2003—EVOLUTION TOUR

June 7-13, 2003

$15,000 raised for the ACS

---
“A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor.”
---

Prologue

I’ve been told that it’s always best to make important decisions with a clear head and to base them on the facts you have available. There are also decisions made with zero knowledge and very little thought to the consequences. This is a story about one made somewhere in-between.

Late on a Saturday night in February of 2003, I made a decision that would forever change my life. Maybe it was longing for adventure. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was a recent breakup. Maybe it was the thought of nearly losing my only sister to cancer. Maybe it was all the above. I made a phone call. Overwhelmed with emotion that night in New Iberia, Louisiana, I called Patrick and dropped the best friend card to let me onto “the kayak trip”. He knew about Karen. He didn’t know I was serious.

The next day, we talked again and confirmed my need to be a part of this “Castaways Against Cancer” business I’d heard about for the last few years. At the time, my knowledge of the Castaways was limited to the dozens of pictures of Patrick his brother Bob hanging out in the shallow waters of the Florida Keys, joking, laughing, smoking cigars, and having a few beers around these chunky plastic boats with some crazy dude named “O-B”.

Some facts about me: At the time I was a resident of Lafayette, Louisiana, traveling the world shooting lasers into the water. Born and raised in Miami, and with a BS in Oceanography, I was no stranger to the ocean. I was incredibly fortunate while growing up to have spent many weekends in the Florida Keys fishing, lobster hunting, snorkeling, scuba diving on the incredible reefs, and engaged general childish tomfoolery. One thing not on my résumé prior to this grand adventure: ocean kayaking. I was a darn good swimmer, versed in proper canoeing techniques from a couple summers at camp in Maine, I thought “any fool can kayak… there’s two paddles on one stick!” Easy-peasy.

“You’re going to die out there,” my friend said. Comforting words, I thought. While said in jest, it was my first experience with the outsider’s view on what the Castaways did. Over 150 miles of paddling in a single week. Crazy? Sure. But not impossible, right? Right?

The night before my trip I crammed the last of my “gear” into jumbo Ziploc bags. I had no idea what a drybag was when I was initially packing. I didn’t even have a tent or camping mattress. I was storming the beaches of Normandy with little more than flip-flops, sunscreen and a can-do attitude. Fortunately, I wasn’t completely unprepared gear-wise. We picked up the boats in Key Largo the day before where I purchased a few things… water bladder, seat cushion, a new FBO t-shirt, two drybags for my food, and a can of pineapples (per Patrick’s requirements). I hardly slept that night. My heart was in my throat.

Launch Day – Saturday, June 7th
South Beach, Miami
“First one to capsize buys the beer!”

The 4th annual trip of the Castaways didn’t actually have a name when the boats hit the water. After it was all said and done, we called it “The Evolution Tour” due to so many changes from the three years prior. The trip would be the first year with more than four paddlers: Steve O’Brien, Patrick Linfors, Chad Forbes, Craig Engler and myself – the last two being rookies. This would be the first year in which Bob, Patrick’s brother and team navigator, did not paddle. Steve, or “OB” as everyone calls him, would be the first Castaway to paddle the trip in a solo kayak.

The morning of the launch arrived. I hadn’t stepped foot on Miami Beach since before I moved to Louisiana a few years earlier. The sun was just peaking over the Atlantic, and the waves were crashing onto the beach. It was exhilarating. Wait. Waves?

Miami is not known for its surfing scene. And at this point in my life, I didn’t understand the subtle intricacies of launching a kayak from a beach. Not long after our arrival, OB wanted to put his boat “Alice” (named after his Grandmother who lost her battle to cancer – which led him to found the CAC) in the water to test her balance. He made it about half the length of his boat when a crashing wave got the better of him and turned him wrong side up. Soaking wet, our Skipper declares, “Skirts and jackets, boys. She’s angry today.” Another first, and the first round was on OB.

