Foggy morning on Tampa Bay when we left St. Pete.

[Hilde’s log]

As I write this, we are sitting quietly in our slip in Burnt Store Marina, about 10 miles south of Punta Gorda and about 1/3 the way up Charlotte Harbor. We’ve pretty much recovered from our trip down from Pensacola, the laundry is done, we have managed to reprovision, and we’ve found the sailor’s library in the laundry room. All in all, not bad. Although I must tell you, winter in Florida is not the kind of warmth I was expecting. The temperature climbs to the low 80s in the afternoon, but the breeze is downright cold. I find myself wearing long sleeves and sweaters in 78-80 degree weather and scratching my head. No one else has commented on it, which leads me to believe they are all from Buffalo, NY.

Our trip from St. Petersburg took us down the InterCoastal Waterway (ICW) in the hopes of beating the huge winter storm that stretched from Pennsylvania to Cuba at one point. We didn’t quite make it, due to our decision to come in at St. Petersburg, which lost us two days. However, we did manage to tuck into a wonderfully protected anchorage between Lido and Otter Keys, and that is where we waited out the high winds. 

Our anchorage at Otter Key, with the cold front looming behind us. The first day we were there, it was 80 and I luxuriated in the cockpit. The second day...eeep. Cold.

 

A 360 view of our anchorage at Otter Key 

You have to bump over a sand bar at high water to get into this anchorage, which meant we had to time our exit to the tide. We actually used this Google Earth app to navigate the bar (to the bottom right of Otter Key above you can see the bar and the narrow channel). The blue dot moved as we did and we could see where the sand was. Now, that was novel!

When we left the anchorage, the winds were down, but so was the temperature (40). We were really, really cold in our open cockpit, bundled up in multiple layers of clothing, and grateful for the relatively calm air. Every detail of the scenery was in sharp relief as the cold front swept all traces of moisture from the atmosphere.

Me peering over the dodger as we chug down the ICW. I'm too short by about 4".

 

The ICW is a protected “trail” for boats, with barrier islands between you and the open sea. That cuts way down on chop and wind. In some places the waterway is very wide, but you have to navigate by instruments to stay on the “path” - that part of the waterway that is deep enough for passage. Otherwise, you risk going aground. In other places, the waterway is very narrow, like a canal. You have to hand steer, as well, because of the twists and turns. It’s not particularly difficult, just a lot of motoring which jiggles my insides and makes me tired.

In Florida the ICW is littered with bridges, all of which we have to pass under. Having a 49 foot mast, that means we have to call most of the bridges to request passage. The bridge operators are almost all quick to respond to a hail and very helpful, but the sheer number of bridges can really slow you down. One day we passed under nine of them!

Approaching a bridge on the ICW.

 Passing under a bridge on the ICW

I truly enjoy passage on the ICW because there is so much to see. I particularly like looking at all the birds. We saw brown pelicans, white pelicans, gulls, terns, little shore birds, ospreys, buzzards, ibis, herons, etc. Some of the birds were roosting in the mangroves, which made the mangroves look like decorated Christmas trees. Some stood on the sand bars, sunning themselves and stretching their wings. Some stood or waded on sand bars in the shallow, glittering water, enjoying the returning warmth as the sun rose.

A large flock of ibis gathered in the mud flats at the base of the mangroves, goozling in the mud for their breakfast. So glad I don’t have to dig my breakfast out of the mud. The gray-white branches of a dead tree on the bank were draped in huge, black roosting buzzards. Below the tree, another 20 or so were shambling around, flapping their wings and nudging each other out of the way. Above, in the clear sky, another group of buzzards rode the thermals, gliding up and around in the air enjoying the day. I have no idea why there were so many.

Ospreys are everywhere, roosting on the ICW channel markers and here at the marina on sailboat masts. They fly by with the unfortunate fish they have caught for their dinner. Ospreys make the prettiest calls, not screaming as so many raptors do, but instead making a flute-like call that is almost a song.

I apologize for no photos of the birds, but I was freezing and wearing thick gloves I was not interested in removing to take pictures!

 

After one more day at anchor we chugged up Charlotte Harbor to the marina. The harbor is a perfect place to sail if you have the wind at the right angle, but it was right on our nose and we were too tired to tack back and forth. Arriving about 1 p.m., we tucked into our slip, sighed over yet another short finger pier, and hooked up the heat! Oh, luxury!

Entrance to Burnt Store Marina

View from our slip. More of the dreaded finger piers.

Adventures are Better Told Than Lived

[Hilde's log]

Our first day out gave us calm seas and light winds under a bright sun and blue sky. That night the full moon rose, coating the sea with liquid silver. The light of the full moon illuminated the haze on the water, giving us a diffused glow like predawn light. David and I sat in the cockpit, listened to the radio, sang Christmas carols and thought, this is great! We love cruising!

