No Name

At this writing (Feb. 5), we are in Key West bobbing and weaving on a ball in the city mooring field. A northern wind of 20 knots is blowing steadily and the field has no protection from that direction. We’ve decided to stay on Up Jinks today because it’s too risky to dinghy over to the Key and the water taxi costs $20 each way. Tomorrow, however, I will insist on transportation off of the boat no matter the risk or the cost because I want to watch the Super Bowl!

I’m trying a new technique with the journal by letting you know where we currently are, then backtracking to catch up with ourselves. Hopefully, this will keep me from getting too far behind and then just throwing up my hands and quitting.

As I said, we are in Key West which is a very significant accomplishment for us because it means we have traveled the entire eastern shore of the U.S. in less than a year. We have witnessed the Atlantic Ocean change her wardrobe from the deep emerald green of the islands of Maine to light-hearted Caribbean blue off the coast of Florida. In many ways, it’s hard to believe she’s the same body of water.

I’ve also had a very personal significant accomplishment. I’ve worn a hole in the seat of my jeans. It’s always been a marvel to me how young people treasure their holey jeans and refuse to throw them away or patch them up. Now I know why. It takes hours upon hours of wear to get them to fray and the reward is the triumph you feel when they finally bust open. And, then there are the stares of disapproval you get when you wear them in public places. I’m a rebel at last! My girls finally have someone they can truly admire.

But, enough about me. When we last wrote, we were in Delray Beach. We left there on January 25 headed to Ft. Lauderdale. It was another gorgeous morning and the trip was pretty uneventful and slow due to the nine bridges we had to negotiate. Our stop for the night was the Las Olas Marina, a very nice facility run by the city. The dockmaster instructed us to go to slip C-27 and prepare for a port-side tie up coming in bow first. As we approached the marina, I strained to locate the C dock. It was totally obscured by a massive 100-foot motor yacht, the “Carolinian,” tied up on the entire outer “T” of the dock. We pulled around behind her and saw that our slip was right next to her.

As we secured Up Jinks, I looked up at the huge multi-story vessel and could see the owners being served lunch by a female crew member. It was all very proper, you see, as “Carolinian” was from England. But, manners only go so far when it comes to big, power yachts. We were in the midst of tying Up Jinks down, when the captain of “Carolinian” started her engine. Smoke came billowing out from the diesel portal and quickly consumed the entire cockpit of Up Jinks. We could hardly breathe as wave after wave of smoke poured over us. The crew of the big ship was oblivious to our distress. They went about their formal duties of preparing her to leave the dock. Finally, one of them came back to the stern to release the line from the piling. He apologized profusely, but what could he do? I wonder if the owners watched to whole episode with amusement as they sipped tea and ate crumpets. Don’t kid yourself. Big Boats rule! The “Carolinian” pulled away from the dock, but it was evident she would be back. The crew left lines and fender boards neatly placed on the dock along with pairs of flip-flops.

We enjoyed having some company that evening. Michael and Marilyn Mackle came over to have supper with us on the boat. They are the parents of Lyn’s good friend Marissa whom she met while attending the Harid Conservatory in Boca Raton. We had come to know them quite well during the two years Lyn studied at Harid and it was great seeing them again.

We went to bed about 11:00 and were sleeping very soundly when around 2:30 AM strange noises woke me up. I got out of bed and went into the salon where I could see outside. Sure enough, as if smoking us out earlier wasn’t enough insult, here comes “Carolinian” sidling back up to the outside of the dock. One crew member was on the stern with a headset talking to the captain telling him how close he was to the dock. The engine “harrumphed” loudly as the crew scurried around dropping fenders off the side. Then, “carumph” the fenders bumped and the crew hopped off the secure the lines. I’m sure the owners were tucked in their beds, sound asleep, totally unaware of their discourtesy towards us. Yes, big boats rule.

The next morning was just as beautiful as the day before. We walked over to the beach and had breakfast along the famous boardwalk. Joggers, skateboarders and yoga practitioners were out in force taking advantage of the warm sun. By the time we returned to Up Jinks, it was almost 10:00. We untied from C-27 and slipped out behind “Carolinian.” Her crew was painstakingly washing her down from the moonlight cruise. Again, the same young man apologized for disturbing us in the night. Maybe that was his rank – “apologist.” It certainly appeared to be his duty.

As we made our way down the waterway towards Port Everglades, I couldn’t help but notice how Ft. Lauderdale makes an awkward, inadequate attempt to be like Venice, Italy. Houses line canal after canal that carry names like streets. There is no need for gondolas because everybody has a boat of their own. Signs of wealth are visible everywhere you look.

