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Sailing
the Wilderness Waterway.
by Stephen Morrill
In late December I trailered my Sea Pearl
21 from my home in Tampa down to
Everglades City, on the southwest coast of
Florida below Naples. "Ev City" is
an improbable town, sitting at the mouth of
a small river and about six miles of winding
channels and mangrove islands from the Gulf
of Mexico. Originally the county seat when
transportation was all by steamboat in
that wilderness, then virtually abandoned
when the railroad terminated
higher up the coast, the town today subsists
on tourists coming to the
tiny National Park ranger station and a scattering
of die-hard back-
country fishermen who still remember the glory
days when the stately
Rod and Gun Club hosted fishing parties for
U.S. Presidents.
The Ev. City ranger station is at the northwest
corner of the Everglades
National Park. While the Park's Homestead
entrance near Miami and the
Flamingo station at Florida Bay have plenty
of facilities for visitors, the
station here has one tour boat that putters
around the nearest
islands, and one pitiful little canoe launch.
In the summer things get so
slack that people wanting a camping permit
find a stack of them under a
paperweight in the empty office, and a magic-marker
board listing who has
already taken what campsite and for what nights.
Self-serve; leave notice
of who you are, what color your boat is, and
who your next of kin are in
case you never come back, and leave the form
under the paperweight on
your way out. And may God have mercy on your
soul, because the bugs won't.
So I always went in the winter -- through
May 1 anyway. And because I used
a small canoe I had to fight for the camp
sites which you cannot reserve in
advance. These sites are usually old homesteads,
built on oyster mounds
the Calusa indians left, and a full day's
paddle apart in a canoe loaded with
tent, provisions, and even fresh water. I
bought the Sea Pearl specifically
for this type of sailing/camping. It holds
several times the capacity of my
canoe, can go into 90 percent of the same
nooks and crannies, and
doesn't require backbreaking labor to get
there.
There being no boat ramp at the park, I drove
across the causeway from Ev.
City to Chokoloskee Island, a sort of suburb
to Nowhere and the site
where, in 1910, local citizens gunned down
a bully named Ed Watson in one
of the more colorful episodes of an already
colorful frontier. I would be
sailing into Watson's old territory, now part
of the Park. From what I had
read of him in "Killing Mr. Watson" by
Peter Matthieson, I was happy I
wouldn't be tangling with him.
I set up the boat and launched it at about
eleven a.m. and was soon taking
long lazy tacks southeast across Chokoloskee
Bay towards the Lopez River.
In a canoe, the campsite half way up Lopez
River was usually a half-day
trip and a good place to stay overnight if
you had started late. But in the
Sea Pearl I felt ambitious. Besides the wind
was out of the southeast and
likely to remain so for several days and if
I had to beat against that I
wanted to do it in the open Gulf where I had
more sea-room.
In less than two miles I came to the turnoff
into Rabbit Key Pass and
started out toward the Gulf, on a broad reach,
boards up. This was what I
bought this boat for, skidding around corners,
drifting across the
shallows, the mangroves all around and only
my own skill in balancing
tidal currents and wind to keep me moving
and only my map-reading,
water-reading, even tree-reading skills to
keep me from getting lost. I'll
probably buy a GPS one of these days but frankly,
I hardly use a compass in
the western `glades mangrove forest, where
there are so many twists and
turns that your overall heading is no clue
as to where you should be going.
I soon
emerged into the Gulf, skimming past Rabbit Key
a few hundred yards distant. After shooting
Ed Watson, angry residents of Chokoloskee
had towed his body out here behind a boat
and buried it on the beach. When
the sheriff arrived several days later they
dug Watson up and put him into
a coffin that is buried today in Fort Myers.
The coroner dug some thirty-
plus bullets out of Watson, and didn't even
count all the buckshot but they
allowed as how Watson leaked pretty bad. Nobody,
incidentally, seemed to
know exactly WHO shot thirty or more different
calibers and types of
bullets into Watson and no one was ever prosecuted.
Perhaps he shot
himself with an entire armory and then swam
out to Rabbit Key.
I tacked out into the Gulf in a light breeze
and sighted Pavilion Key, where
I planned to stop for the night. The breeze
dwindled as I made my way
southeast, the mangrove shoreline to my left,
the flat Gulf to my right. I
spotted a canoe even farther out than I was
and dropped off the wind to
move out to meet it. I found a couple paddling
south toward Flamingo, 99
miles from Ev. City down the Wilderness Waterway.