Day One – Saturday, June 7th
South Beach to Elliott Key
Kayak Time

I had been paired with Chad in a tandem while Craig had been paired with Patrick. The goal was to put the rookies in the front seats and let the veterans take the rudder in the back. Plus, they thought it would be good to separate the best friends. Patrick and I had been friends since birth, and Chad and Craig were close friends from high school and roommates in college.

Somehow, I managed to pack my meager belongings and food into my front hold which was the size of a VW Bug glove compartment. Strapped to the deck in front of me was a big orange box with a battery-operated pump Patrick loaned me to blow up my borrowed camp mattress. I didn’t have a tent and would be sleeping in Patrick’s two-man abode.

Patrick, a reporter at 610 WIOD, called in for his morning CAC news report. He would do this each day, and it would be broadcast on 610 and another popular FM station. The people of Miami and the Keys would get a daily dose of what the team was doing.

After a nice prayer and team photos, it was time to depart.

OB’s second launch was much more successful as Craig helped get him past the worst of the nearshore waves. Chad and I slid our boat out to knee-deep water and hopped in. A few hard strokes and we were moving past the worst of the waves. Patrick and Craig went next in the yellow boat with very little issue, catching up to OB and turning 90 degrees toward the jetties. A mere 50 yards from the north jetty and we paused to watch a large freighter making its way out of Government Cut. Without hesitation, as its stern cleared, we crossed. The water depth increases dramatically in the Cut, and so did the waves. The soft rollers became angry lap-slappers as we all struggled to keep our balance. I was at the mercy of the currents and wherever my rudder man wanted to point us. We made it through without incident and fell out of sight from the crowd of friends and family at the beach. We were now on our own.

• OB, Patrick, and Chad cheered “Day One!!!”

• OB lifted his paddle in the air by one of the blades and yelled, “Oooodiiiiiiiin!”

• My shoulders and wrist were already killing me. We are 30 minutes into a 7 day event, this could be a serious problem. I thought to myself… I am going die out here.

• Spoiler Alert: I didn’t die out there.

• As we passed Virginia Key, the wind hit us in the face nearly blowing my blue tiger stripe boonie hat off my head. To keep it in place, I secured the strap under my chin. This would later prove to be a mistake.

• The first break was on Key Biscayne. My body was screaming at me from the hard push of the launch. OB repacks his boat.

• The group stops for pictures in front of the Cape Florida Lighthouse.

• During the push to Soldier Key, Craig and I are ceremoniously baptized into the Castaway Brotherhood by Patrick and Chad using their pumps to spray water all over us.

• The jokes are flowing, we are singing and laughing. The pain is fading.

• Soldier Key – introduced to Kayak Time. It runs slower and is far more casual than “Real Time”. For example, this exchange:

  • OB: “Let’s get moving in 15 minutes.”

  • Patrick: “Real Time, or Kayak Time?”

  • OB: “Real, sailor.”

  • Patrick: “Damn.”

• Getting out of his boat, OB drops his radio in the water. Apparently, this is a commonality among his trips. Fortunately, it survives.

• Departed Soldier and spent the next four hours getting stuck in the flats. Had to stand up and drag the boat at least three times. Finally, we made our way towards deeper water but ended up on the Atlantic side of the Ragged Keys – a fitting term for a big pile of jagged coral excuses for islands. The outgoing current was ripping fast so Patrick walked out to find a crossing point deep enough to traverse. Eventually we found it and fought the current to get back into Biscayne Bay.

• We arrive at Sands Cut and join the revelry. People can’t believe we’ve paddled from South Beach in this weather. There are storms on the mainland and we are badly behind schedule, so we leave shortly after arrival.

• The final push to Elliott is torture. The flag at the ranger station never seems to get closer.

• Chad’s boss, Greg, meets the team on Elliott. They arrive with cold beers and sandwiches. I had been fully prepared to eat an MRE. OB still eats a can of beans.

• Incredible sunset over the mainland. And then the mosquitoes came in hordes. If you weren’t already in your tent, you are left for dead.

