Nikki s Panhandle Cruise

Nikki s Panhandle Cruise (Nikki heads home from Pensacola) by Bruce Bingham Day 20, June 4, Pensacola to Navarre Morning dawned clear and bright with Nikki swinging slowly to a light breeze from the south. As every morning, I started the coffee, scratched my self where needed, opened the hatch and looked around. Chanticleer, 40 yards to the west, was brilliant in the early light, and I saw Roberta on deck. I waved and she returned the gesture. It would be the last time I would see the boat and my wonderful harbor neighbors. As I turned to go below, I noticed a lot of commotion at the end of the nearby pier. The binoculars revealed the Today Show team, complete with flood lights, TV cameras, and people holding cue cards broadcasting live. I turned on the television, and there they were, standing on the same dock with Pen Beach in the background talking about the oil that had washed ashore during the preceding night. It looked like a perfect day to catch up on Nikki s bright work, so after breakfast, I dragged out the sandpaper, brushes and varnish and went to work. At one point, I looked up and realized that Chanticleer was gone. My heart sunk. I had so enjoyed their company. I felt very alone and was ready to go home. By noon, I d finished laying down varnish on the toe rails and hatch trim. The activity on the pier had subsided and it looked safe to go ashore, so I dinghied in with my laundry and a grocery list with thoughts of heading out. Again, the beach was a hub bub of activity with more press trucks than before. But that activity More press trucks have arrived on the beach did not wash over onto the streets or restaurants, pubs, or other establishments. They were empty, and there were few other signs of the normal tourist population. The oil had landed and the tourists had taken flight. It was a very sad day for Pensacola and all of the Gulf Coast from New Orleans to Apalachicola. BP s oil soils Pensacola Beach. Having finished running my errands, I returned to Nikki by 3:00, pulled the hook and set sail. There was a nice breeze as I headed eastward, making about five knots. I turned on the autopilot and GPS. Whoops... I turned on the GPS again, and again, and again with no luck. It wouldn t blink! I tried and tried again with no luck. I checked the connection and sprayed it with contact cleaner, and doubled checked the circuit breaker, but everything seemed to be in order. The GPS was totally dead. This would change everything. Actually, I wasn t terribly concerned... just irritated by the inconvenience that this failure would cause. I have a lot of piloting and offshore navigation experience and had my trusty hand-bearing compass aboard, so I was prepared to do it the

Bruce takes bearings with his 50 year-old compass. old fashioned way. I continued attempting to get the GPS to light off from time to time during the remainder of the cruise without luck. I actually began to look forward to the challenge of using my dead reckoning and piloting skills that had become largely unused since the invention of electronic marvels. Nikki s lively pace would make it easy to arrive at Navarre before sunset, and that would give me time to anchor and row ashore to pick up some odds and ends and have dinner at one of the many restaurants there. I had been seeing tall CuNim (Cumulonimbus) clouds during the day that often produce violent thunder storms, and I was a little concerned and it was beginning to look as if I was going to be in for one of those occasions. I dropped anchor just east of the Navarre Bridge, dinghied in, walked to the grocery store, and returned to Nikki just in time to batten down the hatches as a wall of wind and rain hit with 50 mph gusts. This would be the very first rain since leaving Gulfport. Squall line at Navarre Nikki rode out the storm well. It only lasted 30 minutes. The rain subsided, making a soft patter sound on the cabin top for a few hours into the night. I drifted into a deep sleep after dinner, disconnecting myself from the problem with the GPS. The next morning was brilliant. I was in no hurry to get going, so I had a big breakfast, did a little more varnishing and dodled around a bit before pulling hook and getting underway. While heading west, I had seen the notation on the chart, Gulf Coast National Seashore not far from where I was on the south shore of Santa Rosa Sound. It sounded inviting and the huge sand dunes were already visible. A convenient beach landing was only a few miles away. I anchored Nikki in a gentle cove less than 50 yards from shore and rowed to a white sandy beach. The dunes towered above me. Nearby was a radar dome, and I could occasionally hear a passing car. Once having climbed the slope, I crossed a two lane road and entered the expansive dune field. The sand burned my bare feet, and the trek was made more difficult by clutching my camera while negotiating the loose sand. The view was spectacular from the dune peaks, and I took many photos. I could see the Gulf s rollers breaking on the beach a quarter-mile away. Gulf Coast National Seashore I climbed several more dunes and began my final descent to the beach. Still high above the surf, I saw an all terrain vehicle speeding westward along the beach. I didn t think much of this and continued slogging through the hot sand. The ATV got closer, and closer, and closer. Then it steered right toward me. I changed my course, and so did the ATV. I changed again, but it seemed insistent on hitting me. I felt like a matador avoiding the horns of a bull. Suddenly the ATV stopped directly in front of me cutting me off from the beach. What are you doing here. You don t belong here. You must leave immediately, announced a rather high pitched voice from under the dark helmet visor. I came to see the National Seashore, I replied. This is not a National Seashore. You must turn around and leave the way you came immediately!

