Logbook entry: Sunday, June 4, 2006 1600 hrs. Pos. N 29.48 W 85.44 New heading: 356 Speed: 5 kts @ 1800 rpm.Wind died about noon, Autopilot died 2 hours later. Hand steering, motor sailing with main only. Water is flat! Can’t believe this is the Gulf of Mexico.
Can’t believe this is the Gulf of Mexico.My wife asked that question I didn’t want to hear, “So, what cha wanna do?” “We have to have an autopilot.” I answered. “Panama City is the closest, plus we know the area well.”
For about twenty years now, St. Andrews Bay has always been one of my favorite places. Deep, protected, clear water perfect for swimming. Shell Island has almost endless miles of beautiful, clean, deserted beaches perfect for walking and shelling. We stopped here a few months earlier and spent almost 2 weeks practicing yoga on the beach, picking up shells and counting starfish, exploring the coast line, and working on our tans. Many sunny days and many good memories. SOEL sailed through the jetties at 2030, and rounded the corner into the anchorage like she’s some young adult traveling through an old familiar childhood neighborhood where so many good memories were logged. The anchor bit hard on the first attempt, and the main got covered. The last bit of daylight was fading and the first few stars began shimmering. “We’re getting good at this!” I smiled to my Wife/First Mate Elizabeth. The Dorado she caught that morning was dropped into a pan with lots of garlic and butter, and made a great dinner with steamed jasmine rice and a side of veggies. We “clunked” plastic wineglasses then both fell into what we jokingly refer to as: “The Sleep of Death.” The next morning, after the obligatory check-in with family, I hauled anchor and sweated halyards. SOEL ran the short trip downwind to the Panama City Marina before noon. I eased the old girl up to the fuel docks and asked if we can stay a few hours to clean up the boat with a freshwater rinse. Bill Lloyd, the Marina Director of both the Panama City and the St. Andrews Marinas, was just one of the many wonderful people we’ve met in our travels. He accepted the fresh fish fillets I present as a feeble gift, and showed me where I can tie to wash down. I explained our autopilot predicament, and he gave us permission to use the marina’s mailing address to send any mail or parts we may need, and also tells us we’re welcome to return to the dock for free to make our repairs. I narrowly escaped smashing into another boat while leaving the fuel dock, then gently slide our floating home to the docking spot Bill picked out for us. Elizabeth scrubbed the salt off everything, then filled the water tanks, while I tried to locate parts. Once our chores were complete, we motored up into Massilina bayou and dropped the hook between a shiny black Sailboat with matching sail covers and teak chairs on deck, and, Bayou Joe’s. (A waterfront dive with an awesome “Trash Burger.” If ever you find yourself in that neck of the woods, you have got to try one!) Elizabeth informs me that the boat we are anchored next to is the same one we saw back in March. “No Way!” I protested. “That other boat was much bigger!”… silly girl.
That’s about the time the same guy I saw three months earlier cruised up in his dingy and asked,
“Didn’t I see you here this spring?”
“Yeah, uh, we’re back.” I admit in defeat as my wife just smiled.
“Is there a dingy dock around here we can use?” I changed the subject.
“Sure, you can tie-up over there, in that corner.” He was pointing towards an empty building with a few boats moored to the dock out front.
“Is that the Hawks Nest Bar and Grill?” I’d seen it on my charts.
“Yeah, well, they’re outta business.” he reports, crushing my dream of any happy hour.
“But hey, come by around five and have a beer.”
“How can we do that when you just told me they’re closed?”
“Just come on over…” the blonde stranger winked, “I’ll show ya how it works.” and he yanked the outboard to life and putt-putt-putted away.
What the…?
