I scan the horizon that I can not see, looking for boats I hope are not there. Night watch. Our first overnight passage with just the three of us on board. For two years we’ve sailed close to our dock, but the time has come to venture on to new waters. We provisioned, we cleaned, we made repairs. We pointed our bow towards Pensacola Pass. It was noon. We would sail through the night so as to enter Port Saint Joe during daylight hours. You never want to enter a new channel or pass at night if you don’t have to. And so we set sail… 22 hours to go.
And so the passage continues. The rough waters are not so friendly to our dog. I only have a touch of uneasiness, from the motion or the coming night, I do not know. The sun set behind us and we run full speed into the darkness, although that is a snail’s pace. As we run into the darkness, the sun tucks in little children halfway around the world. The other half, she gently kisses good morning. We run to meet her on the other side. Eagerly we wait to see her beacons of light like outstretched arms, ready to embrace us and whisper that we have made it through the night. Through the twelve hours of darkness we will travel, she will see the whole world, and I, a mere 50 miles.
Waiting in the dark, everything “looks” like something. Your eyes will play tricks on you. Once you see a light, there is no mistaking, but if you do not see a light, everything is something. What’s that? A blip. 4 o’clock, 4 miles to our starboard. I blink. It’s at 3 o’clock 2 miles out. “Stephen!” I blink, a mile-and-a-half. “STEPHEN!!!!” He’s by my side, just awoken, trying to focus his eyes on the radar. Oh shit. In desperation I call out again for Stephen to save us, but there is no time. It is on top of us. I hear a loud, low roar, the familiar sound of a passing barge. Shit! We are on the ocean...a tanker. And on the radar, it is directly on top of us. And then it isn’t. What the hell just happened. Stephen repeats to calm my nerves, “A plane, it’s a plane.” I glance up, out the port side, and see the belly and wheels of a small, Cesna-like plane. Shit. A plane!!! Really!!! Why was he so low? Was he flying “under the radar” for a reason? There were thick, low clouds, and I never saw his lights. Or perhaps, I never even looked up. All in the blink or two of an eye. Of all the things my mind’s eye imagined, hit by a plane in the middle of the ocean was not one of them. Stephen, it’s your shift.
And so the night passes. The sun, in a foggy haze, is a welcome sight. The fear of the unknown, of the darkness, is gone. Back to a warm breeze on our cheeks, dolphins, and beautiful, beautiful ocean blue. A few more hours pass and we safely anchor in Saint Joseph Bay. I fall asleep hard. When I wake, a sun-filled day of beachcombing with Emily awaits. Sometimes you have to travel through the darkness to get to the light.
We journey on, traveling the ICW (Intracoastal Waterway). We trade dolphins and ocean blue for a more river-like scene, filled with greens and browns, not one bit less beautiful. Cypress trees and spanish moss lead us to an anchorage like we’ve never experienced before. Tonight, we are sleeping with the gators in the swamps of Florida. We are in the middle of nowhere and wildlife is abundant. A buck comes to the water for a drink a mere 30 feet from our boat. We startle him and he high tails it out of there. To his advantage, for five minutes pass and a pack of hounds come searching. One swam out to the boat. Flying fish surround us, startling me nearly every time they splash next to the boat. An osprey or eagle’s nest is in the distance, though we don’t see its occupant. There’s a big log; it takes a breath and disappears into the water. What it was, I do not know. An enormous loggerhead turtle raises his head for air and again is submerged. And finally, swimming close to the shore, we see an alligator. Sweet dreams.
