Little bits of magic

Kintala is on a mooring ball in Marathon for a couple of days. This is a very well spoken of and popular place among the cruising tribe that frequents these parts. It took a beating from Irma, has recovered some, but it will be a while (if ever) before all of the scars are gone. For all of its charms, it has never ranked that high on Deb’s or my list of places we love to be. Though there are far fewer boats than we are used to seeing, it is still a crowded place. The mooring balls are closely spaced. Pulling up to one is like taking a room in a hotel, or pitching a tent in the middle of a parking lot. Still, it is about the only place to stop on the way around the Keys, and this is our fourth time here.

The anchorage at Shark River with a sunset muted by the
haze from the fires burning in Florida

It stands in stark contrast to the anchorage in Little Shark River, which was exactly the kind of place we have come to enjoy. There were only two boats sharing the space with us. It was quiet and dark. Really, really dark. The kind of dark that lets the night sky overwhelm one’s sense of space, size, and time. “The sea is so big, and my boat is so small,” is a common thought for those who take to big water. In Shark River at night the universe becomes the ocean, and the whole of Mother Earth our -  shared - little boat. Indeed, comparing the size of the ocean to a boat, vs the size of the universe to a single planet, our common boat is tiny beyond comprehension.

I like being in places where it seems some wise old spirit lives, offering up nuggets of insight just to see what you dare do with them.

The sail from Marco to Shark River was a pretty good sail all of its own. Kintala touched 7 knots on several occasions, flying every bit of sail available close against a 10 to 20 knot wind for a good part of the day. But, as good as the sailing was, it was a different bit of magic that marked the day. Flitting all around were these tiny little birds. I have no idea if it is migration time for the little fluff balls, or if a week of stiff winds out of the East had blown a bunch of them out over the water. In any case, there were enough of them around to make it impossible not to notice.

Early in the afternoon Kintala was some 20 miles off shore, groups of the little birds occasionally making low passes over the boat. Eventually one landed. In fact he flew aboard and touched down on my leg as I sat in the cockpit. After sizing me up for a minute or two he flew around a bit as if checking the place out, then scooted off over the water once again. A few minutes after that he was back with a friend. They both fluttered hither and yon, hanging off of lines, checking out the inside of the dodger, poking around the piles of sheets scattered here and there.

Then there were four, then six, and ultimately eight, all hitching a ride back closer to shore.

They put on quite a show, landing on feet and arms, heads and legs. They chased bugs, and even brought down several dragon flies that were not all that much smaller than the birds themselves. They drank water out of a cup, fought over bug parts, fluttered around, sat and preened, hopped up on our fingers, and even let us pet them. There were so many of them that we had to move about slowly, looking where we were about to step or sit, for fear of squashing one of our little guests.

Nether of us had ever seen such a thing before.

Eventually they started to flutter off, the last one riding along in the cockpit for a half hour or so all alone, as if glad to have a bit of space for a while. I have no clue what they were up to, or where they were going, but it was a treat to have them stop by and keep us company for a while. I wonder what kind of stories they might share about us, whenever it is that they get where they are going.





The next day we stayed closer to shore, running off the wind in the lee of the land, which kept the swell down to something comfortable. It was another good day of sailing, but just one little bird dropped by, sitting on the deck for a while, then flashing away in a burst of colored frenzy.

So, after five days of sailing spread out over a little more than a week, Kintala is out of the Gulf of Mexico and back in sight of the Atlantic Ocean.

And that feels a bit magical as well.

So good to be back

Kintala is holed up in Factory Bay at Marco Island for a few days. We would like to be on our way, moving toward meeting up with Blowin' In The Wind on the other side of the state. Daughter Eldest and Family dropped the dock line yesterday, their first day of being a cruising family. They are taking the short cut to the East side while Kintala makes her way around the Keys. The weather, however, suggests that we not be in a hurry to make the corner. Seas out that way are in the 5 to 8 foot range, right on the beam, and forecast to be that way for the rest of the week.

Factory Bay seems a much more enjoyable option. It is also a good place to get back into the gypsy live style of wandering around on a boat. Rose Marina has a very reasonable $5/day Ding parking fee, the staff open and friendly every time we have stopped by. There is a fabulous ice cream shop just a short jaunt away. A couple of blocks further is a West Marine and a Publix. It doesn’t get much better than that.

Heading into town also reminded me of just how much of our society is built to accommodate cars. Most of the time at Snead Island we had access to a car. Joining in with the flow of traffic while heading off to do errands was so natural as to go unnoticed. But cars aren’t really natural. And walking among them into town was a reminder of just how unnatural they are. An unnaturalness that, sometimes, seems to seep into their operators. Though we had a benign and enjoyable foray, it was hard to miss the hostile looks that some of the drivers shot our way, apparently just because we were walking. 

