Guilty 2X

Having easy access to a public landing that is also next to a grocery store, gas station, and possibly a good bakery is almost impossible to come by in some places, as I've mentioned before.  Last week, Gary and I trespassed onto a condo's private property in order to visit a nearby hardware store for a sorely needed part.  We got in and out quite easily, but I really hated every minute.

But today, I let myself get into the same situation again.  We were running low on fuel for the dinghy and since the next leg of the journey is in the Everglades, we know the likelihood of finding a nearby gas station is going to be nil.  Carrying a fuel can any distance is hard work, but a mile or more is crazy.

So Gary found a dock by a neighborhood with a road that lead out to the main road close to a gas station.  He did this on his phone and the phone did not tell us that the small group of houses was also a private community (there are so many down here).  We didn't know of our problem until we'd docked the dinghy and started walking down the road.  I saw the black gate before they did.  I also saw a landscape crew working there and asked one whether we could get out the gate. 

"No English," replied the young man.

I kept walking and the gate opened as I approached as some of the crew were outside coming into the neighborhood and their waiting truck.  I motioned to the code key machine and motioned to one of the guys what the number was.

Surprisingly, he showed me.  I opened it for the guys as they approached; they were so proud of my resourcefulness.

We went our separate ways, me to a shop and bakery, them to the hardware store; we met up at the gas station and I bought the last jar of peanut butter on the shelf (how can we be in the Everglades without peanut butter?) and some other snacks while they filled the dinghy gas jerry can and a new jerry can that is for a stash.

I punched the code for the gate and we entered, just a few more steps until we were home free.   Elliott was lagging, though, and while Gary and I got to the dinghy and loaded it up and got in.

I looked down the road and saw the smaller gas jerry can sitting on the side of the road.  Oh crap; what has happened to the kid?  Gary mentioned that Elliott had seen a car he really liked and was probably taking pictures.  What?  Seriously?

We got settled and then I looked up and saw Elliott pick up the jerry can and start walking out to us; thank goodness.  I just wanted to get out of there.  But then I noticed he was walking with an older man.  Seems Elliott just couldn't resist talking to the owner of the cool car and now here he came as jauntily as could be.

The man said hello and said that he let Elliott see the car and even sit in it.  Isn't Elliott lucky?  Yes, that was a facetious remark.  The guy didn't ask our names, thankfully, as he appeared to be a leader in the little community and involved in Coast Guard activities.  He asked us where we were headed next, etc., and the guys told him.  Oy.  He did say that "they" (as in the community) were always happy to help someone out in an emergency situation like ours.  (Breathe, Ruth, breathe.)  He wished us luck on our travels and said goodbye.

I scolded Elliott on stopping to talk to people in whose neighborhood you are trespassing, even if they have a cool car in their garage, even if it is a 1973 DeTomasso Pantera.  Even if you feel compelled to help the guy remove a piece of plywood off the top of the car, though, in hindsight, this could have been the reason we did not get reported.  So of course, I'm torn, but still upset.  The guy could have marched right home and called local police or the Coast Guard and we'd been nailed.  He could have someone waiting for us at our next port of call.

The worst part of this is that the guy asked Elliott how we'd gotten out the gate; he told him we'd gotten some help from the landscaping guys.  I don't think he said anything about the guy giving me the code, but now I'm feeling like the worst human being on earth.  

I involved someone else in my subterfuge and now that person (or his company) may lose an account or get in some trouble.  I hereby renounce my life of crime because the guilt was doubled today.  I will never again involve an innocent person who didn't know me from anyone and just did what any normal person might do, especially with the language barrier.  I am so sorry.

I guess a good thing from this is that I know in Elliott I am not raising someone who is naturally a criminal at heart, you know?  He could learn, I suppose, but right now he is open, easygoing, seriously friendly, and obsessive of cars (sometimes to a fault).  I don't want to change that, but I do want him to be wary and know that too much information can be harmful.

As for me, like I said, the criminal life is over.  No more trespassing.  Of course, this means less time on land, but I'll have to live with it, won't I?

Night Sailing, Bridges, Anchovies

You know I hate night sailing, don't you?  Sure you do.  If you've been reading this blog at all, I've probably said it a million times.

So, last night, we motored out of Sister Creek under cover of darkness and into the Channel to find a good place to anchor as we waited for low tide to go under the bridge that would take us back into Florida Bay and north towards the Everglades, our next destination.

