Dinghy Down the Keys, Page 3 |
Casting all the “what ifs” aside, I poled Sunrise out across the flats at 5:30 AM. A friend, Mike Reeve, perched on the stem, feeling for the channel with the sculling oar. Stars slowly faded overhead as a light breeze blew out of the false dawn to the east. Gradually, the breeze picked up, and as the sun rose we were beating past Hen and Chickens light. It was a fine hot day, but the wind gradually softened, and it was 6 PM before the incoming tide carried us through Angelfish Creek into Biscayne Bay.
We wolfed down a meal as we ghosted northward toward Sands Key. Should we anchor here for the night or try to get as far north as possible so our next day’s run would be a short one? We were in the lee of Elliott Key and there was nothing much we could hit in the dark except one of the grass flats that poked into the bay. Our big worry was getting run over by another boat in the darkness. As the sun
set, we fixed our position carefully and sailed slowly northward along the inside of the key. Soon darkness had obscured the shoreline, and we had to rely on the blinking navigation lights to the northwest. The breeze held, and we gradually closed on the lights.
Once a big sailboat motored slowly across the bow, and we showed our little running lights until he was well to starboard. I wonder if he saw them. A black skimmer soared silently past us, his bill just touching the flat surface of the bay. Off to port, an outboard motorboat whined along the Intracoastal, running from light to light.
It was 11 PM; we’d been sailing north for 5 hours. For the past few minutes, the bearing of the light west of Sands Key had opened rapidly. I scrambled in the lazarette for the little 2-pound lead I’d found at a garage sale. With Mike heaving the lead, we crept slowly on. By now the light seemed much too far aft, but still the water hadn’t shoaled. In the darkness, distances and relative bearings were distorted so badly I couldn’t rely on my senses. We had to go with the lead.
Abruptly the water shoaled. To port, a day marker loomed suddenly out of the darkness. Where had that come from? We could see the bottom now; Even in the darkness, lights and darks of the sand and turtlegrass appeared. Time to round up and anchor. At least we’d not get run down on the
flat. Mike lit the anchor light while I checked the chart. Remarkable enough, all the bearings of lights
tallied with our depth and the position of the surprise marker we’d almost hit. I just hadn’t noticed it on
the chart before.
The breeze and distance from land held off the mosquitoes, so we didn’t bother with the tarp over the boom. There was plenty of room ‘for the two of us on the floorboards and gently sloping run of Sunrise’s generous hull. Mike slipped into almost instantaneous sleep, but I lay awake listening to the underwater snaps and pops that sounded through the hull. I wondered what tomorrow would
bring. We had only 15 miles to go. Even if a calm settled over us, we’d be able to squeeze enough wind out of it to make port eventually. I noticed a blinking light shifting aft. The tide was turning. It must be after midnight. Gradually, Mike’s snore occupied my attention. Would it be possible, I wondered, to build a soundproof stateroom in a 14-foot dinghy?
LOWELL THOMAS is a marine biologist who sailed and built boats in South Florida prior to his new career as a clinical psychologist. He lives in Gainesville, Florida.
