Escape from Marathon!

[Hilde’s log]

Our second week in Marathon, we made the acquaintance of some of the locals. They stink, literally, but are really cute:

 When not hobnobbing with our scaly buds, we did a bit more touristy stuff, such as going to the local aquarium  

to see baby alligators

several African tortoises (this one weighs 60 lbs)

 

and lots of fish! 

Marathon City Marina office, Boot Key Harbor

 

As nice as Marathon can be, it isn’t where we want to be. Trapped by weather for two weeks instead of the one planned, we were chomping at the bit to say goodbye. As we rounded the corner of Boot Key and turned North up Hawk Channel, it felt as though we had escaped the West Coast of Florida, with all its month-long delays, and were on our trip at last.

Hawk Channel is a shallow body of water running north-south along the Florida Keys, somewhat paralleling the nearby Gulf Stream. There is really no eastward “edge” to the channel, other than a reef and deep water. If the wind is strong and from the east the “fetch” (area across which wind blows and strengthens) is Africa. Strong east winds are a no-go, as are strong north winds. We waited for light winds with a southerly component to push us along and low seas, and got both last Saturday.

The trip north was a wonderland of striped blue water, dark blue where there is vegetation on the bottom, and neon turquoise where the bottom is white sand. In the morning, the light was at an angle that turned the sea opaque, and Raven slid along through blue and turquoise milk. By mid-afternoon, the light had shifted and to our amazement we could clearly see the bottom of the channel some 20 feet below us. David said the bottom looked like Neptune’s hairy chest. I thought it looked like flying over a desert landscape striated with forested hills. Either way, it was like gliding through liquid, bottle-green crystal and I thought of the hymns that sing about a “crystal sea” around the throne of God. Now I can imagine what that looks like!

Rodriguez Key  (no bugs!!)

The trip to Rodriguez Key took about 10 hours, and we were very, very ready to anchor when we got there. We dropped the hook among about 13 boats and I wandered dazedly off to bed about 9. The next morning when we got up at 6:30, all but four boats had left. As we enjoyed our morning tea, the last few pulled out. I must admit, herd instinct takes over when I am in a group of boats. I was panicked that we’d been “left” even though I had no idea where those other boats were going. We did not plan to leave until about 9 a.m., because we were making an overnight passage to Lake Worth and didn’t want to arrive in the early hours of the morning. But it was really hard to just sit there when all the other boats disappeared.

FYI, if this is an anchorage you are considering, the bottom is quite hard. The anchor never did bite – the weight of the chain held us. Fine for low or no wind (which is what we had), but I wouldn’t like to be there in any sort of blow.

All day long we were passed by a stream of boats – fishing boats of all shapes and sizes roaring off to do battle with rod and reel, and, spread over the day, five very large (100 ft) power vessels, each towing a “dinghy” almost the size of Raven. All brand new, and the last one, blue hull and white tower, had its tender painted to match. Maybe they were all bought at the Miami boat show a month ago?? Ridiculously huge and all on a march south. Conspicuous consumption is everywhere in Florida, and I begin to believe Miami is the epicenter of staggering amounts of disposable income.

We originally planned to come in just south of Miami in Biscayne Bay, but the weather stayed good, so we opted for an overnight to Lake Worth. I’m not a fan of overnights, but going along the ICW in Florida is slow going, due to the congestion and all the bridges. By skipping forward to Lake Worth, we avoided 26 bridges! From here, there are only six more to negotiate, and then we’ll be mostly clear all the way to Georgia.

In the early morning we motored through translucent turquoise water that looked just like turquoise frosted glass. The wind and seas were a bit higher all day Monday, building until we bounced past Miami in 18 knots and occasional 4 and 5 foot troughs. By the time we reached Miami, the water was steel-gray to match the rain clouds. We were blessed in our arrival though, as Miami is home of gargantuan cruise ships and other freighter-types. We saw three cruise ships go out, two cargo vessels come in, and a smattering of smaller craft, but we arrived exactly right and chugged across the suddenly empty channel with absolutely no traffic. We caught a few rainshowers and the humidity went through the roof, but the temperatures were pleasant, and the rough ride past Miami calmed down north of Ft. Lauderdale, with light winds and smoother water. 

