The Sinking of the Susan B (and other boats)

Sunday, April 27, 2003

We left as scheduled for Gun Cay, an uninhabited island and popular spot for cruisers waiting to cross the Bahama Bank. The ride south was rocky. We stood with our feet three shoulder-lengths apart to keep balance, but fortunately, this leg of the trip was only nine miles. When we turned east into the cut between Gun Cay and North Cat Cay, the great expanse of the Bahama Bank lay before us—flat and aqua for as far as we could see. Compared to the deep blue choppy ocean behind us, entering the quiet cut was like drifting into a dream. We dropped the hook in eight feet of crystal clear water just off of a wedge of white beach. Now, this is what cruising is all about, I thought.

It was still early, so Wayne and I walked along the shore, looking for driftwood, rocks and shells, and other debris that washed up. Our feet sank into soft, wet sand. Jagged gray rocks bordered the beach creating a maze of tidal pools for hermit crabs in colorful shells. Atop the rocks, at slightly higher ground, a few evergreens stood, still fewer palms, mostly low-growing shrubs and grasses painted in subtle desert-like shades of green and brown and red. The only signs of civilization were piles of empty conch shells and the crumbling remains of a pink cinder block cottage perched on the rocks. It overlooked the crescent beach at Honeymoon Harbor. I wondered who’d lived there and when, what their hopes and dreams were, and what happened. How sad.

Later, we fished from the back of the boat with leftover lobster salad for bait. I caught two sand eels, so we decided to have pizza for dinner, instead. While I prepped, Wayne tried to turn on the generator, but the cursed thing wouldn’t start. This means I couldn’t use the stove or oven. Previous attempts to cook pizza on the grill made for a charred bottom and un-melted cheese on top, but today I used layers of heavy aluminum foil, kept the fire low, and VOILA—pizza. Well, some might call it pizza, the crust more like a biscuit. And even though, I picked all the mold out of the cheese, I could still taste it. This, too, is what cruising is all about, I thought good-naturedly, taking the good with the bad.

Tomorrow, we cross the Great Bahama Bank for eighty miles to Chub Cay in the Southern Berry Isles. We plan to leave by 6:30 am, and to follow Ron and another cruiser again. As we average eight to nine knots, the trip could take ten hours. This leg would be one of the longest of our entire route. I am worried about arriving at a strange place late in the day when the sun is low on the horizon, causing poor visibility, and when we are weary from sun and sea, but Chub Cay is the closest landfall.

Monday, April 28, 2003

We pulled up anchor and pulled in behind the others. Ron, the captain of the lead boat, has been cruising Bahamian waters for over thirty-five years. He set the pace, and our small caravan headed almost due east to Chub Cay. The water was calm and clear, never deeper than fifteen feet, and since we were following the others, we had little concern about running into any trouble spots. Trolling produced one large barracuda. The day was long and I poured over cruising guides and charts, still trying to decide which route to take to the Turks and Caicos where we were due to meet family in early June.

The approach to the Chub Cay anchorage required navigating between Mama Rhoda Rock on the port side and Lower Chub Point on the starboard. Mama Rhoda was large and rose well above sea level, but underwater rocks scattered to its south and east, narrowed the channel significantly. As we neared, I spotted a fifty-foot cruiser, called the Susan B. She had run aground on the rocks.

“Oh my God,” I cried out. “Look!”

“A reminder of how careful we’ve got to be,” Wayne said philosophically.

As soon as we were anchored, Wayne decided to go to the marina store. We’d forgotten to turn on the icemaker and the princess wanted ice.

“Do you wanna go?” Wayne asked.

“No, I think I’ll take a shower. I feel hot and sweaty.” This was true, but the real reason I didn’t go was because I was afraid to leave the boat. What if the anchor didn’t hold? He hadn’t checked it. Would we end up like the Susan B?

After showering, I looked for Wayne. I saw him stop at a Bahamian fishing boat. He was there at least fifteen minutes. Next, he stopped at Ron’s trawler. They’d said something earlier about having dinner together.

Wayne finally returned. As he climbed from the dinghy, he held up two bulging bags of pink and red slimy stuff.

I wrinkled my nose. “What’s that?”

“It’s conch…conch for bait. I asked if I could buy some and they gave me all of this and more. I gave some to Ron.”

“Are we having dinner with him?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said, “his wife has a sick headache.”

Typical, I thought. I like men so much more than women. Men never have sick headaches.

“Oh, and here’s the ice.” Wayne handed me a dripping bag. "Guess how much it cost.”

“Four fifty?”

“Eight dollars,” he announced.

Just then, the Susan B went by, heading toward the marina. Tow Boat US and a number of skiffs were assisting her. The rescuers had placed huge bladders under the damaged hull to keep her afloat, and installed a powerful pump in the bilge. As they towed her past, water gushed over the gunwales. I waved my hand at the divers in their slick black wetsuits. They stood ominously on her deck and nodded.

“That makes me feel sick,” I told Wayne.

“Have a beer,” he said.

We skipped dinner and drank more beer. I caught a big silver Margate that went into the cooler for tomorrow night’s supper. Wayne went to bed early, and I sat up and read, listened to music, and fished. Tomorrow, we would head south on our own, while our travel partners continued north which happens to be where sane people would be headed at the beginning of hurricane season.

The wind shifted, the water got choppy. The boat rocked all night. I tried to sleep on the sofa where I couldn’t hear the water crashing against the hull, but was repeatedly awakened by sound and motion.

