Day 80-82

On Tuesday, after taking care of a few last minute details and errands in the morning, we motored off the dock and back through the canal maze of Ft. Lauderdale to pick up the Intracoastal Waterway for the last time. It was tough to leave. Pete's cousin Laila had made life just a bit too comfortable for us and during our two weeks with her, the quicksand of easy living had already started to suck us in. But, we had places to be, friends to meet in Nassau, and couldn't put off our departure any longer.

It was an afternoon of motoring, a slow chug through the mansion-lined canals, every couple of miles waiting for another drawbridge to open, enjoying the sun and making our last goodbyes to the continental U.S. Miami after sunset lit up the night with its glittering skyscrapers and then we put its lights behind us and entered the dark, quiet waters of Biscayne Bay.

At Angelfish Creek near the bay's southern end we made our move, turning east to pick our way through the mangroves. The creek lead us through the barrier islands and then the barrier reef and finally out into Atlantic. There we faced for the first time the mighty Gulfstream, that treacherous oceanic river guarding the green waters of the Caribbean against the unprepared and the undeserving.

The Gulfstream was second only to Cape Hatteras on the list of places we'd been most warned about and cautioned of. Check the weather reports carefully, we'd been told, and never under any circumstance attempt to make the crossing with a north wind. The weather wasn't perfect that night, but the wind wasn't out of the North and the waves weren't too big. Even so, those choppy, confused seas set my insides to churning. It was the first time I've thrown up from seasickness since we left Massachusetts.

We motored all through the night and as the sun rose the next morning were thrilled to discover that the ocean had transformed to a deep, mesmerizing, impossible blue. As I stared spellbound at the ocean waters sliding by, I noticed what looked like the clear plastic top to a soft drink cup floating vertically in the water a little ways off. Then another and another. Soon there were hundreds visible all sizes and on all sides, stretching out to the horizon. When one floated closer by, I realized they were jellyfish-like critters called Portugese Man O'War and the parts I was seeing were the air bladders that kept them afloat and acted like sails to carry them around. Apparently, they can kill you.

We were able to set sail around noon and made landfall in the Bimini Islands at four thirty that evening. We set anchor, hurriedly coiled up our lines, stowed our gear, and generally put the boat back together and then, with whoops of glee, leaped overboard into the warm, dazzlingly clear waters. We were in the Caribbean!

Day 63-77

Pete and I cruised out from Melbourne with fair winds over blue waters, palm trees and manatees. We stuck to the Intracoastal and continued our tour of Florida's backyards, courtyards, and verandas. They seem to be getting bigger.


Now that we are enjoying beach weather in Spring Break territory during Spring Break time, Pete and I have decided we need to get our beach bodies back. Chin-ups from the boom, dips in the companionway, push-ups and sit-ups on the foredeck. Day one of this new resolve resulted in a good long workout. It felt great to get some exercise after so long without. Day two through five were dedicated to recovery. On day six workouts were resumed though with considerably more modest routines.



Two nights out of Melbourne anchoring in wide spots in the channel and then we rolled into Hillsboro where Pete's uncle had arranged for us to spend the night at his boss's house. The family wasn't home and neither was the housekeeper, but they'd left the door unlocked for us. We tied up at the private dock, took showers, did laundry, cooked dinner, and then in glorious lethargy, whiled away the rest of the evening in front of the huge flat screen TV, paralyzed by the sheer number of channel choices.



The next day we arrived in Ft. Lauderdale and began threading our way through the maze of canals and drawbridges leading into the heart of the city and eventually to Pete's cousin Laila's house. It was a fun stretch but no place for daydreaming. These waterways meandered their way through the urban landscape in what felt like an unending series of blind corners and 180 degree s-turns with drawbridges inconveniently spaced every quarter mile.


Clogging the canals along both sides were massive yachts tied bow to stern in unending lines. In the little room remaining between, we fought for space against every other motorboat, sailboat, ferry, and boat taxi on the water, all stopping and starting and trying to maneuver or hold position against the conflicting forces of wind, and wake. Any miscalculation could have sent us bouncing off the gleaming hull of one of the multi-million dollar motor yachts always only a few feet away. The repair bill for such a blunder probably would have cost more than our boat.



