apalachicola – Have Wind Will Travel

Chapter Ten: Everywhere We Look … Lightning

December 14, 2015December 18, 2015anniedike

So … accidental jibes? Apparently not much fun on a Nonsuch (and probably not much fun on any such). After assessing the minor loss of the outboard tiller extender and choke, we were able to get that big ass sail settled over to starboard and get on a nice downwind run. That also meant we could finally kill the engine, which was a relief. She’d been running another twelve-or-so hours since we’d turned her off the evening before to check the transmission fluid and Phillip and I were eager to let her cool so we could check the level again to make sure she wasn’t bleeding out.

While Mitch’s Westerbeke isn’t super loud, it was nice to have that industrial rumble gone. It was still dark out, still cloudy, but just more serene with only the sound of the wind in the sail and water gently lapping along our hull. It was almost 6:00 a.m. by then and the sky to the east was starting to bloom into a bright pink. We knew the sun was about to rise. Sleepy or not, there is no reason to ever miss that. It marks the start of a new day, a new canvas for adventure and─in our case─another safe night passage behind us. We were getting that boat closer and closer to Pensacola.

Neither of us said much as we watched this blowing pink ball start to peek over the horizon. It seems slow when you’re staring right at it but if you look away just for a minute, to another point on the horizon, or some spot on the boat, or your own body, whatever, when you look back, you notice it has changed. The vast expanse that was once a brilliant yellow-pink is now fading to purple and then blue. It’s happening right before you and always quicker than you want it to but you can never stop it. Time. She just keeps passing right before you.

My Lorde-inspired “not done sailing” shift that night and the Mitch-silencing sunrise the next morning were probably some of the most memorable moments for me on this trip. They’re just sights and feelings I have no way of replicating so I just have to remember them. I think we all felt we had kind of made it over a hurdle that night, probably because we had. This offshore passage was definitely the longest of the trip and the furthest offshore, not to mention the same passage that had cost Phillip and I a dinghy, an outboard and some busted davits the last time. Let’s just say it was good to get those particular nautical miles behind us and wake to a new day with all equipment working and all signs pointing to the Florida panhandle. Getting the boat across the big bend of Florida was certainly an accomplishment and now─just five or so hours out of the East Pass─we were getting close to achieving it.

But (how many times have I said this?) just when you start to sigh and let your guard down, Mother Nature likes to scooch across the floor in socks and zap you. Then she laughs about it. Just as we started to settle in for coffee and a nice morning sail, the winds started to kick up, some gnarly clouds started to bubble up to the east, then we saw it. A white crack of lightning across the sky.

“We need to crank soon,” Phillip said. With the way the weather was building we knew we were going to have to drop the sail soon. Yes, the big huge one that we had not thirty minutes ago raised. Sailing is such fun. The engine was still a little warm but I was able to get the transmission fluid dip stick off in order to get a peek. She had a nice pink coat on the bottom of the stick, so we were fine there. The oil was a little low but not dangerously so. Phillip decided to forego topping it off this time so we could get the sail down in case the storm jumped on top of us.

We were ready to crank. Phillip tried once, twice, three times a lady, but no dice, which was baffling because she had been running solid for hours, days even, on end. Phillip was stumped, irritated, frowning at the ignition. He didn’t want to try again and have it not crank for fear of pulling in too much raw water and overflowing the intake.

“I don’t think I can kill it again,” he said. Crank? I thought. You mean you don’t think you can crank it again? But, it must have been a fortuitous Freudian slip because just as the words tumbled out of his mouth, Phillip’s face lit up in a bit of an “Aha!” realization and he lifted the lazarette lid to check the kill switch. We had done this before many times on our boat─accidentally left the kill switch in the up position, so it prevents the engine from turning over. It’s not a hard thing to do. Like leaving a light on when you leave a room. And, Mitch’s boat was still somewhat new to us and the accidental jibe had left us all a little flustered. That definitely did the trick. Once the kill switch was down, the engine roared to life and I jumped topside to get the sail down. Yes, the big one. (If it wasn’t already apparent, I, personally, am not a huge fan of the huge sail on the Nonsuch.)

The winds were blowing a good 15-18 by then and it was definitely pushing us around as we turned into the wind to drop the sail, which pointed us right toward the storm. I could see the boys back at the cockpit trying to sheet the sail to center. It was clear they were having trouble. Right when I saw it, I knew. It was my fault. I had put it there.

“The chafe guard!” I hollered back as I made my way to the cockpit. The sail on the Nonsuch is so big the main sheets actually run behind the bimini. When we had first got the sail settled far out to starboard on our downwind run, I noticed the main sheet lines were rubbing hard on the corner of the bimini frame. Worried about chafe (which I’ll grant myself is a legitimate concern), I had wrapped a towel around the lines at the chafe point and duct-taped it (a very unique method, patent pending). But, lesson learned: do not put the chafe guard on the line, which needs to move, put it on the immovable fixture, which does not. I should have put something on the bimini corner if I was worried about it because where was my chafe guard now? After our accidental jibe, the heavy winds, the flapping around of the sail during our turn-around? It had slid down the line and was now jammed in the pulley at the base of the cockpit. I tried scooching it up the line enough to allow us to sheet in and get the sail centered but she wasn’t moving fast enough. As I mentioned, we’d had the sail waaay out to starboard so there was a lot of line to pull in.

“Get me a knife!” I shouted to Mitch and he grabbed the utility knife we kept near the companionway, for this very purpose I suppose. I started sawing away on the duct tape and─for a brief moment─felt a bit like I had been transported back in time. Back to that fateful night when the three of us were hacking the drowning dinghy off the back of mine and Phillip’s boat. Phillip had been at the helm then, too, and Mitch had handed me a knife and watched as I sawed through lines. I was struck by a strange reminiscent feeling. Maybe I need a new sailing nickname: The Hacker or something like that.

But, I finally made it through the layers of terry cloth and freed the line. Like I said, it had been my fault for putting the guard on the line, so I deserved to deal with the aftermath. Many lessons to be learned in sailing. With the sail centered and another hack job completed, we were finally able to drop the sail. Putting the sail cover on, though, was a bit challenging in the heavy winds. She’s just massive! Running from the mast back to the cockpit, I guess that must make her thirty feet at least, with a grommet and toggle about every two feet. I was sure after Mitch got the strong track put in on the mast to make raising the sail easier, the very next thing he was likely going to want would be a stack pack to make lowering and covering the sail easier. If you give a mouse a cookie …

When it was all done, the three of us fell into a heap in the cockpit and kept an eye on the storm. I swear every time we seemed to get offshore in that boat, there was a lightning storm on our horizon. I’m serious, they were everywhere! Maybe it was the time of year (late June) or just that part of the state, but I can confidently say there wasn’t a day that went by that we did not see lightning. Thankfully, though, it seemed this one was content to just eff up our sunrise sail and then back off. It left us little wind, however, that was─of course─right on the nose, which meant we had to continue motoring.

