Blewtooth

Balseros? Fisherman? MOBs*? Castaways? Robbers? Birds? Ghosts?

One of the things that sets sailing apart from motoring is the ability to hear other sounds besides the roar and drone of an engine. You can hear the sea as well as feel it. There are many sounds out there. For a person with an imagination it is like a rich soup and when you are alone the sounds are ten times more intense. One’s emotions change the flavor of that soup even with the same recipe. Fear makes a wave or a gull sound one-way and sadness another. Happiness gives it a new flavor and loneliness still another. My most memorable experience with this was several years ago on one of my first solo trips. I was bringing our little Windward 21 up from Biscayne Bay to Lake Worth. My emotions at the time were high in a bad way.

I had just had a terrible fight with my wife. I left the dock at Coral Gables By The Sea in the morning. Unlike my mood the weather was good but there was a hurricane marching slowly towards the area and Miami would be feeling it’s effects in several days. . My anxiety about the storm added to my bad feelings. I tried hard to shake them off, convincing myself that nothing should spoil this much anticipated trip. The sun was shining bright and skies were still clear as I headed off. The wind was coming out of the southeast but it was not much. About six knots maybe. I had my boat ready to go. She was an old twentyone foot swing keeled sloop. Crossing Biscayne Bay was pleasant and I made for the Florida Light, poking along at around three knots max. I was still fairly new to sailing and for some reason I had yet to get it through my head that loading a small boat down with way too much water, extra heavy tool boxes, and other needless junk would make her sail like molasses. On any other day my slow speed wouldn’t have mattered, especially out on the Bay. It is indeed, a true sailor’s paradise. The Ragged Keys, Boca Chica and Elliots Key provide protection. You can barely see them from the mainland. It was like a little sea made just for me and my little boat. The depth barely ever gets above twelve feet; just perfect for all but the deepest keeled boats. In spite of my memories of the night before the sounds of the birds and splash of small waves were still, all happy ones. But I was going to leave the Bay that day and head north up to West Palm Beach and feelings of fear and loneliness would soon change those sounds.
It was still late morning when I was heading east through the markers of Stiltsville, the little group of houses built on stilts just to the south of Key Biscayne. Florida Light passed slowly by to port. Now things would begin to go wrong in a series of bad decisions. In hindsight my first mistake was not being bold enough to get out into the Gulf Stream. Instead, because I had so little experience I took an impatient, quick left and headed north too soon. I was close to the beach of Key Biscayne. The wind hadn’t picked up by one oclock and it must have been a cross current, along with the extra weight and my lack of tactical knowledge about sailing that kept me crawling along. I am one of those people who easily loses track of time, especially when I’m sailing. It seems the clock begins to spin faster as soon as I set the sails. Soon, it was past eight in the evening and still I hadn’t made it to Port Everglades. I had hardly noticed the darkness falling. The many thousands of lights of South Beach begin to shimmer and blink making me realize that it was late. I suddenly remembered to switch on my running lights and began to pay attention to the compass. The little hand held GPS I was carrying gave me a Latitude and Longitude and after checking the chart I found myself just north of Haulover Inlet. The wind shifted to an easterly and began to pick up a bit. I altered my course to east in hopes of getting a push from the Gulf Stream but it also caused me to have to point and so I lost power from the sails. My mood and sense of well-being began to suffer in the darkness. Sailing like this, just lolling along by myself brought on random thoughts and emotions; a sense of foreboding and then just as quickly a sense of hope and then musing about something trivial. As time would go by the sense of foreboding would begin to dominate.

My wife and I were on our way to a second separation and the bitter words we had shared made me angry enough to stay gone for a long time. But now in the darkness the comforts I had known with her and our family brought on a longing to make things right again. I missed those sweet memories of when life was good. An ache in my heart was becoming stronger by the hour and I wanted to hear the sounds of my kids voices. The light pollution from the City of Miami drowned out the faintest stars but they still managed to put on a show in the sky above me and I wished upon them that I could be with her and our kids right then. I made a decision to call and try to patch things up when the trip was over. The sea began a gentle rolling as I tried to just will my little sailboat to go faster.

