We left Saturday from Lake Worth with every intention of jumping into the Gulf Stream and riding it to Beaufort, NC. It was a wild ride to get out there, but once we got in and had our sails set, we were making 9-10 knots, 11.2 was our high! Then the ocean set about teaching us, once again, that things rarely go as planned.
Rosy got sick. I managed to get some Dramamine into Sophie in time, but Rosy had a long day. It take me most of a day to get past my own seasickness, so it shouldn’t have surprised me. The adrenaline, and the easterly swell kept both John and I up most of the first night. Then, on Sunday morning, we lost the wind. It totally, and completely died. We never intended to motor for four days. We don’t carry enough fuel to make that kind of passage under power alone (we do have sails, afterall), and we had no desire to sit and be rocked by the swells while waiting for wind. So, on to Plan B.
By Sunday afternoon, the day felt very normal. Just like motoring up the ICW. I did the dishes, the ladies played with Playdough. Their appetites returned. John took a nap while I took my turn in the sun (oh my, it was HOT). The wind picked up around sunset and we were in for an entirely different ride. We still haven’t figured out quite why- the moon tides, we think- but those last eight hours into St. Mary’s inlet were a rollercoaster down quartering seas. We took turns sleeping (and having been up the night before, we SLEPT despite the rollers). The girls slept in their leecloth like rocks (thank you, Dramamine). The highlight was seeing a pod of tiny porpoises jumping through the waves around us, chasing flying fish, their black bodies all lit up by the moon. Somehow the wind subsided just in time for us to make our grand entrance, past the shrimpers headed out at 5AM. We dropped the hook in the Amelia River just as the moon set.
We’ve spent the last few days in our favorite town in Florida, trying to make sense of the randomness of the weather, and the unexpected swells. We’ve gone back and forth about whether to go inside to Charleston and Beaufort, or to travel up the coast. Whatever we decide, I try to keep John’s mantra of , “Every option is on the table,” handy in my mind. As the ocean clearly abides by that philosophy as well.
You just never know. You plan, you adjust, and you take what you can get. For us, that’s been a nice sojourn in Fernandina Beach. And that’s not much to complain about.
Today, John sat at anchor and read a book.
Just a month ago I remember him saying something like, “When, WHEN am I finally going to be able to just sit at anchor and read a book??” This, probably while drilling yet another hole through a thick steel hull for yet another hose or wire that needed installing.
Today it finally happened. We still have a to-do list, but nothing on the list keeps us from the here and now. The blissful breeze that comes down our hatches and keeps us up in the cockpit in the evenings, while the girls tie ropes around our legs and say things like, “It’s booful (beautiful) Mama. So booful.” Nothing that keeps us from preparing to go offshore, weather-permitting (go away, ugly storm!).
The first night we were at anchor we walked out on deck and could see not only the stars, but the Milky Way streaming over the Keys. I hadn’t seen it since the night before our wedding, on the coast of Maine. There are few things more spectacular in the natural world, from our perspective. It was like the universe lined itself up to say, “Welcome back. Welcome back to where you’ve always wanted to be.” This was the life we chose to live together and finally, we are here once again, with no intention of looking back.
As John said last night, standing in the cockpit in this lovely anchorage, “Why would anyone NOT want to live this life?”
The East winds continue to keep us pinned in Florida, but we’ve used the Intracoastal (ICW) to get up to Lake Worth, just off the Palm Beaches, where we can set ourselves up for our long passage to Beaufort. I hope never to transit the ICW in a deep-draft boat again. We went fully aground inside the marked channel just north of Miami, where an inlet was shoaling the waterway. We went through three more sketchy inlets yesterday and you could almost reach out and touch the palpable stress in both our faces. With that experience in mind, not to mention the nearly thirty bridge openings we endured to get to Lake Worth, we hope never, ever, to revisit this stretch of the ICW.
That said, the anchorages we’ve managed to discover have been nothing short of lovely. We spent two nights in a nice spot in Miami Beach, two nights on a mooring in Fort Lauderdale, last night off the Lake Worth inlet, and tonight, up in a nice cove at the northern reaches of the lake. The girls were beside themselves with glee when we pulled the dinghy in to go shopping and found a nice, sandy swimming hole under a bridge. They were in the water before we could ponder the question of swimming. Of course we will swim. Of course.
The ladies have been wonderful. The other big downside to the ICW is that there are long stretches where I’m watching for buoys and shoals and John is steering, leaving the girls to manage themselves. They watch Curious George, color and draw, play with Play-dough, sleep, eat, repeat. It’s insufferably hot in the cockpit with a bulky lifejacket, so they bide their time down below. They never complain. Today on our short passage, they played some involved imaginary “Make you into a princess and sell the shark for three quarters” game. I am glad they have each other, and deep down, they are too.
The highlights for them come when the adventures onshore begin. Just riding a bucking dinghy in a chop is fun. Add that to a thunderstorm while waiting for a trolley, and then an impromptu swim in the ocean. Every day is new. Every day is different. For them, that’s enough.