It was more favorable once we turned toward the pass so we raised the sails around 1:00 p.m. in order to kill the engine (remembering this time to push the kill switch back down) and check the fluids again. Yes, those pesky things. Trust me, if you see anything dripping out, you need to keep a close eye on them. Recall the oil had been a bit low when we cranked right before the storm. Well now, five-or-so hours later, it was really low. And, so began the adventure of adding oil to the Nonsuch. We had yet to do this and─this may sound crazy─but when Phillip and I first looked at the engine, we were a little unsure of how exactly you would go about it. The oil cap is literally back about a foot and a half from the front of the engine with maybe ten inches between it and the ceiling of the engine room. It would be difficult to get a funnel in there, much less a bottle of oil above the funnel to pour in. We all kind of scratched our heads a bit then I offered up the one thought that always seems to pop in my head when we talk about catching, pouring or saving fluids.

“Maybe use a water bottle?”

The boys seemed to be on board with this, so I began cutting the bottom end off of a water bottle. Mitch insisted he could do it and Phillip and I decided he would need to get used to doing it at some point, so we handed him the water bottle oil bin with about a cup of oil in it. I can’t tell you how many times we asked him: “You got it, Mitch?” “You sure?” “Can you see the opening?” “You sure you got it?”

“Gees guys, would you shut up already. I got this,” Mitch finally said. And, turned out, he did. I was a little surprised, but he displayed some real finesse wiggling into that position and gingerly dumping bottle after bottle of oil in. We kept checking the fluid level and determined she looked decent after we had put about a half quart in. Certainly a good bit. The transmission was still slowly dripping around the shifter arm and we put a dash more transmission fluid in there too─for safe measure─then deemed her fit to travel. The wind was still steady enough at the time, though, to allow us to keep sailing and, with all of us sweaty, sticky and dirty from the fluid ordeal, Phillip decided it was time for a dip.

I have to say, I have never (knock on teak) fallen off of a sailboat when it was under sail, but nor had I been allowed to float behind one while it was under sail. What a rush! With the wind pushing us along at about 4 knots, Phillip tied a throw line behind the boat and we took turns letting the boat drag us along by that or the ladder.

It felt just like a roller coaster ride. I cinched my wrist in right and tight in the line and let it tug me along, sometimes slowing so my body would ease toward the boat as a wave rolled under, then pulling me hard and fast with a swift tug as the boat coasted down the front of the wave. I was all giggles and “Wheees!” the whole time. It felt so good to let the fresh cool water wash over you. I had never done that before and I was so glad Phillip had the idea.

But again, it was short lived. I tell you, Mother Nature had some real fun with us on this trip. As soon as we got dried off, we saw some big thunderheads rolling up on the horizon. We were close enough to shore for cell service now and the radar showed a big green pile of crap coming toward us. It was time to crank and get that big ass sail down again. Yes, again.

“What the heck was that?” Mitch asked right after Phillip cranked. He was leaning over the back stern rail. I’m going to presume he was checking to make sure raw water was coming out as we had taught him (points for you Mitch), but he also pointed out, behind the boat, at a huge blob of black floating behind us. It was maybe two feet in diameter, with a rainbow-like sheen to it. Obviously oil. And, since we had just cranked, it had obviously come from us. Now we knew where all that oil we had replaced went. I can’t say I know exactly what happened or why such a big blob blew out but we didn’t take it as a good sign. We made a mental note to pick up some more oil (along with transmission fluid) once we docked in Apalachicola. But, at the time, we needed to keep motoring in order to get the sail down for yet another impending storm.

I could feel it in the air by then. Fifteen minutes prior I had been hot, sweaty and thrilled to death to dip and be dragged in the cool water behind the boat. Now, in my bikini, goose bumps began to form on my arms and my wet hair began to turn chill on my head. The temperature drop was palpable. I’m sure if the barometer on the boat was working, it would have shown a drop as well. We all donned our foul weather gear and prepared to drop the sail. Mitch insisted we all put on our life jackets as well. Oh alriiight. I’m not terrible about wearing mine, I’m just not super eager. But, he was the Captain this go-round, so Phillip and I did as we were told. It was probably for the best, too, because that particular sail-drop was the worst we’d endured. Coming into the East Pass, the water was churned up and the Nonsuch was bucking and kicking over 2-3 foot waves, which made the sail flop and misbehave. The wind had picked up too and was batting her and us around.

“Hang on!” Phillip shouted from the cockpit, “but tie her good!” Okay. “I’ve got winds over 30!” he said. Oh shit. It seemed to have come up so suddenly, but that seemed to happen often with the storms we saw on this trip. Mitch and I clung to the flinging sail, hugging her every 2-3 feet and working a sail tie around. The salt from the sail ties filled my mouth as I clenched them in my teeth and gripped the sail. After Mitch and I got them all tied, we decided to forego the thirty-foot, 15-grommet sail cover for the moment. You can imagine why.

And, two small gripes here about the Nonsuch as well, because I think it’s good to share. There is a row of pointy nubs around the perimeter of where a dodger would go if there was one. There is not, so that just leaves little spike-like stickey-ups (yes, that’s what I’m going to call them) along the top of the companionway placed just perfectly to step on if you’re trying to wrestle and tie the sail down, particularly over the bimini. For barefeet, they’re worse than Legos. And, while we’re on that─Gripe No. 2─the sail is really hard to reach in the center of the huge-ass bimini. I’m a pretty sporty gal and even doing an acrobatic tiptoe on things I shouldn’t be standing on, I still couldn’t reach it. Mitch, with some difficulty can, but he’s 6’4”. Not all sailors are! The big sail is just a bit awkward to man-handle. That’s all I’ll say.

With the sail finally contained, though, the crew thoroughly pooped, we hunkered into the cockpit and watched a wicked lightning storm brew to the east of us. Lightning seemed to bubble up and percolate, until the cloud would finally boil over and a shocking white streak would jet out. We watched in silence, and probably within just a two-minute time span, as three big bolts broke free and stabbed the ground. Phillip told Mitch and I to go below and put all of the handheld electronics in the oven (another helpful trick he’d learned from his vast cruising/sailing resources). If you do and the boat gets hit by lightning, it at least won’t zap your phone, laptop, GPS, etc. He’s a smart man that Phillip. It was strange to think not one hour prior we had been swimming and frolicking on a joyous sailboat amusement ride and now we were geared up in foul weather and life jackets putting the electronics in the oven. It was shocking how quickly things sometimes changed. But, we felt prepared. The sail was down and lashed. The engine was running strong and we were all tethered in. The three of us sat in the cockpit and watched as the sky to the northeast grew a dark grey and wicked cracks of lightning continued to spear the shore.

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April 9, 2014 – Keys Log: Day 7 – MOTORIN’!

May 5, 2014May 3, 2014anniedike

WHAT’S YOUR PRICE FOR FLIGHT?? At least I think those are the lyrics.

Feel free to test me (and jam to that oldie-but-a-goodie) here. But, know that I don’t care either way, because that’s what I like to belt out. “Finding Mr. Right! Believe you will tonight!” That’s the way I sing it. And, the way I sung it that day. We were “Motorin’!” down the ditch that day. We had waited an extra day due to heavy winds and a kicked-up sea state out in the Gulf and while the winds had made for a good kite day for us yesterday, they made for a terrible night of unrest for us on the ole’ Rest. They were blowing us hard against the dock, all night long, which meant lots of groaning and squeaking on the fenders. It was a bit of a rough night for the boat. While we had planned to leave at dawn, we ended up waiting a couple of hours for the wind to lie down. She finally settled out some around 7:00 a.m., but we couldn’t wait much longer, we had a good 10 hours of motoring ahead of us if we were going to make it to Carabelle that night. We neededst to go!

