The Not-So-Dry Tortugas

The Yankee Freedom, docked at Dry Tortugas National Park.

I am a planner.

Back when I was a teacher, I planned out every day of the following school year before leaving for the summer. Every single day. That’s the truth.

And anyone in my family will tell you that when it comes to vacations, my planning can become obsessive. I sometimes joke that if we leave for vacation five minutes late, the schedule for the entire week will be thrown off!

I like to plan because I like having things organized; I like feeling secure; I like being ready for contingencies. I don’t like “winging it”; I don’t like being spontaneous; I don’t like going somewhere without knowing where we are going, how long we will stay, how much it will cost, or when we will get back.

So I had done a lot of planning about a year ago when Cindy and I took a ten-day trip to Florida for our fortieth wedding anniversary. We did Florida from bottom to top, starting at the Keys, moving up to the Everglades, hitting Miami, and then to Orlando.

One of the events that required a lot of planning and preparation was our day trip to the Dry Tortugas. So when we boarded the boat at 7:30 that morning, we were prepared!

“Just Sit Right Back and You’ll Hear a Tale, a Tale of a Fateful Trip …”

Anybody who goes to the Dry Tortugas must do a certain level of planning. Its remote location, on an island about seventy miles west of Key West in the Gulf of Mexico, means you must get there by private boat (we don’t have one), seaplane (we couldn’t afford one), or ferry. A two-hour ride on the ferry, the Yankee Freedom, is the way most tourists do it. You have to reserve your place months in advance, and it costs over $200 per person (!). But I was determined to include the Tortugas in our plans—an opportunity to go to a place few people go—and a great adventure!

We gathered our belongings when our guide told us to board, and I couldn’t help noticing that no one (and there were roughly a hundred people boarding), no one was as prepared as we were! I had carefully read and obeyed the website’s instructions, so when we stood up to go, we had the following items hanging from our bodies:

·         Comfortable footwear (an extra pair for each of us)

·         Hats

·         A bathing suit in case I decided to snorkel (I didn’t.)

·         Sunglasses

·         Towels

·         Change of clothes

·         Sunscreen

·         A camera (our phones)

·         Light jacket/sweatshirt

·         Something to read

·         National Parks Pass

·         Umbrellas

·         Layered clothing

·         Folding chairs for sitting on the beach

·         Snacks

·         Binoculars

·         Bottled water

As I clambered and stumbled up the gangplank, weighed down with two full canvas bags, a cooler, and a collapsed folding chair under each armpit, I couldn’t help feeling a little smug: these other tourists weren’t prepared for contingencies, but, by George, we were! And none of them had better come begging to me when a contingency happened, because, just like the ten wise virgins, I would tell them, “No! This is what we call a ‘contingency,’ and I planned for it!”

There are two decks on the Freedom, lower and upper, and on each one you can choose to sit outdoors or inside. There was no question—Cindy and I wanted to be out in the open on the upper deck! So once on board, we continued right up the stairs to the top deck. Cindy had to stop once to push her sunglasses up her nose (even though it wasn’t actually very sunny), and doing that meant she had to put down her overflowing canvas bags and two umbrellas. She blocked the stairway for only a few seconds, but people behind us (with their hands empty—aka, anti-contingency-ites) weren’t very patient.

We reached the upper deck and claimed two stationary chairs at the very back, cramming our items under them. I dropped down with a sigh and waited for the feeling to come back to my arms. And soon we were off, speeding through the water with unimpeded visibility. Beautiful! Refreshing!

Soon the sea mist was flicking over our faces. We loved it! But the wind was mighty fierce. Cindy put her hood up and tied it tightly so that only her face showed.

Then, this announcement from the captain: “Just letting you know, we will be passing through a storm system in approximately fifteen minutes, so things may get a little rough.”

People around us began packing up their measly belongings and heading to indoor seating. Cindy and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes. Wimps! Didn’t they hear him say “fifteen minutes”? We had plenty of time to still enjoy the weather before moving inside!

