Day Two...

 

It is now the following morning yet it's not quite daybreak. I slept decently enough on the cabin floor throughout the night and now find myself poking my head out of the companionway to take a look around.

Two towers can be seen with their red lights flashing on and off every second or two advising me of shoals. They now appear somewhat closer than when I had seen them the previous evening off in the distance.

My GPS tells me that I have drifted some nine miles overnight closer to shore. Blondie is still somewhat away from the shoaling so I'm not overly concerned. Besides, first things must come first and I crank up the alcohol stove and brew a pot of coffee.

Winds are still howling out of the east and east is the direction that I want to sail to. Marathon is but twenty miles away or so and had the winds cooperated and shifted from out of the west, I would surely be tied up to a mooring in Boot Key Harbor by noon or so.

I have little inclination of raising the mainsail after the physical beating that I took the day before so I don't even try. I do partially unfurl the jib and do my best to tack into the wind. Blondie is making very little headway into the wind if any.

I later start up the outboard motor for the purpose of doing some motor sailing. I feel a small pang of guilt as I start up the motor for something other than getting in and out of a marina and feel as if I've betrayed Blondie because Blondie is a sailboat and not a motorboat. Marathon isn't all that far away and I just want to be there.

There are lobster pots scattered all throughout these shallow waters and I find myself continuously attempting to dodge the lines that attach the pots to a float. The floats all have distinctive colors and are numbered so that fishermen can readily identify and account for them from a distance.

It's hard enough sailing to windward let alone worrying about snagging a lobster pot on the skeg of the boat. It's like attempting to sail while dragging an anchor. It's just not going to happen. Like the song says... "There ain't no sex in the champagne room", and it's just not gonna happen...

I do nevertheless snag a line and come to a complete halt. Fortunately the line releases itself from the skeg without me having to don my mask and fins to dislodge the line from a safe distance with my boat book. I sure as hell don't want some random ocean swell catching the hull of the boat and having it smack me upside the head while underwater.

I'm on a slow northeasterly course while checking my current position on the GPS and preoccupied with avoiding lobster pot lines. No sooner did I come to the realization that Blondie is fast approaching a shoal when the boat suddenly comes to an abrupt and complete stop.

Ooopps... I've run aground of all things. Blondie heels over in the sand while I attempt to backtrack and get her off. There is no panic, no frustration and certainly not any cursing to be heard. It's just me with my thoughts churning to decide what must be done to get off the sandbar.

I let the jib completely out and it rapidly fills with air but Blondie only lurches a bit forward... and in the wrong direction. Ooops... wrong decision.

Off in the distance can be seen quite a few fishing boats laying out their lobster pots. I turn on my cell phone and fortunately I'm close enough to a tower to pick up phone service. I call TowBoat US to inform them of my location and request that they pull me off. What the heck... I paid for the towing insurance and whether I like it or not I'm going to need some help getting off this shoal.

A call is placed to a local towboat in nearby Big Pine Key to contact me. In the interim a passing fishing boat notices my predicament and swings in close by with an offer to pull me off the shoal which I gratefully accept.

I then fasten a line to a stern cleat on Blondie and heave the rest of the line in their direction upon which they tie it off and rev up their engines and Blondie is soon enough in deeper waters.

I retrieve the line and call out to the fishing boat to thank them for their assistance. All four fisherman onboard that boat acknowledge my wave with a wave of their own and they are soon on their way to lay out more pots.

The crew onboard "Shining Star" don't quite know it yet, but they've got a case of beer heading out their way once I can locate which marina the boat is routinely docked at. A case of cold beer is the least that I can do for those guys.

I in turn set a northerly course to get the hell away from the shoals and call TowBoat US to cancel my request for assistance.

There is no let up in the gusting easterly winds while I attempt to tack. I've burned half a can of fuel with little progress to show for it. It's now two in the afternoon or so when it occurs to me to call TowBoat US for a weather update. Surely they could perhaps let me know when the easterly winds could be expected to shift.