We sipped some coffee and readied the boat and I sat there contemplating the Gorton’s pants. I just couldn’t bear to leave them hanging there so lonely on that pole,

and I certainly couldn’t wad them up and throw them in the trash. We’d been through so much together! While they made an absolute mess now every time I put them on, Phillip made the excellent point that it would be good to have a back-up set of foul weather gear – albeit a messy one – shoved away in some locker on the boat in case we had a third mate aboard who found himself foul weather gear-less. Good point! (Although I needed no real excuse to keep them on the boat as a good luck charm alone, it feels better to do it under sensible pretenses). Either way, we folded them up and shoved them in a vberth locker,

and I felt much better about it. There, there Gorton’s. You’re still with us!

Just as we were getting ready to shove off, our dock-mate, “Skipper Bob” on the s/v Maverick, came out to lend a hand. The wind was blowing hard off the the starboard bow and we were wedged in fairly tight between our two dock-mates, Maverick and Liza. With Bob’s help, we decided to let the bow off and back out around Liza then turn starboard and move forward. A great plan, in theory, but it was blowing about 18 knots. Phillip started to back out and tried to push his stern out far enough to clear Liza behind him but the wind wasn’t letting him move very far. He went back and forth a couple of times (the beginnings of an 82-point turn) and finally just scooched outside of Liza but when he started to move forward, the wind pushed hard on the boat broadside and sent her stern back toward the pilings. Bob and I looked like a pair of dancing monkeys, me on the boat and him on the dock, running the length of the boat shoving the boat off of pilings. It was a mighty struggle. I stuck a foot out and gave one last mighty push and the stern missed the dock by just inches and Phillip was revving hard to miss Bob and Pat’s boat in front of us. Bob was a huge help, though, and a good sport. As we just squeezed by his dinghy, he hollered out “You should’ve swiped her! We need a new one! Safe travels you guys!” It was a heart-pounding moment and certainly not the way you want to start a leisurely morning. When I finally made it back to the cockpit, heaving and sweating, my heart still thumping mightily in my chest, Phillip scolded me for sacrificing my body for the boat. Rightfully so. It was a good lesson. Unfortunately, it was also one that I would not really learn until later, but that’s well on down the line. For the moment, we were finally off the dock, our adrenaline subsiding and we enjoyed the sunrise as we headed out into the bay.

The view was amazing when we came under the bridge to Port St. Joe. A gorgeous sunrise, the slightest bit of fog on the water and pelicans everywhere, just skimming the water.

Well, most were skimming. One wasn’t so lucky. As we turned in under the bridge to Port St. Joe, we heard a mighty thump up at the bow. I had been staring off the starboard side, watching some pelicans glide above the water, and I was shocked to now see one, ten feet away, flapping and wrestling around on our foredeck. A pelican! Flopping around on the boat!?! For whatever reason, perhaps he’d had one too many Sailor Jerry’s at the old Pelican’s Perch the night before, or he was just the local pelican idiot, he had flown right into our Jenny sheet, and the more he squirmed and flung those big, clumsy wings of his around, the more tangled up he got. The sheet was wrapped around his neck at one point. I thought I might have to go rescue him and actually got a little excited thinking about it. Man-handling a real, live pelican? I mean, could it get any better? Phillip and I watched him a moment or two longer in astonishment, exchanging a few lame guesses as to what in the hell had driven him right into our boat. I remember Phillip saying at one point, “Is he retarded?” Good question. How do you know if a pelican is? He finally flapped himself free of the Jenny line, though, and then waddled and snaggled his way through the lifelines and took off from the starboard bow. I watched him fly for just a bit and then he quickly plopped down in the water, shook his head a hard time or two and just sat there for a bit. Trying to get his bearings I would imagine. Big dumb bird. That was wild.

Once we’d shaken that image out of our mind, we sat back and enjoyed watching the sun come up over the Gulf Intracoastal Waterway (“the ditch”). It was incredible. Big, rusty shrimp boats lining the docks, fog dissipating on the horizon, jagged tree stumps lining the shore. I felt like we were making our way right down the ole’ Mississipp’ and that Huck Finn would pass by on his raft at any moment. It was such a surreal feeling.

We made a pot of piping oatmeal and savored our morning in the ditch.

Lake Wimico was gorgeous too and we made a nice, easy day of it motoring over to Apalachicola. We needed to fuel up for the planned Gulf Crossing tomorrow, so we stopped into the fuel dock just before Apalachicola Bridge and suffered our second docking debacle of the day. I’m starting to think I’ve got some kind of horrendous docking curse. The current was really working against us, pushing us right along the dock, so it was crucial we get a line on –and fast. I called ahead to let them know we were coming (like I said, I’m not afraid to ask for an extra hand to save our boat!), and I threw the guy the bow line as we were coming in. It landed at his feet and before he could get down to it (sadly he did not move at the pace I do when we’re docking – that of a mad jackrabbit), and I watched in horror as it snaked slowly away from his feet and into the water. I’m sure I didn’t hide my distaste very well … But, perhaps I should have taken a lesson from him. Phillip always says “Smooth is fast.” As I scrambled wildly to pull the line back up before it made its way back to the prop, I slipped nicely on the wet foredeck and found the only thing that saved me from going overboard was the fat welp I had just created on my chin when it wedged against the lifeline. Smooth Annie. But, at least we knew the lifelines we had re-tied during our Keys preparations were working.

They certainly kept my sorry self on the boat that day, and it wouldn’t be the first time we would test them on this trip. We finally got the boat secure at the fuel dock, though, and set about fueling her up. If I haven’t expressed it quite clearly enough – I hate docking! Something always seems to go awry and put our boat in grave danger. It’s like watching your dog cross a busy street alone. It’s just unnerving sometimes.

But, alas, we gassed up and made our way out into Apalachicola Bay. It was a gorgeous day and we had favorable wind. While our morning motoring was fun, we have a sailboat for a reason. We like to sail! I didn’t hesitate to jump up on the deck and ready our sails!

And, we were thrilled to see some guys out oystering in the St. George Sound. When we ordered oysters in Port St. Joe, we had been told they came from Texas, because the local supply was low, so we were glad to see them out there harvesting. They said the oysters were coming back. Good! Cause we like to eat ’em!

The wind picked up that afternoon, a steady northeast around 14 knots, and we actually did some of the best sailing yet on our trip. We were heeled over, averaging 6.5, sometimes 7 knots most of the way. That was the fastest we had gone the entire trip and it felt great! I was curled up and leaning over the coaming on the windward side — pretty much the equivalent of a dog sticking his head out of the car window — watching the hull cut through the water. We were sailing baby!

We made it over to Dog Island around dusk and got ready to drop the hook. We had covered a lot of ground that day!

Log book:

We struggled a bit with the anchor chain. As part of our preparations for the trip to the Keys, we had pulled it all out at the dock to (a) check the length and (b) remark the 25-foot indicators. Regarding the length, 200 feet was our belief, but we wanted to verify that and make sure the end was secured to the boat. I certainly did not want to be the one to send the entire thing out and overboard because we’d never eye-balled the end. “Did you get the anchor out?” calls the Captain from the cockpit. “Yep, just fine. She’s all OUT!” DOH! So, we pulled her out for a look-see:

And do know that the entire time we were hoisting chain along the dock, I couldn’t help but shake the song “Back on the chain gang!” from my head.

