Bridge, Thy Name is Satan!!!!!

And we sailed blissfully all the way until the BRIDGE reared its ugly head.  When I drive over one again, I will have a whole different perspective, that's for sure.  We didn't have a long way to go to get to Jensen Beach/Stuart, but by the time we came up on the first of three fixed and two opening bridges we had to negotiate, the sun had dropped, it had gotten cold and windy, and the ding-danged bridge was reading low.  Why was I not surprised?   

We had hoped to clear at least the first one at low tide so that we could anchor on the other side and then continue down and around a long spit of land in order to go under yet more (probably unpassable) bridges to make an 8:15am opening of a commuter bridge to get the anchorage where we'd be for a few days before heading into the marina.

Gary decided to anchor for the night on THIS side and then do our full-on attack, again, EARLY IN THE MORNING.  Are you sensing a theme here?  I think it's a conspiracy for me to think that getting up early is normal.  Well, I'm not buying it.  Grrrr.  Teeth grinding.  He and Elliott got the dinghy up on the side again and prepped as much as possible for the bridge attempt first thing in the morning.

The place we anchored was okay and there was no fear of grounding, but during the night, the wind got a bit frisky, and you know, wind sounds so much worse from inside the boat than from without.  It howls through the shrouds and any open crack to sound demonic and scary.  It worked on me.  Gary had to get up in the middle of the night to let more anchor line out and had to get into the dinghy, which was swinging back and forth off the side of the boat, to add a line for stabilization during the windy night. I thought something bad had happened, so I hopped out of bed, threw on pants, and joined him above decks.  He was finishing up by then and said everything was good.  Adrenalin pumping once again; all I could think was that I WAS going to have a heart attack one day on this boat.  I slept in my clothes.

The morning broke moist and COLD!  Layers upon layers and gloves and hats went on all of us as we took our battle stations.  I'm sure several morning commuters going over that bridge saw a strange sight when they saw our boat heading for the bridge.   We probably looked like Vikings with ramming gear at the ready.  It sure felt like it.

The numbers again were not great, just 64, but as we got closer and were able to factor in wave action, it was a little closer to 65.   Elliott was at the ready at the engine of the dinghy, which was now perpendicularly hanging abeam of the boat, and I was flying off the boom again.  Prayers, of course, and a promise of an offering of spirits if we got through.  I certainly do owe them.  The antenna squealed a little, but we slid through fine.  When was our luck going to run out?  Or were we actually going to be okay?

I've invented a new yoga pose:  The Dead Weight.
I think I've mastered it.

The next bridge was 64-1/4; battle stations again.  The antenna bent as low as I'd ever seen it, but the mast never scraped, so we made it through again.  I stayed on the boom since the next bridge was in sight.  Beautiful houses and big boats lined the shore; I wonder the reaction of Joe Smith sipping coffee on the veranda, enjoying the early morning, and then this contraption of a sailboat goes by with a crazy woman hanging off the boom in a bosun's chair.  Maybe it's just a typical day in Florida; who knows?

The next bridge was a little tricky, not so much in height, but because right after, there was a bascule bridge and a railroad bridge together.  We had to get through the bridge, which we did just fine, but then we had to wait, idling in place.

A train went by just as we were going through the bridge, so when it had gone, the bridge tender of the NEXT bridge was so very kind to open the bridge early because besides us, there were two motoryachts also waiting to pass.  It felt so good to make it through those open bridges without having to worry about much of anything, well, except that maybe the dinghy hanging perpendicular to the boat might squeeze us in too tight, but no, everything was good.

We anchored and fell asleep in the cockpit as the sun warming our tired bodies.

P.S.  During one of the nighttime snatches of sleep, I had a dream in which my friends Sue and Dianne were with me on an older, bigger boat and they were folding clothes and doing chores and such.  The coolest thing is that they both were singing the song "Follow Me," the John Denver song.  It felt good to have their spirits with me in any way.  And then on a walk about the marina tonight, I find this boat.  Well, there you go . . .