Miami rain showers and late afternoon sun

Sunset at Miami (note the chop)

The Gulf Stream roars right past Miami, about a mile or two off shore, so we went from a depth of 20 feet to over 200 feet to “---” (what do you mean, you don’t know?!) on the depth meter really quickly. The Stream carried us North at 3 knots, plus our boat speed, which promised to get us to Lake Worth about 2 a.m. We slowed down the motor and pretty much let the Stream take us forward, resetting arrival at the entrance to the Lake Worth inlet at about 6 (daylight at 7).

Even though the wind was southerly, we thunked along all night, with lots of pitch and roll, generally as I was trying to pour tea. The temperature was gorgeous and the Miami skyline lit up the coast for 50 miles, so we had lots of light even with only a crescent moon that set early. We each caught naps of about 2 hours, which is enough to maintain sanity, but not much more. After cutting a few doughnuts outside the channel entrance to Lake Worth and avoiding an incoming freighter in the early pre-dawn, the sun finally lit up the eastern sky and Raven came inside to the ICW about 7 a.m.

We’re anchored now at Lake Worth, the wind is honking at 20 in advance of a big cold front due to arrive tonight, and we’re glad to stop. Baths, long naps, snacks, and no ambition are the order of the day. 

Looking across the Lake Worth anchorage at the zillion dollar boats - after all, we are in West Palm Beach!

Short Trip; Back on the Ball at Boot Key Harbor

[Hilde’s log]

Those of you who follow our progress on the In Reach breadcrumb trail probably noticed our abortive attempt to go north on Saturday. We slid off the ball at 6:45 a.m. and motored out of Boot Key Harbor under clear skies and chilly winds. Dodging the inevitable crab pots, we motored out into the bay and turned east on our way to Hawk Channel. To our dismay, the wind did not cooperate in direction as had been forecast.

What it was supposed to look like when we went out...

Raven is a great boat, and she handles all seas well. The same cannot be said for the crew. We bumped and jounced along at an uncomfortable angle of heel and took turns manhandling the boat to maintain our course. Our speed was laughable. Our night’s anchorage was 50 miles north, and with the engine running and all sails out, we were making about 4.5 knots. The thought of the physical exertion needed to handle these condition applied over 10 or more hours convinced us to give up and try again another day when conditions were more conducive. About two hours out we turned around, and about 30 minutes later we were back to Boot Key Harbor. That’s the difference having the waves and wind go with you makes!

It was a good decision. Both of us were exhausted and sore as we slunk back to our mooring ball. Our neighbors dropped by to see what was going on, and agreed to go with us to the Overseas Pub across from the marina to help us drown our sorrows later in the evening. We fell into bed about 10 p.m. and conked out for 10 hours of sleep.

Today has been much better. We sat around in our pjs all morning, listening to the cruisers’ net (very entertaining) and catching up on the news (bad idea) on our phones. After lunch, we dinghied in to go to the annual Seafood Festival taking place in the nearby city park. Vendors of all kinds set up their tents and we wandered around for about an hour, buying only three items (and one was a gift, so it doesn’t count).

Our favorite tent was set up by the local aquarium. They had several kiddie pools with various samples of marine life that we were allowed to pet. I touched a small manta ray (soft, like wet silk) and took a good look at horseshoe crabs, sea urchins, sea stars, and water turtles. My favorite was the big land tortoise, a big cream-colored beauty with that ancient stare that turtles all seem to share. For a minute I was 10 years old, plotting to kidnap her and take her on board. I love tortoises.

This evening as we sat relaxing in the cockpit and enjoying a cool breeze, we were entertained by two boats engaged in hauling a sunken wreck from the mooring field. We saw the “empty” mooring ball when we came in and heard later that the space was occupied by a wreck. Two large boats, one on either side, winched the wreck to the surface (it appeared to be a large power boat). A diver went in the water to unfasten the boat from the mooring ball.

The biggest excitement was when they discovered lobsters in the boat. "This thing is full of lobsters!" came the shout over the water. They threw several presumably small specimens over the side but I suspect the others are going to be dinner tonight. The two boats finally hauled off the wreck, still more than half sunk, motors straining. We sat on deck, David taking photos, and we criticized the operation with the certainty that comes when you know nothing about the subject. That was good for an hour’s viewing – who needs TV?

Weirdly, we never saw any kind of flotation bladder.

Poor mucky boat!

Tonight, for the first time in several days, we are both feeling relaxed and calm. The mooring field is serene, the sun is sinking, the air is fresh and warm. We’ll stay here in hopes that the weather will shift for us at the end of this week. 

My idea of cruising - calm water, beautiful sunset, no bugs.

