CHAPTER TWENTY

Port Canaveral, Florida

I

n the morning sunlight, we could see the white pillbox form of the Vehicle Assembly Building (VAB) from our vantage point, peeking just above the horizon. A singular, lonely figure, it was intriguing because we couldn't figure out what it was and it cut a remarkable profile. We were used to seeing ships on the horizon, lighthouses, buoys, and sails, but this "box" didn't register with our familiar points of reference. Once we got much closer, and we could see the launch pads, we realized that this was the fabled VAB, a massive structure touted as the largest single-story building in the world.

This is where Space Shuttles and the earlier Apollo rockets were stored and assembled. When a Shuttle launch was not imminent, the VAB was open to visitors on the Space Center's guided tour, and often the Shuttle's iconic, solid rocket fuel tanks were visible hanging from the ceiling like large deli sausages. It is hard to comprehend the stature of this massive building. In fact, the interior volume is so vast that it even creates its own weather; rain clouds are known to form inside.

Our landfall in Port Canaveral—the servicing port for Cape Canaveral—wasn't ideal. Our engine refused to start, failing us once again and our morale plummeted. We still had repairs to complete on the roller furling system, Michel was still in pain, and now there was another issue with the engine. At times like these, I’d had it and was tempted to give up this whole "adventure" that often seemed more work than the fun it was supposed to be.

We had no choice but to enter the harbor channel under sail. The channel wasn't very wide, leaving us with little margin for maneuverability. Not keen on doing this in an unfamiliar harbor, we decided to raise the Coast Guard on the VHF radio to assess the situation. Confirming that the entry channel was not ideal for maneuvering exclusively under sail, we agreed that we would initially enter the channel under our own sail power and they would come alongside and tow us to a dock. This went flawlessly.

We tied up to the arrival dock in nearby Cape Marina, and for the next few days we were busy with immigration and customs formalities and securing Michel's green card. As the U.S. Consulate in Martinique had promised us, the authorities in Port Canaveral had Michel's green card waiting for us, and he became a new, permanent resident within just a few days of our arrival. We did a little victory dance!

Although I didn't know it at the time, this was to be my homecoming. Originally, we intended our landfall in Florida to last only a few months. We wanted to figure out a solution for Michel's hernia, a quick engine repair, perhaps fit in some tourism at Disney World, and then we would continue on our way. It turned into a lengthier sojourn, and it would be the first time Michel would live in the United States. I hadn't lived in the States for just over nine years at that point, and many things had changed here since I last called it home.

At the local convenience store, we found ourselves befuddled by a microwave oven. How did you turn it on? How did it work? Also, politically things had drastically changed. Ronald Reagan was now President, and I bemoaned the passing of the revolutionary 60s and 70s of my high school and college days. I was confounded as to this new society that that harkened back to "the good ole' days," where people sought solace in the homey stereotype of life from the 1950s.

What happened to the young adult outrage against societal conventions, prompted by anti-Vietnam War sentiment? What of public reassessment of our institutions since the fallout from the Watergate scandal? Adding to my confusion, Florida perplexed me. Having grown up and lived only in the state of California, I didn't understand Floridian slang or the prevailing southern accent, and I also found the émigré New Yorker retiree's particular frame of mind unappealingly grumpy. Florida's perpetual hot and humid climate was difficult to assimilate to without the countering trade winds effect we had known up to now, and the constant threat of alligators everywhere was alarming! Yes, coming "home" was a sobering experience.

We sought out a semi-permanent berthing solution in order to deal with our engine repair. Port Canaveral was more of an industrial and fishing harbor than a welcome refuge for passing cruisers, and at this time of the year in June 1985, the sun and humidity were relentless. There was no place for the kids to play, it would be too expensive at the marina, and the combination of dust, asphalt, the cement wharf, and heat rendered living conditions oppressive. We instead targeted cities along the Intracoastal Waterway since it seemed there would be more pleasant and viable living conditions along that route. The Intracoastal Waterway, or the ICW, is an inland body of water that slices down the eastern seaboard of the United States, paralleling the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf Stream. In Florida, this inland waterway is bordered by communities, marinas, and housing developments with offshoot labyrinths of canals, their shores lined with homes and private docks.

Finding a semi-permanent, inexpensive berthing solution was proving very difficult. We always avoided marinas due to the cost, and on top of that, we learned that "liveaboards" were not allowed in most of them anyway. Finding a legal anchorage was also a challenge because most communities along the ICW had instituted "no anchor" ordinances in recent years. Cruising was becoming more popular, and there were an increased number of pleasure boats consistently plying the Waterway. As it often happens, a few bad apples had spoiled things for everyone else, and cities along the Waterway had started to ban anchoring to avoid the problems of long-term anchored junk, rowdy occupants, late night parties, and pollution.

We eventually settled in an anchorage in the community of Indian Harbour Beach. Having heard about this spot from some locals we met, we rented a car for a day and made a quick reconnaissance of the larger surrounding area. The anchorage known as Dragon Point was particularly attractive, located at the confluence of the southern tip of Merritt Island and Indian Harbour Beach, where the Banana River flows into the Intracoastal Waterway. Dragon Point was a rather farcical place, so christened for its thirty-foot long, cartoon-like sculpture of a green-hued dragon, a conspicuous and storied landmark in the area.

