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Leaving Shell Island is difficult, but locals say a four-hour sail east will
bring us to Crooked Island, an even more idyllic setting. Although the island’s
entrance isn’t marked with buoys, the natural opening in the sand bar is among
my GPS waypoints, mouse-clicked in advance. Still, it’s hard to spot from
offshore, but my Steiner binoculars with integrated compass prove their worth.
We proceed carefully, the entrance depth just under five feet, and follow the
advice we received from another cruiser by rounding the sandy spit that juts out
to port. I’m paralyzed by a nanosecond of doubt. Does this guy really know what
he’s talking about? Am I nuts to trust a stranger? Am I putting my family in
jeopardy? After all, we face another six hours at sea, late in the day, heading
for an unfamiliar destination if this quest to anchor behind Crooked Island
doesn’t pan out.
The lee side of the beach is straight ahead. The description matches. We
anchor where the sand dunes meet the first stand of trees, just like we were
told. Since it’s low tide we can bring the catamaran in close without fear of
later stranding. Rigging a Bahamian anchor with the stern hook on the beach and
the bow in deeper water keeps us from shifting around.
Crooked Island is exotic and remote – no buildings, no
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She surfaces momentarily to remind the kids of our isolated location and how, despite their father’s emergency medical training, there are things in nature that can kill them, so be careful. The kids nod, knowingly, then run toward the silhouette of dorsal fins in a trough in the sand bar. But there’s no reason to panic. Friendly dolphins reveal themselves, repeatedly leaping out of the water.
Just as we’re about to reconnect with our primordial past, three F-15 fighter
planes from Eglin Air Force Base roar across the tree tops, so close we can
examine their landing gear, wing insignia and exhaust flames. We’re jolted back
to the present, but the tactical aircraft are impressive and over the next two
days we will come to appreciate their aerial ballets. At night it’s eerily quiet
except for the surf, and with no light pollution the galaxy seems to go on
forever, the known constellations saturated by a million less familiar stars.
Again the weather dictates that we must shove off to make the outside leg to
Port St. Joe and the northern tip of Cape San Blas. An early-morning departure
puts us by noon at the mouth of St. Joseph Bay, about 12 miles long and six
miles wide. Not knowing what to expect, we relish the sight of well-spaced,
low-profile buildings along Mexico Beach and untamed miles of sand along the
hooked arm of St. Joseph Peninsula, which extends to the horizon.
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