“Those TV commercials are right,” Steve said as I fastened my sprayskirt and adjusted my rudder. “It really is better in the Bahamas.”
They watched until I paddled out of sight, awkwardly getting back into the rhythm after so many days of not being in the kayak. After a mile I was back in the endless cadence of my traveling stroke, and the boat slid easily over crystalline water until Key West fell astern, turned blue with distance, and finally, faded from sight.
Three: Key West to the Bahamas
A man who is not afraid of the sea will soon be drowned,
For he will be going out on a day when he shouldn’t
But we do be afraid of the sea,
And we do be drowned only now and again
—Fisherman’s quote from The Aran Islands
Leaving Key West, I retraced my route to Sugarloaf Key, stopping to camp that night in a mosquito-ridden mangrove hideaway that made me wish I was still sleeping on the beach at Watersports. I missed the food, the music, and the people of Key West. It was a lonely night, but I was determined to press on. The next day I stopped once again at the KOA on Sugarloaf, but decided not to camp there. There was an uninhabited key visible about five miles out on the Atlantic side, shown on my map as Key Lewis. I decided to paddle out there, hoping to find nice beaches and fewer mosquitoes.
I reached Key Lewis by sunset, and as I approached it my hopes sank like the rapidly fading light when I saw large signs planted in the shallows well off the island warning against trespassing. The island was government property, according to the signs, which were intended to keep anyone from even thinking about landing. I saw no evidence of people or buildings, so I ignored the warnings and paddled closer. There appeared to be no solid land, only jungle-like tangles of mangroves growing directly out of the water.
Movement in the trees caught my eye and I heard strange calls coming from the foliage. I thought it must be birds until I saw dark shapes sitting in the branches and then dozens of large animals shaking the limbs and moving towards me. They were monkeys! I drifted in amazement a few yards from the edge of the forest. The monkeys were jumping up and down and chattering at the sight of my kayak. I recognized them as Rhesus monkeys, a large species often used in scientific research. I wanted to land and dig out a fresh roll of film, but the monkeys seemed aggressive. I feared that if I tried to camp there, they might steal all my gear and haul it off into the trees. They might even gang up and attack. Perhaps the government was doing some kind of disease or biological warfare research with these animals and keeping it a secret by working on this isolated key. I was exhausted and ready to camp, but it was not worth the risk.
I paddled parallel to the shore and the monkeys followed, their strange calls reverberating in the twilight, lending an eerie feel to the island. More groups of the monkeys materialized as I paddled along the large key, and I realized there were hundreds, if not thousands, of the animals on the island. One aggressive male got so excited as he scolded me that he lost his balance and fell from a branch into the water. As interesting as they were to watch, I had to leave, as I faced a long night crossing to get back to the main keys where I could search for another place to camp.
It was a moonless night and the sky was filled with stars that seemed as near as the city lights on Big Pine Key, five miles to the north. I set my course for the little key with the bird nesting sign where I had illegally camped the previous week. I reached it after midnight, weary and spooked from the long paddle over black water. Once I thought I saw a large fin that disappeared just a few yards from my kayak. Each loud splash as some big fish jumped out of the water would cause a brief moment of panic and inspire me to paddle faster. For some reason, this was one night I did not at all feel comfortable being on the water.
I woke the next morning on the little key to the sound of a motorboat approaching the beach. Through the netting of my tent door, I could see a flashing blue light and a uniformed officer at the helm. The engine went to idle and the officer’s voice boomed over a radio P.A.system, informing me that camping on the island was illegal. I crawled out and explained my situation. The officer said he would give me 30 minutes to pack up and go before he would return to write me a citation. I quickly broke camp and made the 10-mile crossing back to The Rock, off Marathon, fighting headwinds all the way. There was no sign that anyone had visited the island in my absence. I stayed only one night this time, enjoying a brief respite from signs and law enforcement officers.