We came through Port Everglades and out into the Atlantic Ocean for a partial day’s trip outside to “No Name Harbor” in the heart of the Bill Baggs Florida Cape State Park. This would be our first occasion of the trip to purely sail. Up until then, we had only unfurled the jib as we motored. The mainsail had been patiently waiting in its cover for the chance to stretch out and catch some air.

For about two hours, the wind cooperated enough for us to glide along at about 6 knots. The ocean was absolutely like glass and the water so clear you would see the ripples of sand some 30 to 40 feet below. It was really refreshing not hearing the constant roar of the engine. The city of Miami slowly diminished to our starboard side as we passed first Virginia Key, then Key Biscayne. We rounded Cape Florida at the southern tip of Key Biscayne and headed northwest towards Biscayne Bay, hugging the shoreline.

For the next five days, “No Name Harbor” was our home. It was a placid lagoon surrounded by the hiking and bike trails of the park. A concrete wall rimmed the entire southern bank which made it easy to dinghy over to shore. At the southern most end was a restaurant called The Boater’s Grille. This was Wednesday afternoon and there were only a handful of boats in the harbor and not much activity in the rest of the park. We dropped our anchor just in time for a brilliant Florida sunset.

As remote as “No Name” seemed, it was actually less than a mile’s walk to where the hotels and high rises of Key Biscayne began. It had been a few days since we had provisioned, so we decided to walk into the heart of the key and buy groceries. At the We park entrance, we were told it was “only a mile or so to the Winn-Dixie on the left.” I will always marvel at the statement “it’s only a mile or so.” You’d think that a mile would be a mile, basically 5280 feet divided roughly by 2 feet per step to give you 2,640 actual steps you have to walk. But, the trick is “or so.” As far as I can determine “or so” has never been quantified as a measurement, so it can mean anything from just a few more steps to perhaps another 2,640. But, we struck out optimistically dragging behind us a new collapsible cart John had purchased at West Marine for this very purpose.

Finally, after what seemed forever, the Winn-Dixie appeared. It was unique in that it was on the second floor of a strip mall. There were steps to it, escalators to it, elevators to it, and on the descent, there was a conveyor belt so you could easily ride your cart full of groceries down to the street without any problem. We shopped for about 45 minutes getting everything from green peppers to handi-wipes. When it was our turn at the checkout, John left me and went to the end of the counter, proudly popped open the cart and started loading the groceries. The first four or five bags went in without a problem. It was the next ten that were the dilemma. He scratched is head and did the best he could. We paid up and came out of the store looking like Fibber McGee’s closet on feet. John had the cart, plus bags stacked up the handle. I had bags over the shoulder and around each arm. I’m not sure how long the forced march took to get back to the park, but we were sweating when we got there. The dinghy almost sank with the weight of our purchases.

We put everything away, had some lunch and John struck out with his camera to explore the park and its wildlife. The afternoon was so inviting that all I wanted to do was put on my bathing suit and lie out on the bow of Up Jinks to get some sun. Now, THIS was Florida as I knew her.

Oh, well. So much for THAT Florida that I thought I knew! The next morning brought intense wind and rain from the north. As sheltered as No Name Harbor was, it couldn’t totally protect us from the elements. The wind would whistle through the palm trees and all of the boats at anchor looked like they were doing some sort of waltz as they swayed first starboard, then port, all in line with one another. We never ventured off the boat. As a matter of fact, I knitted an entire afghan that day and night. I couldn’t sleep for fear that Up Jinks would come off her hook. Not that I could really do anything about it if she did. The anchor rode would periodically make this loud “thwonk” sound as she strained against it on each swing. It sounded like the string of a base fiddle that was too tightly wound. “Thwonk.” “Thwonk.” Finally, around 2:00 AM, I crawled into bed.

When we woke up the next morning (the 29th), the wind was still blowing hard, but the skies had cleared. So, we decided to dinghy over to shore and spend some time walking the hiking trail. The trail took us through the park and out to the beach where the Florida Cape Lighthouse stands. The park offers tours of the lighthouse, so we decided to take the one at 10:00. We climbed the 109 steps up to the top and enjoyed the breathtaking view from this southern-most point of Key Biscayne. To the north was the skyline of Miami and further up Miami Beach. To the east, the Atlantic Ocean roiling that day from the wind. To the west was the park and Key Biscayne. And, to the south was Stiltsville, or what remains of it.
We had noticed these buildings when we came into No Name Harbor, but didn’t know what they were. Apparently, there used to be a whole community of houses built on stilts out in the middle of Biscayne Bay. According to the park ranger, at one time there were as many as fifty. They even had their own grocery store. But, over time hurricanes have reclaimed them to the sea and now only a handful are left. Permits are not allowed anymore to build them, so Stiltsville will someday be gone.

