TAKEN BY STORM

Lake Worth, Palm Beach, FL N 26º 45.964 | W 80º 2.667

A lightning-filled squall chasing us into Nassau.

If you read our logbook for the past two months, it tells a lovely story, island hopping through the Berrys and Exumas. Perfect destinations that evoke turquoise dreams. And that is a true story.

If you look at our beautiful photos, the story is a little different. It was a turbulent weather season in the Bahamas this spring, with storm fronts constantly on the move. We had less than 10 days where the weather didn't dictate our movement.

We ducked into the all-around protection of Warderick Wells so many times, we started calling the entrance our driveway. Fortunately for us, it's one of our favorite spots in the northern Exumas and offers calm nights and lots of activities no matter the weather.

Squall line north of Warderick Wells.

The weather gurus kept predicting an end to the storm fronts.

"Next week, we'll start getting settled weather..."

The squall that chased us from Hawksbill to Shroud Cay.

We eventually got weary of rolly anchorages and the high stakes running dodge, so we decided to head back to Florida, where it's easier to find protection.

On our way from the northern Exumas to Nassau, a squall stalked us. I thought I was outrunning it, but I think it just fell apart.

Then on our ride north, the New Providence Channel was all bumpy from gusty wind the day before. On our first attempt at crossing to the U.S., we went north off the bank at Great Harbor and turned back rather than facing unpredicted 20-knot wind and annoying swell.

The next day, we sailed west instead of north, across the Bahama Bank in lovely following wind and seas topped by a riot of stars and a bright swath of Milky Way.

By dawn, we left the bank and entered a confused Gulf Stream where rolling swell, 4 to 6 feet, came at us from behind and on the starboard side. There was not enough wind to keep us stable, but for the Gulf Stream, it was not so bad.

As we approached our destination, Lake Worth, the weather reared its head again. Squalls surrounded us on all four sides.

When I looked to starboard and saw a waterspout, I screamed right out loud, "PLEASE, JUST LET US PASS!!!"

Waterspout dropping from the clouds.

Oddly, old Mom Nature listened. One of the squalls dissipated and the others skittered off.

There was but one more bit of weather before we ducked safely into inland waters.

As we came within 10 miles of the Lake Worth Inlet, an offshore squall kicked the wind up from the east. At the inlet it was pushing the water into big 6-foot rollers marching in at short intervals on an incoming tide. Had we missed our target arrival time, the tide would have turned, leaving us to stand off until either the water laid down or the tide turned again.

Instead, we rode in at a galloping trot and finally dropped anchor just inside the inlet on a perfectly smooth Lake Worth.

We live at Mother Nature's whim, and sometimes she's a harsh mistress. But on her good days, she's such a charmer. She blessed us with many perfect days to explore new islands with friends old and new. Photos to come!

One last volley at Great Harbor the night before we left.

BLOW HO HO

White Cay, Berry Islands, Bahamas

"Be sure you're tucked in somewhere with west protection by sunset," weather guru Chris Parker said ominously on the SSB as we sat anchored in water wide open to the west.

Okay, 'wide open' is not quite correct. We were surrounded by flats, which break up any big swell, but do nothing about the wind.

The forecast was for a front to swoop through just after sunset (why always at night) kicking up 20-knot wind with periodic nasty squalls. The blow would end by noon the following day.

We looked at our options, debated and decided to reanchor a little further out and sit it out.

It wasn't a decision we were thrilled with but neither was it scary. Should the anchor give way, we would be blown toward sand, not rocks, and we would spend the night ready to pounce, get the anchor up and motor to safety. Not really relaxing but not dangerous either.

When I went forward to lift the anchor to move, I could see through the crystal water that our chain was wrapped and wrapped around a huge-ass rock. Very disconcerting.

I pointed, Chip turned the boat, I reeled in chain. We overshot, backed up and, what?!?! The chain was free. A pre-storm miracle.

We hunted and pecked around for almost an hour trying to find an ideal spot to anchor, no grass, good bit of sand, deep enough water in a 300-foot circumference so we could swing on anchor.

Finally at rest, some Bahamian fishermen motored up just before sunset and gave us a grouper in exchange for two beers.

"Do you think we'll have a big storm tonight?" I asked, assuming fishermen were good weathermen.

"Oh, no. We'll have a beautiful night," he said.

Bahamian fishermen v. Chris Parker. Any wagers?

