CHAPTER SIX: Cabbage Key Cheeseburgers and Useppa Stories

        The warm air and thought of the anchor slipping made sleeping in late a fantasy. But it was for the best, since that meant we'd get an early start after checking on the boat. She had held steady through the night. The anchor held. After a short planning session, we motored over to the Boca Grande marina around noon to pump out waste and top off our fuel.

       It took just under an hour to drive over to the marina to pump out waste and fill up on diesel. Power boats sped by us one after the other. I was going a measly 5 knots, but I was owning it. Argo II doesn’t have the power of the fancier motoring yachties - she’s a solid sailing ship with an engine that sips diesel. She’s a hippie. She just mosies on her way, relaxed, cool, collected. Besides, I liked my look with her- baseball cap, polarized sunglasses, rashguard, hair tucked away in my cap- this chica don’t mess around.  Terry was below decks and I liked the thought of the male dominated boats speeding by thinking that I was single handing her.           

   We departed the marina, which had a bit of a wicked passage with a large sandbar and a narrow channel, and headed for the Gulf, trying to find prime real-estate to park Argo. As luck would have it, we saw a sandbar off the northern shore of Cayo Costa State Park with a number of boats anchored in the shallows.

        Bingo.

       We looked at the current and the wind, and skirted the shallow sandy areas. Current was a concern, but the location was killer. Our target was outside of the southern end of the channel connecting Charlotte Harbor with the Gulf. Dropping anchor, we set the alarms and closely monitored her position. No drift again in maximum ebb. Our anchor was a good one.  

       We took the dinghy to the sandbar haven we found. There was a dog on a nearby pontoon boat, tourists taking pictures, and guys and girls enjoying beers in the shallows next to their boats. The dog jumped in for a swim. We did, too. I frolicked in the surf and Terry laid in the water, cowboy hat and all.  It was fun, but our stay was limited to a half hour. We had a reservation at Useppa Island and were requested to arrive by 5 PM. So a little before 3:30, we reluctantly motored back to Argo II. The dinghy’s motor, named Patience, certainly required exactly that from her operators. She wasn’t going as fast as she did the very first ride out, as if she couldn’t get to second gear. We were stuck going turtle speed, but at least the engine didn't quit and we made it back to Argo slowly but surely.

    Useppa Island is a private club. Quite the escape, per the website. We followed the ICW south to marker 71 and steered to the channel leading to the island. We were greeted by two men ready to take our docking lines. 

      “We’re glad you’re here – it’s nice to have someone else on the island!” 

     These weren’t your average deckhands. Both had nametags with Captain – Captain Dane and Captain Jeff. As we found out later, they were both USCG captains.

       It’s the off-season, and with an exclusive club, the lack of population is even more magnified this time of year. Terry had a tough time docking Argo again - here, a backing wind pushed the boat toward the T dock and Argo II's sluggish motor didn't snap to task.  He didn't yet have the feel for how to get her to dance. 

          Dane and Jeff provided the assist and our boat was settled in.

      “And here’s where you can hook up your cable,” Dane said helpfully.

         “Yeah, we don’t need that,” I said with a smile. I looked at Terry, “Our adventures at sea are enough entertainment.”

       “There are very few people who could live that way,” he replied.

        I felt smug. No T.V. during our sailing adventure. Terry had his iPad and iPhone, so we always had internet access. The only time we didn’t was when we were 15 miles off the coast on Friday night. Even still, we used it only for navigation and weather purposes. Terry texted his mom regularly when we spent the night at sea. That way, if anything happened, they’d have a recent location and direction to look for us.

After Dane and Jeff walked away, Terry apologized.

    “I’m sorry you had to be on this boat with me while docking. That was embarrassing.”

            It was okay. I’m sure I couldn’t have done much better with that little amount of practice.

