Cleopatra's Barge

With the boat  engine fixed and Robert's 30 year old Evinrude running smoothly we decided we needed an adventure. Tuesday we said we would take a picnic to the back country and spend a late afternoon boating and swimming and barbecuing in the wilderness north of Highway One. Good plan, but as the wise old timers used to say: "Man proposes and God disposes."

 At first all went well, with Cheyenne tucked up at home in the cool of our house we took off for Robert and Dolly's place on the other side of Cudjoe Bay. Dolly and my wife had settled on food and drink (the pink job) and off we took, loaded for bear. Soon we were skimming across the water at 20 miles per hour.

It had seemed possibly windy and thunderstormy but by five in the evening the back country looked magnificent.

 Even through a temporarily smudged lense...

 We weren't alone on the water:

 And then it happened, my engine died. We fiddled and faddled and faffed around but there was nothing for it, the trip to tarpon belly Key was off. Bugger. We rafted up the two boats side by side and pointed our bows for home, Robert's elderly outboard pushing both boats. This was my boat NOT moving under it's own propulsion: 

The women made themselves comfortable with lemonade and cushions while I took a  turn at the helm (blue job) trying to stay focused on our target the distant Highway One bridge to the south of us, the bridge that separates Cudjoe from Sugarloaf Key. At waking pace under a warm Florida  sun Bow Channel was looking good, for those awake enough to see.

Robert passed out drinks, homemade lemonade and sodas, and our improvised catamaran made its stately way south as we pondered the shallow waters we had run into on our way north. There was  supposed to be a deeper channel cutting through the mangrove islands to let us slip through to the east where we could get to Kemp Channel. However even before the engine died we had  been hitting really shallow water. Hmm, wonder where the channel went?  

Robert and Dolly's young dog was having a blast hopping around, checking for flying fish and watching the world go by. Salty Dog kept hopping back and forth between boats fascinated by everything. I loved watching him treat boat life as normal, drinking water when offered, eating a cookie, laying down, completely confident that our raft was not going to sink. Fearless dog. We left Cheyenne at home as it is really too hot for her this time of year. 

 Dolly was having a good time, Tarpon Belly or not.

 Robert took the tiller after a while as we slowly puttered down the channel. I'm not sure how long it took us but time passed very pleasantly as long as I didn't think too hard about my broken engine. I figured there was a fault in the fuel delivery system and the thoughts were racing through my brain...

The big question was would we be able to fit through the old Flagler arches, built in the early 20th century, which used to carry the railroad.

It turned out we fit with room to spare. Above Dolly's head you see the modern 1982  highway and the white pipe which carries water from the mainland to Key West. The old pipe, the smaller one was built in 1942 to supply the military during World War Two.

 Off to the left was our destination, by now an arm's reach away...

 Back at the dock the women prepared the barbecue (pink job) which we should have eaten off paper plates on a  deserted beach...while Robert handed me tools and parts which we tried used to solve (blue job) the fueling problem on the cursed Yamaha. It burped, it fired up it died. Curses! 

I joke about pink jobs and blue jobs, a term my wife and I used when sailing from California to Key West a long time ago. Life on a sailboat seems to lend itself to traditional role splitting which was funny for my formerly career oriented wife and odd for who has never been very conventional in my approach to relationships. I noticed on this more modest boating trip our roles reverted to pink and blue jobs. Odd that.

 The sausages were excellent, the silverware perfectly civilized and we all promised that next time we would make it all the way. 

This was just a  minor setback. At least we have plenty of time and Robert has infinite patience with this stupid motor. Not a bad place to break down, not at all.

By The Water

The moisture of summer produces some wild  cloud formations, and the sunlight gets diffused by the humidity in the air. I may have been at the beach but paradoxically I wasn't swimming. I swim at home in the crystal clear canal behind my home.

I found a meeting room at Boca Chica beach when I went down to photograph the trees one last time before they are felled by the Navy. Cheyenne liked the place and settled into the cooling sand. I read my magazine intermittently as the sun came up and changed the light.

We left to head home and by that time the sun was properly up and starting to get hot. I love the summer waters around the Keys when everything is calm and hazy you can hardly discern the horizon. I pulled over on a  whim at the Big Coppitt  boat ramp on Highway One.

This photograph taken in the 1970s by Dale M McDonald shows the highway sprouting from the lower right hand corner pointing at Big Coppitt  Key. As you can see there seems to be no sign of a boat launching facility back then.. Photo Courtesy of the State Archives of Florida.

I wanted to make fun of the sign apparently prohibiting parking on water, with the houses of Big Coppitt looking east on the shoreline in the background.

Seaweed is piling up everywhere, rough brown Sargasso weed blown by the wind into canals and seawalls and onto places where people want to lounge.

The boat ramp is one of those free use public facilities one tends to take for granted in the Keys. The county got some marine improvement monies a couple of years ago and they elected to refurbish several public launch ramps instead of spending all the money on removing abandoned boats from coastal waters.

