January 13 We left the beach at 9:00 a.m. after going for breakfast.  The winds from the north meant we should stick to the ocean side of the islands that strung out toward the Seven Mile Bridge to Marathon.  The shelter of Missouri and Little Duck Keys gave a degree of confidence that was needed to face the long stretch into the wind ahead.  The bridge stretched to the horizon with a small island, Molasses Key, visible about half way. That would be our destination. This stretch had to be the toughest of our trip so far. It seemed we had the wind, tide and a crossing swell all working against our progress.  Stopping to rest at any point meant drifting back and also into the trough which would surely cause us to ship some water.  Molasses Key gradually got nearer and finally its shelter calmed the choppy waves.  What appeared to be two construction barges were anchored off shore.  Because the beach was rocky I rowed over to them and just as we were about to tie up a boat appeared with some workmen who were about to take the barges over to the bridge to do some repairs.  They suggested we tie up to their mooring which we did.  A half hour rest ensued during which we decided to head towards Pigeon Key, a small island that interrupts the span of the old railroad bridge built by Henry Flagler.  This would mean going under the bridge and rowing along between the two spans.  At least this gave me frequent reference points and a series of piers to count as they slowly fell away behind as I pulled against the wind and the tide.  Pigeon Key gradually became more attainable. We crossed Moser Channel where several large boats were crossing and adding their wakes to the mix of waves from the wind and swells left from the seas that crossed the reef ten miles away.  Heather had read a note on the chart about “overfalls” at Moser Channel being capable of swamping small boats. I have not figured out what an “overfall” is but we saw nothing unusual and did not swamp.  Arriving at Pigeon Key we found an entrance to a small rectangular well protected pool where we entered, tied up and climbed out on the concrete wall surrounding the pool.  Pigeon Key used to be a camp for the laborers working on building Flagler’s railroad, has been used as a marine laboratory and now is a tourist attraction accessible only by boat or a golf cart dressed up to look like Little Toot.  The cost of the trip is $8.50.

While resting at Pigeon Key Heather struck up conversation with a very nice lady, Blanche Leone who wanted to learn all about what we were doing.  After a few minutes she introduced her son-in-law, Bruce Wean.  We got talking and their interest grew and their generosity showed, both in making donations to Damien House and in giving us directions to the Publix super market near where they were staying. At this point we were desperate to find some lunch groceries where we did not pay the inflated prices found in a campground store. 

After saying goodbye to these friendly people we headed out of the little harbor at Pigeon Key and found more favorable conditions to row the last leg to the other end of the bridge in Marathon. Blanche and Bruce waved to us from Little Toot as it passed us on the bridge overhead on its way back to Marathon. As we entered the large harbor there with hundreds of boats at anchor and thousands tied up at docks lining the shores and dredged canals penetrating the land mass of the island in every direction, the water became smooth and the three more miles into the end of the longest canal seemed like a victory paddle back to the boat house after rowing a good race.  When the water is smooth there is little reason to stop the rhythm of a gentle row.  It is as tiring to sit still on a seat designed to slide as it is to keep it moving. Heather patiently kept her finger pointing in the direction we should be going so I did not need to turn around to see.  Passing by yachts in a harbor has always been a bit nerve wracking to me since I am aware of the cost of labor in boat yards where fixing a ding in a fancy yacht might cost a year’s salary.  We reached the end of the canal where we could see Publix but there did not appear to be any good landing for a boat as low to the water as ours. A friendly voice called down from a balcony above suggesting we pull into their dock.  Bruce Mean appeared hurrying down to greet us. I had rowed another five miles from Pigeon Key and again had logged more miles than my blistered hands had agreed to. Bruce’s invitation to a pot roast dinner and to use their extra bedroom was the kindest gesture I have heard in a long time.  We secured the boat to the wall below their deck and climbed up to their rented condo where we met Bruce’s wife Blanch, Blanche’s daughter, and Blanche’s husband Alfeo.  Friendlier people would be hard to imagine. Here on vacation they shared their accommodations with two weathered vagabonds in a row boat.  The conversations that kept us at the table for hours brought out all manner of similar interests and experiences. Heather, of course, entertained them with stories of our life in the mountains and we heard about the life on a vegetable farm in southern New Jersey.  A shower and bed came as welcome as any amenities we could have found in a five star resort. During the night I checked the position of the boat a few times to be sure it was not chafing.