          We got off the boat and walked to reception to check-in. Our plan was to get on our way to Cabbage Key via our dinghy for Cheeseburgers in Paradise. Rumor has it that Cabbage Key was the inspiration for the Jimmy Buffet song.  At least this time we were in the Bay so waves weren’t much of an issue. The only problem was that the propeller started cavitating and even though we revved it up higher than a quarter of the way, it wouldn’t pick up speed. Ah, the unreliable dinghy motor.

            We eventually made it, after about ten minutes on the dinghy. Tied her up and went in for food. I saw a turtle slowly moving across the grass. A father brought his daughter close to it to pet it.  

            When you get into the restaurant, you see dollar bills everywhere. On the walls, on the columns, on the ceiling, dangling from ceilings, taped to other dollar bills.  EVERYWHERE. 

            Terry gave me a dollar bill to write on and he wrote on his own.

            The SIREN, I wrote. This was my nickname after our excursion south of the Verrazano Bridge in September 2013. (See Chapter 7 entry. Now, what's interesting about our boat, Argo II, is that the Argo was the ship that Jason, a Greek mythological hero, sailed. He had to make it past the Sirens to survive.) Terry wrote “Captain T” on his. Then we found a place to tape it up.

     After a few more minutes of drinking Coronas, our cheeseburgers arrived. Exactly what the doctor ordered: Our “Cheeseburgers in Paradise,” as was rumored that Jimmy Buffet wrote.

            Following the burgers was dessert. The only dessert we had all week. It was a slice of ice cream with chocolate graham pieces on the bottom, whipped cream on top, caramel inside. Absolute heaven. Orgasmic.

            Then we walked around and explored the wooded area on the island. It was getting buggy and there wasn’t much to see so we headed back to Useppa.

            Upon arrival, we decided to take a walk about and explore the island as the sun started setting. It was a beautiful resort. This island is only accessible by boat and golf carts are the means of transportation around the island. We needed to walk off dinner, so by foot we would go.

            The beach on the opposite side of the marina was pretty. White sand, gorgeous white houses, green grass covering the landscape around the homes. Even the house's walkways were lined with crushed sea shells. There were chunks of rock conglomerates of trace shell fossils. I even found a swing set, where I retreated to for a short while, pretending I was a kid again.

            We passed by a tree, which had dropped some fruit onto the ground.

         “Mangoes!” I exclaimed. I remembered reading that the Club didn’t want its patrons to pick fruit from any plants, but these mangoes were on the ground, and going to rot anyway. We picked up a freshly fallen one to carry back to the boat and continued on our way.

            We saw a golf cart go by.

          “You gotta check out the grotto!” a kid yelled out. “Someone made stuff there- it’s so cool! All the way at the south end of the island!”

            The bugs were out in full force, coming for me, but after hearing this tip, I decided to stick it out a little longer. When we reached the grotto, we were greeted by an entrance covered in shells, rocks, wood, and a sign that said “Welcome Gator Fans.” By this point, the bugs had exacted their heavy toll in blood and welts. We were in Florida, alright. The path in these woods was lined with shells, and consisted of bricks, pieces of rock, really thick glass to lead the way. It looked like a voodoo forest or, at the least, a perfect setting for a horror slasher film. Only here, the bugs were the ones drawing the blood. It was reaching near darkness, and by the end of this excursion, I pleaded to Terry,

            “We need to get back ASAP. I’m being eaten alive.”

            On the walk back, we passed by the Collier Inn, where a few people were having drinks. Quaint. Very New England-esque.

            We returned to the boat around 9:30 P.M. We each grabbed clean sets of clothes and headed for the showers. This marina's facilities were nothing short of "posh." These had body cleanser and shampoo in dispensable containers, which was quite a nice feature, in addition to the immaculate space and expanse of the outer room and shower area.  It bordered on a small NYC studio apartment.

            Bedtime. Terry cut up the mango for me before crashing on the berth across from me. The first night he slept in the V-berth, but found it to be too small, so we each slept on the two salon berths, which doubled as couches. I stayed up to try and get some writing done, but didn’t make it past 11:00 before I stopped fighting my eyes.