The Chronicles of S/V Catmandu
The Lamb and the Lion at Ginn Sur Mer
If humans just disappeared from the world, and you could come back to Earth … one year later,
the first thing you’d notice wouldn’t be with your eyes.
It would be with your ears.
The world would be quiet.
—Carlton Basmajian, Ph.D., Iowa State University
The Unrealized Resort
The Ginn Sur Mer development on the southwestern coast of Grand Bahama Island is not a ghost town. Despite its roads, stop signs, electrical lines and dredged waterways, it was never a town at all. No one ever lived here and only one house was ever built. The developers envisioned golf courses, luxury homes, hotels, restaurants and room for mega yachts.
After the Ginn company defaulted on a $650 million loan, Credit-Suisse foreclosed on the property in 2010. Although the government was eager to find new investors, work stopped on the luxury property. The original developers left wide canals with stone sea walls and a 14-foot deep anchorage with room for 9 or 10 boats.
When we arrived there were three other boats in the anchorage but by the time evening came around, there were nine boats in the basin and one catamaran in the canal to the east. A stiff wind was predicted for the following night so anyone in the area looking for a safe refuge didn’t have many choices. It is really the only protected anchorage in this end of Grand Bahama Island, which is a very long island.
We were anxious to explore all the little canals, and after a brief friendly visit from one of our Canadian neighbors, we climbed into our dinghy to take a look around. “Deserted” doesn’t begin to describe the eeriness of this area. The sandy roads have stop signs at intersections, and a completed bridge crosses over the canal. The vegetation consists of low shrubs and trees that crowd in on the few cleared lots.
We wandered around in the canals using our quiet Electric Paddle® electric motor, coming to a couple of small lakes where the canals ended (see the chart above). Because the waterways are lined with stone seawalls, there was no way to beach the dinghy and explore on land. The wildlife was silent; we didn’t even hear birds singing. We saw one turtle on the way into the basin, but no fish, turtles, dolphins or land animals after that.
We wanted to see the one house that was built, and found it on the canal closest to the beach. It stands on the beachfront, about three stories high, with a large garage and a finished roof. It looks ready for occupation, but no one lives there. Of course there are no nearby services except for the few amenities offered by the settlement of West End, four miles away over half-finished roadways. Our Canadian neighbors told us they had entered the house and looked around, but we were not about to trespass, no matter who owns the property.
The Big Blow
Phil keeps a close eye on wind predictions, so we knew a big wind was about to blow. The harbor was crowded because of the wind forecast, and the crowded anchorage made high wind much more dangerous. For inexperienced boaters who don’t exactly know how much chain to put out with the anchor, there is a danger of dragging and hitting other boats. But even for seasoned sailors, high winds can dislodge a well-placed anchor, and most cruisers have dragged their anchors at one time or another.
We were nervous about the 25-knot wind predictions. It doesn’t sound like a lot until it is howling above you and rattling your boat’s rigging. This wind began to whirr at sunset, and by ten o’clock, we were seeing 20-knots on the wind instrument. The wind howled above us. The shallow anchorage was whipped up to a froth and the waves rocked the boat. The sustained winds reached 25 knots with 27-knot gusts.
I tried to sleep, but Phil stayed outside and monitored the anchor watch. It was pitch dark, except for ten anchor lights and the cockpit lights of a few other boats with skippers staying at their helms, also on anchor watch. The concrete seawall on one side and coral ledge on the other side of the narrow channel were invisible except on the chart plotter.
At 11 pm, Phil saw on the chart plotter that our anchor had been briefly dislodged and had dragged about 25 feet before catching again. For the anxiety that caused, he stayed at the helm all night, finally coming to bed at 4:30 am. I offered to finish out the night, but he said the wind would die down soon. It was 7:30 am before we heard the wind settle down, just as the sun rose.
We stayed at Ginn Sur Mer for one more night and on Saturday morning we tried to raise the anchor. Phil pulled up as much chain as he could with the anchor windlass, but it wouldn’t budge from the bottom. He directed me to motor forward slowly, first to the right and then left, as he moved the chain in different directions. The anchor was wedged down tightly, and due to the high winds, it had been pulled with a lot of force, possibly under rocks.
After 20 minutes of maneuvering back and forth, Phil told me to motor forward and finally got the anchor off the bottom. If we hadn’t been able to free it, the alternatives were limited: let the anchor go with 150 feet of attached chain, or dive into murky water to attach another line to help pull it up. Luckily, we didn’t have to make that decision.