Laila's friend John met us partway out in his boat and led us the rest of the distance back to her house. There we tied up and there we have stayed for the past ten days, living off Laila's incredible generosity while we make some vital repairs on the boat. This city proclaims itself the "Yatching Capital of the World" and based on the number of mega-yatchs I've seen here and the marine industry that exists to support them, it very well could be. Anything we could possibly need for the boat can be found here in Ft. Lauderdale. Its the perfect place to get Strolla up to scratch and, with us poised to make the jump into the Caribbean, its the perfect time as well.


To this end, John has been immeasurable help to us throughout our stay, offering advice and expertise, recommending stores and helping us to resupply and refit. Some of the more pressing improvements to the boat he has helped us with include finally and fully fixing the motor, plugging the bilge leak, and finding a new dinghy.

Pete and I have stayed very busy, working everyday on the boat. There was and still is a lot to do but, that's not all we've been doing. We have managed to squeeze in a couple of beach days, sunning, swimming, and being badly beaten on the volleyball court. We went SCUBA diving with Laila and her boyfriend Micheal and spent a night in Miami with Pete's friends Dave and Christina.



Today we made a run on Costco for some bulk food buying. Tomorrow we'll get our jib back from the sail repair shop and then bite the bullet and pick up a pricey new set of navigational charts for the Caribbean. Tuesday, weather dependent, we leave this little haven of safety and comfort and strike out for Nassau, Bahamas. There we will rendezvous with some of our friends from Woods Hole and begin our Sailing Trip Part II: The Suntan Challenge.

Day 58-62

The biggest event in my life during my dad's visit came on our first day underway, his second day with us. We'd been sliding sluggishly along, pushed from behind by a light and temperamental tail wind. I'd been up on the foredeck, taking some sun and reading my book. Dad was on the tiller. Pete was lounging lazily nearby in the cockpit.

I decided it was time for a snack. Book in hand, I stepped lightly aft, and was crouching to climb down into the cockpit when wind shifted suddenly to the opposite side of the boat. A strong gust of wind caught the back side of the mainsail and hurled it across to the other side of the boat in an uncontrolled jibe. The aluminum boom caught me square in the side of the head.

The details of the following few moments remain a bit fuzzy for me, but the next thing I remember after a bright flash of light, is finding myself doubled over the starboard quarter rail watching my book sink beneath the water. I then became aware of Pete's arm around my waist, keeping me from going overboard and pulling me back into the boat. "That was nice of him," I remember thinking.

Pete got me seated where, hunched over and hands on head, I concentrated on my breathing while the pain and nausea washed over me. Its the most I've ever bled when I wasn't donating it to the Red Cross. The warm rivulets ran over my hand and down my arm. They dripped through my fingers into my lap, onto the cockpit bench, and down beside my rubber boots to congeal in startlingly red designs on the dark oiled wood of the floorboards.

Pete took the tiller and Dad got out a roll of tape and some band-aids to begin patching me up. Its a little tradition he and I have. When I got the matching scars on the insides of my forearms he used electrical tape to put me back together. When I got the thin white scar on my forehead it was duct tape. Now, with my ear split open, it was to be athletic tape. Following tradition, I asked if he thought maybe I should get stitches, a ridiculous notion quickly dismissed. With this formality out of the way, I asked if I would have a cleft in my ear for the rest of my life. Probably not a big one he assured me.

With care and diligence my dad soon had me all cleaned up. My right ear was covered in a big wad of tape and band-aids and Bacitraycin coated toilet paper. He gave me some Advil and I went inside to wait for my headache to subside.


Now, more than a week later, I'm happy to report that my ear is healing nicely, with jagged raised scar and a cute little cleft. Pete says its not very noticeable. Dad says its a great conversation starter.


After this shaky start, my dad was with us for four more days of beautiful sailing and gorgeous Florida weather. It was great having him aboard. He added a nice injection of variety in our conversations and social dynamic and was a welcome extra set of hands to share in the work. By the time he left us in Melbourne, FL, the warm weather was here to stay. The shorts were out and the long underwear were safely packed away. No more hot water bottles going to bed with us at night. No more snow on the deck or ice on the water. We'd finally arrived!

My dad wrote a nice summary of his time with us and I'm including it below.

FIRST WEEK OF MARCH: Report filed by John Ver Ploeg

I got a call from Pete on Sunday, February 28 reporting that things weren’t going well. After a long, hard day sailing at sea on Saturday, they’d turned in towards Brunswick, GA - in the dark. Going up the harbor they’d run aground. When they awoke their dinghy was gone. The engine was sucking air into the fuel line and needed frequent, regular bleeding in order to keep it from dying. The drive shaft was increasingly leaking seawater into the bilge. Before they realized the change, their fresh water tank had been topped and contaminated. The atmosphere on the boat matched the hull: blue.