The moon rises in the east on one side of the boat...

....while the sun goes down in the west on the other side of the boat.

Then about 1 a.m. (why is it always in the early hours?), it got cold, the wind piped up and the ride got interesting. We did all right that night although it was more work than we liked. The next day the wind laid down and the seas remained moderate, but both of us were feeling a little punk. I discounted that – after all, we’d already done the seasick thing leaving Galveston, so that was behind us. I thought.

For my watches, I sit here, cuddled up next to the companionway and the dodger, mostly protected from the wind.

The green canvas you see with the metal bar across the top is the dodger, which keeps most of the wind and water off of us. The tan is the bimini, which is our "porch cover" and keeps off the sun and some of the rain. We got sloshed so much, the isenglas "window" got completely fogged up with salt spray and you couldn't see a thing.

The third day the seas started piling up and we both started yawning and turning light green. Then darker green. Long story short, we were seasick for three days, ate practically nothing, drank just enough water to remain alive, and felt despondent that we were sick for the second time in a month.

That third night the wind came up in the low teens early on, the seas started roiling, and we were up and down every hour to two hours to change watch. We were on port tack (where the wind comes over the boat from the left hand side, as you are facing the bow) which I loathe because it makes going up and down the companionway ladder really hard for me.

Late that night the wind came up to about 22 apparent and Raven pitched like a bronc. Sailing didn’t help – we didn’t have enough speed in these steep and confused 5’ waves to make much forward progress. We turned on the motor to motor sail and that helped the speed but not the bucking motion of the boat. At one point we had to hand steer – David for several hours and me for only 30 minutes. I have no idea how he did it for hours. Holding the wheel was like wrestling with a bear, dragging the wheel back and forth against the surging water. Those 30 minutes almost killed me. While I held the wheel and prayed to God to keep him safe, David inched forward on the pitching deck to retrieve cans of diesel to keep the motor going and then filled the tank. The wind dipped down to 15 (in answer to fervent prayers from me) and David stabilized the self steering so that we could finally let go of the wheel. After that, it was a case of standing watch to monitor the self steering and our course, which for me meant creeping toward the wheel with my butt firmly attached to the cockpit sides and peering up at the instruments. The helm chair is way too far above the cockpit floor for me to feel safe sitting in it in bad seas!

When the sun came up, the wind moderated a bit, but the seas stayed high and choppy and the two of us were toast, literally limp with exhaustion. The floor of the boat was covered in stuff that flew off the shelves as we bucked our way along – papers, cans of sardines, pillows, settee backs...disaster. I suggested we make for St. Petersburg, as there was no way in the universe I was going to last two more nights in those conditions (that’s the right angle turn we made, for those of you who were following our track). I wasn’t sure David would last, either. He was simply exhausted after his heroic efforts the night before, and because we were still seasick, he hadn’t eaten a thing but a few bites of a Power Bar. We took turns sleeping for an hour or two below and then stood watch, napping on the deck (not good, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open).

Basically we had another 12 hours of sailing semi-hell, and then it calmed down as we got closer to shore and the last 12 hours were lovely. The approach to St. Petersburg was gorgeous, with milder seas, bright sun, and moderate wind. We sat in the cockpit, glassy-eyed with relief, and snagged a T-head at the city marina for two days (that’s all that was available – we’d have taken a month if they had let us stay).

St. Petersburg is a gorgeous city (although from the construction going on it looks as though it is on its way to being a second Miami) with lots of greenery and a vibrant downtown. The marina is right there in the downtown area so you can walk to everything. I washed all the fabric on the boat, which stunk (no other word does it justice) and we both revelled in a hot shower. I caught a peek of a green heron on a boat’s mooring line through the laundry window. He balanced on the line, leaned far forward (how he didn’t pitch in headfirst is a mystery) and snagged two fish, one after the other! I have never seen one catch a fish. 

View of downtown St. Petersburg from the fuel dock at the City Marina. That's Raven tied up at the pier.

They found us a spot for two days on a T-head (think end cap of a retail isle). They literally have room for no more boats. It's high season here.

While I was doing laundry, David cleaned up the mess in the galley, rearranged the cabin to get the stuff off the floor, and put the settees back in place. Then we sat in the cockpit and had the first tea we’d drunk in three days, in 78 degrees, with the lights of downtown St. Petersburg shining on the water all around us.

Downtown St. Pete, from the cockpit of the boat. Christmas lights abound.

