Big Yellow Taxi

So Garythetourist asked me what I thought of the proposal to spend seventy seven million dollars to restore the old Seven Mile Bridge. Hmm thought I, what could be bad about that? At least they aren't paying to pave a Pigeon Key with luxury homes! Unhappily the money will come in dribs and drabs over decades, so I will be dead before the last of the money is assigned to Monroe County by the State under this plan. Florida's DOT pays $57 million over a 30-year period; Monroe County pays $14 million and the City of Marathon pays $5 million over some unspecified period of time. The old bridge was built just over a century ago and nowadays is used as a fishing and walking pier but passenger traffic to Pigeon Key is no longer allowed.

Nowadays the public gets to the Pigeon Key museum by boat, which makes me glad I went when I did.

Someone happened to mention to me that the "Submarine Pens" on Boca Chica Key are for sale and I was surprised, not just by the fact of the offering but that I hadn't previously noticed. In this aerial view from the listing website you can see the Boca a Chica a Naval Air Station in the background and the thin white line cutting across the picture: that's the Overseas a Highway. Key West would be to the right, Big Coppitt Key to the left.

There is a lot of mythology surrounding the so-called Submarine Pens, and Sotheby's website perpetuates the nonsense. They say the seven canals cut into 122 acres of land will produce 26 luxury canal side homes on the land that was "used to house submarines during the Cuban Missile crisis. I wonder how they got unwieldy subs drawing at least fifteen feet into this isolated lagoon that has absolutely no facilities at all, not even cleats to tie the boats off to. And why would they have penned them into these tough hewn canals anyway? No photograph exists showing submarines parked here but you can find lots of subs at their proper docks at Truman Waterfront, as related here: Marker Details - Key West Historic Markers Project.

I believe the submarine pens were created as a project you build officer housing north of the Boca Chica base and the canals were part of that project. Now we will see luxury homes sprout here when some developer scrapes together the asking price of twenty six million bucks, a mere bagatelle in a world sheer a bank CEO gets a bonus that size for getting his too big to fail institution in trouble with the SEC.

Here is my original essay on the Submarine Pens from distant 2008 when my Bonneville was nearly new and Cheyenne was unknown to me.

Someone with a very large back hoe or a plentiful supply of dynamite came to the north shore of Boca Chica Key, at Mile Marker Eight and blew the bejeezus out of the limestone rock. They call these cuts in the rock the Submarine Pens. Thus one could reasonably assume that they were created to dock submarines in... However when you visit these very expensive holes in the water it becomes obvious the best you could do with them is...swim in them!

I don't know who dug them and I don't know when they were created but there are fully seven rectangular holes in the limestone, and to me as a veteran of the Canal they look wider and are definitely longer than the thousand-foot locks of Panama's Eighth Wonder of the World. They also appear to be a great deal less useful, even though they do look quite pretty in a pastoral, unmilitary sort of way: These holes in the water could be Key West's Stonehenge or perhaps, viewed from the air, they could be the island's crop circles or cousins to the enormous figures drawn in the deserts of South America. Submarines? I don't think so. I've poked around online and the only mention I can find of submarines and Key West are the official docks at Truman Annex, where the Navy was based for a long time. On the north side of Boca Chica Key the long arm of military militariness is still felt at the inner end of the road past the last pens:

The gate has a shiny new lock to protect the radar installation for the nearby Naval Air Station airfield where Navy jets take practice flights:

Other than the radar dome there is no visible purpose for the road anymore. The Navy owns the land and the mangroves on the other side but the street itself is deteriorating visibly and the bushes are growing out of control:

The thing about the "submarine pens" is that there are no structures alongside them, there are no docks, no cement no signs of any of the shoreside support systems that ships need when they come into port. So the conclusion one draws is that someone somewhere decided to hew out of the living rock a proposal to dock submarines 8 miles east of Key West Harbor across waters too thin to float a sub and instead of completing the channel first, they decided to carve out the pens? If true these things are the most expensive toilet seats the Navy ever sat on. But they do make a pleasant recreational area for Keys civilians, I must say. And clearly some locals have taken advantage of these unused giant swimming pools. I found a camp site complete with fire ring, tables and chairs and pool "facilities."This place has been floating around in my consciousness forever, because I have heard people talk about the pens, but I have never previously bothered to come out here. Why? I don't know really despite my self anointed tag as an explorer. Now that I have come out here I feel like a kid discovering a huge new playground, and I'm guessing that weekdays in summer I shall find a corner or two within this "park" I can enjoy by myself on a hot sticky afternoon.

