Culture Shock!

                 N 30*09.145 - W 085*39.515 

SOEL spent the night anchored in Massalina Bayou, next to a black hull sloop of about 40 - 45 feet in length, that had it’s sails lying about on deck, dingy floating off the back, clutter everywhere, and looked just chaotic.  I thought to myself, “that’s one of those live aboard boats that never goes anywhere.”  (Boy, was I wrong!)  The next morning, during the sweaty exercise called, weighing anchor, a sandy haired young man, who belonged to the black sailboat, stood up on the bow, and yelled, “Where ya going?”

“South.”  was my ‘smarty pants’ answer.

“Why?”  with his arms spread wide, palms turned upward.

“Margaritas!”  I yelled back, as we motored under the draw bridge, headed for the Gulf of Mexico.

The weather report looked quite favorable for an offshore crossing, but still, I was anxious, nervous, scared.  I had already tried, and failed, twice, to get my little ship and my anxious wife to Key West, Florida.  I guess you could add DETERMINED to my list of emotions.  

I shouldn’t have worried.  It was so benign.  The wind pooped out… and I had to run the motor for 2 days straight.  We took advantage of the flat water and cooked some great meals.  Elizabeth pan fried the mackerel we caught and I actually made pizza one afternoon.  Not ‘walking on the walls‘ was nice, but, I‘d rather sail.  Like I always say: “If I wanted to burn diesel, I would have bought a trawler!”

We didn’t see a ship, or a tow, or any other hazards, for two days and two nights.  The third day, watching the sun rise off the port bow, we felt like the only people on this lovely, lonely planet.

We made the turn for Key West, around Christmas Island, (Tank Island on the charts) at 0930, April 20, 2006, and anchored just north of the Coast Guard Base, near green #31 of the Fleming Key cut.  After a month of quietly living by our selves on our little 36 foot plastic boat, anchoring in sleepy little coves and bayous, walking deserted beaches, and a pleasant three day journey, we had finally made it to the southern most point of the continental US.

Holly Molly!  Key West was a freakin ZOO!  There must have been 150 other sailboats anchored in sight.  60 foot charter boats were speeding past at 25 knots, 100 feet from us, throwing a 4 foot wake!  Some Tarpon fishermen hooked a 5 foot monster and were fighting it right around us.  The big fish went around SOEL’s stern, jumped high into the air, rattled his gill plates, then fell back into the green water, splashing some of it into the cockpit.  Yes!  He was that close!  I turned to look at the fishing boat.  The angler at the other end of the line had the rod in the water, pointing it straight down, and the guide behind the wheel was motoring around us so they would not foul the line on my running gear, and lose their photo op.  Neither one of them acknowledged I was even alive.  They just fished around me, as inconsiderate as possible, like I was an obstacle (I was). 

Elizabeth and I had contracted a full blown case of Culture Shock!

Before we left Texas, I gave Sarah an address for sending mail to me along the way.  We walked to the post office and asked for “SOEL” mail.  Sure enough, the lady behind the counter returned, smiling, holding 4 little white envelopes with my name penciled in on the front.  I read them over and over, crying.  I missed that little girl so much.

The next day found us sailing for Newfound Harbor.  Hawk Channel has numerous snorkeling areas, with mooring balls, and we visited a few on our way northward.  Elizabeth and I both wished Sarah and Sydney could experience this with us.  The variety of coral.  Huge sea turtles.  The hundreds of bright, colorful fish.  The clarity of the water.  It was like swimming in the aquarium at Sea World.  But much better!

Just north of Rodriguez Key, a vague mention of a store, with fuel, was listed on the charts.  We arrived at that location about 1630, (yes, on purpose) and started calling on the VHF radio.  A voice told me I couldn’t get in, because the entrance was too shallow.  Another voice reported 6 feet at the entrance and that the fuel dock was located on “crash corner.“  (I bet that place gets interesting on weekends.)  I didn’t want to talk to either of these voices!  I wanted to talk to the fuel dock!  I needed water, but, I was using the excuse of needing fuel, to get to an overnight dockage for free.  You must understand… a transient slip at a marina is impossible to find in south Florida.  If you are lucky enough to find one, you must also be rich enough to afford it.  The only one available in Key West was $3.50 per foot, per night.  And it was a 50 foot slip.  It would have cost me almost $200 to park…  just overnight.  Another Shock!  That was more than I paid for a whole MONTH back in Kemah.

