Key Biscayne, Florida

But before we go to Key Biscayne, here's a too-cute shot of Bob's Aunt Marie and Uncle Danny "dinghying over" to the boat for lunch, March 4, Lake Worth, FL.

We sailed Thursday from North Palm Beach to No Name Harbor, Key Biscayne, with the help of our newest sailor boy, Brian. This is Brian. He loves sailing. Arrived Friday and fell into bed, exhausted. The trip down was tough-- we were wailing against the wind and the Gulf Stream, wind stronger than predicted, Gulf Stream further inland than stated in weather reports. Makes for a rough, wallowing kind of trip. And if you weren't prepared for it, as we weren't, you might find yourself wondering whether you have time to stow the wine bottles before you barf, or if you even care about the wine bottles any more. Or wine. Or anything but getting off this boat, as soon as possible.

A photo of the walk to the beautiful beach here. We of course are the shadow-people:
Don't know these people; just like the shot

Don't know why that line keeps underlining itself, either.

Okay, so I was just about to write a little about this anchorage, which is crazy and fun on weekends with many Cuban powerboaters and kids and music and dancing and good food smells... we took a walk around the natural areas to the beach, then decided to walk to the Winn Dixie for some ground beef so we could grill out and join in the fun. Winn Dixie turned out to be quite a walk-- maybe 2 miles, and I had only "short-walk-to-the-beach-type sandals" on-- I need to start wearing "good sturdy walking shoes" everywhere I go, and I will, as soon as I find some "good sturdy walking shoes" that don't look like "good sturdy walking shoes". Okay, so that was yesterday. We had a great dinner, though not a grilled one; it was too late for that by the time we got back to the boat, but we'll have it tonight. We were going to go anchor out (free, and peaceful, as opposed to noisy, albeit entertaining, and $15 a night) but now it seems we'll be here at least another day. Bob just started the engine to charge the batteries, run the refrigeration (where tonight's dinner resides) etc., and, surprisingly enough, the fuel filter assembly that was supporting the vice grips that keep the propeller shaft from turning when you're running in neutral fell off. Just a little problem that caused us to drive forward rather suddenly and I got my third look at the world outside the cockpit coming too close, too fast. And a huge egg on my shin from where I almost fell off the boat trying to fend off the other boat. So now our anchor has dragged, in this crowded little cove. We almost hit the boat in front of us, and every couple of minutes I have to fend off the boat behind us. It's a little white sailboat, and it has a blue eyeball embedded in the bow that makes it looks like it's floating over toward our boat with vengeance in its heart. I'd take a picture if I had any time. More later, from warm, sunny, anything-but-boring Key Biscayne!

You know how to whistle, don't you?

There’s so much to tell, so much to say, and I keep not doing it because there’s too much, but then that doesn’t solve the problem at all, of course, because then there’s more. Like:

Riding the bus, going to a Greek Festival, staying too long at Lowe’s, missing the last bus and walking home six miles in the dark.

Going with friends to the Indian Festival, and dinner.

Grounding ourselves at low tide in the dinghy.

Grounding ourselves at low tide in the boat.

Stress, challenges, fear, conquering fear.

How your boat talks to you.

“Everyday” life on the boat. Not that there is such a thing, so far, for us….but there are common elements to most days.

Fun stuff. We do have fun, too. Actually lately, it’s running about 50/50, for me, between panic and fun. Last Monday is a good example of this. The day was full of challenges, some of which were actually planned. Contemplation of these alone caused me, in the morning, to confess to Bob that I felt like throwing up. If only I had known how the day would actually go, I probably would have gone through with that urge. But it’s hard to tell. Because if I’d known how the day would actually go, I would know that, by sunset, all would be well, and we would be peacefully at anchor, me in the cockpit reading a book and drinking a glass of wine, Bob down below taking a nap. So here’s the day, as planned:

1- Weigh (that is, haul up from the mucky lake bottom) the anchor, for the first time, on our own.
2- Motor the half mile to the fuel dock at the marina (also first time) and have our holding tank emptied.
3- Motor back to the cove by ourselves (first time), and drop anchor again (ditto).

We made all prudent preparations for all foreseeable challenges. We reviewed procedures. We tied on fenders. We got docklines handy. We “cleared the decks”. We called ahead to the marina, to tell them we were coming. We got our headsets out.

