Ahoy there! Somewhere in the following sea of words, I have buried two nautical treasures courtesy of my daily calendar – Keelhaul and Crapulous. See if you can spot them before you reach calmer waters.

Well, we slipped the lines in Nassau and pointed Sawasdeekat towards the afternoon sun, a golden orb that promised adventure but delivered only a fickle breeze and a long, lazy motorsail. One hundred and sixty miles lay between us and Miami, a watery obstacle course that would keep us on our toes and take us north and then west through the shallow, turquoise flats towards Bimini and beyond. The wind, which should have been our faithful companion on this heading, decided to sit this one out. It lounged somewhere else entirely, probably sipping a rum punch on a beach in the Exumas laughing at us; leaving us to the steady thrum of the engines and the hypnotic slap of water against the hulls. The sea stretched out before us like a sheet of hammered copper, each ripple catching the light and throwing it back at us with a casual indifference.

It was a relaxed 167 mile passage, the kind where you lose yourself in the horizon and the gentle rhythm of the sea. We were confident we would see the Miami skyline before dark the following day, a comforting thought that kept our spirits high. I made coffee. Pookie took a deck shower before joining my Mum in a well-deserved cat nap. This is our rhythm on long passages. I sit at the helm, watching the world slide by, and she curls up in the saloon, surrendering to the motion of the boat in the way that only someone who gets violently seasick can. She has perfected the art of sleeping through anything. I once sailed through a squall with waves breaking over the bow and she didn't stir. I sometimes wonder if she is actually asleep or simply meditating on the fragility of existence.

The sea gods, however, seemingly enjoy a good joke at a sailor's expense. Just as the jagged teeth of Miami's skyscrapers began to bite into the horizon, the wind and current conspired against us. They decided we should go north, thank you very much. Sawasdeekat squatted in the water like a crippled crab, pointing thirty degrees away from our intended destination. For hours we crawled, making a pathetic two to four knots in our intended direction, the city lights mocking us from afar. The sea gods were probably having a right old chuckle. I could almost hear them, somewhere in the deep, slapping their watery knees and pointing at the silly Englishman who thought he could outsmart them. If they had their way, the salts of the sea would have keelhauled me for such a navigational blunder, dragging me under the hull like Davy Jones until I confessed my sins to the barnacles.

Finally however, we nipped into the security and calm of the Cape Florida Channel, dropping anchor outside a place with a name that made me chuckle: No Name Harbor. The irony was not lost on me. Here we were, after eighteen hours at sea, seeking refuge in a place that couldn't even be bothered to name itself. It felt like arriving at a party where the host had forgotten to send out invitations. By now it was nine in the evening. We were shattered. We collapsed into our bunk, the distant sounds of clinking glasses and laughter from a nearby restaurant drifting across the water, a tantalising preview of the civilisation we had just rejoined. I lay there, listening to the sounds of people enjoying themselves, and wondered what they were celebrating. A birthday? A promotion? A Tuesday? It didn't matter. They were on land, and we were bobbing on the water, and that was the fundamental difference between us.

The following morning, we lifted the anchor and motored past a pod of actual Miami Dolphins frolicking near the Nixon Beach Sandbar. Here's a fact for you: this shallow party spot takes its name from Richard Nixon's old Key Biscayne home, the so-called “Winter White House”, where the disgraced president once walked the beaches in a suit and tie, presumably contemplating the nature of power and the futility of human ambition. I shuddered at the picture of Nixon in his swimming trunks and went to sleep, some things are better left unimagined.

The following day we took Sawasdeekat to the Hobie Island Beach Park, a dog-friendly stretch of sand known to locals as Windsurfer Beach, and dropped anchor again. Our mission: to check into the United States of America. The previous day, we had tried to find an anchorage near the customs office on Dodge Island, but our efforts were fruitless. The area was either off-limits or too shallow for our draft. So here we were. We climbed into our dinghy and zipped under the "Rickenbacker Causway Bridge" (Like No Name Harbor, this Google Maps spelling, not mine). These might be examples where Americans, with their relentless efficiency, have stripped the language of its quirks and fancies, but it may just be then want to differentiate from English/British spelling – who knows? I like to imagine a harried cartographer in a basement somewhere in California, deciding that the extra "e" was simply too much effort.