We love the peace of a deserted anchorage, being off the grid with no motors running. It is so often ruined by inconsiderate people in their loud boats and even louder music. And nature itself sometimes gets loud: howling winds, waves crashing, laughing gulls, ospreys, and (sometimes) ocelots. But after the boats leave and the winds die down, there’s just the musical lapping of ripples against the hull. Phil calls it happy boat sounds. My word for it is quiet.
The Kindness of Strangers
“Carry out a random act of kindness, with no expectation of reward,
safe in the knowledge that one day someone might do the same for you.”
—Princess Diana
“Try to be a rainbow in someone’s cloud.”
—Maya Angelou
Bimini to Grand Bahama Island
The sun hadn’t quite popped over the horizon when we left Brown’s Marina on March 14, but it was light enough to see. We fought a 2-knot current as we made our way out of the harbor and swung wide to avoid marked sandbars. The sun came up as we turned north and headed straight for the side of a Carnival Cruise ship. It was very slowly backing into position on the Bimini Cruise ship pier, in no hurry to get out of our way.
We passed the Carnival Paradise on her bow and put out the headsail to take advantage of a light SE wind coming across our starboard beam. The sail gave us a little boost and we motored north at 6 to 6.5 knots, rolling rhythmically in a 1- to 2-foot swell. By 10am, we were shedding our sweatshirts as the day warmed up.
Around mid-day, Phil noticed that we were once again out of the sight of land. “Who will see land first?” he asked, but I knew he would. He pointed out a lighthouse to our right that I could barely make out in the hazy distance. “Great Isaac Cay,” he said. “We’re at the same latitude as Fort Lauderdale now.”
We talked about the lack of dolphins (or whales) and the plenitude of flying fish, little silvery missiles that torpedo through the air just above the surface for a few yards before re-entering the water with barely a splash. “Wonder what’s chasing them,” I said.
“Dolphins,” he said.
“And whales?” I tried to imagine giant beasts just below the surface, mouths open to receive a silvery meal.
Land appeared ahead of us and to our right, showing up as a light border on the edge of a darker mass. That was sand; pristine deserted beaches lead into the ocean on every side of Grand Bahama Island except around the industrial city of Freeport.
We headed to West End, the aptly named town on the western point of the island. The marina, Old Bahama Bay, had a narrow winding approach between stone jetties that boats had to enter single file. A greedy catamaran suddenly came up on our right and raced to squeeze in front of us at the entrance. Phil slowed and let them pass while I called them names under my breath. (He’s nicer than I am.)
Old Bahama Bay Marina
As Phil motored into the small harbor, docks appeared on the left with a long fuel dock hugging the jetty along the right side. I readied the bow lines and got a mid-ship line just in case. Phil was forced to make a starboard loop to manage the tight turn into our allotted slip. The slip was the first one on the left, around a narrow dock. He took a right turn to get the boat angled into the parking space, when a sudden gust came at us from the west, pushing the boat into the long empty fuel dock.
We both rushed to the port side, pushing off the dock as hard as we could, but couldn’t fight the wind. We stayed pinned there while Phil tried to steer the bow off to the right and I pushed the pilings away. I felt panicked; I think Phil did, too. I heard him swear as a gust blew us back to the dock and disconnected one of the bimini supports.
The woman who runs the fuel dock saw our dilemma and ran out to help us. She reached out for the bow pulpit and pushed us off. Then she ran to the middle of the boat and used a leg to push off one of our stanchions. Phil tried backing up with a sharp turn of the wheel and finally got the bow to swerve right. He pushed forward harder and I put my feet off the side of the bow to push off of the dock. We finally eased into the middle of the channel and I yelled a quick thanks to the woman on the dock.
The wind slowed as quickly as it had started, and Phil was able to steer Catmandu into her parking spot. A couple of cruisers from the next slip rushed over to help with the lines. The woman tying our spring line suddenly looked up.
“Is that Phil?” she said. “Oh my gosh.”
“Astrid?” Phil said.
“It’s the former Gulfstream commodores club!” she said. Ross and Astrid had both served as commodores, and so had Phil.
They had just arrived on their sailboat Commotion after a long crossing, and coincidentally (as it so often happens) had docked into the slip next to ours. They helped with lines, chatted with us about the crossing, and suggested what to order at the local restaurant. (Ah, the Grouper Grilled Cheese sandwich – so gooey and delicious with “magic” sauce – I took their advice.)
