Day #4 - Monday: Marathon, Seven-Mile Bridge, and Bahia Honda

girls in the forward cockpit

      The verdict on last night's attempt to go without the A.C.:  not good.  The most common complaint:  "It was sticky."  O well, we tried.  At least I slept well.

      Rainbows End is a beautiful vessel, but the interior design is not that great.  It does not do a good job of making use of space.  There's no reason why she doesn't have permanent sleeping berths for at least eight adults.  (Charisma did, and it was a considerably smaller vessel.)  The two forward "crew cabins" on Rainbows End are just a complete waste of space, unusable except perhaps for cargo, and even then, very difficult to get things in and out.  The "master" suite on the starboard side has a loveseat-sized couch which is too short for an average-sized adult, plus an unneeded desk (there's a desk up in the salon).  And we don't need three heads aboard. 

       So every night, we must convert the salon settee into a bed, then reverse the process every morning.  It gets old.  Although it is true that I came here, not for pampered comfort, but rather to sail, I still wish I had a bed I could call my own.

       Also, we need a full-sized table in the cockpit; I hate to keep comparing things to Charisma, but, you guessed it:  Charisma had one.  And finally, I'm not sold on the bridge being up over the cockpit; you cannot really visit with folks down in the cockpit from up there.

       Now for a few words about how to stay healthy and comfortable aboard a boat for a week, especially down in a hot climate.  There are some items and substances that all crew members should have and use.  At the top of the list, of course, is sunscreen.  And remember that sunscreen washes off if you swim or sweat profusely, so you must re-apply.  Along these lines, everyone should have a good hat.  Next on the list is body powder.  There are some body crevices that tend to stay wet, and persistent salt water in those places will eventually cause great discomfort.  (All of Rainbows Ends crew were good and powdered each day.)  Finally, regarding seasickness prevention:  it really depends on where you're going.  On our first day out, we were in the Atlantic where things were a bit rough.  But since then, we've been up in the very calm Gulf side of the islands where seasickness is not a problem.  So if you're going someplace with rough water, prepare accordingly.

Marathon, from the water

       Our first stop of the day is at Marathon, just a few miles from where we anchored last night, where we need to stock up on food, ice, beer, fuel, and water.  This will our last provisioning opportunity for the next 3 days and 3 nights, according to my planned itinerary.  After Marathon, we will reach the lower keys, where we turn northward out into the wild blue yonder.

       It is rather difficult to find a place that can handle a big catamaran such as ours, and the cruising guide is not much help.  So once again, we send in a "landing party" in the dinghy while Tim holds the mother ship stationary with the engine.  The first place we dinghy into is called Banana Bay.  The marina operator there was friendly and helpful, but unfortunately could not fit us.  He did, however, direct us to another marina not far away named Keys Fisheries.  He even called the marina operator there, Liz, to double-check with her, and even told us that we could easily reach her on VHF channel 19.  

       There was a small bit of confusion finding the entrance to the Keys Fisheries marina, which meant we wandered up and down Marathon's coast a couple of times, but we finally found the canal and made Rainbows End fast inside.  The girls caught a taxi into town to get groceries while us guys got fuel and water.  We had not burned much fuel, but we were SHOCKED at how much water had been used.  Later, we had a little "come to Jesus" crew meeting on the how's and why's of onboard water conservation.

Lunch at the Key Fisheries restaurant

       We had a magnificent lunch at the Keys Fisheries diner, right next door to the marina.  The diner was right on the water with a gorgeous view of the ocean.  While ordering drinks, it comes out in conversation with the bartender that everyone there at the diner had seen this big, gorgeous sailing catamaran puttering around right out there.  When Doug tells him, "Oh yeah, that's our boat", my head swelled up with so much pride that it almost exploded.

      As we loaded up the ice and other provisions in that steamy, hot, sweltering little marina, it was clear to all that we could not WAIT to get out of that sauna and back out into the nice, cool, breezy ocean again.  We cast off quickly, and soon Rainbows End was back in her element, and the crew was happy again.

