Photo #1: Raven heads into the Gulf, under Seven Mile Bridge, just west of Marathon
[Hilde’s log]
May 31, 2008
What a lovely surprise we had our last day in Marathon. We checked in on the cruiser’s net as a departing vessel, and who should hail us but Matt and Linda on Worth W8N4! We hadn’t seen them since Coco Beach, back in January. They settled in at Marathon in January and loved it so much they’ve decided to stay for the long term. We enjoyed dinner together and then Linda took me with her to Bingo night at the local VFW hall. I had a great time stamping my sheets, and came close in four games, but never managed to win. Rats. Another first, for my life’s “firsts” list. Many thanks to Linda and Matt for a lovely evening. And to think, we’d been there a week and had no idea they were there. All the folks at Marathon have gone out of their way to be friendly and helpful, from the City Marina staff to the bridge tender. I’m glad we visited and equally glad we visited in the off season. From photos we’ve seen, the harbor is completely full of boats in the winter and the dinghy dock is three and four deep in dinghies, all of which is a testament to Marathon’s success in luring cruisers. It’s the Velcro Beach of the Keys.
We’re wending our way up the west coast of Florida, pausing tonight in an anchorage off the channel in Gordon’s Pass, a bit south of Naples. We crept in about 4 p.m., fighting a one knot current in a narrow passage with shoaling and shallows to contend with. David cleverly thought to call Boat U.S. on VHF 16 for local knowledge about this anchorage and they provided us with exactly the information we wanted: keep very close to the west side of the channel and expect shallower than normal lows at low tide. Raven is floating in a canal type subdivision, among some beautiful and expensive homes with boats parked at the “curb”. We’ve been entertained by all sorts of canal traffic, including a sailboat, a dinghy, a hundred foot yacht, a sightseeing boat, and a huge catamaran with about 30 people on board. Perhaps we were part of the sights they were seeing – two hot, sticky people enjoying snacks and a cold drink on deck. Dark skies have hovered around us all afternoon, but so far we’ve had only a bit of cool wind and no storms. It’s quiet now, and close, and hot, so we may get one yet.
May 31, 2008
What a lovely surprise we had our last day in Marathon. We checked in on the cruiser’s net as a departing vessel, and who should hail us but Matt and Linda on Worth W8N4! We hadn’t seen them since Coco Beach, back in January. They settled in at Marathon in January and loved it so much they’ve decided to stay for the long term. We enjoyed dinner together and then Linda took me with her to Bingo night at the local VFW hall. I had a great time stamping my sheets, and came close in four games, but never managed to win. Rats. Another first, for my life’s “firsts” list. Many thanks to Linda and Matt for a lovely evening. And to think, we’d been there a week and had no idea they were there. All the folks at Marathon have gone out of their way to be friendly and helpful, from the City Marina staff to the bridge tender. I’m glad we visited and equally glad we visited in the off season. From photos we’ve seen, the harbor is completely full of boats in the winter and the dinghy dock is three and four deep in dinghies, all of which is a testament to Marathon’s success in luring cruisers. It’s the Velcro Beach of the Keys.
We’re wending our way up the west coast of Florida, pausing tonight in an anchorage off the channel in Gordon’s Pass, a bit south of Naples. We crept in about 4 p.m., fighting a one knot current in a narrow passage with shoaling and shallows to contend with. David cleverly thought to call Boat U.S. on VHF 16 for local knowledge about this anchorage and they provided us with exactly the information we wanted: keep very close to the west side of the channel and expect shallower than normal lows at low tide. Raven is floating in a canal type subdivision, among some beautiful and expensive homes with boats parked at the “curb”. We’ve been entertained by all sorts of canal traffic, including a sailboat, a dinghy, a hundred foot yacht, a sightseeing boat, and a huge catamaran with about 30 people on board. Perhaps we were part of the sights they were seeing – two hot, sticky people enjoying snacks and a cold drink on deck. Dark skies have hovered around us all afternoon, but so far we’ve had only a bit of cool wind and no storms. It’s quiet now, and close, and hot, so we may get one yet.
Photo #2: our anchorage at Little Shark River
Our suburban anchorage tonight is an extreme contrast with the anchorages of the last two nights. Both nights we were snuggled up to the edge of the Everglades National Park. Our first night’s anchorage was just inside the bend of Little Shark River. I could see we were approaching a river, because the turquoise water changed to dark olive and we felt the current pushing us back. The half circle cove sheltered another sailboat, and that was all the company we had, all night. Despite the lure of the tree lined river that slipped off into the distance, we elected to drop anchor as near the mouth of the river as possible, due to our expectation of being eaten alive by mosquitoes. It was hot and humid and we were hungry and thirsty from our long day on the water, so I made us a couple of shandies (and English drink of ½ beer and ½ ginger ale or other light soda – sounds awful, but it’s a great drink). We slammed those down and the next thing we knew, we were napping. About an hour later I woke up and made the quickest dinner I could think of, we slammed that down, and then darn if we didn’t pass out again. I think it was about 8 p.m. at that point and I didn’t stir until about 7 the next morning. I haven’t slept that hard in months. I think it had partly to do with the profound quiet that surrounded us. For miles and miles on every side there was only mangrove forest and sea and the critters that call the Everglades home. No electricity, no motors, no voices, just silence and old trees and a few dolphins chasing fish in the shallows.
