The one percent - storms and sentiment

We pulled over for the night at a random little town on the Intracoastal waterway in Florida for the night. Checked ‘Accuweather’ which is a clever little play on the word accurate. Hah. They reckoned we had between 1 and 7 percent chance of rain for the eve, overnight and morning. Pretty good odds for a dry peaceful night!

The eleven p.m. deluge was ok, didn’t last long and cleaned the boat. Right? Ok, so they got that one wrong.

At 6 am as I stood looking out at the dark grey angry mix of clouds and ocean, not able to see land, cringing at the incessant lightning bolts attacking the water surface, thunder assaulting my ears, rain rivaling the days of Noah… I was happy we were relatively safe in our little ‘ark’. I realised we must be that one percent!

And then, just like that, nature swung it all around and sucked it all away, and the morning sun poured in. Pours in now. In fact, I have to try to find a tiny corner in the boat where I can stop squinting and see my screen. It’s a life of extremes. In weather, in experiences, in emotions.

On the upside, we discovered a cute little town called Melbourne Beach that we had never stopped at before. Walked to the beach, found a family run grocery store that had wine tasting – hello! We liked that store a lot. 

Yesterday we were in a town further south. Tonight we will be in a town further north. Precisely 18 miles further north. We are not moving quickly. That’s not what ICW (Intracoastal waterway) travel is all about. The moving, the trawling (because it’s definitely NOT sailing!) is actually quite boring. Navigate a very narrow channel through a wide expanse of shallows, lined with mansions, shacks, trailer parks. The water is brown. But it’s full of dolphins and fish and crabs and shrimps and pelicans duck and dive around us. They provide the entertainment for the trip.

What the Intracoastal waterway provides, is the chance to peek into all the little towns that line the shores. 

It’s an open ended adventure. We accept the challenge. It’s been a while. Haven’t been on these waters in three years! Last year Shiloh waited patiently for us in the Bahamas, the year before that we also kept her in Georgetown in the hurricane season and missed this part of the yearly migration.

We should be up in St Augustine in a couple weeks. Shiloh needs a good bottom cleaning and some systems checked. So we will haul her out and leave her on stilts for a few months, fingers crossed there will be no major hurricanes. In the meantime, we seem to be the only cruisers left out on the water. All the boats are tucked up into marinas, clinging to that false security of ‘protection’ from the storms. We all know there is really no such thing. When a hurricane comes barreling at you, there is no prep that is going to save you. It’s a sobering thought. When Irma hit the BVI’s in 2017, the massive fleet of Moorings boats had been tied up and stored with meticulous attention to detail and safety. In the aftermath of Irma, the photos showed chaos, carnage. Boats strung across the island, crushed, shattered, sunk, upside down on hills…they lost 95% of their fleet.

Right, so this is fun! No really, it is. Boat life in this part of the world does carry with it some serious risks, but nothing good in life ever comes without risk.

Boat life has been so much more than the storms and risky endeavours. It has opened up a world of opportunity to meet and embrace the most amazing people. Literally. We have made so many friends who are family. Friends from everywhere who we meet anywhere and pick up where we left off.

We've traded the remoteness and turquoise waters of the Bahamas for Walmarts and FM radio stations and cheap gas. But this trip up the ICW is full of reunions and meet ups and catch ups and it is the gel that pulls together everything we do, and why we do it. Boating has brought us a richer life with a tapestry of people that have forever changed and enriched us.

Maybe in terms of luck, we really are ARE the one percent!

Of luck and lateness and launches...

My eyeballs are pressed deeply into black rubber, protruding slightly toward the scene. As if I could perhaps tip right into the launch pad if I pressed the binocs into my face a little harder.

My elbows resting on the cool concrete of this beachfront condo roof, I am a million miles away, consumed by what unfolds before me. The voices of the other ‘observers’ around me fall away, lost in the nip of the evening breeze. For me this has become a personal show. A rocket is about to launch.

And as the cajoling and countdown subside, it takes over the world in a firelit spectacle. Millions of dollars and planning hours burst into the sky and head into space as a curly cloud of smoke lingers behind. A minute later the low rumbling of the take off hits our astounded ears.

We are ‘stuck’ in Cocoa Village Florida. The boat is sick. One of our two well used engines has been deemed dead. Irreparable. A transplant is necessary. And no one seems in too great of a hurry to get the replacement done. Once the reality sunk in that we actually needed a new engine, and choked down the horrendous ‘cruising kitty crushing’ cost, we were ready to have it over with and move on. Move south.

But two days have become two weeks and we have long overstayed our welcome on the free public dock. Our cabin/bedroom/engine room is a workshop of broken engine parts and our mattresses line the hull/hallway while we wait. And wait…

Our buddy boat had to bid us farewell and head further south, to meet up with others and continue the partying and reunions that we had planned. And each day we awake, wondering what this little town will have in store for us.

This morning we hatched a loose plan to catch the bus to the beach, take a nice long walk in the sunshine and take in some live music at an Irish fest.