All out – 200 feet total.

Yep. Tied in. Whew! Now for the indicators:

25 feet

50 feet

75 feet

100 feet

125 feet

150 feet

175 feet. End of the line!

While the chain gang project was a good thing to do (you want to be sure), we believe, for whatever reason, our having pulled it all out and winched it back in at the dock, without tension, caused it to pile up on itself in some unfavorable way in the anchor locker, which made it a mighty struggle to heave it out, but we finally got 150 feet out and set right to what we do best at anchorage. Making some cocktails to enjoy the sunset!

I have to say – we love our stand-up ice tray on the boat. It makes these huge, Mad Men-esque cubes that look like they were made to be drenched in fine whiskey. Or rum … we usually choose the latter.

Dog Island was a fantastic anchorage. Pristine actually. Beautiful white sand, an exquisite view of both the Gulf on one side and St. George Sound on the other. There were just a few old wooden houses, mansions really, propped up on stilts overlooking both sides. And, the sunset was just stunning.

We savored the moment – and a few more cocktails – made dinner and called it a night. If things went well — and from our past record “well” wasn’t usually how things progressed for us when crossing the Gulf — but, if they did, we were looking at a thirty-hour passage out of the East Pass to Clearwater. Well or otherwise, we were eager to see what the Gulf had in store for us tomorrow.

March 18, 2014 – Some Bitchin News!

March 27, 2014anniedike

It’s not a vulgar heading, I swear. That’s the guy’s name. Bob Bitchin.

He’s the editor for one helluva sailing magazine – Cruising Outpost. So, the “news” is, back in January, I sent a sailing story off to another well-known sailing magazine, Cruising World, hoping they would pick it up for publication.

Yes, we documented it for the blog. We’re just that cool.

Well, as a writer, trust me, you have to get very used to the word ‘no.’ You hear it all the time. In the beginning, everyone and their dog is going to tell you ‘no.’ And, that’s just what Cruising World did, politely, yes, but still the answer was no. But, persistence is key. I wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer. I dusted the story off and sent it on to Cruising Outpost. I just had a feeling this Bitchin character would get me.

And boy, did he! They’re printing my story in June baby! The summer issue. Be on the lookout for it and subscribe to get your very own copy.

And, more good news! After rigorous study of the charts and many sit-downs and sundowners with fellow cruisers who have been to the Keys, including the previous owner of our boat, Jack, who sailed our very own s/v Plaintiff’s Rest to the Keys, we have finally made a rough sail plan for our trip. Shallow waters and treacherous inlets have seemed to be our arch nemesis, so with our 5’2″ draft (which we like to consider 5’6″ to be conservative – plus, it probably will be that after all the wine, water and gas we load on the boat for the trip – in that order), we’ve decided on the following, weather-dependent, sail plan:

We are prepared to leave at any time on or after April 3, 2014, whenever a good weather window arises. Once underway, we would like to make the jump straight across the Gulf to Clearwater.

That’s approximately a two-and-a-half to three-day passage. A long jaunt for us, but one we’re hoping to get under our belts at the outset. We would like to spend less time getting TO the Keys so we can spend more time down there and make a slower trip back up the West Coast. So, Clearwater is the goal, but, if we run into bad weather or a rough sea state on the way, we plan to duck into Panama City, Apalachicola or Carabelle River to wait it out.

These are all places we’ve been before during the last leg of the Gulf Crossing and we would like to spend some time, particularly in Carabelle/Apalachicola, at some point during this trip – going or coming.

We will definitely rest in Clearwater, though, and keep an eye out for another good weather window to make the jump down to Marco Island/Capri Pass.

We plan to call in to the municipal marina at Naples on our way in to get a more accurate depth report, but from our review of the charts, it appears the inlet to Naples is too shallow for us to make it in easily there. Capri Pass at Marco Island seems to be an easier route, and some fellow cruisers recommended we anchor in there and take a day or two to tool around on a local flat boat and check out some of Florida’s famous 10,000 islands.

Once we’re ready to leave Marco Island, in addition to the weather and sea state (which is always a concern), we’ll need to also keep an eye on the Gulf Coast Loop Current, area of warm water that travels up from the Caribbean, past the Yucatan Peninsula, and into the Gulf of Mexico. Heading directly into that thing can be like jumping on a sailboat treadmill. Moving fast but going nowhere.

Once we get a good weather/current window, we plan to make the jump west all the way to the Dry Tortugas.

Making it to the Tortugas is one of the primary goals of this trip. They seem so pristine and untouched. Phillip and I both think the Tortugas will be a highlight of the trip for us. Not to mention the distinct possibility for some killer kiting there! (Yes, we are bringing the kites and boards, folks. True to the name of this blog, a great-many of our hobbies are rooted heavily in the wind!)

Then, from the Tortugas, we plan to make the jaunt over to Marquesa Island as fellow cruisers have recommended it as a great place for paddle-boarding, snorkeling, fishing, etc. But, we know, after making the trip from the Florida West Coast to the Dry Tortugas and anchoring out there for several days, we will be ready to power up, re-provision and wash every loving scrap of material on the boat – including the curtains. So, tucking in at a swanky slip at Key West will definitely be a priority post-Tortugas. We’re looking at the Galleon marina, but we will definitely check out the other options before deciding (A&B Marina, Conch Harbor, etc.). After a night or two (or three!) in Key West (depending on the rum intake) we will gunkhole our way over to Marathon (for those of you not familiar with that term, or think it is something akin to redneck mud fishing — click here). Post-Marathon, we will then make the cut across to the Gulf side of the Keys under the seven mile bridge then back up to Cape Sable or perhaps Little Shark River and on up the west coast of Florida.

This is, of course, all but a plan at this point, subject to change at any moment depending on weather, currents, sea state, boat performance, any potential mishap or malfeasance (which is likely), the health and condition of the crew, the remaining provisions, the lining up of the stars, the Ouija board readings. Just about anything – you name it – and the plans can change. But, we at least now have a PLAN and an available departure date. It’s now time to start packing the boat and provisioning.

Sometimes I can’t believe this is all really happening. The Keys … It’s amazing the places life will take you, if you only let it.

November 20, 2013 – Day One: The Rode Out West

December 18, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

With Big Mom tended to and Alabama in our rear-view, Phillip and I set to planning our Thanksgiving voyage. Due to the rush trip to North Alabama for the funeral and the lost time from work, we both needed to put in a few days at the office to make up for it before we took off again, so we settled on a departure date of Wednesday, November 20th, which would still leave us 10 whole days at sea. Now, while a trip east to Carrabelle, Apalachicola and the like was still do-able, it would be a stretch as Carrabelle, alone, is a two-day passage, assuming good weather, and I can tell you what we did not have that week was good weather. A front was set to pass through, leaving us with 25-30 mph winds and a predicted 6-9 foot sea-state. Not something you want to jaunt out in just for fun. There were plenty of anchorages we had heard about on the western route, so we decided to stay protected along the ICW inshore and head west in search of (what else?) — women, whiskey and gold!

