.  Oliver grabbed Victoria’s extended hand to help her onto the boat.  But as she would rise up to step off, she’d miss the chance and recede again into the trough waiting for the next wave.  Oliver would bend over holding tightly to her hand.  I sat on the opposite side of the dinghy getting soaking wet.  Up, down, up down.  Oliver’s back bending, Victoria’s knee flexing, John’s arms stretching and Beth getting soaked.  We looked like some weird synchronized caricatures on a cuckoo clock.

Finally, Oliver decided to yell a sort of cadence to help Victoria anticipate when to step.  As “Little Jinks” would rise, he cried “Step NOW.”  After about the third time, Victoria successfully planted her foot on the step and Oliver hauled her out of the dingy and onto the deck. Once they were safely aboard “Victory,” Oliver untied us from the cleat, John pushed us off and gunned the motor as we headed over to Up Jinks. 

By then, some of the waves were approaching five feet, which were pretty formidable for our dinghy.  Also, we couldn’t take a straight course to Up Jinks because the waves would be coming at us sideways.  John kept the bow of “Little Jinks” into them as much as possible and after about five minutes, we made it to the welcomed refuge of the stern of our big boat.

It was all but dark at this point and, with the wind sustaining 25 to 30 knots, there was no way we could leave the dinghy and motor in the water.  I went below to turn on the deck lights so we could see what we were doing.  We raised the motor back up to the bracket. John pulled “Little Jinks” down the side of the boat and I handed him a halyard which he clamped to the stainless steel ring connecting the hoisting lines strategically placed both fore and aft on the dinghy.  Because of the wind, it was a little tricky getting “Little Jinks” above the life line, flipped over and secured.  But, we did it.

We came down the companionway into the salon and, for the first time, really contemplated what just happened.  When we left Up Jinks only an hour-and-a-half before, everything was fine.  By the time we returned, all hell had broken loose.  It wasn’t a storm.  There were no clouds or rain.  The sunset had been brilliant and the sky was now laced with hundreds of stars.  It was solely and unequivocally the wind.  Like a new model Ferrari trying to show what it could do, the wind had gone from “light and variable” to 30 knots in a matter of minutes.  The lazy and beautiful water, that had been so welcoming when we hit the Bank, had no choice but to hysterically foment at the wind’s instruction. 

I set about getting some dinner ready.   By the time we sat down to the table, it was almost 8:00.  The wind continued to howl as Up Jinks strained against the anchor rode and rocked constantly from starboard to port. By being on the Bank, we were totally exposed to the assault.  The last opportunity for a protected anchorage was some 25 miles behind us. My only hope was that surely the wind would begin to die down before we went to bed.

The major concern was drifting.  John was particularly worried about not knowing that the anchor had lost its hold.  It was conceivable that, if we went to sleep, we could drift for miles without sensing it.  About the only thing he could do was turn on our navigation instruments and set the GPS chart plotter to sound an alarm if our position changed more than a half mile.  The three boats had agreed to use VHF channel 72 for communicating, so we left the radio on to monitor any calls.  Having taken these minimal precautions, we crawled in bed.  I don’t think either one of us truly thought we would get any sleep.  As I turned my reading light out, I leaned over and whispered in John’s ear, “Paradise, huh?”

I honestly tried to doze off and probably would have been successful had I not heard a familiar, but garbled voice over the radio.  “This is Windy Liz. Do you read me?  Victory this is Windy Liz. Do you copy?  Come back Victory.”  I sat up in the bed and turned my ear so I could hear better.  There was silence for a few minutes, then Gail’s voice cracked out “Up Jinks, this is Windy Liz.  Do you copy?” 

I scramble out of bed into the salon and picked up the VHF microphone.  “Go ahead, Windy Liz.  This is Up Jinks.”

“Could you please look out and tell me if you see Victory anywheah?  They tried to hail us, but we were downsteahs.  By the time I got to the radio, I couldn’t raise them.  I’ve

been up on deck shining our spotlight, but I can’t see them at all.”

“Roger, Windy Liz.  I’ll go up and see if I spot them.”