      Our experiences in Fiesta Key and Marathon - finding a marina that could fit us, and how rare it was just to see a sailboat - really brought to mind a curious phenomena we had observed for the past few days:  sailing-wise, we are all alone here.  This was clearly the biggest surprise of this trip, so far.  Yes, we had seen a fair number of powerboats of all sizes.  But my research into the Keys had told me that this was a big sailing destination.  So where the heck were they?  Were they all out on the Atlantic side?  That's what Joe had kinda told us.  I'll have more contemplations on this topic later in this blog.

       So onward we sail in our relentless westward-bound trek.  The wind is still on our aft quarter, so we are again broad-reaching in a series of downwind tacks.  Rainbows End is clipping along at a good solid 6 knots. 

7-mile bridge

      Our route is now taking us right alongside the Seven-Mile Bridge out of Marathon.  With no more thread-the-needle passes on this leg of the trip, I don't need to sit right at the helm.  So I get up and stand up on the cabin top, and find that this is the coolest place in the whole world from which to drive Rainbows End!  I can see for miles, and even wave to the cars on the highway bridge.  (I hope they are watching the road, and not my bikini-clad "hood ornaments" up on the foredeck.)

hood ornament

       Eventually we reach the end of the bridge and come to Bahia Honda, our planned stop for the night, and drop anchor. The water is crystal-clear, so I grab snorkel and fins to swim out to give the anchor a quick visual inspection.  To my surprise, the plow-type anchor has NOT dug in.  The seabed seems to be made of hard-packed sand and crushed coral with nary a blade of seagrass in sight.  It's a darn good thing I checked it!  So we pulled up the anchor and tried again; still it is not holding.  Next I have Tim goose the engine in reverse for a few seconds with the anchor out; STILL no luck.  O boy - this could be a problem. 

       I have Mitch and Jeremy get in the dinghy, with a snorkel mask, and do some reconnaissance and see if they can find some seagrass, which might indicate that the seabed there is not quite so hard.  They putter around, then yell from a spot not too far away that the bottom there looks grassy.  We try that spot; it works!

       This incident really got me thinking - you really can never just assume that your anchor is well-set.  A visual inspection is the only sure way.  But what do you do if the water is too cold, or too murky?  Or if it's dark?

Beach babes

        There is a sandy beach right there on the island, only about a hundred yards away, so a group of us swim or dinghy ashore to check it out.  We spend an hour or so playing on the beach, throwing Frisbee, exploring, and finding seashells and interesting marine life.  And we have the whole place to ourselves!  But the noise of Highway #1, just on the other side of that mangrove swamp, constantly reminds us that we are not that far from

Horseshoe crab

civilization.

More fun on the beach

Day 5 - Tuesday: Big Spanish Channel and Cudjoe Channel

sailing is hard work

      Today is our long sail day.  The plan is to sail all the way from Bahia Honda, north-westerly up the Big Spanish Channel, out into the open Gulf of Mexico, and westward into Cudjoe Channel for the night.  Distance:  about 25 miles.

      But an hour out, and the wind dies down to almost nothing.  There is nothing worse than being on a sailboat when there is little or no wind, and the temperature is like a hundred degrees.  So we have no choice but to fire up the propulsion engine.

      And it won't start.

      After much diagnosis, we determine that the problem appears to be with the starter.  It seems to be turning over, but will not engage the diesel engine.  So we break out the cell phones and put in a call to Joe.  (Fortunately, we still have cell service.)

      First the bad news:   This is a major problem that will require major repairs.  It cannot be fixed over the phone.

      The good news:   The auxiliary engine can recharge the propulsion batteries, but it's some kind of indirect connection that is less efficient or something; in all honesty, I do not understand all the complexities of this electric system.  So we must monitor the propulsion battery constantly, and will not be able to run the propulsion motors hard at all.  We'll make it to Key West Ok, but it will definitely take longer, unless the wind comes back.  Oh, and I almost forgot to mention:  the auxiliary engine is MUCH noisier than the propulsion engine.

shot of chart plotter screen, new Cudjoe

       So onward we plod, at a fraction of the speed we were going yesterday at this time.  The propulsion motor throttles are barely above idle.  And even then, we must periodically shut them down to zero when the battery voltage gets too low.

      A few hours later, we emerge from the Big Spanish Channel into the open Gulf, and turn westward.