On a sailboat, the primary use of headsets is for communication during anchoring, when one person is at the helm and the other relatively far away, at the bow. Add in wind noise and physical obstructions (masts, dodgers, furled sails) and communication can be difficult at this rather crucial time. Our headsets came with the boat, and, like so many other things that came with this boat, are not the kind of thing we would normally even consider buying, especially since there is a perfectly good alternative (yelling) that is free. Headsets are also the kind of thing, I suspect, that others regard with derision. I mean, you’re just dropping an anchor from a sailboat, and you’re all rigged up like you’re landing a 747. We don’t care. We love them. They enable us to talk to each other in a normal speaking voice, from anywhere on the boat. The alternative, as I have mentioned, is yelling, or sometimes screaming if there’s a lot of wind. We have heard of one man who trained his wife to respond to a series of whistle signals. You know, like a dog? A more humane solution is hand signals, which some people use and swear by. But speaking of swearing, when it comes to that, there just never seem to be enough hand signals, and even the signalers resort to yelling at times.

Headsets enable Bob and I to say things like “Go to port now. A little more, a little more, okay, do you realize which side of the boat is the port side?? Okay, yeah, I’m sorry, I see now that you were trying to go to port, yes, it is really windy out here. You do see that catamaran we’re drifting toward? Yeah it is a cool shade of blue. More like turquoise maybe but still a nice color.” Stuff like that.

We discussed (not via headsets, actually, but face-to-face) weighing anchor with the man and woman in the “conventional positions”—who knew? But I had never actually driven the boat much before (the woman’s job, normally, in weighing anchor), and was not excited about the idea of learning that task now, so I elected to be up at the bow, with the resulting responsibility of hauling up the 80 feet of rope and 35 lbs. of chain, together with 35 lbs. of anchor. And I did okay too, right up until the end, when I just plain old could not break the anchor free from the muck. 

There being only two jobs available on the boat at the time (the breakfast dishes had already been washed), I ended up driving the boat after all, while Bob hauled and secured the anchor. Once the anchor is up, though, you can’t just sit back and congratulate yourself, no matter how much you might like to, because the boat will start drifting, on its own, in perhaps dangerous directions, so we were off to the marina, with me still at the helm. I know you think something bad is going to happen here but it didn’t—I handed the boat back over to Bob in time for the actual docking which went well, actually. He made the wide turn into the marina, where the dock hand waiting for us there was such a beautiful sight-- all youth, strength, knowledge and nonchalance. He took lines from me as we came sliding up, and we docked rather gracefully, for a sailboat.

Pumpout accomplished, we spoke a while with a friend, and I took a minute or so to sit in a chair at the marina office and decompress, something I do every chance I get lately.
Our next challenge was to get out of the marina without incurring losses--- mental, physical, or financial. But this is not easily accomplished, in a big, slow, hard-to-get moving and then even harder-to-stop sailboat. The most obvious method of egress would be to simply back up, and then go straight out, the way we came in. Bob was in favor of this, but its success unfortunately involved participation from me, doing yet another thing I have never done before, which was to “warp” us off the dock with a line from the boat. I told him that I would try, but I was, meanwhile, more than a little concerned about the fact that, as far as I could see, this plan brought into very close proximity three things: our dinghy, bobbing innocently directly behind Kalliope, our swim ladder, attached to her stern, and that huge metal pillar at the end of the dock (how do I warp around that?).

Our departure went badly. Several attempts, a long scratch down the side of the hull, lots of anxious communication, (no need for headsets, we’re practically tripping over each other now) lots of luck in not actually running into the million dollar yachts all around us, or the docks, or that huge metal pillar. The upside is that we now have a horizontal line all the way down the port side of our boat, which, if we wanted, we could label “hang fenders here next time.”

We motored back to the cove. This time I drove nearly the whole way, thus doubling my driving experience. We picked out what looked to us like a suitable anchor spot, donned our headsets and went to work, once again, in an unconventional arrangement—women apparently usually drop anchor (it takes no strength, but some finesse), while husbands drive. But Bob was at the bow and had already dropped the anchor when I was given the command to put the boat in reverse, which I did (for the first time), but for some reason, Kalliope started making very tight backward circles, which scared me, confused Bob, and no doubt amused everybody around us who happened to be watching. I found too that I could not read (because of too much sun on it, I know now) the indicator which says where the steering wheel is turned to, and I was, by now, not only unable to center the wheel, but for some reason could not make the thing move, at all.