I switched on the VHF and turned to a weather channel. The mechanical voice was giving information about the storm, still way to the southwest but was now moving rapidly towards southeast Florida, perhaps arriving in this area in several days. Then came the predictions of heavy rains the following afternoon with increased winds and seas. My sense of foreboding began to turn to anxiety about getting to Port Everglades that evening. What if I went into Haulover? I thought. It was still just a couple of miles off to port. I checked my map and the clearance on the bridge was low but still enough for this little boat to make it under. I could tie up or anchor there in safety, get some rest and try moving on in the morning. I didn’t want to get too sleepy out on the ocean and drift off so close to the beach. I tried to make the anxiety go away so that I could think more clearly. After a few moments I reasoned that I should just stick it out and keep heading for Port Everglades. I remembered another time some twenty years ago when I was a young sailor on a Navy ammunition ship. We had just come from three weeks in Guantanamo and spent several days cruising up and down Miami Beach close to this very same spot, perhaps even where I was now. It was a disappointing cruise, not getting to call on Miami but instead just stalking up and down the beach while a sonar technician was ferried from shore in the mornings to work on our equipment and then ferried back in the evening. We spent our nights sitting on deck and looking with longing at those merry lights. Now, here I was again, the captain of my own ship, however little and silly but even lonelier still.

I sailed on for a while longer and the speed of the boat increased a little. Then I heard a noise in the darkness behind me. It sounded like a human voice. I listened hard but it went away and all I heard was the sloshing of the waves. I turned back to my compass light dismissing it as just some sound distortion, maybe a bird. I sailed on and began to agonize again over what to do. I looked at the dazzling array of lights on the beach and looked for something flashing but knew that I was too far out now to discern the marker for Haulover Inlet, especially in the confusion of all of those other lights.

Then, I heard the voice again, more clearer and louder now. It was male. It was also Spanish. My head snapped around and I peered hard into blackness. I stood up in the cockpit and went to the cabin for my spotlight. I had no autopilot and was too inexperienced to think about trying to trim the boat for a steadier ride and so she immediately began to wander off course, heading up into the wind. I fumbled with the cigar lighter plug of the spot light but had to sit down and man the tiller again before putting the boat in irons. After some effort I was able flash the light around. I saw nothing but the reflection from the occasional white foam. The beam from the light would bounce off the water in the distance but I could see nothing close by. I didn’t speak Spanish and don’t even think I could have made out what he was saying if he were speaking English but it had a conversational tone. Just some fisherman I speculated. Voices carry amazingly far on the water.

Now came my imagination and I remembered the stories of modern day pirates. Because of the tone of the voice I immediately dismissed the idea of a “MOB” (Man Overboard). They would have been shouting in any language. Then I considered the tales of drug runners who had been known to commandeer small boats in these waters for their deliveries, sometimes making the owners and crew “disappear” beneath this vast sea. What if they were rafters from Cuba or Haiti? Only several days before I watched a documentary on the Cuban Balseros taking to the Gulf Stream; many in just large inner tubes. Not noticing me in time they may have suddenly been shushing each other to let me sail by, laying flat in their little boats, rafts or tubes in the darkness, hoping I hadn’t heard or seen them. I thought of the law of having to make it to dry land before being allowed to stay,. This was disturbing, I thought. Perhaps if I saw them they would want to kill me because I would tell on them; call the Coast Guard. Would I call the Coast Guard? I considered this. Could I bring myself to be the one who ends this person’s attempt to make it to America? I had always admired their courage. How could I do that? If I did see someone or something perhaps I should just pass by as if I hadn’t noticed? But if I didn’t they might drown out here or right at this moment, be on the verge of dying from exposure and dehydration. Such a brutal trip! As I grappled with these ideas I heard the voice again and, again I groped for the spot and flashed it all about. This time I saw something directly behind me. It was almost at the end of the range of the spot but sure enough there it was, the faint outline of a small, aluminum skiff; barely fourteen feet if that much. I thought I saw the upright figures of two men. I turned away to steer and then turned back and caught the boat again in the light. I could see them better this time, even their faces. They didn’t wave but just sat there. I heard no engine but the sound of a small outboard would be hard to hear at that distance. What were they doing, at least three miles out in the Atlantic and so late at night in such a small open boat? Are they crazy, desperate? My heart had leapt at first but my inner voice of reason won out. “They are just fishing” it told me. I turned off the spot because I knew it would have had to be very annoying to them by now. I calmed myself down and began to concentrate on making my decision on what to do. I would be lying if I said that this experience had no influence on me suddenly deciding to make for Haulover Inlet. I pushed the tiller over and headed southwest. The main boom jibed with a pop and the rocking motion of the boat changed a bit with the new direction of the swells. The worst part about this sudden and silly panic was that I hadn’t considered what the tides were doing at Haulover Inlet! The jib filled out nicely on a wing and wing and I speculated on a compass course, not wanting to stop to check the chart just yet. I just wanted to put some distance between that mysterious little aluminum skiff and myself. I hazarded a quick glance back to the port side to see if I could catch a glimpse of it but didn’t have time to stare. Running wing and wing required all of my concentration now. But the voices came again; louder and gave me a start. They must be getting closer? Then my voice of reason caught up with me again. “You are to their lee”, it said. “Ah, makes sense!” I said to myself out loud. They had to be louder when I was downwind of them. I steadied myself and sailed on. I didn’t hear them again.

