Reed Venrick

Foggy Night off Marathon Key

One

Windward across the island tonight, a rare chill in this gusty Atlantic breeze. I grab my parka and turn my little dinghy to the side to block the wind, then cast another line, but so far

only catching the incoming tide under a night of slurry, foggy stars and lapping waves, nagging at me, slapping the side of my inflated rubber craft that I keep in sight of home.

I gaze beyond the mystery of oceans and hear my own words before they speak: “Watch your buoy, mate, you may lose faith in your compass with that fog bank drifting in from the mangrove thicket,

east of Mullet Sound and best not forget those oyster beds that once sliced the port side during that 2017 hurricane.” I nudge on round the dark, foggy island,

I call it Bantam Key. What’s it matter what the tourist maps say? I’m the one out here most nights and sometimes days when I don’t need to dock for supplies. But now from the south, cumulus clouds moving

in low from Cuba, and behind, a yellow moon waning, soon to dip into the Gulf of Mexico, as I suddenly hear a weird noise, then duck to avoid a pelican gliding too low, landing so close, I feel the spray of cold, salt water.

If the fog doesn’t mush up more, I’ll linger on past the 2 a.m. hour—maybe even

Reed Venrick

stay ‘til dawn cause there’s lots of time to catch tomorrow’s dinner. Meanwhile, sipping my Cuban “buchi” coffee, still warm in my thermos, made at sundown.

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But mostly I’ll sit and contemplate these morning temperatures cooling down, listen to waves lap the side, ‘cause I find my perceptions are clearest on night waters—clarity I never had on land.

Some old salts in this harbor say that living on water, such as I do, proves nothing is real until we are caught in a hurricane or until we actively live our sailor dreams, and how different

was it from those times when I tried to make marriage work on stable ground. Now looking back across the red tides, I see the shore and dock was never more than a place to supply and stock up from grocery and marine stores.

But now living another season on this floating world of stars and moons, while keeping my lungs full of salty ocean air, I’ll continue my journey on in a few days, when I weigh anchor

from here on Marathon Key and head across in a convoy for the winter months in the Bahama Isles. Such is the life I chose, though some from the old, family cloth cannot understand

why I invested all that I ever earned to call a 30 foot sailboat my last home. Yet I never desired nor needed a house on land to call my legal own, and on ocean nights like this, I’m reminded—never needed none.