A local bread woman came by, offering $7 loaves of wheat, cinnamon raisin, coconut, and banana breads. I hesitated while Ross bought a couple of loaves and then she was gone, down the dock pulling her wagon of bread behind her. I regretted not picking up a loaf of raisin bread, and when we saw her later outside the restaurant, she was sold out of all but banana bread.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Phil said, but we didn’t see her again until the night before we left, when she only had $12 white bread, not something we needed. Phil makes delicious French bread from scratch every week. I confess I thought about homemade cinnamon raisin bread for days.
When we brought our coffees into the cockpit early the next morning, Astrid and Ross were gone. Neither of us woke as they backed out of the dock right next to us. The next night, a new catamaran pulled into the slip on the other side of us. They had crossed from West Palm Beach expecting to arrive in daylight. The wind and sea state had slowed them down and they ended up banging into the wind and waves and arriving long after dark. They were from New Hampshire, on their way to a family gathering on Treasure Cay, just stopping long enough to wait for a weather window, do laundry, and recover.
The Old Bahama Bay Marina was practically empty for the few days we were there, with lots of open slips. The marina consists of a fuel dock, a restaurant, a hotel or two, a small store which is only open at the whim of the proprietor, and a drink shack called Banana Hammock. The adjoining resort property has a sandy beach and a lush pool area with a pool bar that serves food. All of the servers there wore shirts with “Dis” before their names: Dis Becky, and Dis Francine as in, This is Becky.
We have found that stores and restaurants tend to be closed on Sunday, so we were surprised and delighted to find the Banana Hammock open on Sunday afternoon. There were two well-dressed middle aged Bahamian women sitting there (fresh from church, I thought) and the music was pure American country. We sat and drank “Sonds” beers – the local beer is Sands, but natives call it sonds.
I listened to the lilting dialect of the women beside me, realizing I didn’t understand every word but loving the sound of it. There was no food there; it’s just a drink shack. Back at the boat, we had gin and tonics in the cockpit and a dinner of veggie brats on the grill.
Snorkeling with Rays
We visited the beach the next day with our snorkeling gear and swam above the grassy sand watching little fish dart around beneath us, weaving in and out of the swaying grasses. Phil swam ahead with the Go-Pro into deeper water. Suddenly, a large dark shadow caught my attention down below my feet and my heart sped up. A black, shiny ray about three feet across swam just under my stomach and I felt a moment of panic. I squealed and stood up, watching the tail of the ray move across my path.
“What!” Phil yelled, coming to my side. I laughed because you would have thought I was in mortal danger and it wasn’t even big for a ray. But it was exciting, and I told Phil where it went so he could follow with the Go-Pro. As he left, I stuck my face back in the water and saw a cloud of little 3-inch fish in the hundreds swimming all around me. I can’t identify fish, but these were silvery and fish-shaped with gray stripes (possibly striped seabream?).
The next day, we tried to get a ride to the convenience store in West End. We hoped to hop on the free bicycles, but the seats were all too high for me and despite efforts by two hotel workers, the rusted seats would not budge.
Finally, one of the men offered to take us to the store in his own car. There is one taxi, but he was not answering the call. Phil gave the driver money and we took the short ride along sandy roads, past small houses with broken gates, brief views of the ocean beyond the scrubby bushes, and finally turned into the small lot in front of the Express Food Market. All along the route, the driver honked and waved at every human we passed. “Do you know everyone here?” Phil asked.
“Of course. Lived here my whole life. I went to school with all these guys,” he said. He offered to wait while we shopped. The small store was packed full of merchandise, with a small amount of produce (potatoes, tomatoes, peppers, zucchini), some dairy items but no eggs, and shelves of rice, noodles, pasta, boxed crackers, canned goods and even spices. There were no meat substitutes in the freezer case, but that didn’t surprise us. We spent $28 and got what we needed.
On our last day at the marina, I decided to do laundry in the marina laundromat. Only two out of the eight machines were working and three very cooperative women were juggling loads. I could not believe the kindness and helpfulness of these women. One was a local patron, and one was our dock neighbor. We coordinated our washer loads, rushed the dryers, transferred loads for each other, and chatted outside during wait times. It was the most fun I’ve ever had doing laundry. At the end, Phil hiked over and brought me a cold “sonds” from Banana Hammock. (He also told me what a “banana hammock” is.)
The Old Bahama Bay Marina is a bit expensive. They charge 2.50/ft per night plus .70/ft for electricity and a mandatory $20/day for water. For the sake of our screaming credit cards, we planned to leave this marina as soon as the strong winds subsided. The winds blew over 20 kts. for four days. Finally, after five nights here, we were ready to tuck in to a protected anchorage just four miles away.