During the next two days I made many of the same stops I’d made heading out to Key West. I re-supplied on Marathon, took another hot shower at the KOA on Fiesta Key, and once again set up camp on Indian Key, where I had weathered Tropical Storm Keith. I then paddled to Islamorada, where I needed to replenish my most important supply of all – cash. I had gone through about $400 in five weeks, a large chunk of it blown in Key West. I had left the bulk of my traveling fund with my father in Mississippi. I called him and had him wire another $500 from my stash to Islamorada.
With money in my kayak, my next goal was Key Largo, where I had a pre-arranged mail drop. I was expecting to pick up some guidebooks to the Bahamas and Caribbean that I had sent there, and my friend Pat Milton was sending a replacement for the camp stove I had thrown into the Gulf when it died near Naples.
To get to Key Largo on the Gulf side would mean winding through a maze of mangrove islands with their ever-present swarms of mosquitoes, so I decided to try the Atlantic side instead. I headed east of Islamorada, excited to be in unfamiliar waters once again, where every turn might lead to a new discovery. I entered the Atlantic through the pass at Windley Key, and after passing a large resort on my left, found another pocket of mangrove swamp where a makeshift houseboat was moored in a green hideaway. The owner, who introduced himself as Mike, told me that he had built his living quarters on the old pontoon boat in Tampa, and like me, had made his way down the west coast of Florida to the Keys. He had been living on the houseboat for four months. He made his living cleaning swimming pools and houses with a pressure washer that he towed behind an old single-speed bicycle. He had no living expenses other than food, and consequently spent most of his days lying in his hammock, smoking dope and looking out over the ocean.
“The land’s private, but they can’t say anything about my boat. They don’t own the water,” he said. “You can camp right over there if you don’t stay more than a few days,” he said, pointing to a narrow strip of land near the mouth of the inlet. “The cops don’t come out here but about once a week.”
I took him up on the campsite. It was a good place for me to get organized and make my plans for crossing over to the Bahamas. I studied my charts and discussed the crossing with Mike. He thought it was feasible after seeing my specialized equipment. This crossing weighed on my mind for months, long before I left Tampa, back when the trip was just a dream. I knew the Gulf Stream would be my biggest obstacle to reaching the islands. The Gulf Stream is an ocean current so wide and deep that it contains more flow than all the fresh water rivers of the world combined. Running through the Florida Straits between Cuba and the Keys, then north between the Florida peninsula and the Bahamas, it carries warm tropical water along the eastern seaboard until it meets the cold Labrador Current and changes course across the north Atlantic to warm the shores of Europe. The section I had to cross between Florida and the Bahamas averages 30 to 50 miles wide as it squeezes through the narrow straits with a speed of more than three knots at midstream. The current would set me north at a rate of three miles per hour while I paddled east across it at approximately the same speed. It would be like trying to swim across a strong river for the opposite bank without being swept downstream. The difference was that this river was 50 miles wide and the opposite bank was Bimini, a tiny island less than five miles long and so low I wouldn’t be able to see it until I was a few miles away. At my paddling speed, it would take up to 20 hours to cross the current, which could set me as much as 60 miles to the north. I had no handhe
ld Global Positioning System receiver (GPS) to give me continuous position fixes. GPS receivers were just coming on the market at the time, and were way beyond my budget. My deck-mounted compass was my primary navigation tool, backed up by a hand-held Radio Direction Finder (RDF), now rendered obsolete by GPS technology.
With the RDF, I could receive an audio signal from a transmitter tower on Bimini, allowing me to readjust my heading to stay on course for the island, and by triangulating with signals from mainland Florida, I could tell how far north I was being swept, but none of this knowledge would help me with the physical problem of battling the current in a human-powered boat. If I missed the Bahamas because of a navigational error or simple exhaustion that would prevent me from maintaining my speed to the east, the Gulf Stream would sweep me into the North Atlantic on its path to Europe.
