Life on the River

We’ve been at anchor for two weeks. There’s a method in our madness, kindly supported by our friends Mark and Tammy. They’ve been taking in our mail, receiving packages, and letting us borrow their car. During that time, we’ve been doing our chores and generally learning to live off the dock.

Jensen Beach, Florida, recently replaced an old bascule bridge crossing the Intracoastal Waterway with a soaring, if somewhat formulaic, fixed bridge. After using the remnants of the old bridge as a foundation, the city created a park complete with boat ramps, toilets and barbecue spots. There are anchorages on the north and south side, depending on your preference and the dominant winds. Progressive as ever, the list of rules for the park no longer prohibits firearms, although alcohol is still a no-no. In this part of the world it makes sense that you can bring a loaded gun on a fishing trip, but not a beer. Otherwise why would people have voted for it?

There is a transient community here that we’re slowly getting to know. A few days into our stay we stood at the dock and saw a woman in a Day-Glo orange sleeveless T-shirt covering an ample belly, her blonde hair tied back, filling bottles of water from a white plastic standpipe. She drew on her cigarette as she readied for the run back to her home – an aging 30’ powerboat anchored about 200 yards away.

The next morning, we heard loud shouts and after poking our head out of the cabin, saw the same woman in her dinghy negotiating the distance between us, trying to grab our attention. As she came closer, we could see a small green lovebird perched on her shoulder, a constant companion it turned out. With flush cheeks, she yelled up at us, ‘Hey, you’re living aboard, right? Transients, right? Well, do you need anything? Help with the stores, where the market is? Do you need water?” It was an unexpected moment of neighborly generosity that frankly caught us flatfooted. We said we were all good on all those accounts, but thanks for coming over and asking. “Okay!”, she shouted, a little unsteadily as she cranked the small outboard’s throttle and sputtered away towards the dock.

The weather over the next couple of days was clear, but a combination of high and low-pressure systems delivered steady 25 knot winds, with gusts up to 30, out of the east. The ICW whipped into a froth.

Four other boats were anchored near us, each with its own story. One, an old Chris Craft cabin cruiser which we thought was empty, finally succumbed to the weather. On Sunday a week ago we saw her listing sharply to starboard.

We got the full story a couple of hours later and learned that, among other things, Sea-Tow (kind of a AAA for boats) won’t tow boats that are actually sinking. I guess that’s no different that asking AAA for help after you’ve wrapped your car around a lamppost. Now pulled onto a shallow sandbar, the boat was for the moment safe. Tides around Jensen Beach only run about a foot or so in either direction and the lagoon itself is fairly well protected.

You see, the Chris Craft is K and B’s home. B has cancer and was in hospital having a couple of internal hemorrhagic blisters drained. K meanwhile was enlisting the help of the rest of the transient community to get their boat floating again. We offered to help, but while we were accepted at some level in the community, everyone also knew we were going to move on sooner, rather than later.

K is in her mid-30s and fit. She might be described as mousey, with shoulder-length brown hair pulled back from her ears, unselfconsciously revealing hearing aids in each one. But mousey isn’t the word for her penetrating look and inherent determination to get stuff done.

Her peeps acted with positive intent and used as many of their contacts as they knew to try and help. Any successful project can achieve only two of three outcomes: it can be done well, done quickly, or done cheaply. You just can’t have all three. In K and B’s case it was a question of prioritizing cheap (i.e. free), and that meant putting quick and good down the list. There was probably nothing that $1,000 couldn’t have fixed in a couple of hours. If anyone had a spare $1,000 that was.

Then there was the threat of escalation with the local marine sheriff’s department, who’s motto may as well be, “Welcome to Martin County – Now Keep Moving On.” Deputy Dan (not his real name) is a modern police officer. He drives a white Ford Explorer SUV (complete with big black ‘roo bar) and looks just like Dean Norris from Breaking Bad. An actor who, by the way, gets typecast because he so closely fits the current law enforcement stereotype. The deputy told K if she left the boat grounded for more than a couple of days he’d have to ticket her. He later told me that he’d arrested people for leaving their dinghy at the dock for more than 15 minutes, so don’t stay long. I tugged my forelock and we parted ways.

And at some level I get it. Locals fear ‘homeless’ boat dwellers will fill up the harbor with ratty looking vessels obstructing their view and lowering property values. As a result, the authorities make it more challenging to stick around. While we’ve been here, a fresh water standpipe was removed, we learned about the $200 fines for leaving your dinghy tied too long at the boat ramp, and the removal of a shower in the park. All of which make life inconvenient if you’re staying longer than 48 hours. G, a live-aboard neighbor of ours and boat partner with the crazy bird lady (not our soubriquet – ed.), quipped that Martin County wants two types of people living there, the newlywed and the nearly dead.

Yet, the county must strike a balance. In its defense, the park is open all hours, trash is collected daily, and the toilets are serviced. It’s got a relaxed, friendly vibe among the fisherfolk and runners that enjoy it. My point here, though, is that it’s expensive living just off the grid, and not for reasons that most of us ever consider.

With her partner in hospital and her home sunk, K’s problems didn’t end there. High winds that dominated the weather during that week blew her dinghy away. Improperly tied to G’s boat it took off in the night and probably ran aground somewhere between Jensen Beach and Port St. Lucie inlet. Then her runaround skiff “Woody” wouldn’t start and spent two days on the hard waiting parts and skilled help. Yet, every time we saw her she would walk over with a smile and hug Carol, then give us the latest updates. Never complaining, she spoke with an underlying tone of optimism that eventually things would work out.

Which they did. At least in the short term. B came back from hospital with a portable pancreatic drain. He was pretty sure what the problem with the boat was – a loose pipe fitting on one of the through-hulls. Two days more of cajoling and organizing later, K finally managed to get their boat pumped and righted and floating again. Despite a bent prop shaft, “Woody” was working, and the cops kept a low profile. In another couple of days they’d have the boat hauled, properly inspected, and start the process of cleaning up and drying out. Everything was once again on a more even keel.

There’s a saying that goes something like, it’s easy to be generous when you have nothing. There’s another one that talks about the test of a civilization being the way that it cares for its weakest members. A Czech professor friend of mine back in the mid-1980s pointed out the difference between America and Russia was that, Russia can do anything, while America can do everything. It’s still true today. We can afford to be a little more generous.