On Island Time: Kayaking the Caribbean

by Scott B. Williams

  They set up folding chairs and a table complete with tablecloth, and invited me for dinner. We talked about my trip and Pete’s experiences in the south Pacific over a bottle of wine. As we talked into the night, a cruising sailboat arrived and dropped anchor nearby. When the sun came up the next morning, the sailboat was heeled-over at a 45-degree angle, left hard aground by the ebbing tide. The couple on board invited us over for coffee, despite the awkward position of their boat, and afterwards we all tried to help them pull and shove the vessel into deep water. It was no use. They weren’t going anywhere until the next high tide.

  I left for Pavilion Key, my next campsite, 10 ½ miles to the south. Pete and Marty would be joining me there later. After I had set up my camp that evening, I saw them sailing towards me across a wide bay, the canoe gliding along on a beam reach. Pete’s design worked, and his method of travel didn’t look as tiring as kayaking, but his boat did look over-complicated and cumbersome, and such a craft would not have been easy to conceal when camping in the populated areas I had passed through.

  The campsite on Pavilion Key was located on a spit of sand that extended far out from the mangroves and was exposed to the wind. Mosquitoes were not much of a problem. When Pete and Marty had set up their tent nearby, we pooled our resources to have a big dinner and sat up late again talking. Pete’s tales of Micronesia fired me up for the journey ahead, making me anxious to reach the real tropics. I parted with them early the next morning, as they weren’t going any farther south and I was bound for Lostman’s River, my next assigned campsite 16 miles to the south. On the way I stopped at another of the endless mangrove islands for lunch, attracted by the waving fronds of a lone coconut palm that thrust its crown far above the other vegetation. I had to use my machete to cut my way through the thicket to the base of the palm. A tantalizing clump of fat green coconuts hung just beneath the fronds. This was both water and food, free for the taking; all I had to do was climb nearly 30 feet of smooth trunk to get it.

  Barefoot, I managed to walk up the slightly leaning palm native-style, pulling with my hands to keep pressure on my feet and provide enough friction to hang on. I was exhausted when I reached the top, but managed to pull 4 of the nuts off their stems. By this time, the mangrove mosquitoes were swarming over me and I quickly slid down the rough trunk, painfully scraping my bare arms and chest. I was bleeding from the cuts and slapping madly at my insect tormentors as I gathered up the fallen nuts and raced out of the thicket for the open beach. The only way I could elude the mosquitoes was to dive into the Gulf and stay submerged for as long as I could hold my breath. The coconuts had been free, but I paid for them in blood. I opened one with the machete and drank the delicious water. The water found in green coconuts is completely different than that of the ripe nuts sold in North American supermarkets. “Drinking nuts” as they are referred to the in the tropics, are completely full, so that there is no sound when the nut is shaken. The water inside is pure and cool, even on a hot day, with only a hint of sweetness and coconut flavor. I would rely on green coconuts often to supplement my precious water supply on the arid islands along my route.

  Camping on Pavillon Key, Everglades

  The campsite at Lostman’s River was on an island in the mouth of the river, surrounded by mangroves and cut off from Gulf breezes. The mosquitoes were upon me as soon as the bow of my kayak touched the sand. I put on my long-sleeved shirt and fatigues despite stifling heat and quickly cooked, opened another of the coconuts for a beverage, and retreated to the tent. During the night the incessant buzzing around my tent was frequently punctuated by terrific splashes in the nearby water. Whether these sounds were made by some kind of huge fish, alligators, or some other swamp inhabitant, I could not tell. Raccoons swarmed over the campsite all night, picking over the coconut scraps I’d scattered around and sniffing and scratching at the kayak.