This is where the headsets came in really handy. I was able to speak into them, without actually raising my voice (albeit in a rather strained, high pitch, between clenched teeth): “Get back here and steer this boat, NOW.” Bob returned surprisingly quickly to the cockpit, worked his magic on the wheel just in time to avoid hitting the boat nearest us (the occupants now possibly not quite so amused as previously), and I departed for the bow. But when we finally dropped the anchor and payed out the 100 feet of line that Bob insisted on, we were crowded in too close to the boats behind us, a situation that I found intolerable.

Choosing the correct spot in an anchorage is, as far as I can see, completely comparable to deciding where to put your towel down at the beach. You arrive, you survey the scene, you find the two encampments furthest apart, you take up occupation in the middle of these two encampments. The next arrivals once again split the distance between the two furthest apart, and so on, until the beach fills up with towels, blankets, half-naked bodies and blaring radios. At the end of the day, everybody goes home, the beach gets quiet, and the next day it starts all over again.

What we had done, with this anchoring, was to take our beach bags and towels and sandy feet and go sit in the laps of some random, unfortunate family of vacationers. Okay, maybe not exactly in their laps. Maybe just on their blanket. Still, not good etiquette. So after a little while and much bugging, I was allowed to haul in some of the 100 feet of rope, and get us closer to our anchor, and further from our fellow beach-goers. Boats. Whatever.

Twenty minutes or so later, when the wind started blowing rather seriously, I glanced up from belowdecks towards the cockpit where I saw Bob sitting in the captain’s chair, happily absorbed in a book, while directly behind his head loomed the very large, getting larger all the time, way too large side view of the rigging of a sailboat. We were dragging anchor.

I flew up the companionway stairs, yelling the whole way "start the engine, we’re about to hit this boat behind us! (the one with the guy in the cockpit, waving his arms in that desperate pantomime. If only he had those nice headsets like we have! ) Bob calmly (too calmly for my taste) turned around, surveyed the situation, started the engine and put the boat into gear. Simultaneously, at our side appeared a dinghy with a man in it bearing the now-old news that we were dragging anchor. Would that we were happily camped out on someone else’s blanket, now, at the beach.

Bob drove the boat forward, well away from the panicky boat owner, and, engine idling, we attempted to calmly discuss our next step. Meanwhile, dinghy guy continued on his merry, carefree way to a nearby boat to chat with friends (possibly about the wording of the petition they were working on, to get us out of the anchorage). When he appeared to be about to depart from this other boat (petition in hand?), I called him back to our boat, and asked him, ever so nicely, if he would do us the honor of advising us as well as participating in our next attempt at anchoring, as I had pretty much had it, for the day.

This carefree Canadian, Rick was his name, was happy to help, and hopped aboard, bare feet and all ( anchors, anchor chain, bare feet—yikes) refusing the opportunity to go back to his boat and get shoes as well as the offer of a headset. So I stood with him at the bow and relayed (via headset) information between him and Bob, who was once again back at the helm.

Things went well until the anchor, on which Rick was hauling, came to an abrupt, muscle-jarring stop. We had snagged a mooring of some kind, apparently attached firmly to the center of the earth, and marked only by a dirty floating empty oil jug. With the help of the wind and the current, our anchor chain had become wrapped around this thing’s rope. Or chain, or whatever it was; it was hard to see. We stared at it for a while, dumbly, until Bob, on the headset, wondered aloud if a boat hook might be a useful tool for this situation. Rick liked this idea, and a boat hook was soon employed, and soon involved in the overall tangle, and before you could say “Let’s sell this boat!” Rick was leaning as far over the bowrail as he could, in a desperate attempt to maintain his dwindling hold on the boat hook, meanwhile imploring me in a small, choked voice to ask Bob to pull forward a bit. I did, Bob did, and I am happy to report that we were able to save both Rick and the boat hook! Quite a coup!

A few minutes later, the anchor, rogue rope and boat hook all three simultaneously disentangled, without human help, and we were able to drive the boat forward past the problem area towards a nice big comfortable spot, where Rick dropped the anchor, the chain and 70 feet of rope. Then all three of us sat on the bow, for as long as it took to drink a beer and feel fairly confident that the anchor was now actually holding. We thanked Rick for his help, and he got in his dinghy and motored back to his probably really boring life on his really boring boat, no doubt wishing he was still learning sailing and having all the great adventures we’ve been having lately.

