DEEP IN THE SHALLOWS
SCAMP Adventures from the Watertribe Everglades Challenge 2011
By Andrew Linn
Here I am—sitting in a tiny red and white sailboat—stuck in the middle of a ginormous mudflat. It’s my second sunrise here in the mud. I’m OK with that. We have plenty of food and water; we’re well prepared, my wife knows I’m safe. Being stuck aground in the middle of Florida Bay is actually an improvement over the last few days. While I can’t say I’m enjoying it, for the last 40 hours or so I haven’t been scared out of my mind or furious with frustration. Yep, things are pretty sweet.
So how does a slow-witted Oregon boy, the world’s most inept amateur adventurer, end up sitting in the stinking mud of Florida’s Everglades National Park, under the eyes of not only the Coast Guard but also the National Park Service and what seems to be a majority of the planet’s small, homebuilt boat community? That, my friends, is a story for the telling:
Back in 2010, I fulfilled a years-long dream of finishing the Everglades Challenge, a 300-mile endurance race along the western edge of Florida from Tampa Bay to Key Largo. I did it as crew in a Jim Michalak-designed Laguna, built and captained by master boat builder and experienced sailor, Mike Monies, of Oklahoma. I complained and tried to drop out every day, but Mike forced me to finish it, and I checked it off my list of accomplishments, vowing never to do it again. The Everglades Challenge is hard—very hard—and while I am glad I did it, I didn’t like it.
As the old saying goes: Never say never. In August, I asked Mike if he was considering the Everglades Challenge again. He said yes, he was going to do it alone in the new SCAMP design being touted in Small Craft Advisor. Mike is a good and experienced sailor—much more capable than I—but I didn’t think it was wise for him to do the Everglades Challenge alone: It is a very demanding course, and with an overall length of just twelve feet (3.6m) a SCAMP is not going to be a speed demon. Sure, legends like Matt Layden can do the Challenge in tiny boats, but Matt is of a different character than normal humans—he can’t be used as an example.
Too diplomatic to tell Mike he is nuts to try and sail the Everglades Challenge solo, I offered an alternative—an alternative so impossible I was sure he’d turn it down. I said, “Tell you what, Mike, you build two of those SCAMPs—you sail one, and I’ll sail the other. We’ll do the Everglades Challenge as a team.” Ha! There was no way Mike would accept this offer: The SCAMP design had not been finalized yet and there simply wouldn’t be time to build the boats. I was so sly—I’d offered to help with no real risk of being taken up on it.
I should have known better. Mike readily agreed—and almost immediately Small Craft Advisor pledged to provide the plans free of charge and sponsor us in the event—including the $350 entry fee for each of us. Then Chuck “the Duck” Leinweber, an Everglades Challenge veteran himself and then-owner of the excellent online boat chandlery, Duckworks Boat Builder’s Supply offered to provide all the hardware and rope, and Dave Gray of Polysail International offered to make sails. Suddenly, a casual comment had turned into a commitment, as Mike set out to build two SCAMPs in about 100 days. As I live over 2,000 miles away, I could only check in on the progress every once in a while and worry about the little things—like outfitting and navigation.
My first view of the SCAMP was as it sat on a trailer in the parking lot of a La Quinta in St. Petersburg, a scant 36 hours before the race. It had never touched water before—heck, it’d never been rigged! The boat was so fresh the paint was barely dry. Mike and I set to work even before I put my bags in the hotel room. We worked until dark—lashing the sail to the yard and boom, attaching the jiffy reefing, figuring out the running rigging, and attaching the myriad ‘fiddly bits’ that make a hull a boat. Then, we got up in the morning and started working again. We splashed her at a ramp near the start of the Everglades Challenge, tested her out a little in winds in the mid-teens, hauled her out, and set her on the beach at the launch site—ready to roll her down to the water when the race started at dawn the next day.
