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TERRY TOMALINAdventurers buttress a dugout canoe, fit it with a sail and mast and take it for a ride in the gulf.
ST. PETERSBURG - The dugout canoe sat in a warehouse for decades collecting dust.
"It seems like such a shame for something so beautiful to go to waste," George Stovall said one evening over a cold beer. "I wonder if it's seaworthy." The canoe, 24 feet long and weighing well more than 400 pounds, had been brought to the United States aboard a freighter from Honduras.
Cayugas, as vessels of this type are sometimes called, have been used to carry people and trade goods along the rivers and coastal areas of Central America for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.
"After looking at this thing, I bet it isn't much different than the canoes the Florida Indians used to get around," Stovall added, planting the seeds for an adventure.
"We should paddle it down the coast," I told my friend.
"Paddle?" he said. "Why not sail?"
Whether or not the pre-Columbus inhabitants of Florida used sails is a matter of debate.
"We haven't found any concrete evidence," said Donna Ruhl, an indigenous canoe expert with the Florida Museum of Natural History in Gainesville. "But that doesn't mean that it didn't happen. Anything is possible."
Stovall knew primitive people from several cultures used sails on a variety of watercraft.
"So why couldn't the Tocabaga of Tampa Bay?" he postulated.
Because most of the "ancient" canoes discovered in Florida have been found in inland lakes and rivers, little is known about dugout canoes used in coastal waters.
"We do know that they were made of pine and, later, of cypress," Ruhl said. "They felled trees with shell tools then, through a chipping and burning process, hollowed out the interior of the log."
The Tocabaga, the Indians who lived on the shores of Tampa Bay when the Spanish arrived, had a variety of tools, including the adze, which could have been used to make a dugout canoe similar to the modern Honduran cayuga.
"You can see the adze marks on the hull," Stovall said. "They made this boat the same way they did 1,000 years ago - by hand."
Because it had been sitting for so long, the dugout, constructed from a solid mahogany log, was dry and brittle. So Stovall rubbed two gallons of teak oil into the wood to ensure it wouldn't absorb water.
Once the hull was sound, he set about finding a sail and mast. After giving it some thought, Stovall settled on a lateen rig, a design popular with small boats in north Africa.
The mast came from a surprising source."I was driving around one day," Stovall said, "and found a guy who had some big bamboo growing in his yard."
Stovall's neighbor furnished him with several pieces of bamboo that were cut and made into a working mast and boom.
The sail was tougher. "It was impossible to buy something already made," Stovall said. "So I had to go to a sailmaker and have one made."
To add an air of authenticity, he turned the sail over to Phyllis Kolianous, manager of Weedon Island Preserve's Cultural and Natural History Center.
"We had to be careful in choosing the design for the sail," she said. "Certain images might be considered culturally inappropriate."
After much thought, Kolianous settled on a Weeden (alternate spelling) Island punctated design taken from a piece of pottery discovered in Tarpon Springs in 1896. The bird motif was probably anywhere from 1,000 to 1,800 years old.
Stovall also talked to Robin Brown, a Fort Myers physician and author of the book Florida's First People.
At first, Stovall thought about paddling the dugout down the coast from Cedar Key to Tarpon Springs without modern conveniences such as charts and global positioning systems.
"We could bring a bow and arrow to shoot fish, carry our water in gourds and wear nothing but loincloths," Stovall said.
"I'll forage for food and water," I said. "But no way am I wearing a loincloth."
My body by Budweiser just wasn't suited for a primitive bathing suit, I told my friend. Stovall relented, and we moved on to the really important things, such as how the dugout would handle in rough water.
"I guess the first thing we need to figure out is whether or not this thing will actually float," Stovall said.
So on a hot spring afternoon, Stovall and three disciples slid the cumbersome craft into the placid waters of Coffee Pot Bayou.
"Well, what do you know," Stovall said. "It floats."
Darry Jackson and Casey LaLomia, the other members of our crew, had no more experience than Stovall and I with primitive watercraft. But after several long, wet sessions in the canoe, we figured out how to paddle and sail the age-old design.
After several months of planning and preparation, we settled on a departure date. We abandoned the thought of a primitive excursion and chose to bring along modern conveniences such as sunscreen and bottled water.
"This way, we can carry a cooler to keep the beverages cold," said Chris Cross, captain of the 21-foot petrol-powered support/safety boat that would follow us down the coast. "Ice is one of the few benefits of being a modern man."
On a warm May morning, we dropped the canoe in the water at a boat ramp in Cedar Key and paddled toward the open water of the Gulf of Mexico.
"I know this may seem like we're heading for Mexico, but we need to get offshore before we head south," said Jackson, who had the unenviable job of being the steersman and navigator for the 100-mile trip.
The first few hours passed uneventfully, but by mid day, the sun started to take a toll. Every time one of us stopped to take a sip of water, the canoe slowed and became unstable. So we drank less and paddled more, which led to further dehydration.
Then about 10 miles from shore in the middle of Waccasassa Bay, the waves started to pick up. It seemed like with every other stroke of the paddle, a gallon of water poured over the low gunwale and flooded the bottom of the canoe.
"Can anybody see land?" I asked.
"I think it's somewhere over there," Stovall said, pointing east.
As the afternoon wore on, the seas increased. With 10 miles of open water to cover and only one bucket among us, the prognosis didn't look good.
"Can't you bail any faster?" I asked Stovall.
"I am bailing as fast as I can," he said. "And I am afraid it isn't doing much good."
This is the first of a three-part series. Day 2: Poetry, pain and the paddle.