Lots and lots of Sargasso.

Cheyenne gave up on me and took some of the only shade available.

Suitably chastised  I powered up the air conditioning and took her home. No time to waste contemplating the silent miracle of the confluence of land and water and excellent public works.

Solstice At Smathers

I took these the day before the Solstice, Friday morning so the sun was rising at its most northern point on the horizon before it rolls back down south to bring us all into the darkness of winter. Of course this seasonal stuff is all relative at 24 degrees North Latitude, so if one stands here in six months (I'll try to remember) the sun will be further to the right, the temperature will be lower by a bit and it will be later in the morning. But all that notwithstanding, none of it by much.

It's turtle nesting season so after hunting and eating these inoffensive creatures almost to extinction and glorifying the hunt on the walls at Turtle Kraals, where the turtles were corralled prior to execution, we now turn off the street lights to avoid confusing the hatchlings who scamper towards the light of the moon reflected on the water. 

By the time I had sufficient sand in my shoes I made my way round to Dead Man's Curve where motorcycles used to prang with some regularity, and stopped to park alongside the sidewall where Houseboat Row used to exist. The houseboats were towed to slips in Garrison Bight to make a more pristine view for the new multi-million dollar condos across South Roosevelt, but this stretch of stupidly empty seawall is still known by its old name. I ask myself why buy a condo in colorful Key West if your first request is to remove the color; but just because they're rich doesn't mean, against all stereotypes, that they are smart. 

My wife is working in Key West this month to help out the schools and make some vacation money so she suggested breakfast at El Mocho on Stock Island. If you want genuine local's food that's your place and since I wrote the essay in 2008 not only have my photographic skills improved but they have spiffed tghe place up a bit. The grub happily remains the same.

I was driving my wife's Fiat as shewas bringing Cheyenne into town and as always it is a fun drive. However last Saturday she had to take it back to Rick Case Fiat in Davie, four hours away as the seat back handle made of best Italian plastic had snapped and the clock computer had failed and was running abysmally slow. I was laughing as neither of our Fusions have been to the dealer even though the driver's seat heater has failed in my car, bummer. Last month the Fiat's computer controlling the opening roof and trunk lid goofed off. Fix It Again Tony indeed but my wife loves her car and it is a blast to drive. No regrets!

It was a lovely morning, flat and serene.

Except of course for the people who came clumping by waving their arms, pedaling their bicycles and generally behaving oddly if you didn't know they were exercising heroically in public and setting a  good example.  I reserve my tussles with weights and elastic bands and stuff to the privacy of my home, but that's how I was raised.

Hints of sun to come:

It was a perfect morning and then the phone rang and I received my summons to cross the channel for bacon and eggs and grits and con leche and so it goes. Extra physical jerks later to pay for that little lot, and an extra long walk for Cheyenne before bed. A long day ahead.

Mangoes, Two Boats And A Thunderstorm

It was time Robert said, to take the boat home. He has fixed it up, better than it's been the last seven years I've owned it and it is now restored to proper, clean running order.

It's nothing fancy, a Dusky 14 foot powered by a Yamaha 25hp two stroke I bought new six or seven years ago in Garrison Bight from the dealer. The engine ran just fine until it didn't which is what happens to machinery used intermittently in a salt air atmosphere. It seemed impossible to diagnose correctly until finally the Yamaha dude found a broken spring the size of a dime. That search was such a pain I kind of lost heart, and got sick of engines for a while. My motorcycles are extremely hard wearing but my outboard was not. Grrr.

Robert to the rescue. He empathized all right but he did more and snatched my boat and worked some private magic on it. We launched it at the Cudjoe Marina ($7). Now it's clean, reorganized and not only running right but smoothly as well. Like new.

Cudjoe Marina is delightful, a bait shop and office with a ball toting black Lab, some rumpled long term liveaboard boats and an easy to use ramp. And they tell you the old style Florida Keys are gone forever...on Duval Street maybe but out here you could be reverting to the 1960s with no trouble at all. 

The steering was a little stiff after far too long sitting stationary on the trailer but nothing we couldn't handle and we rode around to Robert's house where he picked up his wife and dog and we set out to do a little exploring.

Robert's father died not so long ago but before he did he gave Robert his boat, stored meticulously after almost no use at all, so now Robert has one more boat in his formidable collection. That he found time to do so much valuable work on mine is something of a miracle in my eyes.  

The Lightning, now named the Lee Key (say it quickly) boat, powered by a pristine 30 year old Evinrude left the dock behind Robert's home in fits and starts until he got the fuel supply situation under control and got the twist grip throttle turning correctly.  My seven year old Yamaha purred absolutely perfectly (Thank you Robert!) and sounded as quiet as a four stroke alongside his pinging and rattling Evinrude.

By the time we got out on Cudjoe Bay something rather odd was happening to the weather. No, wait, summer was happening to the weather and what had been a crisp hot sunny morning started to evolve into a classic summer afternoon thunderstorm and we were powering briskly into the heart of it.