Because of this problem with the current, I concluded that the most sensible point of departure was Key Largo, even though it would be a 90-mile crossing to Bimini, while the Miami area, due west of the island, is less than 50 miles away. Starting that much farther south would give me a more favorable position in the current, allowing me to paddle across the stream on due east heading while the current angled me directly to Bimini. The crossing would take up to 30 hours this way, but I would be paddling across the current rather than fighting it by choosing this course.
The other major consideration, of course, was the weather. The Gulf Stream has a reputation for mountainous waves that occur when strong north winds blow against the current. I had been listening to the NOAA weather radio reports on Gulf Stream conditions since I’d been in the Keys. It was the time of year when winter cold fronts occasionally made it down to south Florida, seldom bringing cold weather, but always packing sustained north winds that made the Gulf Stream dangerous. It was not uncommon to hear reports of seas 10-15 feet offshore, and 18- 24 feet and higher in the Gulf Stream during such northerly blows. Between the fronts, the Florida Straits could be as placid as a sheltered bay. But the window of opportunity for crossing in smooth conditions was often narrow this time of year. Because of all these factors, there was no doubt in my mind that attempting this crossing in a kayak was a serious undertaking requiring meticulous planning and the right conditions.
I stayed a couple of nights in the hidden campsite near Mike’s boat, discussing the crossing with him and going through my equipment. It was only about seven miles to the edge of the continental shelf from my camp, so I paddled out there one day to get a look at the offshore conditions. I could see the sand bottom 60 feet below as I approached the edge, and then nothing but inky blue beyond the drop-off. The swell was running 7-10 feet. I tested my desalinator, trailing the intake tube into the sea and pumping the unit with the output tube in my mouth. The water it made was sweet and fresh. I hoped I wouldn’t need it though, as it required vigorous pumping and trickled fresh water at a ponderously low slow rate. I tuned in the RDF to the Bimini beacon. The morse code signal came in loud and clear: two dashes, two dots, one dash, three dots, one dash, three dots… repeating over and over. The signal was strongest when the compass read 60 degrees. Precisely where the chart indicated Bimini should be. I began to feel confident that I could find it.
The next day I invited Mike over to my camp for breakfast, and showed him how to make pancakes. Then I broke camp and paddled east toward Key Largo, looking for a jumping off point where I could camp while waiting on a weather window and making ready for the crossing.
The prospects for finding a free campsite looked grim as I paddled along the Atlantic side of Key Largo in the late afternoon. The only places not occupied by waterfront homes or other developments were the mangrove swamps and the rock jetties that protected the entrance to residential canals. Near the entrance to Marina Del Mar, I passed two large sailing yachts at anchor, a trimaran and a black-hulled schooner that had the look of a pirate vessel. I continued on past the marina, setting my sights on a tiny offshore key that appeared to have some dry land under its cloak of green mangroves.
Naturally, when I drew nearer, I was disappointed to see a sign claiming that this island, like so many others, was a bird nesting area off-limits to human intruders. The island had no beaches at all, but appeared to be made up entirely of baseball-sized chunks of coral rock. There was no place to land on the side facing the sign, so I paddled around the island until I found a hidden tunnel under the mangroves where I could pull my kayak out of sight in knee-deep water. A quick inspection of the island revealed that it was fit only for birds, and even they seemed to have abandoned it. There was nothing but rocks and debris washed ashore from the sea. The only vegetation was red mangrove and twisted buttonwood trees. I was too tired to go anywhere else, so I cleared a spot under the trees and pitched my tent. I had to break branches out of the way to erect it, and I put some waterlogged pieces of broken plywood under the floor to provide a semblance of smoothness on the sharp rocks. It was the most uncomfortable place I’d ever camped, but at least the tent was well hidden. I was too tired to be concerned with comfort.
In the morning I broke camp early and paddled back to the Marina Del Mar, where huge motor yachts dwarfed my kayak. The marina was certainly not designed to accommodate small boats. The only place I could find to tie up was in a slip big enough for a 50-footer. The dock was so high at low tide that I had to stand in the kayak and haul myself up with my arms. I walked to the post office, but was disappointed to learn that there was no mail for me under general delivery. I would have to wait another day.