Here is an overview of our planned voyage:

We planned to head over to Fort McRae first for a couple of days on the hook, then ease in to Pirate’s Cove to dock up and hang out with the local riff raff for a day or two. From there, we would jump over to Ingram’s Bayou (a place many of our sailing buddies kept telling us was one of the most beautiful, pristine anchorages over that way) to drop anchor for a couple of quiet nights, before we made our way over to The Wharf in Orange Beach where we had reserved a slip for Thanksgiving. Phillip’s clan was also planning to rent a condo there for the holiday and we – as true cruisers tend to do – were planning to make full use of their facilities! There is nothing like a hot shower and a washer and dryer after seven days at sea!

All told, our trek out west was going to be about an 8-9 day trip and we had planned one last anchorage on the way back (likely Red Fish Point – just near Fort McRae) for one last night of solitude before heading back to the real world.

So, we set off on a brisk sunny Wednesday afternoon (Nov. 20th) and headed to our first stop — Fort McRae:

Now, we’ve been to Red Fish Point many times, so the passage across Pensacola Bay and through the little inlet by Sand Island was all too familiar territory. No sweat. We could make that sail with our eyes closed (assuming, of course, no other boats, bouys, or a shore). Stevie Wonder style!

Yeah baby!

But, we had never made the “uey” around the corner and into the inlet between Sand Island and Fort McRae.

And I’ll have you know I had to Google the word “uey” for the proper spelling. Urban Dictionary says:

Uey

To take a U-Turn

I guess this is a New England thing.

Cab driver : “I’ll just bang(make a/take) a uey on the next stoplight”

Although I’m not sure that’s just a “New England” thing. I think ‘to bang is to make’ rings true just about anywhere.

We had a phenomenal sail over. But, I will say, we had not been out on the boat in weeks and I think just about any conditions would have been ‘phenomenal’ to us as we were just thrilled to finally have water moving across the hull. Although many may disagree, runny noses and chilly fingers just aren’t enough to make any sail UN-phenomenal in our book. But, apparently we were a little rusty. I’d love to say we executed the ‘uey’ around Sand Island perfectly and eased right on up into our anchorage by Fort McRae. But that’s just not how it happened. As we were making (banging I guess the New Englanders would say) the bend, the boat lurched forward and let out a slight groan. With my hands on the bimini bar, I could feel the soft, thud of the ground we hit below. And let me just say for the record – although I’m a little reluctant to admit it, we have done it a time or two now (run aground) – but it’s never a feeling you get comfortable with. It’s a sickening, discomforting movement of the boat and instantly identifiable as contact with the treacherous bottom below. Thankfully, for us, it was a soft, sandy bottom and Phillip had the sharp skipper skills to back us out, “bang out” a bigger loop and get us into Fort McRae with our keel in tact.

Now, I’ve heard some people refer to this anchorage as “party alley” because it’s usually chock full of sailboats, power boats, trollers and the like. Hence the “party.” But, we were hoping that on Thanksgiving it would be pretty sparse so we would have plenty of room to spread out. Sadly, that wasn’t the case. There were three other boats in there, a marker for some sunken hazard, a bouy and a tight shoreline that we had to deal with. Enter the infamous Swing Radius. Now, most of you are smart enough to make a pretty good guess as to what that is, but humor me for just a moment for the newbies.

Imagine your anchor as the center of the circle. The radius, then, is the distance from your anchor to the stern of your boat:

Using the radius, you can then plot out a hypothetical ‘circle’ your boat could occupy depending on which way the wind or tide pushes it. Now, with several “obstacles” around us – three other boats, an immovable marker for the sunken hazard, a bouy, and a nearby shore with outstretched shoal, we had to be sure we dropped enough anchor chain (known as “rode”) to hold our boat secure while not creating a swing radius so large it would allow us to strike the surrounding obstacles. We typically like a 7:1 ratio. Meaning, if we were in 7 feet of water, with 4 foot freeboard (distance from the water line to the deck), that’s 11 feet total depth, so 77 feet of rode.

Now, while getting the anchor set right is important, making sure we had a proper cocktail at sunset easily trumps it. So, with the tight parameters, we dropped about 55 feet of anchor chain (an approximate 5:1 ratio with our ten feet of total depth) and set to our evening ritual. A book and cocktail at sunset. Could there be anything better?

But then another boat pulled up nice and tight near us and set us both on edge. We started looking around, running and re-running our calculation of the swing radius and speculating, once again, as to the approximate distance to the shore.

With both of us being born fierce litigators and each a few drinks in and, thus, a little more ballsy to boot, Phillip and I embarked on an exhaustive debate about the swing radius. I made a rough calculation and explained to Phillip my educated guess as to the radius, to which he naturally responded:

With no one else on the boat with us, a riveting discussion ensued, in which I had to drop some serious geometry knowledge on Phillip that, if translated to a demonstrative aid, would look something like this:

Length of Boat + [ (Rode )²– (Depth + Freeboard )² ]^1/2

Simple, right? I thought so. Or at least I was sure, in my eloquent, unslurred, precise and persuasive frame of mind, that it was. And, I told Phillip as much. To which he responded:

Fine by me! I had made my peace with it. I offered my best pitch – full of reason and geometry and gin – and my plight had fallen on deaf ears (or ogling eyes – although I consider them to be synonymous). I set about to “banging out” another drink or three and resting my weary mind while Phillip got up about every hour to try and make out the markers and shoreline in the dark of night as the wind began to howl over the boat. I kept a shoulder turned to him, pretending to be sleeping soundly (lah-tee-dah) as he was checking GPS coordinates on his phone, but I was wide awake and just as worried as he. The sounds and motions of the boat from below were incredibly deceiving. What could just as easily have been the wind and a smooth shift of the boat in the water sounded, in the v-berth, like the keel wedging into sand and the boat preparing to tip over. Neither of our weary minds were resting. Phillip made one last trek topside, and I heard him walk up toward the bow, my eyes following the sound of his footsteps in the dark. Then I heard them pound quick on the deck above as he scurried back to the hatch and shouted down to me:

“Annie, I need you up here now. We’re moving.”

November 9, 2013 – “When Are You Going to the Islands?”

December 10, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

Isn’t that what you’re all thinking? At least that’s what I get asked three times a week. (Yes, I’m talking to you Bleeke!) Soon, people. Soon. Stick with me. But, I’ll tell you, even when we do get there, it’s not going to be any more beautiful than this:

And, when we cook up a meal in the galley off the coast of some remote island in the Keys or Bahamas, it’s still going to look like this:

Adventure is relative and can be found anywhere. Usually, it’s the act of getting there that’s the real “journey,” not the destination itself.

But, you want to see us on a passage. I get it. So do we, minus the transmission fluid catch this time. Although I’m sure you want to see some equally entertaining minor disaster occur that we have to resolve in true MacGyver fashion with bubble gum, nail polish and sheep shears (all of which we keep on the boat for just such an occasion).

I’ll see what I can come up with.

Trust me, we were ready to get back out there, too. With the summer pretty much behind us and all of our major boat chores done, the rubber gloves finally came off,

and we set down to plan our trip. Which we, of course, had to do over wine and dinner – a whole roasted snapper, anyone?