At dawn there was a collective “Whoop!” as 71 boats were pushed into the surf; 40 kayaks and canoes, 12 monohulls, and 19 multihulls hit the water and took off in 10-15mph SSE winds. This was a tough Everglades Challenge from the beginning with several boats encountering difficulties even before they got out of Tampa Bay. The waves were a little over two feet and came at intervals of less than three seconds—really nasty chop—and the wind directly in our teeth, doing its best to confound any forward progress.
At just twelve feet long, a SCAMP is no speedster, but it’s no slouch, either. We often hit speeds of over 6 mph, but most of the time we were struggling along at less than half that as we pinched the wind, trying to get as much velocity made good as we could. We struggled all day and all night and most of the next day, fighting our way to Checkpoint One in conditions that ranged from windy with nasty chop to no wind but still nasty chop. By the time we arrived, I was frustrated, angry, sullen, and more than a little scared of what was to come. One of my friends and fellow competitors, Scott Widmire, summed it up nicely: “It just isn’t fun any more.”
Scott and eleven other boats dropped out at Checkpoint One: six kayaks/canoes, two monohulls, and four multihulls. Of the 71 boats that took to the water, only 59 were continuing.
The passage to Checkpoint Two was even worse. We headed out as evening fell and ran all night under double reefs. I ran us hard aground in Pine Island Sound and had a bad moment rowing against the tide at Indian Pass near Checkpoint Two, where we signed the log book at 2:30am, roughly 33 hours after leaving Checkpoint One. I really wanted to drop out, and I think Mike might have been considering it, but when the sun came up we got moving and started the run to Checkpoint Three.
Another 15 boats dropped out by Checkpoint Two: six kayaks/canoes, four monohulls, and five multihulls; those who had been 71 were now 44.
The trip to Checkpoint Three at Flamingo was the worst yet. Thunderstorms were threatening; we got caught in one squall with winds approaching 30 mph, and the wind and waves were against us every inch of the way. We made a trifling 11 miles in eight hours, and sometime in the darkest part of the night, we came close to capsizing right after we’d put in the second reef. I’m not sure a SCAMP can be capsized—we only took on a quart or two of water—but I was shaken. I wanted this trip to end and end now. I even contemplated cutting the halyard—forcing us to call the Coast Guard for an extraction. Instead, I just gave up, forced Mike to do all the sailing, and curled up on the seat, waiting for this nightmare to be over.
People say, “Things look different in the light of day,” but I’m here to tell you that’s not true. When the sun came up, things looked worse. The wind was really blowing stink now: 20 mph and right in our teeth. It took us over a dozen tacks to round Cape Sable and enter Florida Bay—and after all that effort, conditions just got worse. We had been under the lee of the land, but were now subject to the full force of the wind. Our two-foot chop became three-foot chop, with a healthy sprinkling of four-foot rogues just for fun. Checkpoint Three—Flamingo, with a store and a restaurant—was right there! I could see the radio tower, and still it was to windward. All day we fought our way to the harbor at Flamingo, finally arriving at about 3:30 p.m. on Wednesday. Jackie, Mike’s wife, was there to greet us, but she’d missed our entrance. Both Mike and I just started blankly at her when she said, “Go back out and come in again—I want to get some pictures.”
Another eleven boats dropped out at Checkpoint Three: ten kayaks/canoes and one multihull. With only 33 competitors left in the race, we were down to less than half.
We left Flamingo the next evening. We’d waited for the winds to come around from the north, as predicted by the robot on the NOAA radio. We dropped a hook off a small island and waited for daylight so we could navigate the narrow channels on the quickest route to the finish at Key Largo. I was feeling pretty good at this point; we had a piddling 36 miles to go. The sunset was a fiery red, and for the first time in days, I was delighted.
Dawn couldn’t come quickly enough. We set off at the first hint of daylight. We were searching for a spot where three channels branch off—northeast, east, and southeast—we wanted east. Expecting channel markers, we scanned the seas for any markers at all. We thought we saw markers to the south, and quickly ran into shallow water. My GPS showed we were near a channel, so we kept heading south until we were in it. What we thought had been channel markers were actually wading birds. We’d been led into the southeast channel by mistake.