Perfect Sailing and Bug Hell

[Hilde’s log]

In order to leave Factory Bay Tuesday, we spent Monday at the dock, having the radar scanner re-installed and getting a spa treatment (bottom job) for Raven. In warm waters especially, sea growth and critters will foul the bottom of a boat, eating away at the bottom paint if allowed to remain, and slowing her top speed. It takes quite a scrubbing to wash away the barnacles, sea growth, and sometimes even oysters that attach themselves. While all that was going on, I took the trash ashore and did a farewell load of laundry and dreaded our return to the pumpout station.

Before Hurricane Irma, they tell me, the pumpout was located on an actual dock. Irma ripped that dock away, so now you approach a row of tall pilings, none of which sports a cleat. If the dock attendant is there, you toss him a line and he pulls you toward the pilings, where you tie off by wrapping lines around the posts. Last time we did it, the attendant was not there, and we had more cowboy mooring, with David leaping off the side of the boat with a line in his hand. Not fun for me! This time, it was relatively easy, probably because I had worried the whole thing to a frazzle in my mind for the preceding seven hours (ha).

Rigger with his tool bag.

Installing the radar dome.

As we settled back to anchor in the late afternoon, we agreed that we had been blessed with this anchorage. The anchorage itself has plenty of water (about 10 feet overall), good holding, and easy access to the Island. The folks at Rose Marina were, to a person, friendly and helpful, and had local knowledge of good riggers and a good diver to help us fix the radar and get ready for the next leg of the voyage. For a $5 day use fee, we could tie up the dinghy at the marina, and use their showers and laundry. We found groceries, eateries, shopping, and church all within walking distance of the marina. Occasionally, we could afford a car, although I warn you, high season prices for a car on Marco Island can cause seizures in the unprepared.

The weather has been ridiculous – day after day of perfection. Blue skies, cool breezes, warm (and sometimes hot) sun, and sweet-smelling air (other than the days we caught the smoke from the Naples landfill…). We lapped it all up, from our “back porch” on the boat.

Nevertheless, we were anxious to be on our way.

Tuesday we took a leisurely departure from the anchorage, not getting underway until 9 a.m. Up at 7, I cooked a last-minute batch of vegetables that I blended together for a cold salad underway, did some last minute cleanup, and stowed things that had somehow crept out of their storage spaces while we were at anchor. David spent the morning laying in our route and doing last-minute chores on the deck.

Oh, the bliss of our morning sail! Although the wind was light, we scooted along at 4.5 knots, thanks, no doubt, to the bottom job, on a flat turquoise sea. The balmy air washed over us, the sun shone benignly, and we just rocked along like a big cradle with wings.

I especially enjoyed brief glimpses of wildlife, notably a 50 yard swath of leaping fish of all shapes, sizes, and species, leaping this way and that, up and down, left and right, as fast as they could. I assume Something Below was having lunch, and lunch was doing its best to escape.

About the time we approached the end of the Island, the wind gave up the ghost and we motored for a little over an hour. Then it picked up again and we sailed all the way to the mouth of Indian Key Pass, where we doused the sails and motored up the river in the company of a number of fishing boats all headed for Everglades City. Indian Key is located in the area known as Ten Thousand Islands. No one knows exactly how many mangrove islands are in this part of Florida (part of the Everglades), but ten thousand may be accurate. Some are quite large, some tiny, and all of them are covered in mangroves and (I believe) uninhabited, except by bugs. 

 Coming in to Indian Key

Fishing boat hurling its way home 

 

Sure enough, a batch of tiny, tiny, biting bugs walked right through our screens (they were about ½ the size of the holes in the mesh) and munched on us as we killed them. They just committed bug suicide, as they are slow and announce themselves with a sharp, if tiny, sting. Mush. End of feast. Mercifully, the wind came up and scattered the little devils. They were midges, known locally as no see ‘ems, but we could definitely see ‘em. Imagine fine grind pepper – that’s about what they look like.

The anchorage at Russell Pass was simply gorgeous, if buggy. (see video) It rained some and the wind blew steadily for awhile, and the bugs left us alone. We thought about staying a day there to enjoy the quiet, but the bugs made the idea a lot less appealing. I laugh as I think of us shooing away a few dozen midges. Little did we know.

Breathtaking anchorage at Russell Pass

 

The next day’s sail was a copy of the first: four hours of perfect wind and water, followed by four hours of motoring when the wind collapsed after noon. For that night’s anchorage, we came into Little Shark River at about 3 p.m., motoring up the river a ways to leave room for a trawler that had already arrived and dropped the hook. David and I sat up on deck, marveling at the breeze and the birds and rhapsodizing about the cruising life. That jinxed it.