Pete Ver Ploeg (hereafter referred to as Pedro) figured they were still 75 miles north of Jacksonville. I rejiggered my flight to Jacksonville to arrive a day later – Tuesday. The boys met me when I got off the ferry after crossing the St. Johns River. The tide was flowing, there was a strong NW wind and their boat was pinned to the dock. Try as we might, we couldn’t push the boat away. We weren’t leaving.

We enjoyed lunch nearby and walked about Mayport, FL midst the roar of constant helicopters on training circles from the nearby naval station, and sporadic rain squalls. We were waiting for the tide to turn. It didn’t look like the wind was going to slacken. We talked to the nearby marina guys re: our fuel line issues and bilge leak. As we waited, the local constabulary arrived and checked out our papers. Pedro had the bill of sale and the registration from the previous owner - Malcolm from Scotland who’d sailed over the year before. But this wasn’t good enough and the Coast Guard was called in. A young crew in their blue uniforms showed up and their leader was on board for a thorough inspection. I figured it was like my taxi ride that afternoon from the airport; the longer it took, the more it was going to cost. As it turned out, we were given a few suggestions, no fines, and a certificate stating we’d already been thoroughly gone over. The Jacksonville cop observed that a proper registration would be helpful reentering the United States after sailing abroad. Good advice for the boys’ future plans.


That evening we moved the boat from the municipal dock to the marina dock. That night the wind picked up and gave us a good rocking, enough to break the stern dock line. We three were all out on deck in a flash, in thirty-degree weather, 40mph winds, and sleep wear. We got things buttoned down, returned to bed for a fitful few hours sleep, and left early the next morning before the marina opened up. It was up the St. Johns River a mile and then left down the Intracoastal waterway.

It was a day of mostly motoring, often with the jib set, occasionally with the mainsail set. We timed the motor and found that 10 minutes was the maximum we could let it go before it needed the air bled out of the fuel line. But we were in Florida, the bird life was abundant, and we were on the move.


Pedro had been apologizing to me for a rocky start. I noted that it was all new to me – a fine adventure. I asked him where he was with the blog and I said there were quite a few of us vicariously enjoying their adventures. He said he felt that all he’d been reporting were their screw-ups. I said, “That’s boating. It’s a learning experience. Mistakes are what humans do. As long as you keep plugging along, we enjoy reading about the challenges you’ve overcome.”


About then Pete Hinman came out of the cabin with a plate full of breakfast. Delicious! Cheese, potatoes, eggs, sausage. Pete’s a good cook. And both Petes recognize life’s priorities –starting with good food. I was happy to defer cooking to the pros and step in for clean-up.

The cabin is cozy. The biggest sleeping area is in the bow and the Petes each have a berth up there along each side. There they can keep all their personal gear. The guest berth is along the stern, opposite the navigation table.* In the middle is the dining table, benches, and along the side is the sink, swinging stove-top, and food preparation area. The sink has a foot pedal that pumps water from the 40-gallon tank beneath the floor out the faucet. The sink drains to sea. Cozy and efficient.

*Note: Pedro observed that a third passenger is no inconvenience and very much welcomed. Their friend Chris was a great addition to the crew and good company. The second mate helps with steerage, mans the tiller, helps set sail, and assists anchorage. And most importantly, adds variety to personal dynamics.

Pete’s uncle, Pete loaned them a complete set of charts for the Intracoastal Waterway. That was a big help. And what an amenity for the public this waterway is! Dredged, well-marked and charted, and detailed documentation. Anyone who wants to can take a boat ride…from Maine to the Keys.


I had a few concerns before I boarded the boat. Why doesn’t the toilet work? When do we get showers?

Answers: For toilet, #1 is over the side, downwind. #2 isn’t necessary as often as I’d thought. Before my arrival I’d had a fairly detailed discussion with Pedro about the toilet. So I brought the needed materials and patched the crack in the seat that had been preventing the suction necessary to draw in fresh water and expel waste. Legally we weren’t supposed to be dumping human waste into inland waterways. But we kept the tissue paper minimal and those dolphins tracking the boat had to have been producing more waste than us. Re: showers, I seemed to do just fine in the same set of clothes – outer layer off for bed, back on during day. Inner layer stays. I asked Pedro the longest they’d gone without showers. –just less than two weeks.