I was ready to be alone with Phil at anchor. Marina life is social, with neighbors in close proximity. I like a little respite from the rest of humanity once in a while. But everyone here — at this marina and in the community — was kind, friendly, and helpful. From the woman on the fuel dock to the man who drove us to the food market, to the servers in the pool bar, to the women at the laundry, we were treated to the kindness of strangers. That’s what I will remember about Old Bahama Bay.
Dinghy Drama and Docktails
Friends come and go, like the waves of the ocean,
but the true ones stay like an octopus on your face.
– Anonymous
Clearing In
Fifteen minutes after Phil left to check in to the Bahamas, he was back. “What happened,” I asked. “They won’t let us in?”
“I need $75 in cash,” he said. “It’s overtime for Immigration officials.” It was 4 pm on a Saturday, and if you arrive on a weekend, you pay the officials for their overtime – and not by credit card. When he returned 30 minutes later, we were legal. We raised the Bahamas flag on Catmandu and put away the yellow Q flag.
At Blue Water Marina, we were docked next to a large working boat that had old tires hung around its entire deck. The workers yelled loudly to each other and to friends on shore, with lots of laughter and good-natured teasing. Phil called the shouting “Bahamian VHF,” as yelling (beginning at 6:30am) seems to be their main method of communication.
Farther down the dock, a large motor yacht played U.S. country music at top volume nonstop, whether anyone was on board or not. By the third day, Phil had had enough. He politely asked them to please turn it down and they did. But there was nothing we could do about the late-night bar a half mile away that blared unbearably loud music until well past 2 am. It was deafening. The marina office was sympathetic, but said it was a “licensed establishment,” so there was nothing they could do.
Internet Woes
Our next few days were spent trying to get wi-fi and internet services without spending a fortune. For various reasons, we don’t have StarLink on board, so we rely on our iPhone hotspots, a small Verizon mobile hotspot, and generally poor marina wi-fi. Our single sideband radio is good in remote locations for checking in with other cruising boats, and – when we can hear it – Chris Parker’s weather broadcast.
Phil hiked to the store and bought a BTC SIM card to use in the mobile hotspot, but it is apparently not fully unlocked, and problems started right away. He could use the card in his cell phone, but that meant he no longer had his U.S. phone number. After spending $100 on wi-fi bandwidth that kept running out, he had to go back to the store for some answers. We wound up putting my phone on an international plan with Verizon, and using that for our internet access. It’s all very confusing to me, and I generally use the marina wi-fi when it works. I am writing this offline, to be uploaded later.
Dinghy Rides
We are living in an aquarium. The water is clear and visibility is amazing. We can sit on the boat and watch tarpon and rays swimming next to us, including one baby ray that was only about a foot long. One large nurse shark hovers beneath the dock. We have wanted to take the dinghy out for some snorkeling, but conditions have not been great. The harbor is rough from a period of high winds, and the one day we managed to beach the dinghy, I sat on it to keep it from washing away in the surf while Phil swam and snorkeled. (He followed two enormous tarpons that day!)
When the waters calmed, we ventured out by dinghy to explore the rest of our neighborhood and check out an anchorage at the north end of the harbor. We motored through a little tunnel into the Resorts World Bimini property (the tunnel of love, Phil said) and remembered staying at this luxury hotel a few years ago. Behind us, we heard the rumble of a sea plane landing and watched as it descended onto the water and motored away.
The anchorage we were looking for beyond the resort was ugly, with construction along the shore, no sandy beaches for dinghy access, and no palm trees. The water was murky and very shallow. One star, not recommended. There were five boats anchored there, mostly small sailboats that looked well lived-in. Was this workforce housing?
Seaplane Scares
On the way back, we encountered two more seaplanes that landed in front of us and let customers off at Fisherman’s Village. Each plane carried around 12 passengers. We watched as the first one passed by us, went farther down the small waterway, and began to turn around. I heard Phil swear and gun the outboard, quickly getting our dinghy to the side. The seaplane was headed right for us at increasing speed.
“They always take off into the wind,” Phil yelled over the sound of the engines. As we tried to get out of the way in the narrow channel, the plane sped by us and lifted into the sky. It was a close call. The second plane was gearing up behind us so we quickly got off of the airstrip and headed back to our boat.
In between dinghy explorations, we walked to Radio Beach and stopped at Coconut Brian’s, a quirky beach bar with large multicolored cloth triangles overhead instead of a roof. The music was deafening, but when we asked, they did turn it down (a little). And it was good reggae/island music, so we sat at the bar and enjoyed the local beer. They let us put up a Catmandu sticker. If you visit Bimini, be sure to look for our stickers at the tiki bars.
