I’m in the mood to write now, as I often am, but too often
agonize over how to tie my words into my existing blog, which is why I
have not completed a log entry since last July.
Seeing as how my life has changed from when I
originally kept my blog, it’s time for me to continue writing my experiences as
they come, sailing related or not, though I do have some exciting
sailing-related news in the very near future. (!)
 |
| Miami River, looking west to 27th Ave Bridge |
Some of you have asked what life is like on the Miami River.
I’d have to say that having lived directly on the river, it’d be hard to
imagine living anywhere else in the city. It
hardly feels like a city of 2.5 million when I’m on the boat (it does, however,
feel exactly like living 3.6 miles
from Miami International Airport). Away
from the shadows of downtown high rises, and the uniformity of the suburbs,
it’s an ever-changing landscape of sailboats and cruisers heading out to
Biscayne Bay to make weekend memories, tugboats, commercial shipping, kayakers,
and passionate boat owners toiling over their labors of love (or, instead,
paying someone else to do it) in the boatyard directly across the river. The best show of all is watching the skill of
the local tugboat captains as they expertly maneuver huge freighters up and
down the narrow river. Sometimes while
texting. It’s truly impressive.
 |
| Hempstead Marine's tug Atlas tailing Betty K VI |
I can’t get enough of the local history surrounding the
river, yet have managed to find few resources.
The best so far is a book that was originally on loan from my friend, but
it’s now mine (according to my interpretation of Florida Law, if I pay the
taxes on it, 6% of $9.99, then I can claim it). Sorry Eric, but to see the law
in action, just Google ‘Boca Raton mansion squatter’. See?
Your $0.60, in the form of a check, is on its way. Thanks for an awesome
book Eric, you’re a true friend.
The river has changed somewhat from the Cocaine Cowboy days of
the early 1980’s, when Miami boasted the highest homicide rate in the world. One of the victims washed up at the
stern of my friends boat, at the very dock Annie
Laurie now calls home. Thirty years later however, the river is now a relatively safe place to find
yourself, though I still see things I’d rather not, thanks to the religion of Santeria.
Some who practice it seek out areas like rivers, or train tracks, where
either the current or a passing train will presumably carry away their sins with the
sacrifice they've offered. Sometimes
it’s roses, sunflowers, and butternut squash, and other times it’s not. In
1993, a case in Miami was taken to the Supreme Court, and it was ruled that
animal cruelty laws didn’t apply to their religious practices.
 |
| Manatees swimming under SW 1st St Bridge |
Despite the River being a fairly industrial area, the water is
still sufficiently clean to support wildlife: numerous types of fish such as mullet and tarpon, manatees, dolphin
(almost daily lately), all of which I pause to watch if I’m working away on the
sailboat. Which, I usually am.
 |
| Joys of wooden boat ownership |
Annie Laurie has
been socking it to me for the last 18 months or so. Water in the transmission, bad leak in the
fuel pump, rotten floor down below, a couple of rotten planks and areas of
adjacent decking (though it’s been a manageable dockside repair). As I near completion on the starboard side,
it’ll soon be time to turn my attention to the port side. Yes, having a wooden boat in the tropics is
like painting a bridge. Just when you
think you’re finished, it’s time to start all over again.
Funny the topic of bridges should come up!
 |
| Bridge controls |
Since returning from Nova Scotia last September, I’ve been
working on the Miami River as a bridge tender. There are 10 bridges on the main river, and I
work in the oldest (circa 1929) bridge house, thanks to the Flagler bridge
house collapsing, without warning, with the tender inside a few years ago. I stand in a little 10’ by 10’ box, and push
a series of buttons that stop vehicular traffic, drop gates, and lift the spans
of the bascule bridge, allowing various vessels to head up and down the
river. I’ve been reassured that despite
the age of the house, it’s not going to fall.
I sometimes have dreams at night of one of the tugboats experiencing an engine failure as it’s pulling a freighter, and I have to say, the dream never
ends the way I’d hope it would.
 |
| Flagler Street Bridge |
In my first day of training, the bridge tender told me I looked
a lot like another tender she once knew “before she went and got fat”. Duly noted. An 8-hour shift, and unable to leave
the bridge house unattended, you’d think it’d be easy to stay skinny there. In
the beginning I packed a healthy lunch of apples, oranges, yogurt, and salads. But a few weeks in, for some mysterious reason,
I had an urge to pick up a box of Oreos on my way to the bridge, literally
having not touched a store-bought cookie since childhood. This behavior quickly escalated, as I began
to take notice of other easily snack-able items produced with high fructose
corn syrup, palm oil, and a selection of preservatives making expiration dates irrelevant,
and expiration itself virtually impossible. And despite the boredom and temptation, I was adamant
about keeping the television off, which I succeeded at for the first few
months. Gradually, though, I succumbed to its siren song. So, my favorite new shows in
descending order are: The Mentalist, Big Bang Theory, Law and Order: SVU, CSI
Miami, Bones, How I Met Your Mother, Burn Notice, and Fox News no just kidding.
Under the bridge, where I park my car, live a dozen or so
homeless people. I was wary at first, descending
the stairs to the dark lower street following my shift at 11pm (wouldn’t you be
after the Miami Zombie?). From the pregnant
crack-head who repeatedly ensures her own chemical imbalance, and who manically
rinses her clothes in a Home depot Homer bucket with river water, to the tall,
fit Haitian who paces as he shouts quotes from the Bible,
I was initially instilled with the proclivity to
walk fast with my head down. But as I
got to know a few others, I became much more at ease.  |
| What I wish the Beetle looked like |
Rafael admires my ’69 Beetle, and pleads with me everyday to
never sell it for a penny less than it’s worth, because I “wouldn’t believe
what those cars go for in Puerto Rico!”
I’m not sure mine would fall into the category of others he may have
seen back home, considering my feet get wet when it’s raining, the windshield
is opaque when met with oncoming headlights, and when my horn makes it’s own
decisions of when it’s appropriate to sound.
Then there’s Reggie, who speaks and carries himself like a
retired professor. Always pleasant, always smiling. It’s natural to wonder how many of them have
family somewhere, why they aren’t with them, and if maybe their family and
friends are wondering where they are and have given them up for lost. Like
Wizard, whose real name I don’t know because he doesn’t speak, who spends many
an afternoon chain-sawing his way through invisible forests, and stacking
invisible bottles from the sidewalk onto invisible shelves in the bushes.
 |
| What the Beetle actually looks like |
In my next update, I'll share news of my upcoming sailing adventure. Standby!
 |
| Approaching the top of the Miami River |