Sunrise Ft Lauderdale

Now, at all of 4 knots, it takes about 90 minutes for us to travel the 6 miles to the mouth of the Port. So between 5:30 and 7am, the sun started to rise, the wind started to blow and Phil started to wake. Although he was still a bit groggy (something he hardly ever experiences being the morning person he is)… he wanted to take the helm and get us back under sail. As we raise the sails, we are passing about two miles off shore from the Ft Lauderdale beach. I’m sure we were the morning show for some tourists in those hotels, adding action to the sunrise they watched. We are about to hoist the final sail, we are sailing between the mouth of the port and the Sphinx. Just then Phil notices the Sphinx is powering up and heading into port. Way faster than we were planning to sail away. He tries to reach them on the VHF… but they aren’t monitoring Channel 16 (probably on another channel with Port Authority). So with this Trojan Sphinx steaming upon us, Phil is hauling in sails to turn aside and throwing the engine into full throttle. Although we missed it by a football field, it sure doesn’t seem like much distance out there on the water. Its wake was enough to postpone setting sails a bit longer.

By 8 am we were under sail, motor off, and ready for our last day of non-stop sailing. Once we get around South Miami and into the ICW we had plenty of safe anchorages for the night (Dinner Key, Elliott Key, etc.). And so with Phil at the helm, I went below to bring Cuka up for the day (she prefers to travel in the cockpit with us, seeing the action rather than be down in the quarter berth wondering what she is missing). And as I stepped through the companionway I was assaulted by diesel fumes. Immediately I looked at Cuka… (visions of the canary in the coal mines)… and she was fine. A bit groggy but ok. So as I brought her up into the cockpit, I told Phil about the fumes. He asked me to check the bilge. And when I lifted the floor hatch I saw about 3” of red bilge. Diesel leak!

Quickly we both look to the gas gauge. If we motored for a total of 10 hours so far and only used half of our 35 gallons of fuel… the leak can’t be too large. Neither of us recalls hearing the bilge run. But then, we can’t hear it from the cockpit over engine noise. And so we let the cabin ventilate while we breakfasted on the last of the “real” milk in our cereal and ate pop tarts for dessert. In order for Phil to deal with the fuel leak, I would have to be at the helm under sail. But I was just too tired at the time. So we agreed that Phil would sail for a couple hours while I slept.

About 10am I awoke to see nothing but skyscrapers on our starboard side – for as far as the eye could see. We were off the coast of Miami at this time. And the morning clouds were building on shore. As we all know, those clouds collect in the morning and form spot showers and thunderstorms all afternoon. Sailing into and down the ICW was not something we wanted to do (too close to maneuver well and too many currents from inlets, channels and boats that would toss us about). Phil had to know what the diesel leak was!

As I took the helm again, Phil went below looking for clues. Yes there sure seemed to be about 3 gallons of liquid in the bilge. Yes it was red. Yes it was slick like diesel. And so he started to look into the engine. It took about 45 minutes to find the leak… a small crack in a hose (just under the hose clamp). Unfortunately we didn’t have any of that size hose in our spare parts. So Phil started looking around the engine for other hoses that might be long enough to cut a foot off. And that is when he discovered an extra fuel filtering system. Almost every cruiser has eventually come across a batch of bad gas. Sometime fuels available at remote docks are not real clean (poor tanks, poor refining, poor transferring techniques, etc.), so our boat has an extra system that runs our tank through a filter and back into the main tank. Thus Phil was able to bypass that system and steal the hose for our repair job.

Noon South Beach

Now, all the time Phil is below, I’m at the helm trying to buy us time as the current gentle pushes us to “the end of the world” (well South Beach Miami as this case maybe). But the Gulf Stream is very close to us (just off our port side)… and the tankers and freighter ships are everywhere since the Port of Miami is just around the bend. And those clouds are now forming thunderheads just west of downtown Miami. We all know that when those thunderheads build, they “eat-up” all the fuel they can… and their fuel is my fuel - wind!

Phil was about 85% done with the repair, when the wind died. So now the sails are flapping in the breeze. And although the GPS says we’re “sailing” about 0.8 knots… we are actually just being sucked south into the Gulf Stream at 0.8 knots - down to the tip of South Beach, Miami… with no engine or wind to make a get away. If that engine doesn’t fire… we are Gulf Stream fodder for sure!

Phil is now rushing to finish the repairs and clean the bilge. We sure don’t want those three gallons to catch fire when we turn on the engine. I’m still at the helm, using what little momentum I have on the rudder to send us slightly westward and closer to shore should we need to use Spun Key to tow us ashore for repairs.