By the evening we had met some amazing new friends, found ourselves in their gorgeous home sipping wine and eating organic wild boar that he had hunted himself, marinated in a rum barbecue sauce and served to us with some fresh baked Irish soda bread. We listened to music and planned the launch viewing up on their roof. 

This is our life. We make plans, things go wrong, then unexpected miracles happen. All the time. It is amazing and I will never take it for granted.

We arrived back on Shiloh after an epic Canadian road trip back in January with a plan to be out of the boatyard and into the Bahamas by the first week of February. But alas we are here, in central Florida in late March, sipping the richest café Americana at Ossorio Café, where the waiters now know our names. In a town we had no plans of spending a day in.

We have met up with a friend we once met in Grenada 4 years ago. His boat is anchored in our bay. He has taken us touring and for Wednesday night drinks with his buddies in town. 

People have reached out to us to console us on the break down of our engine. We have spent a moment or two wallowing in self pity over our predicament. But it’s all part of this amazing journey. Whatever we think is a curse becomes an adventure. We’ve got our tans back. The sun shines and there are long sand beaches to walk on. 

It takes an open mind and an open calendar. It’s freedom and it’s frustrating at times. But it’s a cruiser’s life and I’ll take it any day, or night for a rocket flight!

Strike 2 - A 1 in 490,000,000,000 chance... what luck?!

I’m standing in the middle of the boat. The skies are weeping all around. I see only water. I’m alone. 

Minutes ago, mayhem. After two weeks of sunshine and rum and laughter, our guests were off to shore to catch a plane. In a squall. A storm that filled the dinghy to bathtub capacity over and over, that had to be bailed out over and over, before we could load their luggage, clad in black garbage bags. A storm that had them heading to shore in swimsuits and rain coats.

The wind whipped up, howled at us and threatened to drag the boat. We put on the instruments and watched the wind speed, huddled in the saloon, waiting for a lull in the incessant rain.

And then it hit. There was an earth shattering crack beside the boat as a rogue lightning bolt was unleashed from above on the bay. We literally jumped, screamed and exchanged some wide eyed stares. And the thunder rolled along, and all that was left was the rain.

And we still had to get the guests to shore. So we hugged abruptly and they climbed out into the wet, whipping waters with JW.

And all the anger of the skies was gone. In it’s place, devastation, along with that sickly smell of burnt electronics. Shiloh was hit by lightning again. Like the rain soaking through my t-shirt, it began to sink in.

9 months ago, almost to the day, we climbed aboard after an even more vicious storm, to find that smell and all our systems dead. Chart plotter, wind instruments, depth sounder, autopilot, battery charger/inverter, TV, VHF radio, FM radio, fridge, freezer, lights, fans… everything that makes the boat liveable and sail-able!

And when JW returned this time, we winced as we checked each system. Wind instruments, depth sounder, autopilot, battery charger/inverter, VHF radio, FM radio, fridge, freezer, solar panel regulator, lights… all dead. 

So much of the same! But last year’s strike found us in the land of plenty. 100 miles of riding blind, without autopilot to a well equipped boat yard. In a country where there are marine surveyors and replacement equipment and expertise to install it all.

So different this time. We are well over 500 miles from the boatyards of Florida, and 170 miles from the only surveyors in the Bahamas – in Nassau.

And so we face the rotting meat in the freezer and the prospect of weeks with canned food, no entertainment and blind sailing – not knowing the wind speed or angle, or what depth we find ourselves in. And the worst part is the missing autopilot. The concentration and tediousness of holding the wheel for 6 to 8 hours a day.

And then, enter friends. Real friends. Friends I could not hope to ask for in this lifetime. Who refuse to let you suffer.

We moved aboard Shiloh 4 years ago. Since then, we’ve met some of the most remarkable people this world has to offer. People who are independent but socially adept. People who can fend for themselves but will do anything for each other in a pinch.

We have been buddy boating with a catamaran called Alley Cat for nearly three years. We met and clicked and compromised effortlessly. We get along so well. We sail together, explore together, socialize, commiserate, laugh, plan, unplan, replan and of course drink rum.

On a day like this I am humbled. Humbled to the core at how deep their friendship goes. Alan in his dinghy, wearing swimming goggles, appearing at the edge of the boat in the heart of the storm to help take our guests ashore.

And then the encouragement later as we sat pouting, devastated at our predicament. A smile and a genuine promise to help. And help doesn’t cover it. It’s a weak word to describe what true friendship is.

Hours, scrounging in their bilges for spares and days crouched in our narrow passages, fixing, trying, making a plan. All for a mere cup of tea and a heartfelt thank you.

To know you are not alone, to feel a united front in a storm, to be far from the support systems of the western world with true friends in tow, is exhilarating.

When I told my dad what happened, he said “If you didn’t have bad luck you’d have no luck at all.”

But  here's the thing about luck...you don't know if it's good or bad until you have some perspective.

I think he’s wrong. I know we are lucky; so lucky to have found true friends, a privilege many never experience.