Shorely, We Jest.

North Atlantic Ocean, FLORIDA? Really?

While my favorite skipper, TwoBeers, is on his single-handed adventure race down the west coast of Florida, I have some time to reflect and, more importantly, observe.

That's actually the essence of shore crew: we watch. And get ready to deploy whatever needs deploying.

Saturday, Day 1: The Everglades Challenge started this morning (well, it started years ago, but this year's race began today at Fort DeSoto Beach), which means that — what day is it? Saturday? STILL? — I have a few chores to squeeze in between checking on my racing friends.  

For instance, our building contractor (addition to the house. Long story. No, I don't know when it will be done.) told me I needed to visit a certain restaurant and, let me quote:  "Check out the tiles in the men's room. I think they are exactly what you want." 

I have been known to invade these boyish strongholds, sometimes as a lark, more often by mistake, a few times out of expedience. The taboo is strong, but it's not unbreakable. So alrighty then.

​I betook myself to the busy restaurant, ordered some soup to go, and after casing the establishment and gauging lines-of-sight, I told the counter staff about my quest. They laughed and said, it's the same tile in the women's.

Saved from sketchy lurkage, I visited the tile and crossed one thing off my list. 

Later, hunched over my bowl of açaí sorbet (you don't know what you are missing), I wrote a blog about the start, and then idly hit refresh on the tracking sites for a while before embarking on the second round of packing: This Time It's Overland.  

​Clothes for me, clothes for Jeff—not forgetting shoes for himself, because THAT's a rookie move—the food I'd rather not rebuy for the next few days, beverages, blah blah. The usual accoutrements of a family vacation, plus the supportive gear for the boat trailer (a recent Facebook marketplace deal, which means also a bit of a wildcard in terms of roadworthiness) and our matronly creeper van. 

On the race tracker, the gang of boats went from one big blob of overlapped names to a slightly more stretched out list: as one might expect, a couple of catamarans worked to the lead early, with Spawn (Go Moresailesaid! Go DSea!) right there in the mix.

​Not too far behind, Zygote was hanging tough, and as the breeze faded, on came the paddlers.  

The race is unique in many ways, though the idea of racing a 20-foot-long beach catamaran against a racing kayak against a roto-molded trimaran against a...well, it boggles the mind. No, there is no handicapping. It's a mad dash. Anyone can win the event overall, though each boat is also scored in its division.

At ten at night, with the first couple of boats tagging Check Point 1, I got a text from Jeff. His tracker placed him near Stump Pass. "A f#@$ the pedal drive broke."  Another unique aspect of this event is that you can double up your propulsion: sailing and rowing, for example. Plus, you can pump and ooch and scull, all of which is frowned upon in traditional sailing competitions.
​
Zygote was built for solo sailing, and since rowing presents a real navigational conundrum (where are we heading?), Jeff worked rather hard on installing a pedal drive. It's a nifty contraption, with a belt (not chain), and a flexible driveshaft, and a two-blade propeller. He pedals while sitting on an inflatable seat, giving himself a magisterial view of the horizon ahead, as well as extra boat speed that helps when needed. It worked great, until, evidently it did not. ​

Still he looked pretty cheerful as he checked into Check Point 1.

Sunday, Day 2:  Oooh! bonus! Daylight Savings Time. Suddenly it's dark at 7 in the morning. Sarcastic enthusiasm!

It's a drive to Key Largo, and the traffic is only going to get worse. Mid coffee-brew, I get a text from my good neighbors with a photo. Somebody is dumpster-diving at the construction site, they thought I should know. 

I have to pick up the Marketplace trailer anyhow, so I hustle the rest of the groceries into the cooler, remember to get the power cords for the things, and then hop into the van, worried that I am going to have to clean up a bunch of junk off the already messy lawn.

Or worse, I might need to confront someone or have to call the police. There are people who strip the copper from new buildings' wire. Ugh, I think. This was not on my bingo card.​

Pulling into the drive, I take a photo of the license plate and approach the dumpster cautiously. Hey, I say, How are you? My neighbor called and said they were a little worried about you. 

Turns out, the dumpster diving guy is a scrapper. He assures me he won't leave a mess.

He seems like a hard worker. I think this is a form of organic recycling, which I can actually get behind. Why thow away perfectly good stuff?  

I should probably worry that he'll get hurt and sue me.

