Community

Sailing and Flying-Walking and Running

Ain't Land a Bitch
by Mike C. (in Key West)
Share
Like the last kernel to pop in the pot, I bounced around the co-pilot seat repeating “Yeah that’s gonna leave a mark.” rubbing my hips from the brutal seatbelt attack. I like rough plane rides: especially in small aircraft like the Cessna 302 making its approach into Key West.
 
I drew the lucky straw for the co-pilot seat in Miami on the short flight to Key West. Answering an ad on Craigslist, a 1947 Nivens 34-foot wooden sailboat was waiting my arrival. This rare find was a stroke of luck. If the boat checked out as described, I would make the eight hour sail back to Fort Lauderdale that afternoon.
 
One, two, three hops and an armrest breaking grip, the Cessna rolled down the runway. Several “phews” escaped the passengers sitting behind me. The pilot wiped a few beads of sweat from his face that did not look old enough to grace a driver’s license. I couldn’t resist a quip.
 
“So Cap’n - we land or get shot down?”
 
“Strong crosswind over the runway.” He explained embarrassedly.   Unable to resist the urge, I followed up with.
 
“That’s a little like the whale blaming the beach, ain’t it?” I laughed good naturedly to assure him I was joking, though I was relieved to have only suffered a few bruises from the digging seat belt.
 
A five minute cab ride from the airport and I was standing in front of a beautiful antique sailboat at Stock Island Marina. The owner, a proclaimed cabinetmaker, had spent a great deal of time restoring the woodwork to a condition that rivaled the day the boat was built. I surmised that any boat that had been so reverently restored was seaworthy.
 
Not a full hour had passed since the questionable landing, before papers were signed, supplies from the marina store (consisting of four sandwiches and a case of water) were stowed and a teary wave from the previous owner and I was headed out to sea.
 
She sailed like a dream. With a beam of only seven feet, she sliced through the water like a canoe. Under full sail, I quickly made it past the reef and into Gulf Stream for the 3.5 knot current that would carry me home.
 
The low lying islands that make up the Florida Keys quickly faded into a blue irregularity on the western horizon. The eastern horizon had a much more ominous look. Purple and black raced toward me and my little boat. Flashes of white from Poseidon’s trident streaked the sky closer than I would have preferred. Summer storms pop up and disappear quickly in the Florida Straights.
 
The first gust was under reefed sail, but at 50 miles an hour it packed a punch. In the course of seconds, the world changed around me. A thunderous crack overhead led me to believe I had been struck by lightning. Quickly I gazed skyward in time to see the mast coming down like a spear from heaven. I dove out of the way into the cabin head first to avoid the deadly wood and cables. I tried to raise myself up on hands and knees but my left arm would not cooperate. It had an odd angle to it that I realized could put me in a pretty bad position. I managed to get myself up only to find that the mast had pierced the cockpit floor into the engine compartment and caused severe damage.
 
I needed to make it back into the cockpit and secure the tiller to stay on a steady course into the wind. Securing my arm with a torn shirt I climbed the three steps to the cockpit to see a tangle of wires and splintered wood. Anger rose in my chest when I noticed that the spot where the mast broke had been patched with caulking and paint; which is not unlike wearing black socks to fix the hole in your boots.
 
There would be time to cuss the previous owner later. I desperately needed to get the boat under control. Things went from perilous to deadly. The fallen mast had broken the tiller. There was no way to steer, power or control the boat.
 
The waves were high peaked and no longer rolling. The boat was falling off the tops of waves with bone jarring crashes.
 
Back in the cabin I looked for anything that could help. With the antenna destroyed I was left to my own ingenuity. Opening drawers I found a box of birthday candles and a half full bottle of Goslings dark rum. I threw them both in a five gallon bucket and made my way back to the cockpit. A long pull on the rum for courage and a handful of birthday candles to bite on for a makeshift mouth guard. Unprotected, the waves would have the same effect on my teeth as Jerry smashing Tom in the face with a frying pan.
 
I tied the five gallon bucket to a line and threw it astern acting as a stabilizer to keep the boat in a single direction.
 
There was nothing more I could do in this storm. I returned to the cabin with the rum and a handheld GPS. My speed had decreased and I was making way to the North West in the direction of Marathon Key. I concluded that I had about a 20 percent chance of making it to the safety of land. There was a monumental chance that I would hit the reef, which meant certain death. Nothing left to do but sit on the floor of the cabin alternating rum and glances at the GPS.
 
I awoke to the unmistakable sound of waves crashing on sand. The boat was at an awkward angle but unmoving. With rum in hand I crawled out of the cabin to the sight of cars speeding by on Route One. Making my way up the incline to the shoulder of the road I began walking when I was promptly arrested for open container and public intoxication.
 
Leave a comment for Mike