So this is how I came to be up in the cockpit on anchor watch, drinking a glass of wine and reading a good book (not about sailing, thank you very much), and looking up every sentence or so, then after a while every paragraph, and then maybe every half page, to make sure that we were where we were supposed to be, and not drifting slowly, silently, malevolently into the lap of another boat. When Bob came to call me for dinner, and I told him I was hesitant to leave my post, he said “See these boats all around us? They’re watching us, every single one of them. We don’t need to watch a thing.”

A cleaner, saner boat

You'll all be happy to know, I'm sure, that I finally got the boat to conform to my idea of an acceptable environment in which to exist. "Whipped it into shape", as my mother would say. Under the pile of crap at the left (this pile was for real-- not artificially created) turned out to be our navigation station, which you can now see pictured at the right. It doesn't always look this nice, but it usually looks pretty close. Photo just below is a view from the bow of the boat; I'm standing in our berth, looking through to the galley. The navigation station is opposite the galley, to the left and out of sight in this picture.

Photo below is the galley. The last two shots are taken from the stairs at the companionway visible at the left in the photo above, the one with me in it. The blur of light above the stairs is the cockpit. She's a pretty boat, and has a very open, airy feel inside, compared to most older sailboats.

Dinghy Virgins No More

We spent most of last week at the marina that we sailed into on Monday morning. It seemed to me that the challenges of actually dropping the anchor for the first time in the little cove for which we were ultimately bound, and learning the ins and outs of life “anchored out”, plus the challenges of having guests visiting all week, plus the challenges on the part of said guests of having also to adapt, for however short a time, to the ins and outs of life “anchored out”, including, not insignificantly, being ferried back and forth to Kalliope in a 10-foot dinghy by either of two very raw dinghy pilots, added up to far too many challenges, coming right on the heels of the challenge of sailing down here to begin with. I cried when Bob even broached the subject, so that’s how I knew for sure I had had it, for a while, with challenges.

We spent the two days before our guests arrived preparing for them, as well as preparing for “anchoring out”. One thing we needed to do was practice using the dinghy, which is the major form of transportation for all boats anchored out – it’s what gets you back and forth to other boats, as well as to land, where you tie it up and walk to go get groceries, do laundry, and buy new walking shoes. So on a to-do list for Wednesday, under something like “clean everything”, I wrote “go for a dinghy ride.” Easy enough thing to write. This is how you do it: First, the dinghy must be lowered down to the water from the davit—or davits, I’m not sure which-- (that being the stainless steel tubular-type structure on Kalliope’s stern onto which, during sailing, the dinghy is firmly, almost irrevocably attached, by a mysterious but precise tangle of ropes and pulleys). This took forever. It took a much longer time, however, to lower (via another tangle of ropes and pulleys) the 10,000 pound motor and get it safely attached to the transom of the dinghy. Since I was the one standing in the dinghy at the time, with the motor being lowered onto what I perceived to be the top of my skull, there was a mutiny to be quelled, and different arrangements for motor-lowering had to be made.

When the engine was finally in place on the dinghy, there was a key to be found. My understanding, at first, was that this key was absolutely necessary to the operation of the outboard motor, but we never found it, and it turned out that vice grips could, just this once, be substituted. It took another long while to get the engine started --the hose for the gas supply was damaged, and we had to find a replacement. Nice though that we had one, and that we could find it, thanks to all our time spent going through cubbies and rearranging and cataloging every last thing on this boat.

All in all, hopping into the dinghy for the first time and taking a little tour around the anchorage took about three hours. But it- was- fun! Partly because of the long frustrating process leading up to it, surely, but more because A) it was a warm sunny day, with land within an easy swim should we have to abandon ship, or if (more likely) ship should abandon us, and B) we were finally in a boat that was easy to maneuver (more about this later), fairly indestructible, and more importantly, practically incapable of destruction, itself. It bounces right off docks, boats, bridges even, like a big overgrown, out-of control beach ball.

