The One Where We Almost Sink the Boat

Brimming with confidence after our lobstering success, we decided to squeeze in  one more fishing trip  before the weather turned. That morning the winds we already up to 13 mph, but the sun was sparkling off the whitecaps.

We didn't have to go far to find fish. Big Pine RV is located at the foot of the Spanish Harbor Channel Bridge, one of 42 bridges along Overseas Highway 1, which connects Key West to the Florida mainland.  In most places it’s not one bridge, but two. Speeding high above the turquoise waters, a second bridge appears in your peripheral vision like a shadow or  reflection: the remnants of the original bridges constructed in 1912 as part of the Florida East Coast Railway, weathered stone arches and rusted steel trusses running parallel to the modern highway bridges that replaced them in the 80s.  

The bridges are something of a superhighway for fish as well, breaking the current and providing cover for fish to feed on the smorgasbord of marine life that proliferates along the giant concrete pilings. Many sections of the old bridges remain open to pedestrians, and you can tell when there’s a bite on by the number of fishermen staked out along the railings.

That morning we trolled up and down the Spanish Harbor Channel, weaving back and forth under the arches of the old bridge and around the square concrete pillars of the modern bridge, until the fish finder screen lit up with glowing red arcs. Now all we had to do was drop anchor.

I clung to the prow, which lurched up and down in the swell, waiting for the order to drop the anchor, while Ben tried to position the boat just upwind of the bridge, and between the pilings, so that we'd drift back under the bridge, where the the fish were biting. I dropped the anchor several times, but the wind kept changing direction, bashing us into the barnacle encrusted bridge pilings, until finally we gave up and drove away, the fish still taunting us on the sonar.

We thought it might be easier to anchor out by the reef, so we headed southeast, near where we'd caught the lobsters the day before. Here we didn't have to worry about bridge pilings; instead, we had to deal with getting tangled in lobster pot buoy lines  and being dragged into the shallows by a current that seemed to be going the opposite direction as the wind. At one point, our anchor seemed to be holding, so we got out our rods and started assembling our rigs. Then I looked over and  saw that our chum bag, which had been tied to a cleat on the starboard side, had come undone and was floating away, oozing a trail of sardine goo. I jumped in and swam after it, against the current, praying no sharks were swarming.  By the time I rescued the chum, our anchor had started to drag again, and I had to jump back in and push us off a sandbar. The wind was blowing us in circles, tangling our fishing lines. It was time to call it.

 The wind rose as we headed back, our little boat crashing through the swell, spraying us with seawater. The tide was going out faster than we expected, and a couple times I had to hop and out and push.

By sundown the wind was gusting up to 30 mph. We watched a plucky crew of bikepackers at the next campsite spend an hour trying to pitch their tents, before giving up and riding to the nearest hotel. We were cozy in our popup, which swayed and shuddered in the wind like a ship at sea.

Ben checked the boat periodically during the evening. At one point there were several inches of water in the stern, but we switched on the bilge pump and quickly took care of it.  We chalked it up to the stormy conditions. But the next morning, when Ben stepped out onto the dock, he shouted in alarm.

 The battery on the bilge pump was dead. To get it running, we had to back the truck close enough to the dock to run and extension cord from the inverter in the camper. I lay on my stomach on the dock, holding it up so it didn’t droop in the water. Fortunately, the pump sputtered to life and within 30 minutes the boat was soggy but empty. 

We couldn’t figure it out. I thought one of the wind gusts during the night must have stirred up  a rogue wave that swept over the transom. Ben worried there was a hidden leak.

The next afternoon, we were indulging in a siesta, when we were heard a voice.

“Excuse me? Is anyone there?"

It was the woman from across the canal. We'd been cautious about interacting with them because of the giant Trump/Vance Take Back America flag flying from the mast of their boat. Her husband, who held his scruffy, shoulder length gray hair in place with a black cowboy hat, we referred to as Conch Man. He had a giant collection of shells, (which are legal to take as long as they are uninhabited) arrayed on a picnic table. Every night at sundown he selected one to blow, and was answered by other conch-blowers around the park.

“The tides going down," she said. "You might want to loosen the ties on your boat so it doesn’t sink."

In a flash, we both realized what had happened.

When water at the boat slip dropped at low tide, the dock lines were tied so tight the boat didn't go with it, but was left hanging from the dock, the far side dipping into the water. By the time we got up in the morning, the tide was back up and the boat was level again, and we're left there wondering how it got swamped.

Doh!

We were embarrassed but grateful that Mr and Mrs Conch Man did right thing and warned us before we sunk our boat for real. If only they would do the right thing and cast out Trump and his minions!