Tuesday, April 29, 2003

We towed two dinghies, an eleven-foot inflatable (standard cruiser’s fare), and a fourteen-foot handmade wooden skiff. The skiff had beautiful lines and two glass windows on the floor. Wayne spent months sanding her down, painting her Caribbean blue and purple, and installing brass hardware. We named her Tootsie, in memory of his mom, and I made her a fringed and striped top to keep the sun off our heads. I couldn’t look at it without bursting into song—“Ducks and Chicks and Geese better scurry…” In Key West, we bought a brand new outboard, and although somewhat tipsy, compared to our inflatable, Tootsie was fast and could carry a lot of gear. That was yesterday.

This morning, we left early. We wanted to skip Nassau. Neither Wayne nor I are interested in big cities, tourists traps, crowded anchorages, and international McDonalds, but after studying the cruising guides, I determined that passing through Nassau made more sense for us than going east to Eleuthera. Rather than stay in Nassau Harbor, we decided to anchor just north of the uninhabited Rose Island, one of cays situated to the east of Nassau proper.

In contrast to yesterday, the water we crossed today was indigo blue and over a thousand feet deep. The trip was only about thirty-five miles, and we trolled unsuccessfully the whole way. The seas were relatively calm, and by early afternoon we passed over a distinct dark blue line—the line where the ocean floor, a thousand feet below sea level, begins its rapid rise to the surface. The top of this underwater mountain is Rose Island—a strip of white sand with a few trees at the crest. We planned to anchor in shallow water, just off the island.

This was our first attempt at really reading the water. Wayne was at the helm and I, on the bow, looked for a channel between large black rocks and patch reefs. The water was only twenty feet deep and I could see clearly to the bottom, even though I had already lost both pairs of Polaroid sunglasses purchased for this purpose. My apprehension about reading the water dissipated. The water was flat, the sun was high, we had studied our charts, and I felt confident. Dark blue or green water was deep. Sandy bottoms range from white (don’t go there) through a whole spectrum of blues--the deeper the blue the deeper the water. “Brown, Brown, run aground”—coral or rocks—the darker the brown the shallower the water. Grass on the bottom looks an awful lot like brown to me, and apparently to Wayne, as well.

Once I thought we were out of any potential danger, I shouted, “Looks good to me!” and returned to the bridge to take the wheel. Wayne headed for the bow to drop the anchor. From the bridge, I could clearly see the areas we were trying to avoid. I let the boat drift closer to the beach.

As soon as Wayne climbed to the bottom of the ladder, he shouted, “Stop!” I shoved the shifter into reverse--no brakes on a boat.

Wayne shouted more emphatically, “Stop!” as he hurried towards the bow. I gave her gas to back out of the trouble more quickly. A loud thud seemed to stop all action.

“What was that?” Wayne inquired, wide-eyed.

“The dinghy?” I suggested, through clenched teeth.

I listened for the buzzing of the ignition. That’s what happens when you run over the towrope and wrap it around the prop, stalling the engine. Hearing nothing, other than the customary hum of the motors, I walked to the back of the bridge. Then I saw it—our beautiful Tootsie, upside-down. She was partially submerged under the port side of the boat, a huge hole ripped in her side.

Apparently, Tootsie was still moving forward when Ella made a rapid change of direction backwards. Tootsie was sucked into the Ella’s big prop. Blue and purple splintered planks drifted away in the current. Our new outboard motor was completely submerged in salt water.

Shit, I thought, I killed Tootsie, but I didn’t utter a sound. I was waiting for Wayne’s reaction. Wayne said nothing and calmly went about the task of dropping the anchor while I steered. Better Tootsie than Ella, I tried to tell myself, but my heart was not in it. I felt like a toddler who after running along gleefully, suddenly tripped on a rock and smashed to the ground.

Anchor in place, Wayne pulled the skiff around to the swim platform, tied a rope around the outboard, and hoisted it out of the water and onto the bracket attached to the stern. This is where the outboard should have been when we were towing, but because the water was calm and the trip was short; Wayne had opted to leave the motor on the skiff. Remember Ron, the experienced cruiser we followed to Chub Cay. His last words of advice to Wayne were “Don’t take any chances.” I wondered if those words echoed in Wayne’s head, but I had the tact not to ask.

For the next hour and a half, Wayne flushed the motor with fresh water, filled it with oil, pumped the oil through, and replaced the spark plugs. I made the enormous contribution of fetching clean rags and feeling totally dejected. Finally, Wayne pulled the cord and the little motor came alive. My Hero!

He put the motor on the inflatable. I watched from the deck as Wayne stood in the rubber boat and towed Tootsie to a small, palm-covered island about half a mile north of our anchorage. He left her there, tied to a tree. During the funeral procession, he noticed that the outboard would not run at idle speed. More work was required.

When he came back, Wayne donned mask, snorkel, and fins and dove down the twenty feet to check the anchor, always a good idea in the Bahamas. It was then that he discovered that the brown patches he had mistaken for rocks while anchoring were nothing more than grass, and that our anchor had not grabbed. It was laying on its side on the grassy bottom.

“If we have to re-anchor, I’d like to get closer to shore,” Wayne said as he pulled himself out of the water.

“But how do we get there?” I looked toward Rose Island, feeling gun-shy at this point.

“Let’s ask them,” Wayne said, looking over at a sailboat anchored nearby.

We took the inflatable, and although the couple knew some boats got closer to shore, they didn’t know how to get there.

“Come aboard and have a drink,” the sailor said.