With two marinas and a yacht club nestled amidst comfortable homes, passing cruisers were tolerated here. An elementary and preschool were nearby, as well as necessary shopping centers, a hardware store, and access to water. The whole area also seemed to be well-protected should a summer hurricane pass through. It didn’t seem like such a bad place to be stuck for a while. But first, we had to get down there, and not having an engine crossing from Port Canaveral to the Intracoastal Waterway was a major hurdle. Once through the Barge Canal that joined the port to the ICW, we could sail down the rest of the way. But we needed a tow.

After our experience in Argentina, where generosity and genuine goodwill reigned, we had to adjust to American pragmatism as we sought a reasonable solution. We were reminded of certain places in Senegal where anything could be done or had…for a price. We had numerous price proposals for a tow—up to $100 or more. In business, time is money. We could understand a small fee, but given the short distance through the canal and a maneuver that even a small boat with a simple outboard motor could execute, $100 seemed excessive as if we were being taken advantage of for just needing the help. Having been accustomed to the camaraderie and sharing mentality of our cruising culture, we were taken aback and disgusted by the greed. Eventually, we happened upon Nick, a young and generous local sailor, who offered to help with his Boston Whaler free of charge. On the appointed Saturday, Nick and his girlfriend, Eileen showed up, and in no time flat, they towed us through the swampy canal passage and unleashed us into the Waterway, where we sailed the rest of the day down to Dragon Point.

Despite our new friends' helping hands, the sail was nerve wracking and exhausting. Due to our six-foot draft, we had to stay within the narrow Waterway channel to avoid running aground. Not only that, but the wind forced us to tack (zig-zag) almost every five minutes for the whole day. We also had a quick introduction to the area's summer weather pattern whereby after the searing daytime heat, an incredibly violent thunderstorm whipped up in the early evening. The wind roared and the rain pelted. Not being familiar with the impending signs of it, we were caught off guard and suffered a knockdown under full sail from a huge gust. Our genoa sail ripped in several places, sending some unattached items on the deck into the water. Eventually, we learned we could set our clocks by the regular arrival of the 5 p.m. thunderstorm throughout the summer season.

Once settled into the Dragon Point anchorage, we found a discreet spot in a nearby canal where we could tie up the dinghy to go on land without bothering the neighbors. Finally able to tackle our first problem, we sought out a competent marine mechanic for the engine, which took precedence over Michel's hernia in the short term. It was imperative to have a working engine with the impending hurricane season. It would be too dangerous for us to be caught at anchor in a violent storm and not be able to move if necessary.

When recommendations from the local marina coincided with several others for a certain Jim Mazza, we gave him a call. Jim came right away and performed an in-depth diagnostic review of the engine, and an initial trial repair proved fruitless—as he forewarned might possibly be the case. After weighing all the options and remembering the troubles we’d had with it over the years, we agreed that it wasn't worth attempting any more repairs. We needed a new engine, and that would cost $4,000. Despite the $5,000 we earned in Fortaleza and the savings we were able to set aside from Cayenne, buying a new engine would take a big chunk out of our budget, leaving us with a meager cushion, so it seemed our decision was made for us. We'd have to stay put in Florida for a while.

Once we resigned ourselves to this new twist in our plans, Michel looked for a job. To do this, we needed transportation, so Michel indulged his lifelong wish of owning a "big American car." He rode our bike just a few miles across the Eau Gallie Bridge to the first used car lot he came across, and for $500 bought an oversized, rusted, 1970s-era Ford LTD sedan. I was mortified! Cars had already downsized in the States by 1985, so this was even big by American standards at the time. Within just a week of looking for work, Michel landed a job. One day he was simply a cruiser, a "sail bum," who worried about rigging, sails, and engine repairs. Then, in what seemed like a blink of an eye, he was working for NASA.

This whole area dubbed the "Space Coast" runs from Cape Canaveral down to Melbourne, Florida, and was reminiscent of a company town. Many jobs were connected to NASA and the Kennedy Space Center, either directly or indirectly through subcontractors. Michel worked for several architectural and engineering firms during our three-year tenure there, and they all entailed subcontract work for the Space Center. During our last year, he worked for EG&G, one of the Space Center's major contracted engineering firms, where he was intimately involved with launch pad projects, a newer generation of the Space Shuttle, and a comprehensive building code for the entire Kennedy Space Center campus. He even procured a special security clearance, affording him the remarkable opportunity to be within touching distance of the Shuttle as he followed its snail-paced, overnight trip from the Vehicle Assembly Building to the launch pad, on the exclusive "crawler."

When it came time to find work, it never ceased to surprise us that my husband's profession as a French-licensed architect proved the perfect ticket to finance our travels. He would pop into a phone booth, (pre-cell phone era!), rip out local architects' listings from the phone book yellow pages, place a few phone calls, and nab a meeting. Then, just like Superman, he would step out of the phone booth, and have a job within a day or two. Just like that. No fancy résumés, no suit and tie, no prepared interview, and in many cases, no shoes—he would still be wearing his flip flops!

As nomad "liveaboards" living off the grid, we were able to plug back into the system. We settled into the American way of life, all while still living on Cowabunga. I signed the kids up for swim lessons with the recreation department so they could learn proper form, we got our Florida drivers' licenses, we bought Sean a bicycle and taught him how to ride, and I registered Sean for school while scouting out a preschool for Brendan. Maybe our forced stay came at a good time. It would be the first time Sean and Brendan attended school in the States, the first time in English, and for Brendan the first time in school, period. We began to carve out our own little space, becoming as comfortable as we could in our new situation.