I had the charts out and could see where we wanted to be—about three miles eastward. If we just shot straight across we’d be fine. The charts showed at least a foot of depth, so we took off, confident we’d be eating fried conch by afternoon. Suddenly, we were shoaling: I could see the tops of sea grass in the water below us, then fields of sea grass, then we were aground.
I tried getting out of the boat, but my leg sank thigh-deep in the mud without meeting resistance. I had to do something. I needed something like snowshoes, so I tied the seat cushions to my feet and hopped out. With me pushing and Mike working the sails, we were able to drive ourselves farther into the shallows. I hit the oars and was able to force our way even farther, until we were a good 700 yards from where we first ran aground. As I tried to catch my breath after my exertions, Mike surveyed our surroundings: The water had dropped so much that seagrass we had been sailing over was now floating on top of the water. We had a depth of about 4 inches. No matter—it was just low tide, right? Sort of. The north wind that should have driven us right to Key Largo was also blowing all the water out of Florida Bay. The tide went out from underneath us, and it didn’t come back.
We were well and truly stuck. I was the heaviest thing in the boat, and if I got out, Mike still couldn’t get her to move by working the sails—and I couldn’t really “get out” anyway—the mud was deep and soft. The best I could do was tie the fenders to my feet so I’d only sink up to my knees. I couldn’t “walk” more than a few feet before the mud sucked the fenders sideways or frontways or backways and I had to get back into the boat and re-tie them. The island was no use; every inch was covered with impenetrable mangrove. Our only option was to wait for more water, either from the tide or a shift in the wind.
We spent the first night relaxing and looking at the charts, optimistic that we’d get some water under our keel and be able to get out. If we could just get around this mangrove-covered island to the east we’d be in deeper water. We put our plan to work in the morning: Through my jumping out and pushing and Mike’s working the sails, we were able to get to the other side, where we drove the boat into the mud again.
With no tide coming and the wind not shifting, I phoned the park rangers at Flamingo to find out our options. They said they’d send out a boat to take a look and determine a course of action. Right after I spoke with them, a guide fisherman plowed his high-powered boat into the shallows next to the island. We called out, asking if he could tow us. He said no, but he could take us out if we needed. “No thanks,” we replied, “the rangers will be along any minute. They’ll get us out.” The fishing guide and his clients took off and we waited for the rangers to save us. A couple hours later, I noticed some activity; a boat had pulled up about two miles off to the east. It was the rangers, looking at us through binoculars. They called us and told us there was nothing they could do —we were smack dab in the middle of a huge “sensitive area” and they could not get any closer to us. If we had a medical emergency, they’d be happy to call the Coast Guard to have us helicoptered out, but we’d have to leave all our gear and the boat would be declared abandoned.
We had plenty of food and water and were relatively comfortable (a SCAMP is a very roomy boat) so we thought we’d wait and see what Jackie could come up with back at Flamingo. She was working furiously behind the scenes on our behalf.
We considered and discarded dozens of plans, from unloading all unessential gear and one crew member (me) to see if the boat would sail (she would not), to setting the boat on fire so at least no one would profit from our abandoning it (OK, I admit, those were both my plans, as were many others, several even more outlandish.) In the end, we decided our best course of action would be to wrestle the boat back to the west side of the island, marginally closer to where we might find deep water. Once again, it was fenders to my feet and over the side, only this time I tuckered myself out so much I almost didn’t make it back into the boat. If Mike hadn’t grabbed my lifejacket, I’d still be standing in the mud.
The sun went down, the sun came up—our third night on the SCAMP. Dawn found us just as stuck, just as helpless. Jackie called and told us she had a plan: an extraction by canoe and kayak. We just needed to wait.
So here I am, the afternoon wearing on, and as comfortable as the SCAMP is, I’m getting tired of Florida Bay. For the hundredth time, I scan the horizon, looking for any sign of activity. I can see the ranger boat off in the distance—the same place they observed us from yesterday. By straining my eyes, I can just make out some movement. “Mike, can I borrow your binoculars for a second?” Yep, there is a kayak and a canoe approaching. It’s beginning to look like I won’t be spending the rest of my life in the mud after all.
