Solo to Dry Tortugas and Back
In April I sailed my sailboat solo down to Dry Tortugas and back. Going solo was never my goal—but that's how it worked out.
Since taking up sailing back in 2018 when we lived in Seattle (wow, has it really been 8 years?), thinking it would be a fun thing to do, I remember at the time I just hoped that it would give me a chance to learn a lot. I have been prepping for a long time to get enough experience to feel confident doing a long trip by myself. I always just assumed I would go places as crew on someone else's boat or go on chartered boats with several other couples hopping between pretty ports and doing a lot of snorkeling, eating and drinking at cutesy beach pagodas, stuff like that. But the way it worked out was that I was the only one interested in it and I kept taking classes and racking up certifications until I felt pretty confident going places—only to have nobody else to do it with. So it goes. We did get to go on a chartered boat in the Grenadines and it was a fabulous week. I'm definitely in favor of that kind of trip, just need the opportunity, money, and other people that want to go.
My trip to Dry Tortugas started with a short cruise across the harbor to stage near the Boca Grande pass in Pelican Bay on the northeast side of Cayo Costa Island. We go there semi-regularly, and this time it was just a staging cruise to get closer to the gulf for the next morning. There were several boats from our club roaming southward, and my friends Dave and Debbie on their boat Windswept kept the same itinerary so we could buddy boat on the longer passages. Before dawn, I hauled anchor and slipped out of the pass before sunrise and was headed south. It took all day to sail down the coast to a spot called Marco Island. A few months earlier I had done a trip south and made it as far south as Fort Myers, and right after buying the boat, a couple of guys came with me to sail from Fort Lauderdale all the way around the state and back up to my house, so I had done long trips before, and long trips by myself even—but about halfway to Marco I was further than I had ever been away from home by myself on the boat. I was out there. Sailing. The boat was working well and I felt the whole feeling of adventure.
Marco Island is bigger and much busier than I imagined it would be, but I got in the channel and dropped anchor next to another boat. I am trained to look closely at the wind angle when coming in to dock or anchor, and I thought at the time that this guy's boat was in a funny position there by itself. I was also trained that if you approach an anchorage and a guy is standing on his boat glaring at you with his arms at his sides, you might want to keep your distance or anchor elsewhere. With all this in mind I dropped anchor next door to him. Everything became clearer once I dropped anchor and felt my boat yanked around the same direction as his was sitting. The wind was pointing my boat toward NE, but the current was pushing me forward. It's hard to explain, but it concerned me that it was really an awkward position to be in if anything happened and I needed to navigate. Again, you always have to remind yourself you're SOLO and any activity is going to be more complicated as a result. At that time, with the current that strong, there was really nothing I could change about my situation. I relaxed and cleaned up, and then waited til close to sunset when the current slacked and the wind died, pulled anchor, and moved to the other side of the channel where there were more boats and the conditions were calmer. Then I could relax. I spent that night and the next at anchor, topped off the fuel, explored ashore, did some shopping, ate out, etc. Good times. Sandi even drove down to meet me and share the shoreside part of the adventure. It was a nice port of call.
The morning after the second night at Marco, I hauled anchor around midday and headed back out to the gulf. Instead of continuing to hug the coast, I decided to just bear SW and go straight to Dry Tortugas. Projecting the speed and distance, and never having been to that island before, the plan was to try to time it so I got there and could anchor after sunrise the next day. So leaving about noon and arriving about 9am the next day is about 21 hours at sea. It was great. A little wavy like sitting in a rocking chair, but consistent wind. I don't know if you've done anything like that before—it was a first for me—but it's a unique experience. I thought it would be like a long road trip, but it wasn't at all. I felt isolated and exposed but surrounded by everything at the same time, if that makes any sense. The sea is a weird thing. It's so peaceful at times it can make your heart sing, and other times awe and frighten you with its power. Like a predator, you want to respect it at all times and don't want to turn your back on it and assume it's safe. I set an alarm and woke up every so often, checked the horizon, the sails, general progress, etc. and dozed again. All day and that night.
I came into sight of the island at dawn and slid in and dropped anchor. The island is a national park, but is basically without resources and pretty far from help. They have a small parks presence there to man the dock and gift shop, and they have their own generator and stuff (not for public use), but there is no fresh water or other services for tourists or boaters. A water ferry comes daily from Key West, and a seaplane makes trips there a couple of times daily. The coast guard sometimes has a boat hanging out there if they have a reason, but essentially, you're on your own after business hours. They have a daily walking tour by a person that comes and leaves on the ferry. I already missed that when I arrived and wasn't really feeling like a tourist after 21 hours sailing, so I just explored the island on my own on foot, had a nice meal on the boat, and got a night's sleep. The next morning, I hitched a ride with Dave and Debbie ashore and we did the walking tour. That night, things got interesting.
When I made it to the island, I anchored in windy conditions by Fort Jefferson along with a few other boats. In the evening when things quieted down, I was watching a sermon from a pastor I like as I went to bed. It was an inspiring message, and I fell asleep with this warm feeling of security and protection. I didn't set an anchor alarm (typically a phone app that watches your GPS position and goes off if you drift outside of a circle) and told myself I really didn't even need to look outside all night because God had me. I woke up about 2am and the boat didn't feel right. After a while it's like being in your car—you just sense when something isn't right, whether it's a sound or a movement change. I stuck my head out the companionway and could see nothing—that time of the month there was no moon. I shone the spotlight and the first thing I saw was marker 12 right next to my boat.
