Super Male

Friday, May 16, 2003

Today, we pulled up anchor, landed at the gas dock without any mishaps, filled the tanks, and covered our Kalik and juices with ice. We still needed water, but the place on Stocking that sold good water didn’t open until 11. Our next stop, Conception, was forty-three miles away, and not wanting to approach an unfamiliar anchorage in the late day sun, we were afraid to wait. The water at the marina, we were told, was well water and brackish. I pointed at the faucet.

“Would you drink that water?” I asked the gas attendant.

“Nah,” he grunted.

I ignored his poor manners. “Would you take a shower in it?” I asked.

He grumbled something unintelligible.

“Wayne, taste the water,” I said.

“I’m not going to taste it. You taste it,” he quipped.

I laughed and turned on the faucet, cupped my hands, and raised them to my lips.

“UMMM!” I said.

We filled up our tank, bought three gallons of the bottled variety for drinking, and took off, narrowly missing the gas pipes with the bow of our boat as we backed out of the fuel dock. There was a stiff wind, but I wondered when we’d ever be able to dock and/or leave without a near calamity.

Through rocks and coral and out of the long harbor, we set to sea. The water was choppy, but the waves were only two to three feet. We had twenty-two miles to go to Long Island’s northern tip, named Cape Santa Maria because Columbus’ ship by the same name ran aground there. As we approached the cape, the chop evolved to big rollers. They came into our starboard bow. The bow rose up over each roller, then crashed down into the trough, rocking the boat from side to side, as we tried to stay on course. I took the helm while Wayne napped. This time, there was no quiet reflection about waves and time. I stood, knees bending and swaying in anticipation of each coming wave.

Twelve miles from Conception, its silhouette appeared in the distance—at first just a smudge on the horizon, then a gray wavy line. Closer yet, its long white beach shimmered in the afternoon sun, and finally color emerged and I could make out hills and rocks and trees. We motored slowly between patch reefs and dropped our hook near shore on the lee side of the cay, sharing the anchorage with six sailboats and one seventy-foot yacht.



Later, laying back in our deck chairs with bare feet propped on the gunwhale, we watched as night fell, and one by one lights flickered on in the other boats. On the sailboats, they were yellow glowing rectangles and ovals. Long strings of rope lights outlined the yacht. The only sound was the quiet ripple of waves that spilled onto the beach. Then, a full moon rose in the darkness. It was so bright, we could see our moon shadows.

Saturday, May 17, 2003

Conception Island is a three by two mile national park, surrounded by reefs, and not frequently visited by cruisers as it is a little out of the way, and there are no amenities. By eleven, we had all of our snorkel gear loaded into the inflatable. We started off in search of the creek where according to our cruising guide we would see giant sea turtles cavorting in the shallows.

The creek entrance was two miles south. As we motored, a line of squalls passed in front of us. Three of them spanned the horizon. As the heavy clouds erupted, dark blurry curtains of rain hung from cloud bottom to water. The storms remained south of us. The rain missed us, but not the affect on the sea. The waves grew, and our little dinghy bounced up and over each one, a salty spray in our faces.



Around a point of land, we spotted the creek. Two huge amber coral heads narrowed the entrance like great stone sentinels. The tide flowing out of the creek and the surge of ocean trying to get in created white water rapids. On the other side, I could see pale blue green water that was as smooth as glass. I longed to be there, floating past cavorting turtles, my fingers trailing in the water, a calm washing over me from toes to head like an opiate. The dinghy bucked like a racehorse in the starting gate, and then Wayne gave it gas and headed between the coral heads.

“Oh, my God!” I screamed as the turbulance pushed us dangerously close to the coral. Wayne let off the throttle, and we were rudely shoved back to our starting point.

“Now what?” I shouted, looking back at Wayne.

“”Don’t know,” he admitted. “We could try rowing.”

He lifted the engine to keep it from scraping on coral. We each took an oar, and paddled furiously. And paddled. And paddled. We hadn’t moved.

Wayne, standing in the dinghy now, scanned for safe passage. None found. Heading back, we checked the shoreline for a place to beach the dinghy and walk to the creek, but on this side of the island it was too rocky for a soft dinghy or the bottom of my feet for that matter.