• Everyone showers up and refills their water at the Elliott Key Ranger Station. It had been many years since I’ve had an ice-cold shower, and it was not refreshing. At least I was clean.

• After a long discussion regarding Patrick’s renowned snoring, we decide it’s best if I shower first and try to fall asleep before him so he doesn’t keep me up. Turns out, I snore pretty bad – and kept him up. Welcome to Thunderdome, Chin.

• Late that night I’m awoken by shuffles and scurrying in our campsite. The raccoons have arrived. I hear a distant voice whisper a line from an old war movie… “G**ks in the wire.”

Day Two – Sunday, June 8th
Elliott Key to Key Largo
Going Commando / All Hail the King

My hands are a mess. Swollen, blistered and aching from being waterlogged all day. There are mosquito bites on my face. The strap on my boonie hat chaffed the heck out of my neck yesterday. The Bull Frog sunscreen caused me to break out like I was a teenager, and OB just told me we all spent a “Night in the Box”.

Packing up my gear, Craig hands me my wallet. Apparently, it was pilfered from my bag in the night and has a bite mark in the corner. Damn raccoons!

Patrick hates The Stacks (the towering exhaust chimneys of Turkey Point Power Station). “They just stare at you ALL DAY and never get closer.”

We cut out to the Atlantic through Caesar Creek and take a break in the shallows of Old Rhodes Key – the interior of which is the infamous Jones Lagoon of 2001. Patrick ‘brews up’ some Commando Coffee: instant coffee in cold water. It’s terrible, but it does the trick.

Patrick and OB switch boats.

It’s a hot, humid and stagnant morning. Our break point is a mile away and the sky opens up… Rain glorious rain!

Bird Sh*t Key – the smelliest rock in all the Florida Keys. It’s horrible, but it’s the only real break spot for a mile in either direction.

Blunderbuss – that’s all I’m allowed to say.

OB sings “Blame It On The Rain”. A lot.

It’s 1000 degrees in North Sand Creek. The channel cuts into Key Largo as we make our way to Pennekamp Park. The high mangroves cut us off from the strong winds that have been keeping the temperatures tolerable.

As we exit into Largo Sound, Chad goes in the water for a solo break. The rest of us stay in the boats eager to finish the day.

OB began singing “Friggin’ in the Riggin’” complete with his own lyrics.

Arrival at Pennekamp. To our dismay, we must haul the boats a few hundred yards to our campsite.

OB wears some kind of pale green rubber/plastic shoes called Crocs. They’re ugly as sin. Thus, we have declared him: The King of Legoland.

Day Three – Monday, June 9th
Key Largo to Islamorada
Till Death Do Us Part

The following morning, we grab breakfast at the Pennekamp cafeteria and relax under a wooden bridge.

We exit Largo Sound to the Atlantic via South Sound Creek. Not long after, my nipples are ON FIRE. All the friction of my shirts rubbed me raw. Thank goodness I had blister pads.

Patrick and OB share a story about a recent day trip paddling to Money Key which I now call “The Periscope Incident”. It’s quite possibly the hardest I’ve laughed in my entire life. If you ever want to hear this story, I invite you to paddle with us from Miami to Key West, for this is a tale not told on land.

Break at Tavernier Key. We discover two horseshoe crabs getting it on.

For a few hours the wind is to our backs and Craig unleashes a kite! Yes, he brought an actual kite on the trip. No, it doesn’t help pull the boat.

Approaching Windley Key in Islamorada on the Atlantic side, we discover that the tide is out and we can’t make a direct approach to Holiday Isle. After a few failed attempts to cross the flats, we give up and take the long way around to Whale Harbor Channel.

It’s after 5pm when we arrive at Holiday Isle beach, in the shadow of Rum Runners, a multi-story wood and bamboo facade structure. At the pavilion overlooking the beach is a wedding reception. We were not on the guest list.

This will be our first night back in civilization. Holiday Isle has donated two rooms for the team.