Sure enough, we could see the front coming toward on the waning sunlight. As darkness fell, the wind kicked up.

There it is! Maybe it will pass north of us?

By midnight it was howling, and we were getting quite a ride on short, choppy water.

I lay in the v-berth going over my anchor drill, puzzling over how I would release both the snubbers, how much chain I would pull in before checking to see if it was piling up wrong (we had 125 feet out). I pondered how in the heck we would find a patch of sand in the dead of night when it had taken us 45 minutes to find one in the daylight.

The tide shifted around 2 a.m. putting the anchor against both wind and current. The snubbers groaned and the wind howled, but the anchor held. Every 30 minutes I opened up Navionics on the iPad to check our position. Our anchor held beautifully.

There was little sleep and a little nausea but nothing to report.

Would I do that again? Probably not. We were lucky that we didn't have squalls. Marsh Harbor to the north got a 50-knot squall with rain, lightning and hail. Eek.

Chris Parker: 1
Fishermen: 0

We rested today and are ready to sail south to Nassau. The farther south we get, the calmer the weather.

South! South!

An inland, saltwater blue hole.

Where some swam ....

... while others watched. Creepy.

ANOTHER DAY, GO OR NO?

White Cay, Berry Islands, Bahamas

We listened to the weather forecast early from our lonely Slaughter Harbor anchorage. We had a tiny 22-mile route to take, but the forecast was calling for squalls and sporadic high winds.

The sky looked unsettled and drippy, so we made coffee and waited.

About 10 a.m., Chip saw a boat leaving Great Harbor and entering the North East Channel where we wanted to go. It was two boats traveling together, and they reported calm conditions.

We lifted anchor at 10:55, and headed on the same path as yesterday, minus the Norwegian Pearl. The sky was overcast but looking milder. Boats all up and down the Berry Island chain chattered with us about the conditions and relayed messages between us and Jessie Marie.

Our conservative plan was to duck into Petit Cay if it looked squally, but a catamaran heading north reported beautiful conditions south toward our destination, White Cay.

The wind was settling into a beautiful westerly. We sailed along on 'another day' on calm-ish seas and pulled into the remote White Cay at 3:18 for a happy reunion with Karen and Dale.

Cara Mia and Jessie Marie are once again anchored side by each.

HURRICANE PREP

Brunswick, GA

Okay, that hurricane prep list is not going to be so long.

Here's what we've done:

Remove jib from furler
Removed jib sheets (and washed them)
Removed staysail
Tied down furlers (so they won't get blown up the stay)
Tied the furlers so the top piece can't spin
Pinned the bottom part of furlers, so they can't turn
Tied the main with sail ties under the sail cover
Tied the main outside the sail cover
Secured the dinghy on the davits and emptied it
Doubled up the dock lines

Things we didn't do:

Remove the main
We've been through two hurricanes with this boat, once taking off the main. Leaving it on wasn't bad. I did a survey of boats docked here and see that very few have taken off the main. Then I talked to Sherry in the office, who says we shouldn't worry much at all. They never have storms here. Knock on wood. If there's a storm coming while we're here, we might rethink this.

Remove the canvas
What?!?!? Yes, we are leaving our new Bimini and dodger on. If a storm is headed this way, the marina will take it off for us. Therefore, we can get the good sun and UV protection for the cockpit and maybe keep the cabin a little cooler, especially since we will be able to leave our two tiny hatches below the dodger open.

It seems the longer list is the one for leaving the boat. That list to come!

DID THEY MAKE IT?

Brunswick, GA 31º9.270N | 81º29.975W

If you've "liked" our ploddingINparadise Facebook page, you already know the answer to that, but here's the story:

When I flew back to Ft. Lauderdale from New Mexico back in May, I had a fantasy about west wind and glassy seas allowing us to make a 3-day offshore passage all the way to the Georgia border. My fantasy was fully realized only, as usual, I didn't have the foresight to wish for everything. I forgot to hope for west wind and glassy seas with NO SQUALLS. We've had an amazingly long spell of offshore west wind, but the actual weather has been nasty. We couldn't make a single offshore hop in the last three weeks. If you've been reading, you know our last few days have been trying weatherwise. And then there was today.

First, can I just say, my husband is awesome. I'll tell you one of the many reasons later.

Second, finally, the weather prediction was right about last night.