During my few days I was happy to enjoy the undeveloped areas. We saw plenty of dolphins, osprey, bald eagles, herons, egrets, ducks, loons, geese, vultures, and even the pink flamingo Pete Hinman had been dreaming about since Connecticut. He’s arrived!


The weather cleared up and the temps gradually rose. Though I stayed bundled up, the Petes were down to T-shirts. We cruised by the backyards of Floridians of all walks of life, from fish camps to mega-homes. The winds stayed out of the north and we had sails out as we cruised south. We used the motor as needed, always bleeding it fully before we shut it down. We did occasionally drop the ball regarding the 8-minute bleed interval. When we forgot to check our watches, the next signal would be the motor starting to die down. One of us would notice and immediately jump into action. Usually we’d get there in time and gradually the motor would come back. A few times it would die. Then we’d have to open the filter, fill it up with fuel, hand pump out the air, close everything off, and restart the engine. That took a few minutes and sometimes channel conditions required a quicker turn-around. Fortunately the Petes are good sailors and we generally had at least a jib out to maintain headway and steerage.


But challenges and surprises are inherent to boating. One challenge: The chart showed good depth off the channel in one area and we ventured over to anchor for the night. The next morning we motored downstream back to the channel and promptly ran aground. Our efforts throwing the anchor off the stern were unsuccessful. It wouldn’t bite when we tried to pull ourselves backward. But before the fourth attempt Pete noticed we were floating. The tide was coming in. So we motored directly back to the channel and then turned south; no trying to cut the corner.

Another challenge: We’d been having a fine downwind sail as wind and current were blowing us down the water way. But when we wanted to take a sharp turn into St. Augustine we were quickly a lot closer to a rocky jetty than we wanted. Had the motor not started promptly and been adequate to drive us upstream and upwind, we’d have had to bail out and head out to sea through the inlet. But we made it. St. Augustine was beautiful, we walked about town and had a fine lunch. The marina was used to transients and charged us $4/hour dock time. When I went to settle our bill, as usual the dock master addressed me as captain. I replied that I was somewhere between second mate and ballast. But I always noted that the other two had sailed from Cape Cod and left in January.


Another challenge: We passed a boat heading north who radioed us that the channel had changed. They’d run aground at green marker #82. Normally we keep the green markers on our port side (left). They told us to keep that one on our right. When we got there I was at the tiller. We’d discussed that we would still keep green #82 on our left but would hug it close. As we approached, Pedro noted that he saw a sand spit coming out from the right. So I said, “let’s cut to the left and put #82 on the starboard side. Pedro objected to my last minute change of plan and I swerved back. We passed #82 closer than the Captain wanted. Though I never had any doubts, my superior was perturbed.

Another challenge: We were lazily cruising downwind, winding along the south-facing waterway. We weren’t in a hurry, both sails were set, and the motor was off. The jib occasionally flopped port to starboard and back. Occasionally I’d reach up and keep the mainsail on the port side. I was at the tiller and the Petes were grateful to have free time; both were relaxing with books. Pedro was at the bow with cushion, book, sunglasses, and the new toupee/hat his mother had purchased for him. He started back to the stern. Just then a fluke gust came up and charged the boom to starboard. I yelled, “Watch out!” and tried to grab the boom as it flew by. It smacked Pedro in the side of the head. Overboard went his hat, sunglasses, book, and pillow. When I looked up he was in the cockpit with his hand over the side of his head and blood running everywhere. Pete took the tiller while I got the first aid kit. It was calm, smooth, sunny, and I had all the time in the world…..and I took it.

Pedro’s ear was all banged up and bleeding. As I told him later, “ears are like fenders, they’re what protect our heads.”

It took awhile to figure out how to bandage up the convolutions and multiple cuts in Pedro’s ear. Eventually it was done. Throughout, at least for me, was the question of how had this happened and how could it have been prevented? I’d been at the tiller and therefore in charge. There was silence on the boat.* After awhile Pedro broke it by putting his arm around me and thanking me for taping him up. So we talked it through. The gust was a fluke. I did yell a warning but he didn’t hear me. Though I tried to catch the boom I failed to throw the tiller from the wind which would have slowed the swing of the boom.