We had purchased a new spotlight which came in very handy as Elliott standing on the bow lighting up the daymarks for Gary as he made his way into the anchorage.

When the alarm sounded for leaving, at 3am, I just wanted to stay in bed.  My night sleeping has been jarred by the rib injury, as laying flat hurts, but staying on my side helps some, but it's not comfortable.

But I eventually got up and we headed out.  We had to go way around a shoaly spot and then head back in perpendicular to the Seven Mile Bridge (which I could only make out by the lights it was so dark) to make the tide, which should have given us a full foot over 65 feet.  Gary noticed that the steering was acting wonky and I worried about picking up a crab trap on our propeller, but we would have been stalled, so we thought maybe it was the current mixed in with the low tide or something.  As we neared the bridge, we knew we had it made because the tide board read at least 67. 

As we went under, our antenna scraped again, so we realized that the board was wrong and that the bridge was lower than we expected.  We cleared, though, and that was good.  The guys got us good and anchored and we slept for a fitful few hours.

I was awakened by Gary scurrying above me and cursing a bit and pulling something up from the water.  Come to find out, the steering from the night and morning before had been hampered by not one, but three, crab traps which had become entangled around the rudder.  We were so lucky that they missed the prop; thank goodness for that.

Gary got two of them free, but the last one was proving to be more troublesome, so he had to don swimsuit and flippers and enter the Bay's chilly waters to untangle the lines.  

Finally free, we hoped that the owners of the traps would be found someday.  Only bait was in the traps, so no stone crabs for us today.  I found out yesterday that stone crabs are harvested only for their claws; they grow new ones after a short time--a renewable resource.   I know, kind of gross, but they are delicious.

We got the news that a package that should have been delivered to us last week while we were in Islamorada would be getting there today, so Gary has us sailing (quite quickly and nicely) back up there to get this package.  The Post Office there is wacky, for sure.  The new and old owners of the resort we stayed in seem to be not in good stead, so any mail that comes to the resort without the name "resort" at the end is directly sent to the old owner in Tampa.  So, even though our package had Gary's name all over it and said "care of," etc., it was turned away at the post office.  Gary had called and inquired about it and the person who answered the phone had no interest in helping this issue get cleared up and had no information on projected delivery dates or anything.  I mean, really.  Just not good form, USPS.  So, he just found out this morning that it was going back and so we are going back, not a good use of our time, but at least there will be a resolution to this issue.  Grrrrrrrr.

Good thing is that we need to fill the dingy fuel tank and that will be available and their dinner menu at the resort is quite enticing.  Could be worse.

Our boating friends on Azimuth have decided not to go with us to the Everglades, which is the only reason I left Marathon.  Just found that out, too.  They do like to stay put once they find a good anchorage and they've become a bit immersed in the Key West home school community and I can't say that I blame them at all.  I sure do hope we see them at least once again during this trip and would heartily wish them well if we don't.  Elliott is very sad because he loves the two teens on the boat and is really missing them.

** Oh, why is anchovies mentioned in the title when I didn't mention them at all in my story?  Because, along with night sailing and bridges, they are another thing I abhor.  Oh, and eels.

My Happy Place

Sometimes things just fall into place so well that I truly believe in magic.

Social media is the magical wizard these days.  Like a GPS, you type in where you want to go and, all of a sudden, you hear from people in that area hoping to be able to spend some time with you and you with them.

Fredericksburg folks have really represented on this trip, which was totally unexpected.  I really didn't expect anything in the way of the number of great visits we've had with folks from back home.

But once again, friends from up north are vacation in the lovely south of Florida and said they'd love to see us. 

When we originally planned our stop in Marathon, we figured we'd find a mooring ball or anchorage in Boot Key Harbor and dinghy back and forth into town for provisioning and a possible hospital visit (my ribs still hurt pretty bad a week out, so I thought it was time to get an x-ray).

Our friend, Suzy, and her partner, Otis, rented a house for a whole month and had friends coming and going during that time culminating in a big tennis tournament at the end of the month.  Most of them are tennis players, but we thought we might be able to get along with them (ha).  There was a seawall at their property, but we weren't sure whether we might have the ability to tie up properly.  And they were up a creek (in a good way) that was quite shallow at the inlet.  But give Cappy a challenge and he'll jump on it.   We figured that we could at least stop by and say hello before possibly turning around and having to go out and come around the longer way to get into the harbor.

