Common Criminals or Raiders???? Identity Crisis

Back in the day, just being on a boat without an explicit directive from King or Governor could automatically label you as a pirate, swashbuckler, buccaner, or as we should be referred to, raiders. 

How did we come by this title?  Well, it wasn't from being boarded by the Miami/Dade County Police last week.

There we were, just floating in a reef crowded area.  How the Captain got us in there with our keel intact I'll never know.  We are known to be out in places where there are no other boats (such as during a certain hurricane, which I remember distinctly being told was a "tropical breeze" while we were surfing over fishing nets at a high rate of speed, but I digress).  We were all down below, some still in sleeping garb, when I saw flashing blue lights through the porthole. 

"Uh-oh, it's the cops."

The crew member in sleeping attire almost went above with sleeping shorts on, but I brought it to his attention that getting dressed would be highly recommended.

The solo policeman at the helm sidled over to us and asked how we were doing; we said great.  He then asked to do a safety check.  "Just to see where your lifejackets are and confirm your Coast Guard documentation."

We invited him on board while Gary went down below to get our official papers.  We were all good on the life jackets; I always keep one handy, even for motoring about in the dinghy.   

He seemed like a nice guy; he complimented our boat and said that he's hoping to retire in about five years and do some long-term boating himself.  But, he said, he's more inclined to motor boats, which we are cool with.    And let me tell you, he was a real nice looking guy to go along with those nice manners.

So, the papers were brought out and inspected and we did not spend one minute in jail.

Today, Gary and I took the dinghy out into the Florida Bay to find a hardware store for a bolt he needs to repair the zinc on the boat and to have lunch out, if we could find a pretty good restaurant.

Because of my rib injury, we took it slow getting down Snake Creek out into the Bay; passed some awesome houses, too, but no sail boats to be seen.  Only motor boats.  It took us a good long time to get across the water and we were moving right into the chop.  I did okay; my life jacket fits snugly and gave good counterpressure to my ribs.

The place we picked to make a landing unfortunately ended up being on private property.  This just gets my goat every time.  There out to be a law that there is a public dock for every mile of shoreline that is considered "private."  Yes, there was a big sign that said, "No Trespassing:  Violators Will be Prosecuted."  I told Gary I'd prefer taking the dinghy somewhere else to find a legal spot.  He told me those spots are hard to come by and that we would just go ahead and trespass.  Oy!

You know how you know you're doing something wrong and you try to look like one of the crowd, or in this case, one of the owners of a condo at this private enclave?  I'm pretty sure that was a major fail for us (except we had a little boat), but no one said anything as we disembarked, nor during our trip to the fence.  We tried a door through the locked compound; it didn't work.  Then I noticed a car going through the automatic fence, and we just walked right through with it, without a sideways glance at the guard in the gatehouse.

Okay, that part was done.  Now, was our dinghy going to still be there when we returned?  I certainly hoped so, because it was a long walk back to the boat (or maybe a short drive to jail?--yikes!).

Gary went to the hardware store for the bolt he needed; I went straight to the cafe we'd picked out and waited for him there.  During our meal, I wondered out loud what I would do if he were arrested for trespassing.  Seriously, would I have to go back to the boat by myself; would we lose the dinghy? 

He reminded me that if HE got arrested, I , too, would surely get arrested.  Oh yeah.  Accessory and all that.  Sheesh.  Is this how our trip would end?  Would my grandchildren  only be able to see me by visiting the Wall of Shame at the Post Office? 

After paying our bill at the restaurant, we picked up a loaf of bread from a convenience store and crossed the highway back to the condo development.  It couldn't have been easier if we'd been dressed like Ninjas in the middle of the night.  Car coming out, gate opens, we slide around to the far side of the car and make like the natives.  I see someone on the phone at the docks and my heart starts pounding, but it's only a boating dude come in from scooting around the bay.  He, seeming very friendly, says hello and waves.

Stealthily, we get to the dinghy and I'm trying to get on as fast as possible and hightail it out of there and Gary's looking in the water saying, "Oooh, look at these cool things under the water.  Elliott and I saw some the other day and ...."  I cut him off and say that he can tell me all about it on the ride OUT OF THERE.   Can you believe this guy?

Thankfully, the Bay is calmer going back as we're traveling with the waves; we can speed up and the motion does not hurt my ribs much at all.  I can deal with it to make our getaway.

The trip across the Bay is rather uneventful; just so happy it is not the weekend, because it would be a zoo out there, with boats criss-crossing all around and stirring up the waves.  Then, we get into the entrance to Snake Creek and are toodling along when a police-type boat motors around the corner right after us. 

Eeeep!  Someone reported us, I just know it.  As she drew up close to us, but on the other side of the creek, I could see that it wasn't the police, per se, but an officer with the Fisheries and Wildlife Service.  I'm mouthing to Gary, "Slow Down.  Slow Down."  Just so we look chill, you know.  She pretty much ignored us.  We were going to be all right, after all.

Just do me a favor, y'all; starting saving your pennies, because one day, we'll need the bail money.  And Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall won't be around to help us.