“Sorry Babe,” Wayne said, “I just don’t think we can get in there today.”

He motored to a small cay, just off the other end of the park. On a soft pinkish beach, we slipped on our fins and masks, then swam towards some rocks jutting out of the water. There were a few colorful fish, but the water was very shallow, and it gave me the heebie jeebies. If I needed to check my mask or my location, I couldn’t tread water. It was too shallow, and I didn’t want to stand up for fear of disturbing coral or perhaps some bottom creature hiding in the sand. I turned back, and contently watched Wayne from the beach.




He looked up and cupped his hands to his mouth. I heard, “Er er er.”

“What?” I shouted back.

“Er er sper!”

“Bring the spear?” I questioned, making a fork with my fingers.

I still wasn’t a hundred percent sure what he said, and he looked very far away with all of that creepy shallow water between us, so I ignored his request. He continued snorkeling. When I looked again, he was raising his arms in exasperation. I took a deep breath and plunged in, swimming as hard and fast as I could, the long yellow spear in my right hand. I was there in less than a minute—not very far, just a vivid imagination at work. Wayne took the spear and pointed me towards some good snorkeling.

It was much deeper near the rocks. I swam with surgeonfish, roundish fish that always look like they’re smiling, because of a dark line that accentuates their gills. The big eye of a puffer peaked at me from behind a rock. Parrotfish of all types glided in and out of view. The best sighting of the day was a stoplight parrotfish supermale. Stoplight parrots are black and white-checkered like a racing flag. They have red bellies and tails and can range in size from eight inches to fifteen. But a female stoplight parrot can change sex when it gets older. When this happens, it’s known as a supermale. It transforms from a red, white and black creature to a huge brilliantly colored green and turquoise one with bright yellow spots on its tail and a hot pink line under its gills. Like the puffer, the supermale hid in a crevice, and we both hovered there for some time staring at each other.


Back at the beach, my supermale arrived with a peacock flounder and a schoolmaster stuck on the prongs of his spear. The schoolmaster’s yellow tail twitched.

“Yeh! Dinner!” I said.

“Did you see that puffer?” Wayne asked, trying to catch his breath. “I considered taking it, but it just stared at me with those big cow eyes, and I couldn’t shoot it.”

“Are they good to eat?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.

“I heard they’re really good,” he answered.

When we got back to the boat, I looked up the puffer in the Florida Fish Book, and found out that yes, they taste good, but if you don’t clean them properly they can be poisonous. We decided not to chance it should another opportunity arise.

Wayne started to clean his catch. Chris the Cat stood on the gunwhale and poked his nose close to the knife while Wayne tried to fillet the flounder. He pushed the cat away with the top of his hand. Chris meowed in protest. Wayne lowered the knife back to the fish. The nose came down on the knife again. Wayne pushed him away. This went on repeatedly until the task was complete.

Wayne gave Chris his share, cut some bait for fishing, and put scraps in a plastic bag for later use. While we ate dinner, Chris had his. Then he ate all of the fish left on the bait tray, and finally he dragged the ziplock into the salon and started tearing it apart with claws and teeth. This cat loves fish.

When the big yellow sun set and a soft breeze cooled the air, I pulled a light rod from its spot above the salon door. The cat dashed about bumping past my legs, tripping me up as I moved around the deck. I managed to rig and bait my line. I cast into the water. Chris sat on the gunwhale and watched—first the water, then the line, then the reel. He’d wander off, but not too far. When I reeled in a bit, he was right at my side again, looking down into the water. I think he was more disappointed than I that no fish was hooked.


During the night I awoke to find an empty spot beside me. Lifting my head from the pillow, I looked up and out through the salon doors to the deck. Wayne was staring at the sky. I left him alone, settled back into my pillow, and closed my eyes. After a while, he came below and slid quietly into bed beside me. Later, I would learn he’d been watching an eclipse of the moon. It would’ve been nice to see it, but I was glad I pretended to be asleep. This is a small boat for two people and he needs to have his moments, just like I need to have mine.