If things go as planned, we’ll be departing Fort Myers in a few days, after an unexpected, Covid induced, eight month stay. Yes, eight months in slip H1 – long enough to make friends of some locals, get to know a handful of golf courses, and pick favorite restaurants. Long enough also to enjoy week-long visits by Dawn’s brother Gary, her daughter Kayla and boyfriend Sajid, and my son Ben. Fort Myers has been a great place to be stuck, but we’re anxious to move on, to get our journey underway again.
Before we sail ahead of the story, its worth sharing some of what we’ve learned about South Florida, and specifically, the Everglades. Between Fort Myers and Marco Island to its south, lies a 50 mile expanse of golf courses, 55+ communities, and strip malls. They compete for your 401K dollars by wowing Northerners with palm lined drives, fountains and gaudy stonework. South of Marco, however, in an area called the Ten Thousand Islands, one discovers what South Florida looked like before Thomas Edison invented snowbirding.
We hoped to see the Ten Thousand Islands by boat, on our way to the Florida Keys. Covid forced an audible, so we chose to do our exploring by car. It’s just as well because boating there is probably better in a flat bottom skiff, armed for gator, doused in DEET, and triple wrapped in mosquito netting. Mangrove swamps blur a coastline probably best defined by water salinity, where shallow inlets drain the Everglades.
From South Naples, and Marco Island to the west, the old Tamiami Trail continues into the glades, before intersecting Rt. 29, a secluded two lane that plunges deeper south, to the town of Evergade City. A good friend we’ve made in Ft Myers, Mike Alexander, loaned a piece of classic Florida Literature set in the area, called “Totch, A Life in the Everglades”. Its author, Totch Brown, grew up in and around Everglade City, and his book informed our tourism. Totch grew up fishing mullet, but over his long life, found more lucrative work learning to catch Stone Crab, poach aligators, and smuggle weed. Quite the character, and a great read.
First and foremost, is a place called the Rod and Gun Club. The historic hotel lies on the south bank of the Barron River. Calling it a river would be stretch for some, as it flows in either direction, depending on the tide. You can get there by boat if you don’t draw more than five feet of water, or don’t get lost or eaten by skeeters first. The Rod and Gun Club is a time capsule to the guilded age, when it was built on the original foundation of one of the first white settlers. Five presidents have stayed there as have Hemingway, Connery, Wayne and Jagger. Tarpon, Otter and Osprey fill the walls. Hundred year old Gators and Panthers look down on a gorgeous pool table even older. We ate lunch there twice, the food not much to write home about, but the beer cold and the ambiance unforgettable. If you ever go, try the fish reuben.
Further down and at the end of the road is the village of Chokoloskee. If all you like to do is fish, or perhaps run a meth lab, you might like it. It’s a mobile home on stilts kind of place. No offense to the locals, but I won’t be booking an AirBnB there. At road’s end is a place called the Smallwood Store, now a museum. Totch wrote about it extensively, as it was the only place around to buy supplies, from bullets to tobacco, cornmeal to carburetors. It was the Sears of 1900, at the end of the world. The museum is the store, all the old stuff still filling the shelves.
Going back up Rt 29 and turning right, one enters the Big Cypress National Preserve. A few miles beyond the Indian village of Ochopee, you cane take a turn south on a dirt two track aptly called Loop Road. Ben was with us on this twenty mile journey through the Jurassic, hoping to spot an alligator in the wild. We counted 29 before emerging again on the Tamiami, at the town of Pinecrest. One 15′ grandpa lurched towards us, chasing us back into the car, hearts pounding.
It’s primitive and primordial. Between mosquitos, hurricanes and rising seas, those choosing to live there are hardy souls!
Since crossing the Okeechobee last November, Slip B57 at the Harborage Marina in Stuart, FL has been home. We’re not the only Loopers with plans modified by the pandemic. In theory, a boat is the ultimate platform to self-isolate and ride out a pandemic. It’s why boats and RV’s are selling like chocolate covered hotcakes. But we’re not those boaters trying to get off Zoom, or get out of the house for the weekend. This IS our house.
Loopers like to get off the boat (out of the house) to explore places along their journey. With restaurants serving take-out only, museums closed, docktails, potlucks, and even Canada off-limits, the Looping experience is greatly diminished. Then of course, there is the issue of needing to be in your home state for a vaccination. For us, that’s Florida. For all of these reasons and a couple more, we’re still here. We’ve had our first dose, and in a few weeks, we’ll get the second poke. Afterwards, we head North.
Being voluntarily “stuck” in South Florida during the winter doesn’t invite sympathy. Back in January, we actually wore jeans and socks for a few days. Since they share our conservatism about wearing masks and respecting viral outbreaks, we’ve spent several weekends with our great friends, Brian and Virginia Eamer. They own a dirt home nearby, and we’ve exhausted our guest privileges at their golf club. Our stay here has been no hardship, just borne of A Change of Plans.
After settling into the Harborage last November, we retrieved the car from Fort Myers, and took a road trip North. Driving from Florida to Michigan in November seems foolish by most accounts, but Dawn’s folks needed some help, and we wanted to welcome a new family member. Yes, we became grandparents, and held Theodore Thomas Jeglic in Lansing on his two-week birthday. Side trips to Gross Point, Cleveland and Columbus spiked our joy meter, despite COVID protocols. Our expected ten day trip stretched to nearly a month, allowing us to celebrate Thanksgiving with family.
A splendid Christmas with the Eamers was followed by the gut punch of January 6. The insurrection and those turbid weeks leading up to it explain my scarcity on social media. It’s why the blog is relatively quiet. You see, the boating community seems to have a disproportionate number of folks who countenance those events. I struggle to reconcile and struggle to write while coping with my disgust.
We emerged from our insurrection blues by cruising south to Lake Worth, to visit Jim and Melissa Kelly. Our friendship began during the short time we were marina-mates, back in Houston. Boat issues and work delayed their Houston departure. Then more boat issues and a few hurricanes stalled their progress along the Emerald Coast. They finally caught up and were en-route to the Bahama’s!