I mentioned to my colleague Diggy that I was planning a trip to explore the submarine pens and he looked at me quizzically, declining to ride his Honda 750 "all the way out" to Mile Marker 8 only to get stopped by a Navy Guard. "Those places are on the Navy base aren't they?" said this Conch graduate of Key West High School. That misconception stayed with me as I swung off Highway One at the Navy Base entrance.

The Navy owns most of the land on Boca Chica ("small mouth" in Spanish) Key, with an active Naval Air Station south of Highway One which bisects the island. On the north side of the island, accessed from the ramped Boca Chica exit from Highway one, lies the mystery of the submarine pens.

 

The access road runs parallel to Highway One and then passes through some broken gates. As I rode the Bonneville through the gates I wondered, in a rather paranoiac state of mind, if armed Navy guards were going to leap out of the casuarina trees, armed to the teeth with camouflage sprouting from their helmets. No such thing came to pass, as I rumbled down the tatty old access road. In the distance, beyond Highway One, I could see the hangars at Boca Chica glowing in the evening sun:

And alongside the access road the old outlines of cement bunkers, probably ammunition magazines rose out of the mangroves like large immobile turtles:

 

I first rode to the end of the road, snapping pictures as I went, still half wondering if I was in fact trespassing, but after I got to the locked gate I realised that I was alone on an empty, unmarked street open to all. The fact that we in the Keys live on small slivers of land necessarily gives these extra strips of open space value out of all proportion to what you see here. This is an excellent piece of parkland right off my commute and I can see strapping a folding chair to my saddlebag, stuffing a thermos of tea inside the same saddlebag and taking an afternoon to sit in the shade and read in peace and quiet, far from the distractions of modern life. No bums, no radios no nothing to disturb me or my motorcycle.

It isn't as though I have explored the whole place yet, so next time I will have to poke a little bit further, ride a little bit deeper into the undergrowth and check out a few more views.

Nevertheless I don't think that, picturesque though they may be, the Submarine Pens of Boca Chica Key should never reveal the whys and wherefores of their existence, even if military officer housing were the real answer.

PS:

The Submarine Pens were closed and locked to prevent public access a short while later. I was told there was a serious accident there, involving alcohol and lack of judgement of course so to prevent lawsuits and possible loss of life the Navy had decided to close the delightful park-like pens to public access. As always the stupidity of the few impacts the many. Now it seems we may well see even more homes and traffic and so forth originating here where before there was not much. Paving paradise was the refrain I think, coined by Joni Mitchell.

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North Carolina 12

When it came time to leave Ocracoke we decided to drive north on Friday after a late breakfast in town and a long lounge on the porch enjoying 65 degree sunshine. Cheyenne sat in a patch of grass just beyond our rocking chairs and rolled in the sun of and onto her back, paws in the air grunting as she scratched the spot with the grass. We could have sat there all day doing nothing; Ocracoke was draining away our will to live. But Highway 12, the Irwin Garrish Highway beckoned.

The 13 mile stretch of flat straight road between the village and the Hatteras Ferry is named for a county commissioner who lived in Ocracoke until his death a dozen or so years ago. The road is almost all flat and not terribly scenic, sand dunes to seaward blocking the view and keeping the ocean from covering the roadway in high winds. Swamps shrubs and more sand on the sound dude of the road with occasional glimpses of muddy brown water. There are a couple of curves along the road, my favorite section, with tall pines giving shade and a momentary feeling of being in a forest...

...but for the most part it is long and straight and not terribly challenging. I have heard a story that the man for whom this stretch of roadway is named was not an adventurous driver and was once cited for driving too slowly, "impeding the flow of traffic" on the very highway named for him. Fifty five was apparently too fast for him, according to the story that may be apocryphal.

I myself got stopped on mainland Dare County on Saturday, my wife and I were animatedly discussing a possible summer road trip to New England and by the time I noticed the Sherfiff's Deputy coming head-on I realized too late I was doing 70 in a 55, not at all Irwin Garrish islander-style. I was alone on a dead straight stretch of Highway 64, and the only other driver could hardly help but notice me as we were aiming at each other on the road. I saw him in my mirror pull over and a make a u-turn, so with a sigh I pulled over and waited for the inevitable blue lights and "...do you know why..?" I was doing 70 I said, and I stupidly didn't notice. It was a good day though as I only got a verbal warning so just to let you know these long empty straight North Carolina roads are patrolled. I like to think Garrish got a ticket for going too damned slow.