We landed at Gramps Getaway, a waterfront bar with waterside views and legitimately good food. The kind folks there let us leave our dinghy with them while we sorted out our paperwork. This was a massive relief after the $100 parking fee restaurants in Nassau wanted to charge. I still wake up in a cold sweat thinking about it. A hundred dollars. For a 3m dinghy. In a grimy marina that smelled faintly of diesel and regret. The Bahamian dollar, it turns out, is pegged one-to-one with the US dollar, which means there is no hiding from the exchange rate. You pay the price, you smile, and you tell yourself that it is all part of the adventure.

The Port authorities, Customs, and Police were all remarkably pleasant. They checked us in with a hearty "Welcome to America," and just like that, we had finally reached our destination. The relief was palpable. I felt a weight lift from my shoulders, a weight I hadn't even realised I had been carrying. We had crossed an ocean. We had island-hopped through the Caribbean with no power and a broken sail. We had survived the Bahamas. And now we were here, in Miami, the gateway to the Americas, a city that bristles with energy and ambition and the relentless pursuit of a good time.

We whisked Mum straight to Bayside Marketplace, a bustling hive of shops and restaurants on the water's edge, where the air hums with Latin music and the scent of grilled seafood. We grabbed some food and wandered through the stalls, memories of our pre-Covid trip to the Miami Boat Show flooding back. We loved the energy, the sheer vibrancy of the place. It felt like the whole world had gathered here to celebrate something, even if nobody quite knew what. There were tourists from everywhere, speaking every language, wearing every conceivable combination of shorts and sandals. It was packed, chaotic and it was wonderful.

As the day wound down, we grabbed an Uber back to the dinghy, stopping at Gramps Getaway for a quick drink to show our appreciation. Then we returned to Sawasdeekat, who had waited patiently outside the beach like a loyal hound. She bobbed gently on the water, her hulls catching the last of the evening light, and in her new grey livery I felt a surge of affection for her. She had carried us across an ocean, through storms and doldrums, and here she was, still afloat, still ready for the next adventure.

We had heard this area could get lively, but we hadn't witnessed anything until that evening. One by one, day boats arrived, their occupants eager to have a good time as the sun set. Each boat seemed determined to out-blast the next. Jet skis whizzed around, ferrying guests from boats for brief, thrilling rides. It was fascinating to watch. I counted about thirty party boats, most of which stayed until the early hours, their music a thumping a deep base heartbeat across the water. Pookie, who had been trying to rest, emerged from the cabin with a look that suggested she was contemplating mutiny. I handed her a glass of wine and we sat on the trampoline, watching the floating circus and wondering if we had accidentally anchored in the middle of a music festival.

The following morning, the party boats had gone, leaving behind a crapulous haze of hangovers and the faint, lingering scent of sunscreen and regret. We decided to take Mum to Havana. We had visited before and had a wonderful time, so we wanted to show her around. Little Havana is a lively, pulsating slice of Cuba in the heart of Miami, a neighbourhood where the aroma of strong coffee and cigars hangs in the air and the sound of salsa spills from every doorway. We spent hours exploring the Cuban-styled shops and soaking in the atmosphere. Pookie even bought me a hat. I looked ridiculous, but she insisted it suited me. I have learned, over the years, that arguing with Pookie about fashion is a losing battle. She has an eye for these things, a sense of style that I lack entirely. I wore the hat with a little sense of occasion.

We found a fancy dress shop and couldn't resist buying some masks. We then strolled across to Calle Ocho. The famous colourful Eighth Street with its wall murals loudly shouting where you are and watched the locals playing chess and dominos in the park. Here's another fact for you: Domino Park, (or Maximo Gomez Park as it's officially known) has been a gathering spot for Cuban domino players since 1976, and the regulars take their games very seriously indeed. I watched one gentleman slam down a double-six with the kind of theatrical flourish that would make a professional wrestler proud. His opponent, a wizened old man with a face like a tarnished walnut, simply smiled and laid down his own tiles with the quiet confidence of a man who has won this game a thousand times before. It was a lovely day out, but by the evening, we were all shattered.

