CHAPTER FIVE: Saturday Snorkeling and Stormy Seas

After sleeping about three hours, I woke up to a sunrise. The perfect sunrise is one when you don’t have to get out of bed. Just open your eyes and see the sun lighting up the sky. It took some time to really wake up, but eventually I was ready for a shower- the first one on a boat! A bathroom on a boat can be a pretty constrained affair, where the space includes the toilet, the sink, and the shower all in an area where you can barely turn around.  Showering while the boat rocked to and fro was definitely a lesson in balance. After an adjustment period and with some suds, I felt refreshed and ready for the day.

           We sailed for a while and looked for places to snorkel.  Terry was trying to find a place that was shallow enough to anchor but far enough off shore that we’d be out of trouble if the anchor slipped a bit. There was a decent onshore wind, so we ended up anchoring a fair bit off the coast just north of Big Reef pass. This would be my first snorkeling experience. We set the anchor and made sure it was holding firm. Next, our first use of the dinghy.  The motor was small and fairly weak, with only 5 HP, and we had to lower it from the stern pulpit down to the boat and attach it to the dinghy. So far, so good. We put our snorkeling gear on board, started the engine and motored to the island.
     As we came near, Terry cut the engine and jumped overboard to walk us in.
     Whoops. The water was too deep. A bit of swimming and we made it to shore. I put my gear on.  

I felt handicapped by the snorkel fins.

“I can’t swim with these,” I said in frustration.

“Just move your knees, like this.”

I mimicked his movement. Nothing. How did I, the sea girl, the frolicker, be unable to swim with fins?

I stepped out of the water back onto land.

“You’re wearing my fins” Terry said dryly, as he tried to put his gear on.  I accidentally grabbed Terry’s fins instead of mine. That would do it. We swapped fins and I gave it another go around.

Success!

Okay, this isn’t so bad after all. All I could see were shells, since the water was too turbid, but at least I know what it feels like.  We snorkeled around.

We only stayed maybe 30 minutes before bringing the dinghy back into the water, but it was still a good time.

We packed up and set out in the dinghy again.

Revvv….silence. Rev…silence. The engine wouldn’t start. After the fifth or sixth time, it started, but then died ten seconds later. Terry pulled the cord again…silence. It took about five times to get the motor running which each time lasted maybe 10 seconds before failing. We were going against the current and against the wind. The engine kept failing, and in the excitement to go snorkeling, we hadn’t packed the oars. I contemplated hailing for help on the VHF radio, but Terry kept working the motor.

He didn’t give up. I saw the anger and frustration in his face.  If he quit, we’d be washed up to shore in short order, with no hope of reaching our ship - our home - without assistance. Swear words started coming out of his mouth. We’d make progress, then get pushed back. Progress, then retreated. Terry has run multiple marathons, and he told stories about how much pain he pushed through to finish those runs. Good thing- this was one of those times you had to dig deep if you wanted to make it to the finish line. We finally made enough progress to come alongside the Argo II. It was like crossing the finish line of a marathon.

     “Argo, I am sorry for anything bad I ever said about you,” Terry exclaimed as we boarded the boat.

    It was near 7 pm and we had three hours ahead of us under normal conditions. But these were not normal conditions. The winds had picked up, the seas were starting to get choppy.  Both of us clipped ourselves to the boat. We would have been like rag dolls if we weren’t holding onto something. I was steering the boat at this point, and boy, was it a fun ride. The bow soared up to the sky and crashed down into the waves. Up and down. Up and down. I steered with my feet, and held tightly onto the line that attached my lifejacket to the center console. I was a rodeo girl riding a bull. The only problem was keeping on course. I didn’t notice the growing concern in Terry’s face as he took the wheel after a bit.

       The sun was setting, and it was taking forever to get to the first buoy of the channel. Terry said he underestimated the effect on our progress. We were making 1 to 1.5 knots at best, bow into the wind. There was no way we’d get anchored before midnight at this rate. The winds kept strong as the waves kept churning, which was what my stomach started doing soon after I ceased steering. The gulf was so calm not even six hours prior, and now we had swells making the boat roll, pitch, but worst of all, yaw.

     Terry told me afterwards that it was probably the yawing that made me feel sick. My breathing became more frequent as I felt increasingly nauseated. It was my attempt at trying to calm my body down. I lay my head back and closed my eyes for therapy.

Breathe in, breathe out. In, out. Lean up, drink some water, head back down.

Terry noticed and hated to ask, but had to: “When you get a chance, can you close all the hatches?” It was nearing full darkness, and we didn’t want to get stuck in a position where water would be rushing into the cabin. I could only muster enough of a stomach to close two hatches at a time before coming back up for air to recover. I was rhythmically panting for air.

      Give yourself a minute to relax, I told myself. Here we go again.

   The boat moved so much that you always needed to find something to grab and hold onto- injury at this time was less than ideal. I had a job to do. Once this was done, I wouldn’t have to go under for an extended period of time again.

       Last one. Finished.