Since I’ve mentioned the Emerald Coast… Here the Treasure Coast stretches between Vero to Palm Beach, and is named for a Spanish Treasure Fleet lost in a hurricane three centuries ago. Just offshore, the mighty Gulf Stream surges between the Bahamas and Florida’s peninsula. It’s where the ocean’s strongest current makes its closest approach to land. In a Northeaster or tropical storm, the waters can rise up and swallow boats.
Our cruise to visit the Kelly’s marked our first traverse along the Treasure Coast. Staying “inside”, the journey from Stuart begins southward, through The Saint Lucie Inlet Preserve. This natural and pristine section of ICW is a known haven for migratory birds, like the Peregrine Falcon and American Kestrel. And we thought they were all Ospreys! At Hobe Sound, where Jupiter Island stands between the ICW and the Atlantic, the pristine bows to corpulence. We motor past the estates of Tiger Woods, Michael Jordan, Celine Dion, Rory Mcllroy, not to mention the one Greg Norman just sold for fifty million. Backyard stairways make the Supreme Court’s edifice look paltry, and boathouses could shelter families of eight. Opposite, on the west side, wannabe’s in lowly seven figure homes settle for pools, putting greens, and docks crowded with water toys. No humans are to be seen, making me wonder if they’re all inside, hiding from their wealth or their debt.
Just past Tequesta, as one approaches the Jupiter inlet, the water transforms into azure splendor. This is where Burt Reynolds chased Lonnie around the pool, and Joe Namath still films Medicare commercials. The Jupiter lighthouse guards the point, bridges slow progress, and boat traffic intensifies as we round the bend, continuing south, towards Juno Beach. At North Palm Beach, the waterway pops out into Lake Worth, which stands between eight towns named “Choose-Adjective” Palm Beach. I think 90% of the1% live nearby.
We found Jim and Mellisa and their pretty Grand Banks Classic, “On Course At Last” opposite the mega-yacht basin. We dropped anchor and spent three fun-filled days together, eating, drinking, laughing and sharing boat tales. It was the longest we’ve spent at anchor since leaving Houston! We saw them off before sunrise, waving as they headed out the inlet to cross the Gulf Stream.
I’ve enjoyed learning some local history at our stops along the way. One of the most fascinating takes us back to the Herbert Hoover dike, (No, not J Edgar) which surrounds Lake Okeechobee like the walls of of an above ground pool.
In 1928, after pummeling Guadaloupe and Puerto Rico, a Category 4 hurricane made landfall in Palm Beach. On approach, its circulation caused a tremendous storm surge to breach the levees of Lake Okeechobee, inundating the rich farms to its south with twenty foot floods, killing thousands. As the hurricane passed, its reverse circulation pushed floodwaters over Okeechobee’s northern bank, killing hundreds more. The Herbert Hoover dike was built in response.
The 1928 Okeechobee Hurricane was the third deadliest in US history, after the Galveston Hurricane of 1900, and recent Hurricane Maria, which devastated Puerto Rico. Most of the Treasure Coast was smashed; half the homes surrounding Lake Worth were destroyed. The mortar of Jupiter lighthouse was squeezed from between its bricks “like toothpaste”, canting the lighthouse some 17″ after the storm.
Most of the 2500 casualties were poor, black migrant farmers. Their bodies were either burned in large funeral pyres, or thrown into mass graves in West Palm Beach and Port Myacca. Authorities reserved the few available caskets for white folks, burying them separately. A proper memorial did not come about until just twenty years ago!
Zora Neale Hurston wrote of African American life in the early 20th century South, and explored the effects of the 1928 hurricane on black migrant workers in her seminal 1937 novel, Their Eyes Were Watching God. It is regarded as one of the 100 best English-language novels published over the last century. I can attest – it’s a remarkable story, masterfully told.
In another interesting piece of history, Hurston spent her last years at a senior home just north of here, in Fort Pierce. Upon her death in 1960, she was buried unceremoniously in a nearby cemetery. No stone marked her grave. The cemetery was of course segregated at the time, and Hurston died poor and black. Today, history regards her as one of Florida’s ten most iconic novelists, along with the likes of Marjorie Rawlings, John McDonald, Elmore Leonard, and Ernest Hemingway. I’d read her over papa.
We decided to cross from the Gulf to Atlantic side of Florida via the Okeechobee Waterway instead of around the Florida Peninsula through the Keys. Time, expense, hurricane season, and depth factored into our decision. Now, in hindsight, it was a great call, because Hurricane Eta made landfall about ten miles from where we planned to stay.
The Waterway was a public works project during the depression. Many cool things for boaters came about during the depression. The TVA system is another example. Okeechobee is that big lake in the middle of Florida, and surprisingly, is the second largest freshwater lake in the contiguous US. A large dike named after Herbert Hoover surrounds it. To the West, the Caloosahatchee River and canal drain to the Gulf, while the Saint Lucie River and canal system drains water to the Atlantic. Since Lake Okeechobee is about 15′ above sea level, three locks and dams control water levels on the Caloosahatchee, while just two handle the drop on the St. Lucie side.
In the week before our planned departure, I changed the engine oil, raw water impeller, and pencil zinc in the heat exchanger. These were firsts for me, and first oil change since leaving Houston. It was easy work, but as usual, I was sore for a few days from crawling around in the engine room.
Slow boats like ours make this 135 mile trip in two or three days. We opted for two, with a planned overnight in the fishing haven of Clewiston, on the South side of Lake Okeechobee. As usual, my nerves jangled in the days before our departure, making me wonder what astronauts go through. Navigating the locks and crossing Okeechobee were my main concerns. Because it’s shallow, Okeechobee can get very rough in a blow and we were targeting a weekend weather window forecast to slam shut the Monday after our trip.