As it were, the entrance was plenty deep enough and we had SOEL tied up ten minutes before closing time.  Perfect.  I pumped a few gallons of diesel, and Elizabeth talked one of the employees into giving her a ride to the RV park down the street to refill a propane bottle.  Once the fuel and a cold twelve pack of BudLite was paid for, we began untying the lines.  “No, that’s OK,”  I excused the attendant, “We got it under control, thanks.”  And… everybody left.  It was 5 o’clock somewhere. 

We apprehensively watched the last car pull out of the gate, then, Elizabeth killed the engine, and I retied the bow line, smiling.  After connecting the filter, we filled both tanks, all 4 sun showers and every other container we owned, with clean, fresh water.  We took a break, drained a beer each, then jumped to the task of washing the boat.  The decks got scrubbed of all the salt, the sheets and lines were bathed and even the sails got a good rinsing.  We giggled like students who stole the teachers apple the whole time.

Before daybreak the next morning, we were untied and underway.  Only one ship spotted in the big Gulf Stream, but he gave us a wide berth.  I caught a beautiful Dorado, which we ate for lunch, and Elizabeth hooked a White Marlin, that immediately spooled the reel and broke the line.  How cool!  We just gazed behind us for the next few minutes as the angry fish repeatedly jumped out of the water, shaking his bill at us.

The Gun Caye (KEY) lighthouse appeared right on time, right where it was supposed to be, and we piloted onto the Bahamas banks.  Elizabeth cleared us into our first foreign country, at the Cat Caye Marina.  Cat is a private island, but they open their docks for visiting yachts coming in from the States.  In fact, if you check-in to the country here, the overnight dockage fees are waved!  I thought it was a pretty good idea, even though the customs man, in fact, had a ‘tip jar‘ on his desk.  I’m serious.  A government employee openly accepting bribes.  Culture Shock!

Friday morning, SOEL was anchored just south of South Bimini in the Bahamas Islands.  The motor had been used quite often on this particular cruise and the oil needed changing.  I had fresh oil, spare filters, and all the supplies necessary to do it myself, and decided today would be Make and Mend Day.  The old oil was collected in an empty container for proper disposal later.  New oil was added and I started the engine, briefly.  The oil pressure gauge registered it’s normal position, and I toasted a beer to a job well done.  I didn’t even make a mess.

The next morning, Elizabeth and I were moving just around the corner, to the harbor in North Bimini, a distance of about two and a half or three miles.  It was so close, and I was so lazy.  The main was neatly flaked beneath it’s cover.  The headsail was in it’s bag, somewhere under the forward berth.  I don’t even know where the jib sheets were.  The wind was blowing 20 - 25 knots from the north east, against the Gulf Stream current, creating some remarkable waves.  I started the engine and yanked up the anchor.

Here is where the story gets bad.

Just about the time we cleared the Bahamas Bank, (and the water depth drops a thousand feet) the alarm sounded.  A quick glance at the instruments showed:

ZERO oil pressure!

“Elizabeth. Engine room check, please.” I shouted.

She looked in the hatch for a second then pulled her head out and shook it side to side.  Well now, what the hell did that mean?  A little useful information would be helpful.  Does a “no” head shake mean “no problem“?  Or, does it mean - “no, were gonna die!”  I grabbed the stop cable.

So there we were.  Rocking with the waves.  At the mercy of the Gulf Stream.  No engine.  No sails.  No anchor.  I could have thrown out the anchor before we drifted off the shallow banks, but, it was pinned in it’s cradle.  By the time I located the windlass handle and crawled forward, the water was about a half a mile deep.  Not too smart.  Sure we could sail, but it took some time.  The main was wrapped up tight and there was not a fore sail on deck.  If we would have been on a motor boat instead of a sail boat, we probably would have drifted to North Carolina.

