The Cruising Life Can Put You in Contact with Types of People
You travel around as a homeless vagabond long enough, and you’re going to meet some interesting folks. Folks to inspire you, to impress you, to serve as a negative example, to amuse you.
When I started on my cruising trip, my first major stop was in St. Augustine to visit an old fishing buddy, Luke. My dog, Rosie, and I stayed for about three weeks to rest, re-provision, relax, and earn a little money. Between commercial fishing trips, Luke and I were laying hardwood flooring in his bedroom. Incidentally, if you ever wondered to yourself whether you should save a few bucks by installing hardwood flooring yourself, you shouldn’t. Unless you like to be covered in glue. Brendan came to help with the wood flooring. He became one of my best friends, despite the questionable judgment displayed by his willingness to take part in hardwood flooring installation.
Brendan is, by trade, a marine archaeologist. He takes groups of interns and volunteers with varying levels of aptitudes and unearths shipwrecks from the ocean floor. He gives lectures on random topics while wearing bow ties and throws oyster parties. And he is heir to a centuries-old family farm in Virginia. And, modest as he may be about it, his woodworking skills rival my metalworking skills. No matter what comes of this voyage, it will never be for naught, because I made at least one lifelong friend.
The next character is Juan with the bunny. I had an engine problem on my crossing and sailed to Key Largo to get parts. I anchored right in front of Juan’s bar, conveniently enough. I spent more than a few happy hours in that fine establishment. Drinking rum. Eating cheap wings. Observing the locals from a safe distance. Juan took an interest in me and I in him. He told me of his path: immigrating to Washington, DC, from Central America, working his way up through the restaurant business, until he randomly took a vacation to the Keys and like so many, never left. He took a job tending bar. He found inspiration in my journey and asked if I was looking for crew. He would only need room for himself and his beloved pet rabbit. We decided that the Rosie and Bunny relationship was too much of an unknown and that I should just visit anytime my travels took me near Key Largo and found me in need of a drink.
Some months later, I found myself living aboard at a marina in St. Augustine. My dock neighbor sold his boat to two 21-year-olds. My girlfriend Liz and I apprehensively awaited our new neighbors, fearing the worst, but hoping for the best. One afternoon, as I was returning from walking Rosie, the boys were sitting in their cockpit.
“What are you boys doing?” “Nothing. Listening to the band. Taking shots of tequila. Want one?” “Yes. I do” The boys rode out Hurricane Matthew aboard and earned a place in my heart.
The night before the aforementioned Hurricane Matthew was to hit, Liz, Rosie, and I were interviewed by a local Jacksonville news station. After a full day of prepping our boat for the storm in the rain, I don’t think any of us had ever looked finer. Our segment received rave reviews. After making our television debut, we went to the marina bar. I sat myself down next to a low-talker. I had to lean way in close to hear him, but boy, did he have some stories.
The next friend was a Facebook internet friend long before we met in person. Through the various cruising forums, Jono and I got to know each other over a similar cruising plan. Although his schedule was a few months ahead of mine, we became friends through the camaraderie that singlehanders share. His dinghy was stolen near Morgan’s Bluff. When he put out the social media call for help, I agreed to transport a dinghy from Stuart, FL, to Georgetown, Exuma, to help an unmet friend in need. Because that’s what you do in this cruising community.
The last folks on this list I met this afternoon. As I write this, I am anchored at Water Cay in the northern Ragged Islands at the southern end of the Exuma chain. I was spearfishing this afternoon. I found hogfish. Delicious hogfish. I speared the biggest Hogfish I’ve ever seen in real life. Then, I speared a bigger one. Then, I saw two more. I speared the smaller of the two.
I watched as the larger, now the biggest I’ve ever seen, swam into a coral head to hide. I swam a short ways off, dove to the bottom, and put a conch shell on top of my fish bag while I waited for the fourth hogfish to show himself. He did. He was wary, though, and my shot missed. I decided to collect my bag of three hog fish and return to my boat.
As I swam toward the bag, I happened to glance left. I screamed a string of profanities into my snorkel as I caught the gaze of an eight-foot, barrel-chested bull shark heading my way. The pole spear I was caring suddenly seemed a very meager weapon against a very sharp animal twice my size. The shark, like a bully stealing lunch money, looked and followed alternately towards me and my prize bag of hogfish. I try not to take pictures of small fish (to preserve my reputation). I really wanted a picture with these hogfish. And I wanted to eat them. Turns out, the shark wanted to eat them more than I did. I was a scant 50 yards from an anchored trawler. As I kicked backwards, I never took my eyes from the shark. He never arched his back or lowered his pectoral fins, but his interest in me was sufficient to persuade me to offer my delicious Hogfish as a sacrifice to the tax man.
I popped aboard the swim platform like a man with a purpose. When I saw the cocktailing couple in the cockpit, I said, “Ahoy.”
The lady said, “Hello sailor, to what do we owe the pleasure?” “A bull shark,” I said. As we watched the shark devour my fish bag, my new best friends said, “Can we offer you a drink? Or a dinghy ride back to your boat?”
There are all kinds of people out there, if you’ll take the time to listen to them, to humor them, to oblige them their vices, to talk with them. Not to interview them or quiz them or make a case study of them. Just to talk with them. This cruisers’ life I’m leading opens so many doors. Not the least of which is a window into humanity.
By Sean McCarthy
