Gateway to the Gulf

Cruising to the Dry Tortugas

By Buddy Ward

0810 hours. I sipped my morning coffee and looked around for traffic. At the starboard bridge wing control, I slowly maneuvered away from the dock, turned around and eased out of Key West Bight Marina as a gentle easterly breeze lifted the remnants of the previous night’s Mallory Square revelries and delivered them through my port side window. Windows closed, and all clear of the land, I returned to the captain’s chair, scanned my instrumentation and surroundings, turned southwest and throttled up to begin threading my way through the parade of boats in the harbor.

The spray danced off the gleaming white hulls as I moved the throttles forward and the big ocean-going catamaran lifted up and charged into a following sea. The sweet sea breeze steadily increased as we neared 25 knots, our regular cruising speed. We were clear and away and bound for the Dry Tortugas. The bridge from which I operated the vessel looked like it was straight out of Star Trek. It was modern, immaculate and well-equipped. I finished my coffee, set the autopilot and settled into the two-hour passage to the “Gateway to the Gulf” and some of the most pristine beaches it has ever been my privilege to experience.

Dry Tortugas National Park encompasses about 64,000 acres some 70 miles west of Key West. There are seven islands now. Garden Key, one of the largest, has a fort built upon it that is now owned and maintained by the National Park Service. The great brick fortification, consisting of about 16 million bricks, and built in the mid-1800s, played a significant role in the War Between the States was used as a prison for a time, and still stands guard at the entrance to the Gulf of Mexico.

Interestingly, Fort Jefferson’s most famous prisoner was Dr. Samuel Alexander Mudd, the very Dr. Mudd who is so closely associated with the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln. Mudd graduated Baltimore Medical College (now known as the University of Maryland) in 1856. Mudd first met the Presidential-assassin, John Wilkes Booth, a year prior to the shooting, during a discussion regarding the sale of a horse. A month later, Mudd shared drinks with Booth and two others in Booth’s hotel room.

After the assassination, Booth had broken his leg and sought out Mudd for medical treatment, and stayed with Mudd until the next day. For his unknowingly aiding and abetting Booth, Mudd was eventually arrested for conspiracy and harboring Booth. A trial was held and after a string of testimonies, Mudd was convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment at Fort Jefferson. Throughout his imprisonment, Mudd’s wife had been petitioning President Andrew Johnson to have her husband released from prison. As it turned out, Mudd’s incarceration was short-lived due to his heroic action and leadership during the yellow fever epidemic on the island in 1867. Due to his efforts in helping the sick, Mudd was finally granted a pardon in 1869, signed by Andrew Johnson himself in front of Mudd’s wife. He was officially released the following March.

“Off to our starboard side, that circle of islands is called the Marquesas Keys …” The naturalist was on the microphone regaling 100 eager passengers with his local knowledge as the rest of the crew served breakfast and readied the snorkel gear. We were approaching the wreck site of the Nuestra Señora de Atocha—a Spanish treasure galleon—and one of Mel Fisher’s salvage boats was already working the area. The galleon, along with her sister ship, the Santa Margarita, was lost in a hurricane in 1622 and discovered after years of searching by Fisher’s crew. The hull of the Atocha and the “mother lode” of treasure was estimated to be worth over 500 million dollars. They are still finding treasure today in the quest for the 400 million dollars more in riches said to have been stored in the sterncastle of the ship when it was lost.

I turned off the autopilot and adjusted my course slightly to the north. We were nearing Half Moon Shoals and the show was just beginning. You have never lived until you have taken a 100-foot catamaran over a 15-foot shoal at 25 knots. The water there is as clear as an aquarium. The passengers lined the rail hoping for a glimpse of the beloved turtles. From my perch in the wheelhouse I could see they would not be disappointed.

Turtles are prolific here in the spring and summer months and are quite often on the surface. There are greens and loggerheads; once I even saw a rare leatherback. The turtles were joined on the trip by dolphins and sharks and rays. During some seasons, jellyfish—known as “moon jellies”— decorate the waters for as far as you can see providing a feast for the turtles. As quickly as the bottom appeared, it vanished. We had crossed the shoals and entered the deep waters of Rebecca Channel. We were now 14 miles from Fort Jefferson and the Dry Tortugas. One of the passengers visiting the wheelhouse asked how we were able to find it every day. I showed it to her on the radar and told her that she’d be able to see it about nine miles out.

