The Coming Back In the Dark, Story . . . .

[Charles Brennan]

It was my 35th birthday, and I wanted to spend it aboard my sailboat, with my family, down in the Keys.  Figured we'd tool on down to Marathon, and get a motel room across the street (more or less) from the ramp near Vaca Cut.
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We'd go fishing at Sombrero Light reef, and then come back in to the motel.  We'd spend the night in air-conditioned comfort, with the luxury of unlimited shower water, the sailboat safely trailered under a parking lot light, just outside the room; practically a mini-vacation.   

We put in at the ramp, and as we left, I noticed two condos, about 4 or 5 stories high, with distinctive roof obstruction lights, and a shape that would be easily recognizable at night.  This was in the pre-GPS days, when visual-mark pilotage, was the norm. Find the condos, head another 150 yards east, and the ramp should be right there.
No sweat.   
Check the ICW markers, on the way out, just for back-up.  Time the distance from the ramp to the bridge, so I'd know when I was in the neighborhood, by how long I traveled, as well.  You can never be too careful.

We sailed west down the length of Marathon, ducked under 7 Mile Bridge, got clear of the island wind shadow, and reached all the way to Sombrero Light. 
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Washing the starboard ports, while the kids urged Dad on to even more heel (knowing that it made their Mother nervous  ), until we were just screaming along, and enjoying the afternoon.
We caught all kinds of snapper: Red, Vermilion, Mangrove, one Mutton, Schoolmaster, and numerous Yellow tail snapper.  Enough fish for quite a fine dinner.  We were catching so steadily, that Dad had to quit fishing, to clean and cook dinner.  We had the fish with parsley/new potatoes, and canned asparagus.  Not a bad way to spend a birthday, folks! 

The wind started picking up a little, and so we headed back in; partially in deference to my wife, and partially in desire of a long, hot, shower.  We were beating back, and though there was a fair to middling chop, everybody was riding it well.  Went through the bridge, and there was no wind, and what little there was, was on the nose. 
Time to fire up the Iron Jib, thought I.  2 pulls on the trusty British Seagull, and we were heading for home!     Started checking the ICW markers, looking for, lessee, now, what was that marker number?     I was going to circle it on the chart, let's check . . . Hmmmmm.  Must not have got around to it.      Well, OK, let's find the first marker nearest the ramp on the chart.  Wellllll . . . . . . . it might be "15" or it might be "13".  Good thing I also piloted off those condos.

The sailboat, sensing that nothing had gone wrong now, for at least several hours in a row, decided to test my character, by having a Porta-Potti failure.  The dump (you should excuse the expression) valve handle broke off, leaving us with no way to flush. Didn't discover that until AFTER the kiddies had already used it.    While I was trying to figure out what to do with that, the Seagull water pump impeller gave up the ghost, and promptly overheated and seized the engine.  Seagulls are wont to do that, ever since British Seagull engineers in some laughable attempt at joining modern technology, went to a nylon impeller, instead of the old hard rubber ones; you know, the ones that NEVER cracked and failed?   
Back up on deck, raise the main and jib, for what little help they were worth, and ghost back up Marathon, towards clean cool bed sheets, air-conditioning, a hot shower; maybe a really stiff nightcap, if I could just skillfully arrange to be standing next to the bed, when it hit me. 
Ah! What a life!   
Just a little further on, right? 

Well the radical difference in the boat speed blew my time-to-objective guesstimate to pieces.  Shoulda went past that marker by now, too.  Those condos should be showing up any minute, then 150 yards east, turn south, and onto Easy Street, or should I say: Easy Ramp?
Nothing was looking familiar.  Where were all the lights?     Marathon was a 24-hour Keys type, Party City.  Should at least be able to see the airport beacon, from the Gulf side.  Come on Charles, concentrate, and start using some of that pilotage and navigation, you're so proud of. 
Time for some dead reckoning, dude. 
Well, if I get to Vaca Cut, I know I overshot it, so that's something.  Where the heck IS everything?      Everything, turned out to be a few billion mosquitoes, with a yen for snapper-flavored sweat, who originally homed in on what was becoming a highly aromatic head problem.      Broke out the bug spray, and continued on.