They had decided to
try the offshore route so long as the Gulf
stayed flat. They of course
wanted to look the Sea Pearl over and admired
the idea of a sailboat that
could go "gunkholing" into the everglades.
When our chat ended, they paddled off
toward Pavilion Key and I sat there.
The wind had died entirely. It's just the
shift-over from land breeze to sea
breeze, I told myself. An hour later I was
still telling myself this but I
was starting to disbelieve it.
I got out the
oars and started rowing.
Pavilion Key was about two miles off and after
a half-hour or so a nice
squall appeared. I laid the oars on the deck
and gratefully sailed into the
squall. This is great, I said. Too much wind
and I can't see a thing for all
the rain, but at least I'm making progress
so long as I stay on this
southeast tack.
When the squall blew away I was facing northwest
and headed full-tilt
back toward Ev. City. I'd forgotten that inside
squalls, the wind "clocks" completely
around. Maybe I could use that compass after
all. I got out the oars, cheered by the knowledge
that I had farther to row now than before
the squall. I crawled into Pavilion Key about
sunset.
Pavilion Key is really a large lagoon surrounded
by a half-dozen islands,
but the whole still fairly open. The name
dates to the time in the early
1800s when a pirate poisoned a female captive
and left her to die on this
island, under a palm-thatch lean-to he had
built for shelter. Caught a few
miles away by the U.S. Navy he protested that
he had built the woman a "pavilion" for her death-bower and
was due leniency for his display of
thoughtfulness. The navy promptly hanged him.
What they did with the
woman's body, I don't know.
A half-dozen canoes were drawn up on
the beach and dome tents had
popped up like multi-colored mushrooms. I
stopped in briefly to visit with
my new-found friends and to use the toilet,
then rowed away and anchored
behind Dog Key in what I felt was a strategic
locale, open to the wind but
protected from the seas by an oyster bar.
You're not required to sign in at the ranger
station if you don't plan to use
the camp sites. No squabbling over the few
slots (Pavilion Key is one of
the few large sites in the park). This tent-on-a-boat
concept is great too
because you can avoid most bugs by anchoring
away from shore and also
because your tent automatically aims itself
into the wind, so that you
always get the breeze through the front screen.
The wind that night gusted to about 30 knots
but the Sea Pearl rode this
out pretty well and the 15-pound Bruce anchor
worked fine. The wind was
still about 15 out of the southeast when I
got underway at 8 the next
morning. Today all I needed to do was to get
to the mouth of Lostman's
River, farther down the coast. Off I went,
the inward tacks led into calm
waters and I would sail in until I would see
bottom. The outward tacks
were into increasingly choppy water. I usually
time my tacks because
otherwise I have a tendency to give up too
soon.
I soon passed Storter Bay, the outlet for
both the Huston River and the
Chatham River. Watson's sugar-cane farm was
up the latter, and is today a
park service campsite, still decorated with
odd bits of machinery and the
foundations of Watson's house. I continued
south, paying very close
attention to landmarks--of which there are
precious few here--because
it's a lot harder to see these things from
offshore in a relatively fast-
moving sailboat than up close and personal
in a canoe.
I reached Lostman's River about four
and snaked my way in through an
oyster-bar-studded entrance. One of the old
residents had built a cabin on
the bank at the entrance and the park service
had once used it as a ranger
station. But the rangers complained about
the lonely duty and today the
station is abandoned, only a short radio tower
still in use and that only to
relay a tidal-gauge signal from farther up
the river.
I had planned to anchor behind the island
that spans the mouth of the bay
here. This is where Ed Watson murdered a young
couple because they would
not get off his property--or not quick enough.
Property rights were
subject to debate in those days. Watson was
a stickler for his legal rights
which seemed to include the right to kill
anyone who disagreed with him
or even wanted a paycheck for a month spent
in Watson's island cane
fields. His retirement policy was a bullet
in the head and some scrap iron
tied to your feet. He was so sloppy about
the latter that at least four
bodies bobbed up to be recovered by passing
locals. But I had an hour before sunset
and you can make good progress in an hour
if the wind is right. I sailed in past the
entrance and up the river, mostly
on a reach or broad reach. Up here the water
was fresher from all the rain
we have had this winter and some alligators
had ventured into the
usually-salty estuary. The wind stayed good
and I kept going, all the way
inland to Onion Key Bay and right across it
into a small bay with a narrow
entrance and one tiny island in the center.
Perfect. One alligator cruised
back and forth across the entrance like an
armored gunboat.