To review, we were anchored in a narrow creek in shallow water with no real wind protection and not enough anchor chain, which means at any moment we could have been adrift, requiring us to throw on foulies, start the engine, and re-anchor in the dead black of night. All was well until about 11 p.m. when the howling wind woke us up as a big squall came rushing down Shellbine Creek. Chip checked the wind indicator, and it was clocking in the mid 20s, gusting higher. It always sounds worse at night.

To make things more nerve-jangling, this nasty squall hit right at high (6-foot) tide, the optimal time for our short anchor chain to be vulnerable. We both prowled around looking out hatches to see if we were dragging, but in the pitch black, there were only two points of reference, the flashing green mark at the east end of the creek and the anchor light of another anchored boat in an adjacent creek (assuming they weren't dragging). Under full cloud cover and pouring rain, it was hard to judge. The iPad offered some reassurance, showing our exact location on the chart using GPS. That awesome Georgia mud and our Delta anchor were sticking together.

That first squall lasted about an hour, and thankfully had no lightning. We went back to sleep and were wakened once again at 2:15 by the howling wind. Another squall, this one bigger and more enduring. In fact, the wind didn't actually let up this time.

Before going to bed, we had studied the tide and current charts to make our plan for crossing the dreaded Saint Andrew's Sound. For the last week, mornings have been relatively squall-free, so we decided to shoot for low tide, an early morning dash. Not ideal, but nothing has been ideal the last few days. Done is better than ideal.

The alarm went off at 5:45 before the predawn haze. We raised the anchor at 6:15 just before the sun rose on several inauspicious signs. First, when I was raising the anchor with the windlass, the voltage dropped so low that we lost power briefly. Then, once the anchor was up, Chip threw the throttle forward, but nothing happened. We were aground. The rising water or luck or something changed, and then we moved. For folks who look for signs, this was not a good start. I took the helm for the first shift and headed to the end of the creek toward that flashing green mark we used to reassure ourselves that we weren't dragging anchor in the dead of night.

As I turned out of the creek, toward the Sound, it was into the face of 25 knots of wind and surprisingly big swell, shocking really, coming straight at us, much larger than yesterday. I hadn't seen Cara Mia hobby horse like that since the Tongue of the Ocean in the Bahamas. I was at the helm, and I only got about a quarter mile before I turned back. We dropped anchor in the same spot, despondent and exhausted.

I emailed our friend G.W. to see if he could make sense of this "10-15 knots with light chop" situation, which was in fact 20-25 with 6-8 foot swell -- before we even reached the open water. I asked if he could tell where it was headed using his weather resources. Would it move out today? Tomorrow?

He had mentioned the day before that there was an alternate route across the Sound, so I started investigating.

In that chart above, the common route is the one on the right, heading right out under the ocean's skirt. The wind had been blowing in the 20s from the northeast for at least 24 hours, which means the swell had plenty of time to build.

We were anchored at A2 in Shellbine Creek. The red line on the left is the alternate route through Floyd Creek, a reportedly shallow, shoaly passage.

High tide was at 1:00, so if there was any chance to make it through Floyd, we would need to leave soon after 10 to ensure we made it through on a rising tide (so if we ran aground, water was on the way to lift us off). We synchronized our watches, set the alarm for 10 a.m. and went to sleep.

At 10, Chip hailed for local knowledge on Channel 16. A tugboat captain volunteered that it was bad in St. Andrew's, and he himself found the swell too big and was ditching through Floyd. Another sailboat hailed us to say they were out in the Sound at that moment making the turn between the shoals fielding 6-8 foot rollers on the beam.

Yeah, no thanks.

We were surprised to hear from that boat, because it was one of the ones we assumed had crossed yesterday when we had turned back. They too felt conditions were iffy, but they anchored with several other boats in the spot that we felt was too exposed. They reported a dreadful night with anchors dragging and tangling, big swell, miserable. At least we made one good choice, although deep in the night, with a squall bearing down, I wondered if we should have buckled down and pushed through the Sound. If so, we would have been tucked safely in a marina slip in Brunswick ... in a marina slip in Brunswick ... in a marina slip in Brunswick.

With real-time reports from the Sound, we made our decision to go through the backwaters of Floyd, I checked my email and found corroborating info on the weather  and the viability of Floyd Creek from G.W., so, once again, we raised the anchor and headed out. It had stopped raining and the sky to the north was encouragingly bright. Chip took the first shift and as we headed again out of Shellbine Creek, dolphins surfaced all around us. Mm hmm, that's what I'm talkin' about, a good omen.