The rider removed the helmet and revealed herself as a female military police person in full camouflage, black combat boots, a night stick, and a mean looking pistol in a holster surrounded by lots of bullets. She got off the ATV. She was a lot bigger than me. It says on my chart that this is the Gulf Coast National Seashore. It doesn t say that on your chart!, the MP insisted. I repeat... this is NOT a National Seashore Well, it looks a lot like one to me, I pressed. I want to go to the beach and look at the Gulf. You can t. You can only turn around and leave the way you came. If this isn t a seashore, what is it? This is the Elgin Airforce Base Santa Rosa Radar Facility, and you must turn around and leave or you will be arrested.. Where s the sign? I didn t see a sign. There wasn t a fence or a gate with a guard. I think YOU RE in the wrong place. This is the Gulf Coast National Seashore. If it s not, you need to put up a sign. OK, Smart Ass... you re going to leave right now and I m going to make you. She mounted the ATV and started coming right at me. I turned to get out of her way, but she headed me off. Keep going or you re going to spend the day as a guest of the Air Force, and you won t enjoy that. I think I knew what she meant, so I headed in the direction from whence I had come and began trudging northward toward the dinghy. The MP on the ATV stayed behind. We became visually separated by the sand dunes, which was just fine with me. I thought about hiding out for a while and making a run for the beach, but thought better of it. I continued northward to where my little dinghy was waiting high and dry on the other side of the road. It was time to move on. Trinka dink waits on the edge of the National Seashore. Fort Walton Beach and Destin were only a few hours away, but I had no intention to stop there. I had heard on the news that the oil movement had forced the closure of Destin inlet, so I would not be able to enter the Gulf of Mexico there. It was not long before the tall buildings of Destin appeared. For the next two days, the cruise would become a simple matter of backtracking through the sounds, cuts, canals, and bays to the east. Oh, did I mention the flies? The huge and hungry horse flies were only present when motoring through the swamps when Nikki was on auto pilot. They came in squadrons of 30 at a time, diving at my bare skin from all directions. I rolled up a magazine as a fly swatter and became singularly obsessed by holding my own against the enemy. Sometimes I lost track of where we were. I put on long pants and a longsleeve shirt to keep from being eaten. The sail across Chocktawahatchee Bay was glorious and very fast, and at the eastern end of the land cut, I dropped anchored in North Panama Bay for the night. At daybreak, there was very little wind, so I motored northeastward to a quaint fishing village where I found out of business shrimpers lying idle due to the oil spill. It was a sad sight. Out-of-work shrimpers My plan for the day was to forge ahead in order to return to Trapp Bayou just east of Panama City by mid afternoon. This is where I saw the big ferro-cement ketch and crossed the property of the unknown land owner in order to get to the local Wal-Mart. After writing a note of thanks, I received an e-mail invitation to the owner s home for dinner and hospitality. I often say to fellow cruisers: It s not about the destination...it s the people you meet as you go.

