Crossing the Gulf Stream

It simply isn’t an adventure worth telling if there aren’t any dragons.

— J. R. R. Tolkien

Sailing South

Clang!

It was only 7:45am on a Friday morning, and the marina was quiet, so our small collision sounded pretty loud. Phil had gotten up early and disconnected the hose and the electrical cables, and because it was so calm, he had released the starboard lines. Our boarding stepladder and dock rug were locked in the Prius, which sat covered up in the parking lot.

I stood at the bow to release the port bow line, ready with a boat pole to fend off our neighbor boats in the narrow channel. The engine purred. But as Phil struggled to get the boat cleanly out of the slip, it veered sideways and clanged the anchor of our friend Les’s boat. “I hope we didn’t wake you,” I wrote to him later, “It was just a little goodbye kiss.”

Phil said it was his worst undocking ever but it would have been fine if I were quicker to fend off. I had left lines on the deck that tripped me up as I tried to hurry over with the boat pole. Learned a lesson: keep the deck clear of hazards, even when just pulling out of your slip.

Defiant against superstition, we were starting our three-month cruise to the Bahamas on a Friday. It was a calm, clear day and we were only going as far as Miami in preparation for crossing the Gulf Stream to Bimini on Saturday. Boats like ours generally depart from a point to the south of their destination to compensate for the northerly push of the mighty Gulf Stream.

Heading out into the Intracoastal Waterway, Phil called the first bridge to request an opening and we easily made the 8 o’clock lift, then raced toward two more bridges and made their 8:15 and 8:30 lifts, with the last bridge-tender holding the bridge open for a full five minutes to let us pass.

As we motored into the turning basin at Port Everglades, I noted our speed at 6.4 knots. Phil said, “This is the calmest I’ve ever seen it out here.” It is usually a washing machine full of small and large power boats kicking up huge wakes, but this was something else.

*Phil went forward to attach the lifeline as we left Port Everglades.*

There was no wind for sailing so we turned south and started a smooth ride on quiet seas. With current in our favor, we saw 6.9 knots on the speedometer and motored toward our anchorage at No Name Harbor. Our weather router, Chris Parker, had predicted a mild crossing for the following day, so we were planning to be there just one night.

*No Name Harbor, marked by 35 on the chart.*

As we neared Miami, we saw the color of the ocean change from sapphire to aqua. Bright afternoon sun lit up the Cape Florida Lighthouse on the southeastern tip of Key Biscayne as we rounded the cape. We were in no need of the wind protection of No Name Harbor, so we anchored outside in 14 feet of water. The anchor was down at 2:15pm. We lunched on grapes and pretzels, took a rest, and watched the sun go down. We were on our way.

*Phil at anchor just south of No Name Harbor, Key Biscayne.*

*First sunset from our anchorage south of Key Biscayne*.

Sailing East

Phil was up early and out on deck when I joined him at 6:45am. He started the engine and I took the helm as he raised the anchor. Other boats in the anchorage were heading out, too, as this was the best crossing conditions in the next week. The big catamarans headed due east, not the southerly heading we were advised to take.

It was cool and clear, a calm and gorgeous sunny day. With the autopilot engaged, Phil went below to make a pot of coffee. After coffee and breakfast bars, we motored east southeast into the rising sun. I was on dolphin and turtle watch, but didn’t see any. Phil spotted a turtle (“Turtle pop!”), but from experience I knew only the first observer sees the turtle, they pop up and dive so fast.

*Kay at the helm as we motor out past Cape Florida.*

The cities of Miami and Miami Beach got shorter in our rear view, and we talked about how Columbus and early sea explorers guessed the world was round because they could see the tops of the masts of the boats coming in from the sea before the hulls. I could still see the tops of the Miami Beach skyscrapers as they faded into the distance behind us.

At around 9:30, we felt the offshore breeze strengthening and put out the jib. It flapped around a little at first, but as the wind filled in, the sail ballooned out and quieted. The boost from the sail put our speed back up to 6 kts. Our bearing at 125 degrees (see chart, below) seemed to push us too far south so Phil changed course to 120 degrees and the sail pulled us along, steadying the boat.

*From Bahamas Land and Sea, by Addison Chan, showing recommended bearings to offset the Gulf Stream’s northerly flow.*

By noon we were out of sight of land, a first for us on this boat. There was nothing but flat, gray ocean in all directions. It was eerily calm with light winds, and if this was the typical crossing, we had nothing to worry about. Our weather routing service called the conditions “mild,” and we concur. We think now it was actually extraordinary.

Here is our route, as shown on NoForeignLand. Click the link to follow our journey.

On our chart plotter, we have an AIS system that broadcasts our position and alerts us of ships in the area. Suddenly, AIS said we were on a collision course with a gigantic ship coming from the north, a monster of 293 meters – nearly 1,000 feet. Being on their right, it was up to us to avert, but they changed course for us. They didn’t have to, but I’m sure these captains can’t rely on pleasure boat captains to know the rules the way we do. They turned slightly to starboard and passed our stern, without contacting us.

*Gigantic ship passed us, altering course to avert a collision*.

We changed our course bearing from 120 to 108 degrees magnetic by the compass when Phil determined that we were four miles south of the rhumb line, our charted route to the entrance of Bimini Harbor. Our guideline was a little extreme for the force of the Gulf Stream. It did push us north but not by that much. Is the Gulf Stream weakening? Some oceanographers and meteorologists warn of dire consequences if it does.

At 1:40 Phil saw Bimini at a distance of 12 miles. “We are 3/4 of the way,” he said. “I think we are going to make it!”

*Approaching Bimini, in clear aqua water*.

The water soon turned to a brilliant aqua blue, and even with 50 feet of depth, we could see the bottom. The shore was sandy and full of beach goers, and the entrance was so shallow and close to shore, I thought we would end up on the beach. The sand bar obstructing the passage is well marked on the chart and does have navigation markers. Unfortunately, the channel is also marked as an anchorage, so we had to dodge anchored boats.

*Phil, about to raise the yellow quarantine flag for the first time*. *It was so calm, he is not using the jackline and tether.*

Our biggest problem coming in to the marina was communication. We had a reservation at Blue Water Marina but not a slip assignment. The marina did not answer VHF channel 16 or 68. We finally called on the phone, and they said to call on channel 68. We kept trying as Phil navigated very shallow water (7 ½ feet at one point) into the harbor.

Finally we got an answer: Switch to 71. Then we could not understand the Dockmaster at all. We finally arrived at the marina and he yelled, “Wait one minute,” then gestured where to dock. He barked orders at us in a thick Bahamian accent and we did our best to follow his directions for line placement. “Line” sounded like “one.” “Midship” sounded like “Me-shit” and “pull you” sounded like “poo-you.” Phil said it didn’t help that the dockmaster was sadly missing several (many) teeth. But Phil pulled Catmandu into the slip like the pro that he is, and we were tied up by 4 pm.

*Catmandu tied up at Blue Water Marina.*

No Dragons

The crossing of oceans is beyond our dreams right now, and we have no desire to cruise around the world. Venturing across the passage from Miami to Bimini, navigating the famously volatile Gulf Stream, proved to be an experience of calm waters and gentle breezes, not a wild adventure worthy of bragging rights. There were no rogue waves, no hurricane-force winds, no dragons. Not even one dolphin. But we were proud of ourselves.

“We made it,” I said, as we relaxed in the cockpit for a minute. It was a moment of anticlimax.

“I guess I should go find Customs and Immigration,” said Phil, “And make us legal.”

So off he went on foot into the wild narrow streets of Bimini – passports and documents in hand – to make it all legal.

Ready, Set, . . .

Mar5

“Preparation, I have often said,
is rightly two-thirds of any venture.”
– Amelia Earhart

“Believe in yourself and all that you are.
Know that there is something inside you that is greater than any obstacle.”
– Christian D. Larson

Last year at this time, we were reeling from the cancer diagnosis that would keep us in South Florida for at least nine months. We gave up on our plan to cruise the Bahamas for the spring season and head north to Annapolis for the summer and fall. But now, with chemo, surgery, and radiation all behind us, we are ready to go. The boat, however, has a few “cancer cells” of its own.

Although it is well-maintained, Catmandu is a 26-year-old sailboat that has been sitting at a dock since last spring. Her bottom is cleaned every month; Capt. Phil starts the engine from time to time; the winches have been dismantled and cleaned; and we have a brand new dodger protecting our companionway. We regularly clean up after the messy birds and polish the stainless fittings. On the surface, we look great. But to go the Bahamas, we need additional insurance and (gasp!) a survey – or two.

