Parts of journal notes from a sail trip Florida to Panama
We leave from Miami at sunrise. The channel is directly upwind so we motor the long 15 mile narrow stretch, navigating crab traps and fishing boats. We will be in Bimini, the Bahamas by late tonight. It’s the closest island and we have to check in to customs. After Miami’s towers disappear over the horizon, we raise the sails and it’s just us and the waves.
We see shore an hour after sunset. There’s hundreds of lights pulsing from the island, the largest sign of civilization since the morning.
We anchor next to a charter boat and a dozen millionaire yachts docked at the marina. On shore there’s a mix of wealthy tourist spots and scrappy houses hidden in the palms. By the afternoon we’re off to our next island.
There’s no sign of the moon for the next few nights and the sky is a black sheet strewn with unobstructed stars.
After two more days of sailing we pass a rocky barren island surrounded by shoals. On the eastern point there’s a massive shipwreck. At first I think the cargo ship is anchored but I realize it’s resting at an awkward tilt too close to shore. We sail by it a quarter mile away and the I can see the rusty brown hull and bright turquoise shoals. So much metal and money lost to sea. There’s no sand, nothing but breakers on the island where they violently crash with the power of the wind. To starboard sun flares block our vision and we pray there’s no coral obstructing our path.
After the island we hit pockets of coral and JB thinks the charts are mislabeled. The other crew, Nick and I stand on the bow and look for coral heads to avoid.
At night, there’s still no moon. The sea is black and the sky a lesser black. I squint towards the horizon, trying to determine what are lights, stars, or islands. I am alone on night watch deep into the night, and I spend the time staring at a distant red dot that turns out to be a stationary marker, probably a warning about one of the random rocky points in the middle of the sea.
JB has traveled this path before and I ask him about every island we see. He says there’s an island where the mail boat comes once a week and the whole town throws a party. I keep wondering how any government functions with territory this spread out. Maybe I’ll be back on another day to understand the day to day of island life, but for now we are just passing through.
This island world feels so large and America with its cities and pace feel serious and silly in comparison.
Every night there’s a star so bright and colorful like nothing I’ve seen before. It flashes the rainbow, flashing red purple green white on repeat. A thousand foot cargo ship looks like a twinkling island with evenly spaced lights slowly creeping past us.
A month ago I was traveling these same seas on one of the largest cruise ships in the world and it feels like the opposite experience in almost every way. A cruise feels so loaded with humanity while our sail feels dominated by the ocean and nature’s will. A number of cruise ships pass us on he journey. When they pass each ship creates a halo of lights pollution that block out the stars. As they cross our beam, their many lights reflect on the water like a rising moon.
A catamaran experiences a different kind of rocking than a monohull. Waves crash across the bow and hull so loud. At first I am restless, but as the days move on I learn to sleep with the thunderous slapping of water against my hatch.