Leaving Fort Myers just after sunrise on Saturday, we turned upriver and into the heart of Florida. The river is wide until one passes under I-75, laden with RVs full of returning snowbirds. The first bridge, the Wilson Piggot, opened on command, barely slowing our inertia before arriving at the Franklin Lock. Its tender, Sonny, made it an easy and pleasant experience. From atop the lock wall, he chatted with us about the trip ahead. As it winds inland, the Caloosahatchee is bordered by small oxbows, most with docks and homes tucked behind mangroves and cypress lining the banks. Beyond the lift bridges marking the small towns of Alva and Labelle, we came to the Ortona Lock. Its tender was no Sonny, forcing us to guess where and which side of the lock to tie up to. We locked without issue, pressing East as the waterway evolves from river to canal. The fifteen miles to Moore Haven, on the West side of the lake, would have been boring if it were not for the exquisite rainbow we chased for over an hour. We tried to sail under it, but could never quite get there.
The municipal dock in Moore Haven was our fall back overnight spot, but locks and bridges went so smoothly that we had time to make Clewiston. We waited for a train of sugar can pulp to pass before squeezing through the narrow swing bridge and into the Moore Haven lock. Emerging on the opposite side, we turned right and into the waterway bounded by Hoover’s dike to starboard, and the marshy edges of Lake Okeechobee to port. There, we caught up with the rain causing that beautiful rainbow. For an hour it came down in buckets, our visibility marginal because the center wiper that failed us back on Lake Pontchartrain quit again. Thankfully, the channel was wide and boat traffic minimal. About 10 minutes from Clewiston, the storm passed and we cleared the small lock protecting Roland Martin marina on the opposite side.
Since staff was gone for the day, we picked a spot along the dock, tied up, and took an anxious Lola out for some relief. We ate and had a couple drinks at the Tiki Bar, a fairly famous stop along the way, judging by the number of tee shirts and other swag for sale. The ten hour day on the water zapped our energy so we called it an early night.
On the opposite side of Okeechobee is a lock called Port Mayaca. Our friends on Golden Daze (remember them from the crossing?) traversed it two days before, when it was on emergency generator power. It closed for the day soon after they locked through. After confirming that it was back up and running, we left Rowland Martin in early light, waited an hour behind a line of fishing boats to clear the lock, then made our way out the channel and into Lake Okeechobee.
Unlake northern lakes, Okeechobee doesn’t have a very definitive bank. We followed a marked channel through thickets that became wetlands that eventually became the lake. We chose the shorter route that zig-zags across the lake, seeing only one other boat during our four hour crossing. Conditions were ideal and on the final heading, our autopilot guided us through bands of neon blue green algae on our way to Port Mayaca. We locked through with Mark and Yvette Clark, (on that other boat) who were returning home to Stuart with a sailboat they just bought in Port Charlotte. Unfamiliar with its fuel system, their engine quit just as they entered the lock. I’m not sure why you’d buy a used sailboat when you circumnavigated twice on your old one. Maybe they just wore it out. We waited with them while Mark worked the fuel supply, got their engine back online, then steered out the St. Lucie canal, Eastbound.
Mile-long straightaways made for an uneventful, if not boring motor through the farmlands of central Florida. Nobody won our contest for who would spot the first alligator. Occasionally, small racing boats would zip by on either side, shooting up rooster tails, but leaving little wake. The scenery grew more compelling the further east we travelled, with waterfront homes slowly growing in size and gaudiness.
An hour past Indiantown, we approached the Saint Lucie Lock and Dam, holding station for about 15 minutes while the chamber filled. Along with 3 other boats, we dropped 13′ to the South fork of the Saint Lucie River below. Continuing East, we passed under I95, then The Florida Turnpike, more RVs southbound, and into the wider waters around Stuart. Awaiting the Roosevelt bridge opening, we idled 100 yards off Brian and Nataly’s yacht, FitNautic, resting in her slip at Sunset Marina. We were livaboard neighbors in Houston two years prior!
Under the bridges and around the corner, we made our way into slip B-57 at the Harborage Yacht Club and Marina. Some folks know it as Loggerhead Marina, but that was before Hurricane Irma destroyed it in 2017. Though the slip is a bit tight, the facilities are first class – for all except for Lola. Patches of grass are small, few, and far, but I suppose they are rich with smells. We got the collapsable wagon out to help ferry her to her dumping grounds.
The day after we arrived, winds picked up as forecast. Winds started at 15-20 that Monday, and by the weekend, with Hurricane Eta churning off the Florida Keys, they got downright nasty. Weary of a week of rocking, we spent last night at Eamer’s house as the worst of the storm came through. Cirila made it through the night with a couple bumps and bruises, but nothing major. A few other boats were not so lucky. Now, the winds continue to settle, and we look forward to a calmer week so we can tend to some boat chores and plot our next move.
Sorry it’s been a while since I wrote. I’m kind of lazy and would rather sleep than write any day. I think it’s still summer. It’s hard to tell because it’s always warm here. I know because it’s light for breakfast and dinner. Sometimes it’s downright hot. Panting doesn’t cool me down enough. Maybe my tongue is too small.
Something has been weird lately. People don’t come on our boat anymore. Not since Miah was here with her mom and that guy with the furry face. Even when we go for walks, people don’t pet me as much. Usually, I’m not even allowed to go smell their ankles. That’s the main reason I like to go for walks. It’s sure not for the exercise.
Another weird thing is that Mom and Dad are here a lot. I’m not complaining, because I get to sit on mom’s lap more. But sometimes, I like to have the boat to myself. I can take really long naps without all the distractions. That’s when I have the best dreams.
I don’t think this was a dream but last week, we were in the car all day. When I finally got out, I was near where I grew up. I could tell by the way the air smelled. I couldn’t see very far because there were huge trees and plants everywhere. Mom and Dad’s friends were there, which confused me because we usually see them in the house with all the slippery floors. I can barely stand up in that place!
This time, there were even more of those really big dogs. I counted three, which is about as high as I can count. I’m just assuming they’re dogs, because they smelled like dogs. But they’re almost as big as those horse things we had when I was growing up. They have really hairy faces too. It covers their eyes so I can’t tell what they’re looking at. Since I can’t see what they’re barking at, I just join in anyway. I think I scare them a little. You wouldn’t believe the size of their food bowls. I kept hanging around hoping I could steal some of their food. It worked once, but after I got caught, they never left those giant bowls on the floor anymore.
