Conch Shell Sailor

Many people wonder what was it like to grow up as a sailor on the water here before this coast was "discovered" in the mid-1970s, when mosquito control and I-75 brought down hundreds of thousands of Northerners. I get asked that question several times a year by newcomers to Southwest Florida who meet me at book signings, and I usually give the same short reply.

"Well, I guess the best way to explain it is that I grew up as a conch shell sailor. Few of 'em around nowadays . . ."

Frequently folks don't quite understand my brief answer-I admit it's a bit odd-so here are some tales from that time to illustrate what it was like around these waters so many years ago.

A Shipwreck off Marco
My earliest memory of a sea story on this coast comes from the near shipwreck of Dad's sailing ketch on a hot summer night in 1963. The Por Fin (Spanish for at last) was a gorgeous little ship, built only months earlier in Japan to a classic Francis Hereshoff design from 1942. On that fateful night she was being delivered from Miami by a crusty professional captain and his wife.

The voyage was going well until crab-trap lines wrapped around her prop shaft at Caxambas Pass while she was sailing along the dark coast of Marco Island. Soon she drifted, engine useless, until hard aground on the shoals where she was pounded by the surf. With malevolently perfect timing, the tide then chose to ebb. Wading ashore on the strange island, the captain found a house and called my father up in Cape Coral, who set out on the long overland trek (down the old Tamiami Trail) to Marco Island. Arriving at daybreak, he made his way out with provisions through clouds of mosquitoes to his new boat, and they all waited for the arrival of the United States Coast Guard.

You see-and this amazes modern boaters-back then it was the Coast Guard

that hauled vessels off shoals-for free. Let me repeat that for you disbelievers-for free. Part of your tax money at work. There were no boat-assist companies, no $5,000 salvage and towing fees, no adversarial negotiations while the boat pounds farther aground.

But the Coasties weren't close by. The Coast Guard's presence for the entire Southwest Florida coast between Engle-wood and Marathon was based on a houseboat barge at Fort Myers Beach. As you might be able to imagine by this point in the story, it certainly wasn't a spit-and-polish outfit, but was most definitely well loved by the seamen in the area.

The Coasties had an old 40-foot utility boat that could go 10 or 12 knots on a good day. But this evidently wasn't a good day, because it took the Coast Guard crew 10 hours to go the 40 miles to the Por Fin.

Rescue operation procedures were a bit different in those days, too. When the cutter crew arrived at the scene, instead of asking if the stranded sailors had enough provisions, they asked if the victims had any to spare for the rescuers. And nobody thought that was unusual. Hey, the boys in blue were hungry and thirsty from the long voyage!

No problem. Dad the former Boy Scout had prepared well and brought more than enough food and drink, including a case of beer in an ice box. Sure enough, the small C.G. cutter was soon anchored off in deeper water, with Dad and the Coasties relaxing over several cool ones and discussing just how they were going to get his dreamboat floating again. A couple of hours later, the deed was done, and my father had a tale that I've heard for 40 years.

Stormy Lessons from Evil Ladies
Recently we've been hammered by hurricanes on this coast, but years ago I got some salient life experiences regarding large tropical storms. Lessons I have always remembered from those wicked ladies called hurricanes.

The first was Hurricane Betsy in September 1965. We all watched as it went up through the northern Bahamas, heading for the Carolinas and away from us. Deadly Hurricane Donna, which my family missed, was still very much in everyone's mind and there was much sympathy for the people of the Outer Banks, where we thought Betsy was going to strike.
Then she turned around.
She did not just alter course. Hurricane Betsy made weather history by completely reversing course 180 degrees and heading back southwest, toward. . .you guessed it. The storm crossed the east coast, traversed the Everglades and the bottom of Florida to our coast, where it turned and went north again, sending us strong winds and high tides. A few days later it slammed into New Orleans, causing massive flooding and much damage.

Even Dad was stunned by that storm, which is saying a lot. Lesson learned: Never, ever trust a hurricane. They are absolutely maniacal, with an evil sense of humor.

The next was Hurricane Alma in 1966, a Category Three hurricane that emerged from Nicaragua and charged up the eastern Gulf, raking our coast before finally going ashore near Tallahassee. The scariest thing about Alma was that she appeared in early June. Early June? It shocked the old timers because hurricanes weren't supposed to show up that early. It just wasn't proper. Nobody was ready.

By this time I was old enough to help in hurricane preparations, and Dad and I tied our boats up in a web of lines that would have satisfied a banana spider. We had long lines on anchors dug in forward and astern, spring lines, breast lines, and extra mooring lines. Then Dad insisted that we double all of them. We also took off everything that was loose, or might be blown loose, and put it all in our home, which soon resembled a ship chandlery's warehouse. Only after the boats were secured did we shutter up the house.

It was an exhausted man and boy who joined Mom and finally sat down and watched the only TV station for the region, WINK-TV, for clues as to where and when the monster was going to hit. No radar display, satellite photos, computer models of projected paths, or real-time information reports; just guess-and-by-gosh TV reporting. We ended up going outside and looking up at the sky. A pilot as well as a sailor, my father understood the nuances of weather pretty well. As he studied the clouds, he announced that we just might get lucky; the worst would miss us. That afternoon he taught me to face the wind and stick my right arm out straight to my side to find out where the center of a tropical storm is located. The intensity of the wind gives an idea of how far away it is.

That was the first time I ever tried to stand in 80-mile-an-hour winds, and it impressed me greatly. Scared me, really. But to our profound relief, Dad was right and Alma did not strike us directly. We got only the outer winds, with no damage. Lesson learned: Weather forecasting is an educated guess-always prepare for the worst.

Hurricane Agnes came along in 1972, just as I was entering the immortal-fearless phase of my life, and it was then that I did something very stupid. I'm only telling y'all now so you won't do it. I was living on Estero Island (Fort Myers Beach), and as the hurricane approached, I went surfing, just to say I did. Hey, a lot of other guys were doing it, too. Before you get too judgmental, remember that this was back during the days of the Beach Boys, and the surfer culture was big. Also, back then the authorities were spread too thin to try to deter people from being dumb. These days, if you even look like you might do something dumb on the water, there is somebody around to yell at you.

During my macho hurricane stunt, I managed to damn near kill myself when I was thrown down into the shell bottom by a wave that wouldn't let me come up. Suddenly the exhilaration turned to terror as I was held down by the liquid monster. Clawing my way to the surface, I struggled ashore and sat on the beach shaking uncontrollably, bleeding from a hundred small cuts. Lesson learned: Never play with the sea when it's in a rage. It can, and will, kill you for your arrogance.

Gunkholing in Paradise
Gunkholing is a sailor term for exploring out-of-the-way places. Thirty and 40 years ago, we had a fair number of them on this coast (actually, we still do-maybe someday I'll tell you where they are), and it was great fun to poke around back in the coves and islands. Pelican Bay, Johnson Shoals and Pejuan Beach at Cayo Costa Island. Hurricane Hole at Punta Blanca Island. Abandoned and mysterious Useppa Island. Estero Bay and Hickory Bay. Goodland Bay at Marco Island. Russell and Indian Keys near Everglades City. Pavilion Key, Flamingo and Shark River. Cayo Pelau at Charlotte Harbor. Popcorn Cove and Tarpon Bay on the Caloosahatchee River.