Walkers push the little button at a busy intersection and all car traffic gets delayed for a few seconds to give those not traveling in an armored vehicle a chance to get across the street without getting squished. Some of those vehicle operators appear to take offense at the few moments extracted from their day, nosing as close to the “walking lane” as possible while firing looks of contempt at those backward enough to be relying on their feet for transportation. When the looks come from inside a hulking black pickup truck standing tall and gleaming with chrome “bling”, it seems best to pick up the pace a little.

I have a tendency to be a slow walker.

And sometime, given the right incentive, I tend to walk even slower.

“Best” is, sometimes, a matter of opinion.

Traffic jam in the anchorage

West Marine lay on the other side of the intersection, and we stopped by to get a new safety lanyard for the Merc. It is a thing that stops the engine should one fall off the Ding while underway. This prevents it from motoring off into the sunset while the erstwhile helmsman splashes about in the water or, worse, tries to get out of the way as the Ding makes an uncontrolled circle. (For those who haven’t replaced their car with a Ding.) A bit of plastic on a string for 20 bucks. Apparently the safety switch on outboards is, in no way, a standard item. The one we bought from West Marine has about 7 different little plastic bits to fit an assortment of different safety switches. Which is why it costs 20 bucks. There was one at the Marina store that costs $8, but it only had one little plastic bit, and that one didn’t fit the Merc.

Ah well, it beats splashing about in the water.

Come evening we sat in the cockpit watching the sun set, admiring the skill of the pelicans as they ghosted across the water in ground effect. At the same time a huge flock of some kind of terns wheeled in concert high above the bay. Noise from work happening on shore had died away, and all was well in our cruising world.

It is good to be back.

On the move, slowly.

This morning Kintala nodded to the rising sun from Factory Bay, Marco Island. We stopped here on the way north and, except for bumping the ground on our first attempt to gain the anchorage, liked the place. There were no such dramatics getting in this time, “previous tracks” are a marvel of modern navigation.

Leaving Charlotte Harbor

Where we did bump the ground was exiting the canal in Punta Gorda two days ago. “Bump” isn't really the right word, “stuck fast” is a better description. Trying to get away early in the morning on a falling tide maybe wasn't the best choice. But there was a long day's sail ahead and, well, stuff happens. So after paying four years' worth of premiums to Tow Boat US, we finally got the opportunity to try out their service. Barely an hour after fudging to a stop in the soft and sticky mud (and providing the morning entertainment for those walking and fishing in the park), Kyle had pulled us free and out into deep(er) water. No harm, no foul, and excellent service all around.

If you sail the ICW, don't leave home without it.

We had been giving longer, outside runs to the Keys serious consideration. Two or three nights worth of passage making would have had us there already. Assuming, of course, one didn't get tangled up in one of the hundreds, if not thousands, of crab pots polluting the water even miles off shore. I know, crab fisherman need to make a living, and people like eating crab. But the crabbers have effectively confiscated the west coast of Florida for their own use. Picking one's way through in the day is possible, though in bigger waves than the ones we have seen so far it would be difficult. Trying it at night is a pure crap shoot. Maybe next year we will try the “sail 50 miles west during the day then turn north or south as appropriate and be on your way” approach. For, truth to tell, the combination of crab pots and shallow water is getting rather tedious.

Great Blue Heron in the Venice Inlet

Still, we are in Factory Bay, on the hook, and it is sure good to be back to our chosen way of living. We even had sundowners with newly met friends, who are also new to cruising. We met on Rascal, their 42 foot Jeanneau DS. Good folks on a sweet boat. Reasons to come this way.

There hasn't been a lot of sailing going on yet. Yesterday, just after leaving the channel off Sanibel Island, we saw a glorious hour of reaching, starting out with the two reefs in main left over from the last romp with Daughter Eldest and Family. (Yep, its been that long since the main was put to serious use.) We had to heave-to for a few minutes at first to reconfigure the auto pilot from “tiller pilot” to “wind vane” mode. That is every bit as much of a pain as it sounds, but that's what happens when one layers back-yard engineering onto marginal-in-the-first-place equipment. It all works and we have learned to live with it. In fact, I am a bit proud of how well it seems to work most of the time.

As the winds faded, we shook out first one reef, then the other, hanging onto the sailing as long as we could. Eventually though, it was clear that night would fall on the lurking crab traps long before we would gain the entrance to Marco Island. No need to heave-to for the auto pilot reconfiguration this time. Kintala was effectively drifting in placid water.

Figuring it out as we go. Stumbling a bit once in a while. But still making progress. Not too bad. Not too bad.

Thanks, Dave for teaching me that this was an Aninga not a cormorant.