The sailing continued to be spirited, but my progress was slowed significantly by the swift current east of Panama City forcing me to fire up the engine. As I passed the City Marina, I could see the open waters of the Gulf through the Panama Inlet that was still open to passage. I arrived at Trapp Bayou by mid afternoon and cautiously slipped through the very narrow inlet. Porpoises playfully frolicked everywhere. My new friend, Paul Palmer, waved from the end of his dock and motioned me in to tie up. I did. Paul s home-built 47-foot ketch, Lau Eng, dwarfed my little Cape Dory 28. It s a brute of a boat with an enormous and gorgeous interior. He gave me the full tour. The interior was actually built twice since a freak fire swept through the boat just prior to its commissioning and had to be almost totally redone. At one point, he brought out one of my books that had been his Bible while building his ketch, and I was honored to autograph it for him. He and Van served up a fabulous dinner that included all the fresh corn Paul and Van you could possibly eat. He even insisted that I take along a half-dozen ears to enrich my larder for the remainder of my voyage. After enjoying the company, banter, and food, I retired to Nikki for the night. I fell asleep quickly, my last thoughts being of the wonderful hospitality that welcomed me in this beautiful cove. I cast off at sunrise the next morning, and as I back away from the dock to head into the sound, I saw Van waving from the dock. I returned the gesture, knowing that I would return some day. The next two days would be uneventfully retracing my steps to Carrabelle where I stopped briefly at Dog Island to bring aboard the outboard from the dinghy. From several miles away, I could see enormous clouds of smoke rising from a forest fire Nikki and Lau Eng in Trapp Bayou Paul, his friend Van, and I rapped for hours about boats, boat things, boat building, and the boating life. Paul demonstrated his flight simulator that occupied the better part of a bedroom, and took me for an exciting ride in a fighter jet over Washington, DC. It was like being in the real thing. just west of the town. I did not go into the harbor, but headed for the open water of the Gulf of Mexico which was oil free east of Cape San Blas. The long ocean swells under the boat were inviting and comfortable. Within minutes of being in open water again, I raised and trimmed the sails. A 12-knot breeze from the southwest was much to my liking and Nikki gained speed approvingly. It was 4:00 in the afternoon. I set a course with the self-steering wind vane and turned the bow toward Anclote Key 140 miles ahead. Nikki bounded along at a very respectable clip, and I let her have her way. I went below and rustled up an early dinner accompanied by calypso music.

Near 1800, I spotted a sailboat just off the starboard bow. I couldn t tell what direction it was headed, but my racing instincts surfaced, and I took up the chase. After an hour, I had clearly gain on my quarry. I tweaked and trimmed to get the most out of my stead. She surged forward. I hoped to pass the other vessel before sunset. I closed in inch by inch. The other boat appeared to be vary large by the height of her rig. I was catching her. I scanned her through the binoculars. She had a peculiar shape that was unfamiliar. Maybe she was flying one of those fully battened mains with the protruding roach, I thought. No matter; I would catch her soon. The closer I got, the stranger the vessel looked. She was huge. Perhaps my intrepid opponent was an 80 or 90-foot boat. Why could Nikki catch such a massive vessel, I wondered. I plotted a DR position on my chart. That s when I noticed a nautical symbol nearby. The huge sailboat, in fact, was a 120-foot white Air Force radar tower standing in 13 fathoms of water. As I got closer, I could see a patrol vessel near the tower. It was an obvious sign that I should steer clear. Within the hour, the sun had set and I left the tower lights astern. Nikki s phosphorescent wake and the Trinka s bow wave began to glow behind. Sunset at sea Nikki sailed into the night on a very fast close reach while the steering vane did all of he work. Once trimmed, I didn t have to touch a thing and was aboard just for the ride as an observer. The blanket of stars that can often only be seen at sea or on mountain tops appeared in breathtaking splendor. I was in awe of my spectacular surroundings and laid back and watched the world go by. Some time around 9:00, I fell asleep in the cockpit stretched out on the settee-back cushions. Nikki plunged into the darkness with determination. I dozed for about three hours. We were still storming along at a fast pace and had not altered course by a single degree. I made a bite to eat and returned to the cockpit. I decided to check my fuel level. It was only busy work since I had little else to do besides enjoy the ride. To my horror, there was slightly more that two gallons of diesel between both tanks. This revelation immediately diminished my safety factor in the event