Not the Bunny Hill

02/19/2021

Yesterday I assumed control of a 42 foot catamaran at a marina in Ft. Lauderdale. On board I have asked the crew to refer to me as the “apparent” Captain.

Our voyage began in Middle River, which lead us to the Inter-Coastal Waterway. It was a busy inlet filled with jets skiers, paddle boarders, water taxis, party boats, and cruisers. My only previous experience with the Inter-Coastal had been in a kayak, and I recall it not being my favorite in that it was roaring with wake from annoying motorboats.

New to a boat this size, with a diesel engine at the back of each hull, I learned to “tread water,” that is, keep the boat stationary while waiting for the drawbridge to open. With a 69-foot mast, bridges are not our friends. We traveled beneath two of them, learning the radio protocols, and learning to hold our place in line.

When at last we were underway we were headed directly into a stiff wind, and just as my sailing buddies in Canada had always told me, we were unable to raise our sails. I could hear them teasing me as we motored down the coast of Florida past mono-hulls under sail.

Our destination was No Name Harbor off of Biscayne Bay, but our late departure, and our bridge delays called for a change of plan. No Name Harbor has no lights, or services, and dwindling daylight forced our hand. I did not want to attempt our first anchoring in a strange place in the dark.

Sarah and Tyler kept a steady hand at the helm, holding a constant 7 knots, while we scrambled with charts and guidebooks down below. So glad to be in the company of John, who had served in the navy as a young man. He’s never been on a sailboat before—he was a pilot.

Together we learned a thing or two about navigation. 1 degree of latitude is a lot of distance, eh?

At one point an immature brown pelican alighted on our bow and caught a ride. I was in the galley when I heard screams of delight coming from the helm. When I went up to see what was going on, the giant bird looked back at me and winked. It knew we would be all right on this voyage.

We surveyed the shore with binoculars, looking for landmarks that would tell us where we were. I spotted the water tower of Hallandale Beach, which was exceedingly helpful.

I could hear the words of the yacht rental operator who said, “Always know where you are. This is not the Bunny Hill.”

With daylight fading we decided on Miami, heading straight into the main channel, amidst container ships and cruise liners the size of our town back home. We Googled, and called marinas looking for a slip that could take us. We finally found Yacht Grand Haven Marina, that had a spot free, but when we made a beeline for it the flashing blue lights of a Miami Dade police boat stopped us. They informed us that the channel was closed to leisure craft like ours. Having become experts at 180s and donuts in our dual engine craft, we turned to chart a new course.

Karen, the former attorney onboard, determined that the Yacht Grand Haven had recently changed its name from Island Garden Yachts. We put Julie on the radio. She has vast experience, as a realtor.

I’m not sure if it was a woman’s voice (she claimed she sounded pitiful), or providence—but when the police heard we were headed to a waiting slip at Island Garden, they did a 180 and provided us with an escort through the channel.

At dock we were about 100 feet smaller than every other boat in the place—our little catamaran looking like “one of these things is not like the other.”

Oh well. Wonderful dinner on the town. Wonderful night on board, and now to continue our voyage. Today we sail…