By the third night of jet ski and music madness outside, we decided we needed a little more rest. We hopped on a Hop-on Hop-off bus tour of Miami Beach and the surrounding area. Miami Beach was just as we remembered it. We stopped for breakfast and watched the world go by. The parade of humanity was endlessly entertaining. There were bodybuilders in tiny shorts on their way to a workout, female rollerbladers in spandex, elderly couples walking hand in hand, and children chasing pigeons with the single-minded determination of predators. We ended up walking the full length of Lummus Park, photographing the art deco hotels and guest houses. The architecture is a candy-coloured dream, a testament to the largest concentration of Art Deco and “Streamline Moderne” structures in the United States. Every building looks like it was designed by someone who had just discovered pastel colours and was determined to use all of them at once.

Pookie and Mum were getting tired, so we dropped into the Faena Hotel. The lobby is a lavish, theatrical spectacle. We admired the artwork, including a monumental piece by Damien Hirst. I thought it was a gold elephant at first, but a helpful member of staff informed me it was actually a three-metre-tall woolly mammoth skeleton, plated in gold, called Gone But Not Forgotten. It cost more than our boat. It was garish, ridiculous, and utterly magnificent. I stood there, staring at this golden beast, and wondered what it said about us as a species that we would take the bones of an extinct creature and cover them in the most valuable metal we could find. It was a monument to excess, to ambition, to the sheer human desire to make something beautiful and pointless. I liked it.

The hotel also had a lovely, cool cocktail bar, which we happily tested. The cocktails were expensive, but they were also delicious, and the nearby fans were a blessed relief from the Miami heat. We jumped back on the bus and toured the art districts, taking-in a lot of downtown Miami. The city is a patchwork of neighbourhoods, each with its own character and charm. There is the sleek glass towers of Brickell, the graffiti-covered walls of Wynwood, the historic streets of Coral Gables. We saw it all, or at least as much as you can see from the top deck of a bus.

The following morning, we had reached our limit with the rock and roller party boats nearby. We took Sawasdeekat south down Biscayne Bay to an anchorage near Peacock Park. The only issue was that anchoring within three hundred feet of a marker buoy is prohibited. Even though we hadn't (because the marker buoy was missing), we were still moved on. This meant we were even further from shore, and by now the unfettered wind and water meant we got soaked at least twice in our dinghy going to and from the beach. We spent a few days here, visited the local area, and even took another bus tour. But time sadly ran out for my Mum. It was time for her to catch her plane back to the UK. We hugged her goodbye at the airport, and I watched her disappear into the crowded departures hall, a small figure disappearing into the Miami crowd.

I would like to think she had a good time. It had been both beautiful and challenging. The stunning waters and desert islands challenged by the lack of electricity, that terrible weather on the first sail, the feeling of getting ripped off in Nassau, and having to jump on and off a dinghy in choppy waters. I think it must have dampened what could have been a better time away. But we showed her the beaches St Martin and the rain in the BVI’s. We showed her life in the Dominican Republic and the markets in the Exumas. We showed her Little Havana, Bahamas and a ridiculous gold mammoth. We showed her our life, such as it is, bobbing on the water, at the mercy of the wind and the sea gods and the occasional jet ski.

There is a particular kind of madness to this life, I think. You spend months preparing for a passage, you battle the elements, you arrive exhausted and salt-crusted, and then you do it all over again. You live in a space the size of a small hotel room, you share it with someone you love, and you learn to forgive each other's quirks and habits. You learn to be patient. You learn to be resourceful. You learn that the world is vast and indifferent and utterly, breathtakingly beautiful.

Hopefully, the company made up for it. I think it did. I hope it did. My mother is not a sailor. She is a woman who likes her comforts, her electricity, her hot showers. She came on this trip because she wanted to see us, to share in our adventure, to understand this strange life we have chosen. And for that, I am grateful.

Anyway, as I sit here now in Virginia writing this, the TV is reminding me of the famous words of Porky Pig… "Th Th Th Th That's All Folks!" and so I will sign off and see you next week. Until then, stay safe, stay healthy and stay smiling. - And don't forget to subscribe if you want to catch next week's tale!