Between work, family and my obligatory appearances on the rodeo clown circuit, we had about two weeks to work with in November. Yes, we do plan to go longer and further later, but that will have to come later. All evidence to the contrary, we do have to work. I can’t stress to you enough how expensive boats can be. Now, let me remind you how far the actual Keys are:

I think even MacGyver’s scruffy eyebrows raised with that one. It’s about a four-day passage offshore, if made straight. That’s 96 hours of solid sailing, which means someone always at the wheel, even with auto-pilot, you still need to keep a lookout and stay close to the helm, particularly at night. This means, for four days, you only get to sleep in one-to-two hour snatches. It’s fun, don’t get me wrong. There’s a certain sense of freedom, adventure and accomplishment when you finish a passage, but it is also a very tiring stint at sea, even in the best of conditions, exhausting and harrowing in the worst. If we made the four-day passage straight to the Keys, we would need a day or two to rest and recover and that would leave us about one day to enjoy the Keys before we had to start meandering back, two or three, perhaps, if wanted to make another four-day epic passage back across the Gulf. But that would put us on a tight schedule, and we learned the hard way during The Crossing that you can never be on a tight schedule when sailing. You have to build in a cushion for the weather. It’s just part of it. We hated to push the Keys trip back, but it had to be done. Trying to squeeze it into the tight travel window we had this winter was not going to allow us the time we wanted to truly enjoy the Keys. Plus, there were plenty of places we wanted to cruise locally and enjoy. We decided we would make the trip to the Keys in the spring (after skiing season – of course – that’s a must!) and stick around these parts in November.

Phillip and I decided to head East to Carrabelle.

That’s about a two-day passage straight. Forty-eight hours, assuming a good weather window. If you recall, our boat spent some time over in Carrabelle when the transmission went out, and we really enjoyed poking around the sleepy little mariner towns around there, which feel like they’ve been preserved in time, when sea-faring sailors roamed the streets, rum bottle in hand. We wanted to head back and spend a couple of days immersing ourselves with the old salts and eating some of the best fresh oysters I have ever let slither down my throat.

We then wanted to take our time heading back inshore, protected along the Intracoastal Waterway (as much as we could … we would have to pop out into the Gulf for several stretches where our mast height (50 feet) won’t allow us under the bridges). We pulled out the charts–and the snapper–and started plotting our passage.

And, what meal is complete without fresh homemade bread and salad? … None we know of.

The plan was to hope for good weather, so we could head straight for Carrabelle, spend a night or two there boozing with the locals, then mozey our way back to Apalachicola for some local fare, another night or two to booze again and get our fill of fresh oysters. Then, we thought we would check out Port St. Joe, a great littler marina there, Cape San Blas (lots of cool anchorages there, too), head back to Panama City in hopes of catching another sighting of our Lady Legs-a-Lot (you remember those heels!), then make the twenty-four passage offshore back to Pensacola.

Even with a few extra days’ cushion for potential bad weather, this trip, even taken leisurely, would still easily fill two weeks. We planned to leave November 15th and return on the 29th. This was going to be a significant passage for the two of us – heading offshore for a four-day passage. While I may have proven some creative gumption and gusto in surviving the dinghy debacle and transmission fiasco during The Crossing, this was going to be my first true offshore voyage as First Mate. I started glossing over our old sailing books again, working expletives back into my everyday conversation, upping my rum tolerance and practicing my knot-tying skills on empty wine bottles. Oh, and watching weekend-long MacGyver marathons. That helps too.

A two-week passage in the blistering winter? Done. I was packing all my gear.

Aside from the mullet, MacGyver ain’t got nothing on me!

May 23, 2013 – The Crossing Finale – Oysters and Beer

August 29, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

The day finally came. May 23rd, and we were headed back to Apalachicola to finally bring our boat home. We hitched a ride again with our sail groupies – you remember these guys – Phillip’s fabulous folks:

We loaded up the truck again with all the tools, supplies and food (aka, the “provisions”) we would need to make another passage.

I also had the pleasure of opening a few little gifts on the drive over as it seemed yours truly had a big “day” coming up.

That’s right, I saw fit to grace this world with my presence during the early morning hours of May 28, 1982.

“Delivers only the best … ” You’re damn right they do!

The gifts were great. I certainly do enjoy birthdays. I couldn’t help but notice, though, they were all different versions of soaps, scrubbers and other self-cleaning products. Perhaps Mary was trying to tell me something?? She’ll be glad to know I put them to good use on that trip. For five minutes after each of the 1.5 showers I took during that 5-day passage, I was fresh as a daisy!

We stopped back in Apalachicola before making our way over to Carrabelle to check on the boat and spent a delightful afternoon walking around downtown, poking our heads in quaint little shops and, basically, just smelling the roses.

We came across some neat old relics:

Some creative artwork:

And some fitting words of wisdom:

That Ben Franklin sure was a smart guy. Alcohol always makes me happy!

But, we had a lot to do to get the boat ready for the last leg of The Crossing, so it was off to Carrabelle to check on her and get her all packed up.

How’s that cockpit looking Mary? “It’s ready to go!”

How about the crew Paul? “I don’t want this one to go!”

As I look back through these photos, it seems Phillip did most of the “checking” while me and the groupies just engaged in a fun photo op. Sorry Phillip!

Yeah, that’s me, doing wildly inappropriate things behind Phillip. Very mature …

We did meet with Mechan-Eric to take a look at the transmission he had put in and saddle up, of course. Funny thing how they want to get paid after doing work. I mean … Eric was great, though. He had done a good job for us and had finished up the job just in time for us to sail her home. He walked us through what all he had done and cranked the engine. It was the first time we had heard her turn over in a month. She grumbled and sputtered and started purring! I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more glorious sound. She was running! Eric showed us the transmission, which he had painted a bright, cherry red to match the signature color of the engine, and shifted her through the gears (drive, neutral and reverse) so we could see the transmission at work. Everything looked great. We gave it the old Roger Ebert and we were ready to go!

We decided to celebrate and polish the evening off with some oysters and beer (is there any better way?) at Eric’s family’s salty sea bar across the river – Fathoms. And, I tell you, I’m not really an oyster fan. I mean, they look like snot rockets in a shell, but I have to say, these were the best darn oysters I’ve ever slurped down.

Not snotty at all!

The oysters, that is. These two here are pretty snotty!

We ate our fill and admired our boat across the river.

Yep – that’s her!

I swear I could see her little stern wagging. Like a sad-eyed puppy at the pound that had finally been picked! We were going to scoop her up and take her home with us! First thing in the morning, too. And, I do mean first thing. Phillip and I were planning to get up and going before sunrise, so we needed some rest. We bid our sail groupies adieu, enjoyed one last Carrabelle sunset in the cockpit and shut her down for the night.

May 4, 2013 – A Little TLC

August 2, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

So … a new transmission. That’s what we were debating anyway. There was the option to rebuild the old one. Mechan-Eric told us he could take it apart and look at it to see what condition it was in, but we knew we had put that thing under some serious strain, I mean — enough heat to make her lock up, fracture and ultimately fail. That’s a lot of heat, right George?

Oh yeeaahhh.

For a small price bump and a lot of peace of mind, we decided to just go ahead and replace it. Eric found one on Ebay for us but the stupid seller wouldn’t let him buy it and get it shipped out until the auction ended (15-20 days) and there is no way we could wait that long for the boat. We were jonesing to get back out there. So, enter our broker, Kevin, super-sailor and (on this day) solver of all problems. Kevin found us a transmission on Craigslist that was just right. Some sailboat guru down in Jacksonville had a brand new one he had bought a year ago for a project boat that he never got around to.