From the surface of the sea the great brick walls of the fort began to rise. Above it, big black frigate birds circled, pointing the way. We climbed up onto the shallow water of the Dry Tortugas as we entered the National Park. Sea life was everywhere, as well as more types of birds than you can imagine, as this place is in the middle of the migratory routes between the mainland and Central and South America. I throttled back and transited the channel around the fort to prepare for docking. On the south side of the fort is a wellprotected anchorage with vessels of all types. Some go there as an intended destination, while others go because it’s a great rest stop on the way to Mexico and beyond.

There is no fuel on the island and, in fact, there are no stores, water, ice or services of any kind, so anyone who ventures here needs to be prepared. The park is also well outside of radio and cell phone range. The reward, however, is some of the most fantastic fishing, diving and scenery I have ever experienced. Approaching the dock, we had to wait just a minute as a sportfisherman cleared our space. The ferry takes precedence over private vessels but most people simply anchor up and dinghy onto the beach. Fifteen minutes later we were safely tied up, welcomed by the cacophony of gulls and sooty terns.

After the passengers disembarked, excitedly anticipating their day of touring the fort and swimming the pristine waters, I grabbed my fins and mask and walked the moat wall around to the north side of the fort. The light sea breeze filled my senses and made me feel alive. I entered the cool water that lay in stark contrast to the humid air. The noisy world of tourists and generators and birds vanished as I slipped below the surface. To the east lay the remnants of an old coal pier where the larger fish played. To the west, the beauty and wonder of the moat wall. A school of brightly-striped black, white and yellow sergeant major fish marched in formation in defense of the fort. I swam west, following the school past a large grouping of mangrove snapper. A pair of parrotfish in their hues of pink and green moved in and out of the coral in a coordinated dance. A petite damselfish caught my attention and I moved in for a closer look. The brave little fish, half-purple and half-yellow, charged out toward me in an attempt to defend her small rock. She was saved – I needed a breath. Traveling along the beautiful and delicate corals and fans I looked outward toward the soft white sand and the gently darkening shades of blue.

A boxfish left an isolated bump of brain coral and swam quickly toward the wall. He passed me quickly and frantically without a hint that he knew I was there. He was late and dove down a hole. For just a second, I was tempted to follow.

Two large, stately tarpon cruised effortlessly by on their way to the swim beach that lay ahead on the west side of the fort. My quiet isolation was about to end. Many of the tourists congregated at the swim beach to watch the show. A group of tarpon had corralled a school of small silvery baitfish locally known as “mohua” into the shallow waters. The small fish were wondrous. You could swim into the tightly packed cloud of them and never touch a one, so quickly and deftly did they glide just beyond reach. While they had no problem escaping humans, the tarpon were another matter. With complete abandon, the hundred pound-plus fish would charge out of the depths and crash into the tight concentration of silversides. People stood in awe taking pictures of five-foot-long fish swimming just inches from their legs.

I looked at my watch. There was just enough time for one last adventure. Just off the southwest corner of the fort in slightly deeper water lay the remains of a small old cannon. The old girl lay protected with large barracudas and giant goliath groupers standing guard. When I first found it, I tried to lift it out of the sand but it was impossibly buried. I started to tell someone about it, but changed my mind and decided to leave it be. So every day I would end my visit to this other world with a visit to my cannon. It took an extra effort for me to dive that deep and I could only linger for a second or two, but I needed to touch it. Holding her, I held onto the past and all the people who had passed this way. Moments from now I would return to the world. I would again be the captain with all the responsibilities and perks that come with the position. But just for that moment, I became one of many who touched that cannon on their passage through this place.

On the boat and dressed, refreshed in body and mind, the crew and I greeted the passengers back aboard, enjoying the excited chatter about their adventures. We said our goodbyes to the park rangers who live there. The crew cast off lines and we worked our way through the anchored boats. A group of bird-watchers shyly asked if it was possible to get close enough to Hospital Key to see the nesting grounds of the booby birds. I maneuvered the boat to within about 20 yards and slowed enough for the naturalist to answer their questions amid the sound of many cameras clicking away. A few minutes later it was time to go. The return trip was more subdued – some people read, some played cards, many slept. We were headed for home, leaving in our wake the beaches, the fort, the pristine waters and the setting sun of the Dry Tortugas, arriving in Key West just in time for everyone to celebrate the sunset.