The duplicate of the Vietnam Vet Wall located in Punta Gorda, FL

The Captain is happy to be on the move again.

Making new tracks...

The little Garmin chart plotter we have at the helm records our track, and saves it for an impressively long time. We could have, and sometimes did, follow our old track all the way from Oak Harbor back to Miami. Since leaving Biscayne Bay and turning south into the Hawk Channel, there has been no old track to follow. The new track now hooks around the south end of Florida and is working its way up the West coast.

Stopping the new track for two nights in the anchorage off of Cape Sable may not have been the best idea, but we wanted to spend a day at the beach there. It might have been fine had the forecast light winds out of the ESE actually showed up. The actual SSE winds of 10-15 knots roughed the place up enough to make sleep pretty hard to come by. Oh-four-hundred on the second morning found me fully dressed and trying not to fall off the settee, which was pitching and rolling around slightly less than the v-berth I had abandoned. The very first light of day found me out prepping the deck for getting under way.

Cape Sable at sunrise

The hook came up before the sun, and we motor-sailed northwest, sleep deprived, sore, and not sure if we could make Marco Island before running out of daylight. Exactly 12 long, long hours of grinding out the miles, dodging endless lines of crab traps, following the chart directly into the mud, backing slowly off, re-grouping, and taking a different approach into Factory Bay, the anchor hit the bottom.

We had a half hour of daylight to spare.

Factory Bay anchorage

Cape Sable beach

Cape Sable anchorage. No protection. For 5 ft draft vessels, 1/2-3/4 mile out is the best you can do.

Alligator tracks in the sand

For us, the beach at Cape Sable did not live up to its reviews. It was empty, which was good. It was free of trash, which was also good. And it was covered with 'gator tracks, a weird kind of, “Wow, look at that!” good. The whole visit turned into one of the strange things that happens with this lifestyle. We are glad we saw the place. It will make our “story list”. But we should have thought about it more and maybe not have done it at all. We spent two days off an exposed shore, beat ourselves up pretty good, and ended up pushing hard to beat some inbound weather. 

But we saw 'gator tracks in the sand.

So far our experience of laying tracks in new waters has been that kind of thing. As Deb already shared the sail from Boot Key to Bahia Honda was pretty sweet. The original plan was to spend a day exploring Bahia Honda, reported to be a favorite place of the locals. Alas, the Mantus found nothing but rock or coral under a thin cover of sand, several attempts utterly failing to get it to grab. It was too late in the day to try and find another anchorage. The good news was that the forecast for light winds. We laid every inch worth of 200 feet of chain on the bottom, rigged the snubber, and hoped for the best.

Fortunately, the forecast got it right. The next morning found us sitting in the same place but leaving the boat was out of the question. Bahia Honda will have to wait. Instead we hauled everything in and headed to a place called Crawl Key. Crawl is only 8 nm or so away from Bahia Honda, just short of the northwest end of the Bahia Honda Channel. That end boasts some pretty thin water, 4 feet at mean low tide according to the chart. Crawl lay just before the thin spot and was the perfect place to wait on the morning high tide. When we pitched the hook over for the night it sank out of sight and grabbed hard.

Crawl Key is a good click away from everyone and everything. It boasts the kind of quiet that almost hurts, and the kind of dark one rarely has the chance to experience along the crowded eastern shore of the US. We were starting to have our doubts about the Keys, but Crawl redeemed them, ranking as maybe the best place we have anchored since leaving Oak Harbor back in the fall. We slept well and content that night.

A trawler anchored off Little Spanish Key next to Crawl Key

The next morning we ghosted out of the Bahia Honda Channel flying full main and jib, making three to four knots. Waiting for high tide was a good idea. There were places where we had barely 18 inches under the keel. Past the last green maker we decided it was official, Kintala was in the Gulf of Mexico. We tacked out into the Gulf a few miles hoping to find a point of sail that would lead us to Cape Sable.

One of the MANY crab pot lines in the Gulf.
This one was over 20 nm off shore.

But, just like in the Atlantic, it seems the wind in the Gulf always blows right on the bow. It was a valiant effort though, eventually, we had to admit that we were not making any real headway. Daylight would be long gone before we could raise Cape Sable. Since that part of the Gulf is mostly a crab / lobster hunting ground, daylight was necessary to keep from collecting a pot. The sails were put away and the Beast pushed us onto Cape Sable before the sun was gone. And then the winds, which had been blowing directly off the coast, the winds that were forecast to fade, shifted instead. 

We have a few days of travel left before settling in for the summer. My friend and soon to be New Boss wants to know if we can get there a little earlier than originally planned. It seems the yard is bursting with work - which is good news for both the yard and for its newest marine technician. The Garmin track will stop there for a while, but there are all kinds of tracks in a life.

And we will still be making new ones.