Our Punchlist of Known Problems

Flaky Alternator: During our cruise up the coast of the Florida Keys, we had an intermittent problem with our alternator, as in, sometimes it didn’t turn on. Since we rely on this vital engine part to charge our batteries when motoring, this was number one on our fix-it list. Just because it was top of the list doesn’t mean it got fixed first. We decided to replace the unit and the regulator with a new Balmar kit and keep the old parts for spares. After laying out the nearly $900 for parts, Phil attempted to install it himself. He is skilled and knowledgeable, so I had no second thoughts until, well, Phil tells it best:

“I installed and tried to run the engine with the new Balmar alternator and regulator. Ten seconds into the run, the engine compartment filled with smoke and I found that the stator wire had burned through. It turned out to be caused by me plugging one wire into the wrong pin. Thoughts and prayers are welcome.”

After several attempts at getting the right size belt at Advance Auto, and waiting for a replacement wiring harness for the melted one, Phil got it installed and (with crossed fingers) started the engine. The tachometer sprang to life, the alternator spun, and here’s the look on Phil’s face.

*Alternator, installed, and running without smoking or sparking.*

Leaky DOOD: In a previous post, we described the process of finding our “DOOD,” the dinghy of our dreams. Our Highfield hypalon, double-floored inflatable RIB has been great, lived through the Key West mooring field and Boot Key Harbor experiences with no issues. But, it had a very slow leak that required a pump-up about once a week.

We suspected a previously applied patch was the culprit, and after putting the boat upside down on the deck – with the help of the spinnaker halyard and a winch – Phil found the tiny leak spitting bubbles into the film of soap applied to the patch. He fixed that, too, and stowed the repaired DOOD on its dinghy davits, freshened with new pulley lines. We were making progress!

Touchy Toilet: One thing you don’t want to repair in exotic ports is the marine toilet. Ours had a clog that sometimes completely stopped up the works, and at other times let our “dark matter” through. After the last clog (which sends us all the way to the office whenever nature calls), Phil had had enough. He has a boroscope, and peeked into the tube to find not only a large bolt that had fallen in, but also a hard brown mass of crusty minerals and who knows what else. (You know what else.) “I’m just going to replace the whole hose,” he announced.

After checking in with WestMarine and being told the hose was $50 a foot, we laughed a little and headed to Boat Owners Warehouse, where we secured 15 feet of white sewage hose for $6.99 a foot. We are still not sure what that fancy hose at WestMarine was made of, but it was definitely too good for our sh*t.

*Old hose, new hose: The hose passes from the holding tank (new this year) behind the nav station, through a bulkhead and into the head. If this didn’t work, we had to cut holes in walls.*

Phil attached the old hose to the new hose, smoothed the connection, and called Hartman Marine plumbers for an extra pair of hands to pull the new hose into place. It worked. The two of them hooked everything up, cleaned up, and we have a smooth working plumbing system. No more panic runs to the office in the middle of the night.

Safety first! Items: A short list of safety items had to be added to our inventory, just in case. We purchased a set of jack lines and tethers, used to strap us to the boat in case we stumble and fall overboard. I don’t really like the idea of dangling from a tether over the lifelines, but it’s better than swimming with the sharks. We also got a completely new first aid kit (a gift from Phil’s parents), and a bright new LED anchor light. We were almost ready! Weren’t we?

*A gift from Phil’s parents got us a deluxe, offshore first aid kit with bandages, medicines and instructions.*

Our New Punchlist of Unknown Problems

Phil is fond of saying that “problems” are really “opportunities,” with tongue in cheek. Our surveyors uncovered a couple of opportunities to drain our cash. (Our trusty Prius presented another one.)

Survey Says: We were required by insurance to have the boat surveyed. We actually needed two surveys, one for the boat itself and all its safety gear, and one for the rigging: the mast, shrouds, chain plates and all that hold the mast upright.

For the boat, we contacted the preferred provider recommended by Playboy Marine, a nearby boat yard where we could haul the boat out of the water if needed. Ian Morris came onboard with his rubber mallet, beat on the deck (looking for mushy spots), and inventoried our safety equipment: yes, we have an electronic flare, an EPIRB (Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon) that located us in case of emergency, and fire extinguishers. He suggested personal EPIRBS and a fire-fighting hole in the stairway for engine fires, but no haul out! Hooray!

*Riggers climbed the mast to make repairs.*

Phil called a rigger who had worked on our previous boat, and Jonathan, of JC Marine, came to check the upper reaches of the boat. His crew climbed the mast, replaced the anchor light, and delivered some bad news. The cost of the survey was only $385, but the repairs were close to $3,000. We needed one chain plate rebedded, new spreader boots, and a new sail track. This last item was expensive, took two tries to get the size right, and nearly delayed our departure. It is the liner of the slot where the sail attaches to the mast, and it was very crumbly.

*Here’s the old anchor light, probably the original 26-year-old light. The new one is LED and much brighter.*

Now, the boat was ready. But were we?

Our Wishlist of Enhancements

In one word, we needed better “communications” to keep us safe, in touch, and wise to the weather. We would not always be within reach of a cell tower, or have access to the internet. These factors – in my mind – were not problems, but opportunities. We would be away from civilization, in the wild, exploring deserted beaches and snorkeling in private coves. Heaven!

But, for safety and peace of mind for our families and friends, we did need to be “reachable” in some way. We also needed expert weather routing so we could avoid dangerous squalls and fronts. We don’t really like turbulent winds or high seas. So we signed up for Chris Parker‘s weather routing service ($450 for a year), and bought a new chart update for the chart plotter. We had to get 2024 charts, as the 2025 version is not available yet. We also have new paper charts (for backup and reference) for all of the Bahamas.

Finally, as a backup to our phone service, we activated an Iridium Go device Phil had purchased last year, giving us satellite service for texts, emails, and weather updates when we were far from a cell tower or any form of internet. We gave instructions and numbers to our emergency contacts. Now, we were ready to go, weren’t we?

*Iridium Go, for satellite communications*.

I can’t go through all of the preparations we made for our trip. It would be too long and too boring. We serviced the water maker, changed oil and filters on the Westerbeke, filled the jerry cans with diesel and gas, and visited four different vendors to find one that could fill our propane tanks. We ordered $300 worth of meat substitutes for the freezer, in case the Bahamas didn’t cater to vegetarians. We bought another $400 worth of food stores – including treats. We notified the marina of our departure date, and they very kindly allowed us to leave our car.

There was only one thing left to do…

GO!

Ghost Town to Boom Town

Aug11

Leaving the Keys

“Life moves on and so should we.” – Spencer Johnson

Day One: Marathon to Indian Key

After waiting for more than a week for wind and waves to die down in Hawk Channel, we picked a departure day and got ready to leave. We rented a car for a day and drove up to Loggerhead Marina in Hollywood to drop off the Prius – a five-hour round trip. We planned a four-day sail to get to our new home, leaving on Thursday and arriving Sunday afternoon.

When we started up the engine on Thursday morning, there was a problem immediately. The tachometer was reading 0, and the alternator would not go on. Phil checked connections and pulled out his trusty ammeter – which confirmed no output. Phil decided we should go anyway, but as a precaution, he fired up the Honda generator as we left the harbor. The alternator kicked in intermittently after a few miles, and we turned off the generator.

This was a bouncy day with 2- to 4-foot seas and winds from the east at around 15 knots. With the wind on the nose, we couldn’t sail, so we motored, beating into the wind and waves from 9:20am until 5 in the afternoon. Maggie the cat got sick in the salon, poor thing, and lay flat on the salon floor most of the day. We arrived at Indian Key, an historic site we planned to explore, expecting to grab a mooring ball. The only mooring ball in water deep enough for our boat was broken. There was no pennant for us to grab. So, Phil dropped the anchor in 7 feet of water, knowing that it was a little shallow for our 5’8” draft.

“We might sit on the bottom for a while at low tide,” he said.

“When is that?” I asked. He looked it up. In our old boat, “sitting on the bottom” meant leaning over at a precarious angle, waiting for the water to float us upright again.

“About 1am,” he said. “But it’s a sandy bottom and the wing keel will keep us upright.” There was only one other boat in the anchorage overnight, a motor yacht that had snagged the only working mooring ball.

*Indian Key, with its decrepit dock that is no longer safe*.

All day, we had only been able to motor at around 4 knots, so Phil was concerned about the condition of the propeller. He jumped into the water with his snorkeling gear on and checked the anchor, then took a paint scraper to the propellor. It was covered in growth and barnacles, so he worked at it for a while.

When he came out of the water, I told him I could hear bird songs from the island.

“I hear redwing blackbirds and ocelots,” I said.

