Yesterday we walked on land for the first time in a week. We’ve certainly anchored out for a week or longer before, but never without at least a quick dinghy ride to a dock or beach somewhere. Other than a swim off the back of the boat in Mosquito Lagoon, we’ve been confined to our 42 linear feet, with most of that spent in the “salon” measured by Felix at 150 square feet.
We know we’re not the only ones feeling cooped up, and in so many ways we’re beyond lucky. We’re basically outside all the time, and the weather has been generally perfect. By now we’re used to living and working on top of each other while almost never seeing our family or friends, so that’s less of a shock to the system. And, of course, we’re lucky to be safe and healthy.
We had stocked up on supplies before leaving Marathon last month and our plan was to anchor out as long as possible. We quickly learned that the good anchorages in the Keys are on the Florida Bay side, where we can’t easily go due to the depth of our keel. So after just a handful of stops along the way, we arrived sooner than expected in Key Biscayne and anchored outside of Bill Baggs State Park.
Bill Baggs was in many ways an ideal spot. We could dinghy to shore and walk to the beach, or fish from the sea wall, or even walk a bit further and catch the bus into Miami. We did go into town on our first day — sightseeing had already shut down, but many stores were still open and we had an urgent need for the Microsoft Store, so we made a long trip by bus and train to the mall, then stopped in Coconut Grove for a late lunch, pie and a bookshop.
Also, we have family in nearby Homestead, and we got to spend time with them twice — once at the boat and once at their home – after not seeing them for several years.
In retrospect these were probably bad social distancing ideas, though I’m still kind of glad we did what we did. Over the next few days southern Florida began taking Covid-19 more seriously, with Miami-Dade County first imposing curfews, then shutting down restaurants and bars altogether. We thought about staying where we were, but our anchorage was a bit exposed to passing boat traffic and Felix complained he couldn’t sleep with the rocking, so we decided to grab a cheap-for-Miami slip at a marina in a county park up by North Beach.
The day after we tied up in our new spot, the county closed all parks and beaches. Including, of course, the county park and beach we were in. At first officials interpreted this to mean the marina was closed. They locked up all the facilities and even shut off access to the docks (luckily we were tied up right next to the sea wall so we didn’t have to use the docks to get on and off the boat). Then, the mayor clarified that while the PARKS were closed, the MARINAS remained open, boating being an essential activity in southern Florida. So everything opened right back up.
Next, since the beaches were closed, more than a thousand boats (no joke) decided to get together at a small sandbar just outside our marina. This is why we can’t have nice things. So the mayor re-clarified that marinas and boat ramps were now, once again, CLOSED – to all but commercial boats and liveaboards.
As liveaboards, we were allowed to stay put and our bathroom key continued to work. But enforcement of the park-is-closed situation stepped up considerably, with a rotating cast of county sheriffs, park police and security firms constantly patrolling the park. If we wanted to walk to the supermarket, we had to explain our presence in the park both coming and going. Felix tried repeatedly to kick a soccer ball on a small patch of grass next to the boat, and was repeatedly sent back on board. (He claims that once the order came from somebody in a sheriff’s car with a skeleton in the passenger seat; I didn’t see it, but, creepy…!). Helicopters kept circulating ominously overhead.
Meanwhile, outside the park we saw little evidence that anything that would actually stop the spread of the virus was happening. Cars zipped by all day long. People were continually running, biking and walking down the sidewalks, without masks or social distancing. The supermarkets remained crowded (and yes, out of toilet paper, but we can’t use that kind on the boat anyway).
We stayed for two weeks, taking advantage of the warm weather and enforced downtime to catch up on boat chores. (Long Way Home is now fully scrubbed, waxed and varnished!).
Then we filled up the water tanks and slipped past the police barricade, under a bridge and out into the Atlantic Ocean. On day 3, we arrived in Mosquito Lagoon, a broad and shallow body of brackish water separated from the ocean by the Canaveral National Seashore. Mosquito Lagoon was the anti-Miami, wide open and utterly quiet, except for bird calls and the distant roar of the ocean. (OK, and the sound of our freezer cycling on and off. It’s a power hog but I really don’t like my peas from a can.) Our first day there, people with fishing gear glided by in small boats and kayaks. The second day it rained, the wind picked up, and we were all alone.
Eventually the winds got too strong for us to stay out there in the middle of nowhere, and we moved further north, reaching St. Augustine where we took our brief walking tour yesterday evening. Not sure whether the cause is time or distance or some combination, but things on land are much, much quieter here than they were in Miami. Few people are out and about, and those who are now step aside to maintain social distance. We didn’t see a single open store and only a handful of restaurants (primary options are grilled cheese and pizza, both of which we can make perfectly well on the boat. There’s also cheesesteak, but no.)
And here in St. Augustine harbor we float, somehow anxious and overwhelmed and bored all at the same time. Probably just like you.