About noon, with the last three condos of South Beach just two miles due west, the dark clouds start rolling out from behind the condos ashore. Quickly they dip downward, as if freed from fighting their way around the buildings, they collapse, exhausted to recover upon the ocean. They drink of the ocean to recharge and build a great storm.

Ready or not gentleman, it is time to start our engine. And then we had déjà vu hell. Just like 8:30 am Wed: Power on. Blower on. Glow plugs warm. Turn the key. Crank, crank.. nothing. Increase the throttle to get that air out of the line. Crank, crank.. nothing. Again more throttle. Crank, crank, crank, crank..fire!

We motored further from shore and the Port of Miami, planning to enter Biscayne Bay via Cape Florida. As we entered the south west corner and prepared to turn west, we crossed the airflow of the clouds – sucking in from the ocean to port. We had wind! Alas we could make much better time under sail and motor. We hoisted sail. The sky grew darker. Rain immanent, I pull the cover over Cuka’s cage in the cockpit. Wet, winded bird catch near fatal colds.

And, just like a sport coach breathing down your neck to make you “dig deeper” and “work harder”… those clouds were upon us. Flash… boom!!! No counting this time… that first clap of thunder was right over head. Even Cuka was shocked into awe, her rain song not worthy of this storm.

Phil is midship, securing the main halyard to its winch on the mast. And I’m feeling a bit like some crazy Captain laughing at the storm. I’m not sure which Captain it was.. Kane, Ahab, Hook, or Cousteau… but Laugh I did. Perhaps I wasn’t laughing so much at the storm as I was laughing at the adventure. But which ever Captain I was, there is one thing for sure: the Patron Saint of Lightening is my namesake. Saint Barbara was on my side holding the lightening at bay.

So now we are at an impasse… Mother Nature and I. As the storm hits water is churns and builds and delays. I pull back and stay on the edge – the edge of the storm, the edge of the country, the edge of my sanity? We watch the storm, patiently. Like watching a hunting dog sniff out game in the field.. unsure which path is right for the hunt. Only this time I don’t want to be “in the hunt.” When this dog takes off, I’m heading the other direction!

After about ten minutes of this there are five of six other boats near us. The power boats circle us. The freighters beg off half about a mile away. We tread water by letting the current suck us south while we spill air to the west, and motor in reverse. Finally the clouds started to roll east out to sea. Within about 90 seconds a tunnel magically appeared through the clouds… straight into lead marker for the Port of Miami! Like a really long stop light turning green. Every power boat around us slammed their engines and sped for the tunnel. Gotta make waves while the visibility as good. The race was on! The power boats jumped forward and disappeared down the tunnel, just like rabbits. Leaving us, the tortoises, to slowly lumber onward, with a big freighter behind us awaiting clearance to enter.

Now we are still under sail with motor to aid steering. So Phil decides to take a couple tacks around the mouth of the channel so that we can get maximum angle and speed through the majority of the trip. Great theory, but maddening to actually live through. I’m used to powering straight down a channel at 20 knots in Spun Key. And here we are: a) in a port we’ve never been to, b) with paper charts 8 years out dated that indicate we have at most 18” of clearance into the ICW, c) the most basic of handheld GPS set-ups, d) a tanker starting to power-up on our course, and e) a depth finder we’ve never had to count on before. We turn on BOTH VHF radios (handheld in cockpit and base unit at the navigation station in the cabin).

We must have looked like some crazy seaman playing connect the dots.. only this time the dots were channel markers. We were zig zagging our way through the markers… tack to port. Tack to starboard. Tack to port again. Then back to starboard. And finally, 1/3 of the way through the markers… we were finally on the straight course.

But we’re still being passed by crazy power boats, once that had been trapped even further out than us. Spun Key is getting tossed around by their wake. Phil grabs the VHF. “Security, security. Sailing vessel Our Tern, entering Port of Miami. We are deep draft vessel with boat in tow.. Please reduce awake around us so as not to swamp our dingy.” But nobody seems to monitor VHF channel 16 anymore. With GPS and cell phones, the VHF is used like a bandage in the first aid kit. Something at hand only when you need to use to in your real emergency. No good Samaritans in that inlet. And so I had to wave and shout and play charades trying to get our point across. But with the advent of Xboxes and Playstations nobody seems to understand charades either! Again and again Spun Key was tossed and rocked. But never did she dive or roll over. It is a very good thing Phil built her as a sailboat, because a flat hull never would have rolled those waves as well as she did.