“Ocelots!” he said and we both cracked up. I sometimes say ocelots when I mean ospreys. Chalk it up to early dementia. We would soon find out there were other improbable sounds coming from this deserted ghost-town key. Probably not ocelots.

*Sunset, looking back toward Lower Matecumbe from our Indian Key anchorage.*

We decided to explore Indian Key in the morning if we were up early enough. The sunset was perfect, and we ate mac n cheese in the cockpit. We had motored all day, so there was hot water for showers after dinner. On our boat, engine coolant is circulated through the water heater, so a hot shower is a consolation prize for having to motor all day.

Indian Key State Park

Early the next day, we decided to take the dinghy over to the little island and explore. Indian Key is an uninhabited, 11-acre key that was once (briefly) the county seat of Dade County. Dade County includes Miami, which is many miles to the northeast. Indian Key was inhabited in the 1830s by wreckers (who made their living off of salvage from ships wrecked on the nearby reef) and a few other settlers and their families. In 1840, a small band of Native Americans (Mikosukee) attacked the tiny settlement, killing 13 settlers, burning buildings, and scattering the survivors. (Read its history here.) Soon afterward, the little island was deserted, but the sandy roads, street signs, and stone structures remain.

It was a short distance so we used our Electric Paddle, a small lightweight alternative to our usual outboard motor – a heavy 15hp Tohatsu that requires a crane and pulley to lower onto the dinghy. The electric motor is not working very well and Phil has to smack it repeatedly to get it going. I’m hoping we won’t be rowing back to the boat.

As we got into very shallow water near the shore, I jumped out and dragged the dinghy through the sand. As I tied the painter to a tree, we started hearing some strange animal noises. It was a low-pitched grunting sound, and we started to make guesses.

“Baby alligators?” Phil suggested. “Or bullfrogs?”

“I think it’s wild boars,” I said, half joking and feeling a little spooked. We were definitely the only humans on the island.

“Chupacabra?” he said.

*Phil and the tall “cactus” trees on Indian Key.*

As we followed the sandy path to the entrance sign, Phil pointed out some strange tall trees that seemed to be growing cactus-like leaves. There were some large spreading shade trees (tamarind), and I could hear lots of birds: mourning doves, blackbirds, and one very loud osprey who wasn’t happy about our presence under his nest.

Phil, being the man he is, tucked the state park entrance fee into the supplied envelope and dropped it into the wooden box at the corner of the town square. (It didn’t matter that we were the only people within miles.)

*Phil on the sandy gravel trails of Indian Key.*

We walked the neatly maintained trails, reading the signs that explained what we were looking at: a cistern for collecting rainwater, house foundations, places where a courthouse and post office once stood, the warehouse where salvaged goods were stored, a blacksmith shop, and a wide-open square of grass that was once a central market. It was eerily empty, quiet except for birdsong and our footsteps on the gravel paths.

*This is what’s left of the warehouse foundation. These sites were labeled with detailed signs, as shown.*

When we were ready to return to the boat, I sat on the dinghy listening to the spooky grunting sounds in the dense mangroves. I took out my phone and looked up Chupacabra: gigantic goat-sucking lizards, the stuff of nightmares. Phil took a photo of me with Catmandu anchored in the background. That photo was selected as photo of the week for Cruising Compass magazine and was featured on the cover. Here it is:

*Phil’s photo made the cover of Cruising Compass Magazine. Does that make me a Cover Girl?*

We climbed in the dinghy and Phil beat on the electric motor for a few minutes. (I started rowing.) He soon had the little motor going again, and we got back to the boat. We weighed anchor at 11am, and had 16 nautical miles to go to our next anchorage. There was a light breeze and the ocean was calm, so we put up full sails and turned off the engine as we left Indian Key in our wake.

Day Two: Indian Key to Rodriguez Key

We spent an idyllic afternoon doing five knots under sail with just the power of the wind. The Middle Keys lay to our left, and we scanned the ocean to our right for wildlife. At 3:15 the dolphins came. Four large adults swam alongside the boat in great arcs through the surface of the green water. Phil took video as they followed the leader toward the bow. We heard the big dolphin huff as he dove under and the whole pod disappeared. I kept watching from the cockpit, hoping they would come back.

Phil took a short video of the dolphins swimming alongside our boat.

An hour later, we rounded the southeastern end of Rodriguez Key, and were surprised to find no fewer than a dozen boats anchored in the large area to the east of the island. There was plenty of space here, so we anchored about a half mile offshore in ten feet of water. Rodriquez Key is an uninhabited mangrove island lying south of Tavernier. It looked so dense as to be untraveled by humans, with no beach areas and no discernable paths. I tried to imagine landing here hundreds of years ago, hoping for fruit or fresh water and finding impenetrable, inedible mangrove trees.

By sunset, there were still 8-9 boats here but it’s a large anchorage with good protection, so the wind and water were calm. Phil made boat drinks and I made rice and beans for dinner. We stayed outside in the cockpit for as long as we could. It had been a perfect cruiser’s day: full sails, dolphins, a calm anchorage, and the exploration of a deserted, historic and spooky island. I couldn’t stop thinking about the sound of wild boars grunting in the underbrush.

Day Three: Rodriguez Key to No Name Harbor

For some reason, I was awake before sunrise and out on the deck with coffee before six. It was a great night for sleeping, with cool temperatures and softly rolling ripples to rock the boat. Phil was up early too, and we had our longest day planned, 44 nautical miles to No Name Harbor, just south of Miami Beach.

We refilled our coffee cups and pulled up anchor at 7:05. The sun rose as we set off, and I took the wheel as Phil set the mainsail. I checked on the cat – She was calm, lying on our bed in the aft cabin. Poor thing. She’ll be 20 years old in 2 months. I don’t think she will ever get used to her home moving around like this, the engines roaring in her cabin.

Once again, the wind was almost directly on our nose, so we motor-sailed with just the mainsail up for a while, then as we turned more to the north, we raised the jib. We sailed past Key Largo, noting John Pennekamp, where we explored with old Catmandu a few years ago. We made our way up the coast of Elliot Key, and at around 1:30 we saw a pod of playful dolphins on our starboard side, cavorting, dancing, and circling. They were smaller and more active than yesterday’s group, actually jumping up out of the water and spinning around.

*An aerial view of No Name Harbor, center front, showing how it used to be.*

No Name Harbor was already jammed with big boats at 3:15 pm, so we anchored just outside. It was a Saturday night and we anticipated loud music and partying within the harbor, so we were happy to find a quieter spot. Our friends Karl and Angela on Shangri La anchored just behind us, us but neither crew wanted to deploy a dinghy from its stowed configuration for a happy hour visit. We ate leftover rice and beans for dinner and prepared for an early departure.

For other cruisers, this is a great anchorage, with a good sandy bottom in about 11 feet of water. There is a loud Cuban and Seafood Restaurant with dinghy access inside the harbor, and an outdoor bar and grille closer to the entrance. We could hear live music coming from the bar at night. The anchorage is within sight of the seven Stiltsville Houses, but don’t venture over there in your sailboat, as the water depth is only about 2-3 feet near the houses. Also, these are private property within a national park and well protected.

Day Four: No Name Harbor to Our New Home: Loggerhead Marina, Hollywood

Phil pulled anchor even earlier today, at seven. The wind was supposed to increase to 15-20 knots in the afternoon, so we opted for an early start. I went below to make coffee and check on the cat. When I returned to the cockpit, Phil had set the sails for a little “wing on wing” sailing and turned off the engine. It was a light breeze on our stern, but as we turned more to the north, the wind died a bit and we turned on the motor. We averaged 5 or 6 knots for the whole day, with full sails out most of the way.

We motor sailed toward Port Everglades inlet, entering familiar territory where we could pick out features on the beach to our left. We saw the Margaritaville resort, Dania Pier, and the giant cranes used to load container ships as we approached the inlet. Boat traffic increased as we neared the port, and there were seven very large container ships and tankers anchored out, just waiting for their turns to enter.

With all the huge ships around, we decided to take the sails down before entering instead of in the turning basin. The small to medium motor yachts roared all around us, passing too close to our route and causing lots of wake. The water in the inlet was churned up like a washing machine and it was extremely rough trying to dodge motor boats and keep out of the way of the working tugs. As we entered the turning basin and headed south, the wind picked up to 17 knots.

With the wind, the roaring of the motors, and the noise of a busy port, we knew we weren’t in the Keys anymore. As we made our way down the Intracoastal Waterway, a mentally disturbed citizen yelled at us from the park beach on South Lake, “Welcome to Hollywood! Now go the f&*k home!”