       I laid down and curled up on the cockpit bench next to Terry as he steered. He grabbed my hand after seeing and hearing the condition I was in.

       “We’ll be okay,” he told me in a calming voice. When you’re in a crisis, there’s just something instinctual to holding onto someone for mental support.

I was scared. These seas weren’t like the first night. The wind howled. I looked over and saw the toe rail not even a foot from the water. The design of this boat magnifies the rolling to a disconcerting degree. The J24’s can keep strong while heeling, so water can rush over the toe-rail and pose little concern - at one time, I was horrified for my life of a heavy heel in a J-24. Now I find it to be a great amount of fun. But we didn’t know how Argo II fared when she heeled this much. Our stress levels were matching the amount she was being thrown about. 
     "How are you holding up?" I asked.
     "It's tough, but I'm holding steady on course."
     "No, I meant your stomach."
     "Oh. Excellent."
     I was embarrassed at how little my stomach held up next to his. Then again, it had been some time since I had last eaten, and I had to occasionally go into the cabin to grab supplies.  

The wind was coming from the north. We wanted to go NNE, but there was a wreck and obstructions underwater in our path. Terry kept our bearing as best conditions would allow, but the wind kept fighting us, pushing us east or west so much in fact that the boat felt like it was being directed straight for the submerged wreck. We didn’t know the sounding of the wreck, so we had to avoid it at all costs.
     The VHF radio stayed on channel 16, and we kept the volume up so that any announcements would be audible. 
     "Vessel get hot. Vessel get hot," we heard from the radio.
     What the hell did that mean?
      "Vessel get hot."
    Terry and I looked at each other. We didn't know this boating lingo. Did this mean a storm was quickly moving in our path? That we were in immediate danger?
     Then I saw a spotlight coming from a boat not far from us. 
     "Vessel get hot."
    Was that directed toward us? Was he trying to communicate with us? I used Terry's iPhone to google the phrase. Nothing. All it did was flash its spotlight directly at our boat. It had to be within 100 feet of us. My mind started going crazy, thinking of every possible scenario of what the next chapter in our story would look like.
     The boat continued his path around us, sped up, and become lost in the distance. 
     "It's the vessel CALLED Get Hot," Terry proclaimed.
     "Really? REALLY?!" I said in disbelief.
     We got all excited over nothing. It was one of those times when caution gets the better of you. At least we knew. 
     But that wasn't all. Two sea birds starting flying near our boat, calling out in their foreign language. It was ominous, to say the least. A scene in the movie where the birds build up the suspense before something terrible happens.
     "Of all the times, you pick now?" Terry yelled out to the buzzards. "Come back during the daytime."
     Birds during the day are cute. Annoying, maybe, but a nice occasional addition to the scenery. When they sneak up to your boat in the middle of the night with no one else around, flying circles around your boat? That's when things get weird. Though, they eventually lost interest and kept on their way, as we did ours.
     We lined ourselves up for the first buoy of the channel after passing the wreck. Approaching that light gave us hope. The further into the channel we’d go, the calmer the seas would be. The next concern was staying in the channel clear of the non-lighted day marks, which alternated with lighted channel markers. I was on the look-out with my head-light and the iPad, looking in the general direction of a chart-marked buoy or post until it came into view. I was searching for triangles and squares on posts. They had maybe one or two light reflectors. Fortunately, there was enough light pollution that ever so slightly eased seeing a dark shape in the distance.

“Found the buoy- starboard side,” I yelled out.

“Keep an eye on it.”

       Passed it.

       Now I had to look for the next light. Repeat.

We made it out of the Gulf through the Boca Grande Pass. In the relative safety of Charlotte Harbor at last. We originally planned on anchoring in Pelican Bay, but with the shallow depths and a tree submerged as an obstruction, I didn’t like that plan. I looked on the depth chart for an alternative. We needed area of 6-12 feet in depth, wide enough to allow some room to swing around in the changing tides and wind, and far enough from the ICW.

 “How about this area?” I pointed to a spot on the iPad map.

       “There’s no shelter from the wind or current.”

       “At least it’ll be cooler. And there won’t be bugs. Well, not nearly as many.”

       Terry wasn’t convinced. We headed south down the ICW. The wind abated and became stagnant the further we went.

       This will be miserable to sleep in, I thought.

    After passing a couple of lighted buoys and the unlit day marks that crept out of the blackness, 

Terry yelled out, “Get back to the cockpit.” 

I walked back. He was worried about my safety, that I might miss sighting a day mark.

“If the boat gets nailed and we sink her, I’ll get over it, but I don’t want you going down with her.”

So we reversed course and back-tracked to the spot I first suggested. We motored off the channel, dropped anchor, set the anchor alarms and kept an eye on our position. Ten minutes went by with only minimal fluctuations in location.

“Give it some time and we’ll come back up and check,” he told me.

Time to get dinner started. It was 1:30 A.M. and we were both starving. I made the second batch of chicken quesadillas.  They were gone before they hit the plate. 

Another night in the books.