2025—The Bigger Boat Tour
“Take a Bite Out of Cancer”
Team Members (left to right): Gaston Sanchez
June 7th-13th, 2025
$$477,493 was the total raised, including Sylvester’s .50 :1 match.
This year’s funds will be directed to further research by Sylvester in a variety of projects: Renal & Colon project, a Lymphoma project, & one that focuses on Sarcoma Cells.
We’re Gonna Need a Bigger Boat Tour Report
By: Gaston Sanchez with contributions from the runners
The sun had just dipped below the horizon on June 11th when our crew of eight runners took our first steps from Castaways Against Cancer Beach. It was the start of 170 miles down the spine of the Florida Keys, a journey equal parts laid-back island adventure and David Goggins-level toughness.
“You hit that wall where everything hurts and you just want to stop, but you think about the people you’re running for, and you realize you’re nowhere near as tough as they are. That’s why we kept going.”
The van was loaded with more gear than could possibly fit, stacks of PB&Js, bottles of talco (don’t ask), and the slightly overconfident energy of a team that didn’t yet smell like, well… the van smell (oh, just wait!). At the helm was Gaston, our captain, strategist, and unflappable flag-bearer. Driver, van-door disciplinarian and resident off-road rally racer (because don’t worry, we bought the insurance) was Alex “Gimpy” Silva. Riding shotgun was Marta “Tica” Silva, who had her priorities straight - a champagne bottle on standby and a personnel vendetta to outrun mosquitos and alligators alike). Along for the ride: Alex “Roma” Romagosa, the rookie who would finish the trip infinitely wiser, and bitten by every mosquito in the Keys; JC Campo, our quiet, matchy matchy assassin who would casually drop negative splits when the rest of us were just trying to survive; Nicole “Nicky” Sardina, who would soon become queen of the Card Sound monsoon run (no we weren’t laughing so hard we cried); Jonathan Ceballos, world-record holder for longest shower ever taken while everyone else was mauled by mosquitoes; and Mike “Ultra” Ferreiro, a human machine capable of running like nothing happened…the embodiment of endurance (it was el talcito).
Somewhere deep into the trip, Sebastian “The Ibis” Mas materialized out of nowhere for a single leg, as if called by the spirit of the Conch Republic. He ran through Hell’s Tunnel with an unexplainable smile, finished with a F-yeah, and mysteriously disappeared once again.
Through the Heart of Miami
The first miles carried us through the beating heart of Miami. We snaked through Coconut Grove’s tree-lined streets, through Coral Gables, and into Pinecrest and Palmetto Bay, where sleepy neighborhoods gave way to the unmistakable stench of Mt. Trashmore that Nicky and Alex were able to not only smell, but also taste for good measure. Then, into the darkness of uninhabited farmlands, where nobody goes and nobody comes back.
“Running through Miami at night is surreal,” Roma said later. “One moment you’re in bustling city streets, the next you’re in the middle of nowhere, wondering if you missed a turn—or if you’re about to be attacked by a python.”
The first night had everything: blazing streetlights, shadowy farm fields, and a python that slithered across the road just in time for us to consider (briefly) chasing it. By the time we hit the fringes of Florida City and Homestead, we’d already cycled through every emotion—excitement, fatigue, laughter, and the kind of delirium that only comes from running at 1am, and being swarmed by mosquitos every time the van door would open.
“I learned more in two days than in a year of running alone. About pacing, about grit… and about never trusting anyone who says ‘just one more mile.’”
Card Sound Road… or “Carlson Road”
As the clock edged closer to dawn, we reached the notorious Card Sound Road—a long, lonely stretch of asphalt that feels like it could stretch to infinity. Just as morale was starting to dip, salvation came in the form of flashing lights: Henry Rodriguez with the Florida Highway Patrol had arrived to escort us through the darkness with blue flashing lights that did NOT create that sinking feeling you get when they’re behind you.
Roma, grinning ear-to-ear, decided to rebrand the entire road. “Carlson Road!” he shouted, like a tour guide welcoming us to an exclusive destination. He would continue calling it Carlson Road for the rest of the trip, despite multiple corrections, and it quickly became a running joke that refused to die.
This leg will forever be etched in our memories, and for none more than Nicky who braved our torrential downpour, her every step illuminated by the van’s high beams as the wipers struggled to keep up. “That run is a core memory now,” she said later, shaking her head with a smile. We pushed forward through the sheets of rain, and by the time we crossed into Key Largo’s Circle K at 7 a.m., we were soaked to the bone, delirious with exhaustion, and absolutely starving. But the bathrooms were exquisite!
“Card Sound Road will forever be burned into my memory: rain, darkness, and those van headlights. But honestly? That leg became a reminder that no matter how rough it gets, you can keep moving forward.”
The Pastelito Pilgrimage
We didn’t have to wait long for salvation. Pinecrest Bakery beckoned with its siren song of croquetas and café con leche, and we descended on it like castaways washing ashore. “Those croquetas after all-night running?” Nicky said. “There’s nothing better. Nothing.”