Cross your fingers for the wind to go south, or southeast, or west, or southwest. We might get our chance this weekend. But I shouldn’t have said that.
We’ve been underway two and half days and just like that, we’ve set up temporary housekeeping in Miami Beach. It’s a wonderful and strange thing, to travel from place to place with your home fully intact. Our routines, our possessions, our habits simply follow us. Like a turtle’s shell, John always says.
Spot is frustrating me with it’s odd inability to upload our positions automatically. But I will continue to work out the bugs. For now, here’s our map!
Tomorrow is a day off for some shopping and boat projects, in hope of making a long passage outside the Intracoastal later this week. We need the East winds to abate- universe, send us good vibes!
Speaking of which, we had a big karmic moment on Monday afternoon. We were trying to get off the dock and out to an anchorage, just to set ourselves up for Tuesday’s run. Just after four o’clock John tried to start the dinghy motor and it wouldn’t run. Diagnosis: a clogged carburetor (thank you, Ethanol!). He raced up to the outboard shop owned by a friend of ours, Eric, who we met on our trip south five years ago. We led Eric and his family through Biscayne Bay, and across to the oceanside via Angelfish Creek. As we retraced those same steps today, almost exactly, it reminded me of how the universe had paid us back. Our little bit of help was paid back in spades, as Eric took the carburetor apart and got us back underway in less than an hour. You never know. You just don’t.
For a while there, I thought the universe might be conspiring to keep us in the Keys, forever. The autopilot parts got delayed. Then after days of rigging the darn thing, with its sensitive and expensive compass, the autopilot wouldn’t steer a steady course. We tried to make the GPS talk to the autopilot and bypass the compass altogether.The GPS doesn’t even speak the same language as the autopilot. And on and on and on.
But today we had success. What had become a monstrosity of a electronics issue, boiled down to two wires being mixed up in a wiring diagram that came with the darn thing. We didn’t need GPS. We didn’t need an expensive technician. We needed to look at things in the simplest way possible. Eliminate one problem at a time. And the biggest lesson of all? Never assume the literature is 100% spot on. Even if you are.
So off we go in a day or two, bound for cooler waters, if not a cooler summer (wow, the hot hot heat is everywhere, it seems). You can follow along if you wish. We have a SPOT on board, which is a nifty little GPS beacon that we will set off every evening at anchor. It sends our position to our SPOT Adventures page, which shows us on Google Maps and has a few boat pics too. I will try to update from our logbook as we go. Thanks to our 5-Mile Wifi, it just might happen!!
That said, while we are more than ready to leave, we have some missing to do. Our dear friends, playmates, babysitters, confidants, the people who threw Sophie a welcome party when she was born, the people who brought me food when Rosy arrived (it was SO good). Many have already left (what a transient place this is), and many we leave behind. Come and visit- stay in touch! Thank you for being a part of this chapter in our lives. We grew a family here, restored a boat, and feel very blessed to be hitting the Gulfstream and heading north, richer than when we arrived.
John and I are avowed humanists, so without traditional religion in her life, Sophie always thanks the Earth for the good things that come her way. “Thank you Earth for this cloudy day that wasn’t so hot and had swimming in it.” There’s something deeply satisfying about taking our girls out on an adventure with us, our boat, “and the Earth.” Send Earth your good vibes for fair winds, following tides and happiness on all fronts. Maybe it wasn’t the universe conspiring against us. It was just Earth telling us to look right under our noses. A good lesson for the days ahead.
I’ve had some memorable Fourth of July fireworks experiences in my adult years. Seeing both the harbor and the Lake Washington displays from a highrise condo in Seattle. Being high in the hills in Portland and looking down on them- never have fireworks seemed so tiny. We saw them on July 3rd in Boston on year, a huge display being taped to show to troops overseas. I remember having to wake a dozen teenagers and move a pulling boat in the middle of the night for fear of some landing on us.
But last night was the first fireworks experience we’ve had with kids. They are a bit daunting, and loud, and late. But also quite special. Sophie was alternately mystified (”how do they MAKE those?”) and secretly terrified of the sound. Our friend Joe, who was gracious enough to take us out on his boat, offered his commentary: “Now we’re really getting into it. They’re bringing out the four-color DOUBLE sparkles!!” Rosy was as entranced with the anchor lights all around us as she was with anything else, “Oh mama, there’s STARS!” It was a beautiful night. Simple, sweet, and yes, a little bit loud. One more fireworks experience I won’t soon forget.
It’s been over four years in the making, but this baby left the dock!! We went out for a spin! Our boat MOVES under her own power. And gracefully at that! How good it felt to wake up Friday and get out a chart, plug in a GPS, stow the accumulated junk on the table, throw off some lines and GO SOMEWHERE IN OUR BOAT. We took two trips on Friday- the first, for us, while the girls were with a babysitter. And the second, with them. They were totally nonplussed. Sophie read a book in the cockpit and barely looked up, like this was the most normal thing in the world. Rosy relaxed into the motion and nearly fell asleep, even after a two hour nap. While we hollered and high-fived around them, they were simply at home.