Note: Earlier Pedro observed that though there are plenty of nighttime noises on the boat, he seems to sleep soundly; only waking, and always waking when something is amiss. My reflexes aren’t tuned to throw the tiller when the boom jibes

*Note: Pete Hinman is a sociable guy and quick to start up conversations shore-side. But he’s judicious. He gave we two Ver Ploegs plenty of space onboard. He didn’t have to say anything through Pete’s ear trauma, …and didn’t.

Another challenge: We went into Titusville and looked like a bunch of rank amateurs as we tried to tie up at the dock with the marina master. The details are too embarrassing to relate but I knew that Pedro was more than annoyed with our performance. It was a quiet walk through town to the restaurant. So I suggested we talk it through over lunch. When we returned to the marina I went in to pay for dockage and was met with surprise. No charge. The master asked us where we were from and I said that the other two had left Cape Cod in January. He nodded, paused, and then exclaimed/questioned JANUARY?!! I related this to the Petes later and felt I’d salvaged a little respect for us.

It was an adventure for me! Pete Hinman handled bridge communication. We encountered many bridges that needed to be raised for our passage and it was a bit of an ego boost to see traffic stopped as we slowly sailed through. It takes a longer time for the bridge to come back down and barriers to open than you’d expect. Cars were still backed up long after we’d passed thru.

As a sailor once told me, “ the best part of sailing is being in port talking about it.” Well, one very nice part of sailing for me is being at anchor at the end of the day, out in the marsh, away from people and lights, and enjoying a wind-down. One night, we were all secure, Pete was cooking, I’d made fruit drinks with the cheap Vodka I’d brought, porpoises were breaching nearby, there was a raccoon feeding on the bank and Pedro said, “what is THAT!??!” We all looked up and saw a big orange blob in the sky. It kept going up and we realized it was the rocket launch from Cape Canaveral that had been scheduled that afternoon and that we thought we’d missed. What a treat!!

The final two days of my participation were pretty much all sailing. Pedro’s in tune with the boat. He keeps the sails trim, motor humming, and all systems GO. Sometimes he wishes he has more sail options. I don’t know where he gets his sailing knowledge. But I’m impressed. As I told him, “I don’t think I’ll ever buy a boat but I hope YOU always have one.” He’s a responsible sailor and I feel confident shipping aboard.


Pete’s becoming a sailor and is a great cook. Most importantly, he’s easy going. These can be stressful conditions: tight quarters, multiple challenges, interpersonal clashes. Silence is prudence. Pete’s gregarious onshore, taciturn onboard. Pretty wise at this point in life


I ended my participation in Melbourne. I had planned my trip around that point because that’s where my childhood friend, Spence lives. We’ve known each other since we were nine-year-olds in Iowa. Needless to say, he and his wife Sandi were gracious and generous hosts for we three. They referred to us as the three Petes; “Pete, Pete, and wannabe Pete.”

Day 57

My dad came down to sail with us for a week, flying into Jacksonville, FL and catching a taxi out to the coast to join us in Mayport. In preparation, Pete and I spent the morning getting the boat spic and span and sparkling. The boat was built the same year my dad graduated from high school so, there was only so much we could do with a washcloth and hand broom but, I think it looked pretty good when we were done. I was anxious for my dad to see how professional and sailor-like we'd become. Everything had to be perfect. I think I started to annoy Pete a bit.




It was a blustery day, with scattered rain squalls and big thunderheads rolling through. When Dad arrived, I met him at the ferry dock and walked him to the boat, gave him a quick tour and showed him his berth. Then, we all headed over to Singleton's Seafood Shack for lunch. Afterward, walking a bit slower, we made our way back to the boat to shove off. That's when we found out how strong the current in the St. Johns River is. Pete and I had moved Strolla to the public docks just down the beach for the morning while we waited for my dad. This had left her broadside to the current and she was now pinned hard against the dock by the
shifting tides.



The three of us together were just barely able to inch the boat along and had no hope of moving it out from the dock and parallel to the current. We were stuck waiting for slack tide which wouldn't be until around 6 pm, far too late to be setting sail. So much for impressing Dad, day one was a write-off.

While we three stood spread out on the pier, catching our breath after a final failed attempt to free the boat, a policeman made his way cautiously down the gangway. He asked to see some ID and documentation for the boat. He then took these back up took up to his truck. Pete and Dad went into the cabin to get out of the wind. I waited outside in the spitting rain to see what would happen. As I stood there shivering, collar turned to the cold, I could see him up in his truck, flipping through folders, writing on forms, talking on the radio. With excruciating slowness, the minutes ticked by.

