Everglades Houseboat
Natural Wanders…
exploring the natural world through writing
In the Lagoon of the Sacred Spirit (Houseboating in the Everglades)
Times of the Islands Magazine
by Linda Lee Rathbun
photos by Steven David Miller
Images: Copyright Steven David Miller, protected by international copyright laws.
Do not copy or reproduce in any manner. All rights strictly reserved.
Text: Copyright Linda Lee Rathbun, protected by international copyright
laws.
Do not copy or reproduce in any manner without the express permission of
the author.
All rights stricly reserved.
The Lagoon of the Sacred Spirit.
By Linda Lee Rathbun
Photography by Steven David Miller
Four centuries before the Everglades was described as a "River of Grass" by Marjory Stoneman Douglas, it was even more aptly named by the Spanish, the first Europeans to discover it in the 1500s. So awestruck were these early explorers by the ethereal beauty, vastness, and mystery of this unique wetland, that they named it "El Laguno del Espiritu Santo": The Lagoon of the Sacred Spirit. If you are like me, and sometimes have an urgent need to escape the ills of the modern world, the sacred spirit of peace and tranquility awaits you in the Everglades.
The best way to enjoy what the Everglades has to offer
is by boat--by houseboat--in fact. This is my idea of a heavenly holiday: you have all the comforts of home, and, you have the solitude and quiet of a wilderness. My husband, Steve, and I drove from Naples to find our 40-foot, pontoon houseboat awaiting us at the Flamingo Marina, deep in the heart of the Everglades. We moved our gear onboard, then dutifully listened as a staff member enlightened us on the VHF radio, the outboard motor, the marine head, the gas stove and refrigerator, the navigation chart, and the limited water supply. I looked around at our decidedly funky cabin perched on top of two aluminum cylinders--the interior painted in an appealing shade of Matisse-blue. Xanterra Parks & Resorts runs both the houseboats and Flamingo Lodge & Marina, and one of their brand new catamaran houseboats, moored right beside us, called to me. A Xanterra staff member showed me through it: it was beautiful, but not yet in service.
Our lessons complete, we were allowed to "set sail," motoring north up Buttonwood Canal. Steve took the helm while I put things away and inspected the facilities. There was plenty of linen, a well-equipped kitchen (with a barbecue outside), a very small head, and sleeping accommodation for eight: two double bunks, plus two pullout double beds. Eight adults on this houseboat could easily lead to a homicide; I would suggest two couples at the most, or one couple with children. I thought that just the two of us was perfect. Buttonwood Canal opened up into Coot Bay, narrowed again through Tarpon Creek, and then widened into Whitewater Bay: a body of water studded with thousands of mangrove islands and surrounded by the marshes and mangroves of the Everglades. We anchored to the east of the main channel for lunch, enjoying the very thing we had come in search of: silence.
Our Everglades Backcountry Chart made Whitewater Bay look huge; in fact, it is a small portion of the park's 1.5 million acres. The houseboats are only allowed in this area, not in Florida Bay. However, I could happily spend a week exploring this green archipelago. We pulled up anchor after lunch, "we" meaning Steve because the over-sized anchor was far too heavy for me to lift. Since we did not know the area, we decided to stick to the main channel markers, and plodded along in our less-than-hydrodynamic vessel. We were thrilled when a pair of dolphins split the surface of the water. Royal terns perched on top of channel markers, anhingas and cormorants bobbled on the water before diving down to fish, great blue herons and great egrets and tricolor herons balanced on mangrove roots peering intently at the water. The wind sang softly. There was not another human soul or boat in sight: it was bliss beyond words.
A rain-squall was blowing down from the northeast, and it was late in the
afternoon. We decided to find a place to anchor for the night, selecting
a protected site in Midway Pass. As dinner heated in the oven, we watched
the sunset. It began quietly enough, subtle and unpromising until the sun
fell below the choppy waves. A chorus of color followed, spreading across
a dome of clouds that bled scarlet. This slowly became pink, blending with
patches of blue sky that melted into neon pastels. Birds flew overhead
like commuters rushing home from work. The mangroves went from emerald-green
to dark jade--and then it was dark. The buzz of hungry mosquitoes forced
us inside where we ate a perfectly delicious dinner of enchiladas, black
beans, and sliced tomatoes. Houseboat lessons #1, #2, and #3: prepare dinner
before sunset so you can still eat outside, bring a citronella candle because
you can't use spray repellant inside the houseboat, and slather on Avon's
Skin-so-Soft Bug Guard (DET-free) after your shower so the bugs don't eat
you.
I woke to a moody dawn, the sky heavy with clouds until the sun had a chance to burn them away. After a shower and some breakfast, Steve pulled up anchor, and we motored northwest along the channel. The open waters were pretty enough--the most exciting aspect being the numerous dolphins lolling about--but it is in the passes that this region shines. The mangroves closed in around us at Cormorant Pass: it was lush and green and impenetrable. Birds abounded amongst the prop roots, with constantly-complaining belted kingfishers hurtling from one mangrove tree to the next. The water was calmer than in the open, and it was enormously comforting to know that areas like this exist: untouched, undeveloped, and unscarred. The markers guided us into Oyster Bay, then through a bewildering labyrinth of vegetation that hugged Little Shark River. If you have ever visited Shark Valley at the northern, Tamiami Trail border of the Everglades, then you have seen Shark River Slough. This freshwater marsh inches its way through the heart of the park, eventually feeding Shark River and Little Shark River. These in turn flow into the Gulf of Mexico, and it is at the mouth of Little Shark River where the houseboat boundary prohibits you from venturing further. But, why would you want to?, there is so much more to see in the bay. We backtracked along the river, thrilled when three manatees thrust their snouts above the water to suck in air. We anchored near Marker 68 for lunch; a fisherman in a flats boat sped by us, only the second boat we had seen all day.
