"Tramping" Around Everglades National Park

By W. LOWELL BRAY, Jr.

We had just seen our fifth waterspout within the last hour, and my crew's faces were a little grim. All winter, we had been waiting and planning for this trip. The previous fall, my wife, Mary, and I had purchased a Haines Hunter Tramp. With its shallow draft, it seemed the perfect boat for the shoal waters around our home on Florida's central west coast. The shallow draft and vinyl cabin also made it seem the perfect craft for a week's cruise along the west coast of the Everglades National Park. Mary had day-sailed with me but had never cruised, so we agreed to invite an old sailing buddy of mine, Jerry Fuess, to go along to provide good company and to be our nautical security blanket

Arrangements were fairly simple: We installed a masthead light and a VHF radio, made a galley board which could be mounted on the bow pulpit to provide a cooking area for our Coleman propane stove, purchased 12 one gallon bottles of water (packed six to a cardboard case) that could be tied to each forward crossbeam, froze all our meats and similar perishables and packed them in a 128-quart Igloo marine chest which fits crosswise between the seats just aft of the mast, loaded two portable gasoline tanks for the 4 1/2 hp Evinrude... and we were off.

I had picked mid-April for its weather. Now, on our second day afloat, the skipper's judgment seemed due for a review by the crew; but I maintained stoutly that my choice was the correct one. April has everything going for it in Florida. The weather and water are warm without being hot. The winter cold fronts that thrash the Gulf of Mexico into a froth, making the whole west coast a lee shore, are over. The almost daily summer showers have not started. Hurricane season is still a month away; and our most plentiful residents, the mosquitoes, have not yet begun to demonstrate their incredible reproductive ability.

We had towed the boat (christened Cricket because of its appearance as it sat on the trailer with its crossarms folded up) from our home to Chokoloskee, a small village at the northwest edge of the park, arriving on a Saturday mid-afternoon. We launched at a ramp frequented primarily by fishermen and were underway in time to motor down a mangrove channel to an anchorage at a small unnamed island near the Gulf. This area, appropriately called Ten Thousand Islands, is filled with many such anchorages for a shallow-draft boat. The islands, other than a few on which camping is allowed, are off limits to humans; however, as we have often noted that nothing in the park rules prohibits wading, and we often waded very close to the islands. That first anchorage was shared only by an osprey watching her nest and a few easily discouraged mosquitoes.

This serene setting, surrounded by mangroves and calm water, set the tone for the trip... It was probably a more significant element than faith in the skipper that prevented a mutiny the next morning, as we motored around the tip of the island and headed out to sea in pelting rain, with the first waterspout appearing off to the west.

Before the first spout died, the second began; and before it died, the third, and so on, until the fifth died as we entered open water. Just in time, the clouds broke, and the sunshine I had been loudly predicting all morning streamed through. An east breeze sprang up, and we cut the motor and raised sail. Cricket forgave the fact that she was shamelessly overloaded, and began skating along at a speed that only an ex-monohuller could appreciate.

About noon on Sunday, the breeze died as suddenly as it had appeared. The only sensible course of action seemed to be to set anchor, take a swim, and cat lunch. So we did. A pattern developed from this. When the seas became too rough for comfort, we would anchor in a sheltered cove and eat lunch. When a shower started, we would anchor and eat lunch. Soon, we began to look forward to even the most minor inconvenience as an excuse to stop and eat lunch.

The coast, from Everglades City south, around Cape Sable to Flamingo, is still in its natural state. Except for fishermen tent-camping in designated areas, this part of the park is uninhabited by man. The terrain varies as one moves south. The Ten Thousand Islands are low and mostly covered with scrubby mangrove bushes. At the mouth of the Shark River, farther down the coast, the mainland appears, and 30' to 40' mangroves grow with incredible thickness fight to the water's edge. Still farther south, Cape Sable (actually made up of three consecutive capes) features about 10 miles of unbroken white beaches unmarked by any human "improvement" except for a wooden dock used by the National Park Service.

The wildlife species and phenomena one can see are limited only by the time one has to wait and watch. Our second night, Sunday, was spent at anchor off Plover Key. The next morning, we realized that the beach was littered with dead, mature horseshoe crabs while the bottom, exposed by low tide, was covered with thousands of tiny, almost transparent babies of the species. Perhaps this is the Everglades' version of a salmon spawn.

That same morning a park ranger (the only one we saw) came by to make sure that we were okay. Despite our tide table, we had misjudged and had awakened to find ourselves firmly aground in the soft sand. Following our standard operating procedure for such a "crisis," we broke-out the stove and I cooked a big breakfast. This time, I set up the stove on the stern lazarette and stood in the warm water while cooking. The ranger maneuvered his Boston Whaler to within conversational range but refused our offer of coffee and continued on his patrol.