      Out here away from all the human development clustered around Highway #1, the scenery becomes more interesting.  There are hundreds of little tiny islands to our left (southward) side, each  low and flat, and covered with dense mangrove forests and/or marsh.  Occasionally, we would see some man-made development, but most of it was uninhabited.  To the north, there is nothing but open ocean.  The water is very clear.  It has a somewhat greenish tint, with splotches of dark blue and light blue, indicating deeper and shallower water, respectively, and occasionally whitish, which indicates sand.  The surface is smooth and flat.  When the wind died to a dead calm, the water becomes like glass.  Jeremy would comment later that he really likes it out here, far away from the rest of civilization.

 

Fat Albert

       We can see the infamous blimp, nicknamed "Fat Albert", from many miles away.  It is white-colored and tethered to the ground on one of the small islands in these parts.  The U.S. military has been operating it out here since WW II.  There are actually two of them, according to the cruising guide.  One of them blasts TV propaganda to Cuba, and the other searches for unauthorized ships and airplanes trying to enter the U.S.

        Then there are these crazy little fish that jump out of the water and seem to "run" across the surface, like a skipping stone.  It looks like they're all trying very hard to get away from our boat.  Tim says they are called "Geaux" fish.

dolphin swimming

        Eventually, we arrive at the place where the Cudjoe Channel meets the open Gulf, and turn southward into the channel.  The water here is deep, and as clear as can be.  Nearby, a large fish or animal or something breaks the surface with a loud splash.  To our astonishment, we see that it's a DOLPHIN, and we can actually see it swimming under the water for quite a distance!

Check out the area by dinghy

       Near a small mangrove-covered island, listed on the nautical chart as simply "Mangroves", we drop anchor.  There is a wicked eastbound current flowing through here, presumably a tidal current.  I estimate it must be flowing at 4 knots.  Jeremy goes into to water for an anchor inspection, but the current is so strong he cannot make any forward progress, even with swim fins!  Tim and I advise the crew to wear flotation and to tether yourself to the boat before swimming here.  The girls settle instead for getting a bucket of seawater and pouring it down each others' swimsuit.  I could swear I saw steam rising out of their swimsuits as that nice cool water washes away the sweat of one long, hot, dismal sailing day.

      Mitch, as usual, hops in the dinghy to go explore.  Sometime later, he comes back and reports that, as he approached the nearby island, a huge flock of birds, like, exploded as he approached, just like on a National Geographic Wildlife show.

The Captain & niece at sunset

      A half-hour later, the current is gone.  This confirmed my suggestion that it was tidal.  So everyone jumps in the water; no tether necessary!  Underwater, we see rays, lobsters, coral, and many, many fish.  Several of us swim toward "Mangrove" island, where the water is only about 3 feet deep.

      And of course we do our anchor inspection.  The anchor appears to be dug in Ok, but the chain rode has a sharp bend in it.  Also, an hour or so later, the powerful current starts up again, only this time it is flowing from the OPPOSITE direction.  None of us have ever seen such dramatic tidal currents, anywhere!   

This IS Doug & Michelle's honeymoon, don't forget

       Further increasing our anxiety about anchor dependability is the fact that storm clouds are gathering on the southern horizon.  So we guys huddle up to discuss the situation.  We decide that pulling up the anchor and trying someplace else is not likely to help because these tidal currents are probably everywhere in here.  And besides, a lot of the seabed around here is that same hard-packed sand and crushed coral that could give us the same problem as we had yesterday.  At least where we are, the anchor is indeed set, but the concern is that shifting winds and currents could potentially pull it loose.  So tonight, we will do an all-night anchor watch, starting at 10 p.m. and ending at 6:00 a.m.  Each of us five guys will pull a 1-1/2 hour shift.  We are to keep a close eye on nearby "Mangrove" island, and if it appears we are dragging anchor, then we are to immediately wake the rest of the crew.

       We divvy up the shifts by drawing out of a hat.  I get the last one, starting at 4:30 a.m.

       Also to be decided at our crew meeting was how best to get to Key West, considering that the wind forecast for tomorrow was just like today:  about 5 knots, out of the west.  The WEST!!  Yuck!!  We're supposed to have EASTERLY trade winds at this latitude.  And we don't have our main propulsion engine.