Speaking of food, I eat this really good stuff now. My old food was really dry and Mom thought it scratched my throat and made me cough. The new stuff is softer and swallows easier. I know, I should chew it, but I only have 3 teeth left. I’m impatient too, because I can’t wait ’til it hits my belly. It kind of tastes like baloney, but not as salty. I like it. The bad part is I don’t poop as big now. It’s like I’m a rabbit or something. It’s embarrassing.
We haven’t been going on many boat rides lately. That’s OK with me though. This is a good place and even though I don’t get to socialize much, there are a lot of other dogs here. There’s a nice place we all walk. It’s not far either, which is good if you’re lazy like me. There’s this one little dog named deee-oh-geee, like how people spell DOG when they talk behind your back. (They think I don’t know how to spell TREAT). Crazy name though huh? Anyway, D.O.G. is really small and pees on everything. Bike tires, cement pots, sidewalks, light poles, and a bunch of other stuff I don’t even know the name of. I don’t know where he gets all the pee. He’s like my old friend Sancho, but with less manners.
Another crazy thing here is the rain. There’s a storm almost every day, right about dinner time. I’m not even scared of the thunder anymore. I don’t like walking after a storm because my feet get wet, then I’m not allowed on the couch. My toenails grow really fast here. I don’t know what’s going on. Mom thinks it’s because it’s warm all the time. Whatever. I don’t like it because I have to get them trimmed more. I hate pedicures.
What else can I tell you? My legs are starting to get wobbly again, but not so bad as a couple years ago. I can still get around okay though. You should have seen me with those big dogs. I was actually running. It felt great, but was I ever sore afterwards. I fell on my face once but it didn’t hurt. It was cool there because I could just wander around outside. I lost my bearings once when I wasn’t paying attention, but dad was watching. It was scary.
Dad just opened the refrigerator. I have to go now. Bye.
When the Coronavirus scuttled our plans to be in the Keys last April, we decided to stay in Fort Myers. We’re still here, but we’ve both been busy. Not only have we gotten our golf clubs out, but Dawn’s been working towards becoming a certified Aromatherapist, and I’ve been writing. Not much on the blog, but on a project I started many years ago.
A Change of Plans” is my debut novel. The story begins with an obvious autobiographical slant (especially if you read our blog), but soon involves four Columbian siblings caught up in the drug trade, often against their will.
Like us, Jake and Gina Adams sell everything to buy a boat and go cruising. As their adventure begins, they discover that their boat’s prior owner had a secret past, one that puts them in mortal danger.The couple must join forces with a few of the dead owner’s old friends to unlock his secrets, then together embark on a quest to beat traffickers to millions of dollars they believe is buried in the Virgin Islands.
In a race against drug cartels, time, and the law, all paths cross near Tortola, in a fantastical maritime adventure about friendship, trust, redemption, and ultimately, a change of plans.
Follow the links below to order your copy:
Amazon – available as ebook for Kindle or in Paperback.
Before we share thoughts on our time here, how about a little history? Fort Myers lies along the southern bank of the Caloosahatchee river in Southwest Florida. Local natives, the Calusa, knew about this place for a few millennia, earning them not only the naming rights to the river, but squatters rights to the best real estate. Places you’ve heard of like Fort Myers, Naples, Sanibel, Bonita Springs, Marco Island – all were Calusa territory, until Ponce de Leon started poking around in the sixteenth century. Spanish missionaries tried to save the Calusa from themselves, offering salvation through slavery and Jesus. Having survived happily for 5000 years fishing, boating, and partying on the local beaches, the Calusa had little interest. Sick of the mosquitoes and being killed by these natives for two centuries, the Spanish traded Florida to the British in exchange for Havana, which ironically, they had just lost to the British during the French and Indian War. The British, sick of shoveling snow and worsening colonist attitudes up in Boston and New York, needed a place to retire and play golf. The Calusa were not much interested in the British either, but the British had guns and preferred the more agrarian Seminoles, so they gathered up the Calusa not already killed by the Spanish or COVID-1, and shipped them to Havana.
Colonists were so sick of the British, they started a war to kick them out of America. While the British were distracted, and perhaps owing to nostalgia, or to flee the Calusa that the Brits sent to Havana, the Spaniards invaded Southwest Florida, winning back the entire territory from Britain. Like a Risk player with only one army per territory, the Spaniards were overstretched. They also apparently forgot about hurricanes, alligators, mosquitoes, and the heat, so they sold the entire Florida territory to the new United States for five million bucks and a chunk of Texas. Within 6 months, they lost Texas to the Mexicans, but kept the money. Florida just didn’t work out so well for the Spanish.
Florida thus became a US Territory in 1821. New settlers and the first wave of American retirees began to descend upon this new territory. Native Floridians, mainly the Seminoles at this point, worked hard make the new arrivals feel unwelcome. The army built an outpost along the Caloosahatchee to protect these early settlers, creatively named Fort Myers after the son-in-law of the commander of a bigger fort in Tampa. Hopefully, there will never be a town named Fort Kuschner.
Florida achieved statehood in 1845, and a decade later, after herding the remaining natives to Oklahoma, Fort Myers was abandoned. It was reoccupied by the Union army briefly during the civil war, in an effort to disrupt the supply of beef heading North to the Confederate Army. It was the Union Army’s southernmost outpost. After the war, ten families living nearby disassembled the fort, and used its wood to build a new town, first platted in 1876. Then, in 1885, a 38 year-old inventor from New Jersey, escaping the winter doldrums, came upon the town when steaming up the Caloosahatchee, chasing tarpon. He bought a small house and fourteen acres along the river, where he would spend the next 50 winters. His name was Thomas Edison.
Thomas Edison’s winter home Along the Caloosahatchee. Beats Mir-a-Lago any day.
Edison, who grew up in Port Huron, became friends with another Michigan guy named Henry Ford. Once Henry’s new factories started spitting out Model T’s, he built a vacation home next to Edison’s. They hosted the rich, the famous, the titans of the burgeoning industrial age. They could not have imagined then how much their inventions would change life on earth – or that their side effects would change the earth itself. These were the first Snowbirds, and unwittingly, the captains of climate change.