Brown’s Marina
Walking along the road can be treacherous, with scooters, cars and golf carts all trying to navigate the narrow pavement. They supposedly drive on the left here, but they mostly drive in the middle. We went out one afternoon looking for a restaurant and found Brown’s Marina. The restaurant, Big Johns, was closed. Some restaurants are only open when a cruise ship is in port.
We found the dockmaster, Christian, and talked about moving the boat to save some money. He told us he was running a $250/week special so we jumped on that and decided to move to Brown’s from Blue Water. Because moving day was so spectacular, we thought we would go out for a day sail just for fun. Christian told us to report for the dock at high tide, because currents were strong and dangerous. So we sailed out of the harbor and just for fun, sailed around in a big circle just outside of Bimini. People following us on No Foreign Land wondered what we were doing, making circles in the ocean.
Getting back in proved to be difficult, as Brown’s Marina didn’t answer our radio calls and our phone calls dropped out until we got close. We had to kill some time by circling close to the harbor entrance and noticed other boats doing the same. When we got through to the dockmaster, he advised waiting another half hour, so we motored south along the coast of South Bimini.
Finally, on VHF Channel 16, a loud call came through: “All boats docking at Brown’s Marina, come now!” I have never heard this before, but we became part of a mass docking of three large sailboats and a million-dollar motor yacht. Phil made a perfect landing into the slip as dockhands rushed around handling lines for all the new boats. They collected credit cards and paperwork right at the dock, and we were home.
Docktails
One of the great joys of cruising is meeting people who become instant friends. We were docked between a 40-foot monohull named Destiny, and a luxury yacht that looked brand new, named Valiansea. Phil noticed the latter boat hailed from Annapolis, and started a conversation with the owners. As so often happens in marinas all over the cruising world, we discovered we had mutual friends. Our close friends Dan and Jaye were dockmates of Phyllis and Bill in Port Annapolis Marina.
For the next four days, all of our new friends gathered on the dock at 5pm for Docktails, or migrated to the shady yard next to Big John’s. Two other couples from the sailboats next to us joined in, and the eight of us bonded quickly over drinks, talking about cruising plans, wind predictions, diesel filters, health issues, and every other common theme among boaters.
As the windy weather cleared, the boats began to depart and soon we were left alone. It was a lonely feeling after days of camaraderie with so many wonderful dockmates. We were sailing north, and others were going west or east so our weather windows were different. We missed them: Deb and Jeff on Destiny, Dave and Susanne on Kolibri, and Phyllis and Bill on Valiansea. Fair winds, wherever you are – we will see you again.
A new sailboat came in next to us with netting around the lifelines and as I was about to ask if they had dogs or kids, a small boy popped out of the companionway. I smiled and waved, and another boy popped out, a few years older. Then another, and another. Four little boys and their parents were cruising in a 30-foot sailboat. “You are brave people,” I called out.
“Brave or crazy?” the father called back.
The Hermit Crab
On our last afternoon in Bimini, we took the dinghy to the sand bar that appears at low tide across the harbor. Two small islands sit just beyond the shallow area, and we dragged our dinghy onto the sand to explore the clear waters. I hoped no one was watching as I tumbled awkwardly over the side (I must practice my dismount). We were alone in the bright sunshine and cool breeze, and walked along looking into the seagrass that grew just beyond the sandbar.
Two small rays the color of sand swam up to Phil’s toes and quickly turned away. I tried to follow and get a picture but they were too fast. Phil pointed out a conch shell that was rocking back and forth in about two inches of water. It reminded me of the giant statues on Easter Island that were walked along a path by rocking, moving forward with each sway. Phil picked up the shell and discovered a hermit crab inside.
“There you are, little buddy,” he said, looking into the shell at the little eyes staring out. He gently put the shell back. Phil took a video of the crab rocking through the water with his house on his back. Conch shells are heavy, I thought, a big burden for a little crab.
The next day, we were off to our next port of call, heading north to Grand Bahama Island, to find new friends or connect with old ones. Not unlike the little hermit crab, we pilot our home through the clear water, rocking back and forth as we move forward.
So long, little buddy.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!”
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.
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.
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, . . .
“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.
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.
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?
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!
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.
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?
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
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.
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.
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.
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.)
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.
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:
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.
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.
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.
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
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Having a Ball in Key West
– Attributed to Horace Greeley“They must often change, who would be constant in happiness or wisdom.”
– Confucius
“Go West, young man.”
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.
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.
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.
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
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
“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.)
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.
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.
“Are you happy?” asked Don.
“Yes, I’m happy!” I replied.