We had fallen into a "no hurry, no worry" mode where nothing to do is a blessing. We had found Cormorant Pass to be the prettiest area so far, so we (Steve) pulled up anchor and we slowly headed back there. Near Marker 45, we found the perfect spot cocooned between two islands: it was calm and quiet and pleasing. We anchored, and while Steve indulged in a siesta, I read. We made dinner together: barbecued steak, grilled vegetables, baked potatoes, and a bottle of red wine which we thoroughly enjoyed outdoors well before the mosquito hour.
Would the sunset be as lovely tonight, we wondered? As a photographer, Steve could not bear to miss it. We ventured back up to Marker 50 where Oyster Bay opened up to the south, and quickly forgot all about the setting sun as the sky became laced with heavy, undulating ribbons of thousands of birds returning to a roosting island for the night. Like restless children who just will not settle, flocks did numerous fly-bys. White ibis dominated, but there were also herons, egrets, cormorants, anhingas, and pelicans. Back and forth they swept: black silhouettes outlined against a fading blue, until finally they landed on the tiered branches of trees, squabbling and arguing over who should be where. We decided to anchor in a little cove near the Oyster Bay Chickee (a camping platform for canoeists). The only sounds we heard that night were the inhaling and exhaling of a pod of dolphins feeding all around our houseboat. Clouds opened up to reveal a black cosmos pierced by tiny, trembling lights. From time to time, a cool breeze would blow through like a refreshing drink on a hot day.
Steve wanted to photograph the morning exodus of birds leaving their roosting island, so just after dawn, we were off. As Steve pulled up the anchor, a parade of wide, fluttering Vs of white feathers beat past us: flocks of ibis leaving their island. "Whoosh" right over our heads, then they swooped up over the mangrove trees, vanishing. As we approached the roosting island, birds were heading off in every direction: they would all be gone by the time it was light enough to photograph them. Never mind, because soon we were distracted by a family of six dolphins come to say good morning. They surrounded us, positioning themselves hopefully at our bow, communicating telepathically that what they wanted was a bow wave. I took us up to 300rpm, the maximum allowed, while Steve scampered around the deck taking pictures. Now, I said that the houseboat was funkified, not fortified, so the dolphins did not get much of a bow ride from us. After awhile they grew bored with our plodding efforts to please them, and swam off to cavort together in morning play as we watched them in delight. Black clouds gathered threateningly far to the south, so we decided to head back to Cormorant Pass for the morning. Tragically, we had to be back in Flamingo to return the houseboat by noon, however, we had no intentions of arriving there a single second early.
Breakfast was accompanied by one of those Florida thunderstorms that is electrifying--in more ways than one. We had chosen safe anchorage, and as the storm gathered, the rain pulsed down in thick arrows of water. Thunder split the silence, and lightening illuminated the gray shroud around us. We were thrilled, eating breakfast, drinking coffee, and packing up (boo-hoo). The storm passed, and when we felt it was safe, Steve pulled anchor while I took the helm. We made our way through the pass, counting down the Markers: #40 and we were back in Whitewater Bay, #34 past a few island where two dolphins came to say hello, #26 through Midway Pass, #10 to Tarpon Creek. In Coot Bay, we anchored for awhile, talking about what fun it would be to live on a houseboat. Oh so sadly we motored south on Buttonwood Channel, watching out for alligators floating on the surface. We pulled in exactly at noon: these 48 hours away had been just as relaxing as a two-week holiday--though a few days more would have been even better.
The Spanish were right; the Everglades is the Lagoon of the Sacred Spirit. We had found that spirit in Whitewater Bay where silence and beauty reigns supreme.
The End
-Contact Flamingo Lodge & Marina at 239-695-3101.
-Website: www.flamingolodge.com, click on activities, then houseboats.
-Older pontoon houseboats are basic at $475 for two nights, the new catamaran houseboats, with A/C, are $575 for two nights and are worth the extra money. Check-in is early AM, check-out is at noon.
-Summer is the off (cheaper) season, you should expect clouds of mosquitoes; winter is far less "buggy," but the houseboats are heavily booked.
-Night anchorage tip: if it is warm and calm, anchor away from the mangrove islands to avoid mosquitoes; if it windy and cool, anchor in the lee of an island for protection.
-The kitchen is fully equipped (no food), and all linens are supplied.
-What to Bring: all your food in an ice-chest to transfer into the refrigerator, bottled water, mosquito lotion (no DET spray allowed in houseboat), book/magazines, cards/game, fishing rod.
-If you plan to fish, you will need to purchase a license at the marina store; they also have bait, ice and basic food supplies.
-$10 fee at entrance to Everglades National Park.
-Fuel will cost about $80 for two days of exploring.
-How to get there: drive via Tamiami Trail or Alligator Alley to Homestead, then via Flamingo Highway to Flamingo (in the heart of Everglades National Park). Park near the houseboats to the left of the marina.
-There is precious-little information about the houseboats: call with any questions you might have. Rest assured though that it is a wonderful getaway. Leave your cell phone and beeper at home-the world will survive without you for a few days!