And I'm the kind of person who worries about infringing on peoples' planned things, you know?  Most folks like things to go as planned with no kinks in the line.

Making our way up the creek, we saw quite an array of shore birds, a nice beach at the entrance (Sombrero Beach), and the depth was great at high tide.  Some shoals, but we had a good lookout in Elliott.  As we crept close to the dock, there was our friend taking photos as we pulled in.  We had to shift a bit because closer up, the water was too skinny, so we pulled lines and adjusted until Nalani was sitting in comfortable water.  Now, not only were we warmly greeted by our friend Otis, but the wall was perfectly outfitted with cleats, electric, light, and water.  It could not have been more perfect.

Otis' partner had been called out of town for a sporting event, so we got to know her better and I'm so glad for it.  She's groovy and likes Downton Abbey--woot!  She took us out to a fun place for dinner and wherever we wanted to go, she was offering to make the ride easy for us.  So very kind.

The next day, we decided that I should get that week-old rib injury looked at, so we took a dinghy ride over to the marina we'd originally thought about using, and of course, they charged us more than it would have cost to even take a taxi to dock for a few hours.   The emergency room was pretty much empty at Fisherman's Hospital, so I got seen without the requisite three-hour wait.  I could hear the doctor talking on the phone, and heard, "You're the bomb!" quite a few times.  A hip doctor, just a little behind the times.

He came in, introduced himself, asked a lot of questions, glanced at my chest, called me "man" a few times (South Florida doctor lingo, I guess) and had me taken away to X-ray, where I was flat-screened three times.  No breaks, but a bad chest contusion.  The nurse gave me a Percocet to start my prescription out, but I had forgotten, and they didn't ask, about whether I had eaten that morning.  I had not and you KNOW that pill started making me loopy even before I walked out the sliding door of the hospital.

A restaurant that had been mentioned to us by another friend we'd met up with in Florida, The Stuffed Pig, was within walking distance, so we hoofed it there for get fueled up.  I broke out in a cold sweat and couldn't remember the name for pancakes.  Thankfully, as soon as the food starting making its way down my gullet, the effect of the narcotic lessened.  I decided not to fill the prescription right away; that drug is awesome, but scary.

So, the house we docked up to had a tennis court, a heated pool in which I practiced my limited snorkeling skills, and very comfortable accommodations.  Elliott stayed in the house until another group of friends came in to take over his room.

I had made a huge meatloaf the night before, so when folks started trickling in, we had dinner ready.  We ate out a few more times.  Cocomo's, the taco truck, was a huge win, and I would go there again and again, for sure.  When the other host, Suzy, returned from her trip, I laughed when I showed her the boat we bought instead of the house she had shown me (she's a realtor in real life and a damn good one--let me know if you want a reference).  We were treated to a visit to a chill seafood restaurant and dined on Stone Crab claws and fried fish.  The lobster Reuben is quite the rave there and Elliott got one because he loves lobster now.  At the house, special recipes for mixed drinks were tried and LOVED by yours truly.  Homemade chicken soup really hit the spot and I woke up the next day in notably less pain than the day before.

Otis loves the dolphins and manatees that come to visit and I shared in the evening routine of looking for them; occasionally, we were successful and it was a joy until we were chased inside by noseeums.

Gary, Elliott, and I visited Sombrero Beach, where I got to witness a young Brazilian guy doing a great job of talking up a stunningly beautiful woman who was visiting from Somerville, Mass.  Elliott overheard him talking about racing cars, so he got his attention and they had a long chat.  Very amiable guy named Daniel; if you see him there on the beach, say hello.  He and family were there for a week or so, and they all said hi to Elliott and when we left, Daniel came over and gave E a man hug; it was cute.

On the way to the beach, we were dinghying down the river and we noticed a sailboat anchored in a wide part of the creek.  We waved, even though we didn't know them, because that's what we do.  Well, they waved  and waved, and started talking to us, which we couldn't really hear over the motor, and it wasn't until we saw their stern that we realized it was Sea Monkey, the folks we had seen with Dred Pirate Tom in Stuart.  So we sidled over and chatted a bit and then we stopped on our way back from the beach for a drink and conversation in their cockpit.  Too much fun and we so love running into these folks.  Lovely family.