It had been a long day, and he didn’t have to twist our arms. The couple was cohabiting on a 37-foot sailboat with an enormous uncontrollable dog and two longhaired cats. Their story was that the wife was getting ready to fly back to the states to take care of her sick mother. It became obvious rather quickly that the Bickersons were really just sick of each other.

Back on the Ella McQuaid, we reset the anchor, then Wayne cleaned the Margate, while I set up the grill. I cooked the fish, along with yellow rice and canned green beans. It was so good. We hadn’t had a hot meal since our moldy pizza on Sunday, and we needed comfort food.

Not only have we unnecessarily destroyed our skiff, our outboard won’t idle, the generator is still not working—that meant that all hot meals had to be prepared on the grill and showers would be cold. The brand-new water maker stopped making water yesterday. The auto pilot spins the boat in circles, the flying bridge ignition and gauges on the starboard side aren’t working anymore, and I’m out of clean underwear. To add insult to injury, the poignant smell of bird dung is drifting over from that pretty little uninhabited island—smells like a barnyard here in Paradise.

Yet, the sky is black, and full of stars, and I can see Nassau’s lights to the west. They look like those little twinkle lights I love so much. I don’t have to go to an office tomorrow or sit in traffic. The water’s lapping softly on the side of the boat, and I can hear the roar of waves as they crash on the windward side of Rose Island, along with the satisfying sound of Wayne’s gentle snoring. I can’t imagine why he’s so tired!

Bimini Bobidy Boo

Once we left U.S. waters, things went smoothly. We rolled over evenly spaced four-foot waves. Adjusting our course to compensate for the current as recommended by the cruising guides was unnecessary. I kept saying, “Are we in the Gulf Stream, yet?”

Instead of really enjoying the easy ride, I thought about navigation. I was terrified of the shallow waters, coral heads and reefs of the Bahamas. Unlike U.S. waters, beacons to ward boaters off trouble spots, or to mark a safe channel, or to guide us across open water are rare. We will have to depend on our charts, the descriptions in our cruising guides, our electronics, and most important, our eyes. We will supposedly become experts at reading the depth by peering over the bow at the colors in the water, but what happens if we misjudge before we become experts? And the fact that I plotted the waypoint in the guide book onto our chart and the waypoint ended right smack in the middle of the Bimini (the island, not the harbor) did nothing to dissipate my worries.

About thirteen miles out, we spotted the shores of North and South Bimini on the horizon. As we drew closer, Wayne attached a yellow quarantine flag to the antenna. Arriving in a new country, we must fly this flag, until we clear customs. We motored between a long sandbar and South Bimini’s western shore into the harbor, passing a number of small marinas along the way. The waypoint in the guide was correct. Our charts were not. I wondered how that would affect my ability to navigate.

“There’s the Bimini Big Game Fishing Club,” Wayne said. “Get on the radio and see if we can pull up to the dock while we clear customs.”

I picked up the mike and took a deep breath. When we cruised down the Intracoastal Waterway, I used the radio many times a day to call and ask the bridge tenders to let us through, but I was still not comfortable with the radio or the lingo. I couldn’t make myself say “roger,” “negative,” or “affirmative.” I always felt self-conscious. The protocol is to say the name of the party you’re calling three times, then announce who you are. Try saying Bimini Big Game Fishing Club three times in a row without bumbling the words and feeling like a complete idiot.

“Bimini Big Game Fishing Glub…Bibidy Big Game Fishing Club…” I giggled. “Bigity Bim Game Fishing Club…This is the Ella McQuaid. Do ya copy?”

No response--Damn, I thought, I have to do again.

“Bimini Big Game Fishing Clug…” Bibidy Bobidy Boo, I thought.
After no less than four attempts, they answered and agreed to let us pull up to their dock. To my relief and surprise, our landing was flawless, and I puttered around the boat while Wayne took our papers and the $100 fee to Customs and Immigration. There, he encountered a female custom’s official who was so lazy, disinterested, and finally antagonistic that Wayne swore she must have been transferred there from the Motor Vehicle Administration in Glen Burnie. But in spite of the fact that she did not roll out the red carpet to welcome him to her country, we got our cruising permit and our pet permit for Chris without much hassle and without being boarded.

The next order of business was to anchor in the harbor that lies adjacent to the Pan Am Sea Plane runway. There were a dozen boats anchored there already, and we rode up and down trying to decide where we could fit the boat without getting too close to the others, running aground, or being run over by a sea plane. There were no buoys marking the runway. What if we anchored near the edge and the wind shifted during the night? The boat could swing into the path of a plane. Finally, another boater pointed out a mooring ball to us. Standing in his dinghy, he handed up the line and soon we were safe and secure—right in front of the power plant that is really just a bunch of big noisy Cat generators. But the water was beautiful, and today and possibly tomorrow, we plan to explore the place that inspired Papa Hemingway to write Islands in the Stream.

Hemingway put Bimini on the map, attracting sport fisherman for decades. They did a great job of over-fishing. Then, Colombians kept Bimini on the map by dropping bales of marijuana in the water from small planes. These “square grouper” were picked up by boats that made the fast run to Florida. A local who found a bale could finance a new boat, renovate his house, or even the church or school. Although, the coast guard and the Bahamian government finally cracked down on the drug smuggling, there is still evidence of the business, as young Biminite males in brightly colored swim trunks dart around in very fast and new boats. They certainly could not have made their money on this sleepy little island that is said to have more bars than stores.

In recent weeks, while sitting at night in a quiet anchorage or while motoring along, I’ve been reading The Last Marlin out loud to Wayne. The book is Fred Waitzkin’s memoir, a man who spent many summers in Bimini, first as a child, then with his young wife and children. It’s about his relationship with his father, his passion for fishing, and his love of Bimini and its people.

