Tall Mast, Low Bridge
Okeechobee Waterway
Part 2: Port Macaya
It was a beautiful, calm, clear day in South Florida as we motored along the canal of the Okeechobee Waterway. We stripped down to shirtsleeves in the afternoon sun and successfully negotiated an easy fifty-five-foot-high fixed bridge and the swing bridge at Indiantown. After the excitement of the St. Lucie Lock, these seemed routine. Swing bridges used to strike fear in our hearts, but we’d been through so many now on the Intracoastal Waterway (ICW), this one was easy. With only a small outboard, our sailboat is considered underpowered. If we have to wait for a low bridge to open in any kind of current or strong wind, it can be very scary and dangerous for us. But here in the waterway, there was no current, hardly any wind and the bridge opened quickly when we requested it.
On either side, the banks were green, lined with mangroves and palm trees, littered with sea birds wintering in the sheltered water. We kept looking for alligators and manatees, but saw none. Foot-long mullet fish flung themselves out of the water for reasons known only to them. In places, the banks were high above the canal because the dirt dredged out to dig the canal was piled on the banks.
When I asked the builders of our boat about her mast height, LuAnn told me they’d taken their previous boat through the Okeechobee Waterway and her favorite part was seeing cows looking down on them. She was a Wisconsin girl.
When we saw the cows grazing placidly on the banks above us, we thought of her. She and her husband did an amazing job building our boat, so we think of them often.
The Port Mayaca Railroad Bridge is a prime reason few sailboats make the trip across Florida on the Okeechobee Waterway. With a vertical clearance of just forty-nine feet, many sailboats can’t make it underneath with their masts. It’s tricky to measure this distance precisely because the mast sits on the deck, which is curved upwards to shed water. It’s not possible to put a measuring tape from the top of the deck straight down to the waterline because you would be inside the boat and from there you can’t see the waterline.
Eric climbed to the top of the mast and dropped a measuring tape down, so we knew that distance was forty-three feet, including our “windicator,” which sticks up on top of the mast. From there, we estimated the distance to the waterline was less than five feet, for a total distance of just under forty-eight feet. A foot of clearance under a bridge is not ideal. What if a wake comes from another boat and lifts the boat up? What if the water is higher than usual and the clearance is lower than indicated? The mast is a critical part of the boat, you don’t want it damaged, at all.
It was quiet on deck as the bridge came into view. It’s an unusual sort of bridge in that the center section lifts straight up instead of lifting at an angle (what’s called a “bascule” bridge) or pivoting horizontally (called a “swing bridge) to allow a boat to pass. With gears and weights on either side, the Port Macaya Bridge looked like something out of a steampunk graphic novel. It looked hard and unforgiving. It was only supposed to be forty-nine feet above the water, but the Army Corps of Engineers said the lake level was down a bit, so we hoped for a bit more clearance. LuAnn said to go very slowly, but she thought we could make it. They estimated Pelican’s mast height at 47’7”.
Distances on boats are deceiving. Things often look closer than they are. That bridge looked very narrow, very low and appeared to be coming up fast. I looked at Eric, silent and expressionless at the helm. Shouldn’t he be slowing down? I thought. I chewed a hangnail and took a few pictures of the bridge. Still Eric left the throttle alone. He stared at the bridge. I tried not to look at the bridge because it scared me. This was my harebrained scheme. What if we damaged the boat? How slow could we go? Was there a current sweeping us into this unforgiving iron monstrosity? The water was glassy, so no wind. There were locks on both sides of this section of the canal, so probably not much current.
When we first had the idea of trying to make it under this bridge, Eric said he would climb the mast (almost fifty feet!) and make sure we could make it under, while I drove the boat toward the bridge.
“Absolutely not,” I said.
“Why not?” He said. “From the top I could make sure we’d get under all right.”
“But what if the mast comes down with you on it?” I shrieked, a little hysterical over the prospect of losing both the mast and my beloved in one awful crack and crunch. The idea was promptly abandoned. As we approached the bridge, Eric remained firmly on the deck, at the helm.
The bridge loomed ever nearer. Just as I was about to say something about slowing down for heaven’s sake, Eric cut the throttle. We coasted closer. I took a few more pictures, practiced my deep breathing. Neither of us spoke. We would soon know if we could get under that bridge. Most of these bridges have a clearance board that extends down into the water. At the water line, you can read the overhead clearance. The Port Mayaca Railroad Bridge did not appear to have such a sign. Perhaps they figure if you have to ask, you can’t make it.
Still, we seemed to be going much too fast toward the bridge. It was nearing sunset. The mackerel sky faded to orange behind the silhouette of the span. Ever so slowly, the boat’s forward motion decreased as the tension in the crew increased. Eric had throttled back at exactly the right moment and we coasted to a dead stop just a few feet from the bridge.
“Well?” He said.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” I said with a shrug, not really wanting an answer.
Eric nudged the throttle. Pelican eased forward. We were barely moving. I looked at the top of our mast. I looked at the bridge. Looked doable, but at this angle, things are deceiving too. The slice of sky between our mast and the bridge got smaller. Then we were under it.
No crunching sound! No mast falling down! We made it! We whooped and high-fived. We were going to Lake Okeechobee, land of the Seminole and before that the Hitichi people. The giant lake in the middle of Florida (my favorite state) that is so big you can see it from space. The words of the song “Seminole Wind,” ran through my head. I love the cover by James Taylor. (click link to hear him sing it.)
As the sun set and the clouds deepened to a dramatic orange, we tied up to a cluster of pilings known as a “dolphin,” for reasons not even Wikipedia knows.
It was another first for us and we were tired, but we managed to get lines on the dolphin cleats off the bow and the stern. As the skeeters descended, we went below to grab some supper and a couple of celebratory beers. Exhausted, we fell into bed and slept like the dead. Not even the excitement of seeing Lake Okeechobee the next day could keep sleep away.
Click here to read the exciting conclusion of this story.