 

As a parting gift to everyone for their kindness and hospitality, we offered a sunset sail before we left to anchor by the bridge for the night.  The guys opted out to hit the bar, so the wonderful group of women came on board and we motored out of the creek and then sailed for a beautiful ending to a beautiful stay.  We had a great time.  The sunset was gloriously glowing, unlike any I'd seen so far on our travels; a good omen for that moment and the rest of our journey.

As we came back into the dock, I felt sad to be leaving, but thankful, so thankful, for meeting new friends and getting to know our friends even better.  So, you know, sometimes it is okay to be a little nervous about a new destination, but when welcomed with such open arms, it is easy to make it a home away from home for a short while.  Marathon was definitely a highlight of this trip.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Indian Key

From Islamorada, we sailed further south to duck behind Indian Key Historic State Park, which we used as a wave shelter and as a tourist stop.  Indian Key, which is now run by the U.S. Park Service, has an interesting and sad history.

Key West was the big island for shipwreck salvaging until Indian Key became fairly well known for the operation that Jacob Houseman moved there in 1830.  Prehistoric Indians had been in the Keys forever, but turtlers and wreckers had been in the area afterward, but Houseman created a community that grew into homes, cisterns, stores, and warehouses for the wrecking operations.  Unfortunately, their glory was short-lived as the Seminole War escalated to include Indian Key; thirteen people were murdered on a fateful day in 1840.  Of course, U.S. military retaliation followed and Indian leaders were hanged and the war came to an end. 

A notable person who was killed was Dr. Henry Perrine (a former U.S. consul in Mexico), who was waiting there until he was awarded a parcel of land from Congress.  His interest in botany led him to planting gardens, which today have grown over much of the island.  Some of the people of the island waded out into neck-deep water to escape but their dogs followed and barked and whimpered.  The townpeople drowned the dogs to save their lives.

Today, there is still the town square area and streets laid out and kept up with signage.  Cisterns, warehouse footings, and other building ruins are still in existence.  Most houses were made mostly of wood, and those burned in the attacks.

Besides the sketchy and bloody history, the island is a beautiful, semi-wild place to visit.  Fish dot the coral edges of the island, while egrets feast on the tasty swimming snacks.  Lizards abound, all sizes.  The water is very clear at the island and is a short kayak ride away from some of the main islands of the Keys.

We met two very nice couples at the entrance; I offered to take a group photo for them.  Found out that one of the couples had just gotten married and were on their honeymoon.  That was cool.  The other couple hailed from Charleston, SC.  "Ah," I told them, "I go there to eat."  They totally understood.

The guys wanted to do more snorkeling not far from there where a shipwreck was located.  We sailed out there and moored up to the ball.  They dove and dove, but could find nothing.  It was a cloudy day, too, and the water was not as clear, so it was disappointing, but me, I was doing a Nervous Nellie happy dance.

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.  

The Undersea World of Wonder

  

It Only Hurts When I Breathe

After another day in Barnes Sound just waiting out the wind, we finally brought up anchor and headed out on our way to Cary's Fort Reef so the guys could go snorkeling again.  Seems they've now got a passion for it and I'd deal with it as best I could.

We had to go back under a bridge we cleared nicely just a few days ago, so we were feeling confident we'd be fine this time.  I was down below mending a rip in one of our quilts when I heard an epithet escape from Gary's mouth followed by, "Elliott!  Watch out!" Then a loud bang.  Oh my, this couldn't be good.

I came up to find two shaken men and pieces of our anchor light strewn about on deck.  We fought the bridge and the bridge won.

Bridges have a strange design flaw; they may be 65 feet high, but right smack dab in the middle hangs a light, meant to be a lining up beacon, I'm thinking, but it hangs down just enough to be a problem.  Today, it was our problem. 

Keeping control of a boat is much easier when you have some speed behind your actions; unfortunately, going under bridges for us is a slower operation because we just don't know when or by how much we're going to clear.

A strong current, waves from another boat, midjudgement, all can make a difference.  Thankfully, the light was all that fell.

I got the dustpan and swept up the smaller pieces and collected the larger for inspection later.

We hoped that this was not a portend for the day.  Continuing on our way, we slowly bur surely, got to the reef.  The seas were rolly and we thought (I hoped) that they'd be too heavy for us to stay.  But, as reefs are known for, as soon as we were in the middle of them, the seas calmed and we left the boat and got in the dingy to get closer to the one they wanted to dive on.