What a wonderful night we had, first in the gentle breeze in the cockpit with our tea, and then supper in the cool and dry comfort of the A/C, not moving, sitting down to eat together...aaaah. (A/C sounds weird, especially since we suffered being cold for 3 days straight, but St. Pete was 81 when we came in, and humid as a jungle.)

My cousin lives there and we had a great reunion at a fabulous coffee shop (Kahwa, if you ever come to town). We walked through part of downtown to get to the shop and admired everything. Lots of people, lots of young people (!), lots of energy. We like St. Pete a lot, and talked about coming back here to spend the winter next year. You have to make your reservations really early (like now), so I will look into that after I post this.

A tree in one of the parks downtown. Such a beautiful city!

Meanwhile, David is washing the outside of the boat, which was coated in salt, and is otherwise making us ready for tomorrow’s departure. We are “going down the ditch” (traveling the ICW) from here to Punta Gorda, where we have a month’s reservation at the Burnt Store Marina (I have no idea about the name). The ICW should be a lot calmer and we’ll be able to drop the hook every night and sleep. Good plan! I’m a lot older than I wish I were, and sleep every night makes all the difference to me.

Now this is more like it!

The Tyranny of the Weather Window

[Hilde's log]

When you are traveling from place to place on a boat, you soon learn to take advantage of the weather window. This is a short term forecast that gives you the kind of conditions you want to travel in. A weather window is usually good for two or maybe three days, and when one comes up you have to hop to, because they close pretty fast.

In Pensacola, we waited for a chance to leave that would be moderately warm. We saw that a cold front was arriving on a Wednesday, so decided to leave the preceding Friday. Our plan was to motor over to the anchorage we’d used when we first came in, drop the hook, and then leave early the next day. 

Clear weather, calm water, cool temperatures...but waiting for incoming cold weather. Time to leave!

The veranda at Island Cove. On sunny days when the breeze was still, it was pleasant.

On Thursday David discovered that the fresh water pump on the engine was leaking. Further inspection revealed that it was shot. Fortunately, a nearby shop (Bell Marine) knew the part we needed and was able to order it. We spent the next 24 hours on pins and needles waiting for its arrival. Fortunately, while we were waiting, my good friend Sherry came to visit and we had a delightful distraction from the waiting frenzy. Had the pump not arrived Friday, we’d have had to wait for a Monday delivery, and our window would have slammed shut. Temperatures for later in the week were in the 40s. To our mutual relief, the pump showed up Friday about 4 p.m., and David installed it. Obviously, it arrived much too late for us to go to the anchorage, so we just decided to roll with it and leave Saturday morning. The boat was all ready; all we had to do was leave first thing.

The round thing under the pulley is the fresh water pump.

All tidy and stowed and ready to pull out.

Because we were all squared away, we took advantage of an invitation to a local neighborhood party, courtesy of Art and Mary Jane. Most of the people in their neighborhood are retired boaters, some of whom are circumnavigators (that’s way out of my league, but I stand around and admire them from a distance). It was a lovely end to our stay in Pensacola.

The next day, we lept out of bed at 5:30, had everything stowed by 7:30 and were ready to back out of the slip. What we had not counted on was the tide. We draw 5’ (i.e., we need 5’ of water to move) and we simply didn’t have enough depth to back out of the slip. How frustrating is that!! We spent three long hours waiting for the water to rise. Time and tide wait for no man; time and tide don’t rush for anyone either.

We finally got away about 11, and motored toward the fuel dock. We needed to fill up the tank and the cans on deck. We radioed the fuel dock and got no response, which was weird. Then we came up to it and found no one in attendance. David slid Raven as close to the dock as he could and then jumped from the boat to the dock. I threw him the spring line (the one in the middle of the boat), crabbed to the back and pitched him the stern line, and then pulled myself forward to toss him the bow line. It was all very “cowboy sailing” which I hate. Evidently since we were out cruising last, no one monitors the radio any more – it’s all cell phone. The young fellow who eventually showed up had no idea what channel they monitored, which told me they didn’t monitor the radio at all. Since it’s hard to fool with a slippery cell phone on deck, it’s not a change I much like.

David got the fuel cans secured and we finally pulled away around noon, crossing Pensacola Bay in about an hour. We popped out of the entrance about 1:15 p.m., under sunny skies, watching the sugar sand beaches on the barrier islands slide by, dotted here and there with people laying back in deck chairs soaking in the sun. 

Leaving Pensacola. Now you know why they call this the Emerald Coast.

Raven underway from Pensacola

The temperatures were cool, but pleasant, and the sparkling blue water mirrored the sky above. Now this is the life, I thought. Little did I know.

Sailing from Pensacola 

Click on the link above for a short video.