Going home was exactly what we were doing. Yes, it was noisy and sometimes ugly, but this is where we have friends, familiarity, and some roots. It’s a boom town near Port Everglades, with more and bigger cruise ships and commercial mega-ship traffic. We are close to two major airports, dozens of world-renowned hospitals via I-95, and though we will miss the slow pace and the peace of the Keys, this is where we need to be right now.

Sailing cat Maggie in the cockpit — *Maggie, in a rare trip to the cockpit. Once in a while, we have to air her out.*

We pulled into our very familiar slip on dock 500, right where we had spent three years during and after the Covid pandemic. It is a tight space, and through the muscle memory and sheer skill of my captain, we slid into slip 509 with inches to spare on the stern. We tied the dock lines, hooked up the power, and headed out to our favorite pizza place. We were home, again.

Reasons for Moving

May11

“In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body’s been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.”

– Mark Strand, Keeping Things Whole

Our plan, to the extent that we had one, was to explore the quirky environs of Key West and take a week or so in the Dry Tortugas for some snorkeling and walks around the historic fort. Then, when the weather and wind were right, we would turn eastward and jump over to the Bahamas for a season. True to the cliché, “cruisers’ plans are written in the sand at low tide,” ours changed – for very good reason.

The trip to the Dry Tortugas required a favorable weather window, not only to get out to the remote site, but also to get back. The prevailing winds were from the east and north, so sailing there could be fairly easy but sailing back, beating our way into the wind and waves, could be a nightmare.

We had friends who got smacked down by a waterspout during a storm at the anchorage there, and we didn’t want to experience that firsthand. They were okay; they were able to turn the engine on and motor hard into the wind, avoiding being beached. Of the six boats anchored that night, three ended up on the sand.

Key West

As we waited for favorable weather, we survived more than four months in the Garrison Bight mooring field of Key West. It was a rough way to live; we were buffeted by north winds almost constantly, had infrequent pump outs, and often got soaking wet just crossing the mile of choppy water to the dinghy dock. Phil’s review of the location on Active Captain featured two stars:

Exposed and often uncomfortable

The mooring field is completely exposed to the prevailing winter winds from the north, which makes living on the ball often uncomfortable and sometimes unsafe in a north wind. Very windy and wavy. We were there for four months. I kept a spreadsheet and recorded that 1/3 of the days had small craft advisories. Dinghy travel to shore typically involves full foulies or a swimsuit since the salt spray is unavoidable. There was one fatality from a neighbor taking her dinghy to her boat while we were there. Pump out is supposed to be weekly, but could be delayed to two weeks or more due to weather. Very little communication from the marina office. The mooring balls have NO PENNANTS, making picking up the mooring ball difficult except in calm weather.

*Hank’s Hair of the Dog Saloon, where their motto is, “In dog beers, I’ve only had one.”*

Despite the difficulties, we enjoyed Key West’s unique vibe, its “fabulous” restaurants and bars, and the chance to be locals. We changed our drivers’ licenses to a made-up Key West address, since the mooring field itself was not acceptable for that purpose. (We used the address of the dinghy dock.) We started asking for the local discount at the bars after a bartender at the Harry’s Hair of the Dog Saloon told us most places take 10% off for locals.

*Kay enjoying a Smoked Old Fashioned at the Hard Rock Cafe on Duval Street.*

We climbed the Lighthouse, toured the Coast Guard ship and the Truman Little White House, marched in the locals parade before Fantasy Fest, and placed a few “Catmandu” stickers in our favorite bars. We ate and drank our way down Duval Street and then explored restaurants on the back streets and narrow walkways.

*Phil and I marched in the locals’ parade during Fantasy Fest.*

*We climbed the lighthouse, across Whitehead Street from Hemingway’s house.*

We found the best Italian place (Only Wood Pizzaria Trattoria down a brick-lined alleyway off Duval St.), the best Mexican (Old Town Mexican Café, open-air patio with a tree for a rooftop), best vegetarian (The Café, friendliest staff in town) and attended the Friday night sound checks at The Green Parrot. We bought the T-shirts.

*Phil, exemplifying “happy hour” at Smokin’ Tuna.*

Toward the end of our stay, we realized we were never going to get a good enough weather window to visit the Dry Tortugas. We decided to try again in another year, another season, sometime in the future. We had good reasons for not going.

We welcomed my son Anthony and his wife Maeghan for a February vacation, opting for a week at a dock instead of subjecting them to travel through the mooring field. (The week at the Key West Bight Marina was nearly $1,200.) We took them to the Brewery for lunch, and they presented me with a morse-coded gold bracelet. Phil whipped out his “decoder ring,” and it took two letters for me to start crying with joy: G-R. Grammy! They brought me a gift like no other: a grandchild on the way, my first.

When March came, it was time to move. We had spent all the fun chips Key West had to offer, and we were tired of the mooring field. We had other reasons for moving, and slowly, sadly, we were realizing our dream of a spring season in the Bahamas would have to wait.

Key West to Key Lois to Marathon

We set out for Marathon two days after dropping the “kids” at the bus station. We had just been sailing with them a few days earlier, so it was fast and easy to leave the dock. We followed our October course in reverse: out of Key West Bight, left to the channel, past the harborside resorts and bars, past Wisteria and Tank Islands, and into Hawk Channel.

*Looking back at Key West, we saw a gigantic cruise ship docked across the island.*

The winds were light from the ESE, so we motored the 21 miles to Lois Key. Along the way we kept our eyes out for wildlife and saw several Portuguese Man-of-Wars, the blue-tinged floating blobs you want to avoid while swimming. Although we were using the autopilot, we had to hand-steer around scores of annoying little crab-pots. At just after 1 pm, we saw Lois Key in the distance and at 1:45, we dropped anchor there in 10 feet of water.

The winds had died down to about one knot, and seas were calm. We saw one large turtle break the surface near the stern as we relaxed in the cockpit. He dove again a minute later. Just before sunset, four large dolphins appeared from the east and swam under the boat. They came up on the other side, close to the cockpit. We watched them as they swam off to the west together.

Sunset was little more than an orange-pink glow in the western sky, and when darkness fell, it was intense. There were so many bright stars, but the only man-made lights came from the keys to the northeast. We could still see a faint glow to the west from Key West, but it was still a very dark night. The next morning, we had coffee and breakfast bars at 7:30 and then tried to pull the anchor. The anchor windlass failed to turn on. “I guess it’s arm day on the boat again,” Phil said, and muscled the heavy chain and anchor onboard at 8:40.

The wind and waves were calm as we motored toward Marathon. The ocean was flat with tiny ripples that sounded like turtles breaking the surface, but when I looked, it was nothing but water. I was at the helm for most of the day, giving Phil a deserved rest. We recognized land features to our left, sailing by the Bahia Honda Bridge and then the Seven-Mile Bridge as we approached Marathon. Since there was a waitlist for the mooring field, we anchored along the west coast of Boot Key at around 1:45 in the afternoon.

*First sunset in our new home in Boot Key Harbor, Marathon.*

The next day, we boarded a bus for Key West, retrieved our car and closed our PO box. On the way back, we got a call from the city marina – our mooring ball was ready: Romeo 8. It was easy to grab the pennant this time, and we settled in to our new home in Boot Key Harbor, near the entrance to Sister Creek. Ospreys and bald eagles were calling overhead, and later that afternoon, dolphins came to meet us.

*Enjoying live music at Dockside, a Boot Key Harbor waterside bar.*

I have already written my Love Song to Marathon, and Phil wrote a tribute to its many tiki bars. Nothing in the next six weeks changed my mind about this worthy cruisers’ destination. On the mooring balls, a community of helpful, friendly, concerned citizens take to the radio every morning at 9 and share the news of the day: upcoming activities, people coming and going, people needing help, and truly corny “Dad” jokes. We met friends at the Friday night happy hour that we will reconnect with, down the line. But this is a sailing blog, and by mid-April, it was time again to go sailing.

Other Reasons

To explain our reasons for moving, for not going to the Bahamas, and for heading north, I have to go back a few months. While we were hanging on to the mooring ball in Key West, I had a few medical tests done that I had put off for too long. One of these was a mammogram, followed by a biopsy. Here is an excerpt from my journal:

Feb. 1, 2024: I guess I will remember this date for as long as I live. It’s the last day I woke up without cancer.

The doctor called me and asked how I was, any soreness, swelling. Then she said, “The tests came back positive for malignancy. There are cancer cells in the breast and the lymph node.”

Pause. Breathe.

“It’s invasive ductal carcinoma and it’s metastatic,” she says quietly.

Phil is listening so I stay quiet while she tells me to pick up a CD of my images at the doctor’s office and make an appointment right away with an oncologist. She recommended Baptist Hospital Breast Cancer Center in Miami.

