A History of The Mary Mary – Part 2 – Fort Meyers, Florida – Moore Haven, Florida (2006)

Well, sorry about that readers; sort of left you hanging there, didn’t I?

When I got back to the boat, as I was saying, I received a phone call from Bruce (my first mate for the next leg of the journey). He had arrived late at the airport and there was a huge line-up to get through security and he didn’t think he could get through in time to make his flight.

My heart sank. If he didn’t come it would be virtually impossible for me to continue on. My skills (as you will soon see) were minimal and another hand was a must. He said he would call me back in a bit. I decided to do a bit of engine maintenance while I waited and ran over my possible options as I replaced some corrupted zincs. I could try to get someone else from Toronto but on short notice and with air flights involved, that wouldn’t happen any time soon. I could go back to the crab shack and get some likely looking candidate to accompany me by buying him copious drinks and them smacking him the head with a belaying pin, like in the old days. I reasoned that people in Florida were probably used to being shanghaied periodically, so maybe I’d get away with it. But how to keep him on board when he came to? No, that wasn't the answer.

The phone rang and it was Bruce. Some airport people had come along asking if anyone was close to departure time and they escorted Bruce to the plane. He was going to make it! 

Mister Bruce

A few hours later he emerged from a taxi and came aboard. Now we were getting somewhere. I gave him the tour and explained what he would need to do as temporary first mate. Handle the lines when docking, putting out fenders and the like. I told him about the safety concerns not the least of which was my erratic command. I told him he would almost certainly hurt his head at some point. He seemed okay with that.

There was still plenty of daylight left and we decided to make the most of it and try to make the town of Alva a few miles up the Caloosahatchee River. We would dock there for the night and then proceed to take the cross-Florida route through Lake Okeechobee. This would involve several locks, which until now I had no notion of. Soon I would know more than I wanted to…

We arrived at the first lock and waited as the lock emptied from the other direction and the doors swung open to admit us. There was a small boat ahead of us so I waved them in. To this point most of my steering operation in close quarters involved using the manoeuver of putting one engine in forward and one in reverse and pivoting to the appropriate angle and then forwarding in; very little use of the wheel. This was wrong. I found out just how wrong when I tried to do this into the lock against the turbulence of the outgoing water. We started in all right but then the flow caught the bow and pushed us in on the gates. We grazed the starboard gate and bounced into the lock, hard against the wall. Thankfully, we were well-fendered. 

Ortona Lock - One of the rites of passage

Now if you have ever been in a Florida lock you will know that they are controlled and ruled over by ex-navy chiefs and marines now working for the Army Corps of Engineers. These guys are older, tough, have seen everything and don’t like people colliding with their gates. The public address system crackled into life and with ear-splitting echo reverberating off the stone walls of the lock, the word came down from above. “What the hell do you think you’re doing to my gates? Those gates are new, godamn it!” We apologized profusely. When the lock had done its business, the gates at the other end opened slowly. There was little turbulence this time as it was all up-stream. But I couldn’t get the boat off the wall. Mister Hunter tried with all his might to push us off but there was still turbulence in the lock that was pushing us up against the wall. I looked up and could see the little sergeant staring down at me. Glowering is probably a better word. 

A typical navy lock-master :-)

With a grating that made my teeth go on edge, the bow started to move out and the stern rail came into contact with the cement wall of the lock. More horror... Finally we were out of the lock and underway and I found that I was now drenched in sweat. Bruce, somewhat pale, arrived on the bridge. I imagine his life was just finishing up passing before his eyes. We didn’t say much for a while.

Turbulence in an Okeechobee lock

My estimation of the time and distance was off and it was dark by the time we hit Alva. The town, what we could see of it, seemed to be deserted and we hovered there out in the middle of the channel, cloaked in the chill night air and the eerie quiet, wondering what to do. A ground fog was starting to roll in. I spotted a dock belonging to a motel of some sort and a sign that said you could stay there and to check in with the motel office. I pulled us in and Mister Hunter jumped off and made fast the lines. We walked up to the darkened motel that was situated just off a highway by the bridge that we had seen as we drifted in the river. The office was locked up for the night. A small sign said that for night service you should go round the back to the owner’s apartment there. We did that. The door to the back residence was wide open except for the screen door. Inside we could see dimly into an unlighted living room, dark but for the glow of a television set that was on with the volume up. We knocked… nothing. We called inside… no response. We went back to the boat and decided we’d go up in the morning and pay before we left. 