On Shark (or any unknown dangerous creature) Watch

Gary was so happy; he said they'd hit paydirt.  I stayed in the dinghy, newly named The Safety Officer.  After about 20 minutes or so, I saw something surface near me.  It was so brief, I couldn't even begin to identify it, but it looked fairly large and was a sandpaper color, which could be some type of ray or a shark.

I waited and watched, not too worried, but it surfaced again, still only a flat shape in the water.  A few minutes later, it came up again.  I alerted Gary that I saw something and did not know whether it was something to worry about.  After a little while, it came up again, and I still didn't know what I was seeing. 

Elliott loving the beauty of the sea

The guys had tired out by now, so they swam to the dinghy and pulled themselves in.  Elliott had used our underwater camera for this dive, so he was excitedly telling me about all the different fish and how he had gone swimming with barracuda.  (Only later, I hear from a friend that sharks don't scare him, but barracudas sure do--great!)

Because I was in the bow of the dinghy, I turned around and leaned over the boat to pull in the painter that was attached to the mooring buoy.  I pulled and as we moved closer, I pulled again and then fell back into the boat in pain from a "pop" I had felt at the top of my rib cage.  Took my breath away.  God, I hate getting hurt.  Total loss of control of a situation.

I sat for a while catching my breath and holding my ribs.  Gary pulled the line the rest of the way in and, after sitting with me a while, we made our way to the boat.  Because the boat was so rolly where it was, we had to get on without using the transom, which is easiest.  Climbing onto the side meant waiting for the boat to roll down and the dinghy to roll up; I finally got a good grip, planted one foot on the outer rail, but then the dinghy went down again, so I was stretching crazily.  Finally, pulled myself up, stressing the rib injury again, but at least I was on the deck.

We got underway and after a few sailing hours, motored behind Rodriguez Key to anchor for the night.  Bugs came early, so we sat inside for our evening meal. 

Since then, I've been wrapped with an Ace bandage, which seemed to help by putting pressure there and I've taken pain killers and used SalonPas pads on the area.

Definitely feeling sore and bruised this morning, so I hope that's all it was; just can't figure out what the popping feeling could have been.  Obviously, if it gets worse, I will visit a local island doctor.

In the meantime, maybe I need a special remedy of some lime in coconut (with a splash of rum, eh?).  Take care, everyone.

NEXT POST:  Undersea Photos!

Yes, Virginia, There is an Elliott Key

That evening, we anchored in Elliott Key, with plans to explore the island the next day.  It got a little gusty that night and I did not take it well.  I decided to try a Bonine for my queasy stomach and it worked and I was able to sleep.  Elliott and I did dinghy around during the calm the next morning, getting me comfortable at the controls and getting up on a plane.  Then he took over and rattled my teeth on the way back.  A few of the boats that had been anchored over night had left so the anchorage was fairly clear to scoot around in.  

Bubba Gump, where are you when we need you?

I got on a float for a while and the water felt so refreshing.  As I was climbing onto the transom, I looked down and saw a shrimp looking up at me with these purple-ish eyes! Glad I didn't see it in the water next to me.  Elliott was still free swimming and as he came close, the shrimp turned around start towards him; E said it was so scary!  The shrimp then turned around and came back to its original position by the transom, treading water and looking up (but I guess they're always looking up, eh?).  It seemed to want something.  Here's a few photos from our shrimp encounter.  (You know, some people pay big bucks for wildlife encounters and here we had one for no dollars--aren't we lucky?)     

Cute little thang, eh?

A few large powerboats came in, one blaring their music quite loudly.  Thankfully, the music was turned down once the swimming ensued.

The guys were over on shore doing a little snorkeling and walking on the beach; I was watching from the cockpit, working on another knitting project.  A huge cigarette boat came barrelling into the anchorage and the shore at stop speed.  

This is how they got to shore; E is being dragged
on my float.  A far cry from wakeboarding!

About 1,000 feet off shore are pencil buoys marked to mean, "Slow Speed, No Wake."  Obviously, this guy was going too fast to read the marks or he just didn't care because he kept the top speed all the way in.  I thought to myself that I hoped he got grounded, literally.  No such luck.  But they did get their comeuppance.  Not long after they docked and went into the greenery of the island did they come running out screaming and swatting at the bugs who were dining on their delectable flesh.  They got out of there fast.  Thank you very much, Universe.