Wrestling with the boat-trailer, I consider the long history of scrappers: rag and bone men, mudlarks, people who recycle cooking oil for car fuel. It's a respectable if not very respected job that does good in the world. 

Before driving his overladen truck to the next spot, the scrapper introduces himself as Keith and we part company maybe both reassured by our shared humanity.

Messages start dinging on my phone before I reach to the highway.

I do the thing where you look at your phone at a red light and decide whether anyone needs a real answer or if they can wait until I stop to check the hubs of the trailer.

They can wait till I can check the hubs. 

It's an uneventful drive, mercifully. Almost no maniacal driving incidents (I did avoid Miami, which helps my odds), and the forest fires from last week were extinguished, perhaps by the rain from last night.

Navigating by intuition: even though I really enjoy the southern old Route 41 trip across the Everglades, randomly (is it? is it ever random? Is it the Burnt Toast Theory?) found myself tootling along 75 Alligator Alley. A gorgeous day, and the hubs of the trailer stayed out of the hot zone. Yay!  ​

It's such a relief to get to the aqua road dividers of the Overseas Highway. I've gawked at  4-foot-long iguanas basking along this stretch into the Keys, but thanks to the recent cold snap, and perhaps to my better driving impulses, I don't spot a single one.

Jeff calls as I'm passing Gilbertson's Resort asking me about the timing of the tides at Caxambas Pass and Indian Key Pass. Another unique feature of the event: outside communication is permitted, even welcomed. We can't meet them and resupply the racers, but we can talk to them about the weather et cetera.  ​

I send him the tide info from the safety of a parking lot and then joyfully make my way to Jim and Cheryl's house, where I stow the Marketplace trailer, bless its twenty-ton heart. 

Anchored for the night at the quirky little resort, I find some supper with race mom Paula Paddledancer, and sleep the naps of the righteous.

Each time I wake, I fumble for reading glasses and my screen to check on my favorite skipper and the host of other ducklings out on the water.

Monday, Day 3: Overnight, Jeff has had a good sleep in the boat outside Indian Key pass, waiting for the right tide to help him into Chocko. After he STILL had not pressed his okay button when I woke at 230, I just called him. What a pleasant surprise to have him pick up on the first ring with his usual greeting.

​Clearly sleepy, but cheerful and moving about, my sweet TwoBeers is ready to chat. 

via GIPHY

Normally (based on a dozen previous Challenges), Jeff is judicious in how much of the adventure he shares with me. Considerate of my worries, he might only later dribble out the alarming tale of how this bad thing happened, or how he managed to snatch safety from certain danger.

So when he says, yeah, I tacked once with the ballast tank half full. I suppress my natural expression of alarm. The boat did great, he announces, it heeled to a point — and there I am on the high side! — but then it stopped. Good design.

via GIPHY

I don't even ask how he un-buggered that situation.  ​

​Then he mentions how much water he pumped out of the hull. He pumped until he got tired and there was still water in there. The boat was feeling sluggish, he tells me, and going downwind, he caught the first water over the bow. I hold my tongue.  We know there's a leak.  It wasn't much of a leak, according to his pre-race discussion. I'd held back from nagging him yesterday about checking on it.

via GIPHY

To set the scene, when TwoBeers says he stopped bailing before the boat was empty because he was tired, that's — a thing. There's not a lot of quit in the man.

​I take a deep, calming breath: I'll be sure to remind you to pump it out, I say. Yeah, he says, good idea.

Then he narrates through what he calls a "twirlybird death spin," when Zygote doesn't have enough way on to steer, but the tide causes the boat to pirouette slowly — a 360 degree spin — before another bit of wind comes along.

​He uses such phrases as, "whee!" and "here we go."​

via GIPHY

Does my laughter have a slightly hysterical edge? Pshaw!

How was supper, I ask. Oh, he says, I had a beer and I drank a breakfast shake and just fell asleep. 

I might turn and burn at Chocko he tells me. Or I might anchor out and get some more shut-eye. This is heartening news. Shows his judgement is good despite having (she counts on her fingers) less than 6 hours of sleep in the past 31 hours.

We say goodnight, and I snuggle back under my air-conditioned covers.  

Day 3: Monday after sunrise A beautiful day in the Florida Keys. There is nothing quite so tropical as a sunrise down here, where the boisterous morning wind is soft with moisture and the white coral dust is as dry as chalk on my flip-flopped feet. 

More anon...