Alva, Florida. The motel is by the small, wooden dock.

The next day we awoke very early, about 6:30 am. I had spent a restless night, reliving the lockage and fretting about what I would do at the next one. And after that 6 more! Shivering in the morning air, I walked back up to the motel. The office was still closed and the door at the back was still open and the TV set was still on. This was all getting a bit too odd so I went back to the boat; we started up the engines and moved off. Well, a free night is a free night.

Lock 2, Moore Haven. We headed out and approached the second lock. I was mighty nervous about this and was made more so by the fact that a catamaran was going to join us in the lock. When the gates opened up I motored in and was amazed that I managed to get us on to the wall with little fuss. But that celebration was short lived. After the ride up the lock, the gates opened and the lock became a seething mass of death water. I tried to get the boat to behave but she would have none of it. The stern swung out until we were sitting in the lock sideways with only a few feet of water between us and the wall at both ends. I tried to coral the beast but she started drifting over towards the small catamaran. As I looked down from the bridge I saw a wide-eyed couple aboard their life’s dream staring back at me, their mouths agape, as the twelve-ton Mary Mary bore down on them. 

A catamaran similar to the one we terrorized

“Use your wheel more!!” came the outraged and inevitable command from the PA. I spun it hard to port and gave it some throttle and she started to respond, but now we were coming dangerously close to the wall again. Bruce tried to push off with a pole but the pulpit hit the side of the lock. With a weary groan it started to buckle upwards and back. I felt a little sick. I had a vision of the steel rail splitting under the pressure and going through Bruce like a shark spear.

I eased off the throttle, spun the wheel hard to starboard and the boat swung back into the middle of the lock but now we were facing the wrong way; back-to-front in the lock. I put both engines into reverse and mercifully, we reversed out of the lock. The PA crackled again… “Your coming was a lot better than your going!” I could imagine the lock-master’s conversation over beer later with his fellow lock-men. “So, what did he do in your lock? Almost destroyed mine!” The catamaran steamed by us, giving us a wide berth, her crew slowly killing us with their murderous, frightened eyes.

The crew of the catamaran in Lock 2

As you leave Moore Haven to get onto the canal leading to Lake Okeechobee, there is a confusing point where it hard to determine which way to go. A fork, if you will. We took the wrong fork until we began to run out of water and had to reverse down the narrow stream to regain the proper channel. When I look at it now on a Google satellite map or on a chart-plotter, it seems pretty obvious. But after the panic of the lock, the paper charts I was using were not quite clear enough.

About an hour later and with the excitement of  Moore Haven behind us we arrived in Clewiston, Fla. and spent the night at Roland and Mary Ann Martin's Marina which has a restaurant attached and had some good burgers there. If you have stayed at this marina you probably have run into the famous dock attendant who goes by the name of Little Man. He is exactly that; diminutive, wiry and generally of a good nature, he was a bit surly with us at first but when he found out that we were newbies and on top of that, in show business, he opened up and gave us a good hand getting in and out and letting us know about the amenities of the marina. He is one of those dock wizards that can do things like throwing a line at a cleat in such a way as to tie a knot on it from 5 feet away. I was amazed. I thought about asking him to join the crew, perhaps in a straight-up trade for Mister Bruce, but decided against it.

Famous dock-hand, Little Man

Tomorrow... Lake Okeechobee and the Port Mayaca Lock.

The Almost Lost Weekend

Well, we’re back home after a relatively unproductive weekend up at the boat. Because of the ice-storm that hit over the last few days, the marina was closed early on the Friday and the sign on the door read “Closed Saturday and Sunday” so it looked as if we had wasted our time (and money since we had booked two guaranteed nights at Muskey’s Landing motel and hired a cat-sitter).

Deciding to make the most of it, we made plans for the next day to travel up the east coast of the Bruce Peninsula and visit some of the towns to which we would soon (hopefully) be boating. Provided we ever get out of the Trent River that is. We stopped in at Victoria Harbour, Midland, Penetanguishene and Port McNicoll and viewed their marinas. All those towns are of the typical small-Ontario variety with the requisite Chinese/Canadian restaurant; two Tim Horton’s and all had pretty water-fronts. (Except Port McNicoll, that is, where some contractor has convinced the town to let them build horrendous huge houses along their wharf area.)