  I woke to find my tent almost completely covered with mosquitoes. The only way to leave was to put on the heavy clothes, spray myself from head to toe with DEET, and dash outside. Even in desperation it took a half hour to get everything stowed and make the kayak ready for sea. Getting hundreds of mosquito bites was unavoidable in a situation like this. In addition to the mosquitoes, tiny no-see-ums that seemed immune to all repellants flew into my eyes, ears, nose, and hair, their bites driving me mad in my frenzy to get out on the water. The insects here were as bad or worse as I remembered from the Everglades trip of two years before. I began to wonder if I would encounter these conditions throughout the tropics, as I made my way farther south into the West Indies. If the insects were as bad as here, I would have to question whether the trip was worth doing after all.

  From Lostman’s River I made my way south to a campsite at Graveyard Creek, and from there another day of paddling brought me to the beaches of Cape Sable. The beaches of this cape stretch in two great curving crescents for 20 miles, making it the longest stretch of undeveloped beach in the state of Florida. I stopped at the point called Northwest Cape and got out to walk. Beyond the 20 to 30-yard wide strip of sand, the dry land of the cape was covered in impenetrable thickets of scrub brush and cactus. Dozens of coconut palms grew well back from the beach in the tangle, but getting to them through the interwoven branches of thorn bushes defied my best efforts, and my crashing around drew out the mosquitoes. I returned to the kayak empty-handed, bleeding, and slapping mosquitoes. Despite the difficulty of moving through it though, the subtropical forest of Cape Sable was beautiful and untrammeled. The narrow beach that separated this green wilderness from the clear Gulf waters was as pristine as any beach I’d ever walked upon. There was a loneliness there and a great silence the likes of which I had only experienced in the fastness of mountain forests such as those of the Appalachians and the Rockies.

  I paddled on for miles along this desolate beach to the designated campsite at Middle Cape, another point that juts out to seaward midway between the north and south ends of the cape. The thorn forest there also prevented me from exploring inland, but I was able to walk for miles on the beach. Not a soul was in sight, and a decent breeze kept me bug free, making this the most pleasant camp I’d had in the park. This breeze increased during the night, however, and the next day a moderate surf was rolling into the beach. I paddled on south to the end of Cape Sable, and pitched my tent at the East Cape campsite that was the last site I had a permit for. My solitude ended when two powerboats arrived and the three guys in them set up their camp nearby, complete with loud music from a boombox. I missed the silence, but I looked forward to reaching the ranger station at Flamingo, where I would check out of the park and prepare to cross Florida Bay to the Keys. I had heard there was a campground at Flamingo, and I looked forward to a day or two of relaxing hot showers, cold drinks, and rest. More than anything else, I wanted to get away from the mosquitoes. I had been bitten so many times in the last week that I felt sick. I turned in early at the East Cape campsite, ignoring the blaring music coming from the camp down the beach.

  I paddled the 10 miles to Flamingo the next morning. There was a small marina enclosed by a concrete seawall, but no place to beach a kayak. Racks of aluminum rental canoes stood behind a row of floating docks on one side of the basin, and I tied up there and went into the rental office to inquire about camping. The woman behind the desk said the campground was two miles down the road. There was no access by boat. There was no way I was going to pay for the privilege of lugging my gear two miles overland. She informed me that I could not even leave my kayak where it was long enough to check in to the ranger station and buy groceries at the marina store. Instead, I would have to pay a $5 slip fee and move it to the designated dock. My visions of hot showers faded as I confronted the reality that such places were not set up to accommodate people traveling by such lowly means as kayaks. I paddled to the assigned slip and tied off to the guano-splattered dock.

  Since it was Sunday, the ranger station was closed, so there was really no need to check out. I had not seen a ranger during the
entire trip through the park anyway. Here in Flamingo, even in the daytime, the mosquitoes swarmed just as fiercely as in the mangrove jungles I’d been through. I watched with amusement as a handful of tourists drove up and stepped out of their cars only to instantly dive back in and slam the doors. Those who braved the onslaught were spraying themselves with the Deep Woods Off that the swindlers in the gift shop were selling for double the retail price. I studied the map displayed outside the ranger station as I tried to decide what to do next. I would have to move on, but there were no nearby alternatives for camping. Landless mangrove swamp extended for miles in all directions from Flamingo, and the distance across Florida Bay to the Keys was more than 30 miles.

