“How long is your boat?” For short stays, marinas charged by the foot. Ruff Life was 33-feet including the swim platform and anchor pulpit but the boat itself was only 31; therefore, her length depended on whether we were bragging or paying.
In 1997, hurricane season began June 1st and ended September 30th so by the end of October and into November the seas were full of boats heading south. This was why Cap had been anxious and I was probably told the reason, but most boat-related things went in one ear and out the other.
We insured the boat minimally before leaving Oregon, and in Florida we were talked into buying additional insurance for waterways, like having AAA in case of a breakdown on the highway. But we wouldn’t be covered once we left Florida except at a premium, and then it would only be valid until May 30th, so we decided against it. We’d take our chances.
I may sound like I know what I’m talking about, but the absolute opposite was true at the time. I was terribly distracted and confused by our strange home, and performing even the simplest tasks on a see-sawing floor was maddening. I wore sneakers but still staggered most of the time.
It felt like vertigo. Cap assured me I’d get used to the swaying; but just in case he recommended anti-seasickness wrist bands for the ocean crossing: grey stretchy fabric with a single white half-ball you position over your pulse points. He didn’t need a pair for himself.
Getting on and off the boat and in and out of the dinghy was challenging, until we smartened up and hung on to the davit. While aboard we tied the dinghy to the right-side davit, letting out plenty of rope so it swung freely. If we kept it in close we'd need to use bumpers to prevent it from banging the sides.
To leave, one of us would pull in the dinghy to the swim platform just enough to put a foot down to hold it steady. If the three of us left together I usually crawled in first, followed by Czar then Cap, who untied the rope, stepped over and around us then tromped back to start the motor. Most people start the motor BEFORE untying the dinghy but not us.
Czar would daintily step in then slide down the center, toes spread. We tried different solutions without success until Cap painted on some sand in spots, see Czar's photo below (helped us all). Czar and I had a love-hate relationship beginning in Oregon, and he paid back my attitude by stepping on my bare feet getting in or out of the dinghy, without fail. Never stepped on Cap's foot. There was nothing I could do but grimace and curse, but God, what a beautiful animal!
When we finally found an empty slip I was disappointed because the marina looked run-down in comparison to Palmetto, but hopefully we wouldn't stay too long. Many things never occurred to me back in Oregon, including life in a marina, where not everyone is sober by Happy Hour. Hell, we were gifted a complete set of Jimmy Buffet tunes – drinking was part of the image. But drinking had been a real problem in my past and I feared repetition. In my younger days I couldn't handle my liquor and often became an unpleasant drunk; not the easiest bit to write, but necessary to understand my struggle with alcoholism in addition to everything else.
Thanksgiving, November 27, 1997 – Riviera Beach, FL (Backtracking)
Doug, in his 60's, had a very young girl from down-island as a First Mate. The more Doug drank the more comfortable he became until his sexist attitude and innuendos drove me from the cabin. He bragged about finding his companion while cruising the Caribbean, where he also met his Bahamian crew member, called Dr. Pepper.“We moved to Riviera Beach on Nov 22nd, where we’ve been making final preparations and waiting for a weather window to the Bahamas. The day after arriving we met 2 guys, one of whom is heading our way so we agreed to cruise together. Well, they came on the boat and I thought they would never leave. Doug is the one going east, and what a pig. It started off OK – he and Cap were BS’ing about old Army days, but in short order Doug showed his true colors. The other guy, Don, has turned out to be a nice guy.”
I’d assumed Doug’s case was rare for it was the first time I’d met such a dissimilar pair; but unfortunately I subsequently witnessed more of these couples. Your heart aches for these optimistic girls who, aching for any escape from their lives of poverty, climb aboard a stranger's boat. Stories of abuse aboard vessels were not uncommon, and we heard of more than one Skipper who stepped in to help a gal escape and running the offender out of the anchorage. But without means the gals are lost on another island and become easy prey to similar arrangements. I never thought of human trafficking.
We couldn’t believe our luck in finding someone with a similar Ford Lehman motor, since Cap had nothing to use as a guide.“Although Doug’s a pain, we did learn from him. He showed Cap stuff about the motor and I copied his engine manual at Staples.”
(Photo note: four large, heavy panels in the living room floor opened to access the main engine compartment. They were supported by cross beams, and if you weren't careful re-positioning a panel it would give way and you'd fall through the floor. Cap didn’t have that problem as often as I seemed to, but he got hit on the head plenty when the boat rocked and a panel would fall. I especially hated it when he balanced his Bubba Mug on either a cross beam or another part of the floor, because more often than not the coffee-chocolate concoction would tip over. Cap was handy but clumsy.)
“The first thing Doug said coming aboard was that we needed to pack more weight in the bow (to keep from flying up in the waves) and to pack everything away. We already saw how much we could rock from just a passing power boat so it didn’t take much convincing. Cap tied down the spare propeller in the lazarette and the swim ladder was bungee'd to the back rail. I repacked canned foods. Now, after all that organizing, I can’t find a thing, but once we’re across we’ll repack – again. Soon we’ll see how well we’ve done.
“Since today’s Thanksgiving, we’re having a semi-holiday dinner: chicken, instant stuffing and mashed potatoes, green beans with Hollandaise, rolls, chocolate pudding and ice cream. Czar wandered off – he won’t get on and off the boat by himself (dock’s on the wrong side), so Cap let him stay on the dock and boom – gone. Cap went to get him and found some guy in the parking lot trying to coax Czar into his van; claimed he was looking for the owner. We got lucky – really have to keep an eye on him.”November 29th
“Yesterday we left that slum of a marina and went out on the hook – just the other side of Peanut Island.”
