Culture Shock (Again)
12 April 2008 | Fort Pierce, FL, USA
Sunny, 32C Wind W 5, Sea 1m
After a fairly effortless crossing, we arrived at Fort Pierce, and back into the chaos of the Intracoastal Waterway (ICW is a four-letter word) on a weekend. After months of pretty sedate sailing in the Bahamas and points south and east, entering the ICW was like turning off some rural road in a pastoral setting, and suddenly finding oneself on the 401 at rush hour. We overheard two other sailboats arriving from the Bahamas at the same time we did, and they were as agog as we were at the traffic both on the water and on the airwaves. Trawlers, sea-doos, sport fishers, sailboats, houseboats, kayaks, dredgers, tow boats, tugboats, you name it, it was out on the water when we arrived. "This is total culture shock," said one boat to another, and we couldn't have agreed more.
Once anchored, we tagged along with Sea Fox X to the nearby "International Airport" to clear customs. En route from the Bahamas, Judy had called the USCG on the VHF and enquired about clearing procedures, and we were told that the local marina would know where to send us. So, best intentions in tow, off we went to the airport and the local Customs and Border Protection (CBP) office.
We were met by a rotund, bug-eyed CBP Officer with his shirt half-buttoned whose first reaction was to the tune of "Oh, lordy, not more Canadian sailors!" and he asked if we had our clearance number from the 1-800 CBP telephone service. "Ah, no," we collectively replied. Since our satphone only has connectivity when certain planets align within the constellation Vega during full moons, and as wireless internet is not available to us sixty miles out to sea, we pleaded ignorance. Well, not so much ignorance as inability to get the information due to a lack of technical means. This was not a good thing. "Well," the officer gravely intoned, that's a $30,000 fine right there, five grand for each of you!" Serves us right for dutifully reporting our arrival to the nearest CBP office. Having produced the desired effect of slackened jaws on our side of the counter, the substantial bureaucratic presence on the other side then announced that he was not really inclined to do all the nasty and tiresome paperwork required to extract this sum from us, but we were told to go call the Customs and Border Protection 1-800 number pronto, get a clearance number, and come back to see him once we had done so. When we explained what the USCG had told us on the radio, and that we were merely following their guidance, he replied "And the funny thing is we all work for the same department!" (-ed. note: "same department" meaning the Department of Homeland Insecurity and Paranoia....) He pointed us in the direction of the Tiki Airport Bar and Restaurant to go and use the phone there, since CBP does not have one for "clients" to use in their office. So, off we trudged to the airport restaurant.
While the girls and I snacked at the restaurant, Judy called the 1-800 number and after 25 minutes of being kept on hold, was cut off. Another twenty minutes of waiting was rewarded by a live human at the other end of the phone, and by the time Judy was done with them, there were three more boat crews waiting to use the phone for the same purpose.
Armed with our multi-digit password to open legally the doors to the United States, we tromped back to the CBP office, and were greeted with "Ah, my problem children are back!" When we mentioned the comparative ease with which we had entered the U.S. in Maine back in September, we got a lengthy dissertation about the pressures that the southern frontier was under, unlike the northern frontier, whose problems apparently consist mainly of polite Canadians not declaring everything they purchased at LL Bean, and marauding moose. Down here, we felt as though we had just strayed into the no-man's land of one CBP officer's War on Terror, what with Canadian yachters and small aircraft dropping in, and in plain view at that. It could have been worse, as I glanced over at the door with the "SEARCH ROOM: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY" sign on it and wondered what latex delights were in store for reluctant invitees. That, and the realization that Guantanamo is not that far from Florida... Still, the feeling we were given that we were a total inconvenience to this officer's day, if not career path, put quite a sour taste in our mouths, which fortunately was mostly washed away with a rum and pineapple juice back on board Semper V.