Dinghy Down the Keys, page 2 |
With the wind behind her, Sunrise straightened up. I could relax and look around a bit more. In a little, shallow-draft boat, you’re almost in the water, and there’s a thousand things to see. A hound fish started away, skipping from wave to wave, then finally plunging, like an arrow, beneath the surface. Little orange file fish hung in the drifting rows of weed, and once a tiny flying fish glided away, a flash of iridescence that lasted but a second. How could anything so delicate survive in these waters? Thousands of flying fish must be eaten by other fish every day, yet they survive, hiding among the weed,
gliding away from danger as best they can. I was glad I wasn’t a flying fish.
At 6:15, a big lemon shark passed me, cruising toward Elliott Key. He was so close I could see his catlike eye and the velvet sheen of his skin. I wondered about him. How many years would he live? How far would he travel? Did he notice me looking at him? A creature of reflex action, he could be dangerous under the wrong conditions, but I saw him only as a
stranger going harmlessly about his business. I sailed on, and he vanished across the flats.
No more sharks appeared, and at 7:30 I had ghosted onto the flats just south of Caesar’s Creek. Here in the shallows of the turtlegrass I’d be safe from the motorboats that might roar out of the creek. The evening gave me a welcome rest from my half day of sailing. To the west, a cabin cruiser steamed down the Intracoastal, the only evidence of humanity to be seen.
I depended on birds and fish for company as I ate my stew and prepared for the night. Lying under the tarp and netting, I listened to the sounds echoing through Sunrise’s hull, the beep-beep of toadfish and crackling of snapping-shrimp and
barnacles that came through the water, the creak of her mast in its step and the strain of her anchor rode in its chock as the breeze shifted about. As the tide fell, the turtlegrass began to brush against Sunrise’s keel, a welcome reminder that I was safe
from those who might not see my dinghy or its swaying anchor light.
Dawn had brought a light breeze and a horde of mosquitoes, the little mangrove butterflies” that had been held at bay by netting during the night. Both breeze and mosquitoes had fallen behind as the tide carried me through Angelfish Creek, and now
the entrance at the ocean side loomed before me. There seemed to be a channel leading out to the deep water, so my fears of a shoal entrance were dispelled. Now I was “motor-sailing,” as the fair tide pushed me into a fine morning breeze. Soon I bore off to the south and my destination, Windley Key.
I had a fine wind, and was tempted to see how fast Sunrise would cover the 30 miles to the key, but I’m no
racer. The long, low shore of Key Largo beckoned. I knew there were ancient Spanish wine bottles lying tumbled among hatch covers and broken spars of long-wrecked sailing vessels. The flotsam of a hundred hurricanes lay scattered in the hardwood hammocks beyond the water. It was only 9 AM; there was plenty of time. I ran inshore, anchored, and waded to land.
A jagged karst of limestone shore was almost hidden by buttonwoods and red mangroves. Driftwood was stacked among the bushes in a continuous line, and styrofoam trap markers and bits of hatch covers lay atop the debris. Here was a big net
float I retrieved for a mooring buoy, and over there was a new nylon fender. But I was not alone. In warm weather, mosquito is king, and they attacked with a vengeance. Pursued, I retired with my booty to the shallow water where Sunrise dipped and bobbed to her anchor.
The mosquitoes still bombarded me, so I slipped on a dive mask and continued my treasure hunt beneath the surface. Here the rocky bottom supported a dense growth of sponges, sea whips, and an attached species of Sargassum whose fronds stretched to the surface and trailed away in long, brown swaths. A big loggerhead turtle suddenly started up from the bottom
and paddled away with powerful kicks of his flippers. I poked into the rubble and peered under ledges looking I rare shells, but none appeared. Finally, among the profusion of sponges, I selected two large examples of a commercial species, tearing them
free and dropping them into a plastic bag. Over the next week or two their tissue would rot, leaving their skeleton of spongin. With periodic kneading ing and cleaning, they would yield fine sponges for the boat.
Island Legacy
Sailing Sunrise was always like this. I suppose I’ll never be a race, for there are too many creeks to explore, too many fine sponges to dive up. After all, Sunrise was a Bahama dinghy, a model that Bahamian fisherman earn their living from this day. She was a fishing boat, load carrier, a knockabout, bang about, ragtag workboat. When old Mr. Albury was building dinghies like her at Man-O-War Cay, he’d sail off in his own dinghy to cut knees and frames from the horseflesh and mahogany trees that grew through the Abacos. He’d take water, a little tin of sugar and coffee, and cornbread. A crab or lobster would round out his diet, and his sail would cover him at night. Two or three days later, he’d sail home with a load of knees and frames. Soon
a new dinghy would be under construction. That’s minimal cruising.
In the afternoon, I tied up at a motel dock on Windley Key. For two weeks, Sunrise was based here where my family vacationed. On free mornings, I’d pole her down the long, shallow channel across the mud flats. The wind was my guide, and depending on its strength and direction, I’d sail out to Hen and Chickens Reef for diving or head south to fish for grunt
and snapper among the patch reefs.
Finally, time ran out and my family drove home. I had allowed myself two days to sail Sunrise back to Coconut Grove, and I realize how much at the mercy of the elements the small boat sailor is. What if I had two days of calm? What if the wind went
into the northeast and I had to beat all the way? What if I missed the tide at Angelfish and had to wait 6 hours? How long does it take to sail anywhere? It might take 5 hours to make Angelfish one day and you might never get there the next day. In a little sailboat with no motor, you just set off and hope for the best.