Like Edison, we arrived by boat and took an immediate liking to Fort Myers. The Municipal Yacht Basin was built as a public works project during the Great Depression, and is a shining example of a well run City marina. Though the facilities are a bit worn, the staff is competent and friendly. The ship’s store is stocked better than some West Marine’s, and priced better. Best of all, the marina is a short two blocks from a vibrant and charming downtown. The spot Edison picked for his winter home 135 years ago is just down the street.
We enjoyed the downtown immensely the first ten days of our stay. That first night, after our long cruising day, we had dinner at the Downtown Social House, and met Jim and Mary there, our friends on Pegasus. It was early March and CoronaVirus was still a Wuhon phenomenon. On the 8th, we met Dawn’s childhood friend, Bridgett Darnell, and went to see the local pro hockey team, the EverBlades (yes, what a great name). It was great fun, and though the team was playoff bound, it would be the last game they played before shutting down the season.
Young heroes, driftwood, seashells, and the Sanibel lighthouse
The following Monday, we went to the Edison-Ford Museum with Jim and Mary. The place was definitely worth the visit – in fact I want to go back. The following day, we drove to the beach on Sanibel Island, widely known for its fantastic shelling. Because parking at the beach is a gaudy $5.00/hr, we didn’t stay long. We then drove up island and stopped by the historical museum, a well-executed depiction of life on Sanibel before the bridge was built and word got out.
By that week, Coronavirus was killing a lot of Italians and Spain was thinking about another shot at Florida. Major League baseball cancelled spring training the next day, the week before our planned visit to Lakeland with Dawn’s brother Gary and their folks. We had a nice AirB&B reserved and great seats to see the Tiger’s play the Blue Jays, Yankees and Marlins.
Coronavirus was getting scarier, and social distancing had begun – out of fear not mandate. You may recall, Spring breakers were still infecting each other in Fort Lauderdale. We continued to enjoy downtown, testing our budget over oysters and mojitos at Izzy’s, burgers and beer at Ford’s Garage, crab and margarita’s at Pinchers, and Pizza at Capone’s. We were able to cancel our rental house in Lakeland, and Dawn’s parent’s cancelled their trip to Florida. Both the Tigers and our AirBnB host refunded us fully.
Happy siblings, good food, great beer, and mediocre music on the last open night in Fort Myers
Gary, still in need of a vacation, flew down to Tampa anyway, staying the week with us aboard Cirila. That first night, we ate dinner on the balcony at Patio 33, listening to live music played in the courtyard below. Business had already started to slow, so the bouncers let us on the rooftop lounge the Firestone Grill and Martini Lounge, despite our boaters attire – tee shirts, shorts and flip flops. The next evening, Bridgette joined us for BBQ at The Lodge, and afterwards, we walked the thinning streets, sipping road cocktails with folks trying to get in one last St. Patty’s week drunk. It was March 22 – Fort Myers closed up shop next day.
Cirila, the prettiest boat on H Dock at the Yacht Basin
We made the best of things the rest of our week with Gary, – eating well on board, listening to music and drinking beer all day. Reading the news was hard – the virus was spreading fast in the US, and we were not yet desensitized or hardened by it. Our friends John and Ruta Kalnins were in Florida and had planned to visit, but called a wise audible and drove home to Michigan instead. Gary also made travel adjustments, rebooking his flights on a nonstop from Tampa to Detroit in order to avoid potential exposure during an Atlanta lay-over.
The pilothouse converts to my painting studio in about 10 minutes. No lack of natural light!
Our plans to spend April in Marathon, down in the Keys, were dashed when the whole archipelago shut down for non-residents. Then, marina’s up and down the East and Gulf coast began to shut down to transient boaters. Tucked in our secure slip in a nice place, we extended our stay in Fort Myers. We’ve been hunkered down ever since. The few restaurants downtown that did offer take-out have since closed, so our galley has been a busy place. Because there is no urgency to anything but safe isolation, I’ve been more motivated to paint, read, and write than to work on boat projects. Dawn sewed masks for us, made more for our boating friends, and is working to replace that cushion that blew off the boat in New Orleans. Screen time on our devices is way up; the Apple Store seems to be the only economic beneficiary of our quarantine. The liquor store hasn’t done bad either! We count our blessings to be here, together, in our self-contained little world, unstressed by lost jobs or overwhelming bills. We pray for those not so lucky.
Florida has it’s Emerald Coast, Treasure Coast, and Space Coast. Tampa’s deranged author, Tim Dorsey, calls Florida’s southwest between Sarasota and Marco Island, the Retirement Coast. We left Twin Dolphin Marina in Bradenton on a sunny morning in early March, bound for this mecca of sand, water, and aging baby boomers.
The Manatee River flows into lower Tampa Bay after passing between the DeSoto National Memorial and Emerson Point Preserve. Hernando de Soto landed here in 1539, likely by accident since shoals line a very narrow channel flowing out around the point. Just before Tampa Bay discharges into the Gulf of Mexico, the Southbound ICW re-forms in a channel tucked behind Anna Maria Island. Southbound through Anna Maria Sound, under a few drawbridges, then into Sarasota Bay, the waters get clearer with each passing mile. We were bound for Venice FL, the first stop on our planned three day voyage to Fort Myers.
Sarasota is a long way from Galveston!
It felt good to be on the water again! We blocked the cool easterlies by winging the port pilothouse door, opening the leeward door wide to take in the beautiful water and watch our frequent dolphin escorts. Not until crossing Sarasota Bay and passing the city itself do the shorelines draw close enough to gawk at the homes lining the banks. Then, rounding Sarasota pass and entering Roberts Bay, the white sand bottom and crystal clear water made our jaws drop. The cruising grounds behind Siesta Key are the most beautiful we have seen. The beauty continued for two hours, through connecting bays and channels, all the way into Venice.