We were anxious to go ashore for a look at Hemingway’s and Waitzkin’s Bimini. While preparing, a man approached in a fishing boat. His skin was as black as a moonless night, and he was shouting something over the din of his outboard. As he drew closer, and throttled down, we finally realized that he was asking if we wanted to buy some lobsters.

“How much?” Wayne inquired.

It took three attempts to understand his answer. “Thirty get ya a dozen.”

“We can’t eat a dozen. We’ll take a half dozen.”

The man roared away, shouting something.

“Where’s he going?” I said. I watched the boat zoom towards shore. “It seems odd that he came all the way over here to sell us lobsters, when he doesn’t have any with him?”

Five minutes later, he was back with a dozen. Perhaps, he understood us no better than we understood him. We relented and bought all twelve.

Later, I was reading the cruising guide again. “Ut oh!” I said, “That’s why he didn’t have the lobsters with him.”

“Why?”

“Because,” I dragged out the word, “lobster season ended three weeks ago.”

“Are you hungry?” Wayne asked.

Trying to destroy the evidence, we fired up the grill and cooked them all, throwing the shells overboard, then shoved down as many as we could (four or five of them). We hid the rest in a plastic container inside a larger plastic container of leftover spaghetti. Chris the cat had lobster for brunch, too.


Thursday, April 24, 2003

North Bimini is seven miles long, and 700 feet at its widest point. Yesterday, we walked most of it. The streets were littered. An occasional shabby pickup wound its way through pedestrians and golf carts. We ambled past tired-looking pink, blue, and yellow houses, past tiny stores and restaurants with funky and faded hand-painted signs.

“Looks a little different than Miami, doesn’t it?” Wayne said as the toe of his sandal sent a beer can rolling down the dusty road. We wandered into a cemetery and read epitaphs on erratically arranged and lopsided head stones.

As a reward for all of that exercise, we visited some of the drinking establishments, including The Compleat Angler, named after Izaak Walton’s 17th century classic. They claim this was Hemingway’s favorite spot. He must have liked skunked beers. That’s what Wayne got and the bartender was rude when Wayne brought it to his attention. There’s a Hemingway Museum of sorts on the way to the john. The walls were dark wood and covered with pictures, clipped magazine and newspaper articles, and samples of Hemingway’s writings, some in his own hand.

That was yesterday, and today we started up our water maker for the first time, and as I write, I can hear the quiet rhythmic whirring of the reverse osmosis pump, as it turns salt water to drinking water. Later, we’re having lobster pizza for lunch.

Saturday, April 26, 2003

Sometimes, it rains in Paradise. Winds have been high (15 to 25 knots) these last two days, as a front moved in from Florida. Yesterday, we could’ve headed down to our next stop, Gun Cay (pronounced KEY), but we are glad we didn’t, because anchorages there are not recommended for bad weather, and that is just what we had this morning.

We have spent much of the last two days doing odd jobs and lounging around the boat reading. What a pleasure to have the time to read for hours!

Our only excursion off the boat was to take Chris to visit land. I lowered him into his black canvas tote and felt the gentle resistance of his head as I zipped up the top flap. He yowled like a banshee during the short dinghy ride.

“It’s alright, Chris,” Wayne said gently as he patted the cat through the sides of the bag.

“Merrrrooooow,” he cried out.

Once we landed, he quieted as we walked down the narrow dusty road to the south end of the island. Here, we released him next to a small graveyard and a rocky beach. This point of land, ocean on one side, the entrance to the harbor on the other, would be idyllic, except the locals use it as a dump.

I walked the perimeter, head down, eyes scanning the beach, stooping to pick up bits of sea-glass, shells, and small rocks that I might one day polish. Wayne and Chris walked the interior, Chris stopping to poke his gray nose under an old sink or a pile of rotting wood, then hurrying along to catch up with Wayne. They slipped into the cool shade of a small grove of pine trees, long needles crunching under Wayne’s feet, only to find that it was infested with mosquitoes. Within thirty minutes, Chris was overheated and began to pant, and was perfectly content to sprawl near our feet and simply look around.

And so we sat, the three of us, on the edge of the junk yard, breathing in the sights and sounds and smells of the sea, the crash of the surf, the cries of gulls. We smelled the salty air and watched the play of light in the translucent crest of a wave just before it topples.

Note: It is now six years later, and those treasures found on the beach and many more like them remain unpolished. Wayne and I were cleaning out a closet last weekend and found boxes of them, each wrapped in a tissue. We put them in a plastic bag, went to Boca Chica Beach on Sunday morning and returned them to the surf, as we walked along the water’s edge.

Back to 2003…

On the way back to the dinghy, we stopped at Yama Bahama’s Restaurant and Bar for some carryout conch fritters. It was dark inside, except for the afternoon sun slanting through the open door. As our pupils adjusted to the light, we saw four or five metal tables draped with yellowing plastic tablecloths. On the right a long bar stretched to the kitchen entrance. The only other patrons roosted on vinyl-seated bar stools, leaned over their beers, and bantered with the proprietor, Yama Bahama, a soft-spoken man in his seventies. The dingy walls were covered with memorabilia from the days when he was the Bahamian Middleweight Champion.