       The original plan called for a stop tomorrow at Jewfish Basin, a place that was described with very high praise in the cruising guide.  But, Jewfish Basin had a narrow and rather shallow entrance, and once into the basin, it would take some time to get to our planned anchorage spot.  Reverse that process the next day.  With neither good wind nor a reliable propulsion engine, all that maneuvering would be time-consuming and potentially hazardous.  On the other hand, we had noticed that winds seem to pick up in the later part of the day. 

       Anyway, we decided to make the go or no-go call as we passed the entrance to Jewfish Basin tomorrow.  If the winds have picked up, and it's not too late in the day, we'll go on into Jewfish; otherwise, we huff it all the way to Key West in one leg.  That would make it a 30-mile sail.  Once in Key West, we will go with the original plan and anchor or moor the first night there.  How long will it take to get there?  It depends on the wind.  Best case scenario:  about 5 hours.  Worst case:  15 hours.  We'll check the weather forecast in the morning, see if anything has changed.

      Everyone get to bed!  We got a long night, and a much longer day, tomorrow.

Day 6 - Wednesday: Calms and Storms

      Jeremy wakes me up at 4:30 for my anchor watch shift.  I was actually looking forward to doing this, and glad that I drew the last shift, for I was going to while away my time stargazing.  There should be some amazing things to see up in the sky at that time of night, at this latitude, and with good dark skies since the lights of civilization were quite far away.

      But those plans were trashed when I saw that it was pouring down rain.  I'm not going to see many stars in this mess.  I work my way out to the cockpit, where everything is slopping wet.  I notice that the tidal currents are flowing with their usual fury.  And it's cold!  I start to miss my nice warm, dry bed back in Houston.  Buy hey, sailing is fun!

      A half-hour or so later the rain slacks up, and I breathe a sigh of relief.  But then, the wind starts blowing.  And blowing harder.  And blowing some more.  Rainbows End starts to swing on her anchor rode.  I shine the Q-beam light over to Mangrove Island; so far, so good.  But I'm thinking that my anxiety level could not possibly get worse than it is now.

     I was wrong.

     It starts to LIGHTNING!  I see a bolt out of the sky hit the island where the Fat Albert blimp is tethered, and that ain't very far away.  Earlier, I had explained to everyone that, should lightning hit our mast, the crew SHOULD be well protected, provided that you are not touching anything metal, and assuming that Rainbows End's mast is properly grounded into the water.  (Of course, the boat's electronics would likely all get fried.)  But I really don't want to test any of that tonight.  About now I start to ask myself:  what was it about sailing that I love so much?

       Anyway, the sun eventually came up, and Rainbows End was still secure at her anchor, and lightning did not strike us.  We checked the weather forecast; there was no change.  Winds today will be pitiful:  5 knots out of the west.  So I got the crew up, and we weighed anchor and set a course to Key West.

water smooth as glass

       As forecast, the winds are crummy all day long, and blowing the wrong way, to boot.  I constantly adjust the sail trim, trying to eke every last ounce of power from every tiny little wind puff.  We try to use what measly electrical voltage we have from the auxiliary engine.  And to further add salt to our wounds, we are CONSTANTLY dodging crab pots, which seem to be far more numerous in these parts.  After our experience with the Black Rope of Death, we really want to stay far away from them.  When we see a group of them ahead, we've taken to calling it a "mine field". 

      Right now, I would sell my right arm for either:  1) more wind,  2) wind from any direction other than where it's blowing now,  or  3) a working propulsion engine.  I'm not picky - I'll take any one of those!  Tell me again - why am I doing this?

      All day long, we watch thunderstorms build to the south, along the Atlantic seashore.  The storm activity increases as the day wears on.  We see little funnel clouds sometimes poke downwards from clouds.  Meanwhile, off to the north, the sky is clear and calm as could be.  I find myself wishing that one of those storms would, you know, kind of move toward us, not a lot, just a little bit, to, you know, maybe kick up some wind.   Every now and then the wind would tease me.  One little wind puff got all the way up to 6 knots!!  Woo-hoo!!  That was a major cause for celebration!

      At 3:00 p.m. we pass the entrance to Jewfish Basin, and it's time to make a go or no-go decision.  I crunch up some numbers.  Over the past couple of days, we have observed that, in general, the wind seems to pick up in the afternoon.  Thus it appears that our best choice is to press on towards Key West.  I just hope we make it there before dark.  I definitely do not want to enter an unfamiliar area and anchor or moor in the dark of night, even if it is pretty lit up there.  But, I would spend the rest of the trip wondering what Jewfish Basin might have been like.