After the lighthouse tour, we walked back to the No Name and dinghied over to the boat. We were going to have company all weekend and needed to do some housekeeping. Our friends from Melbourne, Kevin and Mirian Clifford, were coming to spend the night with us. This meant that we had to clean out the bow berth so they would have a place to sleep. When it’s just the two of us, the bow berth becomes the catch-all for anything that needs to be put away. It regularly houses our spinnaker, rain jackets, knitting supplies, the wet-vac, seats, cushions, life jackets, blankets…….and so on. The trick, then, is to find places to put all of this stuff when you need the space for sleeping. Then, of course, the trick after that is to remember where you hid everything!

Kevin and Mirian got to No Name Harbor around 4:00. By then, the harbor had transformed from the peaceful sanctuary we had known the last couple of days into a Saturday afternoon hot spot for people and boats of all sizes and shapes. Motor boats from Miami poured into the lagoon. They lined the entire concrete bulkhead. And, each one had its preferred type of music as radios blared ever louder to see which one would ultimately prevail for the listening pleasure of others. It was like listening to Eminem singing “This Magic Moment” backed up by a Mariachi band. We had a great observation post sitting out in the middle of the harbor. There was plenty of “boat fluff” all around for John and Kevin to enjoy.

We had plans to meet Kevin’s brother and sister-in-law for dinner. She was running in the Miami marathon the next day and he in the half-marathon. Kevin grew up (I use that term loosely) in the Miami area, so as we drove over to Coconut Grove for dinner, he gave us a great tour of the area. He particularly noted the Crandon Park Golf Course at the northern end of Key Biscayne as a place we should try to play while we were there. Of course, I registered that immediately in my memory bank. Our reservations were at Trattoria Sole at the corner of US 1 and Sunset Drive. It was a wonderful Italian restaurant with superb food and we had a great time with their family and friends.

The next morning was Sunday and we woke to another beautiful day. After breakfast, Kevin and Mirian left to go meet the runners as they crossed the finish line and we straightened things up again for our next round of company. Paul Malvey, who sailed some with us on our trip to Maine last fall, was in town for a Barclay’s American conference on Key Biscayne. My brother, Gene, also happened to be in the Miami area on business and he was staying over to visit his friend, Madeline. So, they were all coming out to the boat to spend some time with us.

By lunchtime, No Name had filled up once again with the same menagerie of boats as the day before. Paul got there first. Gene and Madeline arrived around 11:30. We had a great time sitting in the cockpit of Up Jinks talking, laughing, observing and commenting on all the sites around us. Madeline has lived in the Miami area for almost 20 years and she was full of interesting pieces of information that you wouldn’t pick up by just visiting. Like, the Columbus Day Regatta. Now, this is a “G” rated journal, so I can’t exactly explain what happens at the Columbus Day Regatta, but let me just say that the date is already in Paul’s, Gene’s, and John’s palm pilots!

By early afternoon, we were pretty hungry and decided to go over to the Boater’s Grille for lunch. Normally, a restaurant in a state park doesn’t offer much more than hamburgers and hot dogs. But, the Boater’s Grille was entirely different. The cuisine was Cuban American with wonderful Paellas and Scampis. The best thing on the menu, though, was the whole fried Yellowtail Snapper. Granted, its presentation was pretty grotesque with bulging eyes and heavy under bight of sharp teeth. But it was cooked to a turn, flaky and tasty. If you had to close your eyes to eat it, it was worth it.

Paul left us right after lunch and Gene graciously let us borrow his car so that we could go back to the Winn-Dixie one more time. His plane was scheduled to leave around 7:00, so he and Madeline pulled out around 4:30. John and I went back to the boat and watched No Name Harbor unwind as the boats slip out one by one, on their way back to wherever for another week of work. By nightfall, we were down to just a handful of boats anchored out.

Now, sometimes my mind is like a sieve. I can’t remember things unless I write them down. But, on some things, my mind is like a steel trap. One of those things is golf. I had noted Kevin’s recommendation about the Crandon Park Golf Course and had not forgotten it. So, instead of leaving No Name Harbor on Monday, I decided that we would stay an extra day to play the course. The problem is that winter is the “season” in Florida. So, when we called to inquire about a tee time and fees, we were told that it would be $150 per person. However, after 3:00 PM you can play twilight golf for $38 per person. Well, okay. Even I understand those economics. So, we made a tee time for 3:20 that afternoon.