And that’s all we’ve wanted for them. We did this for them, but also a little bit for us. One thing parenting has taught me is that they will never understand what we do. There is no way for them to conceive of the hard work involved. The constant meeting of needs. The sleeplessness, the working, the taking of walks when all you want to do is lie down. The four years of boat projects, just to make a floating home.
They won’t understand it, until they have kids of their own, and renovate a house or a boat or an RV or canal barge while parenting two small kids. And when the work is hardest, I have to remind myself that we chose every bit of this. We chose to make this our home, because before there was a Sophie or a Rosy, there was this part of us. In the midst of living with and loving them, we’ve also made something for John and Ellen. This is who we were, who we are, and who we will continue to be. Leaving the dock on Friday, that fact is what I was most thankful for.
We told my Dad we were going to dinner, and look where we ended up!
When we arrived, Paul, the pilot greeted us with a mouthful of what were possibly the most disgusting teeth I’d seen in a long time (and mind you, this is not a rare occurence in the Keys. Our last auto mechanic had about one tooth in the front . . .). We were all averting our eyes, wondering in dental issues had any bearing on small plane safety. Paul muttered something about Obama promising dental insurance and out popped the mouthpiece. We were won over.
I love that my dad loves stuff like this- gliders and floatplanes and helicopter rides. I love that occasionally I get to do something like this with him.
Happy Father’s Day, JoePop!
I know I’ve belabored the heat of the last month, but I felt somewhat justified when I heard today that after one of the coldest winters on record in South Florida (and no complaints about that!), we had the hottest May ever. Ever. This morning the heat index was well over 90, before 9 AM. We look forward to a climate where winter is the time to batten down the hatches and cozy up around a fire. To make slow-cooked food and loaves of bread in an oven. Right now the oven is off limits. In fact, I have cooked little other than coffee this week, trying to keep the boat at a reasonable temperature in the late afternoon. It’s a good challenge- finding ways to feed a family with veggies and salads and bread baked in someone elses’s oven. If anyone has a favorite no-cook recipe, I’d love to have it. My sister’s black-eyed pea salad is on the list for this week.
These are time I miss my grandmothers. Peachy would have had an entire compendium of recipes fit for the Southern heat. Granny Ross would have had practical suggestions, and maybe a jar of homemade pickles from her sister’s garden. When it starts to feel hot on our little yacht, I try to imagine not so long ago, living in the southern part of Georgia, in the summers without air conditioning. Or living in Houston, Texas, where my mom grew up, lying under the attic fan on hot nights, running across hot asphalt, barefoot. East Texas can be a very hot place.
Recently I came across a recording of my grandfather, telling the particular circumstances of his birth, on August 20, 1917. He was born in a small town in Eastern Alabama, not far from Columbus, Georgia, where he lived as an adult.
“I have often wondered what it was like to birth an overweight baby in Camp Hill, Alabama in August of 1917. Must have been terribly hot. All the windows would have been open. I think the house had screens, as I was told. There was a spigot over the porch, with fresh water. That was the sum total of the plumbing other than chimney pots and a privy in the backyard. Dr. Louis Hamner presided over the proceedings, I’m told, and apparently they went quite normally for those times.”
Quite normally for those times. As hot as hot can be.
I wish I could channel some of that normalcy, just to ask a few questions. Get some advice, and continue to feel grateful for my particular situation, with wet kids every night and the cool confines of our boat to slip into.
This is the last of your month-birthday letters before the big TWO! I wrote twenty four letters to Sophie and I swore up and down that despite the fact that you were second in line to the throne, I’d do the same for you. We did it! We have reflected on nearly two years of milestones and stories, hard months and lovely ones.
This month? A lot of both. Two is coming on like a freight train, in all the textbook, headstrong ways. “I do it” is the endless refrain, from putting clothes on, to buckling carseat straps, to using sharp scissors. I do it. Most times you actually do, and I’m the one who needs to be reminded to slow down and let you savor the accomplishments. “NO!” is another fun refrain. Most times you say it just to say it. Just to remind us that you have a say, a voice, in the matters of the day. The opposite of NO is this breathy, wonderful, “Yah.” Never yes, just “Yah . . .”
On the other end of the spectrum, this has been the month of cuddling, loving, hugging, lip kissing. All day long there are proclamations of “I wuv you, Daddy. I wuv Sophie.” Sometimes you’ll roll over in the middle of the night, looking for a stray Binky and then say, “I wuv you Mommy.” When you’ve done something wrong, the “I wuv yous” come out like a weapon. My, you’ve learned fast. It makes me feel good to see you giving us love, as it means we’re giving you plenty of it.
And love there is. So very much, for our impish, mischevious, wonderful you. For you, singing “Puff the Magic Dragon” in the car. You, and your “cool cool shoes” (everything is “cool, cool”). You, eating yogurt raisins. You, holding Sophie’s hand as you walk down the dock saying, “Wook at dat boat, Mommy! Wook at dat!” Always questioning, always noticing, endlessly you.
We love you Lily B, Rosy Roo, RooBot, Roobee, Bobo, Chachi, Baby, Biggirl, Rosy Wandrum.
xo,
mama