Some of us dream about being famous. The only thing I ever really wanted to be was a star, but being a jack of all trades, master of none, and maybe just a little lazy about practicing, made my dream unobtainable. Yama Bahama had his fifteen minutes, and now he was standing behind a bar in a dingy restaurant talking the same talk with the same talkers every day. And here we are, living Wayne’s dream. I wonder if it will meet his expectations. I'm along for the ride--to support him. But I could be happy at home, retired at 49, planting a vegetable garden and working out in the gym.

Back at the boat, we made our first cubes in the icemaker. Wayne had installed an inverter that changes DC current (12 volt) into AC (110 volt) specifically for this purpose. This may not sound too exciting, but try living without the little devils for a few weeks. I love my ice cubes, and even though I live on a boat, I sometimes want to be, if not a star, at least a princess.

Just before dusk, when the flying bridge blocked the sun from the deck, we baited our bottom rigs with bits of three-day-old lobster. Releasing the bail, I heard the kerplunk as my sinker hit the surface, and watched as it plummeted out of sight, bait trailing behind. Chris, expectant, sat on the gunwale peering into the water. Wayne felt a strong tug on his line, pulled the rod back to set the hook, then reeled in the first of many small mangrove snappers. Each time we pulled one in, Chris pranced about, his long tail pointed to the sky. He meowed as he did his “I-love-to-fish” dance.

I caught a small, orange squirrelfish. “Perfect for live bait,” Wayne said as he shook it off the hook into a five-gallon bucket of water.

While Wayne rigged a heavier rod, our cartoon cat stood on his hind legs and batted at the fish as it swam in circles around the bucket. And when we weren’t looking, he ate most of our bait, then stalked a flock of loud, aggressive birds hovering just above our heads. They wanted what remained of the lobster.

Tonight, we treated ourselves to dinner at the Red Lion, a restaurant I selected because the cruising guide said it featured local food and that Esquire Magazine recommended the “Shrimp Delight.” The menu described their specialty as large fresh shrimp stuffed with conch, fish, and other secret ingredients, then deep-fried.

“How’s yours? Wayne asked lifting a spoon of fragrant conch chowder to his lips.

“Previously frozen and over-cooked," I said as I poked at the bready stuffy with a bent-pronged fork.

The marinated green beans were canned and served in a tiny plastic cup that held no more than a well-rounded tablespoon--marinated in water, I think. The baby carrots were M.I.A.

“That was a waste of gas money,” Wayne said later, and I agreed.

We walked the docks of the Blue Water Marina, and talked to a cruiser named Ron, who like us, was headed for Gun Cay and on to Chub Cay. He showed us his printed weather reports, accessed on the internet and by weatherfax. Tomorrow would be a perfect day to leave Bimini and embark on our two-day trip to the Berry Isles.

“We’re pulling up around noon,” Ron said. “You can follow us if you want.”

“Baaa!,” we said. Following sounded safe and not so scary.

On a scale of one to ten with ten being an exotic island vacation and one being “The Perfect Storm,” our visit to Bimini has been a six—a scenic junkyard, an anchorage nestled between generators and a landing strip, rude bartenders, lousy food, and no one who seemed particularly happy to have visitors on their island, except maybe the lobster poacher. What a shame!

Miami Heat

We made it down the intra-coastal waterway with a limited number of tears and without too much trouble. That’s if you don’t count every take-off and landing. Believe me. It’s not like parking a car when you add wind and waves. Oh! And if you don’t count tying up in the canal locks. And the Friday night we ran aground, decided to wait until morning, and woke up at low tide smack dab in the middle of a huge sandbar—the kind that kids and dogs and beer-swilling adults frolic on every weekend. If you don’t mention following a tug all night long because the rain was coming down so hard we couldn’t see. The point is we made it to the Keys, unscathed for the most part in September 2001, spent 10 months getting to know and love Key West, then cruised up Florida’s west coast, across the Okeechobee to Merritt Island where we spent another seven months doing boat projects that were supposed to take six weeks. If we hadn’t stopped, we could still be working on the boat. Finally, we just said, “Ready or not. Here we come!” It was April 2003, shortly before hurricane season, but we were not going to wait another minute.

Monday, April 21, 2003

We’ve been in Miami Beach for days waiting for the right weather window for our first Gulf Stream crossing. We’ve read that you should never cross the stream in a north wind. Its combination with the two to five knot current coming from the south can make for very choppy conditions and high seas. Unfortunately, north winds have been prevalent for over ten days. So, we wait, but we don’t mind. After spending seven months on land in Merritt Island, we need this time to acclimate ourselves once more to life on the boat, and although I am excited about our upcoming adventure, I’m apprehensive.

We moored just north of the Venetian Causeway, tucked in as close to Miami Beach as possible, and it’s pleasant enough here, except for the wakes from the nearby channel—seems like everyone in South Florida likes to go fast.

I expected to hate Miami Beach. I pictured young guys with slicked-back hair and heavy gold chains lurking in every alley or blocking the sidewalks. But here, in South Beach, there’s a small city feeling and reading the local papers while eating omelets in a cafe, I note that art, music, and theatre abound in Miami. On the down side, we have to be adamant about locking everything. When we ride our dinghy up the narrow tree-canopied canal and park it near a run-down grocery store, we must chain the gas tanks to the outboard to the boat and finally to a rusty piece of rebar that is protruding from the canal’s crumbling, concrete borders.

Yesterday was Easter Sunday and we decided to do something special. We started out early to walk to Lincoln Square, a boulevard of sorts, but closed to vehicles. The shady streets were lined with upscale stores, art galleries, and restaurants. The sun was just rising above the brick buildings, casting long shadows on the east side of the promenade. Two Asian women dropped armloads of long-stemmed flowers into five gallon buckets, then scurried off to the back of their van for more. We couldn’t resist the juice bar. Bees buzzed over mounds of fruit and vegetables stacked in pyramids two feet high on a long table. A Cuban man fed bright orange carrots to a whirling blender.