As we headed toward the first curve in Floyd, that tugboat captain who advised us earlier came barreling toward us. He was even bigger than we imagined:

If he thought the swell was too big, we had no business messing about there either.

While Chip wormed us through the winding creek, I went below to stow, anticipating big swell in the open Sound, because even though we weren't going out to the tip, we still had to cross it further inland. Floyd turned out to be lovely and not particularly shallow. Chip never saw less than 10 feet at high tide, so most boats could pass at high tide with no problem.

We rounded into the Sound right at noon, an hour short of slack (unmoving) tide and could feel the swell. With an hour of tide still coming in, it was slow going through 5-6 foot swell, but we could hug the south side of the Sound until it lessened. Then we had to cross.

Guess who's watch came just before the crossing? Yes. Why me?

This is the part where I can tell you how awesome Chip is: He volunteered to take my watch all the way across. Perhaps he was really just guarding against my turning back a third time (!), but I loved him for it. Really, he felt bad that this entire week I've been drawing the bad shifts. He knew my nerves were frazzled, and he was being heroically nice. Thanks, Chip.

When you're in rolly conditions, the GPS takes a long time to react to the movement, so if you're accustomed to solely navigating by looking at the computer screen, well, no good. I used the binoculars to spot bouncing marks that weren't bouncing but looked like they were in the bumpy water. I used the iPad and its GPS to make sure we were on track.

Chip steered us smoothly in the big swell, which kept moderating as we made the 5-mile trek down the Sound. By the time we reached the tip of Jekyll, it was down to big chop (fine, we'll take it).

We made an easy pass inside of Jekyll and turned west, thrilled to approach the bridge in Brunswick.

We were feeling transcendent. Smooth water, sun. The only other blip on our horizon was this:

Two adolescent girls in incredibly tiny sailboats, far out in the Brunswick River. Not such a big deal except that the tide had turned on them, moving swiftly out to sea. Even we were slogging against it in our big boat with an engine. They were struggling.

I hailed the Coast Guard to make sure someone knew they were out there. The Coast Guard had a boat nearby and went to investigate.

And, at long last, we headed up the channel to our new home under sunny skies and only a breath of wind. We glided into our slip, turned off the engine and, just to make this day a little more emotion-packed, we drank a toast to my old friend, Dale, gone now too long to be believed.

Dale's commemorative wine.

The lesson here: Don't take the ICW lightly. This week dealt us some real challenges. When you go out on the water, you have to be ready for whatever awaits.

We've fielded everything thrown at us and arrived, safe, tired and happy, at peace in Brunswick.

Georgia -- and Paris -- on our minds.

CONTINUING SAGA

Shellbine Creek, GA 30º54.770N | 81º29.663W

This morning dawned overcast and spitting rain, but we have a bead on Brunswick, only 30 miles north, our final stop for the next few months as we hunker down the boat for hurricane season and prepare for our month in Paris. Let's just say, with all the weather challenges of the last few days, tucking into a quiet, safe marina sounded like paradise.

We lifted the anchor and pulled across the channel for a fuel-up when they opened at 7 a.m. Are manatees good luck? Not sure, but it was thrilling to watch this gentle, whale-like manatee having a little spa moment in the warm runoff from our exhaust.

Ah, warm water.

Off we went, optimistic and fixated on free laundry and hot showers. Rounding the northern end of Amelia Island, at the St. Mary's inlet, the clouds were making a beautiful display beyond the fort.

But the reason they were so dramatic is that a stationary front has been sticking like velcro across the Georgia-Florida border, causing wind, rain, squalls and a puzzle for the weather predictors, who keep getting it wrong, wrong, wrong. We desperately wanted to get north of the ridge, and we weren't the only ones. We spoke to several other boats along the way who were on the same mission.

It was with a certain sense of foreboding that I looked north at the dark clouds, a backdrop for an equally foreboding nuclear power plant. Soon it was raining. Then it was pouring. We kept plodding. At least it wasn't blowing. Yet.

Today's hurdle, and the last real obstacle between us and Brunswick: St. Andrew's Sound, at the northern tip of Cumberland Island (the lower right tip on that chart) and Jekyll Island just to the north. The first time we traversed St. Andrew's, I was shocked that the "intracoastal waterway" took us basically out into the ocean, through shallow water between two shoals. We have passed that way twice, both times it was like gliding on glass.