Can’t imagine why …

Regardless, it was just sitting on his shelf so he was nice enough to sell it to us for a smooth $2,300. Ouch! Boats hurt the bank! But, our boat was parked in Carrabelle and the only way to get her home was to slap a new transmission in there, so we clicked and bought baby! Our new transmission was on its way.

In the meantime, we couldn’t just leave her sitting there all alone in a strange place, weird barnacles growing on her and fish nipping at her, and no one to wipe her deck and tell her how “purdy” she is. Uh-huh. Not our boat! So, we headed down to the ole’ Apalach area to pay her a visit (it was the first of many we would make down there) and give her a little TLC. We had several things we wanted to do – inspect the bilge to make sure we didn’t have any significant leaks, get the propane tank to have it re-filled, make sure the stuff in the fridge was still cold and take down the head sail (the “Genny,”) so we could have the UV cover re-sewn as the surveyor noted in his survey it was starting to rip and it really started fraying and flapping during The Crossing. You know, real interesting boat stuff. (Remember, I told you sailing is hard work – don’t you forget it!).

But, we really fell in love with the sleepy little downtown area in Apalachicola. We had a great time piddling around in all the little shops, sipping some local brew and booze and mixing in with the regulars. We particularly enjoyed the Owl Café (http://www.owlcafeflorida.com/). Phillip had been there before (seriously – there’s nowhere the man hasn’t been) and he was impressed with the gourmet grub, so this time we decided to check out their more casual Tap Room around the corner:

I loved that old rickety bar,

with the ‘helm’ they made out of quirky beer taps.

Creaking floors and clinking beer mugs. That place was great. We strolled right in and asked for a drink!

Phillip’s got some serious ‘swag.’

We scarfed some phenomenal crab cake burgers and washed them down with beer and bright, fruity cocktails.

Yum!

To sum it up:

But, we were eager to get to the boat to see how she was doing and get started on our projects. So, it was on to Carrabelle to check her out. We were thrilled to find she was still tied up, plugged in and seemingly chipper. I swear she wagged her stern a little bit when we walked up.

Phillip couldn’t wait to get to her and give her a little pat on the head.

Hey there girl!

We got the head sail down and started mopping up the bilge with sponges:

A lovely job that left my mits looking very lady-like. Emily Post would not approve!

We also visited with our “boat neighbor” who was tied up next to us at the dock and who claimed to be ‘piddling around on the boat’ to avoid the ‘nagging Misses.’ Can’t blame him there. But, he took a real liking to Phillip (can’t blame him there either) and followed him around like a lost puppy, curious to get into whatever he was getting into. “What ya doing now?” He would say, every couple-a-minutes. But he was quite the character, with a hot bod.

That’s right ladies, take it in:

And, a rockin’ 70’s bowl haircut. Like Captain & Tennille:

But far more Tennille than Captain. (And just in case anyone felt the same – Captain sure was giving me a creepy serial killer vibe in this pic … Staring at me with those beady eyes … *shiver* )

Our neighbor was a lot of fun, though, and he offered us up some great wine (real easy way to win us over – works every time!). We shared a glass with him, toasted the sunset and shut her down for the night.

April 25, 2013 – Oh, Go Fly a Kite!

July 23, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

So, we left the boat in Carrabelle and made the last leg of the trip back to Pensacola in some non-descript Ford Festiva-like rental car. And, poor car, if my best recollection of it was some model that could only aspire to the level of a Ford Festiva. I mean, perhaps they’re not that bad.

Okay, it seems they are that bad. But, it couldn’t have been a Festiva, because Mitch would have looked like this in it:

But, we did get a rental from the Apalachicola airport/car-rental/coin-operated laundry mat, and the guy who brought it to us turned out to be not only the airplane mechanic but also a pilot, the air traffic controller and a rental car extraordinaire. They really know how to double up in ole’ Apalach. But, the drive back was long and lackluster. We were leaving the boat behind. With no answers. No timeline. No clue as to what was even wrong, how long it was going to take to get her fixed or (worse) how much it was going to cost.

So, Phillip and I did what we do best: found solace in the wind. We got a great kiting session in that week while waiting for word on the boat. And, you might be thinking … kiting?? Awww, in a wispy, wheat field with a rainbow kite?

All father and son-like? How sweet!

No, not Hallmark kiting. Really? We’re talking kite-boarding. Some real bad ass stuff. If you’ve never heard of it, seen it or been introduced to this fine sport, this is what I’m talking about:

Kite-boarding. Here’s a video to give you a real flavor: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a3cGHmCslxs.

It’s kind of awesome. Phillip’s been doing it for years and (while I’m completely impartial and unbiased – Phillip who??), he’s pretty freaking amazing at it.

No, that is not photo-shopped. He’s just that good. Neither is this:

That is totally me. Big, long lesbian shorts and all. Okay, it’s not, but I hope it will be, soon (minus the WNBA outfit). Phillip’s been teaching me, and I’ve got about 4-5 lessons under my belt. Kiting is definitely not a hobby for the impatient. The learning curve is steep and it takes a while to get any good at it (if you ever get good at all). Plus, it’s hard to line up the weather, the wind and the opportunity to drop everything and run to the beach for a session. It’s a perfect past-time for total beach bums, and we’re just not quite there … yet.

But, let me tell you a little bit about it because you’re going to hear plenty about it on this blog and I don’t want you conjuring that Hallmark image again. As Phillip explained it to me, kiting is a lot like wake-boarding, except you’re both riding the board behind the boat and driving the boat at the same time. The kite is your power, which means flying the kite is the most important part. Even when you’re getting smacked in the face with waves, you’re being dragged across the ground, you’ve lost your board, your shades, your dignity and all hope, you must still, at all times, fly the kite. And cursing the kite for not doing what you want it to do is also a futile endeavor. It is always operator error. YOU are in control of the kite.

So, harnessing the wind. The kite is flown in what is called the “wind window”:

Think of it as a big bowl over your head, cut in half. The wind is to your back, and the top of the bowl, right above your head is “noon” with the edges of the wind window to your left (9 o’clock) and your right (3 o’clock). These are the areas where the wind essentially blows across the kite and it doesn’t have any real power. But, once you fly the kite down into the bowl the kite’s going to have enough power to pull you to Cuba. This is known as the “power zone”:

Once you’ve mastered the art of flying, you can then hop in the water, strap a board to your feet (while the kite’s at noon) and then fly it into the power zone (preferably around 10:00 or 2:00) to pull yourself up onto a plane and take off. Sounds simple, right? Trust me, it’s not. The “water start” (getting up on the board) is usually the hardest part to learn and takes many lessons to master. But, then that’s just cruising along the water. There’s a whole world of hops, jumps, tricks and flips to master after that. For a preview, here’s the one-and-only Jeremie Tronet showing us all what we will never be able to do on a kite-board:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c03DUkKXJuE. And yes, ladies, he’s a total French hottie – Google him and enjoy.