Later, we explored more of the city from our dinghy, riding under bridges so low we had to duck, past dilapidated but charming canal houses. The canal turned left and widened. On our right was a busy street lined with pink high-rise condos; on our left the expansive groomed and gated lawns of lavish homes, their terracotta roofs orange against the blue sky.

“It’s funny,” I said to Wayne, “I guess it’s part of growing up or maybe giving up.”

“What is?”

“Coming to the realization that you’ll never have that.”

“Have what?”

“A house like that.” I pointed at one of the mansions.

“I never wanted a house like that. Why on earth does anyone need all those rooms?”

“I did,” I said, “I thought I’d be rich, someday.” We were quiet for a few moments as we puttered along in our worn rubber dinghy.

“I don’t want that, anymore,” I said, “I’m doing just what I want to do, and we are rich—just in a different way.” At least, I think so, I thought.

Waiting in a strange city for ten days is not like being on vacation. We can’t spend our whole wad going out to eat and drink. Wayne doesn’t like lying on the beach, and we don’t want to go fishing. After all, we’re headed for the Bahamas and the Turks and Caicos and who knows where else and we expect abundant fishing there. Most important, we don’t want to give up our mooring. Someone might come along and take it, and then we’d have to find a new place to anchor. Anchoring is cause for stress and we avoid anchoring and docking unless absolutely necessary. So, we just chill out.

This morning, we were jostling for position on the sofa each propped on pillows at either end. This would’ve worked fine if it wasn’t for all those legs and feet. We finally settled in, one of my legs resting on the back of the sofa, the other curled under Wayne’s bent knees. Wayne read his book and I studied the cruising guides and charts, as I’ve done for days. So many decisions to make—where to go, how to get there, how long to stay. I read and re-read the sections on Customs and Immigration. I wanted to know the rules--to be sure not to break any of them. Wayne, on the other hand, wanted to know the rules, so that he’d be sure to break at least some of them.

“In the Bahamas,” I said to Wayne, “we have to keep our guns under lock and key.”

“Hmmm” was Wayne’s response. He didn’t lift his eyes from his book, probably because I had brought this to his attention on far too many occasions.

In spite of his disinterest, I plowed ahead, “But in the Turks and Caicos, we must turn them over to the authorities until we leave the country.”

He finally looked up. “We do?”

“Yeah,” I answered, “But what if we keep going from the Turks to the Virgin Islands and beyond, how are we supposed to get them back?”

“What if we make it to Venezuela where we might need them?” he said. “Even if we don’t keep going, we might never get them back.” He stared off for a moment. “Wonder if we could ship them to your mom?”

I could just strangle him, I thought. I didn’t want to bring the guns in the first place, but in the months before we left, Wayne read all the horror stories in cruising magazines about pirates. He monitored a web page devoted entirely to reports of bandits with machine guns, boarding boats, robbing the cruisers, and taking no prisoners. Granted, most of these incidents took place in Central America aboard large cargo ships, but Wayne was still concerned. Finally, I surrendered. He was adamant and it was a no win situation for me. What if I convinced him to leave the guns home, and we were attacked and had no defense? It was a battle I decided not to fight.

I shifted my weight to the other cheek and stretched out my bent leg. I imagined dirty-faced banditos with belts full of bullets slung across their chests.

“Badges? Badges? We dun need no steenking badges,” the banditos would say.

“I’ve got some uncut diamonds and gold dubloons you might like in here,” Wayne says. He moves towards a locker like a salesman in a jewelry store. He pulls out a black padded bag and unzips it, then his hand, hidden behind the lid, suddenly emerges holding a black steel Ruger. “Go ahead,” he says, “Make my day!”

Or maybe it would happen like this:

I’m hiding in the stateroom.

“Give me chou money!” they say to Wayne.

Wayne gives them money.

“And chou Rolex”

“My what?”

“Chou Rolex, chou reech Americano.”

“I don’t have a Rolex, you snaggle-toothed dirtbag!”

“Wamp”—That’s the sound of a gun smacking against Wayne’s temple. He’s lying on the deck now, a trickle of blood running down the side of his head. Meanwhile, I, still in the stateroom, am trying to unzip the shotgun bag without making a sound. I move the zipper one tooth at a time. I finally get it open and take out the gun. It’s so big, I have to hold it straight up in the air to turn around in the small space. I take a step forward. The gun barrel hits the doorframe with a thud. The banditos turn in my direction.

I quickly lower the gun and cock it—chi chink. “Halt,” I say, “Drop your weapons and reach for the galaxy!”

“Que?” the leader asks.

“Put your air in your hands,” I command.

The leader cocks his head to the side. He looks puzzled, not terrified.

“I mean put your hands in the air."

They burst into laughter. “Ha! Ha! Ha!” Their gold teeth gleam. “Hand up the gun,” the leader says.

“What?”

“Hand up the gun.”

“Hand over,” I correct his English. “Hand over the gun.”

The boat is bouncing and my hands are shaking so badly the gun is swinging back and forth like a band director’s baton. My finger twitches and I pull the trigger. I shoot a hole in the ceiling and the recoil knocks me on my butt.


“I’ll call my mom,” I said.

We spent the whole afternoon trying to get rid of the guns. At the post office, we were informed that it’s illegal to send firearms in the mail. At the UPS store, it was illegal to ship the weapons. The heat radiated from the sidewalk as we trudged along.