“Okay,” I said. “Is it treatable?” Then Phil got up and put his arm around me.

“Yes,” she said, and added, “I was pretty sure this would be the result. Sometimes I hate being right.”

Phil held me while I explained what she had said. I cried a little. I guess I’m allowed. I have metastatic breast cancer.

So, instead of planning a crossing of the Gulf Stream and a season in the Bahamas, we were planning a way to get closer to my oncologist, my future treatments, and an affordable dock where we can spend the hot hurricane season with air conditioning.

Some treatments were available at Fishermen’s Hospital in Marathon, so we headed for the mooring field there. Weekly treatments would start in mid-May in Miami, so we called our previous home, Loggerhead Marina in Hollywood, and asked about a slip.

“Your old slip will be available,” the manager said. “When will you be here?”

“Mid-April,” said Phil. It gave us six weeks in Marathon, where we could get some treatment, and it was closer to Miami, where we would be going for tests and appointments.

I am going to be a grandmother. Phil and I are sailing to the Bahamas next spring. Our plans have to be rewritten, in the sand, but these things will remain even after high tide.

We all have reasons for moving.

*Kay, in her Easter bonnet, getting treatment at Fishermen’s Hospital on Easter Sunday.*

Having a Ball in Key West

Oct26

“They must often change, who would be constant in happiness or wisdom.”

– Confucius

“Go West, young man.”

– Attributed to Horace Greeley

After 15 months at Safe Harbor Marina Marathon–with just a few sailing excursions into Hawk Channel– we took our dock rug, hoses, and electrical cords and prepared to sail away. Our friends Guy and Pam were there to help with lines, and it was sad to say goodbye. Phil backed out of the slip that early Saturday morning while I put away the lines and fenders. We wouldn’t need those where we were going.

Day One: Marathon to Key Lois

It was still, calm and sunny with no wind as we motored past the familiar vessels in the marina for the last time. We passed the boat wreck where cormorants, pelicans and ibises had entertained us as we watched them preening or fishing, or just drying their wings. Last week we watched every other species scatter as a bald eagle landed on the wreck with his fish dinner. Soon, his partner swooped in to share the leftovers. The panicked cormorants swam away in a tight group of about 20 birds, safety in numbers. There was no doubt as to who rules the roost. (We will miss the roost.)

The sea was as flat as it gets, so the boat moved smoothly through the morning. We saw dolphins for a few minutes, surprising since we hadn’t seen any in Marathon since around June. The smart ones must have moved on to cooler waters. Our poor seasick cat tossed her Friskees under the salon table and curled up under the aft bed. She is 19½ human years old, so we forgive her.

Phil had plotted a two-day course to Key West using paper charts and our Garmin chart plotter, so it was easy to navigate. We put Otto the autopilot on and with minor course corrections for the numerous crab pots, we made our way west to the first night’s anchorage at Key Lois (aka Loggerhead Key), arriving in early afternoon.

When we found a good spot to drop the anchor, I took the wheel and steered into the wind. However, I was not very good at keeping it there, and the boat kept turning. I’m working on that. We did manage to anchor in nine feet of water and turned off the engine. We were the only boat in the anchorage. A frigate bird, with its M-shaped wingspan and swallow tail, paid us a visit wheeling close to the mast on its way around the boat. We didn’t kill it and eat it, so I think it was a good omen.

When night came, we barbecued our veggie burgers and had celebratory gin and tonics. The half-moon lit up the sky, and the stars – so many stars – were brilliant. In the distance, we could see the glow coming from the lights of Key West, the only sizable community in the lower keys. The boat was rolling side to side, but we didn’t really notice until we went below. For such calm seas, we didn’t know why it was so roll-y. With the hatches open and a breeze blowing through, we slept like babies in a giant rocking cradle.

Day Two: Key Lois to Garrison Bight Mooring Field

I awoke before dawn and fed the meowing beast before settling outside to watch the sun rise. Phil made coffee in the French press, and we toasted bagels for breakfast. It was a sunny, cool morning with a better breeze, so we were anticipating a sailing day. Sure enough, as I motored into the wind and Phil pulled the anchor, we felt the rise of wind out of the east. The wind predictions (notoriously unreliable) were for northerly winds, but any wind that allowed us to raise the sails and head west was a blessing.

We sailed downwind with the mainsail pulled to the left side and the foresail to the right. This arrangement is called sailing “wing on wing,” as the two sails look like wings pulling the boat along. We occasionally hit 4.5 knots in a 10 or 12 knot breeze, but mostly cruised along dodging crab pots at 3 to 4 knots. It was peaceful and relaxing. We passed the keys we often traversed on our many trips down Route US1 from Marathon and saw the million-dollar mansions lining the beaches, which aren’t visible from the Overseas Highway. We sailed for more than ten nautical miles.

*Million-dollar mansions along the southern coast of Sugarloaf Key*

Welcome to Key West

When it was time to enter the Key West channel, I pointed into the wind and Phil dropped the sails. As usual, I couldn’t keep the boat from spinning too much, but I did a much better job this time. So that counts as progress. Phil got us back on course and we made the right turn at the end of Key West. That’s when the wind picked up and we saw wind speeds of 13 knots just when we didn’t need it. A narrow, busy channel is not a great place to rely on your sailing skills.

We motored through the channel between Tank Island and Key West. I made a little video of this passage as we tried to pick out the landmarks we knew: Galleon Resort, Southernmost Point, Mallory Square, Sunset Pier with strains of live music coming across the water.

We passed Wisteria Island (a much better island name than Tank, don’t you think?) and entered a narrow passage to make our way around the northern end of Fleming Island and south into our mooring field. A small motor boat pulled directly across our path as we made the turn, with no one onboard looking in our direction. (We didn’t sound the air horn. Phil is kinder than I am when it comes to inconsiderate boat captains.)

It was around 3 pm when we started searching for an empty mooring ball. The mooring field between Fleming and Sigsbee islands holds 149 mooring balls, chained securely to the bottom of the harbor. Boats hook their strongest lines to a ring at the top of the ball and hang on without anchoring. We were told there would be balls available, but we wandered through rows of moored boats and finally found one – but it was broken.

*Late afternoon in our* new neighborhood

Finally, at the far northeastern end of the field, we found two available balls. Phil drove up to one very slowly and left me at the helm to get him as close as possible to the ball. He had a boat hook to grab the line, a tricky maneuver even with his experience, and trickier still in the brisk wind. As I got too close to the ball, he yelled “neutral,” indicating that I should downshift. Only I couldn’t budge the shift lever and I panicked. “It won’t shift!” I said, as we drifted past the ball. Phil came to my rescue, and figured out that the engine was revving too fast to shift, so I relearned that important lesson.

Feeling like a mooring ball failure, I let Phil spin the boat around to approach the ball a second time. This time, I was driving so slowly, Phil was able to lasso the ball, muscle it up so he could reach the ring, and attach a mooring line. We were home.

Right away, the man in the adjacent boat introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Jack,” he yelled across the water. “Phil and Kay,” we answered and waved. He appears to be living alone on his boat (which I thought was named “Arrer-ten”) and maybe he was lonely and glad to have a neighbor. Phil chuckled when I asked him what Arrer ten means in French. “After Ten,” he said. The “f” and the “t” had worn off at the top.

We had just a couple more things to do: check in with the dockmaster, and have dinner. The dockmaster was a half hour dinghy ride away, but we found the right channels in the unfamiliar harbor and caught him just in time. He introduced himself as Beaver and collected $424 for a month of mooring, showers, laundry, dinghy dock and pump-out service. “It’s the only affordable housing in Key West,” he said.

Thai Island Restaurant was open, so we headed up to the outdoor seating area and got acquainted with our server, Roger. He was another Key West character, the interesting and unusual people we keep finding in our new community. (Read more about “Quirky Key West“) Roger, self-described as “fabulous!”, somehow got us to tell him our whole history, and he learned our names. We ordered two plates of delicious Thai stir fry and he brought a selection of sauces. I mentioned that one sauce was way too hot and he said, “Maybe you’re just way too white.” I wasn’t offended; he was joking. I think if your food hurts you, maybe you shouldn’t eat it.

*Sunset in the Garrison Bight Mooring Field*

Back in the dinghy with my tiny take-out box, we made our way back to Catmandu before dark. As we rested in the cockpit and sunset approached, we heard strains of bugle or cornet music coming from the nearby naval base. They play a familiar tune five minutes before sunset, and then the trumpet sounds the “Retreat” at sunset, signaling that the workday is over. We sat quietly and listened to the trumpet from across the waters of our new home, a poignant ending to a very long day.