As we inched our way north, it was apparent that the Sound would not be glassy. The wind started picking up from the northeast, which would leave that Sound terribly exposed. (Outer Bankers: Imagine the Albemarle Sound open to the ocean with a stiff northeast wind.) The wind had just clocked around from the west, so perhaps, just perhaps, the swell hadn't had time to build up.

My shift came up as we were approaching the Sound (of course, sigh), just as the Cumberland River was widening.

We were almost to A1 on that map, which is an anchorage inside Cumberland Island.

Dark clouds ahead.

Let's review: We are approaching an exposed sound. The wind is now a steady 25, gusting higher. It's pouring rain. Visibility is bad. The heavy swell is already starting.

Here's the soundtrack going through my head:
--I used up a good amount of boat karma getting through the St. John's River yesterday.
--We just fueled up, and if, on the off-chance, we got bad fuel, getting tossed around in the sound would mean dead engine.
--Brunswick and safe harbor is only 20 miles away! Can you just please, please let us through?
--Anchorages available are okay, but squalls are predicted overnight.
--Will tomorrow -- or the day after -- be any better?
--The Cumberland anchorage on the southern tip of the island is well protected but at least two hours behind us.
--AAAAARRGGHHHHHH!

To add further to the frustration, the weather prediction had been for 10-15 knot wind and light chop, so it's not like we chose this.

I was at the helm, and on our boat, whoever is helming is captain. After rolling all the options around in my head for awhile, I chose the toughest option of all: I turned the boat around. It's defeating. You know you're backtracking, and to add further to the defeat and second-guessing, other boats were going on ahead. (That used to bother me a lot more than it does now. Let them have the crappy conditions.) The bottom line: we're supposed to be having fun. Unfortunately, 'fun' wasn't available in any of our bad options at that point.

We had an extended discussion about the anchorage marked A1. Coincidentally, we had tried to anchor there two years ago and didn't like it, even in fair weather. Instead we went back a tedious two miles, 45 minutes, to Shellbine Creek, on the lower left of the chart above and here's a closeup.

We anchored above the green one, about where the 9 is.

Looking at the chart, you think, oh, that will be so protected, but that's the first lesson we learned about Georgia anchorages two years ago: they are in marshland. Shellbine is a little creek running through marsh grass. No trees, hills, nothing. So, no wind block and very narrow, but good old Georgia mud that swallows the anchor like quicksand.

We found a spot in the creek that was only six feet deep at low tide, which helped our anchor chain ratio (supposed to be up to 10 times the depth, especially in heavy weather). With the creek being so narrow, we could only put out about 70 feet of chain, and, get this: six feet of tide, which would put us in 12 feet of water with only 70 feet of chain with wind in the mid 20s and squalls predicted overnight. The best I could do was put out extra snubber line (a rope hooked to the anchor chain that drops the pressure point well below the waterline, which helps the anchor to stay dug in).

The cushy night at a marina? Not tonight. Not for us. Could be a long one.

THE SHORT STICK

Fernandina Beach, FL 30º40.388N | 81º28.061W

"I'm good enough. I'm smart enough, and doggonit, people like me!" --Daily Affirmation with Stuart Smalley (Saturday Night Live)

Okay, today was not my best day. We trade off two-hour shifts at the helm when we're on the ICW. Today, somehow, I got all the "bad" shifts.

First, I was off watch when a big squall marched over us from behind. How is that bad? I took the helm while Chip wrestled with the jib, which we were taking down about 5 minutes too late. The lines got away and twangled all around each other, which required taking the boat out of gear in case we had lines in the water (lines can easily get tangled up in the prop). Fortunately the staysail was flying, and there was plenty of wind to keep us moving, 30 gusting to 35. It was pouring rain.

That's when I realized that in my rush to help above decks, I had left the salon hatch open -- with my laptop open right under it. Chip took the wheel, and I bolted below to close the hatch and assess the damage. The couch was soaked right up to about 6 inches before my laptop. Whew.

By that time, the wind had dropped down into the 20s, so I suited up and went forward to assess the jib sheet (ropes) situation.

I got them secured but not completely unwound. We trekked on, engine now running.

