The boy, me and the cat

by Henry Merrihew Plummer

February 22 to 28th. Palm Beach. From our anchorage the whole scene is most attractive. The Royal Poinciana is a huge caravansary and with its roof topping the green of the palms has a good bit of grandeur. The color scheme is undeniably good with light yellows of the palm, the blue-green of the palmetto, pure whites and faintest pinks reflected from red piazza roofs, themselves hidden by white balustrades. Launches with merry parties are dashing all about and lend flashes of bright color. Houseboats with bunting fluttering come, anchor, and go again while now and then an army hydroaeroplane jumps in air with roar of motor. On shore the band plays and nice looking people take tea beneath the palms or are wheeled about in chairs. We go ashore and look and stare. Watch the bathers and even venture to take a meal or two in the “winter garden” but take it from me, brown-tail moth is nothing to the sting of poverty and somehow there seems to be a light-heartedness lacking to it all and soon my interest flags and I want to be into the swamp and away. Over it all floods hot sunshine with muggy air which has no freshness even in the early morning.

February 28th. We turned out at daylight and took the ship over to West Palm Beach where we put in a mighty hot, weary morning getting provisions, water and ice. The wind was heavy from south, square in our teeth, and rain squalls added to the general soaking wet conditions. H. caught himself just as he was going to say something about not going any farther and smothered it up. We were on fine edge, both of us. I have heard about these tropic conditions and the way they will break a man up and am rather glad to give them a try. We were off at 11 o’clock and made better headway against sea and wind than we expected. At the foot of Lake Worth we entered a long canal cutting with banks beautifully overgrown with all manner of trees, bushes, vines and flowering plants. The breeze came a bit fresher and we gradually relaxed the nerve tension and by evening were able to speak quite civilly to each other. At night we tied up to the canal bank with a great magnolia tree half filling the cockpit. Our first mosquitos appeared in force, but we rigged nettings and kept the cabin free of them and also free of any breath of air. It was pretty stifling hot, and having still a few nerves on hand, my night was not of the best.

March 1st. Comes bright, hot, and with the same steady southerly wind. When we went to cast off our shore lines we found that the one made fast in the tree was only a foot or two from a wasps’ nest with critters on it as big as bats. How we escaped an awful stinging up last evening I don’t know for we were pulling and hauling with our heads and shoulders among the branches. Rather a problem, the casting off of that line. We settled it with one barrel from old Bess, a quick jump to the limb and a noble effort by little putt-putt astern. Then it was away through the Everglade swamps with now and then a turn which brought us within sound of the pounding surf just over the narrow sand strip separating us from old ocean. Passed Hillsboro Inlet, and new Inlet, taking bottom in good shape at last named. The way was walled with green and many flowers gave touch of bright color. Soon after starting we had the luck to see a good-sized alligator floating not more than 10 feet from the boat. He was probably 5 or 6 feet long, an ugly looking cuss. H. won 10 Coca-Colas for seeing him first. Funny little crabs with bright red legs and white nippers scurried back and forth under the long mangrove roots. With exception of pelicans and herons this was the only sign of life and the absence of it makes much of the dreariness and it is dreary. About 4 in the afternoon we came to our last canal, where a heavy chain across effectually stops navigation. $3.60 bought us our round trip ticket and a ride on the roller coaster and we were soon far into the sticks again. At night we again tied to trees and the mosquitos descended in clouds. Scotty insisted on constantly going in and out and leaving a gap in the netting. The air was hot and heavy, the cabin suffocatingly warm. Mosquitos as big as buzzards and with venomous stings. One gave me a fierce touch of malaria right on the knuckle of my big toe. I was good and tired, but I had the twitchums all over as soon as I turned in. At midnight we turned out and battled the brutes with Japsticks and with fair success.