“The Weather Started Getting Rough . . .”

We sat back once again, closing our eyes and enjoying a natural salt-water facial. The thrum of the engine and the rhythmic slapping of the boat on the waves began to lull me into a lethargic stupor.

But just before I was completely stuporated, I noticed something. The facial wasn’t as pleasant as it had been a few seconds ago. The drops were bigger, and instead of just brushing my face, they started angrily slapping it.

It was amazing how fast the weather changed! Suddenly we were subjected to a full-bore ocean rainstorm, drenching us while the ship started bucking like a wild colt.

“We need to get inside!” I shouted to Cindy through the cataract running down my face.

“I know!” she shouted. “Help me get our stuff!”

I dropped to my knees and reached under the seats, yanking on our in-case-of-contingency items madly. An umbrella hooked itself to one of the chair legs. A folding chair got wedged the wrong way, and I had to push it away from me, change its angle, and then pull it out.

All such delays really didn’t matter, though, because we couldn’t possibly have gotten any wetter than we already were.

Now it was time to traverse the distance—maybe twenty feet or so—from our chairs to the seating area door. Not difficult at all in clement weather and calm seas with nothing to carry. But in rough seas with fifteen pounds of in-case-of-contingency paraphernalia hanging from your neck, shoulders, arms, and fingers, it was incredibly difficult.

The problem was that when you were ready to take a step, rather than putting your foot down onto the deck, the deck, trying to be helpful, would rush up to meet it, causing you to lurch backwards. And then on your next step, the deck would do the opposite—rushing away like a puppy playing keep-away, causing you to lurch forward. There was absolutely no way to avoid falling down and sliding across the deck unless you had something fixed to hold on to.

Oh, that someone had taken a video of us lurching and lumbering that twenty-foot distance! It would have been hilarious, but it would also have cast doubt on whether we were still teetotalers.

At one point on our slog, one of the boat’s staff, an eager young female grad student, passed us, easily walking across the teeter-totter deck while exhibiting complete aplomb and savoir-faire. Nothing at that moment could have been more irritating to me than seeing someone exhibiting complete aplomb and savoir-faire. Gripping a nearby guardrail for dear life, I turned and hollered, “You could at least pretend it’s hard to walk, you know!” But I don’t think she heard me over the wind.

I finally reached the heavy metal door leading inside. It was weighted so that every time it was opened, it slammed shut again. I pulled on it mightily, and we both scootched inside.

The room was full. The room was completely full. It was completely full of dry people calmly chatting while sipping coffee and hot chocolate.

As we stood near the door, grasping nearby chairs to remain upright while dripping copiously, I felt as though I was in one of those dreams where you walk into a crowded room and realize you’re in your underwear. We were definitely out of place.

The boat kept jouncing us up and down unpredictably. It was impossible to stand without holding tightly to some fixed object, and it was exhausting to do so.

“What should we do?” Cindy asked.

I looked out the window toward the stairway leading to the bottom deck.

“We’re going to have to go downstairs and look for a place to sit there.”

“What! I can’t go down those stairs!”

“We have to! We can’t stay here!” And out the door I went, followed by my dubious and frightened wife.

Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas National Park

“. . . The Tiny Ship Was Tossed”

You talk about an adventure—getting down those fifteen or so rocking, rolling, soaking wet steps while being violently buffeted from every direction with wind and rain was an adventure—but at least we had two handrails to grasp.

We reached the bottom of the stairs. Immediately to my left was another of those metal doors, leading, I assumed, into the lounge area. I wrestled the door open and looked inside.

I saw a little hallway where the restrooms were. A man waiting outside one of the doors gave me a startled look, probably wondering who was fool enough to be outdoors in such a squall.

I pulled my head out of the door and turned to Cindy. “This isn’t the door to the seating area!” I yelled.

“What!?”

“No, this is where the restrooms are. To get into the seating area, we must have to use the door on the opposite side!”

What a dumb way to design a ship! Either door should have led to the seating area, I thought. “We’re going to have to go around!”