That night Chad’s mom and brother arrive and treat us to the enormous seafood buffet at Whale Harbor Inn. Brother Pat from Columbus joins us - and that dude likes to eat. For dessert, the boys desire Key Lime Pie!

OB asks the waitress how big her pie is, complete with hand gestures.

Day Four – Tuesday, June 10th
Islamorada to Fiesta Key
MM69

Shortest day of the trip: only 12 miles.

After a few hours on the water, we cross back to the Bay side and make our way down a long row of towering power poles. A few of which we’re able to paddle underneath, ultimately leading us to The Hungry Tarpon. We feast on hash browns, omelets of all sorts, and coffee. OB grabs a bagel to go.

We are halfway to Key West – and I’m still not dead.

(An email exchange after the trip) Re: Captain Crunch-burglar. “Where the hell is this?” I ask Patrick, staring at a picture of a plastic pirate holding on to a white mast as he looks out to sea. This noble sailor looks like a cross between Captain Crunch and The Hamburglar. “We pass that thing every year after Hungry Tarpon, and nobody ever knows what I’m talking about. I finally got a picture.”

We stop at Anne’s Beach to enjoy the scenery and have a snack before the long push to Fiesta.

Chad and I have started to bond over the song “Take it Easy” by the Eagles.

Fiesta Key KOA. Chad scores a cabin. We all go for a swim in the pool.

Thoughts turn to dinner and we discover the restaurant is closed one day a week: Tuesday. No chance of pizza delivery, so it’s ‘eat out of our bags’, or go for a walk to the nearest eating establishment. We chose the latter. Turns out it’s a three-mile walk south to the town of Layton.

Like the mature gentlemen we are, we stop for a picture at the Mile Marker 69 sign, dude.

We stumble into an Italian restaurant and feast. As we were preparing to leave, a couple there asked us what we were doing. Impressed, they offered us a ride back to Fiesta Key. We did not refuse!

Another night with glorious A/C. Only two beds and OB takes the bullet to sleep on the floor using Patrick’s Thermarest camping ‘mattress’. He later claims it was a terrible choice to sleep on “this surfboard”.

Day Five – Wednesday, June 11th
Fiesta Key to Ohio Key
Luminescent

0330 Wake up call. We have 33 miles to our destination. Everything hurts, and I do not want to get up.

0430 we depart the KOA loading ramp and take a quick shortcut under a footbridge where we must lay as flat as possible on our boats to clear. We slug down Commando Coffee and Cliff bars to wake up our sleepy bones. We push out into open water and the lights of Fiesta Key fade to nothing behind us. As our eyes adapted to the darkness, the stars lit up the sky, and even the Milky Way appeared in a glorious smoky line across the sky. As if that wasn’t beautiful enough, we noticed each stroke in the water caused a burst of light, and the meager wakes of our kayaks stirred up a flurry of green and white trails of bioluminescent algae behind us. When our world was devoid of all manmade noise, light and the blazing sun, nature flipped on the switch of her typically hidden light show, and no one said a word for almost an hour. Incredible.

Like a good mariner, I brought glowsticks to hang from the boat. Green for Starboard, red for Port.

All week, OB has feared one stretch of this trip: Crossing the Long Key Viaduct. “Where ambition goes to die,” he claims. The waters were still; we could just barely make out the arches of the old bridge. It’s strange when something that big is so close in the dark, you just feel its presence. We snuck across the two-and-a-half-mile expanse with the occasional car passing by on the newer Long Key Bridge, finally arriving in the shallows of Conch Key to take a break.

OB’s mood has changed dramatically, quiet and contemplative most of the morning, to laughing and shouting “Must be the Money!” During the break, Craig and I learn that we’ve been unknowingly inducted into the Black Creek Kayak Club… a small group that has earned their membership by paddling across the Viaduct in the dark. This would be the last time any Castaway would paddle the bridge in the dark.

The sun rises behind us as we make our way past Grassy Key.