Monday, we made a rollicking run down the coast at speeds we estimated to exceed 12 knots. By mid-afternoon, we dropped anchor in Shark River. Everyone enjoyed a saltwater bath and we cleaned the boat. Despite the place's ominous name, nothing disturbed our baths except a seemingly endless parade of dolphin working the mouth of the river in search of mullet.

Tuesday, we sailed along the unspoiled beaches of Cape Sable, and we ducked into East Cape Canal to avoid a driving wind and rough seas coming from the east. This area is east of Cape Sable, and no protection is available except to the north. As we strained at anchor in what must have been a 6- to 8-knot incoming current, we watched a school of tarpon rolling in the water along the banks. They were followed by fishing guides and their clients. Lunch time entertainment was provided by one fisherman, who fought his quarry right up to the side of the boat and then lost him, while his partner recorded his humiliation on video tape.

Returning to East Cape (the southernmost of the three comprising Sable), we deliberately let a full-moon tide go out from under us so that we could enjoy some spectacular shelling on the exposed sand along the shore.

This beach provided our only real encounter with hostile natives: Walks along the beach exposed us to attacks from a winged inhabitant. Based on an equally uniform ignorance of entomology, we fell into a three-way argument - one claiming it to be a type of deerfly, one insisting it was a type of horsefly, the third holding out for a previously undiscovered species of winged miniature grizzly bear. We all agreed to add a fly swatter to the boat’s equipment.

Wednesday was spent doing more beachcombing, followed by a moonlit run to a point just south of Shark River. We were so used to being alone that I couldn't identify an anchor light on a sailboat that was occupying the anchorage we had used the night before.

During the entire week, we saw only two or three dozen fishing boats, half a dozen sailboats, and one large cruiser. Except for a few fishermen with more horsepower than brains (much more), everyone kept a courteous distance and let us enjoy the unspoiled beauty of the area.

Not all human encounters were so satisfactory. Thursday, as we lay at anchor in Broad Creek having our lunch, we were blasted to panic's edge when two Air Force jet fighters, probably from Homestead, came directly overhead at full throttle and at mangrove level.

The currents around the various capes, and the tidal flow from the rivers (which drain large areas of the Everglades), can present a number of interesting seamanship problems, particularly with respect to anchoring and the tri's tendency to be caught in irons. Late Friday evening, we dropped anchor in the channel which connects the north mouth of Lostmans River to the Gulf. We had come in through the south entrance in time to drop the hook for lunch and then motored through First Bay to the north entrance. As darkness fell, we discovered that the current was awe-inspiring. When one anchor seemed to be set, I stood on the stem and dropped an 8-lb Danforth with six feet of chain rode. As I watched our standing bow wave, I paid out a hundred feet of line while the current rolled and bounced the anchor out toward the sea. Such conditions turn one into a light sleeper. I sprayed myself liberally with mosquito repellent and spent the night on one of the mesh trampolines. To the east, I could see the glow of a wildfire in the Glades - one of several which were to bum hundreds of thousands of acres before the summer rains helped to bring them under control.

The area proved to be perfect for our purpose. Only the slightly unseasonable rain had dampened the week. The boat sailed well and was unexpectedly comfortable. It did demonstrate an annoying habit, in rough water, of pumping water up through the centerboard, well into the cockpit. The designer, Ian Farrier, later told me that this was partly due to overloading and partly because the Tramp had been built heavier than he had intended. Jerry managed to construct a duct-tape seal that eased the problem, and the occasional use of the bilge pump handled whatever water escaped.

On Saturday, our eighth day on the water, the weather was lovely, as though to make up for the beginning of the cruise. With a bright sun, 10-knot winds from the east, and one-foot seas, we had a leisurely sail from Lostmans River to the mouth of the Chokoloskee Channel and motored up to the launching site in time to haul out and secure lodging in Everglades City before dark.

Although the warm showers were a welcome change after seven days of saltwater and Lemon Joy baths, the television shows couldn't compare with hearing my wife scream, "That fish had wings!" when she saw her first flying fish take off and flutter away from the boat. Neither could the air conditioning compete with the Gulf breeze that had cooled and propelled us. And the best meal the restaurant had to offer couldn't match grilled hot dogs while aground in the middle of a mud flat.

A good boat, good companionship, good weather (for the most part), and good food, made the trip a resounding success.

Credits: Multihulls Magazine November/December 1990 (received from John Wayshner)