Tag Archive | cats on boats

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.

*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.

Once CLODS, Now Liverboards

Sep3

Don’t look over your shoulder; you’re not going that way.
— Anonymous

I can barely remember living in an apartment, and I haven’t lived in a house for more than 17 years. I once owned a condo in Stratham, New Hampshire. I loved the back deck facing the woods, and looked forward each year to the parade of wild turkey chicks as they passed my picture window. The trees changed colors, dropped their leaves and held remnants of snow in their limbs. In spring, they sprouted pale green buds and started over again.

*A wild turkey on my deck in New Hampshire.*

I am nostalgic for my New Hampshire home, but I’m not going back. I live on a boat now. Yes, Florida is hot, but you don’t have to shovel heat or brush it off your car. Each morning, I poke my head out the companionway door to feel the breeze off the water and decide whether to have my coffee in the cockpit. We wash dishes by hand, fill our water tanks, empty our waste tank, cook by propane stove, and have cocktails outside. At night, we fall asleep to gentle rocking.

CLODS are cruisers who have to leave their boats temporarily and live on land. This happens when boats need repair or when the cruisers are between boats. It’s an acronym for Cruisers Living on Dirt. We were CLODS because we dreamed of being cruisers, and planned to move onto our boat when our lease was up. When I told my best friend in New Hampshire that we were going to buy a bigger boat and live on it, she said, “Kay, what’s a liverboard?” I had told her we would be live-aboards.

*The main salon of our Catalina 380, with the V-berth door open. We have a larger cabin in the stern, a galley, and a head with a stand-up shower.*

Our living quarters are small, but in that lack of space, there is freedom. It’s a freedom from stuff. The transition to the new boat involved getting rid of stuff – furniture, clothing, knick knacks, dishes, pots, appliances and pictures. Some things were harder to let go of: a clock my sister got me at a vineyard we visited in California; gifts given to me by my children, like the little snow globes with kittens inside; the sweet Hummel angel given to me at age 14 by my dearest friend as I was about to move away. (I kept the little broken angel; I couldn’t part with it.)

*A little flute-playing Hummel angel, with a broken flute.*

A friend gave me some good advice for dealing with the precious artifacts of a life on land: Take a picture of it and let it go. Slowly, the apartment began to empty out. We sold some things, gave some to charity, and gave away items we could have sold if we’d had more time. One middle-aged Latino came to look at our kitchenware and ended up with an entire pickup truck of furniture, appliances and dishes. From his limited command of English, we got the idea that he was in the midst of a divorce and had to furnish his bachelor pad. He got it all for free. Just before moving day, we took the few things we were keeping to a rented storage unit (most cruisers have one).

On Saturday, Oct. 6, we left my two cats in the apartment while we motored to the new slip in Hollywood, Florida, a 6-hour journey down the Intracoastal Waterway. We had left Phil’s car at the marina so we could return for the cats and the final cleaning. I took just one picture that day, and I barely remember the trip itself. I know the wind was blowing hard from the east and we broke two stanchion bolts with a hard bump into the fuel dock when we were trying to leave. I felt responsible for that, since I should have been fending off as we pulled away instead of wrapping up the bow lines. With only two people on board, it’s hard to be in the right place all the time.

*The only photo from our trip to the new slip is this one of Capt. Phil Decker at the helm.*

We had some trouble backing into our new slip because the canal is very narrow, and the slips are not spacious. The east wind was blowing harder by then, and we gently bumped the bow of the boat next door, but no damage was done. Our neighbor, Joe, was extremely gracious and helped us with the lines. I was about to have my own problems with that wind, and the storms it was driving onshore.

After the boat was secure, we drove back to Port Royale to clean the apartment, gather up the cats and head back to the marina in our separate cars. The cats are mine; I’ve had them since they were tiny kittens. Phil has always been understanding of my need to keep them with me, and of my responsibility for their lives. The truth is, he would rather not live with cats, and the care of them is my duty, not his. I packed them into two carry boxes – one plastic cat carrier, and one cardboard carrier we had gotten from the vet for a hurricane evacuation.

