The Opposite Gender

57. The Opposite Gender

Anchored a quarter mile off the east coast of Florida, I had crashed an impromptu fraternity beach party the night before. It went on until the wee hours. A couple of delightful young coed girls had taken pity on me and fucked me delirious. I was slow to wake up and struggled to make coffee and find the aspirin.

I weighed anchor about 9 a.m. During the night the wind had clocked around, now coming offshore from the west. It had also kicked up considerably coming at me at 20 to 25 knots, gusting to 30. These were all signs that a front was moving in possibly bringing inclement weather. Yet none of my weather apps indicated any storms headed my way. And my radar showed nothing bearing in.

I decided to chance it, hoping that the forecasters were right. I deployed both sails and sailed with the wind headed east out into the ocean. Sailing with the wind, letting it just push you along, generally results in a smoother ride. The boat is not leaning (healing) either way. It remains upright. You lose some forward speed but it’s generally a pretty comfortable ride.

I sailed with the wind far offshore, about 25 miles. The shoreline had disappeared after the first hour and there was absolutely nothing visible except the water and the cloud studded sky for 360°. There weren’t any fishing boats and I didn’t see any freighters or cruise ships either. Nothing. Just sky and water.

I saw that it was about 3 p.m. It stayed light out until roughly 8 p.m. I did some mental calculations. I had been averaging 4 knots for 6 hours, getting me 25 miles offshore. If I tacked back toward land close hauled (the sail setting for maximum speed), I could probably hit 8 knots in this wind. It would take roughly 3 hours to get close to shore. That would be 6 p.m., plenty of time to find an anchorage before sundown. I turned the boat toward the northwest, about 45° off the wind. I cranked in the sails for maximum speed. The boat instantly healed over 30° and took off.

I was now speeding back toward land at a respectable speed between 8 and 10 knots. Exhilarating! Fun! Wind in my hair and in my sails! Healed over. Crashing through the waves, the bow sending spray in both directions. A wild ride! This is the nirvana that sailors live for.

Then the unthinkable happened. In the span of no more than 15 minutes, the wind quit. Just quit. It went from 20 knots to 2 knots in a quarter hour. My Love Boat righted itself and slowed to a crawl, my sails empty and luffing in the light breeze. I was now only moving forward at 1 to 2 knots. Oh, fuck! And I was still 20 miles offshore.

In order to get close to land to find an anchorage for the night while there was still some light left, I had no choice but to crank up the motor. What a sad state of affairs. Going from the pinnacle of sailing, healed over, 10 knots, crashing through the waves to this. Becalmed water, no wind and having to turn on the motor. Shit. Guess you just have to take the good with the bad.

As I was motoring along I looked for either an anchorage or an inlet with a marina nearby. I was bummed. All I could think about that would lift my spirits was a tumbler full of single malt and a blowjob. Only the scotch was a sure thing. My charts showed two possibilities. Either an inlet with what appeared to be a small bight just inside the inlet or a tiny marina about a half mile up the Intracoastal Waterway. If I kept the pedal to the metal, I could probably make the inlet by 8, the marina by 8:30.

On the off chance, I called the marina. Sure enough, they were very accommodating. Yes, they had a transient slip. Yes, approach depths were 7 feet minimum. Yes, they could allow a late arrival. They even emailed me a map of the marina with a slip highlighted for me.

“No problem, Mr. Sailor. We’d be happy to accommodate you. We’re a ‘Mom and Pop’ operation. If you text us when you’re close, we’ll even send a dockhand down to help you tie off as long as it’s before midnight. Just come visit the office in the morning and we’ll settle up then. Be safe out there and we hope to see you in the morning. And don’t forget to text us when you’re a half hour away. We’ll have someone waiting for you at your slip.”

It was nearly 8 p.m. before I got within a mile of shore. Running lights and steaming lights all on, of course. Being unfamiliar with the territory I wasn’t in the Intracoastal until nearly 8:30.