Playing golf off of a sailboat requires some logistical planning and patience, especially when you’re anchored in the middle of a harbor. First of all, John has to retrieve the clubs from the bowels of the lazarette on the stern of the boat (I can’t reach that far). Then, you have to put the clubs and shoes in the dinghy and get to land. And then, in this particular case, we had to strap our clubs over our shoulders and walk the “mile or so” to the bus stop right outside the gate of the park where we could catch the “B” line down to the other end of Key Biscayne to Crandon Park. At which point, we had to get off the bus and brave crossing four lanes of Crandon Blvd., then hike another half-mile to the clubhouse. Fortunately, the tennis pro at the club (his name was Jack and he was from Australia) stopped and picked us up so we didn’t have to walk the last stretch.

All of this effort was well worth it, though. Crandon Park, a public golf course and tennis facility, was absolutely beautiful. In years past, the golf course has hosted one of the major Senior PGA Tour tournaments. It’s long and demanding with sand traps and water everywhere. The only regret I have about playing golf that day was that John did not bring his camera. The golf course could just as easily be called a nature preserve. As we prepared to tee off on the first hole, the starter cautioned us that what we were looking at on the cart path across the lake was actually a 12-foot long crocodile, so please be careful. Sure enough, as we rode our carts out into the fairway toward our balls, we passed him. His mouth was agape flashing what looked like a thousand teeth in an odd, foreboding smile. He was motionless, almost like he might not be real. But, after I hit my second shot, I turned around to look at him again. His mouth was closed. I think I’ll stay away.

Iguana of all sizes ran around on just about every hole. Beautiful egrets and herons went about their business of fishing unbothered by the meanderings of the golfers on their carts.

We were paired with a couple of disparate guys who were out to enjoy the afternoon just like we were. Bill Holtzman, was a political consultant from New York City. He actually managed Rudi Giuliani’s mayoral campaigns. We didn’t talk a lot of politics, but I couldn’t help but ask him if Giuliani was thinking about running for President. He said that he knew Giuliani would like to, but didn’t think he could win the Republican nomination because he was too liberal.

Skip Zabel was the other golfer. He was a retired Navy Captain fighter pilot and graduate of Annapolis. Ironically, his parents were married in Columbia, SC, and now live in Charleston at the Charleston Country Club. He played from the blue tees and almost had a hole-in-one on a par-three. I don’t need to say anything more about his golf swing.

The golf holes outlasted the sun and we had to stop after #12. It was obvious that we didn’t need to be walking down Crandon Blvd. in the dark with our golf bags to catch the bus, so we called a cab from the clubhouse. That was the best $12 we’ve spent since we’ve been on the trip. We dinghied back to the boat, ate a good dinner and slept well that night.

On Tuesday, we finally pulled up stakes at No Name and headed back out to the Hawk Channel in the Atlantic to begin our journey down the Keys of Florida. We have to take the Hawk Channel, as opposed to the Intracoastal Waterway, because our keel is 5-feet. But, that was okay because it gave us a chance to do some sailing. We were basically downwind all day and the jib was not in a cooperative mood, John managed to control it with a wing-on-wing position for most of the time. We stopped after about 40 miles and spent the night at Rodriguez Key. The anchorage was safe, but not much protected from the wind, so we rocked steadily all night. Neither one of us could sleep, so we pulled up anchor and were back on the road before 8:00 the next morning.

Our destination for the day was the Faro Blanco Oceanside Marina at Marathon Key. The weather was a carbon copy of the day before. We quickly put up the mainsail and were able to get the jib under control on the starboard side. Ah, yes, it was going to be a relaxing sail, the kind where you could read a book and look up occasionally to make sure everything was still okay. Oh, there were crab traps dotted here and there, but nothing like we had encountered in the Chesapeake or up in Maine with the lobster traps. And, what would be the odds of Up Jinks catching one of these traps in this vast ocean anyway? Well, if I could have these same odds on the lottery, I would buy a ticket TODAY!

About two hours into the sail, John noticed that the “wind had died down.” We weren’t sailing as efficiently as we had been. He stood up behind the helm to assess what the wind was doing and that’s when he noticed the line coming out from under the boat and the wooden trap dragging behind us about 50 yards. Catching a trap on a sailboat really gives you a sick feeling. You can’t get to where it’s snagged because that’s all under the bottom of the boat. All you can hope is that it’s snagged around the keel, not the propeller of the engine. If it’s the propeller, then you can really risk severe damage by starting the engine up.

John tried a couple of times to see if he could get the trap to release by turning the boat into the wind. Unfortunately, that didn’t work, so he decided to see if he could reach down into the water off of the stern and actually pull the line up to cut it. But, the speed of Up Jinks kept the line taut just a little too deep for that. I suggested that maybe we could use the telescoping hook to grab the line and went up on the deck to get it. After a few minutes, John successfully caught the line, but the force of Up Jinks gliding through the water made it very difficult to pull up.