But, Phillip (in particular) and I are definitely avid kiters and love to get out any time the wind blows. We certainly won’t be getting any kite endorsements soon, but we can hold our own:

Some rudimentary footage of Phillip surfing right into shore: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1bjxHCABD1M&feature=youtu.be

And me – now having mastered the water start (hooray!): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yVrKza2r–k&feature=youtu.be

Kiting most definitely rocks. And, it at least gave us a nice distraction from our sailing withdrawals while the boat sat in a watery grave four hours east of us in Carrabelle. The mechanic (Eric, not Bailey) was still in the process of taking the engine apart and diagnosing the failure. We had no idea what he was going to find or how big of a problem it was going to be. We braced ourselves for the possibility of having to replace the whole engine. *gulp* In the meantime, we strapped on some kites and caught some air (while we still had enough money to take the time off from work).

April 17-23, 2013 – The Crossing: Chapter Six – Never Trust a Non-Drowsy Drug

July 1, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

After the dinghy incident, Mitch’s “non-drowsy” Dramamine kicked in again and we lost him to the settee (the boat’s version of the couch) for another 8 hours. Phillip and I stayed up at the helm through the night, enjoying the now smooth feeling of the boat heeling left to right and the pleasant swish of the hull rolling back and forth in the water. Don’t get me wrong, it was still spitting rain and we were chilled and soaked, clinging to the helm like a wet cat on the edge of the tub. But, without the screeching and banging of the dinghy on the back, what was once about as pleasant as the dragging of hooks across sheet metal now felt like a summer afternoon on a sun-drenched porch swing. I curled up next to Phillip at the helm, laid my head on his back, closed my eyes and let the movement and sounds of the boat engulf me. Although serene, the night was a bit eerie in the sense that we could not, had not, seen the horizon since sunset and there was not a sign of any other vessel that night, no other ship, boat, plane, train or automobile anywhere to be seen. We were still in the middle of the Gulf, completely alone, with stinging rain and cold winds. But, we bundled up and hunkered down at the helm.

The boat performed beautifully that night. The waves were still 4-6 feet, but she climbed them effortlessly and without complaint. It was as if the dinghy was the one bloody thorn in her heel and now that we had pulled it out and rubbed the wound, she embraced us with gratitude and carried us through the storm. Phillip, too, was a rock that night, holding the helm for about 8 hours, without complaint, despite the steady heeling and rough waves.

Once the sun came up on Monday, and we could finally see the horizon and the waves and assess our state of affairs in the daylight, my survival instincts sauntered to the background and my initial, adventurous tendencies returned. I whipped out the camera to begin, once again, documenting our tale. While trying to capture Phillip in photo at the helm, I inadvertently took a short video clip. Funny thing is, I scolded my phone at the time for going rogue but clearly she had the right idea as I wish I had recorded another 10 seconds to give you a real feeling of the waves we had been scaling for the last 24 hours. But, alas, as it always rings true, my “smart phone” is, indeed, smarter than I. I give you the clip regardless:

http://youtu.be/SDeP9-LlZIc

I fear, much like a third of a gopher, that video would only arouse your appetite without bedding her back down.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2qw6Hon013E (Complete with spanish subtitles for your viewing pleasure).

No, no. Only a whole gopher village will do for my faithful followers. Here you’ll find some much more fulfilling footage of the friendly, finned ambassadors that welcomed us that morning into the Pass at Apalachicola.

http://youtu.be/wYOXuOrBMkk

We’d been out to sea for approximately 27 hours (Phillip and I having spent about 24 of those in the cockpit or at the helm). A slightly-less ghastly Mitch finally woke to the light of day and joined us in the cockpit.

We finally made it into the Pass around noon and spotted land. The shelter from the shore also gave us some relief from the wind which, for the first time since we had left Clearwater, was finally pushing us along toward our destination as opposed to beating us broadside and making us fight for every nautical inch. But, most importantly, we were finally on the “other” side of the Gulf. We had done it, crossed it, conquered it, put it behind us and we all collectively breathed a sigh of relief having simply achieved it. Being in the Pass, in the sunlight and comfort of familiar shores, definitely put the crew and captain in good spirits.

We were eager to get to Apalachicola, get the boat secure and get ourselves to a hot shower. We finally regained cell signal and called the Bottom Line guys to check in. Although we learned later we had not actually lost radio contact the night before. The main unit below simply wasn’t working because the handheld had gone out. Once we disconnected the handheld, the main unit worked fine. But, that was certainly not the understanding the night before and, regardless, that revelation came a bit too late because it turns out the Bottom Line crew had been trying to hale us on the radio throughout the night and, after hours of no contact, had reported to the Coast Guard that they had lost contact with us. They were just getting into Apalachicola (about 3 hours ahead of us) and were glad to hear we were safe. We contacted the Coast Guard to let them know we had made it safely, albeit minus one dinghy. Looking back, that was a small price to pay.

We expected to get into Apalachicola around 3:00 p.m. and we motored along the Pass, enjoying the sights of land, other boats, a bridge, all the soothing signs of civilization around us. The Bottom Line guys had told us the bridge into Apalachicola was 65 feet, so we wouldn’t have any trouble getting under. One little lesson about sailing (a very obvious, but easily overlooked one – or at least I over-looked it) is that you can’t go under a bridge that’s too short for your mast. The mast on Plaintiff’s Rest’s is 50 feet, which is definitely on the high end of the spectrum and something we considered at length when we were thinking seriously about buying her. But, you learn, over time, that every option and feature on a boat is a trade-off. While a Sloop Rig, like ours, with a taller mast means less sails to deal with:

shorter masts (usually two – like on a Ketch Rig pictured here) means more sails to wrestle and wrangle:

I stand behind my original analogy in that finding the right sailboat is like finding the right mate. Any sailboat is never going to be absolutely, 100% perfect. There’s always going to be things about her that you have to work around or deal with, it’s just a matter of deciding which “flaws” you can live with and which ones you cannot. Our mast height is one we decided we were willing to live with. But, “living with it” means we have to check and double-check each time we come to a bridge. So, Phillip got the guy at the marina in Apalachicola (another Lou, Bob, Dick, Harry type) and asked about the bridge height. He told us he thought the bridge was 50 feet but that he wasn’t certain. Thanks man, real helpful.

This troubled Phillip to no end. And, for good reason, because I’ll tell you, the time to learn your mast is too tall for a bridge is not right when you come up on it.

As much as we may curse our mast on occasion, we never want to see her laying down on the deck like this:

So, Phillip pulled out the paper charts Jack had left on the boat to check the bridge height. Sure enough, the chart said it was 50 feet, which meant this Plaintiff was not going to be Resting anytime soon, and particularly not in Apalachicola. We began looking for another marina where we could come in to dock for the night and we found we had passed the inlet for Carrabelle River about eight miles back. (Funny, I’ll bet you’re thinking, like I used to – eight miles, that’s nothing, whip around!). Let me drop some knowledge on you. Our optimal speed in the boat is about 4-5 miles/hour. So, “eight miles back” translated to another two or so hours backtracking in the Pass (against the wind) and then another two to three hours to get into the river and get docked and it was 2:00 p.m. already. But, considering the dilemma with the bridge, it was the only option. The crew was a bit disheartened as we turned around and started steering away from Apalachicola. It was just there on the horizon, within reach it seemed, but we were now turned, steering away, putting more distance between the boat and land. Mitch and I stared back like two kids leaving Disneyland. Thankfully, though, the weather had died down at last, Mitch had regained color and we were moving along smoothly. We looked forward to getting to Carrabelle. Little did we know what was waiting for us in the River.