  I bought over-priced canned goods and snacks in the marina store and made some phone calls. I decided to leave for the Keys immediately. It was 3:00 p.m., and a 30-mile crossing would take at least 10 hours, but it seemed the best alternative. There were numerous mangrove islands dotting the bay along my intended route. Most would have no dry land, and all but two were off-limits to boats by park regulations. But at least if I got too tired to go on, I thought I might find a place to tie up in the mangroves and get some rest slumped down in the cockpit.

  Cape Sable, Everglades National Park

  The memory of Flamingo faded quickly as I paddled out into Florida Bay, navigating on a compass course through the maze of islets that stretched to the horizon as far as I could see. The water was aquarium-clear, and I soon forgot my earlier miseries as I watched with fascination the marine life visible beneath my hull. I saw five sharks within the first hour of paddling, all of them about 6 feet long. By sunset, I still had not seen a patch of dry land among the mangrove islands that were nothing but clumps of these weird trees growing out of the shallow water on stilts. The water near these tree islands was about two feet deep, and when I stepped out of the kayak to stretch my legs and dig a snack out of the storage compartment, I sank another foot into the mud bottom. My options were to keep paddling or sleep in the boat, so I continued south, knowing the moon would be full that night.

  Two hours later, I could see a distant glow from the south and knew it had to be from the towns along the upper Keys, still 20 miles away. I decided to make for that light, even if it took all night to reach land. The muddy bottom of Florida Bay would be mostly just two or three feet below my hull, so I could climb out of the kayak occasionally to take a break. There would be no hot supper tonight, so I stuffed myself with cheese, crackers, and other ready to eat snacks to maintain the energy to paddle.

  When at last I could see individual lights on the horizon ahead after another two hours, I thought I was close, but as I paddled they seemed to be moving away at the same speed I was approaching. I ran aground on mud flats three to four inches deep, and often had to get out and drag my kayak. With each step I sank up to my knees in oozing mud, so even pulling a short distance over a narrow bar was exhausting work. Some of them were more than a hundred yards across.

  By midnight I broke free of the flats found myself in an area of deep water at last. But now I was fighting a strong headwind out of the south and bracing to keep the boat upright in breaking waves. I was focusing on a long row of lights that appeared to be less than two miles away on the horizon. It seemed strange that such large swells could be coming towards me out of the south when I should be in the lee of the land where those lights were. As I drew nearer, the swells did not diminish, and I realized that I was looking at bridge lights on a long expanse of the Overseas Highway and that there was no land ahead of me, only the empty Atlantic Ocean. I made right turn to parallel the bridge, knowing that I would soon reach the next key down the chain, though I had no way of knowing which one that would be. I thought I was somewhere in the vicinity of Key Largo, since I maintained a course slightly east of south throughout the crossing.

  Ahead to the west now were more lights, and the variety and number of them convinced me that I was looking at land. I continued west until I was adjacent to the island, then turned to paddle toward shore. As I drew within a half mile I could clearly see buildings illuminated by streetlights and looked forward to stepping ashore in a few minutes.

  Over an hour later though, I was still struggling to find a way across a line of mud bars that cut me off from the island only a quarter mile from shore. This mud was so soft that it was impossible to walk across. I sank to my thighs in it each time I got out of the boat. The only way to cross the bars was to lie across the stern deck of the kayak so I wouldn’t sink, and push and swim with my feet to propel it forward. Stingrays scattered in every direction as I plowed across the flats, cursing the low tide that stranded me when I was so close to land and the rest I needed. By 3:30 a.m. I managed to get the loaded kayak across the mud and climbed back in to paddle across a stretch of deep water that separated me from shore. I pointed the bow towards the coconut palms of a motel beach, and when I landed I found a sign proclaiming that this was the Gold Key Motel, Islamorada, Florida.

