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.