Storm coming

        We press on westward, and the buildings along Key West's northern shore gradually come into view.  It would be oh-so-much easier just to cut straight across to our destination, but no, we cannot do that - shallow reefs are all over the place in here.  We must get to Key West via the long way:  straight ahead into the Northwest Channel, then down the channel in a southeasterly direction, then down around the south end of Tank Island into the harbor.  There are no shortcuts.

      We are almost to the channel when all hell breaks loose.

      All day long, we'd been watching rainstorms grow, mostly to the far south.  Well, right out of thin air, a storm forms BEHINDS us, to the east.  All day long, I had been hoping that Mother Nature would send something our way to kick up some wind.  Well, in a "be careful what you wish for" moment, Mother Nature finally decided to make up for lost time, all at once.  This storm was INSTANTLY on top of us, with no warning whatsoever.  I screamed at the crew (who were all down in the cockpit happily playing a game of dominos) to batten down the hatches and get me some help up here on the bridge, NOW!  As the guys rushed to my assistance, I watched the wind gauge start climbing, and climbing, and next thing I know it's over 25 knots.  I look around for anything up on the bridge that needs to be secured - I see my favorite hat.  But before I can grab it, a huge wind gust blows it away.

Fighting the storm

      But a lost hat was the least of my problems now.   The wind is up to 30 knots, and I've got all my sails up!  This is the sailor's worst nightmare:  overpowered sails.  It's in these situations where horrible things happen.  Think:  capsize.  Or, a broken mast.  We must reduce sail!  And without a fully-functioning propulsion engine, lowering the sails ALL the way was not an option - I needed SOME sail for power and steering control.

      I start barking out orders:  furl up the jib halfway!  (Not exactly an efficient storm jib, but it was all I had.)  Lower the mainsail halfway!  (No, it was not properly reefed, the reefing lines were a mess, and the luff cringle was not hooked; the sail had a horrible shape, but it would have to do.)

        Finally, with assistance from my terrified crew, we get the boat under control.  And now the wind is blowing from:  the southeast.  And we need to go down the channel towards the:  southeast!  So after fighting for westward progress the whole darn day, now I'm fighting to get the boat to go back the other way!   We begin a series of upwind tacks to try to get the boat moving where we need it to go.  I realize that this is probably the first time in the entire trip where we've done a good ole' fashioned come-about.

       The storm rages for a half-hour.  Finally, it starts to calm down, and I can breathe again.  And we've finally made enough SE progress to get around the south side of Tank Island, and into the harbor.

       As the storm subsides, boats come out.   Sailboats!  Having not seen another sailboat all week, suddenly the waters around Key West are filled with sailboats of every size!  So THIS is where they've been all this time.

Key West from the water

       Still on sail power, we enter the channel just west of Key West.  Now that the wind has returned to some semblance of normalcy, I need more sail power, so we unfurl the jib and raise the main back up all the way.  Looking to the north, we see anchored boats, mostly sailboats, more than a hundred of them, anchored everywhere!  And the sun is going down.  So it seems prudent to anchor right here amongst them all.  We pick a likely anchoring spot, and at the last minute, drop the sails and use the tiny bit of remaining battery voltage for propulsion and to operate the windlass.  Anchor down. 

       (Ideally, a visual anchor inspection should happen here, but the anchor is probably 20 feet down and it's getting dark.  Tonight we'll have to go on faith.)

Key West anchorage at sunset

       We made it!  After five days and over 100 miles, Rainbows End and its crew are safe and secure in Key West, just a little worse for wear.  We can see a large crowd gathering on a westward-facing harbor right at sunset.  This must be the legendary daily sunset celebration at Mallory Dock.  As the sun hits the horizon, we hear a bugle call over the P.A. system.  And then the city of Key West lights up.

       It took us eleven hours to reach Key West from our last anchorage at Cudjoe Channel.  I've been at the helm the entire time.  That doesn't include my cold and wet anchor watch that started at 4:30 this morning.  And I just fought the mother of all storms.  I don't remember my head hitting the pillow.