He kept working with it and finally got it high enough in the water that he could reach it with a knife. I took the hook and pulled as hard as I could to keep the line where it was. John leaned over and sawed the line with the knife until it severed. We watched the traps float away from us rapidly and waited anxiously to see if its bobber would surface somewhere out from under the boat. Nothing came out. So, even though we were free from the trap, we still didn’t know the condition of things around the propeller. We continued to sail for another two hours or so, thinking that maybe any leftover debris might just free itself with the motion of the water.

While all of this was going on, John had been trolling off the back of the boat for fish. Suddenly, there was a loud “zzzzzzzing” as the line from the rod burned across the water behind us. It shocked us both as our nerves were pretty well rattled at that point. He hopped up, grabbed the rod, and began reeling in the line. After a few minutes, he brought in a Spanish Mackerel. I cleaned out the little ice chest that we keep up in the cockpit and we slipped the fish into it and covered it with ice. At least we had “caught” something useful this time.

The time soon came for the moment of truth. We were approaching Marathon Key and would need to turn the engine on to get into Boot Harbor for our overnight dockage. We furled in the jib and John prepared to lower the mainsail by starting the engine and turning the boat into the wind. I’m not sure what I was expecting. I thought maybe if the bobber was wrapped around the propeller, the engine would crank to a halt immediately. That would mean we would have no power. If, for some reason, it was wrapped around the rudder, then we would have no steerage. Neither of these circumstances was comforting. John started the engine. Within seconds, chopped up pieces of the Styrofoam bobber flew out from under the boat. That was somewhat of a relief. Maybe that was all that was there. Everything sounded okay, so he put it in forward and we began our maneuvers to take the mainsail down.

I took the helm to hold Up Jinks into the wind. Just in the short time I held the steering, I could feel a vibration that wasn’t normal. But, I thought maybe it was just the way the wind was positioned or something. John secured the mainsail and came back to the helm. He throttled up the engine and it was obvious Up Jinks wasn’t right. She sputtered like she had bronchitis and shivered like she had a fever. She was definitely sick.

We limped into the Faro Blanco Marina and pulled into our slip. Once we had Up Jinks secured, John grabbed his diving gear from the lazarette. He put on his bathing suit, goggles, snorkel and fins and dove down underneath the boat. Fortunately, the water was clear and he had good visibility. After a couple of dives, he came up with about four feet of line from the crab trap that was wrapped around the propeller. The remaining remnants of the bobber slipped out from the port side of the boat. We were very fortunate. There appeared to be no permanent damage to the propeller.

It was an unexpected pleasure to be docked at this point. We had been at anchor for six straight days. Even though No Name Harbor was convenient to shore, it was nice to be able to just step off of the boat and be on land.

As we had come into the marina, I saw a sign for one of the restaurants nearby that advertised they would “cook what you catch.” So, I called to find out if they might cook our Mackerel for us that night. “Yes, we will, but you must fillet the fish before you come.” That would not be a problem. The marina had a cleaning station for fisherman at the end of one of the docks. John took the cooler with the fish down to the station. As he began his work, several pelicans spotted him and swarmed over to the water just underneath the station. They patiently bobbed up and down on the water as he cleaned the fish, staring intently at his every move. When he finished, he scraped the insides of the fish into the water. This created an instant crush of beaks, wings and feathers as the pelicans all rushed to the same spot for the tidbits.

Then, he flung the fish carcass high into the air. One pelican caught it and the others attacked him with such ferocity, you could hardly believe it. They wrestled with him futilely for a couple of minutes before they realized that he had safely tucked the carcass all the way down his gullet and closed his beak. They then returned to their positions at the cleaning station hoping that John would toss them another offering. But, there was nothing more to give.

We took advantage of the marina showers and laundry. Then, we put on fresh clothes and walked over the Castaways Restaurant. They took our catch of the day and we told the waiter to let the chef determine how the fish would be prepared. The result was unbelievable. He blackened one fillet and fried the other. We knew how fresh the fish was, and that accounted for some of it. But, the preparation was expert. We ate it all.

After such an anxious day, we slept very well that night. We left Faro Blanco Marina the next morning and motored all the way to Key West. Even though it wasn’t necessary that both of us be on the lookout for crab traps, we couldn’t help but keep vigilant. We made it safely all the way around the tip of the Key and around to the east side of Fleming Key where the mooring field is located. And that’s where we are now, bobbing and weaving on a ball to the north wind.