We finally made our way back to anchor at the same spot we had just departed from and I discovered the cause of the lack of oil pressure.  One little fitting I did not properly tighten, allowed ALL the oil to squirt out of the engine.  I was absolutely livid!  Now I HAD made a mess.  But more important was what I remembered about being prepared.  If I would have had the boat ready, we could have simply hoisted the sails and maneuvered wherever we wanted to go, and/or anchored till the problem was sorted out.  It was a good lesson.

I tightened the fitting, sopped up the clean oil out of the bilge, poured the old oil back in the crankcase, (cussin’tha whole time!) then once again, drove around the corner, and into the harbor of North Bimini.  The wind was still blowing 20 knots from the north east and a small cruising sailboat proceeded us into the channel, making only about 2 knots of forward progress.  I slowed, barely retaining steerageway, and patiently followed.  I would never be so inconsiderate as to pass some in an anchorage, so, I stayed behind and allowed them to have first choice at a parking spot.

The painfully slow little boat crawled upwind and edged out of the channel to a perfect spot.  To tell the truth, that’s right where I wanted to anchor too.   Suddenly, the skipper changed her mind, spun the wheel and headed back out of the anchorage.  She crossed our bow, turned downwind and ran down the channel.  Whatever.  I pointed, Elizabeth drove, and we anchored in that perfect spot, in about ninety seconds.

At the Big Game Marina bar, two longnecks and a one dollar tip consumed a $10 bill.  Ouch!  This place was expensive!  We walked to a grocery store to find Budweiser was the only American beer available: $49 per case!  Damn!  I asked the shopkeeper if she had cell phone air time.  She sold me a $10 card, but didn’t tell me it was useless without a Bahamas registered cell phone.  More culture shock.  On our way back to the dingy, we pass a couple wearing foul weather gear.  Obviously they were on a boat also.  I smiled, said howdy and introduced our selves, “from SOEL” I proudly finished.  The woman’s smiling face shattered to an instant scowl.  “So, you’re the asshole who stole my anchor spot!” she screeched.  I’m speechless, again in a state of shock, as Elizabeth drags me away by the elbow.

Wednesday, May 3rd, on our way around the north end of North Bimini, I hooked the largest Dorado we’ve ever caught.  I was ecstatic!  An “Old Man and the Sea” kinda fish!  A cow, (female) darn near four feet long!  After hauling the big prize aboard, quickly ending her misery, then snapping a few photographs, I noticed another Dorado, floating near the surface, right behind SOEL.  My elation dissolved and I began to cry, when I realized the bull, (male) like a true gentleman, had allowed his mate to eat first.  She got snagged and he swam along side her, all during the fight.  He was still following the boat all these minutes after I had pulled her aboard.  If I would have witnessed that lovely behavior sooner, I would have happily returned the beautiful fish to her rightful place, by her mates side. 

But it was too late. 

I sadly, silently, butchered the old girl, with tears streaming down my sunburned, guilty face.

We aimed for Great Harbor Marina, which looked to be a great hurricane hole on the charts.  I motored in what I thought was the right direction, but, all I could see was rocks.  I would even call it a cliff.  Suddenly a fishing boat materialized out of the rock wall.  Obviously… that had to be the channel.  We turned, found the entrance, and backed into a marina slip, impressing the harbormaster with my boat driving skills.  “Mon, I neva seen a sailboat doo dat!” 

At a grocery store the next morning, I purchased another phone card.  This time, I bought one for the local Bahamas land line service.  The pay phone at the store was out of service, as was the one at the town dock.  We rode our bicycles to the other side of the island to find out, the one at the hospital/clinic was dead also.  The Harbormaster just shook his head when I asked about the telephone at the marina.  Not one single payphone on the island worked!  Culture Shock.  I gave him the pre-paid air time card that I had bought in North Bimini and he let us use his personal cell phone to call family and friends.  Another real nice guy.