I left the microphone dangling down on the navigation station and hurriedly went up the companionway.  As I slid the hatch back to peer out, I spotted Windy Liz immediately.  Gail was combing the surface of the water with the spotlight.  I stepped up over the hatch slats into the cockpit and walked to the stern of the boat.  It was such an eerie sight.  Although it wasn’t raining, a fine mist was racing through the air horizontally as the wind caught the water from the waves.  The effect was one of fog, making everything hazy and impressionistic.  I didn’t have particularly good visibility, but one thing was clear – “Victory” wasn’t there. 

I went back into the salon and hailed Gail.  “Windy Liz, this is Up Jinks.  I do not see Victory.  Let me see if I can raise them on the radio.  Maybe my voice will carry better.”

“Roger that.  I’ll wait to heah from you.”

“Victory, Victory.  This is Up Jinks.  Do you copy?’

Silence.

“Sailing vessel Victory.  Sailing vessel Victory.  This is Up Jinks.  Do you read me?”

Silence.

By this time, John was up.  He got on the radio with Gail and she reiterated how she heard Victoria’s voice over channel 72, but by the time she got to her radio to respond there was no answer.  Gail voiced the thing that was weighing heavily on all our minds – “Victory” was adrift, Oliver and Victoria didn’t know it, and by morning there was no telling where they would be.  Or worse, something had happened to one of them and we couldn’t help.

John began the process of calling “Victory” to see if maybe they would hear him.  Every time, he came up empty.  After about an hour, he decided that we best try to report a missing vessel to the authorities.  The only problem was that we were no longer in the United States.  The Coast Guard, with its broad radio coverage and prompt response capabilities, was not an option on the Bahama Bank.  There's a loose equivalent called BASRAH in the Bahamas, but it’s basically a volunteer organization.  The odds of getting any help at this time of night out in the middle of nowhere were non-existent.

Finally, John raised a response on channel 16.  It was a commercial boat captain somewhere within range.  We tried as best we could to explain the situation -that a sailing vessel named “Victory” was missing, possibly adrift on the Great Bahama Bank.  We gave our GPS coordinates as the last known position and asked if he would convey this information to BASRAH for us.  He acknowledged the information and said he would do what he could.

By now, it was around 1:00 AM.  Other than worry, we had done all that we could do.  John said we should go to bed and try to get some sleep, so we crawled back into our berth.  The wind continued to scream, Up Jinks determinedly maintained her anchor, and we somehow eventually drifted off.

We rose the next morning to a beautiful blue sky, lighter wind and calming sea.  It was almost as if the conditions of the night before had been a bad dream.    I was amazed that the water could relax so quickly from the beating it had taken.  John explained that the shallowness of the Bank created a much different interaction between wind and water than in the deep, open ocean.  Whereas a storm in the ocean can leave the water rolling swells for days on end, the wind waves on the Bank will pretty much lay down as the wind dies. 

Before we did anything else, we went up top to see if we could spot “Victory.”  John was out into the cockpit first.  “Well I’ll be damned,” was all he said.  As I came up behind him, I could see her over his shoulder.  “Victory” was peacefully anchored almost a half-mile away as if she had never been gone at all.  It was as if we had experienced a reverse mirage – seeing nothing when something was there.

John called to them on the radio.  Victoria answered.  She explained that they had indeed drifted.  They fought the drift for several hours, trying to reset the anchor over and over again.  It finally caught, but well out of sight from us.  When she initially called to “Windy Liz” on the radio and got no immediate response, she assumed that we were all already asleep.  Since there was nothing we could do to help them, she had turned their radio off.  That was why she never heard our hailings.  They brought “Victory” back towards us when the sun came up.

After such a tumultuous night, it was a tremendous relief to see them.  Looking back on it, we might have over-reacted to the situation, but we did what we thought was best under the circumstances.  From that point on, whenever we heard or saw a helicopter, we’d radio “Victory” and say “Here they come to save you!”

For my part, I was truly glad to have the night over with.  I was beginning to wonder if we were on our way to “Paradise” or “Paradise Lost.”