The sounds I would later hear would actually justify my next panic attack. Now I had all of the dazzle of the lights of South Beach in my eyes and all of the blackness of the sea behind me. Though it felt like I was barely moving, the speed display on the GPS showed I was doing a steady four knots. After close to half an hour of sailing almost straight at the beach I decided to swing around into the wind and let the sails luff while I got a proper heading from the chart. I felt good when I found that I had set almost a perfect course. The flashing white light of Haulover Inlet should be dead ahead. But I could see no flashing yet for all of the other lights. Why didn’t they put a flashing red or green instead of an inconspicuous white? I steadied myself and kept going. I was hoping and praying that I would see some other boats heading in and out of the inlet. Agonizing minutes went by before indeed I did suddenly see the green starboard running lights of a large fishing boat heading north. It took several more minutes of staring hard into the cluster of lights before discerning one that was flashing and I was sure that it wasn’t just the momentary headlamp of a car. I felt better now; hopeful that I would soon be safe in the Intercoastal Waterway. My little sailboat was managing to keep a steady course and I hadn’t had an accidental jibe yet. I was suddenly proud of that. I decided to keep it just the way it was and put down the little four horse power kicker outboard just before I got to the inlet. I sailed on and the flashing light became more distinct. I began to hear music; a festive, salsa tune coming from close to the inlet. Then, I heard the sound of breakers. My heart skipped a beat and sank. I had no depth sounder. I suddenly started wishing I had looked harder at the chart for warnings of shoaling. Now all of the dazzling lights became a source of terror. I began to doubt my sense of depth perception. But all I could do was just keep heading towards that one blinking light and try to keep from being blinded by the rest. I couldn’t be too far north, I reasoned. I steadied myself again and sailed on. The sounds of the breakers crashing got louder along with the dizzy music. My palms were sweating and my chest was tight. Then gradually the lights began to illuminate the water ahead of me. I saw the foamy crest of breakers to starboard but none dead ahead. Then the rocks that lined the inlet became visible. Then, the inlet itself was there in front of me. The rocks were lined with people fishing. My chest began to loosen up a little in spite of the fact that the swells of the ocean began to increase dramatically as I got closer. Then I realized my big mistake in not taking the tide into account. It was rushing out. I managed to put the kicker down and got it started with a few swift tugs of the starting rope. The sails hardly flapped and the boat began the final lunge towards the gap between the rocks and breakers. As I got closer the music grew louder and more frenetic but the sounds of the breakers fell back to either side of me and then were behind me. The faces of the people came into focus. Kids playing on the rocks looked up and stared. They seemed to be surprised to see me. Later I would realize that Haulover Inlet doesn’t see that many sailboats because the bridge is so low. The small fixed bridge came into view. This brought on yet another anxiety attack. I prayed that I hadn’t misread the chart on the height. It looked so low even for this short mast. I new I could manage to keep her on course even with the sails flying out wing and wing. The little kicker was strong I thought. But the worst was yet to come. After barely a minute or two I had passed the first jetties and was now sailing proudly into the channel. All of the dazzling lights of the beach lit my white sails up like triumphant wings and I wasted a moment in the exultation that I was out of that big black ocean. The inlet now became very narrow and either side was lined with jagged rocks where people were casually perched with their fishing rods, talking, drinking beer and listening to their boom boxes blaring out the Latin music which sounded festive again instead of frenzied.
Then the boat speed began to slow. It was the rushing current. I gave the kicker more gas and brought my speed back but then lost it again; more gas, all that the kicker had but the boat continued to slow. I looked at the water now rushing swifter all around me back out to that black ocean from wince I had come. The bridge was still thirty yards in front of me. I could see the swirling eddies surrounding the girders and realized that I might not make it. My speed continued to slow until it was a pathetic crawl, hardly one mile an hour. The engine whined on and a little extra puff of wind pushed her closer. Then it happened; The engine suddenly coughed, sputtered and quit. I only had a second to realize it before the current seized the keel and spun the boat around; sails at wing and wing and all. I lunged forward, scrambled out of the cockpit and onto the foredeck. The anchor was suspended off of the bow pulpit and it took me eons of seconds to get it loose. By the time I did it was too late. I was