I know I shouldn't think mean thoughts like that, but, seriously, some of these boaters are just not using their brains.  Whether it is because they are ignorant of the rules, whether they are showing off, or just playing around, their lack of concern for safety really riles me.  Okay, off soapbox.

Next on our itinerary was a sail out Broad Creek to Shark Reef.  Now, I have to tell you I have been having problems with anxiety rearing its ugly head again.  I have always had anxiety issues which prevents me from thoroughly enjoying certain activities.

I think just the name "Shark Reef" flipped me out.  First of all, I'm not a strong swimmer and I also do not snorkel (fear of not being able to breathe or claustrophobia).  I also do not snorkel because I'm very, very afraid of shark attacks.  Yes, I know they're rare, but it doesn't change anything in my fear-based brain. Damn you, Jaws!!!!  During a deep meditation quite a few years ago, a strong vision came to me of a huge shark waiting under the shelf of a reef for me.  I believe that the vision came at a time of toxic relationship, so my logical mind "knows" that the message was veiled as this shark waiting to pounce and devour me.  By my fear-based mind can only think that there is a certain shark out there with my name on it, just waiting until I immerse myself in the wild waters.

So, the past few days have not gone well for me.  The anxiety, the resultant stomach squeamishness, and my paralysis in doing almost anything have held me back some and I don't like it, though I feel safe in the retreat.  I watched the boys skin dive from the boat, ready with my air horn, life vest, and the painter of the dinghy nearby.  I know they had a great time because occasionally, one of them would pop up and you could hear them saying, "Wow!" or some other excited comment, point to go down again, and they'd go fins up to see some more coral or fishes.  They got back on the boat beaming!

Alabama Jack's:  Buggy, but they've got sweet tea!

Other good news is that we found a nearby restaurant we visited by water taxi (the dinghy) and they had REAL SWEET TEA!  Just when you've lost all hope, there is an oasis.  So the food was mostly fried (though Elliott had a wonderful blackened mahi-mahi he said was fantastic), but the liquid gold was awesomeness.  Funny how that makes everything alright for a little while with free refills.  And the bartender was named Dog.  Thank you, Alabama Jack's.

Squawk!!!

One of the fun things we did while in Miami was to visit Jungle Island, formerly Parrot Jungle.  We took the dinghy over and came into a derelict dockage area, but docked up anyway.  

In order to get to Jungle Island, we had to wait for a private fence to open by drivers with a code.  We did not have a code.  We would not have a code when we left Jungle Island later in the day.  We sauntered through the gate anyway and bought our tickets.  As soon as we entered, we were (almost) made to go through a line and get our photos taken with parrots who played dead or sat on your shoulder.

 We opted out and cut in front of everyone, including the photographer, to start our regular tour.  I expected a cheesy place, but we had a really good time even if it was to get away from the boat for a day.

We joined in watching an animal parade in the kids' area and I was laughing at the juggler who dropped a pin.  When a kid came out to pick it up and give it back, he "accidentally" dropped another one, and so on, much to the kids delight. 

There were snakes and crocodiles and monkeys and lions and tigers and ligers and warthogs and yes, lots of parrots and other birds.  And lemurs!  The juggler from earlier led one of the shows on mammals, including lemurs  He was very funny and so was the lemur as he hopped on peoples' heads and snatched grapes from the part in their hair.  It was hilarious; you had to be there.

One of the shows we went to showed off of some of their prized birds including the parrots.  The vulture was kind of creepy, but interesting.  The most frightening bird was a cassowary, which, we found out (and glad we were higher up in the bleachers), could eviscerate a human being in a second or so with the long nail on the second toe of their three-toed foot.  Like that extra second would make any difference in the long run.  Yikes.  The one they had had been born there and hand raised, so no evisceration show today.  Look at the photo; proof that birds are the closest living thing to dinosaurs today.

My lesson for you today is to never cross paths with a cassowary  That's a cassowary over there at the left; I filched the photo from some internet source.  Look at those feet!  You're welcome.

Stiltsville

Our next sailing day took us past downtown Miami and past some cruise ships, one of which we found out later was carrying a cousin off on a dream vacation! Through Biscayne Bay out the Cape Florida Channel past Key Biscayne and then back in Biscayne Channel through Stiltsville and then further south through Biscayne Bay to arrive at Elliott Key for the evening.