Things seemed to be taking an inordinately long time. Then, I learned why. The policeman had called in the Coast Guard, who came idling up in their patrol boat came in and tied off to the dock next to ours. The crew got out and went up to confer with the policeman on shore. After a quick huddle, the whole posse made their down to me, combat boots thumping, leather gun holsters creaking. They asked Dad and Pete to come outside, asked a long series of questions about the boat, then informed us that they would be conducting an inspection of the vessel.

While everyone else remained on the pier, I accompanied one of the Coast Guard crew into the cabin for our first Coast Guard inspection. The guy inspecting the boat looked like he could have been a linebacker on his high school football team just a few months earlier. He was a huge, baby-faced man who I'm pretty sure, judging by how much he was sweating in this unseasonable cold Florida weather, was more nervous than I was. The whole inspection had a very unpracticed feel to it. He stumbled through the paperwork, had to read from his clipboard, and at one point had to go up on deck to get a checklist from his superior. As he struggled to move his massive frame through our tiny boat to check the bilge and engine compartments, I actually began to feel sorry for him. I think it was his first inspection. Despite some minor infractions, he gave us a passing grade and, with what seemed to be relief, climbed back out into the whipping wind. He forgot his coat in the cabin and I brought that out to him.

Dad and Pete and I decided against another trip to the seafood shack and cooked dinner that night on the boat. When the tides changed we moved Strolla to a different dock, this one parallel with the current, so that we wouldn't be stuck again in the morning and then turned in early. The wind continued to howl through the night and the waves on the river grew bigger and bigger. With the wakes from a few passing container ships added to the mix, it was a rough night.



We all slept lightly on the bouncing boat. Just before midnight, I found myself suddenly wide awake. Even lying there in my sleeping bag, I could tell something was wrong. The rhythm of the boat's bobbing had changed. I poked my head out of the hatch. The bow was rubbing against the edge of the dock where there were no fenders. How had that happened? I turned to look aft. Squinting through the dark, I could see that Strolla was no longer parallel with the dock. The back end was too far out. We'd broken a dock line. With a yelp I jumped up through the bow hatch and vaulted to the stern to retie it. Dad and Pete woke up in the commotion and rushed out to help. Each dressed in socks and boxers, we wrestled the stern back against the dock and tied it off. Then, as extra insurance, doubled up all our lines and set and repositioned all of our fenders before climbing wearily back into our bunks. Dad's first day aboard was over.

Day 55-56

Our brush with disaster in St. Simons Sound served as a bit of a wake up call for me. Yesterday, still a little shaken from the events of the night before, I resolved to get this boat ship-shape. After all, it was an engine failure that put us into that position in the first place. Pete and I spent that whole day in the marina, working on the boat, chipping away at our list of ship's projects. It was a fairly productive day. The marina provided a courtesy car so I could drive around to the different marine and auto supply stores for parts.

When we had left Cape Cod in January, the boat wasn't quite ready. We still had a long list of things that needed to be replaced or repaired. Although we'd been slowly picking away at the list over the course of the trip, it had not been with the kind of single minded dedication we should have had. Since the start of the trip, we had been fixing things at about the same rate that we'd been breaking things, so the length of the list had stayed pretty much the same. And of course, the cold was always an easy excuse for putting things off. For example, there's no rush to fix the toilet if the water in the bowl is frozen. The weather down here, however, while not yet hot, is certainly no longer cold. No more excuses.

The most important thing yesterday was to get the motor working again, which I did manage to do. However, as a not so subtle reminder that I am no mechanic, the air now has to be bled out of the fuel filter every five minutes to prevent the engine from stalling. This means that when the engine is running, if you're not manning the tiller, you're babysitting the motor. Its a set up that is neither pleasant nor sustainable. Still, I figure we can limp along like this for at least a little while, only using the motor to enter ports and set the anchor, until my dad arrives and can offer his opinion on the issue.



We got a nice early start this morning, retracing our steps through St. Simon's Sound and back into the open ocean. We figured motoring all day in the Intracoastal would be far too miserable with the motor in its present state and should it fail, there would be no way to sail in those tight rivers. If we did run aground, there would be no way to kedge ourselves off now that our dinghy was gone. Much better to be at sea where the water is deep and the motor is merely backup propulsion.



