The morning of the 30th we stepped ashore to visit Dad's house (nautically themed, of course) and stock up for the jump to Key West on the last leg of our Eastern US travels. Departing at 11:00 am, we resumed our four-hour rotations of rest, watch and tiller duties. Most of the early portions of the jump are foggy, since we'd gotten short rest after the late arrival in Naples. I piloted the good ship out onto big water and fell happily into oblivion at the end of my shift. Over the course of the next 24 hours we crossed the southern waters off the Everglades and entered the interspersed islands of the far famed Florida Keys. As per usual, the wind was more or less on our nose for most of the journey but we managed to beat our way south into the teeth of it. Eric had his first encounter with the intricacies of right-of-way on the open ocean late Saturday night. I was on watch to advise:
Eric: "Sean, wake up."
Sean: "I am awake�I was just getting some of the salt out of my eyes�"
Eric: "I'm not sure but I think this guy's heading right for us."
I bolted upright, eye cleansing momentarily postponed. Sure enough, there were the bow and port side lights of a boat off of our port beam. As Brian and I had instructed Eric, when you see another boat's red light (port side) and bow light off of your port (red light) side AND they don't change position relative to where you spot them, then they are on what is know technically as a "collision course." Now, any boat under sail and especially those beating into the wind have the right-of-way under such circumstances. Unfortunately, in actuality the strictures of right-of-way aren't unbreakable law but rather, as Captain Barbosa from Pirates of the Caribbean might be apt to say, more like guidelines. Common sense dictates that when someone is going to hit you, you are obliged to move if you don't want to get hit. And so we moved. Falling off course, Eric brought Faith out of the offending vessel's path, which led it directly over the spot we would have been in had we remained adamant about our rights and ways. It was a sailboat under power and, I might add, one of the scurviest, most wretched, irresponsible rag fliers I have ever seen. Stenches befoul you, sir, so that we'll know you better from further off! Eric, on the other hand, gets a commendation.
At last Key West rose ahead, one among a litter of low lying isles scattered across the wave tossed span of ocean. The wind had picked up, coming directly on our bow, forcing us to fall back on the old iron jenny. The waves had picked up, too, and our approach to the Key was highlighted by great gouts of spray geysering over the boat and drenching any who were brave enough to remain on the decks (me. Brian and Eric elected to fearlessly remain in the cabin. Ironically, this wasn't much drier since a leak had formed where an old rusty screw in the outside rubrail had given up the ghost and was allowing water to seep into Brian's bunk whenever we were on a starboard tack, which was almost the entire trip. By the time we'd realized it most of his clothes and his entire mattress were sodden. The result was that he had to shift anything dry to Eric's bunk, we all had to sleep on my bunk when our turns came, and over time we got water into every conceivable crevice aboard.) It was with gladdened and soggy hearts that we pulled up to dock. The next several hours entailed stringing clotheslines in the rigging and hanging everything on board out to dry until we looked like a huge and vaguely boat shaped pile of dirty laundry. Which in certain metaphorical senses, we are, ha-ha-ha-ha!
A very saturated salutations!