One of the subtle Port McNicoll waterfront homes

Before we left on our little road trip we dropped by the marina on the off chance it might be open for some reason and found it actually was. A yacht salesman was there waiting for a potential client and we had an hour or two on the Mary Mary. We cut a hole in the shrink-wrapping big enough to crawl into and spent an hour gathering up some things we needed to take home. Brooke was mightily impressed with the good job the shrink-wrapping did in keeping the interior dry and clean. The mustiness I was worried about seems to have been fought off successfully by the moisture absorbing pots I left around the boat last fall. All is well and we both were feeling much more positive when we left for our drive.

However, conversations with locals in Port Severn regarding the water levels through the passageway from the Trent out onto Georgian Bay were helpful but not particularly encouraging. The general consensus seems to be that everyone is just keeping their fingers crossed and hoping that we get some more rain. When I question people about the depths of the narrow Tug Channel and mention our draft of 4 feet, I receive a standard ‘well, you should be okay’ and then a worried look comes over their face as they realize that they may be encouraging us to our doom. I have been checking the government water-level web-site periodically and the levels are sometimes off by as much as .7 of a metre from chart datum. This is alarming, especially when some of the chart depths where we need to go are only 5 or 6 feet. That means that you’re looking at possibly 3 or 4 feet if the levels remain as they are. Which they won’t but still,.. scary. 

The Tug Channel, Port Severn

The picture above shows the river spilling out from under the Hwy 400 bridge on the right and the day markers lining the Tug Channel. It winds around from right to left and you can see how narrow the channel actually is. While we were there the dam upstream was fairly wide open and the water was shooting under the bridge at what looked to be about 6 knots. Of course, the dam will be tighter come boating time. Fingers crossed.

Getting Close to Getting Close

Well.... here it is the second day of spring, 2013. What a difference a year makes... Whereas last year at this time we were experiencing bizarrely warm temperatures in the mid 20's (C.) this year we languish in the cold and wet with the temperature hovering around 2 or 3. Last year, shorts and t-shirts as we sat on the aft deck eating sardines on crackers with wine and wondering if we should actually do some work while the boat was still on the hard; this year, snow coats, gloves and heaters. 

 

On the Travel-lift

Last year the boat was in Toronto and we could go down when we wished to look inside or do a bit of work; this year she's 2 hours away by car in Port Severn and we probably won't get to her until its time to start the commissioning process.

On the hard.

It's worrisome right now because this year (wouldn't you know it) the water levels have been at an all-time low with some areas fluctuating right around 1.5 feet below chart datum. Thankfully, there has been some snow this winter and rain recently, so we're hoping that the levels will rise by the time we have to launch and motor out of the basin belonging to the Starport Marina where we lie. If not we're looking at a dangerously low trip out onto Georgian Bay. The channel from the marina is one issue, the channel from the base of Lock 45 out into the bay is another. Tug Channel is a tough navigation at the best of times with little room for error on either side of a narrow way. At one point chart datum is 5 feet and change. Our draft is 4 feet and if we've lost anything more than a foot of water, we're in trouble.

Lock 45

In the picture above you can see Lock 45 (1) to the right with its dam in the centre. You can also see that the water flowing out of the dam is moving pretty quickly (2) and where the white water is you can follow the route out under the bridge (3) into Tug Channel. In the upper left corner you can see our marina (4). You can't take the boat to the left and directly up under the bridge. You have to go back out onto the main channel. You can see the shoals (rocks actually) that are lining the narrow gap where we will have to maneuver (5).

We have discussed the possibility of running out there in the dinghy with a lead line and see beforehand what its like. The other factor we have to take into account is the current from the Lock 45 dam and running, as it does, over the couple of hundred yards of shallow water, we may be in for some tricky maneuvering. Add to this that it will be first time I've had the boat out in 2013 and well... some nerves will be at play. 

Next week we will be exploring some alternate battery types and if all goes well we will install them this spring and cure some our electrical woes. Watching and waiting...

Why we do it...

That's it for now, getting back into the swing of the blog...