Elizabeth and I stripped old wiring and electronic equipment out of our 1982 Moody the remainder of the afternoon, and by 16:30 were both ready for a cocktail. I filled the dingy with 24 year old autopilot junk destined for the dumpster, and begin rowing southwest toward the closed restaurant, not sure of what we would find. The skipper of the black boat welcomed us with a warm handshake. “Casey” he said smiling , and he introduced us to the other people sitting at the only table on the back porch of the un-opened bar. Janet is a nurse at the local hospital. Jeff runs a fuel cleaning business. Rick and Audrey cruised the Bahamas in their 36’ Choy Lee named Naked Lady last year. “She was not exactly well equipped” Audrey disclosed. She revealed to us, when they bought the boat, it didn’t have canvass, cushions, or even a VHF radio. Hence the name Naked. Rick is the appointed ‘Mayor‘ of the dock there at Hawks Nest. Every afternoon, Rick fills a huge ice chest with a variety of bottled beers, then scoops ice from the defunct restaurants ice machine, and, if you want a cold adult beverage, drop a dollar in the bucket and grab a longneck of your choice. There‘s no bartender here! Once a week, he takes the money from the bucket to Sam’s and restocks. His wife Audrey had a spread of crackers with cream cheese and pepper jelly. People come and go all evening, and everyone had stories. They told us of a schizophrenic guy named Donnie who sometimes hangs around here. Rick assured us he‘s harmless. Donnie is well taken care of, and even has a home to live in. He just likes to ‘squat’ here occasionally. We discovered that Casey sailed from Honduras to Florida earlier this spring. He single-handed across the Caribbean and the Gulf in that big black hulled boat in nine days. The weather was so rough, solar panels got washed off the cabin top! That’s why his boat looked so un-kept back in March. He had just got in a few days ahead of us, and hadn’t cleaned-up yet. He admitted he had never been west of the Mississippi, but was very interested in our stomping groundsOver coffee the next morning, Elizabeth and I talked of the beautiful places we’ve visited in our travels. The conversation narrowed to our current location. The houses in the area. The climate. The fantastic sailing, and beautiful beaches here. Hurricane season. The lovely people we befriended the previous night. We realized that everywhere we’ve been, we met and worked with some rather eccentric folks. In New Orleans we were flagged down by an elderly couple with zero boating experience that had just retired, bought a leaking, 40 year old, wooden Chris Craft in Mississippi, and were transiting the ICW to Corpus Christi with one engine disabled and NO charts at all. They actually asked us “Which way to the Mississippi River?“ A single dad (South American?) with three teenage ‘daughters’ (Russian?) all about the same age and all having names like Natasha, Anastasia, or Katiana. And dozens of other examples of insanity on the water. Except here. It seemed that all these guys were, dare I say, normal. Our own families think WE are crazy to be living on a boat. Why would any sane person subject themselves to the demands of cruising? It’s a tough life sometimes. Changing weather. Heavy anchors. Sail changes, at night, with big sails. Sleep deprivation during passages. Hauling groceries in a dingy. It’s definitely not for everyone. “Such a small cramped space.” they say.
“No TV?” the eyes roll upward.
We consider ourselves to be only about a half-bubble off level. We are just two educated professionals who quickly grew tired of the rat race and decided to retire before 40. And we don’t see anything idiotic about that.
“I like this place.” admitted Elizabeth.
“I could live here.” slid out of my mouth with such ease, I immediately wondered if I may regret the words someday.
After breakfast, we rowed over to the dock, with our bikes, and pedaled to the Marina to retrieve our new autopilot. The remainder of the day found us installing our new parts, often times, in an up-side-down position. Boats! Not many things could be re-used. All of the wiring had to be re-run, which required tearing apart about a third of the boat. The rudder position indicator proved to be the biggest challenge. It got mounted to an old dock board that I had picked up on the beach, and fashioned into a bracket. At “beer-thirty” we headed over to the empty porch for another visit with our newfound friends. While securing the dingy, we were approached by man with curly dark hair, exhibiting a timid demeanor. His head was slightly bowed, he avoided eye contact, and his hands remained in front of his chest, fidgeting with something . At first glance one would stereotype him as homeless looking for a handout. Unshaven face. Dirty clothing. He had vibrant eyes and a friendly smile, but he was mumbling incoherently. Possibly a different language? “Can I help you?“ asked Elizabeth.
He placed 4 pennies on top of the piling we tied the dingy onto and said, “These are for you,” then turned and walked away. We stood in a stunned silence for a long moment, just looking at each other with raised eyebrows.
“Donnie.” we utter to each other in unison.
The happy hour crowd was glad that we came back for another visit. That night we did not arrive empty handed. I presented my copy of “Campbell’s Cruising Guide to the Texas coast” to Casey. Elizabeth opened a bag of corn chips and a jar of her homemade salsa. The women grouped together to swap recipes and unravel the mystical art of canning. The men huddle around the brew bucket to debate the pros and cons of wind generators verses solar panels and hard dodgers or canvass. Donnie circled the table dropping nickels into any open purse he could find. Casey seemed excited to have his new cruising guide, and I penciled in a few of my favorite spots. Rick and I figured out how to get my GPS unit to communicate with my new autopilot. They were impressed that my anchor light has a photocell to automatically turn itself on at dusk, and off at dawn. And every once in a while, Donnie would walk up to the table, interrupting the conversation to smooth out a wrinkled dollar bill, point at it and announce, “see, In God we trust!” then, he would go back to counting his little basket of coins. So, it appears that the world is indeed in equilibrium. In most instances the symmetry is spread out so that many people get to exhibit their minor quirks. Here in Panama City Beach, Florida, it seems we got balance all in one shot.