The stop became a reset button. Sun was up, spirits lifted, energy restored, and bottomless PB&Js packed in the van, we rolled on, ready to tackle the next stretch of the Keys.
The Van Life
Overall the van was a God-send… a brand new Sprinter no less, “new car” smell and all. Perfectly laid out for maximum off-road drivability, which made those in the back feel violated, but that's ok because they were basically sitting with their feet up at the bar (Pro tip: don’t order the bottom-shelf mosquito bites.) So much room. So many mosquitos. But then the reality of no showers started creeping in.
By sun-up, just 12 hours into the run, “The Stink” had arrived in the van—a blend of sweat, damp socks, wet dog and talco that defied explanation or remedy. Between ruthlessly slapping any mosquito with arms length, Roma was also earning his “Master’s degree in running prep” from the seasoned vets, soaking up advice like a sponge.
“Van Door Discipline” became a thing. Close the door. No, close it right. No one ever got it right the first time. The once-ceremonial “receiving the runner” tradition after each leg devolved from everyone jumping out to clap and cheer… to a halfhearted window crack and nod… to completely missing JC at one exchange and sending him half a mile down the road before anyone noticed. But nobody ever got lost, because we had our trusty spot light and air horn… Thanks Frigo!
Marathon Pizza & Champagne
We reached Marathon late afternoon on June 12th. After about 20 hours of running, we were tired, sunburned, and ready for a break. We shut things down for the day at the home of a generous triathlete (and seventy-year-old endurance legend) who opened her doors, pool and incredible view to us.
Pizza by the pool was pure bliss (three Michelin stars - worth). Mikey collapsed in the hallway like a crime scene chalk outline while Tica and Nicky chugged a champagne bottle (some say it may have been a magnum) in under ten minutes—a feat that deserves its own medal… or maybe its own event category. Once Jonathan finished his marathon shower (he didn’t realize Marathon was the island, not his goal), we headed back to the right “The Abbey”, because the first one we were sure was the right place was not, but we fortunately stopped just shy of felony breaking and entering!. The beds were like paradise, made of fluffy, humanly cultivated goose feathers, or something just like that, but either way JC swore they were even better than Tempur-Pedic mattresses, especially when compared to the van’s bench seats!
The Seven Mile Gauntlet
June 13th brought the ultimate test: the Seven Mile Bridge. It’s a stretch of road that can break even the toughest runner. The two runners originally became five, just minutes before the start, because everyone feels great in the morning, right? Funny how quickly that fades when you’ve got the ocean on each side, Frogger on the mind and endless power poles that become less of a distraction and more of a survival tactic.
So beautiful and picturesque, but really, “How many poles are there next to this damn bridge?” Gaston was heard to have muttered as we pressed forward on the bridge that had no end! Ultra Mike ran like a machine, shaking off the fatigue of 70 miles like it was nothing. JC—who had sworn he wasn’t going to push—laid down an 8:04 mile followed by a 7:58. “I thought we were jogging!” someone shouted.
The bridge emptied us physically but filled us emotionally. Every honk from passing cars and waves from strangers reminded us why we were out there. It’s beautiful. It’s grueling. The world keeps going around you, but you can’t stop. You must fight. It’s why we were doing this, honoring those who fight and have fought. Each of our reasons for doing this were personal and deep, and by this point, they were no longer a secret, they were our fuel.
“The Seven Mile Bridge just doesn’t end. You count poles like it’s life or death. But you realize you’re running for someone who didn’t get to stop. That changes everything.”
The Key West Finish
Finally, the Southernmost Point appeared in the distance like a mirage. We made it, but after glancing at his watch, Mikey realized that he needed to round out that final 1/64 of a mile (probably due to his shopping cart joy ride detour!). As we prepared to officially cross the finish line at the Hyatt Centric, we looked at each other in our stinky, sweaty jerseys and toasted, celebrating not just what we had accomplished but who we had accomplished it for. All of it; The smell in the van. The python. The pastelitos. The rain on “Carlson Road.” The pool. The honks along Overseas Highway. And the late-night conversations about why we run—why we willingly put ourselves through the exhaustion, the pain, the blisters.
With that we ran across the finish line, exhausted and ecstatic, with flags raised high and the smiling faces and cheers from supporters all around us. It all came together with Mike’s words after his swig of Glenlivet: “It burned like hell, but it tasted like glory.”
And that’s exactly what this trip was: messy, gritty, funny, and absolutely glorious.
Until Next Year
Thank you to everyone who supported us along the way—whether you donated, dropped pastelitos from Sergio’s, honked as you passed, or simply sent good vibes. You were with us every step of the way.
The fight continues, with purpose, with heart, and thankfully with people like you.
The Stats
Distance Run: 170 miles (equivalent to 6½ marathons)
Total Individual Runner Mileage: 277 miles
Distance Run Under Torrential Rainfall: 3 miles
Steps Taken: Approximately 320,000
Calories Burned: 30,430
Team Sweat Shed: Feels like 13 gallons
And through every step, we carried the names, the memories, and the hope of those we run for; because until there’s a cure, we keep going.
-Gaston Sanchez 7/27/2025.