“So how do they get from the manufacturer to the gun shop if they can’t be shipped?” I wondered out loud.

“Good point,” Wayne said, “There’s the police station. Let’s ask them.”

We climbed the concrete steps to a window. Two thick-wasted women sat behind bulletproof glass, each with her black hair pulled back in a tight knot.

“Hi,” Wayne said. They narrowed their eyes. “I wonder if you could help us. See, we’ve got these guns…”

The policewomen stood up filling the space behind the window and eyed our loose clothes and my big purse.

“No, not on us—on our boat—it’s moored in the harbor”. He told our story and asked for advice.

“There’s a pawn shop that sells guns around the corner,” one of them told us in a flat voice. “Ask them.”

We marched around the corner. The shop was closed.

“Maybe, we can find another one,” Wayne offered.

I looked around. “There’s a phone over there!” It was halfway down the block. We hurried only to find that the phone book was missing. We started back to our boat. “There’s one,” I said, “and I can see the book!” I quickened my step. A black boxy cover hung from a hinge. I flipped it up and opened it. It was empty. We walked some more.

“I’m hot,” I whined.

“There’s a store on the corner,” Wayne said.

More trudging. When we arrived, there was a phone and a phone book. I found Gun Shops, read through the list, and located one in South Beach.

“Any luck?” Wayne asked. He handed me a bottle of water.

“There’s one about ten blocks away,” I said. “Do you want me to call them?”

“No, better talk to them in person.”

And so we took off in the opposite direction, walking slowly, now. The ten blocks felt like miles.

“We can only ship them to another dealer,” the proprietor told us, not too enthusiastically.

I called my Mom. She called a gun dealer she knew. “They’re closed,” she said, “It’s Easter Monday.”

“Forget it,” I told Wayne, “We’ll take the damn guns with us.”

Tuesday, April 22, 2003

Last night, the wind finally shifted to the southwest and dropped to five knots--the opportunity we’d been waiting for. Today, we left early to cross the Gulf Stream, and after topping off the gas and water, we headed out through the inlet to the open sea. I stood by Wayne’s side, my heart pounding with excitement. Not feeling reluctant at all. I slung my arm over his shoulder and planted a big noisy kiss on his cheek.

“This is it!” he announced, grinning broadly. “We’re doing it!"

We were not two miles out when we noticed a very fast boat gaining on us from behind, blue lights flashing. They must be on some important mission, I thought, but was unpleasantly surprised when they circled in front of us indicating that they wanted us to stop. They approached our boat on the sea side and the choppy waves pushed theirs into ours, making a loud crack. I could hear Wayne thinking, Those ass holes!

Two of the brawny young men jumped onto our deck from the gunwale, something we never do, and they did it in combat boots. Chris, our cat, bolted and hid under the table. The two U.S. Customs agents wore Kevlar vests under their shirts and played good cop, bad cop.

Bad cop: “Do you have any weapons on board?”

Wayne (mumbling): “Yeah.”

Bad cop: “Where are they?”

Me (pointing to a locker with a padlock on it): “In there. You see we have to keep them under lock and…”

Bad cop (interrupting): “Sit on the deck and stay in your seat.”

Good cop: “Where you folks headed?”

Bad cop snooped around in our salon, lifting the top of my attaché case and seeing the laptop inside. Later, Good Cop told us they were looking for night-vision goggles or money that we might be smuggling out of the country.

Bad cop: “Do you have any valuables on board?”

Wayne: “Only everything we own.”

Bad cop looked like he was trying to figure out if Wayne was being a smart-ass.

Good cop: “I hope that cat’s not trained to attack.”

Once they had confirmation by radio that the numbers on our boat were legitimate, they left. We returned to our positions on the bridge, and Wayne eased up the throttles.

“That whole thing felt like harassment to me,” I said indignantly.

“Ass holes!” Wayne said it out loud now. “They should know better than coming up on the sea side."

“For all they knew,” I said, “our engine room could be filled with night-vision goggles. They didn’t look, so why’d they stop us in the first place?”

It’s a curious thing that your house can’t be searched without a warrant and your car can’t be searched without good cause, but your boat can be boarded and searched by any or all of a throng of public officials—Customs, Coast Guard, Immigration, Fisheries, Natural Resources and Marine Police from every municipality. When we moved onto this boat, we apparently gave up some of our civil rights.

In the Beginning...

When I was cruising the Bahamas and Turks and Caicos 6 years ago, I'd never heard of a blog. Instead of blogging, I wrote a journal and then emailed it every few days to friends and family. Eventually, the email list grew. Everyone seemed to enjoy our adventures, or should I say, misadventures. Six years later, people are still asking me for copies of the journal. So here it is. Blog Style.

Prologue or (HOW THE HELL DID I GET INTO THIS?)

We talked about selling everything and moving onto the boat for years. I always said I was game, but part of me didn't believe it would ever really happen. I'd say, "But where will we put the piano?" Then I'd put the whole business out of my mind and settle back into my life like it was a lumpy, but comfortable armchair.

It had always been Wayne's dream--to go where the sun rarely misses a day, the water offers a pallet of blues and greens and pinks, and where the long straight trunks of royal palms shoot from the earth like geysers, fronds splashing green against a big southern sky.