Guide to Tiki Bars of Marathon

Oct14

Since Kay and I moved to Marathon, Florida, over a year ago, we have enjoyed exploring many of the tiki bars in the area by dinghy and by car. Why tiki bars? Tiki bars are bars in tiki huts. Tiki huts, in general, are magical. The Florida Keys are very hot in the summertime, and somehow the air under a tiki hut is always 5 – 10 degrees cooler than outside. Plus they look exotic and you feel like you are on vacation whenever you are hanging out in a tiki bar. Tiki bars do not have air conditioning, but they all have ample air circulation on all sides and fans are installed so they are comfortable all year around.

What defines a tiki hut? A tiki hut has a cypress log frame, open sides, and a palm thatched roof. Traditional, native American “chickee huts” are the same, except a chickee hut has a raised wooden floor. Fun fact: tiki huts or chickee huts built by Florida’s Seminole and Miccosukee tribes are exempt from the Florida Building Code and can be built without building permits.

Disclaimer: not all of the bars reviewed in this article are actual “tiki” bars, but they are still fun places to visit. Also, the list is not complete since there are so many of them and we have so little time. So please enjoy this article with a cold adult beverage in hand, and it will be okay.

Here is our guide starting — roughly — with our favorite bars in Marathon that are close to Safe Harbor Marina / Boot Key Harbor, and then expanding outwardly. Look for the hyperlinks in this article and click on them to get more information, like their web addresses, street addresses, phone numbers, and menus. Note that every restaurant in the Keys seems to specialize in seafood since it is so abundant here.

Sunset Grille. Located at the eastern end of the Seven Mile Bridge, Sunset Grille offers perfect sunset views, a huge menu of food and specialty drinks, its own pool, and a pool bar. The sturdy dinghy dock was rebuilt after Hurricane Ian last year, and is about a mile by dinghy from the marinas. The restaurant plays Jimmy Buffett’s Radio Margaritaville in the background all day. Service is always fast and friendly. Sunset Grille is the perfect place to go with friends and family.

Burdine’s Waterfront. Burdine’s is a smaller tiki bar restaurant with simpler fare on the second floor of a marina and fuel dock building. Burdine’s is best known for having the best french fries in the world. On the menu, they are “fresh hand-cut fries sprinkled with their special fry dust.” Burdine’s also has some tasty vegetarian entree options, and deep fried key lime pie. The restaurant is directly on the channel leading from the ocean to Boot Key Harbor, and boasts a floating dinghy dock. Sunset views are also amazing from this second floor tiki bar, and one can often see dolphins transiting the channel.

Castaway. Down one of the canals around the corner from Burdine’s is Castaway. To get there by water, you have to already know where it is, since you have to take some twisty turns. The restaurant is known for dishes made from lionfish, which is an invasive species. You are doing the Keys a favor if you take the lionfish out of the water and eat them. The dinghy dock at Castaway is sketchy, but it exists. Only the outdoor bar is decorated in the tiki bar motif.

Dockside. Dockside is the dive bar where you go to become a local. Situated on the waterfront on the southern edge of Boot Key Harbor, Dockside has the perfect floating dinghy dock, happy hour from 3pm – 7pm, and live music seven days a week. During happy hour, Bud Lite is only $2.50, wine is $3.25, and well drinks are only $4. You can have rounds of drinks, happy hour appetizers, and live music, and be hard pressed to spend $20 apiece. I would know, I have tried many times! But Dockside is so low key that it doesn’t even have its own website. It can only be found online on Facebook. Dockside is not a true tiki bar, since it doesn’t have a thatched roof. However, Dockside scores high for its location, waterfront views, low prices, good music, and the Keys vibe.

Lazy Days South. If your boat is docked at Safe Harbor Marina, you will surely patronize this tiki bar on a regular basis. Lazy Days is conveniently located only 60 feet from our boat and sits between the marina pool and the marina docks. In fact, bathers can get pool service by ringing a ship’s bell that the bar has installed outside. Lazy Days has a good happy hour, but is not a true tiki bar because it does not have a thatched roof. Also, their docks are not particularly dinghy-friendly since they are fixed rather high off the water.

TJ’s Tiki Bar. TJ’s Tiki Bar is an upscale tiki bar located on the bay side of Vaca Key and is a part of the Tranquility Bay Beach Resort. There are great sunset views that frame the famous lighthouse at the nearby Faro Blanco Marina. TJ’s is on the water, but the docks are for watercraft rental only. Most of the seating is on an uncovered patio, and there is often a singer / guitar player providing live music. TJ’s is not a true tiki bar because it does not have a thatched roof. It is also the most expensive tiki bar we have been to. I once got a $28 charge for a veggie burger. I thought it was mistake … and it wasn’t.

Porky’s Bayside BBQ. Like TJ’s, Porky’s is also on the bay side of Vaca Key, but is much more low key and affordable than TJ’s. Instead of specializing in seafood like the other restaurants in Marathon, Porky’s specializes in pork barbecue. However, they have good size menu to satisfy almost every palate. Porky’s is a true tiki bar that is easily identified from the Overseas Highway, and has several dock slips on the water. New for 2023, Porky’s just opened an 18-hole mini-golf course, the only mini-golf course in Marathon.

Barnacle Barney’s Tiki Bar. Hidden behind The Hammocks Resort on the bay side is Barnacle Barney’s, a hidden gem. It is a very cute bar on the water with friendly servers that is open to the public, but you cannot bring a boat here and it is not a true tiki bar because it does not have a thatched roof. No official website. Happy hour is 4 – 6 and the prices for drinks and appetizers are great.

Keys Fisheries. A true tiki bar on the second floor of a fish market, Keys Fisheries is another favorite of the locals. It is walking distance from the City Marina, which is very handy if your boat is on a mooring ball there. It is also on the bay side. Enjoy adult beverages while watching the fishing boats bring in their catches at the marina below.

Island Fish Co. Turning toward the north / east end of Marathon, Island Fish Co. is a true tiki bar on the bay side that is the only restaurant that can be reached by land, sea, and air. There is a helipad on the north end of the parking lot.

Sparky’s Landing. On the north / east end of Marathon is one of the best tiki bars in town. A true tiki bar on the ocean side, you can take your dinghy to their dock, but you would have to cross five miles of open ocean to get there. Sparky’s Landing has a very large menu that includes excellent brick oven pizzas. Their live music offerings are the best quality music acts in town, and include Marathon’s former mayor, singer/songwriter John Bartus. Like Sunset Grille, Sparky’s Landing is a great place for groups.

Suck, Squeeze, Bang, Blow

May7

“Diesels have an unrivaled record of reliability in the marine environment.”

— Nigel Calder, “Marine Diesel Engines: Maintenance, Troubleshooting, and Repair”

“The test of the machine is the satisfaction it gives you. There isn’t any other test. If the machine produces tranquility it’s right. If it disturbs you it’s wrong until either the machine or your mind is changed.”

— Robert M. Pirsig, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”

As Kay wrote in her blog post Night Passage to Marathon, we limped in to our resort marina back in August with an engine pouring out white smoke and producing only low power on a twenty-hour overnight passage. It was an ordeal, but we had made it to our new home. After settling in at our marina, we started researching mechanics who could come and fix our engine. The closest Westerbeke reps were back in Miami and Fort Lauderdale who were not particularly interested in helping us when we were bobbing around on the anchor at No Name Harbor for five nights. I knew we could do better. We had to do better.

One morning, I chimed in on the Boot Key Harbor Cruisers’ Net that is broadcast every morning on VHF channel 80. I asked for help. The one mechanic that everyone recommended was the famous Diesel Don. I called him on the phone, and made an appointment to have him take a look.

Diesel engines, such as our Westerbeke 42B Four, are typically four-stroke internal combustion machines that operate according to four simple processes: suck, squeeze, bang, blow. If any of these processes do not occur, the engine does not run.

Suck: the piston sucks a mixture of air from the intake manifold and atomized diesel fuel from an injector.

Squeeze: the piston squeezes the diesel and air into a very small volume, on the order of 400 psi, which also heats them to a very high temperature.

Bang: when the temperature exceeds the self-ignition temperature, the mixture explodes with a bang, driving the piston downward with the expanding gas and rotating the crank shaft.

Blow: the piston blows the exhaust products out the exhaust manifold and toward the muffler.

Over a series of visits, Diesel Don tried all the less-expensive tests and fixes that could cause the white smoke and low power output conditions. First, he took off the valve cover and adjusted all the valves. Wasn’t that. (Please note, we are going to show some of the guts of the diesel engine below. If you are squeamish about engine guts, please avert your eyes.)