Maybe I'm too far offshore to recognize my pilotage points, yeah, THAT'S it!  I bear in a little closer to shore, knowing it will cost me in speed, due to more wind-shadow. 
The old joke: "I know every sandbar in Florida Bay, like the back of my hand!" BUMP! "See? There's one now!"   
OK, time to head back out a little.   Saw a boat way out, anchored for the night in the bay.  Strange looking coves, that I did not remember seeing on the way out, are now rearing their mysterious heads.
Where are those D@#n CONDOS? 

I pull into one of the coves, with the idea of wading ashore, finding a road sign, determining how far I am from the motel, and navigating accordingly.  A rather large German shepherd dissuaded me from actually coming ashore.  I figured once his owners got annoyed enough with his barking, they would come out to shut him up, and I would beg for directions, now having lost all pretense of being a competent sailor, who could get from point A to point B, and back again. 
No such luck.   
Owners were apparently having a night out on the town; and the dog, which had obviously played this game before, kept intercepting me, every time I tried to find a way to get ashore. 

Wade back to the easily found boat (just had to follow my nose), and slog onward in the unrelenting, endless Voyage Of The Damned.  Still heading east, still no condos, still no cut, still no ramp, still no motel parking lights.  Enough!    I finally decided.  I shoulda been here by now; something is seriously wrong.  Dropped the hook, put the head out on the deck (downwind) and sprayed everybody down with more bug spray (otherwise, you sweat it off in the night, and awake in the morning, several pints lighter), and called it a night.  And all the while, trying not to think bitterly,    of that already-paid-for motel room, with the air-conditioner that I had turned to High Cool, before I locked up. 
Great navigating, Captain America; Happy 35th. 
Go to sleep, fool.

With the morning sunrise, everything looked more hopeful.  No way, could somebody lose me in the Keys, in the daylight.  Get the boat shipshape, get the sails up, and find my way back to that accursed ramp.  Looking south, I noticed the twin towers of the condos; the ones I had searched in vain for last night, and all of 700 yards away.  Looking up to the bow, sure enough, there was the ramp, right where it was supposed to be.   I had just spent the night, in unbearable June heat, being eaten alive, and all within 300 yards of the ramp and within 1000 yards of my motel room! 

Why hadn't I seen the condos last night?   
Turned out, they were still under construction, and the general contractor turned off temporary power at night, so, no obstruction lights.  Got the boat to the ramp, and walked across the street to fetch my truck and trailer from the motel parking lot.  The second half of the puzzle was suddenly explained.  Some drunk plowed into one of the light poles, and apparently short circuited the whole string of them, so, no ramp lights.  Looking out to the bay, for marker 13, I saw a cabin cruiser that had decided to tie up to it last night, for reasons known only to the God of Foolish Power boaters.   
Tuna tower had masked the marker.

My kids were clamoring for food, and my wife is one of those got-to-watch-the-blood-sugar types.  I told her to take them for breakfast in the motel restaurant, while I took a shower, and a nap in my already paid-for motel room.  Check-out is 1 pm, huh?   
Come back for me around lunchtime, dear. 
Not ALL sailing trips are totally idyllic, but they ARE totally memorable.

Charles Brennan 

[Brian N.]

Charles - Thanks for posting the story! A few good chuckles, but a great narrative of things gone wrong, but worked out where everyone came through just fine.

[Doug SC]

CB, that was told so well I even slapped my arm thinking it was a mosquito!

[Frank B.]

Great story, brings back memories.  Seems like in my early days of sailing for every ideal trip I had three or four trips as you have described.  Might have to post a couple of them here.

[Riley Smith]

I don't do night myself. There are several reasons and one is S R Cat doesn't have lights. Everything is different at night and I can't see well. Especially at night. The doc has offered to get rid of the cataracts but so far I haven't agreed. Good story Charles!

[Norm L.]

Proper lights are strongly suggested, but for boats under 23' I think you can use a light/flashlight when needed to show the existence of your vessel. I think the rule used to say shine it on your sail. I don't know if COLREGS have changed a bit.
It tells your existence, but not your sailing direction.

Since properly lit vessels of every size still hit each other, compliance with the highest level of permittable lighting is wise.

[Riley Smith]

The only occasion in a long life was heading east in Big Lagoon as the sun set. We set the lantern to make the sail reflect and motored to the beach ahead. And got absolutely no attention from a FDWL boat that came zooming by. That WAS pretty nice, because the sail acts like a big Chinese lantern and would warm ANY sane person that a sailboat was under it. That was a good trip. One of the BEER Cruises.