  I checked my map and saw that Islamorada was about a hundred miles from Key West. I had come almost 300 miles since leaving Tampa 19 days ago, which was faster than I’d expected, considering all the stops and my leisurely pace. There was time for side trip out of my way to Key West, and I thought it would be good to paddle an extra 200 miles of easy island-hopping to prepare myself for the more widely-spaced islands of the Caribbean.

  The tiny strip of beach behind the Gold Key Motel was deserted at this hour. There was a table and chairs, swimming pool, and an outside shower near the water’s edge. I dug a can of ravioli and a bottle of shampoo out of my kayak, and after eating, took a cold shower to wash away the Everglades grime. There were no mosquitoes at all here, making the place seem like paradise compared to where I’d been. Those who have not experienced the torture of being attacked incessantly by at least three species of biting insects for more than a week cannot truly appreciate the ecstasy I felt at being able to sit out in the open unmolested by bugs. I was too exhausted to go any farther. There didn’t seem to be anyone around the motel, so I spread my sleeping bag on the ground under some bushes behind a maintenance building and slept until daybreak.

  In the morning I carried my filthy clothes to a laundromat in town and ate breakfast at Burger King. I wandered the streets while waiting on my laundry, taking in the sights. There was an island feel here that was different than the other parts of Florida I’d seen. Lush greenery was everywhere, and a cool Atlantic breeze swept down the streets and rattled the palm fronds, taking the humidity out of the air. The tourists were thick, but there were other travelers like me as well. Near the Burger King, I watched as two middle-aged men with hair down to their waists headed down Highway A1-A under the weight of huge backpacks, most certainly bound for Key West. I had been to the Keys once before. When Ernest and I came out of the Everglades after our canoe trip, we drove to Key West for a couple of days, so I knew what it was like. People like those backpackers come from all over the country, as if on a pilgrimage to the southernmost U.S. city at the end of A1-A. I would fit right in, arriving by kayak.

  In the Florida Keys

  Crowded Islamorada offered no prospects for camping, so I paddled along the Overseas Highway to the west, hoping to find a quiet place to catch up on my sleep. Five miles from Islamorada, I paddled under the bridge through a cut between two keys and into Atlantic waters for the first time. I wanted to check out Indian Key, shown on my chart as uninhabited. There was a small dock for boaters visiting the island, and as I approached closer, I saw a sign that said camping was prohibited because it was a state preserve.

  I went ashore and found other signs with information about this historic little island. In 1840, a town was built on the island and for a short time Indian Key was a thriving wrecker’s colony. These devious pirates set up a bright light on stormy nights to lure ships seeking shelter from rough seas. The hapless sailors who fell prey to this ruse were unaware of their mistake until their vessel broke apart on the reefs they
had been tricked into hitting, their cargo spilling into the waves to be claimed by the unscrupulous wreckers.

  A map on one of the signs showed the layout of the town, complete with the street names and the location of stores and other buildings. Archaeologists had excavated most of the ruins, though not much remains other than several cisterns. I walked down the dirt streets and ambled though the town square, trying to imagine what it must have been like in the 1840’s. According to the information on the signs, the colony did not last long. A Seminole war party paddled ashore one night in canoes and massacred the entire community. Indian Key has remained uninhabited ever since.

  The cleared streets offered the only paths for walking on an island that was covered in a tangle of sub-tropical vegetation. Thorn bushes, agave and other cactus formed an impenetrable under story, and in places large exotic trees I could not identify rose above this scrub, but none reached a great height on this storm-swept island that was only a few feet above sea level. Most of the shoreline consisted of jagged coral battered by ocean swells, but on the north side of the island, under a dense stand of mangrove and buttonwood, there was a narrow beach completely hidden from the view of drivers on the nearby Overseas Highway.