A pretty Krogen Express adjacent to the Dockside Grill in Venice, FL
Venice was a perfect stop for a captain still recovering from the Bradenton Blues. The marina was quiet, small, and friendly. We enjoyed beer and fish & chips from the bar at the stellar Dockside Grill, directly adjacent to the marina. Afterwards, we sipped drinks on the flybridge, enjoying the spectacle of retirees also cocktailing, watching the sunset from the decks of mobile homes lining the waterfront. A gay live-aboard couple named Bob(s) almost convinced us to stay an extra day, encouraging us to see the town, but we pushed off early the next morning, undoubtedly saving significant further expense at the Dockside.
Two quick bridge openings started our day, followed by a long stretch of canal lined by bike trails teeming with retirees. Walking, jogging, biking and blading, they were out en- masse. Further south, the bay widens but is only a couple feet deep outside the marked channel. Mainland runoff from inland waterways named after alligators cloud the water and silt the bottom – lost is the aquamarine blue that mesmerized us the day before. Between the inlets that occasionally break through the barrier islands, the incoming tides from the Gulf alternately pushed and pulled Cirila, like a marble on a teeter-totter.
A wee cottage for the 1%
We passed under the Boca Grand Causeway, connecting Gasparilla Island and the town of Placida on the mainland, and entered Gasparilla Sound. With the wealth of Boca Grande on our right, and uninhabited wetlands on our left, the waters changed color again and we entered Charlotte Harbor. Because Charlotte Harbor is big, beautiful, and provides consistent depths of ten feet or more sailboats become more abundant. It indeed feels like big water, offering no clue that just inshore, millions of retirees are driving custom golf carts around 500 acre trailer parks, drinking margaritas and smoking cigars.
We crossed the mouth of Charlotte Harbor early in the afternoon, with original plans to spend the night at anchor in Pelican Bay, adjacent to Cayo Costa State Park. It was highly recommended by our friends on Pegasus and the Bob(s) in Venice. But because we made good time and winds were expected to increase in the coming days, we decided to press on all the way to Fort Myers, and not risk fouling up the cruise by running aground in the shallow approach to the bay. Other potential anchorages off Useppa Island and Cabbage Key were tempting but not dog friendly, so we pressed on. Interestingly, Useppa is a now a privately owned retreat, the pristine white cottages lining its banks hiding the fact that it is a hurricane magnet and in 1960, was once the CIA’s training ground for the Bay of Pigs invasion. The Bar and Grill on Cabbage Key, just opposite the channel from Useppa, is said to have inspired Jimmy Buffett’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise”. This area is definitely ripe for further exploration on another visit.
Just beyond lies Pine Island Sound, separating the sparsely populated Pine Island near the mainland, from the barrier islands Captiva and Sanibel. At seven knots, it seemed to take forever to transit this Sound, bringing back memories of those last few hours in the car on a childhood beach vacation. Finally, our heading veered east and passed the Ding Darling National Wildlife refuge on Sanibel. Here, the navigation channels became increasingly narrow and complex in the boaters paradise (or hell) approaching Cape Coral and Fort Myers. Near the mouth of the Caloosahatchee River, boaters compete for lack of etiquette awards in a dredged channel fifty feet wide, aptly named the “Miserable Mile”. Anything from twenty foot pontoon boats to seventy foot sport fishers run this stretch three and four abreast, at speed. We’re sure much beer has been spilled here.
Taking in another sunset from the sky hammock in Fort Myers
We bounced on through the mayhem of wakes and entered the Caloosahatchee, and as rivers do, the water darkened. After traveling another hour upstream, past the Thomas Edison and Henry Ford winter estates, we finally entered the City of Fort Myers Yacht basin. We tied up in slip H1, cracked open our traditional arrival beer, and took stock of what we expected to be our home port for the month of March.
I knew something was different when we had popcorn three nights in a row. I’m not complaining because I love popcorn. I’m a popcorn whisperer. I know it’s coming before it makes the boat smell better than bacon.
Hi, its me again!
The TV is key. If I had thumbs, one rule of them would be if there’s no TV, there’s no popcorn. If my people turn on the TV, then touch the black box that makes sound come from everywhere, I get excited. Then, if dad goes to the kitchen and bangs the pans, I know it’s popcorn night!
When popcorn starts falling, we watch a long show called a movie. People use that nickname for pictures that move. Why don’t they call a moving car a movie? Movies with animals are best, especially dogs. Some dogs are movie stars and make money, so I bark at them. Pigs are my favorite though. I never smelled a pig, but since they’re made out of bacon, they must smell delicious. Probably even better than popcorn.
We usually watch movies when it’s cold outside, or raining, or when the wind howls. When it’s nice, we sit outside and don’t watch TV. I like it because people and dogs walk by. We listen to songs. Maybe people should call those soundies. Sometimes dad calls them tunes, but I think “tones” is more logical. People language is weird. I can understand a lot of it but can’t speak it very well. Luckily, I can write. I get excited and bark a whole lot during movies, except when there are wolves or bears. They scare me, so I stay quiet hoping they don’t see me.
This is our boat almost under the noisy bridge.
I digress, which is easy because I get distracted. We ate popcorn three days in a row when we stayed for a long time at the place under the noisy bridge. A weird cat lived next door. There were some big dogs that lived nearby, but since we walked at different times, I didn’t get to know their smells. I didn’t really make many friends there, which is unusual for me.
Even though I’m getting old and my back hurts, I still like to play. When I tease dad with one of my toys, it usually makes him smile and laugh. That wasn’t working then, under the noisy bridge. I’m pretty sure it was because the squeaker in my toy stopped working.
One day, we got up really early. It was so dark, I wasn’t even hungry yet. Mom tricked me by putting special treats inside little cheese balls, which I can’t resist. Then she stuffed me in the bag that means we’re going somewhere. Its a blur from there, but I think we got on one of those loud machines stuffed with too many people. I hate those machines. There’s no leg room, even for me. I can’t see out the window, they make ears hurt, and all the people fart a lot – the silent kind. Its awful when you have a nose like mine. When we finally got outside again, I needed to pee really bad, but it was cold and the ground was white. Something was definitely weird.