Esther Luft and Wayne Albert, owners and operators of the Paddle House, are slowly making their way towards us. Wayne is using a kayak paddle to propel the canoe—something I find vaguely offensive but acceptable, under the circumstances. When they arrive we hold a brief conference. The options are few: The tides will not come back for a week or more, until the next full moon, at least. Our plan had always been for me to leave the boat, taking as much gear as practical, lightening the boat as much as possible, but we knew the boat wouldn’t float enough to sail. “The rangers said they won’t declare your boat derelict if you secure it and anchor it,” Esther says. “You can come get it when the water comes back in the bay.”
That seals it for me, but Mike needs a little more convincing. In the end, we all leave together. Wayne in the front of the canoe, Mike in the middle, me at the back. The canoe is overloaded and we are scraping bottom the entire two miles to the ranger boat. This paddle is the most physically demanding thing I have done in a long time. Wayne appears to be more of a machine than a man, and I can only try and keep up. Shoulders aching, back breaking, we finally arrive and this damnable adventure can enter its final phase.
Besides us, two other boats couldn’t make it from Checkpoint Three to the finish: a kayak and a multihull. Of the 71 original starters, only 30 (just 42%) boats finished and earned the coveted shark’s tooth necklace.
I’m pretty sure this has been my last Everglades Challenge, and in truth, I have taken to humming a song from the movie Toy Story: Randy Newman’s “I’ll Go Sailing No More.”
But I’ve also learned to never say never. •SCA•
(After no small amount of effort—including a muddy army crawl, Mike was able to retrieve the boat days later.—Eds)
Andrew Linn lives in Salem, Oregon, and got into boat building and sailing after hearing tales about a favorite uncle’s adventures at sea in the Merchant Marines. He is an avid Puddle Duck Racer (4 place world champion, 2006) and the proud owner of a Weekender.
This article first appeared in issue #70
SCAMP MODS by Mike Monies
I made a few changes to my two SCAMPS to improve comfort and handling for the Everglades Challenge and beyond. None of these changes affect the basic design of this wonderful little boat, but they do make it more comfortable and easier to use. One addition, the stern boarding ladder, is also a major safety addition.
As I was building the bulkheads I was struck by how wide the cockpit floor was and how narrow the seats were. The 29" (735mm) cockpit floor was more than wide enough to sleep on but the seats at the widest point would only be about 12.5" (318mm) wide from the backrest. I always wear a lifejacket with a 1" (25mm) thick back, so I would only have at the widest point about 11.5" (293mm) to sit on. I wanted more for comfort.
I had a set of John Welsford’s preliminary plans for the (original) proposed 10' 4" SCAMP and they showed the seats extending out beyond the seat fronts about 60mm (2 3/8"). I decided to do the same with my SCAMPs. I extended my seats 2" (53mm) beyond the seat fronts which made the seats not only comfortable to sit on but just wide enough to sleep on as well. I rounded the seat fronts off according to the instructions that came with my John Welsford KIWI PDR plans. The result is the most comfortable boats seats I have ever sat on. They do not dig into the back of your legs at all.
Because these extensions are at least 9" (230mm) above the sole they should not interfere with sleeping on the cockpit floor. The extensions do, however, make it easier for people like myself with short legs to brace themselves by placing their feet on the opposite seat extension. This is important when sitting on the high side.
I attached a ¾"x ¾" (20mm) cleat 1 ½" (40mm) below the seat extensions the entire length of their fronts. The 1 ½" (40mm) thick by 29" (735mm) wide by 14" (355mm) deep rowing seat is captured between this cleat and the seat extensions. It will slide the full length of the seats, but it can not come out in case of a knockdown. The rowing seat is 14" (355mm) wide to fit a standard 14" (355mm) square throw able seat cushion. Because the oarlocks have to be mounted on top of the seat backs, I have to sit on a cushion to be at the right height to use the oars.
