The City from the Sea

Whatever faults Miami might have disappear when it’s viewed from a boat.

by Paul Gerald

’ve had enough of this town.”

That’s what my friend John Fulton, a fellow former Memphian, had to say about Miami recently. It is, at first, a difficult concept to grasp, especially since not long after he said it, we were sliding his 18-foot catamaran into the water right behind his apartment.

“Of course,” he said, as we cruised out past the long, sleek sailboats and aimed the bow at Biscayne Bay, “there is this aspect of it.” It was the second week of January, and the only reason we had jackets on was that we were expecting to get wet. The catamaran is just a tarp between two hulls, one of which we intended to get out of the water, to “fly a hull,” as the sailors put it.

We rounded a bend and entered the bay. The wind still wasn’t quite right for flying, so John explained a little more about “the problem with Miami.”

“The problem with Miami is that it’s totally artificial,” he said. “There’s

no history to it at all, and there’s a lot of ostentatious wealth and altered bodies.” I thought to myself that Miami does sort of resemble Las Vegas, but with lots of water. It’s a great place to visit, but it’s just a big sunny playtown, with more things to do in one city than in the average state. You can do all things beach- and water-related, you can eat great food, immerse yourself in the Latino culture, watch all the freaky people, anything you want. As John said, “You never get bored, you just get irritated.”

He pointed off to the right, at several mansions among the trees and a monster yacht tied to a dock. “That’s Fisher Island,” he said. “Playground of the rich.” Behind us was the Miami skyline, a glittering row of towers dissected by palm-lined streets that stream with convertible BMWs and Jaguars.

As we left the bay and got out into the ocean, we went right by the jetty at the south end of South Beach, the playground of the hard-bodied and of the gay. A miles-long and extremely wide beach fronts a miles-long row of outdoor cafes and trendy clubs in an Art-Deco Historic District. “You can’t get into those clubs if you don’t look right,” John said. “You can stand right in front of the guy with as much money as you want, but if you’re not young and fine or rich and famous, you don’t get in.” He also said if you’re driving a Ferrari or somesuch you can park right in front. Every club has some eye-catching car parked out front.

Along a wooded shore, we saw monstrous homes facing the water over football-field yards. One of them belongs to Sylvester Stallone. The one right next door used to belong to Madonna. One of the oldest, and certainly the grandest, homes in town is the estate called Vizcaya. It’s a little piece of Newport, Rhode Island, in South Florida: a rambling mansion filled to its 20-foot ceilings with 16th-century European artwork and more than 40 different kinds of marble. An early-Miami display of ostentatious wealth. It’s considered extremely old in Miami because it was finished in 1916.

We made a turn to the south, putting South Beach behind us, and the sails went whip! and were instantly rigid. The rippling of the hulls in the water got a little louder, and in a quicker-than-usual heartbeat we were several feet above the water. The hull we sat on had lifted itself and us. We were flying.

“Wa-hoo!” John yelled, and then the city didn’t matter. It was just us and the waves. For about 30 seconds we sailed on the edge of danger, with the boat apparently trying to continue flipping or turn so hard into the wind that it would roll over. It was scary and wonderful.

We dropped back to the water but kept ripping right along, splashing through the wind and hanging on with both hands. Across the tarp from me was the open ocean to the east, the way to the Caribbean. Just a couple days sailing, and you’re in the Bahamas. Out in the Caribbean, cities don’t matter because they barely exist.

Miami is a whacked-out and fascinating place, but it’s best as a starting point. It is a water town, all the way. The Caribbean opens to the east, the Everglades sprawl to the west, and the Keys string out to the south. Miami is a sunny, jumping, happening city, but the true South Florida experience begins when you get on, or in, the water.

We could have done so a half-mile from the shore. At several points on our route, the water got so shallow that at low tide you could get out of the boat and stand on a slightly submerged sandbar, out in the middle of the bay. A big sign on this bar read, “This is manatee country. Please be aware.” Manatees in the middle of a big city.

On our way home we had the Bay mostly to ourselves, skirting along apartment towers and past yacht clubs. John said some of the yacht-club folks “have their noses so high in the air they almost drown when it rains.”

After the sun went down, the shrimpers came out. They run simple 30-foot boats lit up bright white, and they drag their nets in the shadows of office buildings and underneath interstate bridges. Standing on their decks in the middle of the night with their yellow raingear and their cups of coffee, they looked like fishermen-ghosts.

In the darkness, all around us was silence and the wind and the white hulls of the catamaran rippling through the gray water. The skyline was lit up and beautiful and safely far away. I leaned back on the tarp and thought how peaceful it all was, out here in the bay, and how I’ll miss visiting Miami when John leaves it. He really is leaving, too. He’s moving to New Jersey, believe it or not, because his fiancée got a job up there.

The true South Florida experience begins when you get on, or in, the water.

I was thinking of love and Mother Nature and the stars in the sky when I heard a thumping bass. I thought it was some teenagers driving by, but then I remembered where I was. John pointed into the darkness over the water at what looked like a floating piece of the Mid-South Fair. Flashing colored lights, lasers, and strobes were headed right for us, and the thumping bass was getting louder.

When the barge got closer I was able to read the flashing sign on the side. It said, “LA RUMBA!” A party boat. La Rumba damn near hit us, and it sent out a wake that was pretty exciting in our little catamaran. When it was almost on top of us, the music was deafening, and I could see arms waving in the air up on the top deck.

John looked up at La Rumba, then looked at me, shook his head, and went back to steering toward home. La Rumba went to open water, and soon it was silent again. Just us and the waves and the view of the city.

I wondered if those dancers were aware they were in manatee country.

If you’re ever in Miami, you should charter a boat and go cruising around. You can get them with engines or sails, with or without a crew, and for anywhere from a few hours around Biscayne Bay to a week or more in the Keys or the Caribbean. Prices vary widely, but all are worth it. Call 800-753-8448 for visitors information or search Yahoo! on the Internet for Miami, then “boat charters.” There are dozens of links.