Stiltsville is an interesting bit of residential living.  Out in the middle of Biscayne Channel, these are houses on stilts.  One of the earliest known houses belonged to "Crawfish" Eddie Walker, who sold a crawfish chowder, along with beer and bait, out of his house.  The crawfish came from right under the house.

Earlier records of shantys on the water are sketchy.  Hurricanes were not kind to the houses, but they kept being built so that at one time there 27 houses there.  A few were used for partying for certain kinds of "clubs," and some were use for selling alcohol as they met the limit of being one mile from shore. 

Celebrities and other high-profile Miamians were known to visit Stiltsville for drinking and other illicit activities, and there was even a Bikini Club, where women who arrived in a bikini received free drinks (no telling how long those bikinis stayed on after that!).

Cool place to sail by the seven remaining structures and wonder about what it was like there back in its heyday.

Auspicious Occasion and South Beach

The next day, Elliott was invited to go along with the Cap and First Mate of Azimuth to pick up their kids from the airport.  He was so excited as he had really missed them.  He got home quite late, but he was smiling.  He spent most of the next day with them as Gary and I decided to go walk around South Beach for old time's sake.

We thought we could find some free dinghy parking, but no dice.  The water was choppy from big yachts, so we both got a little wet.  At one point, we turned around to see a huge boat bearing down on us; you bet we gave way. 

We asked the JetSki rental guys and they said that if you dock up at the Miami Beach Yacht Club docks and then go into Monty's Restaurant, you can show the dock guy your receipt and get your $20 tie-up fee back (for two hours).  We decided that was not enough time to make the South Beach walk and eat and drink, so we went straight to the restaurant and proceeded to get drunk.  We also celebrated that we were back at the place where we first met 9,070 days before; actually, I think where we were sitting was actually a huge parking lot then, but the high rises and restaurants, and shops were slowing taking over.  Not necessarily a bad change from what it was; just different.

We love our Margaritas and are not super picky about them; I won't demand top shelf because it doesn't make a difference to me.  I'm a flavor person.

Oh my God; these nachos!!!!!

But, since we had to wait for a table, we started at the bar, and got the drinks and drank most of them before we got to our table.  There was a delay even with the appetizers (we kept forgetting this was still Christmas vacation time), so with no food to temper the alcohol, I was seeing fuzzy quite quick.

After we ate and ate and ate and packed up leftovers, Gary suggested that, since I really was the one who wanted to see South Beach, that I should go and when I got to the dinghy dock we'd been using for our other shore excursions, I could call him and he'd come right over.  I was a little hesitant because I was loopy, but then I thought:  South Beach, with its loads of people, fast cars, loud motorcycles, and tons of neon might be quite interesting with an alcohol-inflamed brain.  So yes it was.

Bring me my food already!

I toodled off down the street while Gary settled the bill and headed back to the boat.   All I had to do, really, was make a big "L," well, maybe an upside down one, to get into the right area and then find my way back.

South Beach was decked out in all its glory.  The beach was still busy and the volleyball sand courts were full of tanned bodies lunging for the ball.  The streets were crowded with a cacophony of engine and horn sounds.  The cigarette and cigar girls were out hawking their wares, too.  I think that's all they were selling.

Every table I passed on the restaurant side had diners mostly on their phones, but it was good to see a few tables where the people were actually interested in each other and enjoying a conversation.

House DJs cranked up the music while psychedelic images flashes on screens behind them.  Not a lot of dancing yet, though the night was young and the moon had just risen.

The mood of South Beach is upbeat, loud, and on the move.  I like that.  I also like the sleepier town of Hollywood.  They both have good points.

As I made my way to the end of the "strip," I ran right into the Lincoln Road area.  Easy as pie.  Turn left, walk straight, and if you don't fall off the sea wall, call your ride.  Oh, but it was hot and the Margarita had worn off, and in its place a sheen of sweat pulled me into a little restaurant to cool off.

I got a bottle of tea (Arizona, not the real good stuff) and ordered the flan.  I love flan and this flan was the most delicious and creamy flan I'd ever had.  And they made it so much smarter than I've seen; in something like a Bundt pan, so that you just sliced off big chunks.  It was so much that I took some home to eat later.  But I just realized that I never did get to that; I think the Captain exercised the chain of command and took care of that for me.