The only problem was…that wasn't supposed to be there! Or else I wasn't supposed to be there. My anchor was dragging! Confusion, disorientation, trying to wake up all the way… I was close to the channel leading in/out of the anchorage to the West of where I was supposed to be, but I was on the reef side (wrong side) of the marker and as my brain fog started to clear I started to realize how much trouble I was in. What I had sensed earlier was my keel bumping on the coral shoals on the bottom as the boat bobbed up and down in the waves. I guess because of my childhood and time on the fire department I typically don't panic in situations like that, but my mind raced trying to compute the correct next steps. The waters between Key West and Dry Tortugas are known as a huge ship trap and there are literally hundreds of shipwrecks. I have heard that planes flying over can see them dotting the Gulf water all along the region. I started the engine and put it in forward, but in the dark, I realized I couldn't tell where I was going and the wind wanted to flip my bow away from the anchorage, and I couldn't tell what was going on. I also didn't want to race past my chain because it could get caught in the prop, take away my engine, and if that happened, I'd be joining the list and become another dot on the map for the planes to point at as they flew over. I flashed the spotlight again and saw I was moving forward, passing the marker on my starboard. I got past it and the chain suddenly jerked to a stop, pulling me to turn starboard. I looped around the piling and drifted back toward where I was and came to a stop. That quickly, the excitement was done. I couldn't get out of the predicament, but the chain looped around the marker's piling was holding me fast, out of the shallows and away from the reef. Away from disaster. I caught my breath, settled down, and went back to bed.
Next morning, I radioed the other boats to let them know where I went and one of the captains brought his dinghy over to chat and assist if he could. As you can imagine, I had replayed things in my mind a hundred times and racked my brain trying to come up with what to do now. I didn't need much, just someone to stand at the bow and take in the anchor chain while I navigated carefully back around the piling—like I said, when sailing solo, jobs like that are hard to do by yourself and given the situation I didn't want to risk trying it alone. The other captain went and ferried Dave over so he could handle the chain while I ran the boat. As it turned out, the way my chain was wrapped around the piling was perfect for navigating back out in the daylight. Not intentional or due to my skill, since it got that way in the dark while I was blind, so definitely a God thing. After driving back around the piling safely while Dave pulled up the anchor, I got free, went back up to the anchorage and this time my anchor held for the rest of the stay. One other note: when I was in Seattle, the norm was very deep water and lots of chain. My boat Wanderlust came with a little chain so I bought a bunch from a guy and added it so I had what I thought was a normal amount. I had almost all of it let out and still my anchor dragged. Well for sure, after this happened, I let ALL of it out. If I hadn't added the extra chain because I learned to sail in Seattle, I don't know what I'd have done. I felt very happy that I had the extra chain that I could let out.
I thought a lot about this afterward. I have replayed my actions over and over trying to imagine a different outcome. I still don't know exactly what God was trying to teach me about feeling so secure the night before, and then despite that being put so close to real harm and disaster in the middle of the night, then just as suddenly out again, but the feeling the next day was so far removed from the feeling of safety and security from the night before. One thought was that all the prayer and feelings of safety and being held didn't keep my anchor from dragging and putting me in real peril. I may have gotten through it using my own hands on the rudder, but I don't think it was ME that saved me. Sandi likes to quote Proverbs 16:9: A man's heart plans his course, but the Lord directs his steps. The difference between ho-hum safety and soggy death really was a pretty short distance apart that night. I had been in bad situations before, but this was a unique experience. If I hadn't woken up… If the wind was from a degree or two further north… If I had passed the marker on my port side instead of starboard and hadn't wrapped around it like I did… If the engine hadn't started… I had 100' of chain laid out and my big Rocna anchor that wasn't supposed to drag, yet drag I did. I was the only boat that dragged anchor—why none of the others… I'm not an adrenaline junky so it wasn't a fun experience for me. I guess sailing is like a lot of activities: nobody is the master of the sea, we just all go along and collect stories of survival until the story ends. I have stories from the fire department that made an impact and will probably stick with me for life, and I think this sailing experience will stay with me like those did, too.
The trip home was nice and uneventful—once I turned back north it was another all-night trip to get back near the mainland. There was a storm trying to come in from the west and I hoped to get in front of it because once it got there it could last all day, and I was frankly ready to get home. I left in the morning after breakfast. Wind was from the east but not too strong or anything, but there's this thing called "fetch" that describes how much water the wind has to traverse before it gets to you. If the distance is long, you get waves; if it is short, you typically don't. If you look at a map, wind coming from south of the tip of Florida can go west over the water all the way to the part of the gulf I wanted to cross to go home, meaning it had the potential to develop big waves. They weren't too bad, though. The further north I got, the less the waves were an issue, because at some point you have the mainland blocking the wind. So by sunset it was just a normal trip again.
A funny thing happened at sunset, though. I was out there many miles from land in every direction. Suddenly, these birds started landing on the boat. A big hawk stopped by. And all these migrating swallows started landing right next to me. One flew in the open cabin door and I had to go shoo it back out. By dark, I had about a dozen of them sitting on my winch. They just piled on top of each other and roosted. They slept there all night long. I was afraid to disturb them by going below, so I just stayed on deck all night. In the morning I entered Charlotte Harbor, and a couple of hours later as I made the last turn towards home, the sun came over the horizon. One of the swallows raised and shook its head, then within a few seconds they all raced away and disappeared. I was amazed. To think they fly clear across the gulf, and even further distances in places around the world. No land in sight when they went to sleep, then land all around them when they woke up. How would they know where they were? How would they reset their course to get where they intended to go? Imagine a dozen of them piled on the same winch—they just continued to pile on top of one another.
It really was a fun adventure. I would do it again, but I would do a number of things differently, for sure.