*Valve cover removed exposing the rocker arms, valve tops, and springs*

Next, we replaced all of the injectors. Wasn’t that.

Then, we decided to do a compression test of each cylinder. Cylinders 1 through 3 were in spec, but cylinder 4 had no compression whatsoever. That is, no squeeze.

There is a short list of conditions that could cause a lack of compression in one cylinder and not the others: blown head gasket, bad valves, bad piston rings, and broken piston connecting rod. Resolving any of these issues requires major engine surgery. Resolving some of them would require removing the 450-pound engine from the boat somehow and taking the engine apart in a machine shop. I hoped we could avoid having to remove the engine. That would mean towing the boat to a boatyard with a big crane to get the engine hoisted out, and then living in a hotel for week or two while the engine gets fixed.

Don and I rolled the dice and decided to remove the cylinder head at the marina, since maybe it could be fixed in place. The photos below showed the problem immediately: broken exhaust valve on the number four cylinder. The diesel fuel and air mixture was being pushed out the exhaust without being combusted, which created the white “smoke” we were seeing.

*Underside of the cylinder head, showing a broken exhaust valve. See the missing edge?*

*Close-up of the broken exhaust valve showing a piece is missing*

Don and I reviewed the parts manual for our engine, and he made me a long list of parts to order from Westerbeke. The list included replacing all of the valves, not just the broken one.

Two weeks and a thousand bucks later, the parts were in. Don had the engine back together and painted. We started it up, and it ran as good as new. No white smoke. Power to spare.

*Cylinder head and upper assembly, painted like new and ready to install*

*Bottom of repaired and refinished cylinder head*

“Are you happy?” asked Don.

“Yes, I’m happy!” I replied.

Beset by Turtles

Apr25

The turtle lives ‘twixt plated decks
Which practically conceal its sex.
I think it clever of the turtle
In such a fix to be so fertile.

– Ogden Nash, “The Turtle”

Our latest outing into the waters around Boot Key took us farther south and west than we had ever been on Catmandu. We left the dock without a clear destination in mind, thinking we would sail west and visit one of two or three anchorages that had been recommended by friends. The original plan was to anchor between the old and new bridges at Bahia Honda, but currents are known to be strong there and we didn’t want to find ourselves pinned against a bridge in the middle of the night if our anchor dragged.

Other suggestions were farther away, and since the wind was so light (4 or 5 kts), we would have to motor all the way back, even if we managed to sail there slowly. So, we backed out of the slip on a fair Friday morning with the idea of sailing around just for fun and anchoring right outside our home harbor. It would give me some practice sailing and anchoring, which we will need for our future expeditions. (Phil doesn’t need practice, but as he puts it, “we are a team.” Winning teams practice.)

Phil sailing SV Catmandu near Marathon, FL — *Phil at the wheel.*

Phil drove out of the channel while I stowed the fenders. As soon as we cleared the markers, Phil went forward to hoist the mainsail. The wind was light and variable, mostly from the east and southeast. I drove in a crooked line, trying to keep the bow into the wind for Phil. After that, we let Otto drive (he seemed to work better than I did). I helped pull out the jib, noting that I forgot to put a stopper knot in the jib sheet (again). Soon we were sailing slowly toward the west, and we cut the engine.

What a difference it makes when the engine goes off. Every sailor loves that moment, when the diesel engine quiets and the wind takes over. We sailed a parallel course to the 7-Mile Bridge and passed the western end. We approached Bahia Honda, headed a little to the south, and kept going. The ocean was nearly flat, and it was a peaceful few hours.

We heard splashes all around us, and saw rings of white foam on the surface of the water. Phil figured out that they were made by turtles, and called them “turtle pops.” Sometimes we caught a glimpse of a turtle’s head, if it stayed up long enough, and sometimes a flipper would fly out. Most of the time they were too fast to see, and all we got was the ring of white foam and a splash. But they were all around us or possibly swimming with us. “We are beset by turtles,” Phil announced.

From the rare parts I could see, we think they were Hawksbill turtles, with a possible Loggerhead or two. The Hawksbill turtles have a distinctive spot pattern on their front flippers, and that is what I used to identify them. Turtles do not stay on the surface for long, and they are pretty quick to dive if they spot a human or a boat. Here is a Hawksbill turtle. They are about three feet long from head to tail.

We sailed for a few hours and then turned toward home. The wind was so light, it would have taken us several hours to get to the anchorage, so we had to motor sail. There were only three other boats there, so we had no problem picking out a spot. I drove while Phil dropped the anchor. He had to adjust the clutch on the anchor windlass, so I’m glad he didn’t send me forward to drop the anchor. I do have to practice that at some point.

We knew not to get too close to shore. In light winds, the bugs (no-see-ums) can be brutal. We had some adult beverages, listened to music and watched our old cat Maggie climb the companionway stairs and join us in the cockpit. She rarely comes outside, so it was good to see her making the effort. She took a walk around the deck and settled down beside us. In the distance, we could see a sailboat levitating over the water. Or, atmospheric conditions make it look like that.

*The sailboat in the distance appears to be floating above the water, not in it.*

Memorial for Mom

A few months after my mother died, the people at Seasons Hospice who cared for her during her last days gave my sisters and me a memorial lantern. We hadn’t planned a time or place to deploy it, and my sisters expected that I would light it and release it somewhere over the ocean. Phil thought it would be a good time and place to finally send it off. After grilling Impossible® burgers for dinner, we waited in the cockpit for the sun to go down.

My mother and father had a running argument about where to vacation. My dad wanted to go to the woods, and he usually won. But Mom loved the beach. She grew up in Westerly, Rhode Island and her grandfather had a beach house on Misquamicut Beach. She spent her summers there until she was 10, when the Hurricane of ’38 blew the beach house away. It also killed nearly 300 people in Rhode Island that day, including some of my mother’s schoolmates.

There was little left of the house on the beach, just a tiny bit of the cement sea wall. The top floor ended up two miles inland, the bedspreads still dry and folded on the beds. The hurricane did not dampen her desire to spend time at the beach. (It was different for her grandfather. Devastated, he sold the property without ever going back.) When my sisters and I would visit the beach with my mom, we would find that bit of sea wall and lay our towels out beside it.

This made me feel that flying that magical lantern over the ocean would be a fitting way to honor my mother. My sisters live far away, so they would not be able to participate. Phil and I got out the paper lantern kit, and making sure it was environmentally safe and ocean-friendly, we looked for the instructions to light it. Hilarity ensued. Apparently, AI has not advanced sufficiently to translate Chinese into understandable English. Wishing Light Operating Instructions (I am not making this up.):

After the distribution of fuel to packaging equipment Kong Cross wire in the side of the field again deduction presses the fuel pressure lock firmly.
A person wishing light take up a Top; another person fuel ignited the four angle.

After cracking up at this bit of nonsense, we figured out how to attach the fuel tile to the wire at the bottom of the lantern, and just after sunset at the anchorage, we tried several times to light it. It was old; it had been on the boat for almost two years, and it just would not light easily. It finally ignited, and we held it up off the deck, fire extinguisher at the ready.

When the “four angle” (the fuel tile was a square) was fully engulfed, the top of the lantern expanded to its full height and started to float away. I’m sorry I don’t have pictures, but it took both of us to hold the lantern and light it safely. I said, “I miss you, Mom,” and Phil let it go into the fading twilight.

We watched it float off the boat for about ten feet and then sink into the sea. We both started laughing, and I knew if my mom were looking on, she would be laughing too. The next day, as we were making our way back to the west to calibrate Otto again, I thought I saw the remnants of our memorial Wishing Light, disintegrating into the ocean as it was meant to do.

***

How does one tie up a blog with so many threads? I try to make each piece a complete tale, wrapping up all the facets in a well-constructed bundle with some kind of conclusion to make it all work, but this one is about a herd of turtles, my mom, and an overnight outing with Phil on our sailboat. A writing friend of mine asked me once if I consciously looked for a common thread to tie the blog together, and I said, “yes, I keep writing until I find it.” But the only thing I can think of to tie this one together is the ocean.

We live on it, my mother loved visiting it, and turtles pop out of it.

“I have been feeling very clearheaded lately and what I want to write about today is the sea. … It is my favorite thing, I think, that I have ever seen. Sometimes I catch myself staring at it and forget my duties. It seems big enough to contain everything anyone could ever feel.”

― Anthony Doerr, All the Light We Cannot See

Running in Circles

Apr6

When in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout.

― Herman Wouk

If you were driving east into Marathon last week on the Seven Mile Bridge and looked out on the ocean side, you would have seen a sailboat with no sails up, spinning in place. That was us, going around in circles on a flat, calm sea. I could have called this article “Donuts in the Deep,” “Circling the Drain,” or simply “Calibrating the Compass,” but I was trying to imagine what people would think as they drove by and spotted a sailboat slowly rotating.