Cappie

A History of The Mary Mary – Part 1– Tampa Bay to Fort Meyers, Florida (2006-2007)

Well, it’s now December the 27th, two days after Christmas and still a long, dark four months until we are back on board. The Mary Mary sits shivering on her blocks in Port Severn, Ontario and thoughts shift to warmer climes. And that is why it has occurred to me to fill you in on the history of the mighty Mary. From the time of my taking possession, that is.

I bought the boat in October, 2006 from my beloved bosuns father, Master Bradley Johnson. It came to be that, owing to the sale of a cottage I once owned in Bancroft, I found myself with a hefty sum in pocket. Attempts to find another cottage similar to the one I had sold (under duress I might add, but that’s another story) were fruitless in that for the amount of money I now had I could only expect to get a property 3 or 4 hours drive away at best and that wasn’t going to cut it.

It came to my attention that the aforementioned Brad Johnson was trying to sell a Grand Banks 36 that had been docked in Tampa Bay, Florida for the last couple of years. Owning a boat of substance had always been a bit of a dream for me, especially since I had taken up scuba diving. So I expressed interest and he and I flew down to have a look at her. Well, it was proverbial love at first sight and I committed, after some sleepless nights, to purchasing the boat. Best decision I ever made. Other than taking up relations with Brooke some time later.

At dock In Fort Myers

I put a substantial amount down and Bradley kindly agreed to finance me for the rest for a few years (GB’s aren’t cheap) and in October of 2006 Brooke, Bradley and I arrived in Tampa Bay to begin the task of bringing the boat north to Toronto. I had decided to motor her up for two reasons… the adventure of doing so and the cost of traveling it by truck. Mostly the former. Also there was the thought that I could learn the ropes on the way. This proved both a heady and frightening experience at times. I had taken the Canadian Power Squadron's basic boating course and had my operator's papers and radio license... but that was all theoretical.

Bradley, again with great kindness (and probably to avoid reading about my demise in the morning papers) agreed to accompany me for the first week of travel and show me a few things. This would take us from Tampa Bay, down the coast as far as Fort Meyers, where he and Brooke would depart back to Toronto and I would have to find another mate to help on the next leg.

After a day of provisioning we had a breakfast out and then headed out onto the waterway. Part of my heart was in my throat and a couple of other pieces were tacked to my sleeve.

Cappie and Brad Johnson... "I think we should be over there..."

Now, if you’re not familiar with the art of following charts and maps, at the best of times it can be difficult to stay on track and not drift into shallow waters. Which is what we did. At about four in the afternoon on our first day at sea we ran aground. The boat was lodged firmly but not dangerously and it would only be with the next high tide that we would float free. This would be in the dark of night and several hours away. Which was fine until the waves started to increase and bounce us around.

"Yep, definitely over there..."

I should say at this point that one of my fears about this boating thing was that I have experienced sea-sickness several times before and had something of a weakness for it back then. As the boat pitched and rolled, jammed into the soft floor of the Gulf of Mexico, I grew more and more uncomfortable and certainly couldn’t eat the dinner that Brooke and Bradley, oblivious it seemed, to the movement, had fixed for themselves... spaghetti. As the pungent smells of tomato, onion and garlic filled the cabin, I began to wonder if I had made a colossal mistake in buying a boat. Could I handle the sea life? But after lying down for a bit I grew more determined and decided then and there that I would master this and not embarrass myself by having to run out onto the deck and do what I felt like doing.  I fought off  the nausea eventually and lay on my bunk until we were mercifully set adrift by the incoming tide and we could re-start the engines and resume our course. (Side Note: To this day and despite many times when the conditions were similar, I have never lost it on the water.)

The welcoming committee

During the remainder of the trip to Fort Meyers, we experienced many exciting things: whole pods of dolphins following the boat and playing off our bow (they seem to be particularly drawn to us and I theorize that the frequency of GB engines was the reason as other boats close by didn’t have the charm); we ran aground again and were rescued by some fishermen who set us free from the muck by speeding around us in a circle and rocking us out of the mud with their wash; great meals both on and off board and hordes of stars at night. I performed my first docking at a marina (something I had been dreading) with absolute precision. I don't mean to boast. I only mention it in order to set up the mayhem that I would cause later on. But for now, at least, I was beginning to feel comfortable at the helm.

Beautiful...