After going to all this trouble to build comfortable seats I did not want to put raised hatch covers on top of the seats right where I would be sitting most of the time. I built flush-fitting hatch covers over 24 ½" (622 mm) by 8" (222 mm) openings in the seat tops between bulkheads 5 and 6.
Another change I made was to not extend my seat fronts down to the bottom of the boat. On the starboard side, from the end of the centerboard case at bulkhead 6 aft, and on the port side from the back of the water ballast tank box at bulkhead 5 aft, the seat fronts only go down as far as the cockpit floor and not all the way to the bottom. I felt I could get away with this for two reasons: First I laminated my bottom in place on the curved building frame out of two layers of 5.2mm plywood which gave it strength. The second and most important reason is that the two long skegs on the outside of the bottom are attached right where the seat fronts would have landed on the inside of the bottom. By laminating my skegs in place out of three layers of wood, I feel they make the bottom very strong. Anyway, even in the very rough conditions of the EC there was no oil canning of the bottom.
The result of this change is much better air circulation, and opening up lots of storage area under the cockpit floor. I was able to fit five plastic storage boxes, each 17" (432mm) by 12" (305mm) by 7" (178mm) high under the cockpit floor between bulkheads 5 and 6. Six one-gallon jugs of water also went into this area. Three just in front of Bulkhead 6 and three just aft of it. The plastic boxes held our food and other heavy items, keeping this weight very low in the boat. Lightweight items such as sleeping bags and clothes went in the forward air chamber forward of bulkhead 3.
I used aluminum spars and I love them. The mast is 16 ½ feet long made up of two pieces. One 3" by 12' with a wall thickness of .065" and one 2 ½" by 6' with a wall thickness of .065". The 2½" piece fits 18" down into the 3" piece and is held in place by two B & B style bearings made of 4" fiberglass tape. The mast with all end fittings weighs 15 lb. Both the yard and boom are 1 ½" tube with a wall thickness of .065". The Yard is 12' 6" long and weighs 5 lb. The boom is 11' long and weighs less than 5 lb. They all have just the right amount of bend and work great.
The change I spent the most time worrying about was the mast tube. At Check Point One on the EC the sail and mast has to be lowered from inside the boat on the water and stored so that the boat can go under a low, fixed bridge and then row about 150 yards to the checkpoint. On leaving the checkpoint, the whole thing has to be done in reverse. Finally, about halfway through the build, I decided on a plan. I left the back off the mast box and cut a hole in bulkhead 3 the same size as the inside of the box. Now I would need a slot in the cabin top from the mast box aft. To make the cabin top strong enough to allow for the slot, I laminated the back half of the top, from bulkhead 3 to 4 from two layers of 5.2mm plywood. Once the lamination had set up I was able to cut a slot the width of the inside of the mast box (3 ½") from the mast box all the way aft. The cabin top held its shape and is strong enough to stand on. I took the piece I cut out and added flanges to the top so it can be put back in place and held with Velcro to make the top whole again. I like this system. Stepping the mast is just a matter of putting the base of the mast in the bottom of the box and walking it up. I made a gate that slides into the top of the box aft of the mast to hold it in place. To lower the mast, just remove the gate, lift the mast up 1 ½" to free it from the bottom mast step holder, and lower the mast.
Now all I needed was a way to store the sail with its spars and the mast high enough up to allow the boat to be rowed. For this I made removable boom gallows. I made the mast box deep enough to allow a ¾” by 3 ¼" x 2' piece to fit in a slot just in front of the mast. To this vertical piece I can attach a horizontal piece with two large cutouts, one for the sail and its spars, and a smaller one for the mast.
On the inside of the stern I attached two wooden cleats to hold the vertical legs of the aft boom gallows. On top of these legs is a horizontal piece like the one on the front to hold the sail and mast. All these parts slide together using no tools or fasteners. All the parts slide apart and can be stored under the seats. The system works great and is strong enough to use when trailering the boat as a way to store the spars.