It was a beautiful day, moderate seas, and a nice brisk wind coming from just far enough west to allow us to sail. Ten miles offshore, we turned our bow south and set our sites on Florida and the St. Johns River to Jacksonville. We arrived just before sunset and saw our first cruise ship. We passed right beneath it as it was heading out to see. With a rakish wave and debonair smile, Pete and I posed for the hundreds of people lining its many rails. I think its safe to say we'll be making an appearance in quite a few family vacation albums.

We tied up at a dock in the town of Mayport, FL, a miserable little cluster of buildings at the mouth of the St. Johns River, wedged between the river and the the miles of barbwire fences surrounding the Mayport Naval Base. There must be some kind of helicopter training school here because at any given time we can look up and see as many as six Black Hawk helicopters circling the base. These flights are kept up twenty-four hours a day and quickly lost their charm for us.

For dinner, Pete and I chose to dine out at the seafood shack just down the street. Particle board walls, picnic tables, heaping piles of deep fried food, sweaty customers, even sweatier staff. One of the night's specials was dolphin. We had spotted our first dolphins in the waters of North Carolina and had been seeing them with increasing regularity as we've progressed south. By now, we've seen so many dolphins that we don't even get excited anymore. Still, their appearance on the menu surprised us. Pete and I had both been under the impression that dolphins were endangered or protected in some way or at least not available for eating. Pete speculated that maybe dolphins around here were like the Canada Goose or White Tailed Deer in many other places, so numerous they're considered a nuisance. Whatever the reason, we both agreed that we would no longer be making an effort to buy dolphin safe tuna, not if they were serving up dolphin deep fried with fries down in Florida.

Eager for a taste, we were ready to order until the waitress explained some things to us. There is a fish also called a dolphin. The rest of the world calls it the Mahi Mahi. This makes sense because the name "dolphin" would seem to be already taken but, in Florida, in the interest of promoting confusion, they call the Mahi Mahi a dolphin. As we'd always thought, the mammal called a dolphin is not available for eating. Too bad. They do look delicious.

Pete and I ended up splitting a combo platter, fried clam strips, fried, scallops, fried potatoes, coleslaw, and collard greens all washed down with Ice House beers. The platter is designed for one but the two of us barely finished it. Sitting there, each nursing another beer, feeling slightly ill, we watched in silence as a man at the table across from us put down a double combo platter all by himself. He did break a sweat, but he didn't slow down. I suppressed the urge to applaud and we headed back to the boat to be sung to sleep by the roar of patrolling Black Hawks.

Day 53-54

We left Savannah and my friend Trey's house rested and relaxed. It had been a great stop-over. We motored on down the tidal rivers of the Georgia coast to Cattle Pen Creek on St. Catherine's Island for a quiet, lonely anchorage out in the marshes.


The next day, tired of motoring and the Intracoastal Waterway's ever looming threat of running aground on its shifting shoals and twisting turns, we decided to head out to sea once more, to find a little elbow room in the deep waters of the North Atlantic. The weather report on the radio was calling for small waves and a steady west wind, perfect for a fast run south to St. Simons Island and the port of Brunswick, GA.

Out in the ocean however, we discovered that the forecast had been a bit optimistic. The wind wasn't west, it wasn't even southwest. It was south, right on our nose, strong and gusty and whipping up steep, choppy seas. The following six hours were a wet and wild ride, beating to windward, rain gear on, salt spray sweeping the deck, Strolla bucking and thrashing and clawing her way south, us gleefully perched on her back.


Even with the strong winds, however, we weren't making enough headway to reach port by dark. Soon the sun was dropping low on our right and it was time to start up the engine. We kept the sails set and filled while we waited for it to warm up. Five minutes is what the owner's manual recommends. Four and a half minutes later the engine faltered and stumble and then, with a few sickly coughs, died.

I don't find troubleshooting a stalled engine down in the hold of a sharply heaving boat to be too terribly pleasant. Ours is in a tight, awkward, and poorly lit area with plenty of sharp corners and bulges, carefully placed to inflict maximum pain. Now, with Strolla flinging me bodily into the engine every few seconds, a few bumps and bruises were unavoidable. I squirmed my way into a somewhat stable position from which to begin my tinkering. I didn't have time to get much done.

I've always felt I had a fairly strong stomach, an important trait in a sailor but, backwards, head down, lurching and jolting with the boat, the heady scent of diesel fuel filling my nose, I began to feel a bit queasy. Back up on deck for air, I relieved Pete at the helm and he went down for a look. Through his careful coaxing, the motor gasped briefly back to life only to expire once more.