A few days later, we were on the move again, looking for Great Stirrup Caye.  Apparently the Cruise Ship industry has taken over the islands of Great Stirrup, and Great Harbor, dumping anywhere from 2,000 to 5,000 pink skinned tourists on the beach at regular intervals.  We sailed around to the south east side of the island and found the place deserted!  A perfect little cove, with 100 yards of soft sand beach, and two coral jetty’s sticking out.  I anchored SOEL between the two jetty’s, in 15 feet of water and we stormed the beach.  Clear water… good snorkeling… we didn’t ever want to leave, but, the adventurous spirit was difficult to corral.

We sailed over to White Caye, in the Berry Islands chain, and anchored next to a Texas flagged boat called Gig’Em.  Of course, I row over to chat with the fellow Texans.  He tells me that they have been sailing from Florida to the Bahamas for 10 years, and they have never seen it so crowded, so many boats anchored here.  I looked around and counted four.  Including SOEL.

Hoffmans Caye was the next island north of us, and is reported to have a Blue Hole in the center of it.  When we asked someone about it, they answered “Bring some food for Bob.”  I didn’t get it.  Who was Bob?  And what does he like to eat?  We sailed the Dinghy around the corner, landed it on a deserted beach, and searched for the trail that would take us to the spot.  After about a half hour hike, we came upon a sharp turn in the trail where the sand gave way to light grey boulders and a breathtaking view opened up before us.  Dark green foliage all around a 300 foot circular opening and blue, clear water about 20 feet below the rock we stood on.  We carefully, quietly treked downward to the waters edge, slowly digesting the sights.

“Wow!” Elizabeth finally spoke, ”this is incredible!”

Some movement in the water directly in front of us captured our attention.  A large red Grouper, swam out from under a rock, stopped inches below the surface and just stared at us.  “That must be Bob.” I pointed.

Apparently, someone caught the Grouper a few years back, released him into this hole and over the years he has become sort of a mascot.  Visitors have been bringing picnic lunches here for years and Bob has become conditioned, like Pavlov’s dog, to come out and beg for food.  I backtracked up the trail, cracked two hermit crabs out of their shells, and obliged the hungry fish. 

Of course you can’t come all this way and not jump in the water!  Elizabeth and I took turns, one with the camera, one getting wet.

Early one morning, a very small, mild cold front entered the area.  The wind shifted from the easterly trade winds and blew briskly from the north west.  Just about dawn, I was sitting in the cockpit, reading a book, when I witnessed the boat next to me moving.  The anchor was dragging and he was backing towards the rocks!  I tumbled into the WalkerBay and pulled hard at the oars.  “Hey!” I shouted, “Dude, wake up!”  As soon as I started knocking on the hull, a dog started barking somewhere on board.  I was too late.  The big center cockpit ketch missed the rocks by less then 6 feet and gently backed her rudder into the soft sandy beach.  Still no signs of life except for the dog barking, so I kept beating on the hull, until, finally, a large bellied, hairy, bald headed man slid open the companionway.  A large black mut sprinted down the side deck and began licking my hand, as the sleepy eyed skipper looks around and mumbles, “What da hell…”

“You’re draggin’ man!” I informed him, “I tried to get here faster…”

“Don’t worry about it.” he dismissed me, squinting his eyes at the morning light.  “Hey!” he shouts down below, “Hey!  Get up.”

“Do you need any help?” I offered.

“Naa.  I said don’t worry’bout it!“

He plopped down behind the wheel and turned the key.  He didn’t go forward to deal with any anchor or chain.  He didn’t wait for any oil pressure to increase.  He didn’t let the engine warm up.  He just turned the key.  As soon as the engine started, he forced it into gear, at full throttle, and washed a cloud of sand out past the rudder.  I sat down, pulled at the oars, and got the hell out of the guy’s way.  I watched, disturbed, as he motored upwind, away from the beach, belching black smoke, dragging his anchor under the boat, till a woman stuck her head out into the cockpit.  “Go back to sleep!” he ordered, as though it was somehow her fault.  More Culture Shock.

I rowed back to SOEL thinking… Wow!  And just the other day someone called ME the asshole.

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