One reason the speed limit is so relatively high on the empty stretch of roadway on Ocracoke Island is that they have corralled the formerly wild horses of Ocracoke as they were posing a threat to traffic. I suppose it makes sense and even though their corral is large, huge, it is still a shame in my book they have to be fenced in. I'd take a lower speed limit to restore their freedom, but I don't live on Ocracoke, so I can have an opinion on their way of life just as snowbirds and visitors write the newspaper to comment on mine.

I did mention it's long and straight didn't I?

The other object of note here is the fact that almost the entire island of Ocracoke, outside of the village is part of the Cape Hatteras National Seashore and is thus protected, though they do allow vehicles with permits, easily obtained, to drive on the beach, as old fashioned as that sounds.

Out of season the beach is empty and glorious and if a little cold and windswept it's the sort of strand visitors to the Keys imagine they might find, but of course never do. Such beaches are found on mainland Florida usually overlooked by vast great condos, built in the land of no urban planning. This land is controlled by the gummint so it is pristine and lovely with a very low ROI.

Vehicles used by taxpayers are allowed on the beach but are asked not to trample the dunes and sea oats struggling to put down roots to keep the dunes intact.

The Hatteras Ferry is free to users and is considered by the state of North Carolina to be an extension of state highway 12 which runs another sixty miles north to Nags Head, an estimated 90 minutes from Hatteras. The ferry used to take thirty minutes to cross the five miles separating Ocracoke from Hatteras but Mother Nature sent a hurricane that shifted the sands and closed the shortest route so now the ferries have to scribe a large wide arc taking an hour or more depending on the currents. We spent 70 minutes chugging between terminals.

These ferries run about every half hour from 4:30 am to midnight in summer and rather less often in winter. The boats are lacking in amenity but they have an enclosed seating area upstairs and toilets downstairs so time spent waiting to arrive need not be a complete waste of time. There is cell service across this short water gap too which helps to pass the time.

Or you can stand on the observation deck and watch the "other" ferry cross your path.

We passed two loaded boats heading for Ocracoke at once. Schedule mix up? No idea. The dredges are manfully pumping sand to clear the short cut and if they ever manage to overcome nature's impulse to close the channel it would help people who travel here daily. Locals get priority boarding which helps I suppose.

So there I was walking around checking out the Harley and the Victory motorcycles and a rather snotty couple riding a tandem bicycle stopped by dressed in the obligatory absurd spandex outfits and cleated shoes that make them walk as though on eggshells. I said good morning as one does on the outer banks and if looks could kill the bearded dude in blue stretch pants would have slain me on the spot. He maneuvered his bicycle away from the wool clad chilled Hobbit and looked at me very old fashioned as though I were contemplating stealing his ghastly contraption. I mentally wished him joy of a ride up the most boring coastal road ever, into freezing cold headwinds. And his partner her ride endlessly staring into the cleft of his spandex, uptight ass. Good for his soul no doubt and her's too perhaps. I got back into the sun-heated car, grumpy I had already left behind the intimate village of Ocracoke where no one knows you name but waves cheerily anyway.

On your marks! Get set! ... And out we spewed into pre-season Hatteras, still on North Carolina Highway 12.

I miss urban planning when I ride up the mish mash of neon and yard waste that seems to line the Upper Keys alongside the Overseas Highway, but the Outer Banks take urban abandonment to a new level of public indifference. They plonk down massive multi-story rental units in the sand higgeldy piggeldy. These barrier islands are all sand so they move around and get sliced and diced in heavy storms. The road has been cut and covered in shifting sands and machinery is still at work reinforcing the only bridge at Oregon Inlet while also trying to push back encroaching sand dunes. All to keep these little towns in operation.

We had lunch in Hatteras at a restaurant that opened for the season a couple of hours before we arrived. We had called the day before and a worker sprucing up the long closed eatery confirmed they were going to be ready for us.

We had soup and steamed mussels and shared a crab cake sandwich filled with all crab meat and no filler and we felt we were where we were supposed to be.

They even offered to feed us on the deck so our dog could sit with us, for they had watched me watering her in the parking lot, but it was too cold and we ate indoors and let Cheyenne sleep in the fresh maritime breeze.