I anchored almost dead-center in the bay,
slightly closer to the upwind
side, paying attention to getting a long downwind
span clear of any trees.
Mosquitoes don't hunt you by sight, but by
smell, and especially exhaled
carbon dioxide. So the farther they have to
fly against the breeze to reach
you the less likely they are to make it. Nevertheless,
shortly after sunset
the first few mosquitos arrived, panting from
their long trip and looking
very thirsty. I put up the tent and retired
therein, using the rowing seat as
a table to eat on and read a book on. The
light, of course, also attracted
mosquitos and soon I had a few more inquisitive
snouts poked in through
the mesh. But the even worse plague--the tiny
flies we call "no-see-ums"-
-couldn't make it against the wind at all. In
the morning I ate breakfast with gusto. Today
was payback time.
The
wind was still from the south and today I
would be going back, and going
back through the inner bays and islands, a
downhill run all the way. Off I went,
downwind, boards up, sometimes rudder up too.
Onion Key Bay, then through the narrow pass into
Two Island Bay (apparently so named
because it's one of the few bays that has
NO islands in it). At Lostman's
Five Bay I pulled up at the campsite there
to use the porta-potty. This
campsite was no more than a wet bog about
20 feet square. In drier times
it might be better but I doubt it. I was afraid
to explore much into the
trees because I knew that once off the sunlit
dock and landing, about ten
gazillion mosquitos were wondering about lunch.
I cannot tell you how
good it was to have my own portable campsite
and not have to rely on
these pitiful protrusions above the high-tide
line. This place would be a
misery at night. In fact the ground was so
wet I'd probably have slept on
the dock. Of course the dock was rotting away
too, board by board. One of
the less-obvious instincts boaters develop
is to walk down old wood docks
on the nail-lines, so your weight is over
the stringers underneath. I forgot
for one incautious instant.
When I left there
was one less board than when
I had arrived.
In the next small creek I heard a familiar
thumping, as if a Trinidad steel
drum band was approaching. Then voices, one
of which--a woman's--
exclaimed "Hey-a sailboat!" In here!." They
could see my sails above the
trees, I guess. Around the corner came a party,
several aluminum canoes
powered by people who think you need to end
every stroke with a bang on
the side of the boat for luck. We all stopped
to chat a moment. They were
two couples on their way to Flamingo, with
two days behind them and six
to eight before them. They liked the Sea Pearl
but one of the men opined
that paddling was better. I didn't say that
I had thought the same thing for
ten years or more and only recently had wised
up. But his companion
turned to him and said, "We have six
more days to go in this thing? You're
nuts." I decided to move on before things
got more noisy.
I had, in times past, stayed at my next
stop, just through the narrow creek
into Plate Creek Bay. There the park service
had built a chickee, a wooden
platform and dock standing in the water. I
stopped only to try my skill at
coming up to the dock without dropping sail.
I prefer chickees because
they are usually less buggy and of course,
there is no sand to get into
everything.
A side benefit of Hurricane Andrew
in 1991 was all-new
chickees. Andrew blew all the old ones away
toward Mexico. All the old,
commercial-built, porta-potties fetched up
somewhere in the mangroves
too and the new ones, which are specially
built for the park service. No smell,
ample toilet paper, room to dress or change
clothes,
and self-composting. The old ones needed emptying
and one of the more
odious and odorous ranger jobs was "honey-bucket
patrol" in a big Boston
Whaler with a tank and a pump. I moved
on to what I knew would be my first real challenge
of the day. Plate Creek is narrow. In a canoe
it's wonderful. In a Sea Pearl, it's too
much of a good thing. Or too little. I sailed
in, lost the wind, and soon
thought it wise to furl the sails lest I tear
them on the tree branches. I
rowed but soon it became too narrow for the
oars. I used a canoe paddle
where I could, a long bamboo pole where I
could use that, and did a lot of
hauling myself along by tree branches. All
this was greatly hindered by the
fact that I still had the masts up and was
too dumb to get them down.
Finally I got hung with a tree limb between
the two masts and so far as I
could see, not enough room to swing either
bow to stern enough to clear
the rear mast. I was getting hot and frustrated
and on top of everything,
the tide was running against me. I eyed the
offending branch. It didn't look
all that sturdy and it was just out of my
reach. What the heck, I asked
myself. What else could possibly go wrong?
