Granada to Venezuela

ON THE HARD

6/28/92 Lat. N 12 00.O'  W61 46.8' Prickly Bay, Grenada

One thing I hate is the difficult and very messy job of painting Butterfly's bottom. It is also an expensive proposition. I am tired of it, but we should be finished in a few days. At least the weather is cooperating.

I feel safe at last. For the last several months I have been trying to get down this way to get out of the possible hurricanes that come along between June and November. My insurance says that I must pay a fifty percent deductible if I lose my boat up island in this season. Here, I am covered with a ten percent deductible, which I can live with.

Judy's been unhappy that we moved down the islands so fast. I'm unhappy I wasted so much time in the U.S. Virgin islands. No matter. Here we are, and we have seen a lot of interesting people and islands. However, I've fallen in love with Grenada: St. George, a quaint English town, and Hog Island where everyone gathers for a potluck on Sundays.

Los Testigos
7/6/92 (I lost track of LL and Long) Islas de los Testigos, Venezuela

Having finished the bottom paint job, we decided to continue on to Isla Margareta, Venezuela. We were low on canned goods and had heard via the cruising grape vine that these staples were cheaper in Venezuela.

The plan was to leave at sundown and sail all night (I generally figured a speed of five knots when planning) which should bring us to Los Testigos, a group of islands fifty miles east of Isla Margareta, alter dawn. There are very strong currents around the islands and I did not care to thread them at night. We would spend a day at the Testigos and then head on to Margareta the following day.

That was our plan, but “the best laid plans …”

We had celebrated Independence Day on Hog Island where the English cruisers put on a skit about the revolutionary war in which they won, while we put on a skit where the English were hung in effigy. Great fun and much, too much to drink. When my head stopped aching the next day we made ready for sea.

We left at six in the evening and the light wind gave us a speed of four knots. That was all right as it would get is in later in the morning. After the sun went down the breeze increased until it was blowing twenty knots and I reefed the main sail. The wind continued to increase and the flashes of lightening from thunder storms off our port quarter warned me to take in all the mainsail.

That did not slow our speed very much. I reefed the mizzen. Now it was raining so hard I could not see the binnacle. I could feel the islands coming towards me; we were going too fast. My five knot plan was not going to work.

By three in the morning we were surrounded by lightening and very heavy winds. I went blow to check the GPS for our position, but it refused to give up its information. This had happened to us before a few times, but usually after an hour, or at most and hour and a half, it would resume doing its job.

My last position plus dead reckoning placed us about ten miles from the islands and it was still two hours before dawn. I headed the boat on a course dividing the current’s and the wind’s direction, turned on the engine and motor sailed, attempting to maintain my position.

I was getting more wet from sweating over the dire possibilities than from the driving rain. My eyes burned from staring in the direction of the islands, trying to catch a glimpse of them in the lightening. We were going to be wreaked on their rocky coast.

When I wasn’t looking for islands in the wet blackness, I was running up and down the companionway ladder, hoping that the GPS would start working again.

Meanwhile, Judy took the helm. It was much too rough for our auto pilot in such close quarters, and she is a much better helmsperson than I. More than that, she remains calm because she erroneously trusts me.

It’s five in the morning and still pitch dark. The GPS still refuses to work after an hour and a half. It has never been out this long before. Just as the light began to lighten the clouds, the darned machine hiccupped back to life and I had a good position.

We were only two miles from the nearest island.

For the next two hours we weaved through these small islands with their currents sucking us toward one point or another. Even though the wind was still in the twenty knot area, I had to start the engine to pull us away from a ragged point.

At last we reached the anchorage and dropped our anchor and snubbed it down. I did not even look at the view; I just went below for a much deserved sleep.


Three Brothers
7/8/92 Islas de Los Testigos

After resting a few hours, we lowered the dingy and cross the channel to another island were the police were said to have an office. The guide books said we must check in here, although it is not a customs port.

Getting across the channel was difficult as the current was running faster than our little four horsepower outboard. In the heaviest part of the current we thought that we might miss the island entirely and we did not even want to think about what would happen if our engine quit on us.

After checking in we motored over to a commercial fishing boat anchored there and asked them if they could spare some ice. Although we just wanted out cups filled, they presented us with a bucket filled to the brim.

I told them in Spanish that we would not be able to make the crossing to bring their bucket back becaue I was afraid of the fast current.

“No bother,” they replied in their language. “We will come over and pick it up later.”

“That’s a good idea.” Judy was ecstatic about getting her hands of that much ice. “Why don’t you cover over for dessert and coffee tonight? You can get your pail then; about seven?”

We place the ice carefully in the bottom of the dingy and made our way back to the boat. We had ice tea and cold beer, but by the time dinner was over, the ice was gone. Judy made a gingerbread cake, a cruising staple, and some coffee for when our guests should arrive.

The three men were on Latin time so they arrived an hour late. But it didn’t matter as we had a good time trying to communicate in Spanish, while they attempted English.

“Where is your home?” one asked us.

“Do you like sailing?” They didn’t give us time to answer.

“Where are you going?” questioned the third.

After attempting to answer their questions, we wanted to know anbout them. They turned out to bee three brothers who own their fifty-five foot trawler. They fished for tuna or anything else that got into their nets.

“Do you live on your boat?” Judy queried as she passed out more ginger bread.

“No,” said the eldest. “We live in Isla Margareta.”

“Do you live together?” She asked.

They looked at one another and laughed and said, “No, we do not live “juntos,” but we do live in the same house.”

Judy had used the wrong word. “Juntos” means together, as in you all live “together,” but in colloquial Spanish of the area, it meant did they sleep together. When we discovered our gaff we joined in the laughter.