For boarding SCAMP from the water a boarding ladder is a must. It’s made of two 18" by 11" sections, each having two 3" wide steps. One section is attached to the stern on the starboard side. The second is hinged to the first so it folds down. The entire project is made from one ¾" by 5 ½" by 8' white pine board and works well.
The last challenge was how to anchor SCAMP. I found a pair of very heavy duty rubber paddle holders with a nice “U” shape and attached one on the bow right in the middle. Then I put a nice large cleat in the cabin top just starboard of the mast. The anchor and rode are stored in a low box way aft which fits under the rowing seat when it is slid all the way aft for storage. The seat would keep the anchor from falling out in case of a knock down. To use the anchor, slide the box from under the seat and deploy the anchor, chain and rode over the side (make sure the end of the rode is attached to the boat). Walk the rode up to the front of the boat and, standing behind the cabin top, drop the rode into the “U” shaped bow fitting and cleat off as soon as you are sure the anchor is set and has enough scope. To retrieve the anchor reverse the process.
I think this worked great and the two hard rubber holders cost less than $10.00. I have one for each boat.
After the EC there is one change I will make to the boats. I intend to make some nice fittings to move the oar locks outboard some so they do not poke you in the back when leaning against the backrest. In the EC we used 9' 9" sweeps with curved blades because I already had them. We kept them in the oarlocks at all times with strong Velcro loops on the stern to hold them in place.
Pictures of all of these changes can be seen on the SCA Message Board.
SCAMP Sailing by Mike Monies
Some thoughts on sailing SCAMP after a 300 mile “shakedown” cruise known as the Everglades Challenge.
Andrew and I agree that the well-designed SCAMP can take a lot more punishment than her crew. She is an awesome little cruiser.
With her centerboard and rudder down she tacks quickly and flawlessly in both light and heavy air. Just put the rudder down and she spins in little more than a boat length. The tacking angle depends on wind and wave conditions. In moderate wind with small waves she will tack through 90 degrees. I knew that we couldn’t hand-hold the sheet for 300 miles so I mounted a swivel-based fairlead and cam cleat on the port side seat. This made the port tack closer to the wind than the starboard tack. I will change this to get the sheet more to the center of the boat.
She does well going downwind. Only once in very high wind did she start to death roll. This was fixed by putting in one and then both reefs which brought her back under control with no loss of speed.
In places like Florida Bay where we could not put the centerboard or rudder down all the way, we still made progress to windward. With the centerboard only down about 4" and the rudder halfway down, she’ll still tack to windward through about 120 degrees. At one point when I was alone in Florida Bay I was able to make progress to windward in less than one foot of water with the centerboard all the way up and the rudder tied up with the uphaul so it stuck straight out behind the boat. I could not tack with rudder alone but had to use the lee side oar to bring the nose around into the wind. The fact that I could go to windward at all I think is due to the two skegs on the bottom.
SCAMP handles waves very well. She floats like a cork. I have sailed in many areas known for steep, close-together waves but I have never seen anything like the random lumps of water we encountered in far south Florida—three-foot waves with very steep sides and just enough space between for SCAMP to fit. Still the only time we took on any spray was when a random wave hit us on the side.
The bow transom is high enough so it only hits one wave in a hundred, and even that doesn’t slow the boat. The hobby horse motion does seem to take the wind out of the sails and slow progress to windward.
All in all SCAMP took very good care of us in some very rough conditions that sent other, mostly larger sailboats home. •SCA•
A few SCAMP YouTube Videos:
I remember I was watching the Spot tracking the day Andrew and Mike left Flamingo. When they failed to make the left turn to the first pass in that north wind, I knew they were in for trouble. Little did I know just how much trouble it would turn out to be.
One question: I can't remember exactly when the two Scamps idea became a single Scamp with both fellas aboard. The article does not really explain that. Andy?
Great story but I'm confused. Mike built two Scamps but you ended up going together in one? Why did you abandon the other Scamp? Did I miss the explanation in the narrative? Anyway, very good read. Makes me think twice about the EC though!