I call and proceed to explain that everything is okay, and that my vessel is not disabled in anyway and that I am calling for a weather update and calling to see if they could perhaps suggest an anchorage that might offer a bit of protection from the gusting easterly winds.

After a brief question and answer session, I'm offered to be towed to Marathon after informing them that I indeed have unlimited towing insurance. Well it certainly didn't take much arm twisting to accept their offer and an hour later Blondie is tied off to a tow boat and heading off to Marathon.

I wish that I could tell you that my seamanship skills were simply amazing and that the voyage from Marco Island to Marathon was a piece of cake and that the incessant easterly winds were but a minor inconvenience.

But the simple truth of the matter is that those "outer band winds" that kicked up from hurricane whatever, kicked my ass almost the entire way down.

I'd like to tell you that I was completely fearless and that I took the time to climb the mast at one point and do a few chin ups up on one of the spreaders while under sail... but no... it simply didn't happen that way and it's one thing to embellish a few details while describing the ordeal in a bar to make for a better story yet quite another to put it in writing and later read it and know that things happened otherwise.

It goes without saying that I was quite relieved to be tied off to a mooring ball in Boot Key Harbor for the night. I took a few minutes to get all the gear squared away and later bathe before preparing a meal on the alcohol stove.

Not that anyone really cares but dinner that evening was a most satisfying dish of "Vigo Saffron Yellow Rice" along with a tin of "Lean Hormel Smoked Ham" all washed down with a huge mug of powdered milk.

The label on the package describes the product as "Authentic Spanish Rice", "Easy to Prepare", and "Completely Seasoned". It was damned good and I certainly couldn't have prepared it any better.

Pulling up anchors and sailing off to Marathon...

It is day break and I find myself pulling up my anchors in the quiet anchorage just outside of Rose Marco Island Marina. I pause a moment to contemplate the early morning sunrise before carrying on with the task at hand and for once my Nissan 9.8 hp outboard is not giving me any grief and starts right on up.

Blondie's sails are ready to be hoisted but first there is the business of motoring through three miles of inlet channels. It is a delightful cruise right on past some of the most fabulous homes and condos you'll ever see and they all reek of money and lots of it.

I continue motoring out into the open waters to the last channel marker before attempting to hoist the mainsail. Winds are more than steady and it is with some effort before I can get the bow pointed into the easterly wind and finally raise the mainsail all the way up.

With the mainsail now up, I shut down the outboard and uncleat the roller-furling jib line and watch the jib spill out and fill with wind. Blondie is now slicing through the water at a good five to six knots without even breaking a sweat.

There is hardly a ripple in the water as I continue sailing on past Marco Island beach where just days earlier I had sailed right up to then dropped an anchor. I continue sailing on past Romano Point while occasionally looking back only to see Marco Island and all its luxury condos looking smaller and smaller on the distant horizon.

I think about the friendships forged over the past ten days or so and suddenly feel like a nomad not having a clue of what lies ahead in my life. I think about my brief conversation with the senior gentleman who cut my hair just days before and of him talking lovingly of his wife of many years.

I find myself yearning for my ex-wife's companionship and regretting not having been a devoted husband. I remind myself that life is a collection of life experiences and to have a more positive outlook on things and that I "need to embrace this" as Blondie continues on slicing through the water.

Soon enough Blondie is sailing right on past my first waypoint programmed into my GPS and it is but ten in the morning when I sail on past my second waypoint. The same waypoint which days earlier was within sight yet forever unreachable because there wasn't the slightest breeze to fill the sails.

Steady winds are out of the east and I'm hoping that they stay that way for awhile until I sail on past the Northwest Cape. I'm anticipating that the winds will gradually start shifting out of the south and am later hoping that the westerly winds will kick up and carry me southeast to Marathon. This seems to have been the wind pattern of the past few days.

Blondie wasn't but a mile or so away from the second waypoint when the easterly winds suddenly start gusting. It seemed like an isolated gust at first but soon one gust of wind followed another and were all out of the east.