This is the reason lunch was so delicious, I suspect:

The road went on and on, passing huge rentals towering over the sands, convenience stores neon lit, and all the paraphernalia of modern living unencumbered by good taste or clean thoughtful architecture.

We had selected a few landmarks to visit on our drive to Nag's Head the town that marks the spot where the main road goes inland toward I-95 and where Sheriff's deputies lurk with radar guns. Google maps says the sixty mile drive should take 90 minutes because there are lots of villages along the way with slower speed limits than the rural 55. But in summer I'm told the highway becomes a daily parking lot. In winter locals drive it like it is speed limit-free.

We stopped to visit the Cape Hatteras Light, guarded by the National Parks Service. A walk in the perfectly tended grounds is free, thank you Government, though there is a fee to climb the tallest lighthouse in the US. Mercifully the stairway was closed and the challenge was denied us. The museum on the grounds was delightful and made the stop worthwhile.

The Avon Pier is described in Trip Advisor as a delightful attraction and they charge a dollar to walk it. However dogs are not allowed so this private enterprise lost our two dollars for dissing Cheyenne. I can't say she was particularly moved by our act of canine solidarity.

We skipped the Bodie Lighthouse having done Hatteras, which is actually in the village of Buxton, and the other attraction a US Life Saving Service Museum in Chicamacomico was still closed for the season. We amused ourselves figuring how to pronounce the name of the place as we drove by.

Oregon Inlet is a landmark, a long bridge, Keys style, over a shifting sandy inlet. There was a demonstration there ending as we drove by, protesting the use of sand to shore up the shifting coastline. I wasn't sure what it was about, something to do with keeping local sand local. I googled the issue and discovered that the islands will need to spend about two million dollars a year to keep beach erosion at bay. Rising sea levels seem to threaten these places more so by far than the rocks and reefs of the immutable Keys. In the end though Mother Nature will not be denied.

Nag's Head an ugly strip mall town of three thousand greeted us this year rather like our visit last year, with not terribly nice weather. Last year it howled with wind and poured rain, this year it was cold and gray, and rained overnight as we slept at the dog friendly Rodeway Inn. Cheyenne was so hard walked at this point she was ready for bed and I needed no encouragement to join her for a nap while my wife braved the four lane highway to get herself a pedicure and us both a takeout dinner of oysters, mussels and fish. We slept soundly prior to our marathon drive back to south Florida. We arrived in Fort Pierce at ten o'clock Saturday night. By Sunday lunchtime we were home and I girded my loins for a night shift while Cheyenne fell into a coma of travel exhaustion. Our vacation was over.

From 2013:
Key West Diary: Nags Head Woods
Key West Diary: North Carolina Highway 12
Key West Diary: O'Cockers

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British Cemetery

How odd it is to see the Union Jack over a corner of this foreign field in Ocracoke. Poetry to the rescue!

 

Rupert Brooke. 1887–1915

 

The Soldier

 

If I should die, think only this of me;

That there's some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,

A body of England's breathing English air,

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

It happened in 1942 that British ships were helping defend the US coast from German submarines which were sinking a ship a day before the Allies got their convoy defences sorted out. His Majesty's Trawler Bedfordshire was on Atlantic patrol off Ocracoke and sunk with all hands.

HMT Bedfordshire - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Four bodies washed up on Ocracoke of 37 killed, which included one member of the Royal Canadian Navy serving on the ship who disappeared. Two of the washed up dead were identified, the other two are listed merely as "Unknown" on the official Commonwealth Graves headstones. The four crosses were made on Ocracoke to mark the graves and they were replaced by the "proper" headstones provided by the Commonwealth Graves Commission found on foreign fields worldwide where British servicemen have died. Another unknown body presumed from the Bedfordshire washed up on Hatteras and a sixth managed to wash up at Swan Quarter on the mainland. The rest disappeared, their fate unknown till the U-Boat responsible was captured and it's logs were revealed to the Allies.

It is a lovely spot on a fresh early Spring morning.

On a quiet backwater of a street in a tiny fishing village there is something very touching to think of the young US Coastguardsmen coming out here to tend these long lost graves and keeping them looking so well cared for, so far from home.

This is a seafaring community so a watery grave is not an uncommon fate. There are graves all over Ocracoke, in gardens, in the woods, by the side of the road. I love cemeteries and this town has some lovely headstones.

A great spot to be alone and think.

With Cheyenne I am never entirely alone. Good dog.

Rupert Brooke - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

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