Bob drove first. Out in the anchorage, we spotted a sailboat with people moving about on deck and before they could duck out of sight, we headed toward them—we wanted to get their thoughts about a good spot to anchor. We made three huge circles in the water beside their boat, in a vain attempt to come close enough at a slow enough speed to actually grab hold of some part of it, and stop and chat. Each time, as we roared away, I would hold up my finger, smile charmingly and yell “We’ll be right back!” They finally sat down on their cabintop and waited, apparently enjoying the show. When we finally got close enough and slow enough to throw them the painter (boat talk for the rope at the front of the dinghy), we found out that they didn’t actually know much at all about the anchorage—they were there for only one night, and were leaving in the morning for the Bahamas, as was most everyone else. But we had a nice chat anyway. Eventually we roared away from them, leaving them to their own, probably much more sedate, dinghy ride to their friend’s boat for dinner.

Bob took us as far as the dinghy landing spot, where he and I switched positions, and I drove from there. I ran into the bridge immediately, twice, (it was a tricky spot for a beginner) then finally got out into the open water and began to get the hang of it. Now, I’m not complaining, because it turns out I love driving this dinghy, but the operation of it is completely anti-intuitive, if you ask me—you push the tiller to the left when you want to go right, right when you want to go left, roll the handle toward you when you want to go faster, and away from you when you want to go slower. All wrong. But I decided early on to try to keep my brain out of it, and just let my arm talk to the tiller, and that worked okay, in big sweeps, but the fine points of pulling up slowly to a specific spot still eluded me. I kind of crash-stopped at a second boat, also unfortunate enough to have people visible above-decks, and we had an amusing and informative conversation with the owners about many things, including good spots to anchor out in the cove. This conversation lasted a while though, and in the process I moved to a more comfortable spot in the dinghy. Now when it came time to leave, and I again took up a position at the tiller, I was unfortunately, and unbeknownst to me, now on the opposite side of, well, everything. When I wanted to head right, I was heading left, and when I wanted to head left I was (you guessed it!) heading right. This little problem might have been manageable, except for the fact that slow had now become fast. I made several huge crazy circles completely around this second boat, all four of us belly-laughing the whole time, before I figured out the problem.

So that was our first dinghy ride. And we are no longer, as the folks we visited called us, “Dinghy Virgins.” We had great visits with our guests, who enjoyed the boat, the food, the drink, the fellowship, and, as several of them admitted, the fact that they didn’t have to go on dinghy rides to get to it.

Outside to Florida

Bob has taken to saying, lately, that the difference between an adventure and an ordeal is whether you’re a man or a woman. So when you’re 60 miles out at sea and the engine on your boat dies suddenly, for no apparent reason, filling the immediate area with huge quantities of thick steam that look, initially, a heck of a lot like smoke, and the diesel mechanic is seasick, as is the Captain, and the boat is pitching and rolling and the sails are flapping hard in the wind and nobody is telling stories or jokes anymore, but in fact have gotten very quiet, barking at each other in short terse bits if at all, that’s an adventure. At least that’s what the sailor boys tried to tell me when it was all over. Oh, did I mention it was at night? 8:00 at night, as a matter of fact; about as far away from daylight and the illusion of safety as you can get, this time of year. Adventure my ass.

Dolphins swimming in the water with the boat, sea turtles paddling peacefully by, the big sparkling ocean with absolutely nothing else in sight but the sun and the moon, sunrises and sunsets, moonrises and moonsets; all that was unquestionably lovely. Cooking below, in the cabin, was sometimes fun and rewarding (the sailor boys were always wonderfully polite and grateful for even a cup of hot coffee); but sometimes cooking was too hard—the movement of the boat too crazy and unpredictable for hot sloshing foods. The sailor boys were happy for real food when it appeared, and fine with foraging when it didn’t.

But for the ultimate difference in world views between the men on board and I, I offer the experience of my first shower at sea. We were two and a half days into the trip, and two of the sailor boys had already crossed back over into the world of personal cleanliness, bragging about how nice they smelled, how bad the rest of us did, etc. I saw the possibility of landfall in the next day or so, and thought I should prepare for it by getting clean as well. But here again we come up against the adventure/ordeal thing, because the two men who had gone before me on this quest did not think it significant enough to report that a shower at sea is best performed with four arms: two to brace oneself firmly into the walls on either side of the head, one to hold the shower nozzle (which is really just a vegetable sprayer from a kitchen sink, after all) and one to do the actual washing, which, if you don’t concentrate, you could easily forget is, by the way, the reason you’re in this situation in the first place-- to wit, wet, naked, your feet soapy and slipping out from under you, one good wave away from careening through the flimsy louvered door you’ve wedged your elbow against and flying out into the main cabin of a sailboat full of “adventurers!”