I was having a blast, my boat rose up onto a plane in a flash and we skimmed the smooth waters at somewhere I guess between 15 and 20 mph effortlessly. Robert, in an attempt not to overwork his elderly 25 horsepower was going much slower and I found I had to stop from time to time as my tea tray was skimming too fast and streaking away. It was good to be back on the water and away from land for a while.

 However the clouds were closing in and I frantically took a few pictures with my phone before stuffing it back into the zip lock I had brought to keep it dry, in the event I myself got wet. Getting wet soon became inevitable.

We dithered momentarily in the middle of the bay contemplating splitting with each making for home alone, me ahead, Robert Dolly and Salty Dog turning back, but I was unwilling as his engine had had some issues which in the end turned out to be a blocked fuel tank vent which was starving the outboard and thus easily fixed. Which was little comfort at the time as we managed somehow to drive ourselves into the heart of a thunderstorm that cracked so low directly overhead that Dolly in her boat and me in mine, we jumped simultaneously off our seats and cowered in the bottom of our  boats. As though that would do any good in the event of a direct hit by an Olympian thunderbolt. 

 By now we were committed and as Robert had never ventured up my canal I had to lead the way as I had explored the area previously under human powered propulsion. And I knew the south side of the canal entrance has some remarkably large lumps of rock near the surface. Naturally as we skimmed closer to the canal visibility plummeted as the water turned white with the force of the raindrops hitting the surface. Within seconds all of us were soaked though I am glad to say both engines ploughed on not missing a beat. I managed the entrance without going aground, as did Robert and we pulled up at my dock under a toad strangler of a tropical downpour.  The weight of the rain is not very clearly illustrated by this picture taken from the protection of the overhang under my stilt house.

We sat waiting for the rain to end playing with our phones, as one does, and Robert and I preferred to sit outside as I knew damned well the air conditioning inside the house would feel arctic in our soaked condition. Dolly went upstairs to dry our shirts, anticipating a  cold ride home when eventually the rain would let up.

In the  end Robert persuaded Dolly a damp shirt was good enough and the sun came out, more or less, so Dolly refused my offer of a ride home in the car and they set off into the sunset. I rather envied them.

I felt like we had had a rather Swallows and Amazons adventure, skipping around in our boats, under power not sail of course, but still...it had all been a terribly youthful adventure. More to come I hope, and perhaps a little drier.

We made a date for dinner at Square Grouper later, hogfish steak and wine, all very grown up, and my wife and I had a bicycle ride in the warm dark night air, which washed away the memories of rain.

 What did seem to be washing away was the topsoil from the empty lot across the canal. I took this picture at the end of the down pour when it was safe for a delicate camera to be out on my dock and the flow of water was greatly reduced but during the rain enough water flowed into the canal to reduce crystal clear water to a muddy brown mess. We were surprised by the force of the run off.

And I did not forget to retrieve a bag of mangoes that Dolly gave me from their tree. Robert doesn't eat mangoes (because he's weird, luckily) and these things are absolutely perfect. Its mango season so everyone has mangoes much as Up North when zucchini ripen all at once. To confirm the ripeness of mangoes generally, Square Grouper offered a mango bread pudding for dessert and that was one for the taste buds, a soft formless mass of liquid sugar and mango with gooey lumps of bread. Divine.

And I had a mango for breakfast looking out at my boat riding at the dock on Saturday morning. By Sunday we were out again, this time in bright sunshine with plans to enjoy a swim before work.

 Yesterday was perfect, with flat  seas a little breeze and big puffy white clouds under a perfectly blue sky all illuminated by a  bright burning sun. What a change a couple of days makes! We rendezvoused with Robert and Dolly and Salty Dog in the middle of Cudjoe Bay and headed for the mangrove cut to an undisturbed lagoon in the bottom of Sugarloaf Key.

We swam and taught Salty Dog to swim, a lesson that went very well as he kept wanting more. Cheyenne we left at home as heat  and swimming aren't her favorite things and here we had no beach whereon to land her. So we anchored in four feet of water and floated and talked and I laid on my back, my Crocs supporting my feet, and gazed up at the clouds drifting overhead. The salt water was the perfect bath temperature and I nearly fell asleep watching a  frigate bird dive and circle between the clouds. My ears were underwater and I couldn't hear the exhortations to Salty Dog who was having the time of his life. I wondered if i could manage to die like this, drifting away between consciousness and oblivion watching a  frigate bird wheeling on the currents. I decided I probably would manage a much more spectacular end, a motorcycle wreck long past the age I should be riding ending it all in a big oh shit moment.   

We have arranged another trip out this week hopefully for a picnic on a distant beach. I had forgotten how important a dock and  a boat are to live properly in the Keys,  silly me. Pity the poor Old Town dwellers with their chickens and parking problems and urban agglomeration of bars and noise and drunks. 

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