We were right about the mosquitoes – the next morning there were about 30 on each port light screen, clutching the mesh, drooling at the prospect of such a tasty breakfast. We wore our long pants and shirts and applied Skin so Soft liberally on all exposed areas before climbing out of the cabin, and wasted no time in setting out into the insect free gulf. About a dozen enterprising fellows found their way into the cabin as we emerged and enjoyed me thoroughly the next night.
We were right about the mosquitoes – the next morning there were about 30 on each port light screen, clutching the mesh, drooling at the prospect of such a tasty breakfast. We wore our long pants and shirts and applied Skin so Soft liberally on all exposed areas before climbing out of the cabin, and wasted no time in setting out into the insect free gulf. About a dozen enterprising fellows found their way into the cabin as we emerged and enjoyed me thoroughly the next night.
Photo #3: Thunderhead behind us (note the rain dumping into the Gulf)
The next night found us in the midst of the Thousand Islands part of the western Florida coast. We motored into an anchorage at Indian Key about three steps ahead of a large thunderstorm. We’d been dodging storms for two days. When I’m travelling in the day time, storms are interesting. Since they are visible, they are mostly missable, or at least we don’t get snuck up on. We watch them build all day. In the early morning, there is a ruffle of white cloud that parallels the land. As the morning moves along, the clouds get larger and puffier, building into an impressive white bank of cumulus clouds. The clouds are magical, making the most fantastical shapes, and I entertain myself for hours, seeing all sorts of animals evolve and fade away in the bright blue sky. Then about 2 p.m., the clouds begin to roll off the land and over the water. By now, they have built themselves into towering white mountains, the tops of which are constantly exploding like very slow popping popcorn. Finally, they begin to go gray and black underneath, the darkness builds up into the sky, and then the torrential rains spill to the earth. The thunderheads drag the rain in sheets behind them like long skirts. From the water we could see probably four to six storms at any one time as we sailed along the coast. A couple of times we hove to and waited, but the storms we were expecting swept by us to starboard or to port with just a gust of wind and quick shower to mark their passing.
We had successfully ducked every one of them by yesterday afternoon, and I made the mistake of saying “I’m so glad we’ve been able to duck all these thunderstorms, aren’t you?” Red flag to a rain god, who promptly defied NOAA and sent his storm north, rather than west (all the others had grumbled their way west, as if they were on a lead). By the time we realized this storm was going to get us, we were chugging up the outflowing river into the Everglades against a really strong current. I had the throttle wheezing at 2500 rpm and we staggered along at 4.5 knots, not only fighting current, but also 18 knot winds. It was like hurrying in slow motion, or one of those dreams where your arms and legs are too heavy to lift as you try to run for your life. It didn’t help to watch the local fishing boats streak past us, engines blazing, as they raced upriver toward Everglades City and shelter. As we came around the bend to the anchorage, the black sky covered us, and we could see a thick curtain of rain advancing toward us across the water, completely obliterating the scenery behind it. The storm nailed us just as David dropped the hook, and we got soaked. Actually, once I realized there wasn’t any lightening, the rain was truly refreshing. I did freak out a bit, as Raven remaining beam to the wind, instead of feathering up, but that turned out to be the current. No one else was out and we had the anchorage to ourselves so we didn’t worry much on a 10 to 1 scope.
We had successfully ducked every one of them by yesterday afternoon, and I made the mistake of saying “I’m so glad we’ve been able to duck all these thunderstorms, aren’t you?” Red flag to a rain god, who promptly defied NOAA and sent his storm north, rather than west (all the others had grumbled their way west, as if they were on a lead). By the time we realized this storm was going to get us, we were chugging up the outflowing river into the Everglades against a really strong current. I had the throttle wheezing at 2500 rpm and we staggered along at 4.5 knots, not only fighting current, but also 18 knot winds. It was like hurrying in slow motion, or one of those dreams where your arms and legs are too heavy to lift as you try to run for your life. It didn’t help to watch the local fishing boats streak past us, engines blazing, as they raced upriver toward Everglades City and shelter. As we came around the bend to the anchorage, the black sky covered us, and we could see a thick curtain of rain advancing toward us across the water, completely obliterating the scenery behind it. The storm nailed us just as David dropped the hook, and we got soaked. Actually, once I realized there wasn’t any lightening, the rain was truly refreshing. I did freak out a bit, as Raven remaining beam to the wind, instead of feathering up, but that turned out to be the current. No one else was out and we had the anchorage to ourselves so we didn’t worry much on a 10 to 1 scope.
Photo # 4 and 5: our anchorage in Gordon's pass as the stom develops and then arrives
We were close to Everglades City, but weren’t even tempted to explore (mosquitoes again). We agree that a return trip in the depths of January is a distinct possibility, because the area is simply gorgeous.
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