Somehow, Uncle Gary showed up with his Jeep, and after awhile, we were at grandma and grandpa’s house. I like it there except when the ground is white, because my feet get cold and I can’t smell anything to pee on. It frustrates me. I worry about getting a bladder infection and having to poop behind the couch. I played with the toy person called Nora, and made sure that she will love pugs forever. After a few days, dad showed up with the giant car. I haven’t seen it for so long that I forgot about it. It made me happy, but it was all very confusing. We drove the car one day and stopped at Aunt Joanne’s house, where Lou lives. It might be my imagination, but I remembered him being much smaller. I went to grandma’s room and made her smile a lot, because I could tell she needed it. Then we drove for days and days. I ate cold french fries and pee’d in places that all smelled like gasoline.
When it started to get warm and sunny again, we got out of the car and were back at our boat. I have stopped trying to figure out how that happens. The weird cat still lived next door and there was a new dog that walked by a few times each day. The noisy bridge was still noisy. Dad seemed sad, which made mom sad, which made me sad. Mom says that when I get sad, my tail stops looking like a cinnamon roll, whatever that is. We lived almost another moon cycle like this. That’s like 7 months for me! I don’t like to use bad words, but it sucked.
I’m the second mate and this is me helping drive the boat
Then one day, dad started to do stuff on the boat. He started climbing under the floor, tapping on the little TVs in the wheelhouse upstairs. Mom started to clean and put things away. Dad started cooking more and we ate some meat. He always saves me some and cuts it up small. Mom makes him because she’s afraid I’ll choke. They don’t realize I could swallow a whole ribeye. Then one day, the loud machine under the floor started and dad carried me upstairs to the sofa. We were going somewhere new.
Even though I get nervous when the boat moves, it was nice to leave the noisy bridge. We stopped at a place called Venice. It was quiet and the water was very clear. I saw a giant fish. It almost made me feel like swimming. Not really. I liked it there, except people were building things with stinky machines and there weren’t very good places to walk and pee. I could tell there were’t many dogs so was happy when we left the next morning. Dad drove the boat for a really long time. I started to worry about food and that we were going to drive the boat at night. Like that one night that lasted forever. But then we came to a place with lots of boats. It’s called Fort Myers and the sun shines a lot here. I like to nap in sunny spots on the floor. Please don’t tell any cats.
At our new place, the sun goes down under a bridge, which is much quieter too.
I got a new play toy with two really good squeakers in it, so Mom and Dad seem much happier now. I can see two bridges, but they’re far away and not noisy at all. Lots of people walk by our boat. They stop to talk so I bark my way into the conversation. They all seem to have dogs – some even have two. Whats really cool is that I’m bigger than most of them. Pretty sure anyway. I also haven’t seen any weird cats. Yeah, I like this place much better.
We had high expectations of our stay in Bradenton. We planned to stay a full month, the first planned long term stay of our trip. Marina economics were one of the drivers. Another was a simple desire to sit still for a bit, to recharge. It didn’t work out that way.
I spent much of our time in Bradenton in a funk. As Dawn extracted from me later, I was ready “to be done” with the Loop. I even felt done with the water. I was very depressed.
Cirila on A dock, where traffic noise only subsided late at night
It wasn’t until late in our Bradenton stay (which turned into two months) that I was able to stack the factors impacting us in January and February, to realize I was depressed, and to understand why.
It started with seeing our new found cruising friends leave Bradenton after only brief stays. Pegasus moved to Long Boat Key, spending a month there. Golden Daze left for Stuart, where they crossed their wake, becoming Gold Loopers. We missed About Time altogether, as we had to be in Michigan during their brief stay.
The reason for our Michigan trip was that Dawn’s uncle Tom was yielding in his fight with cancer. We spent days waiting further news on Tom, mulling our options for traveling North, and in the end, decided to stop waiting and just get up there. Dawn and Lola flew on a one-way ticket to Detroit. A couple days later, I flew to Houston, picked up the car we left there, and drove north, rendezvousing at Dawn’s folks place. About 14 hours into the first day of my drive, near Cairo IL, the flooding and gushing Mississippi river spooked me. Five miles after crossing it, I got a $200 speeding ticket.
The only place we could find in town that broadcast the Super Bowl with volume. Unfortunately, their food caterer never showed up.
As usual, we stayed with Dawn’s parents, Jerry and Lois, who you may remember from the last post. Michigan winter is reason enough to be depressed, especially if you’re visiting from Florida in January. Tom lost his battle during our stay, and while nice to see extended family, those circumstances are never up-lifting. We stayed a few more days before driving to Cleveland for a visit with my mom and my sister’s family, the Montesano’s. In nearly two weeks, we never saw the sun.
These visits foment guilt in me. As if it could be a miracle antidote, I often yearn to live closer. I look at houses on-line and have even engaged a real estate agent to visit a few. Dawn is no fan of this. While discussing this on our drive back to Florida, she surmised that I “was done”. I was shocked, but secretly thought she might be right.
In the week following, back on the boat in Bradenton, this cloud hung over us. Our slip, almost under the highway 41 bridge, was loud; the view from our cockpit, lousy. Our neighbors to one side were battling dementia, terribly sad to see and dangerous if you live on a sailboat. While we made new friends, they were few, as my depressed state zapped my social tendencies. We were lonely there, for to a degree, we didn’t have each other either. I didn’t feel like cooking. Then my mom fell again.
Outfitters worked on this custom boat for weeks, preparing it for the Miami boat show. Yes, that 2,250 horsepower – on a center console fishing boat.
Amazingly, I had not yet realized my funk was depression induced. With Dawn’s encouragement, I countered my sense of guilt and paralysis with another visit to Ohio. Dawn stayed back with Lola, giving me space to figure myself out or perhaps she just needed to be away from my miserable self.
She called in tears one morning, after spending the night in her pajamas, with Lola, taking refuge in the boaters lounge. The electronic gate to our pier malfunctioned and she was locked out. That very night, I called her late and told her to seek shelter immediately in the marina laundry – the area was under a tornado warning and I was watching one’s signature on radar heading right for her. It didn’t touch down in Bradenton, but another did just a few miles north, knocking construction cranes onto the highway.