Another gorgeous anchorage - Little Shark River

About sunset, out came the midges, in swarms. We hightailed it below, and sure enough we were soon joined by hundreds of midges that squeezed (or just strolled) through the screens. We closed all the portholes and the hatches and resigned ourselves to a warm night. We slept all right, but in the morning we were appalled to find thousands of midges glued to the walls and lights in the head, which made morning business a bit tricky. I murdered them by the hundreds, both in the head and in the cabin where they had parked, waiting for breakfast (us). We discovered they were coming in from outside through the dorade vent, which no longer has a mesh screen, so we stopped up that hole with rags. It helped the inside, but when David went out to check the anchor, he bolted back below as quickly as he could, cursing and sweeping hundreds of midges off his legs and arms. It was horrible.

We also found ourselves at the very bottom of the tide cycle and knew we couldn’t leave because we had no depth. The river bank showed mud a good three feet below the mangrove roots. So we just sat around mushing midges and waiting for the water to come up.

At 10 o’clock, dressed in long socks, long pants, and my hooded windbreaker, I went out to help David. Thankfully, the anchor came right up and we wheeled the boat out of that swamp like the hounds of hell were after us.

The water was a bit rougher with the wind at about 15, so we donned life jackets and raced away. We got in a couple more hours of sailing perfection, were visited by a number of flying fish and a couple of dolphins, and generally blissed ourselves out. There was no way we were going to make Marathon after that late start, so we tacked back and forth over the rhumb line most of the day, having decided to drop the hook in the shallows near Moser Channel around sunset, about 25 miles from Marathon and a good five miles from shore to eliminate the bug issue. Ha.

We have never anchored out like that. The water in Florida Bay, where we dropped the hook, is quite shallow, and there was no wind at all, and none forecast. We motored along for quite awhile, hoping to escape the crab pots, but in the end we gave up and dropped the hook in the middle of two long lines of pots.

Crab pots can be hard to see!

(Crab pots are large cages connected with cable along the shallow areas where fishermen hope to catch crabs. Each cage is marked by a floating ball, which is rather large, but doesn't look very big out in the ocean. If we are motoring, we try hard to avoid them, because you can foul your prop on the lines that tie the float to the cage.)

Even though our evening anchorage was a good five miles from shore, guess who greeted us as we slowed to drop the hook among trailing lines of crab pots. You got it. Clouds of biting midges. Once the anchor set (probably an interesting sight, had anyone been around to see it – wildly waving arms, slapping hands, and wild whimpering), we dropped below into the hot cabin (we’d been motoring for the last couple of hours) making rude remarks about Florida and its tiny, toothy fauna. Both of us are covered in bites, from head to toe. We comforted ourselves with a sorry-for-ourselves dinner of goat cheese and jam, crackers, and alcohol, and made plans to leave this godforsaken state behind us with all due speed. There are no photos of this anchorage. It’s in the middle of nowhere, between two long lines of crab pots, and smothered with bugs. You’ll have to use your imagination.

We dropped off to sleep about 8 p.m. I was jerked awake by a floodlight coming in the starboard portholes. What in heaven? My sleep-fuddled brain thought, “crab fishermen?” but it turned out to be U.S. Border Patrol and Customs boat with three men aboard. They were very nice, very polite, probably stopping because who drops anchor five miles from shore? After seeing our registration and IDs, they left. I spent the remainder of the night on the settee, where it was less hot, waking off and on all night.

When the morning did come, we suited up like we were going on a spacewalk to foil our enemies – foulies top and bottom, long socks, etc. Bursting out into the cockpit we encountered – nada. Maybe ten lonesome midges. Figures.

A relatively short day of motoring and dodging crab pots brought us under Seven Mile Bridge and into Marathon today in the early afternoon. Marathon is very, very popular with the cruising community, and getting a ball here in the winter is iffy. We got one! No doubt a number of boats have left for the Bahamas for spring cruising, leaving us a spot. It looks pretty much as it did ten years ago, although Hurricane Irma did leave her mark. Many of the boats are under repair, and some are tethered to other boats until they are seaworthy enough to float on their own. But if you want to head this way, it’s definitely open for business.

Seven Mile Bridge - the gateway to the Atlantic and farewell to the Gulf