that an emergency evolved. At the least, a Gulf calm could leave Nikki wallowing helplessly. I opened the chart to determine my options. The closest inlet was Steinhatchee 40 miles to the north east. That would mean giving up valuable mileage. Suwannee was farther south, but the channel was too shallow for our draft. Steinhatchee was much closer than Cedar Key, and my cruising guides showed that the channel was well marked and deep. Services were available as well as the possibility to anchor. I changed course and headed toward shore. I spotted the outer mark of the Stiehatchee channel shortly after sunrise and was able to sail its two miles easily. There was nothing remarkable or picturesque about Steihatchee. It s mostly a sports-fishing town with a couple of less than noteworthy restaurants and three fuel docks. None of the fuel docks had diesel! I pulled into the last dock and was told that they would call the fuel truck, and I could take on diesel A Flicka at Steinhatchee directly from the truck. It took five hours for it to show up, and the marine tried to charge me for a full day of dockage! If you know me, you know that I would not stand for this, and was ready to make a significant scene. The marina relented when it was clear that I wouldn t let it stand without a fight. Steinhatchee waterfront home

Since I had not slept for most of the night, I decided not to leave Steinhatchee till next day. I had seen an anchorage at the east end of town and headed for it after taking on fuel. There were eight other boats moored in a spacious area, so I found a clear spot for Nikki and dropped the anchor. I had a quick bite to eat, then stretched out for a nap. I fell into a deep asleep immediately. Several hours passed in a state of coma when I was suddenly awakened by a strange feeling much like wetting one s pants! No... it was orange soda! A can had slid down the salon table and capsized Nikki s clinometer at 25 degrees into my lap as a result of Nikki taking on a 25-degree list. I had unknowingly anchored Nikki over a shallow sandbar. Remember that my GPS was inoperable, and that malady included my depth sounder. Nikki aground in Steinhatchee harbor Time corrected all ills, and I slept soundly through the night. Sunrise was bright and clear, and I weighed anchor as soon as it was light enough to easily navigate into open water. The wind was from the east, so I was able to raise sails while still in the channel. Heading south was glorious, and Nikki delighted in the brisk beam reach. By late morning all signs of land had disappeared, and deep water was safely under the boat. The sea was very clear, and even at 24-foot depth, I could see the dark patches of grass passing under the keel. The wind steering vane was in control, so I was able to sand and varnish Nikki s toe rails as she skipped along at a comfortable angle of heel. Pirate Pete (my cockatiel) enjoyed the view The sailing during the day was fast and uneventful. I had set a course for Anclote Key just north of Tarpon Springs 132 miles southward. At about 5.5 knots, it would Pirate Pete, the cockatiel take at least 24 hours to reach the destination. Fortunately, the wind increased all day and into the night and the arrival time moved closer. I fell asleep in the cockpit about two hours before the predicted landfall of a flashing red light just north of Anclote Key. Nikki sailed on as the steering vane controlled the boat. I had not set an alarm clock as I normally do. I awoke at 4:00 am. My first impression was that Nikki was sailing well with her rail awash, and the wind had increased to 15 knots. Then a saw lights all around... shrimp boats dragging their nets, indicated by their green masthead lights. There were at least 15 of them. MY GOD! THERE S ONE DEAD AHEAD! A shrimper was crossing Nikki s bow no more than 80 yards away. Nikki was about to sail right into the long drag net. I immediately disabled the steering vane and changed course just in time to avert disaster. My heart was pounding right out of my chest and I broke in to a cold sweat. Thank God we were safe. In an hour, I sighted the red flasher, took a bearing on it and made a slight course alteration that would take Nikki into Anclote sound. I dropped anchor in smooth water at 5:30 am between Anclote Key and the town of Tarpon Springs. I was exhausted, and turned in for more sleep just as the dawn was lightening the eastern sky. Nikki had covered the 137 miles in 21.5 hours. That s a 6.4 knot average. Very fast for a 28-foot boat, I arose before noon. I sailed to Clearwater in the Intracoastal Waterway, but south of that, I had to motor all the way to Gulfport. It s a nice trip. On the way, I neatly furled the sails, cleaned the decks, put on the sail cover and made Nikki lookship-shape. In Boca Ciega Bay, I saw Susan Setley sailing her Silver Girl. I waved, but she didn t see. I tied up at the Boca Ciega Yacht Club 31 days after I had left for my Panhandle cruise with Sean. It was good to be home again and I was greeted by many friends. I m now planing my next cruise.