“What!? ‘Go around’? What do you mean?”

I began lumbering away from her toward the stern, still lugging my completely soaked belongings. “Come on!” I hollered, gesturing at her. “This way!”

Fort Jefferson, interior, and lighthouse

Toward the back of the boat we went, bouncing and rolling and being pelted all the way. We had to work our way from handhold to handhold. To let go would be to fall and perhaps never arise.

I reached the end of the port side and turned the corner to the stern. Before we began the trip, our guide had said that anyone who felt seasick on the trip should stay on the stern because that’s the most stable part of the ship in rough weather, so I wasn’t totally surprised to see a man and a woman standing back there, looking out at the wake.

This was the scariest part of the trip for us—though it was the most stable location on the ship, it was still very bumpy, and we were still being pelted with rain—because from here we could see over the back of the boat where the engines were churning the water. I know now that there was a guardrail at the back, but in my terror that day, I didn’t see it. I felt that if either one of us lost our grip, over the back we would go, saturated umbrellas, beach chairs, canvas bags, and a bathing suit dragging us to the bottom. It was only later that I thought how ironic it would have been to die due to the contingency items.

Falling overboard was a contingency I had failed to plan for.

I really was scared for Cindy, because I was moving across the stern up against the back wall of the lounge, moving from handhold to handhold—a conduit here, the lip of a window there—and I was afraid she wouldn’t be able to do it.

But we both made it and rounded the corner onto the starboard side of the boat. We fought our way forward to the door opposite the one I had tried before. This one had to lead to the lounge!

Summoning my strength, I yanked it open.

It was the same hallway. The same hallway, only from the other side.

The same man still stood waiting outside one of the restroom doors. This time he looked startled and alarmed. He was probably concerned that he was going to have to fend off an attack from a crazed madman who was circling the deck in a violent rainstorm for no discernible reason.

Shocked, I swung my head back toward Cindy. “It’s the same hallway!” I cried.

“What?”

“It’s the same stupid hallway!” I stuck my head back in the door again and then turned back to Cindy. “Let’s go in!” Anywhere was better than our current location.

View from the top of the fort

We entered the little hallway. When he saw us clamber in, groaning loudly, encumbered by all our contingency preparations, with rain running off every inch of us, his desire to use the facilities apparently fell prey to his desire for survival, so he ducked out of the hallway quickly.

Wait a minute! I thought. Did he go outside? No. He had gone in a door on the side opposite the restrooms. I looked through the door’s window. Yes, he had stepped right into … the dry and commodious lounge!

The doors to the lounge were off this hallway! We could have reached them right at the bottom of the stairs! There had been no need to risk our lives walking around the whole stinkin’ boat!

“Look!” I said to Cindy, pointing through the window. “The indoor seating area is right there!”

Cindy: “You mean we didn’t have to walk the whole way around the boat?”

Me: “Let’s not live in the past, hon. Let’s be thankful for where we are right now.”

Into the lounge we walked, once again surrounded by urbane and witty people sipping coffee, exuding aplomb and savoir-faire. We attempted to join them, exhibiting as much aplomb and savoir-faire as one can with water dribbling from one’s bangs down one’s nose, through one’s clothing, and into one’s shoes, which are loudly squeaking on the floor.

Leaving a trail of water as we dragged our in-case-of-contingency items on the floor, we dropped into two chairs, exhausted. We sat there breathing hard for a few moments. Then we looked at each other. Cindy still had her hood cinched tight around her head, so only her red and weather-beaten face showed. Two wisps of hair snaked across her forehead. I looked at myself in my phone’s camera. My face, too, was red. My ballcap was on backwards, the little strap making an indention in my forehead. Water dripped from my beard, and my glasses were steaming up.

Still breathing hard, I looked at Cindy again. She looked at me. There was a pause. And then we started to laugh. And we laughed for a good, long time.

Copyright 2024, Steven Nyle Skaggs

Cindy and me after our storm-tossed adventure on the high seas. We look pretty good, considering what we had just been through!