Our unexpected travels, along with a coming trip to visit friends in Port Saint Lucie caused us to extend our stay in Bradenton an additional month. It was a difficult time for us; it was a difficult time for me. Was I done? Why did I have no desire to be out on the water? I didn’t feel like taking the camera out, and didn’t feel like writing. Subsequent soul searching led me to conclude this was merely depression trying to ensure my misery.
Thankfully, Cirila’s First Mate had a firm hand on the wheel while its Captain was battling his funk. Through our many discussions, one option began to make more sense than any other. We had to leave Bradenton and get back on the water.
Over our final two weeks in Bradenton and having committed to this plan, I started to feel better. A visit with good friends across the state helped heal us. A visit to the Salvator Dali museum was awing and inspirational. I successfully replaced one of our air conditioning units with little fanfare and no cursing. We made new friends and had an impromptu party on Cirila. We slipped lines two days later, bound for Fort Myers.
A sculpture at the Salvador Dali museum in St. Pete that should be titled ‘Mike Escaping the Blues”
We cleared our slip at Clearwater Beach early the day after New Years, added 100 gallons of diesel to our starboard tank, and headed South. We were bound for Bradenton, on the Manatee river just south of Tampa Bay.
A heron people watches as sunset reflects in the surf of Indian Rocks Beach
It was a nostalgic journey. Two years prior, we rented a home on Indian Rocks Beach for a Krueger family vacation. During that vacation, we visited several area marinas – advanced research on future possible live-aboard homes. Our marina road trip included the Harbourage in St. Pete., Regatta Point in Palmetto, Twin Dolphin in Bradenton, and The Moorings on Long Boat Key. The latter two were our favorites. but we had no clue that we would return on Cirila less than two years later.
Since kids were the only ones brave enough to swim in the chilly gulf waters, we rented a 20′ runabout one day to enjoy the intracoastal waters between Indian Rocks and Treasure Island to the south. What a fun day we had! Gary, Dawn and I drank a case of beer while exploring the complex waterways of Boca Ciega Bay. This body of water separates the beachfront communities, like Indian Rocks, Redington and Madiera, from the St. Petersburg metro area to the east. Homes lining these waters range from quaint to corpulent, all making the most of each foot of their precious waterfront. Because we were in a small rental boat, depth and bridge clearance weren’t concerning. We did however, need to control our wake, as this stretch of water consists of alternating “go fast” and “no wake” zones. I successfully splashed the passengers and crew in a few “go fast” zones, to the delight of grandpa Jerry manning the bow.
Mike, Dawn, Lois, Jody, Gary, and Jerry on our rented deck boat, exploring Boca Ciega Bay
Fast forward two years, now cruising Cirila, depth and bridge clearance became relevant. We still needed to control our wake, because a 42′ trawler going seven knots leaves about as much wake as a runabout going thirty. In those stretches where the waterway narrowed, kayakers paddled about, or homeowners had clout, we backed Cirila down a couple knots and had longer to enjoy the passing scenery.
On this leg of our journey, we passed eight bridges, far more than any previous day. Six were drawbridges, with 20-25′ of clearance in their closed position. Most of us have experienced the frustration of approaching a drawbridge, in the car and in a hurry, just as the bells start clanging and gates come down. While frustrating in the car, it’s a happy sound and sight from the water. For sailboats and larger cruising boats, drawbridges block progress and are an important part of the planning process. Cirila’s airdraft is twenty five feet to the top of her lightening rod, and a couple more to the top of her tallest antennae. She needs these bridges open.
A bascule type drawbridge seen through the bow pulpit rail. At this distance of about 1/4 mile, dialogue with the bridge tender begins.
So how do you open a drawbridge? Resources like the Waterway Guide and Active Captain indicate whether a bridge will open on a fixed schedule and/or “on signal”. Bridges on roads less travelled often open on signal, which means the boater can hail the bridge tender via VHF radio, usually channel 9, and request an opening.
“Corey Causeway bridge, Corey Causeway bridge, this is southbound motor vessel Cirila, passing marker Green 42, requesting an opening, over”
Both the boat captain and bridge tender try to time the approach and bridge opening to minimize wait time for travelers, whether they be by car or boat. On busier roads, and during rush hours, many drawbridges only open every half hour. For these, a good captain will synchronize his/her travel speed with an arrival time just before the next bridge’s scheduled opening. I call it marine choreography.
Considering this was our most complex bridge day, we did well, with less than an hour wasted waiting for these six draw bridges. Much of that was at The Corey Causeway bridge. Its tender would not open on signal until we rounded a curve, idled right in front of the bridge, viewed the clearance placard, and confirmed to the tender that we needed an opening. This was very unusual, and almost comical. A sign posted at Florida bridges cautions that a $2500 fine could be levied on the captain requesting an unneeded opening. This bridge tender must have missed that class, and thought he would need to pay if he opened unnecessarily.
In our experience that day and since, the bridge tenders are very courteous and accommodating. The best ones tend to be women. The choreography with the bridge tenders spices up the journey. It is socialism at its finest, at least if your lucky enough have a car or a big boat. If not so lucky, you might think of it as giving food stamps to the more affluent.
Once we cleared the Pinellas Bayway bridge, we cruised east towards St. Pete, then ran south, parallel to the Sunshine Skyway (I-275), before emerging in Tampa Bay. Since it’s a big body of water, Tampa Bay can get rough. On this day, 15-20 knot winds kicked up a moderate chop. Now, better seasoned by our Crossing experience, even Lola took it in stride.
On the south side of the Tampa Bay, we rounded Snead Island and turned upstream into the Manatee River. After a few miles on this beautiful stretch of water, we entered the Twin Dolphin Marina in downtown Bradenton, backed into Slip A13, secured Cirila, and shut down the engine. Twin Dolphin was a favorite when we visited on our Indian Rocks vacation – little did we know it would be our home base for the next two months.
View off Ciriia’s bow, from our slip at Twin Dolphin Marina. I enjoyed the $6 Old Fashioneds’ on the Happy Hour menu at Pier22, seen in the background