I first heard of his plan in 1986 when we were new lovers and I was the harried mother of a five and seven year old. The idea intrigued me, having always lived in Maryland. In the early seventies, all the "cool kids" went to Ocean City to work for the summer with miles of beach that stretched from Assateague Island to Delaware Bay. Restaurants, bars, arcades, and clapboard summer cottages turned to musty rooming houses crowded along forty blocks of boardwalk. The "cool kids" worked their shifts, then hung on 9th Street, jeans slung low on hips, army jackets on brisk evenings, small baggies and corncob pipes tucked in their knapsacks. To me a summer job there represented freedom and adventure. I went to music camp in New Jersey, instead.

My only cross country trip was a "drive by"--grassy foot hills, smelly rivers, then fields of yellow grain, pine-covered mountains. We skipped the Grand Canyon--my ex had already seen it. Then on to orange craggy mesas with Dr. Seuss cacti--all these things flying by the car window like the filmed backdrop in an old movie.

Yes, it was Wayne's dream, but I thought, Maybe some day I will run away with Wayne, even if it is on a boat.

Our life went on. We moved from ball practices and games to BMX races, high school concerts, and color guard spectacles. We survived first dances, first loves, lost loves, school suspensions, and honor rolls. We started a home-based business recycling toner cartridges. A sometimes motley assortment of employees passed in and out of our lives slopping coffee on my kitchen floor. A big chunk of my forties disappeared along with Wayne's fifties.

Then one spring evening I came home to find Wayne with his feet propped up on his desk. It looked like any other day.

"I called Rich today," he said.

"Why?" I asked, kicking off my shoes. Rich was one of our friendly competitors.

"I was downstairs working in the shop, and I thought why am I doing this? So I called him and asked him if he wanted to buy our business."

BIG GULP! That was me.

"What did he say?" I asked.

"He said, 'Yes.'"

Remember the scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid where they jump off the cliff. What was it they yelled? "OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH S--T!" That's exactly how I felt.

Within a month, we were moving boxes, supplies, and employees to our competitor's shop. All summer I gardened and landscaped to prepare for the sale of the house, while Wayne prepped the boat. For years I'd been too busy to garden, but now I realized this might be the last time I'd have the chance. And the musky smell of the dirt took me back twenty years when my mom and I shared a big garden. Aaron would sleep on a blanket in the shade while Grace spooned dirt into plastic cups. Digging again made me feel grounded--no pun intended--as if I were planting my feet along with those perennials, but soon I would be dangling my feet in an ever-changing sea or drifting over it in a boat.

In the evenings, Wayne and I laboriously sifted through our treasures to determine what we could give away, stash, lend, or trash. Every thing I touched evoked a memory. Pictures. Here's me in an Easter bonnet, a cap and gown, a wide-brimmed wedding hat, on a hospital bed with a baby in my arms, another baby. What would my new life look like? A cap on my head and a grouper in my hands? A straw hat and a pina colada? This made me laugh and I allowed myself the luxury of drifting in and out of each memory. Wayne did the same thing with rusty hand tools that were once his grandfather's and tee shirts commemorating every footrace he ever ran and every bar he wanted to remember since the 1960s.

But, unloading the "baggage" was actually liberating. I felt lighter, like the feeling you get when you step out the door after your last final exam or finally get that envelope in the mailbox before midnight on April 15th.

By fall, there was nothing left, except the bare essentials, and I painted the entire house, except for one spot behind the door in the laundry room. The spot where we measured the kids on their birthdays--Grace's marks only a quarter inch a part. Aaron's starting below hers and moving up the wall and inch or two, sometimes three at a time, until they passed hers, mine, and Wayne's. Another memory. I could see them--heels against the baseboard, chests out, heads held high. I could hear the scratch of the pencil as it made the mark. Tears. A part of my life was over, but staying in the house would not change that. My kids were adults and had their own busy lives. Did I want to stick around and be an empty-nester, looking forward to Sunday's when they might stop by for supper? Did I want to stay until Wayne's and my pencil marks started to work their way down the wall? Did I?

The house was ready for sale, but we had no takers. I joined Wayne at the marina every day to work on the boat. We scraped and painted and wired and caulked. We named the boat "The Ella McQuaid" after Wayne's grandma. No sailboat for us. The Ella McQuaid was a 1987 forty-one foot Symbol, nearly fifteen feet wide, a cross between a sportfish and a cruiser with a large desk instead of an aft cabin. The salon was big enough for a full size sofa, a reclining chair, a coffee table, and a secretary. No piano. She had two staterooms, a dining area that seated four, a good-sized galley, and a head with a shower. The boat was perfect for living aboard and cruising, except for her gasoline engines--two big 454s, instead of economical and long-lasting diesels. We considered replacing them, but decided that the $30,000 plus required for the purchase and installation of new engines would buy more gas than we would ever need.

Finally, we sold the house, and by July we were ready to leave. Everything we thought we needed or just couldn't part with was hidden in Ella McQuaid's nooks and crannies. Were we a forty one foot sea turtle taking our home with us where we went? Were we two homeless people pushing a forty-one foot shopping cart?

Family and friends visited to say good-bye in the weeks prior to our departure, but on the humid July morning we left, our son Aaron was there to shove us off. I stood on the deck crying and waving while he stood on the dock doing the same. His tee shirt was bright red and it disappeared as we motored out of the creek.

When we came to the first gas station, not ten minutes later, I was still sniveling. Wayne approached the dock and the attendant threw me a line. I moved to a cleat on the bow, knelt down, and started wrapping the line around the cleat.

"Hurry up!" Wayne shouted, "The wind's blowing the stern around."

I sniveled and wrapped.

"Stop moving like an old woman," he shouted.

I choked back the tears, but they welled up in my eyes until I couldn't see. What had I gotten myself into?