I jumped for the branch, got a
good grip on it, and sure enough it broke
off and came down. I felt a great
pain in one of my fingers which also seemed
to be attached to the branch. I
know--you fishermen out there are all chuckling,
you little booby-
trappers. Sure enough, there was a fishhook
wrapped around the branch all
these years and now the fishhook was stuck
in ME. Now there is a school of
thought about this. Push the hook on through,
they say, rather than trying
to back it out against the barb. Yeah, right.
I yanked that sucker out. I
couldn't recall the last time I'd had a tetanus
shot so the more blood the
better.
As soon as I had the finger under control
I took down the masts and
continued my pushme-pullyou trip through Plate
Creek. This of course only
leads to Dads Bay and then Alligator Bay and
the latter only leads to
Alligator Creek--narrower and longer than
Plate Creek. But now I had the
system--such as it was--down. I also made
a vow to get a motor of some
sort for situations like this. I've since
invested in a 52-pound-thrust
electric. Ahhh. Out of Alligator Creek
and into Tarpon Bay I put up the masts for
good, spread the Sea Pearl's wings and away
we went. It was a real
sleighride. Around the corner and into Cannon
Bay. Out of Cannon Bay
through a maze of small islands and past Opossum
Key, another camp site
and the former home of an insane French ornithologist
named Jean
Chevelier. Chevelier died one day when Ed
Watson came up the Chatham
River to discuss property rights with him.
Watson claimed Chevelier had
died of old age right before his eyes but
others said looking at Watson
tended to age a man fast.
Beyond Opossum Key I entered Chevelier Bay
and the Sea Pearl actually
lifted onto a plane for a moment, skimming
across the surface like a
racing daysailer. A powerboat came out of
the islands behind me and
gradually overtook me at about the halfway
point, where I nipped around a
dogleg, lost the wind for a moment, then picked
up again. The wind was
strengthening for sure. The boat had a father-son
team, and was the first
powerboat I had seen back here all day, though
so long as you follow the
intracoastal markers--which I was doing--you
normally see boats every
hour or so.
Chatham River drains both Chevalier Bay and
Last Huston Bay and as I
crossed from one bay to the other the wind
whipped up the reach of the
river and threatened to bowl me over. But
I had anticipated that and just
luffed as needed for the few minutes I was
exposed. By now it was mid-afternoon
and as I skimmed across Last Huston Bay and
Huston Bay I looked at the chart. Where to
camp overnight? I decided on a spot in Oyster
Bay. Oyster Bay flew past and I decided, no,
I'd camp in Sunday Bay. Sunday Bay came and
went and I sailed off on a tangent into
Cross Bays and missed the exit into Lopez
River--the first time I had
missed a turn in three days.
Now this is rather
ironic: Around 1971 I was
the first "tourist" to use the Cross
Bays-Hurddles Creek passage through
from Lopez River to the Turner River. The
rangers took me to the city hall
to borrow a photocopy machine and they gave
me a copy of a hand-drawn
map for that stretch and told me to look for
the pieces of cloth they had
tied to branches along the way. I recall rowing
a small rowboat as far as I
could row, then laying on my back and pulling
myself along by the
overarching mangroves just inches above the
gunwales.
Today, thanks to
lots of boat traffic and tidal surge, the
channel is wide enough for anyone.
Well, I thought, I'll sail down the Lopez
River and camp near the mouth, in
Chokoloskee Bay. Off I went, now having to
tack and do so across a mud
"bar" that runs lengthwise up the
center of the river. The sun was setting
and the wind dying too. After an hour or more
of this annoying short-
tacking--then board up for the bar--then board
down--then repeat, I
reached the mouth of Lopez River. The sun
set and the wind gave out
entirely and I unshipped the oars.
This is where I had decided to camp but now
a strange passion overcame
me. I saw a vision and the vision was of an
Arby's mocha shake. And there
was an Arby's at exit 23 on Interstate-75.
I rowed around some islands
and in the distance could see the rooftops
of the homes on Chokoloskee
Island. It got dark and still and I kept rowing,
sucked onward by that
mocha shake.
Finally, at about eight at night
I rowed up to the boat ramp. A
gaggle of tourists poured out of a neighboring
trailer park and helped me
with lights, lines and plenty of advice. They
had seen me rowing across
the bay and wanted to know all about this
sailboat that could sail in the
mud. I treated myself to a sponge-bath
in the trailer park's restroom and put on
the clean clothes and dry shoes I had left
in my car. Smart me. And off I
went, heading for Tampa by way of Exit 23
and that Arby's mocha shake.
Marine Concepts ,
243 Anclote Road , Tarpon
Springs, FL 34689 , 800.881.1525
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