It was getting late, and we were exhausted, so Phil volunteered to finish the cleaning as the cats and I took off in my Prius for our new home onboard. The cats cried all the way to the marina, fraying my nerves. Just as we got to the parking lot, it began to rain and I heard the familiar sound of wind through the sailboat rigging. It did not occur to me that the wind would be blowing the boat off the dock, making an unsafe gap over the water. I was about to find out.

It was dark on Dock 5, as the marina was in the process of replacing the dock lights. I found a dock cart and loaded the two crying cats in, along with a case of catfood and the new litter box. As I approached the boat with my load, the skies opened up and rain poured down on me, the cats, and – to my horror – the cardboard cat carrier. Now I pictured the gap between the dock and the boat swallowing my cat as the cardboard gave way. I would have no way of finding her, let alone pulling her out of the water and onto the boat.

So, the first order of business was getting the heavier female cat (Maggie) on board in her carrier before it fell apart. It was high tide, and the wind was getting stronger as the squall passed overhead. I pulled on the dock line to get the boat closer, but the wind kept pulling it back. I couldn’t step aboard with the carrier because I had to hold the bottom so she wouldn’t fall out. Out of sheer will power, I pulled the boat close, and as it started drifting away from me, I threw the cat carrier onto the cockpit cushion, hoping the poor thing would land upright. It didn’t. It leaned dangerously into the cockpit table at an angle. But she was on board and not in the water.

Cat number two (Max) was even harder. Even though the carrier had a handle, and was sturdy, it was heavy and awkward. I tried several times to pull the boat in, and the wind pushed it away. I was soaked and I could hear Maggie crying from her soggy cardboard box. Max was desperately trying to escape from the carrier in my hand, and I pulled hard on the dock line to get the boat close enough to shove the box into the cockpit. I got it on board, but the carrier was perched dangerously close to the edge of the catwalk as the wind pulled it away.

*Max, sometimes known as the “cat-hole.”*

I decided the other items could wait until Phil arrived. I took a big step from the dock and got one foot under the cat carrier before the boat drifted away and I hung on to the bimini with my other foot hanging behind me. I shoved the carrier into the cockpit and it fell sideways – hard – onto the deck. Max stopped complaining for a tortured minute and I opened up the companionway. One at a time, I carried the cats onboard and released them from their boxes. I closed the hatch with the wooden slats and sat down inside.

“We’re home,” I said out loud. Then I put my head in my hands and cried. It was relief, exhaustion, and regret. “What have I done?” kept coming to mind. The animals were wandering around, exploring, and were finally quiet. After a few minutes of feeling sorry for myself, I wanted to text Phil to let him know I was home safe. Then I realized my purse, and my iPhone, were outside in the dock cart along with a case of cat food cans and the litter box.

The rain was stopping as I ventured out again, but the tide was high and the dock looked like a long leap away in the dark. As I wondered how to get off the boat without going swimming, a neighbor came down the dock and asked if I needed help. As he took the items out of the dock cart and handed them up to me, he introduced himself and welcomed me. He was an angel named Patrick.

Marinas are full of characters and interesting travelers, old salts and new cruisers. There are the bachelors on boats (the “BoBs”) who divorced and lost their homes to ex-wives and children, and the families with children whose weekly laundry flaps from the lifelines. There are experienced captains who live aboard here between assignments of bringing mega-yachts to their owners around the islands. There are sailing couples who walk their dogs every morning and evening. We know their dogs’ names before we know theirs.

Marina people form a community like no other I’ve experienced. If you need help, or company, or a simple gathering around someone’s BBQ, you’ll find it. When a boat comes in, multiple residents rush to the dock to catch the tossed lines. Patrick was no different; he just came along exactly when I needed help.

By the time Phil arrived, I had the litter box set up, the cats were eating, and I was calm. We had a drink and I told him the story. He’s a patient listener, even when I go on and on with detailed complaints. When I was done, he was quiet for a minute, then he made me laugh with the phrase we always use when life on board is anything but idyllic. “Living the dream!” he said. Then he made us another round of drinks.

Under the Boom

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

Tag Archive | cats on boats

Ghost Town to Boom Town

Leaving the Keys

Once CLODS, Now Liverboards