We kept sailing and, zigzagging our way south into the wind, we arrived at the mouth of St. Simons Sound around 8:00 p.m. The wind had shifted during this time and was now coming out of the Southwest. The high tide had just turned and was beginning its ebb. To get to Brunswick, we would have to work our way up the approach channel in the dark, against the wind and the tide, shoals on either side, with no motor. An approach into any other nearby inlet would pose the same difficulties only with a less clearly marked channel. The only other option was to sail through the night, arriving in Fernandina Beach, FL, the next port of any size, around sunrise. It would be a hard night. Wind and waves were predicted to increase but, we would be able to enter the inlet in daylight and with the tide in our favor.

It was then, tired and frustrated, that I made a very bad decision. I decided to head in St. Simons Sound. Even at the time I knew it was not the prudent choice, but I thought we could get away with it. Pete and I wanted the day to be over, not extended for another ten hours. Hopefully with a little more hard work and a little luck, we'd soon be able to tie up and turn in.

Progress up the sound was brutally slow. In order to stay within the channel buoys we had to tack almost every ten minutes. In those few seconds it took for the boat to nose its way across the wind, our forward momentum would melt to nothing and the tide would sweep us backwards. Then finally, with a snap the sails would fill on our new tack and we could continue our slow slog onward. In two hours we managed to cover barely three miles. Still, we kept at it, fighting our way along doggedly rather than recognizing this lost cause for what it was and returning to the safety of deeper open water.

Slowly, born of desperation, we began to cheat. In an effort to squeeze in longer tacks, we began going further and further outside the channel buoys. After several hours we broke from the marked channel altogether, making our way through an opening in the shoals shown on our chart and heading off on a long starboard tack, then working our way onward from there. Pete and I both should have been aware, based on many prior experiences, that shoals shift. As it turned out, such was the case here. On a port tack, in what was supposed to be 21 ft of water, we ran hard aground.


Things happened very fast after that. The boat, which was already heeled over by the strong wind, was now bent even more dramatically on its side by the current. With the keel stuck fast, it then twisted around to lie broadside to the wind, waves and current, which combined to form a huge eddy of churning, boiling water on its lee side. Waves to windward were now hitting the exposed side of the hull with the sickening regularity of a sledge hammer, knocking gear across the cabin and making the rigging shiver with each impact.

There was no chance of setting a kedging anchor in any direction except directly downwind. In our non motorized dinghy, we couldn't hope to hold our position against the wind and current. This meant we couldn't set the anchor off our stern to back ourselves off as we usually did. Setting an anchor downwind would mean trying to kedge ourselves free by dragging the boat sideways and over the top of the very shoal the wind and tide were pushing us into. It didn't seem likely to work. We tried it anyway. It didn't work.

After the kedge failed, there wasn't much left to do but wait. Pete was feeling wide awake now so I let him have first watch and turned in to try and catch some sleep. I didn't feel too sleepy anymore either. I fully expected that in a few hours the incoming tide would overflow the starboard gunwale which was now only a few inches above the water. The boat would then be swamped and we'd be putting in a rather urgent call to the Coast Guard.

Laying on the cabin floor at the foot of the companionway I listened to the pounding on the hull and waited for the first cold trickle of salt water to come pooling around my head, a signal that it was time to get on the radio. Half an hour later Pete called down to tell me the dinghy had broken free. I came up on deck just in time to see its dark form disappearing into the night, heading out to sea. All we could do was watch. I went wearily back to my makeshift bed.

Several hours later the tide turned. The weather forecast, at least for where we were, was once again wrong. The wind and waves did not increase, but actually seemed to lessen. So, the rising water did not swamp us but instead gently lifted us up until we were once again level and free, held in place only by the kedge anchor that we'd left out.

We set the jib and main, sailed off our anchor, the first time we'd done that, and straight back to the buoyed channel. We still had to beat our way into the wind to make port, but now the tide was with us and each tack gained us distance. We decided to skip going all the way to Brunswick and settled on a much closer marina on St. Simons Island. Pete stood at the bow with the spotlight, picking channel markers out of the darkness and, feeling our way along, we navigated the rest of our way without incident.

The final challenge of the night was docking without a motor. Pete and I had never tried that before. We'd have to sail in. This is a tricky maneuver because there is no reverse with sails. The only way to stop yourself is to leap onto the wharf with a dock line. We pulled it off perfectly. To anyone watching we looked like cool professionals. The time was 5:15 a.m.