Then, unfortunately, that first magic week came to a close and Brooke and her father were to fly back home to Toronto and I would be on my own for the next leg. To be sure, I would be joined by my friend and colleague, Bruce Hunter, but he had less experience than me even. And for this first time, the night between their departure and Bruce’s arrival, I would be on my own with the anxiety of the  unknown journey ahead of me.

Leaping along off the starboard beam

After they had gone, I sat aboard for a few hours looking around and playing the cheapo blue guitar that I had bought at a large chain store whose name we dare not speak. After a while, I couldn’t just sit around so I went ashore and ended up drowning my fears in a pound of crab clusters at Captain Joe's Crab Shack. If you’ve never had Dungeness crab, don’t delay any longer. It is fabulously delicious and was chiefly responsible for turning the tide that night. Full and sleepy, I was able to drop into my bunk later and get a good sleep with the slight sway of my boat and the soft chafing of lines along the pier. My first night alone on my boat.

Shot from the bow. Dolphin is just under the surface

The next day, bright and early, I was up and off to the chandlers to pick up a couple of hardware items I needed. When I got back to the boat I was greeted by a phone call from Mister Hunter. He didn’t think he was going to make it down….   (Stay tuned)

On November and the Beginning of the Big Freeze.

Not a kind month, November. For Canada at least where (notwithstanding the odd freakish example) it spells the end of what can be optimistically construed as ‘the summer’ and offers a bleak, telescoped view of what’s to come; the kind of view that one usually regards through the wrong end of the telescope. Certainly it might be a gentle winter that follows in terms of the sub-zeroes and the snow that, when it first alights, seems to send drivers into a paralyzing panic every year. Perhaps we won’t even need the snow-tires that we put on at considerable expense. Nevertheless, we are forced to contemplate at least five months of uncomfortable coolness and, in the case of the boating world, probably six. 

Uh-oh... Gotta haul-out sooner next year.

When Hurricane Sandy blew through a couple of weeks back we really only got the tail portion of it. But that was enough. In case you didn’t know, the highest recorded winds (106 km/hr) in Ontario landed in Georgian Bay. More to the point, near Port Severn and even more to the point, about ten kilometres from where Mary Mary sits, silently shelved in her plastic cocoon. When I read about this it was already several days since the event and my heart stopped beating irregularly when I realized that they would surely have contacted us from The Starport Marina if any calamity had occurred. As mentioned earlier, we had the boat shrink-wrapped for the first time this year and I had visions of the whole vessel bouncing along the highway like some huge, heavy runaway balloon. My fears eventually abated except for the arrival of one email from Starport that had as its subject line… “We regret to inform you…” The surly pump in my chest again threatened mutiny until I read the rest of the message and it turned out to concern a much-loved employee of theirs that was moving on to another position. I mean… really.

Hurricane Sandy heading our way.

So now we begin the onerous job of waiting out old man winter. We do have a couple of bright spots however. It was my birthday in September and Brooke decided to surprise me with a most potent gift. She has arranged for the two of us to spend a week in Bonaire in January to go scuba-diving. Incredible... We went out the other day to replace some of our equipment that we lost in our big storage fire. We found an excellent deal on two fins/masks/snorkels/booties packages and we are pretty primed to try them out.

Me in my dreams... Brooke is taking the photo...  in a bikini... Brooke, that is.

I have also taken on the challenge of preparing for my Captain’s exams. (Although, it’s mostly for the knowledge, not the thought of actually becoming licensed). The course is quite intense and the aid for it comes in the form of a huge course text. The knowledge contained therein is what you supposedly need to know in order to properly command vessels up to 100 tons. One hundred tons… can you imagine? By comparison, Mary Mary is 12. I’m already pretty good with the rules of the road, but most of the ones I know pertain to smaller pleasure craft like ours and the rules governing larger, working boats are many and varied. And they come in two types: those pertaining to the inland waterways and those pertaining to international waters. But I’m ploughing along and have finished the ground work on the first chapter. Although a brief oral test by Brooke revealed my level of retention isn’t what it was. So it will definitely be one thing to focus on during the aforementioned snow time.

The Captain's Tome

Soon we will be looking into over-hauling the battery system on the boat and figuring out the best scenario for us. Right now I am leaning away from the old 8D system that is problematic and weighs a ton. We will probably look at the newer, component systems if the price isn’t too prohibitive.

That’s it for now.  

Two on a boat