The boat is suddenly heeling over and lurching forward. It is no longer a controlled sail... never mind whether it is comfortable sail or not. I reef the roller furling jib to some extent and let out the mainsail as much as possible so that the wind spills out.

By now, the smooth water of early this morning is a thing of the past. The water now resembles a caldron of boiling water. Blondie is now heeling over somewhat precipitously every time a swell sneaks up on us.

I am constantly surfing down the swells to keep the boat upright and once again I am frightened and regretting not heading the advise of a power boater to sail in close to shore and not sail out on the open waters. "Good luck to you" were her ominous departing words. But what the hell do power boaters know about sailing?

The easterly winds do not lessen nor do they shift out of the south. It is a brutal sail. I am exhausted and even more importantly thirsty. There is plenty of water onboard the boat this time around except that it is all down below in the cabin. My three liter bottle of water didn't last long and there is no way I can risk letting go of the tiller to go down below into the cabin to retrieve another bottle of water.

My legs ache from constantly bracing myself in the cockpit. My right hand now has callouses from having grasped the tiller with all my might all day and my right arm aches so bad that it is crying out for a bit of Ben-Gay.

Sunset for that day was scheduled for 7:32 pm and sure enough I watch the sun dip below the horizon at the appointed time. It's now around 8 pm or so with very little daylight when I see a massive thunderhead cloud light up in the distance.

I've made my mind up. The mainsail must come down one way or another and it must be now regardless of the ocean swells. I point the boat into the wind as best I can and race towards the mast while grasping everything in sight as tightly as possible while anticipating a large swell smacking Blondie at any moment.

Much to my relief, I successfully drop the mainsail and gather in the sail as best I can. I hastily fasten the mainsail to the boom with three bungee cords that I earlier had clenched between my teeth while scrambling up on deck.

I am pleased to see that my new topping lift functions as intended and that the boom is not on the deck rolling about. Blondie is no longer under sail but simply bobbing off one swell after another but I am relieved to go down below in spite of all the swaying motion.

I check my position with the GPS one last time and mark it. I am fifteen or so miles north of Big Pine Key... way off course but in deep enough water nevertheless. I'll worry about getting back on course in the morning when it is daylight. For now I am simply too exhausted to do anything but collect myself both mentally and physically.

I secure the gear in the cockpit and go down below into the cabin. It is a mess. Gear is strewn everywhere and all is wet from the ocean spray and occasional rain showers. Damned... I've yet to replace the two portholes along either side of the V-berth.

My cutlery knives that I previously thought were secure are all scattered on the cabin floor. I collect those up first and make sure that I've got'em all. Next I pick up a number of items that had spilled out of the various tote boxes and secure those as well.

Now it's time to look out after myself and I proceed to drink what seemed to be at the time a quart of water. I kick off my wet sneakers and strip off my life vest followed by my white long sleeve shirt that had once seen better days in an office. I then strip off my wet swim trunks while continually bracing myself down below while Blondie is continuously rocked from one side to another.

I dry myself off with a grungy towel but then reconsider the extent of my "bathing". Even I can't stand the grime and odor that's stuck all over me. I dig out a bar of Irish Spring soap, a clean washcloth, a bucket, and some fresh water and scrub myself clean.

I later rinse off as best I can with the same washcloth and dry off with a clean dry towel this time around. I pull on some dry underwear, a t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts of all things. I am now somewhat clean and dry and my disposition has improved.

My stomach reminds me that I need to eat something but nothing sounds appetizing with all the rocking motion going on. I rummage through my tote box containing my provisions and come across a can of Campbell's condensed tomato soup. I pop open the lid, grab a spoon and down my first spoonful. The soup is cold right out of a can but I remind myself that this is what is surely called plain Gazpacho Soup in Spain. The soup is decidedly satisfying and comforting.

Sleeping in the V-berth is out of the question. It is completely wet and there is way too much motion going on to sleep in there. I lay out my somewhat dry towel on top of the deflated dingy laying on the cabin floor where there is the least amount of motion to be felt. I lie on the towel and soon enough my exhaustion takes over and I am sound asleep.