This was a popular staging area, or jumping-off point, for boats heading for the Bahamas, a mere 50 miles away. We did own charts for part of the Bahamas but I didn’t know where we were heading. I was happy to go out on the hook for a day, and if the weather remained as predicted we'd head out the following night, when the winds were calmer. We heard (on Channel 16) other cruisers talk about leaving, so we were comforted knowing we’d have company out there.
We waved goodbye and slowly motored through the channel in the afternoon. The depth gauge on the flybridge didn’t work, so Cap asked me to keep an eye on the gauge below and let him know if we were getting into a shallow area. Ruff Life’s draft was under 3 feet, and because Cap repeated not to worry about this or that, I hadn't paid much attention to the gauges thus far.
I watched the digital reading: 9.2; 7.4; suddenly we were in 2 feet of water, so I screamed to Cap to STOP before we ran aground.
I watched the digital reading: 9.2; 7.4; suddenly we were in 2 feet of water, so I screamed to Cap to STOP before we ran aground.
“We can’t be in two feet of water. We’re in the channel!”
"I’m sure, I’m sure, STOP!"
Cap put the engine in neutral and came downstairs. “That’s 20 feet. It stops using the decimal point at 10.”
This did nothing to alleviate my anxiety or instill confidence. We’d made one last grocery run so by the time we reached Peanut Island the best spots had been taken. (Without a car, to shop we used taxis or shared rides; sometimes walking from the dock, as we did here; and finding a $10 bill on the ground for luck!). We anchored carefully, and kept the dinghy in the water behind us.
“At 12:30am, it felt like something hit the front of the boat. Cap looked out the hatch and saw something strange about the bow: we apparently dragged into a sailboat, and their bar-b-que got caught in our spare anchor. Our anchor had broken loose, so we got off the BBQ, moved and wound up dropping 2 anchors. We stayed up for 2-1/2 hours then back to sleep, hoping all was well.
“No such luck. at 5am – I heard creaking inside the cabinet next to my side of the bed; anchor’s holding OK. But then I felt a BUMP unlike water hitting the hull. It seemed we hit a small pontoon (in fact a catamaran), confirmed when their lights went on."
At his driving station up on the flybridge, Cap called, Enough and I secured the rode by looping it Figure-8-ish several times around a metal cleat which ran through the 4" wooden Samson Post. The connecting Anchor Pulpit, also wooden, protruded over the bow of the boat, and a bracket at the end kept the anchor rode from sliding around. The Post went through the deck and was secured inside the aforementioned compartment next to my bed.
Once tied off, Cap backed up Ruff Life to sink the prongs of the Danforth into the grassy bottom, but it hooked something that didn't budge. I stared helplessly as the Samson Post, straining against the force, exploded into a cloud of rotten splinters before my unprotected eyes. No damage to me, but the Pulpit was demolished. I screamed to Cap before lunging for the anchor rode disappearing over the side. After tying it to a side cleat we turned in once more, too exhausted to speak.
As soon as it became light, Cap, already annoyed our plans were so horribly thwarted, hollered for me to raise the anchor. He threw the engine into gear to head back to the marina. Unfortunately, I forgot to mention that before going to bed I'd hooked the back end of the dinghy to the second davit so it wouldn't swing into anybody else's boat. It sat peacefully in the water behind the boat, parallel to the swim platform.
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| Sheared davit btm of pic |
No sooner had Cap increased the throttle that there was a roar like a jet engine as the dinghy became a 10-foot fiberglass scoop, flipping completely around. The force sheared the left-side davit cleanly in half (see photo). Cap put the boat in neutral, scrambled down and dove in to save the motor, heading for the bottom. We lost other items but he was in no mood to go back down. We limped back, disgusted, demoralized and dead tired; prompting the story's original question from grinning Captains, "What the hell happened? It was clear skies last night!"
“Don helped all day and he and (wife) Kelly were a great boost. We got a post from him and a perfect mahogany board from Doug (who refused a dime), who left this morning with Suzie and Dr. Pepper."
"Boaters help one another," Doug advised. "We have to - you never know when you might be in trouble out there." I was humbled by the night's events and ashamed of my earlier thoughts. We couldn't leave, of course.
"The pulpit has to be completely rebuilt. The boat’s totally trashed – tools everywhere, sawdust, just junk, but I don’t care. The boat’s being fixed, and I don’t have to worry about the damned anchors for a while. My hands are healing. What a night!! At least we were close to shore, so if the pulpit was going, it’s better now than in a storm. We have help and materials became available. All is OK.” Only cost us $1,000.
I clearly remember sitting on the couch, writing those words, absolutely numb psychologically but trying my damnedest to build up some courage. We’ll never survive this, I just knew it. Kelly worked in the marina's office but came by as often as she could, repeating, Things will get better.
I distracted myself by studying Chapman’s, another nautical reference Bible, fascinated with how to tie different knots, identify lights and markers, and read cloud formations. The more I learned the more terrified I became, and was therefore thrilled when Don, an experienced captain who'd made the trip many times, offered to come along to help navigate to the Bahamas in exchange for a flight home to Kelly.
I reached for my wallet. “Buy that man a ticket!”
Don asked us, “Which island do you want to head for?”
“The closest one.” What a stupid question.