The statistics: the trip was a few hours less than four days; 485 nautical miles. We averaged 5.16 knots, about 6 MPH. The temperature when we left North Myrtle Beach, SC was 25 degrees, and today in North Palm Beach, FL, it's 78. We are very grateful to Kevin, Frank and Bob, aka the Sailor Boys, for their knowledge, patience, good humor and willingness to help us stay safe on this sailing adventure, and to our friend Steven, who has helped us find our new temporary home and made us feel welcome in Florida.

PS The unidentified legs in the photo above belong, once again, to Bob-- Captain and  seasick mechanic, one and the same, looking for a replacement part necessary to make one of two crucial engine repairs needed during the trip.

Land Ho!

Just wanted to let you all know we're safe and sound, arrived this morning to our new home for a while, a lovely little Florida cove. The trip was wonderful and awful and everything in between; I will try to write about it when I get time to do so at leisure. Thanks for your good thoughts.

Question: How many men does it take to get a sailboat 23 miles down the ICW?
Answer: More than five.

Sylvie and I gleefully made up that joke yesterday as we drove to meet the (five) sailor boys at a marina halfway to their planned destination, 23 miles down the ICW (Intra-Coastal Waterway) from our "home" port. Our "home" port is a difficult place from which to get out to the ocean-- the inlet there (or should I say "outlet") is shallow in lots of places, in an ever-changing and wholly unpredictable configuration, therefore it's an easy place for sailboats in particular to "run aground." We know; we've done it several times. The ICW itself has, unfortunately, these same qualities. The biggest effect on the depth of the ICW is the tide, which rises and falls there just as in the ocean, varying tremendously depending on location. Our boat "draws" 5'6", which means that we need to be in water at least that deep, or we will run aground. Where is that deep-enough water? In the ICW, you can never be sure.

Yesterday, en route to the planned destination (a marina in North Myrtle Beach from which we expect to sail on Wednesday), the sailing boys arrived at a pontoon bridge which had to open in order for them to pass, and which opens only on the hour. I wrote the sailing log yesterday, but Bob dictated it. Read this in a deep voice: "Arrived Sunset Beach pontoon bridge approximately 1:30 PM. Bridge opening scheduled for 2 PM. Circled in waterway approach to bridge for 28.5 minutes. Ran aground 1.5 minutes before bridge opening.* Unfurled headsail, heeled boat to starboard 22 degrees. Tide dropping, mud rising every minute. Called Towboat US**. Towboat US arrives from south, awaits 4 PM opening of pontoon bridge. Towboat US heels boat 25 degrees to port. Everything in cabin falls from starboard wall to port wall.*** Eventually gets boat free. Tide is now too low for bridge to open, bridge will not be able to open until after dark. We backtrack 2 miles to Ocean Isle Marina for the night."

Sylvie and I drove to meet them there (cackling and making up jokes the whole way); she drove the sailor boys back to Holden Beach Marina and their cars, and Bob and I stayed on Kalliope for the night at Ocean Isle Marina. This morning two sailor boys and Sylvie came back, and we motored the rest of the way to our present slip at North Myrtle Beach Marina.

* The sailor boys swear that this spot where they ran aground was a spot they had circled over many times, in the 28.5 minutes of waiting for the bridge to open. How can this be, that there was not some warning of some kind beforehand (a soft touch on the bottom, for instance, the kind we're used to and can deal with, without the help of Towboat US)? Sylvie and I will never know. We do know, however, that alcohol was not involved, since she and I had all the beer with us where we were sitting on the dock at North Myrtle Beach, sipping, snacking, chatting, awaiting the arrival of the sailor boys who never came.

**kind of a AAA for boaters-- we have wisely chosen the unlimited option-- this tow, otherwise, would have cost $780.

***Things were not yet stowed for an ocean voyage, which could possibly involve a total swing of 50 degrees, though if it does, you can find me in my bunk, under the covers, sucking my thumb.

You may be wondering why we need five people to do these little jaunts-- we don't. (We're perfectly capable of running the boat aground ourselves). The guys were along to familiarize themselves with Kalliope before The Great Sail to Florida, and Sylvie's boyfriend was there to get more experience with the waterway-- their boat draws over 7 feet!