Our auto-pilot had stopped working on our way to Marathon last August, and although Phil had replaced the rudder reference (what’s that? see photos), the direction of travel was still about 50 degrees off, so we knew the compass had to be calibrated. For months, it was on the “to-fix” list, but since the engine was blowing white smoke and losing power, it wasn’t our first priority. It took many months (on island time) but finally, the old Westerbeke was patched up, fitted with all new valves and a new head gasket, and ran like a top. It was time for a shake-down cruise.

*This is a rudder reference – a faulty one.*

We picked a calm day that promised light winds. After going through the cabins and salon and putting away everything that could go flying, we were ready to leave the dock. You wouldn’t believe the loose items we had accumulated in seven months. We had grocery bags full of loose breakables secured in the v-berth. I tied up the drawers in my mom’s jewelry box – that was a disaster the last time we sailed in rougher waters; the drawers came out and scattered earrings and necklaces all over the captain’s cabin. I locked cupboard doors, secured the cat food and water dish, and took everything off the galley counters. As it turned out, we probably didn’t have to do all that. I probably didn’t need my seasickness relief band, either.

No neighbors were around that Wednesday morning, so Phil and I unhooked our electric cord and took down the dock lines. Without a breath of wind, Phil backed out of the slip easily and we were on our way. I lifted the fenders and Phil hooked up the lifelines. It was partly cloudy, not a beautiful day, but not hot. The purring of the engine was music to our ears.

We have an 18 ½ year old cat who doesn’t like to travel much. No purring was heard from the cat quarters. Maggie hunkered down underneath the salon table, threw up, and went into the head to lie on the floor. She got extra treats when we got home.

We exited through the channel and headed west toward deeper water. The ocean was flat calm and the engine sounded healthy and happy for the first time in a year. Phil followed the instructions for calibrating the flexgate compass, pressing a series of keys on the autopilot controller. Then, when the screen said, “Turn boat,” he slowly rotated Catmandu while I thought about how comical it must look from the bridge.

*The directions for calibration of the fluxgate compass*.

We made two or three revolutions before the message told us how many degrees of compass deviation we had so we could adjust it to our actual course heading. Done! Our autopilot is fixed. For those who don’t sail, this device allows us to set a course, set the sails or run the engine, and relax while “Otto” steers. (Yes, it reminds me of the inflatable pilot in the Airplane movies.)

We were not ready to head back to port, so we pointed into the wind, raised the head sail and turned off the engine. It wasn’t worth raising the mainsail; there was almost no wind. We bobbed around in the water, loving the peace that descends when the engine turns off. The breeze was no more than a light caress on the jib, and we managed to move about a half mile at .5 knots. But we were off the dock. We were sailing.

Dolphins appeared off the port stern, and we heard one just behind us slapping his tail. There were several more off the port bow, swimming so close we could see them under the water. They slap their tails to stun fish and to tell their pod members where the fish are. They swam around us for a while, and after they disappeared, we spotted a large sea turtle with a patch of seaweed on his shell. The turtle wasn’t close enough to identify the species. He dove back under the water, and we turned for home.

*Just one of the dolphins who visited during our slow sail.*

Where are we from, and where are we going?

Our slow cruise began nearly ten years ago in Annapolis. Now it can continue. We have a working engine, an autopilot, a new water maker, and updated charts. We have the means to visit Key West, the Dry Tortugas, the west coast of Florida, the Bahamas and beyond. But hurricane season approaches, and we will have to be somewhere safe until November. We have been here in Marathon for almost a year, loving the climate-controlled pool, the easy access to laundry and supplies, and the incomparable sunsets. We travel by dinghy to restaurants and tiki bars – and back. Maybe we are a bit spoiled, for cruisers.

Living the island life just south of mainland Florida, we find ourselves in the company of other boat-dwellers, sailors, and wanderers. Phil makes friends easily, and we socialize at the pool and the marina parties, only to discover weeks later that our new friends have moved on. Most people are just passing through, but we have been here so long, we got a 10% discount on dinner the other night for being “locals.”

It is a welcoming community, and when they ask us where we are from, we look at each other for an answer.

“All over,” I say. Born in California, raised in a nomadic military family in communities on both U.S. coasts, eventually landing for a time in Colorado, Washington State, and New Hampshire, I never know what to say.

“Where’s home, though?” they might ask.

“Wherever the boat is,” says Phil.

We don’t know exactly where we are going next, and we don’t know when. But we do know we can find our way there with a working autopilot, a working engine, and a correctly calibrated compass. Until we have a float plan, a destination or at least a route on the chart plotter, I guess we will be running in circles. At least we are finally running.

Servicing the Electric Anchor Windlass … Sort of!

Mar7

This is how the electric anchor windlass is supposed to work

Phil here, with a tech update on servicing and maintaining our Catalina 380, 38-foot sailboat. Boats of our size and larger have anchors that weigh on the order of 35 pounds and above, and have anchor rodes (i.e. lines) that are all chain. They are heavy. Thanks to gravity, anchors and chains are usually easy to deploy. However, it is difficult to retrieve them when it is time to pick up the anchor and sail away. That is where the electric windlass comes in.

Catmandu came with a very nice Maxwell Freedom 800 electric windlass, that has worked flawlessly for the past three years. However, last July when Kay and I were testing the boat’s systems at the dock in preparation for sailing south, the anchor windlass would. not. deploy.

We contacted our dear friend Mike Dillon, an engineer for Maxwell in Fort Lauderdale, for help. A new windlass costs about $2000, and I hoped we could repair ours instead of replacing it.

“When did you last service the windlass?” Mike asked when he came aboard with his bag of tools.

“You have to service anchor windlasses?” I replied. I had no idea. I thought they were magical devices that just worked for years when you pushed the buttons. They have shiny, stainless steel turny things on top and magical whirring things that are invisible below the deck.

It turns out you have to service anchor windlasses periodically. #Sad. It appeared that the windlass had not been serviced in over 20 years. Mike took apart the top part of the windlass and found that the two clutch halves had seized together, and that had prevented the anchor chain from deploying. We pried them apart with hand tools and brute force, cleaned out some embedded dirt, and greased the clutch. Then the anchor and chain deployed normally once again. Note to self: the user manual says the clutch has to be greased every year or bad things can happen.

Mike opened an access panel below deck and inspected the gearbox and electric motor. The gear box was empty when it should have been at least half full of 90 weight gear oil. All the oil had leaked out. Left empty, the gears would have eventually ground each other to dust and the windlass would be ruined. Mike was able to throw some regular oil into the gearbox so that we could get underway, and it was good enough for our cruise from Hollywood to Marathon.

Change the scene to the present day. Catmandu has been at a slip in Marathon for seven months, and properly servicing the anchor windlass has finally come to the top of the to-do list. Servicing involves greasing the clutch, removing the gear box, replacing all the oil seals, and replacing the gear oil. I was able to grease the clutch again. I even installed a “pressure arm” that presses the anchor chain against the chain wheel of the windlass since it was missing on my unit. However, after accessing the rest of the windlass below deck, the gear box would not come off. It had seized to the shaft and I could not get it off, even after applying penetrating oil daily, banging on it with a hammer, and applying heat from a heat gun.

Worm wheel and gearbox cover would not come off the shaft, so I left them in place

The next best thing was to merely remove the bottom part of the gear box and the electric motor from the assembly while leaving the worm wheel and gear box cover on the shaft, as seen in the photo above. As you can see below, out of oil again.

Then I turned the gearbox to the side, and identified an oil leak past one of the oil seals. Oil seals are partly rubber and partly metal, and must seal the gearbox and shaft precisely in order to keep the oil in.

I bought a Maxwell rebuild kit for this windlass, which includes replacement oil seals, clips, o-rings, and a sight glass for the gear oil. I was able to get all the old seals out and replace them, except for the seal in the gearbox cover. Of course, there is a YouTube video for that.

Gearbox with overhaul kit, ready to install

I installed the new hardware and bolted the gearbox assembly back onto the windlass with fresh 90 weight gear oil. After applying anti-seize compound to the bolts, I secured the gearbox to the shaft and re-installed the electric motor.

Plenty of gear oil seen in the sight glass. Bueno.

To prove it works, I ran the anchor up and down at the dock a few times, and called it a success. Now, the anchor windlass has been completely serviced — except for greasing the worm wheel on the shaft and replacing the oil seal on the gearbox housing. Good enough, as long as they never have to come off.

Under the Boom

Chronicles of S/V Catmandu (and Catnip, too)

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