Break near Pretty Joe Rock – a tiny tuft of mangroves that somehow got an official name on the map. There are Cassiopeia jellyfish everywhere.

Approaching the Seven Mile Bridge from the Bay side watching planes fly over our heads as they come in for a landing on Marathon. Patrick and Craig are having trouble keeping a good pace. Craig thinks his sexy racing paddle is messing with his wrists and is causing a lot of pain. The Skipper admits, the situation is in doubt and may have to sideline the rookie. The bad thing is that my right wrist is really starting to bother me, but I keep it to myself.

Break in the shallows Pigeon Key, a tiny island two miles west of Knight Key that the Old Seven Mile Bridge crosses over. The Old Bridge is still maintained out to this island and is a historic landmark.

Craig whips out a snorkel and mask. The break is exactly what we all needed. Neither Craig nor I had any further issues with our wrists. The Mystery of Kayaking.

After departing Pigeon Key, we pushed west under the new Seven Mile Bridge. Behind us, we can hear Craig counting each pylon as they pass it… to the tune of 100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall. Fortunately for Patrick we peel off towards Molasses Key.

Based on some of the discussions on this trip, I’ll never eat Chili Dogs or Lima Beans ever again.

Craig hates the flag on Ohio Key.

OB tells us about his experiences with wild animals in college and what he calls “The Preserve”. Animals were tracked using a sophisticated barcode system. He later did a Triple Lindy trying to get into his boat.

Molasses Key OB drops radio in the water again and it officially dies. “Hmph, Sacrifice.” He mutters.

Approaching Ohio Key, we cut between Ohio and a small island to go up the channel to the Sunshine Key Trailer Park and Marina, our home for the night. As if it were a surprise, we all got stuck and had to drag the boats across 100 feet of mushy marl. Chad and I finally make it across. I turned back to see Patrick out of the boat with his hands up yelling obscenities.

After arrival, we have good news and bad news:

• Good: our campsite is right next to the boat launch.

• Bad: our campsite is basically a pile of rocks in the parking lot.

Another Night in the Box. The buzzing of the streetlamps, the cars, and all the lights made it nearly impossible to sleep. OB was awakened by a drunk couple ogling him sometime around midnight, admiring his erect tent.

Day Six – Thursday, June 12th
Ohio Key to Shark Key
The Pineapple Coast

We pushed off early, pushing past Bahia Honda State Park on the Atlantic side. First break of the day is at Blue Jeans Key. Actually, it’s Little Bahia Honda Key, but it’s basically just an exposed coral island with two mangrove trees. Years prior, the Castaways found a full set of clothes there including a pair of jeans.

Big rollers off Bahia Honda Bridge.

Craig asks Patrick, “Where’s the yellow boat?” (if you haven’t been paying attention, THEY were the yellow boat.)

Lunch off Little Palm.

For days now, OB randomly breaks into the song “HEY! Must be the Money!”

Sharks off Loggerhead, eating pineapples and peaches baby food to appease the demons of the Pineapple Coast. A tradition started in 2000 when OB flew over the cuckoo’s nest in search of pineapples.

We push forth toward The Pineapple Coast, an eight-mile stretch along the Atlantic side of the Saddlebunch Keys. There is little to no signs of life along this path, save for one mansion / compound used by James Cameron and Arnold Schwarzenegger during the filming of The Abyss and True Lies, and where Bob and OB stopped in 1998 during the Great Experiment (which later became the Castaways).

The Coast is a mindbender. As a rookie, I really don’t know where we’re going. Each prominent tip of land extending to the Atlantic is your temporary destination. Chad was convinced that three different points were where we would cut in - and our destination was right there. He was wrong on all four points.

Halfway along the Pineapple Coast, Craig grabs his mask and snorkel and dives out of the tandem with no warning so he can “check out a massive brain coral” leaving Patrick to control their boat on his own. Another victim of the Coast.

Chad has shifted in his seat 1397 times today throwing off our paddling rhythm.

