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Ok, really
this is the last day of the Adventure. And the earliest we’ve gotten up since the trip began. We actually set alarms. Not only do we have a deadline for getting the boat in but more important, if we miss the low tide mark we can’t pass under the bridge to get to our port and would have to wait until after dark. We’re efficient but there’s still a few hours of sailing, reading, sailing.
We have to weigh anchor briefly before passing underneath the highway. We critique the fancy but sometimes dubiously designed beach houses, full of windows, odd angles, color combinations that make you say, “Well, that’s different.” A bronze horse, frozen mane whipping in the frozen wind, rears up in front of one house. Hammocks swing beckoningly. Then the entire highway folds up, lines of cars backed up and watching us as we wave, dance, to the Monday morning drivers. Right after we pass under, we weave between day markers, the shallows ever so close. I go to the front of the boat again, wanting to have those last few joy-rides, up and down, swaying.
Back into the channel, the owner of the boat
Ladies, ladies, ladies
Never would have guessed these five ladies just finished a seven-day sailing adventure, would you? guiding us in. We unload, we clean out everything, vacuum, scrub down, re-fill water, sort through remnant food, take showers (first ones since Key West!) And then the storm hits. The skies darken, wind picks up, and rain slants in. An hour later on the water and we would have been in this mess! Unable to dock and just bobbing in anticipation. But it doesn’t last long though the sky remains overcast. A large iguana ambles onto the dock, spies us and disappears into the magnolia-type mangrove tree next to the boat. We exclaim over it and the owner says, “Oh yeah, they’re here all the time. Folks feed them. They like to go to the ends of branches to get sunlight.” Sure enough, there are three of them, scrabbling away if we get too close, at the ends of the branches, higher up than we could reach.
We get another rental van, load up, and take off. Our plane leaves at 5:30 AM and our plan all along has been to just party all night, our one night in the Miami area. We meet up with another old friend of James’, a fast-talking, gregarious actor who’s all about
Hookah bar
Scott, me and Lauren playing to his audience which is us for that night. Dinner at a Haitian food place, Tap-tap, sumptuous large murals adorn all the walls. The girls change costume in the bathroom, going en masse and occupying the handicap stall and hogging the sink. Our (or perhaps just mine) hair goes up, high-heels slip on, make-up applied. We are ready for South Beach.
There’s a walking road where the night-live throbs but this is an off-night so the rhythm is subdued. Still a fair amount of people walking about and stores selling absurd, skanky outfits (seems to be a pattern here in Florida…) I hear all kinds of languages and accents. I love being in a place that has that. We choose a hookah bar to lounge outside of, wrangling with the servers to move one of the heaters nearer to us. Unfortunately, it happens to be a chilly March night in Florida and our night-time dresses are not cutting it. But we hookah (green apple), drink wine, and I have my first taste of Greek-style yogurt which makes me want to lick the bowl clean in public. And then we bounce, first to a sushi bar blaring awesome music
but with no space to dance and then a taxi-ride to the “clubs.” The night sours for a while as club hustlers convince us to patronize their particular place which turns out to be mostly empty inside and without any taste or distinction in the music or décor. And they’re serving drinks that are almost entirely mixer. Our group goes in and out of the club as one by one, more of our group gets disgusted and I’m running back and forth trying to convince the last two to come outside so we can move on. We finally re-assemble, taxi-cab it back to the walking-street, and are headed back to the van. It’s past 1:00 and most places are putting chairs on tables and turning off lights. But then, then, as we are about to turn the corner off the walking-street to get to our van, there is a small place still turning out the tunes with folks spilling out its doors and into the next-door lobby of an old art-deco theatre. It’s clearly not a bar but a coffee-place that has let down its hair for the night. James has to go to the bathroom and heads toward it.
Last Stop!
The awesome coffee-bar-turned-dance-party in which we danced away our last hours in Florida! Kristy, Jen, Angee, and I follow, moths to the flame. And the night upswings. There is a beautiful DJ who smiles as Lauren and I switch heels (I wore her high, hurtful ones for a while but now that she’s done for the night, I go back to my lower, dancing ones), people speaking all sorts of languages, and everyone just having a good time. There are few stupid-drunks and no creepy-guy factor. We dance and dance until 3:00 AM but our flight home calls. My feet may be sore and I may be limping but am exhilarated and still swaying to the fading music.
We show up to the airport looking like hell-warmed-over for the first flight of the day back to the West Coast, arriving before the ticket counter even opens. Our night-time makeup looks garish in the fluorescent lighting and we kick, roll, and drag our bags tiredly through the lines. But, really, what more fitting ending could one expect for the Adventure of the SV Trade Wind? We may be exhausted but there is satisfaction and release in all our faces.
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