My shift came up, and I looked ahead to see how far we were from the dreaded St. John's River crossing. It's always nerve-wracking, because the current is swift, but now we had wind blowing with the current.

That chart shows the area we had to transit, the red line being our path. You basically skim through gushing water between a shoal and rocks, literally a rock and a hard place.

Of course, the St. John's came right before the end of my shift. Chip heroically offered to take over, but I am Woman, I won't whimper. I was nervous, but I knew I could handle it.

As I approached the river, I could feel the current pick us up. With the motor and staysail, we were going 6.6 kph, which is about 1.6 faster than normal. Then I faced a decision. I knew the wind would be pushing me to starboard (the right) toward the rocks. The current would also be pushing me strongly that way.

I decided to take down the sail.

My thought was this: It would have helped with forward momentum and traction in the water and been a good backup if something happened to the engine. However, first, it would also be pushing me toward the rocks and, second, I knew I would have to turn as much as 40 degrees to port to keep momentum away from the rocks. That would render the sail not only useless but send it flapping, adding stress and distraction at a key moment. I knew I would be tempted to turn off the wind to keep the sail from luffing, essentially taking my eye off the goal.

Was taking it down the right decision? I don't know.

I crept up to the crossing with a dry mouth, hoping it would be easier than anticipated. The wind was a steady 20-25 on the port beam. The current was cranking. I had to point almost upstream, directly into the wind, to keep forward progress without slipping toward the rocks.

I made it. I didn't like it.

The whole day was intense. Squalls, strong wind, crappy conditions. Watches were tense. We dropped anchor in Fernandina, one of our favorite towns, and didn't even go ashore.

It wasn't my best day, but I'm a good person. I'm a happy person, doggonit.

One more 30-mile trek to Brunswick tomorrow, and we are done with the flukey weather!

Your turn. What would you have done approaching the St. John's? Do you think I made the right decision? 

THE BRIDGED VERSION

Lake Worth, FL 26º50.357N | 80º03.238W

Impatient people should not be sailors. For traveling north, we had these two options:

1. Wait for a good weather window to go offshore. With a tropical storm developing east of Georgia, that might be a week. It might mean waiting two weeks, which requires a great deal of patience.
2. Start moving north on the ICW through the gauntlet of bridges in south Florida. The first day from Lake Sylvia to Lake Boca, we traveled 17 miles in 8 hours through 8 bridges, which requires immense patience.

Today's trip was much easier but still meant going through 11 bridges in 29.7 miles. We made it in 8 hours!

The first set of bridges yesterday opened on a time schedule, which is why it took so darned long. I don't know who decides the timing, but they certainly aren't sailors. We couldn't make it between bridges for the next opening and were often left to crawl at 2 knots or less to get there at the right time. If not, we had to do the bridge dance, idling, spinning, reversing until time for the bridge to open.

Today, the Friday before the Memorial Day weekend, was a good reminder of why we don't travel on the ICW on weekends, especially holiday weekends. In the afternoon, the amateurs started hitting the water on various types of watercraft, running around willy nilly, completely oblivious to the rules of the road.

I can remember using our warning horn only once in two years. Today I had to use it twice.

First, I was doing the idle dance, waiting for a bridge opening when a trawler passed under the bridge and pointed right at me. He kept coming closer and closer and closer. Getting our boat moving is akin to pushing a refrigerator still in its box. When the trawler was about 20 yards away and still pointed at me, I started honking and threw the boat into gear. He was coming at my port (left) side, so I had to decide in a flash whether to turn to port (without knowing if there was traffic coming around him and risking his overcorrection, turning INTO me) or turn to starboard where, fortunately, I had some deep water but would still be in his general path. I chose starboard when another horn blared from the power boat coming up behind me. He saw quickly what was happening and held off. The trawler slowed, but all three boats were within about 30 yards of each other. Not trusting the trawler, I did a 180 and headed south until he got his shit together and passed me.

About five miles later, near the Lake Worth inlet, a 25' fishing boat was coming at me at a good clip. When he got uncomfortably close, I laid on the horn as he just kept coming. This time, I had a shoal to starboard, nowhere to go. It appeared he had lost steerage (we saw him spinning his wheel) but didn't think to throttle down. He missed us by about 10 yards, maybe less.