1398

1399

FINALLY, we arrive at Similar Sound, our escape from the Coast – the real kick in the teeth is that it’s 2 more miles to our destination, and now there is no wind.

We arrive at US1. Patrick took a picture of me upon our arrival. I was about as happy as a wet cat.

Instead of paddling around Shark Key to get to the bayside destination, we portage the kayaks across US1. An event forever to be known as ‘Abbey Road’.

After a second 30+ mile day, we landed at the Caribbean Club. Technically it’s Big Coppitt Key, but Shark Key sounded better for the advertising. The place is awesome.

The boys were excited about dinner at Bobalou’s Café, and of course, it’s closed. We ended up at Purple Porpoise Pub, I expected leather-clad bikers doing the Tango and was happily disappointed.

During the walk back to the hotel, Patrick cracks me up with a strange kayaking truth… “Ya know, after a long day kayaking, I tend to walk more efficiently. Point A to B with no BS.”

Day Seven – Friday, June 13th
Shark Key to Key West
The Last Crusade

The final day started in Florida Bay and we hooked west at Halfmoon Key. OB paddles toward a lone mangrove tree a half mile from anything on the water. It looks beaten and thrashed but still stands tall. He calls it The Witness Tree and pulls out a Sharpie to prove that he was there, starting a tradition that solo paddlers could leave their mark.

Break on a tiny mangrove island off Boca Chica.

Patrick hits a 5-minute freestyle of his WGAY Key West radio announcer shtick. We’re all rolling.

In the final stretch to the landing site, we realize we’re about 45 minutes ahead of schedule. Since it was a workday, we were warned that everyone would have to take off work to meet us, and we couldn’t be early. It was a wonderful denouement to a long week of paddling on what would be the last real time the group would be alone together on this trip.

We landed on Casa Marina beach amidst another wedding.

I don’t really remember how many people met us that year, but the irony in retrospect is that we never had a big welcome for many years because it was midday on Friday and everyone was still at work. Years later, our landing would become THE event of the day.

We were treated to a fantastic meal at Shula’s, courtesy of Jim Frigo. Patrick and I went to grade school with his daughter, Pam, and Patrick has stayed close with the family over the years. We ate like Kings.

That night a few of us explored all the Duval Street hot spots and reveled into the wee hours of the morning. Notable events included:

a) the realization that our new friend Tim (name changed to protect the not so innocent) was a really bad drunk.

b) After a brief lovers spat, Craig and Chad make up in a touching “Oprah Moment”.

As the night closed, we found a street hot dog stand that had no less than 30 different types of mustard. I stood there in awe searching for the right condiment and like Indiana Jones reaching for the Holy Grail I found a single unlabeled jar, pointed and asked, “What’s in... that?”

“Oh, good choice.” the proprietor leaned in, “That’s our homemade mustard.”

I ate that street dog and Holy Mustard like it would make me live forever.

Epilogue

Saturday evening the wreath ceremony was held on the central dock of the Casa Marina. We read the names of everyone we paddled for that year. Seeing my sister’s name on that list choked me up. It was incredibly moving. Surrounded by a small group of friends and family, this group of men that had bled, laughed and sweat together, now shed tears for people we’ve lost, and we remembered why we just did this whole trip.

I was a different person than the one that first sat in that grey plastic boat. Forever changed. There’s an old Texas A&M saying that goes: “From the outside looking in, you can’t understand it. From the inside looking out, you can’t explain it.”

This tale is my feeble attempt to wipe the dust off the glass for those of you looking in. I probably failed, but then again, this wasn’t meant for you anyway.

---------
When the paddling was complete, that afternoon we arrived in Key West we sat in the pool at Casa Marina, telling stories and laughing. I privately thought that there was absolutely no way I was doing this next year. One and done! Yes, sir.

Yet, I found myself in the seat again the following June… and the June after that, and the June after that. I think you get the idea.
---------

Love always,
Heffé, The Sauce King. The Man. The Legend.