March 2nd. Comes with blazing sun heat. We are both in good working shape again and a broken night’s rest means little discomfort. Had good breakfast and were away into sun’s glare at 8. My eyes suffer some even behind blue glasses. Like yesterday, the road is pleasant to travel, bordered by the deep green of mangroves and giving every now and then a peep up some little branch into the mysterious silences of the great swamp. We crossed lagoons and big lakes in which we always got aground as the finger posts were either broken down or unplaced. It was particularly attractive just before entering Biscayne Bay for the trees were higher and overhung the river more completely. We both compared it with the upper waters of the Charles. Biscayne Bay looked mighty big as we left the narrow little creek and pushed out against a strong southwester. It didn’t seem possible not to find our 3½ ft. of water in such a great sea, but that’s just where we missed it, for we have found on the whole trip no more puzzling navigation than we had to tackle this afternoon. The water was a light brunette and the shoals didn’t show, while the posts were at long intervals and often no way of telling which side to leave or how close to go. We jumped her along about 2 miles and then stuck her. Pushed off, ran across narrow channel and slid her way up on other side. Then heavy squalls swept up the bay with sheets of rain and we ran below for lunch. Lunch over, along came a Christian in a launch and offered to give us a pull. He said he knew just how and made fast to my anchor warp about half out to the anchor on his bow cleet. Then he called for plenty of slack so as to get a good start. I accommodated my friend, of course, and away he went 10 knots an hour. Things happened when that line taughtened and I thought the launch would throw a somersault. It stayed right side up, however, but he ran out towards my anchor and picked up the bight of the warp in his propeller and went out of business until, with head under water, he managed to free the mess. I certainly did pity that man. When all was fair again he gave me another pull in Bristol fashion and twitched me off so hard I again shot across the deep water and piled up on the opposite flat. He went off then and H. and I prepared to labor, but quicker than scat, all the squall clouds that had come over from the southwest banked in the northeast and came charging back with such deluge of rain and spiteful wind that we ran below for shelter. The rain was soon over and a good cool, squally northeaster took place of the warm souther. We sprung single reef mainsail on her and finally landed her afloat, but heading towards home. Carried anchor line to quarter and tripped the hook when her head was right, and nosed along with a little peak of sail. In about half a mile we came to the post with sign meaning “keep away.” We kept away and have kept away ever since for we landed her harder than ever and made a bad matter worse by crowding her on still more with sail. The day was about over and we had had enough, so after finding that the channel ran close to the stake we called it quits, and went below for supper and the night with the lights of Miami in view. We are broadside to wind and sea. The former threatens to blow on a gale but the latter is insignificant on account of shoal water and a handy weather shore.

March 3rd. Passed comfortable night except for an occasional loud slap as some wave would smack square on her bilge. Turned out to a downright owly northeast blow and pouring rain. Rather gloomy prospects for wrecking operations, but soon after breakfast I felt Mascot getting uneasy and quickly running out big anchor and putting our ballast all on starboard deck, we hauled into deeper water without any trouble at all. We certainly had a morning tide 6 inches higher than the previous evening one. I figure the heavy southwesters of last week blew the bay waters up into the swamps for hundreds of square miles. The sharp turn to strong northeast blew the bay water out and to fill up the hole all the swamp water got on the move. When the incoming tide in the bay met the outgoing swamp current the two just naturally humped right up. With Mascot afloat we took launch a mile or so down the bay and sounded out a little water to travel in. It was a bit lumpy and we were soaked on our return. Goose winged our sail and we were off for Miami where we arrived about noon and dropped hook off wharves.

I guess this is the southern end of the cruise. I want to go a-fishing and I want to go down among the Keys, but the season is getting on and indeed the road to the northward is long. The south point on my compass is all rounded off from steady use, and you can hardly read the letter “S” it is so worn. I must rest satisfied with having brought the boat down and, I hope, taking her back.

March 5th to 11th. We wasted no time, but put the Mascot into shipyard at once where we overhauled and painted. The yard was some ways up the Miami River where no breeze reached us and where the hot sun poured fiercely down and sopped every ounce of ambition from us both. At night we had to screen the cabin on account of the mosquitos and we tossed on our transoms until well into each morning. The air so lifeless and saturated with the pungent smell of copper paint that I was sick to my stomach in the mornings which was no happy beginning for a long, hot day. I have been looking the sun straight in the eye for 5 months with result that my own eyes pain me constantly and I am always behind blue glasses and canvas patches. It is all a bit tedious and makes home look a good ways off. Miami, like all the towns we have visited, seems to be in the midst of a real estate boom. The sun pours down and is beaten back into your face and eyes from new cement sidewalks and buildings. A jumble of architecture without any apparent why. No quiet, no shade, no cool narrow street into which to turn. No escape from the raw crudity of it all except to the boat where the paint is blistering on the deck and the motor launches are shaking the very air with unmuffled exhaust. The Royal Palms offers a bit of pleasant contrast with a rather small but well done garden not unlike Monte or Mentone and a good view of a sea gorgeously blue. To go fishing from here requires a hired launch and men and is too expensive and the season is so well along I dare not take the time to go down among the Keys in Mascot.

On returning alone to the boat one night, H. having gone to the movies, Scotty failed to meet me at the rail. To my call I soon heard her little feet scrabbling across decks and before I could catch her in my arms she fell into the cockpit and with a little paw on my foot died. “Pauvre petit Miami-mi.” The heat, the noise, the smell, too much for little Scotty. You who love animals will know how we missed that little bunch of fur, and you who don’t are of little account anyway. We gave her a sailor’s burial in the Miami River and by mutual understanding have not mentioned her name since.