Photo by Chip

Boy, was I happy to get the anchor down as more and more revelers came out (one waylaid by a police boat). We will be celebrating Memorial Day in the peace of our anchorage, back on the move Tuesday once everyone has gone back to their day jobs!

That tropical storm is gathering steam offshore, so, once again, we'll be trolling up the ICW. Only 7 bridges on our next leg -- and the successful completion of Florida's bridge challenge.

FROM HINKY TO HAPPY

Coconut Grove, Miami, FL 25º43.532N | 80º14.193W

Flying the PloddingINParadise colors!

Boating requires making quick decisions, and sometimes your options aren't great. I don't like anchoring where I get a hinky feeling, but that's what we did. When we blew into Biscayne Bay toward that ugly squall Saturday, we anchored outside of No Name Harbor where the X is here:

I was hoping to anchor in the upper left on that chart, tucked behind that little spit of land sticking out, but as we approached, the mega squall was passing right over "my" anchorage. So, we opted, wisely I think, not to motor into the lightning and rain but turn into the sunny channel, hoping the storm would fly on out and the light wind forecast for the night would hold true.

It was Saturday, amateur day on Florida waters. I actually heard a distress call on the VHF, and when the Coast Guard asked for the specifics of the vessel, the guy said, "I don't know. I just bought it today." With this in mind, we chose a remote spot far from the sketchy masses. Not 15 minutes later, another sailboat threw (literally) their anchor right in front of us, and we settled in for a long night.

The wind shifted unexpectedly to the west, putting us on a lee shore, giving us yet another thing to worry about: washing ashore. On the other hand, the other sailboat was no longer in front of us, so I guess it was a wash.

Fortunately the forecast was correct. The wind eased during the night giving us a few peaceful hours of rest before the sun came up, and the fishing boats came barreling through, full speed, 'waking' us up.

No worries. We knew they were coming and had already planned an early crossing to Coconut Grove Sailing Club across the bay. Karen and Dale (of the Good Ship Jessie Marie) were passing through Miami by train, and we had plans to meet them.

As I was hauling up the anchor, I was shocked to see that I was raising not an anchor but a big hairy sea monster, or was it just a clump of seaweed? When my monster surfaced, I spied something even more sinister: a line wrapped on the hook and trailing, solid as a rock, off to somewhere near shore.

I grabbed the camera and the boat hook and started wrangling with the line -- for 20 minutes before finally untwangling it.

Imagine if we were planning a wee hour launch to cross the Gulf Stream. That would have really been grim. Ugh. But no harm, good workout.

We happily waved goodbye to No Name and nestled into our sweet spot in Coconut Grove, with Jessica on Felicity waving us in, Dale and Karen waiting for us at our favorite Cuban coffee spot.

Hinky anchorage forgotten.

A neighborly welcome from Felicity's Jessica and Gia.

IN THE GROOVE

Miami, FL 25º40.386N | 80º9.79W

The three of us shook off our barnacles today, Cara Mia with a little help from Chip. We all performed with more agility.

But, remember that plan to leave in the wee hours and sail to Ft. Lauderdale? Well, barnacles are a good example of why sail plans are tentative. We knew the wind would be dying out today, requiring us to motor some. No way we wanted to do that with all those passengers slogging down the prop. So, with a later start, we couldn't make it to Fort Lauderdale.

Once clean, we sailed away from Rodriguez, Miami-bound, onto smooth water with a beautiful 15-knot breeze on our beam. That lasted about 90 minutes. Then it clocked behind us and dropped to 7-10.

Ah, well, we made good time motorsailing, drawing any power we could from the breeze, enjoying the beautiful turquoise water.

As we approached Miami, things got interesting in an uncomfortable way. The wind was behind us and light. A big swell started rolling in with the tide, rocking us around. I was resigned to rock and roll the last 15 miles, but Chip, who knows more about waves than I do, decided to outsmart them. He got us on a tack where we could ride them and keep the jib full. For my part, I used jib skills learned on the overnight to Charleston last fall, reefing the jib in light wind and giving it slack. For some reason, this helps it stay full. We rode the jib and the swell into Biscayne Bay just as this approached on the horizon:

The huge Miami skyline is somewhere in that dark cloud. It was gusting in the high teens as the squall was barreling right at us. We were hoofing it to an anchorage, when unexpectedly, the storm just stopped.

A happy surprise. We anchored without even a raindrop just outside No Name Harbor.

Such drama in the sky.

Our little salt farm.