careening towards the south side jetty; the wind shoving the boat south while the current was sucking her violently back out to sea. The anchor splashed into the water only an instant before the port side of the bow struck with a sickening thud and scrape on a large granite boulder. She swung out into the current again as the mainsail banged wildly and the jib flapped and tangled itself around the forestay. Then she twirled crazily back into the jetties and lodged her stern between two rocks. The rudder jammed itself into the bottom and began to make a violent screeching noise with every swell. I cleated off the anchor line and stumbled aft to pull in the main sheet and then jumped down into the cabin for a boat hook to use in fending off the jetties. Luckily, I was far enough inside the inlet to be protected from the waves but not the swells. I pushed with the boat hook and she came free and the current though not as strong so close to the side of the inlet, was still able to grab her. The anchor set with a tug and the crazy backwards ride to the ocean suddenly ceased. My heart was racing wildly as I thought about what might have happened if the engine had quit any sooner or later. I pulled down the jib and stuffed it away but kept the main up in hopes that the easterly wind would help keep her off of the rocks and then took a moment to think.
“Man, we don’t see many sailboats in this inlet!”, came a voice up on the rocks. “Especially at night”, came another. It was only then that I noticed a small crowd of people standing there, peering down at me. “Need any help?”, someone asked. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. Then came the roaring sound of an outboard engine and I looked up to see a battered old runabout speeding around the corner and under the bridge. I didn’t even take a second to consider it but began to wave both arms. There were several Hispanic men in the boat. When they saw me they slowed down and came over. I grabbed the un-cleated end of the anchor line and they knew immediately that I was asking for a tow. “Can you pull me through the bridge? My motor quit.”, I shouted. The man nodded his head quickly and the other one jumped up on the bow. I fed them the line and without further discussion he grabbed it while the boat backed away and turned towards the bridge. It took me only a few seconds to pull up the anchor and motion that I was ready. The fellow holding the line made the mistake of not cleating it off but just holding it and when we got into the current he immediately realized he didn’t have the strength. The runabout had a big engine but the current was too swift. The man holding the rope lost his grip as we were closing on the bridge and let the rope go. Again I was headed out to sea. Gamely, they turned around, chased me down and took the line from me again just moments before I was on the jetties. This time he cleated it off with lots more scope and we started a final run for the bridge. I think everyone was surprised, including the people on the rocks when it took almost everything his motor had to drag my little sailboat through. The current was just incredibly strong. I only hazarded a look at the top of the mast when it was already too late to turn back but I cleared with a couple of feet to spare.
A few minutes later I was at the fuel dock of a closed marina. I thanked them profusely and offered them money but they just waved and shook their heads before speeding off. They have been mentioned in my prayers many times since. After surveying the damage to the hull which miraculously, wasn’t as bad as it should have been; nothing more than a bad scratch, I sat down in the cockpit alone in the neon glow from the fuel dock sign. I listened to the faint crashing of the breakers and the music and the people talking out on the rocks. Other than those far off sounds, it was peaceful now. The marina docks were deserted. The events of the evening played back in my mind and the initial feeling of relief gave way to disappointment and frustration at having made such dumb decisions and then, shame at being too scared to stick it out. Getting spooked by two guys in a boat was silly I thought. But perhaps it was that tone in the voice that was spooky. Or was it just the way the sea seems to change the sounds.
I saw a payphone on a light pole in the marina parking lot. The urge to call home now was not quite as strong but still there. Later that night I did call.
I would spend the rest of the trip slowly motoring up the Intercoastal Waterway, dealing with the endless succession of bridges and certain rude people in overpowered runabouts.
It took another night and two full days to get there. By late morning of the last day the initial rains from the oncoming hurricane began to arrive and by the time I was tying up dockside the winds were gusting to thirty five miles per hour. We got nothing more than the storm’s feeder bands in Lake Worth but it was enough to do some damage and much more, further to the north. I still wonder to this day what that little skiff was doing so far out and will never forget that voice in the night, nor the sounds of the breakers, the music and the casual voices of the people on the jetties.