I bought some of the food supplies I would need for my Gulf Stream crossing and stopped at a dive shop to purchase chemical light sticks that I planned to use to illuminate my compass at night during the passage. Then I went back to the miserable little rockpile of an island and set up my tent in the same place. Motorboats passed close by on their way in and out of the marina, so I couldn’t build a fire for fear of being seen and forced to leave. I had expected the new stove to be in the post office, but without it, there was no alternative to a cold supper. I crawled into the tent and studied the charts that night by candlelight, making notes and a detailed list of everything else I needed to buy before leaving. There would be no way to cook at sea, so I planned to carry at least three day’s supply of ready-to-eat, high-energy foods. I planned to pack this supply all around me in the cockpit in case something went wrong and I could not reach land as soon as expected. I decided to begin the 30-hour crossing at 3:00 a.m. so that I would be in the middle of the Stream during daylight hours and hopefully, during the second night, be able to see the light beacon on Bimini to confirm that my navigation was on target. If all went well, I would step out on Bahamian sand by daylight on the second morning.
On Wednesday, I paddled back to the marina, and still there was no mail waiting for me at the post office. The weather for the crossing was good, but I could not leave until I received my package. I went to the grocery store and bought the items on my crossing list. Mostly snack foods like cheese, granola bars, dried fruit, crackers, nuts, candy – but also small cans of ravioli, spaghetti, and beans with pull-tops for easy opening at sea. This done I returned for a third night to my rocky hideaway.
I was no longer tired from paddling, so it was impossible for me to fall asleep on the uneven plywood and rocks that made up my bed. I tried piling all my spare clothing under my sleeping bag, but that didn’t help much. I tuned in the weather station on my VHF radio and listened to the report on Gulf Stream conditions. A cold front sweeping down across the continent was bringing north winds and creating chaos out there in the current; seas offshore running 8-12 feet, higher in the Gulf Steam, according to the report. I switched off the weather and tuned in to the tantalizing RDF beacon on Bimini. It seemed so clear – and so close… I put away the RDF and put a Jimmy Buffett tape in the Walkman, listening to Caribbean tales set to island music while I read my Air Force survival manual by candlelight. This fascinating book included illustrated descriptions of techniques for catching fish and
signaling for help while stranded at sea in a life raft. It was comforting to read that many people had survived weeks at sea with minimal equipment and supplies. I tried to imagine what it would be like adrift for weeks in my kayak as I tossed and turned on my rocky bed and listened to waves crashing ashore a few feet away.
Other sounds outside drew me out of the tent to investigate. I discovered that I was not alone on the island when I saw several large rats in the beam of my flashlight. I secured the sprayskirt over my kayak’s cockpit opening to keep them out, and hoped they would not try to chew through it to get at the food inside. Like the raccoons I encountered on most of these mangrove islands, the rats showed little fear of humans. If they wanted it badly enough, the rats or raccoons could chew through the watertight bulkheads behind which my food was stored. This would render my boat unseaworthy, and if it happened on a more remote island, I would be marooned in any but the calmest conditions.
I spent a sleepless night worried about the crossing ahead of me, and after sunrise once again broke camp and left the rat-infested island to paddle to Key Largo. My trip to the post office this time was fruitful. My new stove had arrived, as well as a letter from Ernest, the first letter I’d received since leaving Tampa. I was free to leave for the Bahamas now, but the weather was not cooperating. The cold front predicted by the NOAA forecasters had arrived, and 20-25 knot winds swept through the streets and whipped up whitecaps on the near-shore waters. There was nothing to do until this wind changed. I refilled my water jugs and bought a cheap inflatable air mattress at a dollar store. If I had to be stuck camping on the rocks for a few days, I would have to try to get some sleep.
On Island Time: Kayaking the Caribbean Page 7