NOTE: Somehow I got ahead of myself last week. Here is what should have been posted.
Sick At Sea
11/2/92 Lat. N W 66 07.0' Off Shore
The sail from Trinidad to Grenada was eventless. I suppose that was what was wrong with it. A sailor needs to have something traumatic happen before he has a really good sea story. Just to say “we had an eventless trip” will bore everyone to death.
At Grenada we filled our water tanks and prepared for a voyage direct from the island to St. Thomas, USVI. The night before leaving, we went to a movie, and then enjoyed a Chinese dinner.
As the sun started to clear the night sky we headed out the channel for the open sea. I did not feel too well, but thought I would be better after another cup of coffee. As we got farther from shore I became sick to my stomach. Sea Sickness? I really didn’t think so. The only times I felt the least bit sick was when we are in big storms and I stop concentrating on my charting in the cabin. Then thinks can become bad.
By after noon I had it all: nausea, fever and diarrhea. I could hardly move. We discussed going back, but I declined to do so. It was, or so I judged, food poisoning from last night’s dinner. But why did not Judy have the same thing.
I made it though my watch and Judy shooed me off to bed. I had not been in bed for two hours when Judy got me up.
“Ames the engine does not want to run.”
Just the thing I wanted to hear in my condition. Our engine has a transmission that we have to cool every eight hours by running the engine. I could have installed a shaft brake on it, but I didn’t want to spend the money. The engine did not run so I had to get up to check out the problem.
After checking out everything, I saw I had turned on our starboard tank, when the port tank was full. There is only one return line to the tanks and it goes to the port tank. Since it was full the fuel could not flow.
I took the top off the port and starboard tanks and we shifted the fuel by using a cup measure and a bucket. I changed the tanks so just the port tank was being used, and flopped back into bed.
The next afternoon I was feeling better and was able to give Judy a much needed rest. That night we dodged the cruise ships, which would leave an island port and sail far out to sea and back so they would not have to pay the high docking fees. Normally, for them the trip between islands would be a matter of an hour. I guess their passengers thought it was a long way between harbors.
By the next morning we were passing between St. Croix and St. Johns.
Taxi Drivers
11/5/92 Lat. N W 66 07.0' St. Thomas, USVI
After anchoring we went ashore to change some money, we had no US currency left, and to clear into the US. The lines were long at the money changing bank near the cruise ship dock. It was very late by the time we were able to change the money and I had to clear in by five. If not we would have to stay here an extra day.
While Judy returned to the boat, I took a taxi for the Customs office several miles down the quay. As usual I settled with the driver for five dollars to take me there. It was a high price, but not bad for St. Thomas.
We had gone a block and he saw three Japanese tourists. He stopped.
“Where you go, mon,”
“We want to see the other side of the island,” one replied in broken English.
“Get in,” he tells them, knowing he can get a huge fare from these guys, and then he looks at me. “Get out. You can take a bus.”
I was speechless, and angry. I was being dumped. “What?”
“I said get out, Mon, and don’t slam the door.” The cars in the Caribbean and South America are made with very light weight doors and the get out of line easily.
I got out and slammed the door as hard as I could. He was cussing and swearing as he drove off.
I caught a bus and arrived at the office with less than a minute to spare. I was lucky, a good natured officer, had me fill out a form and then stamped our passports.
“They Did Not Give Me Any Charts.”
11/6/93 Isla Palominos, Puerto Rico
The next morning we were off down wind past Culebra Island. The wind was blowing between fifteen and twenty knots. I was nervous about a reef that had a narrow opening. I searched for the passage, but it was only at the last minute did I spot it two hundred yards off my starboard.
I wrenched the helm over and plowed through the opening at about six knots. On the other side we altered course for Isla Palominos, were we anchored for the night. We went ashore for a walk on this little island, getting our feet wet in the clean white sand. When we returned to Butterfly a thirty-foot sailboat was anchored next to us.
We dinged to their boat to say hello and found a very nice young couple aboard. They had chartered the boat for a week and this was their first night. He asked me if I thought they needed a chart.
I thought about the reef and the difficult entrance we had made earlier and which I could not have done without a chart, and then asked him what charts he had on board. He handed me a street map of Puerto Rico which showed some of the islands nearby. Luckily he had not gone any further because he was right on the edge of a long reef.
We invited them over for desert that night, and I showed him the reefs all around the area. He turned pale.
“They didn’t give me any charts. I don’t even have dividers or parallel rules.”
“Perhaps you might go back and buy some.”
“It’s a long way back,” he said.
“We’ll go back,” his wife said giving my chart another look.
“I guess we will. I appreciate your help.”
We left early the next morning bound for San Juan, and work again.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
DOWN ISLAND - PART FIVE
I want to aspologize for the long delay between postings. I have finally caught up with my self having sailed through some of life's squalls. Ames
10/15/92 Lat. N 10 38.8’ W 61 32.5' Trinidad
A LONG TRIP JUST TO GO TO THE ZOO
My friends talked me into coming here three weeks ago. They were having a great time. Trinidad is only an overnight sail from Grenada, so we decided to come.
A lot of the cruisers are staying at the Trinidad Yacht Club, which offers real docks. They rent air conditioners, hire people to work on their boats, play bridge every afternoon, and walk a block for pizza or groceries. It seems too American for my tastes. We could not afford, nor was there room, for us to dock at the club. The anchorage is open and very rough when the wind blows, and it blows every afternoon.
You have to pay to land your dingy. For some it was heaven, especially for the women, but I had gone cruising to see different cultures, not find "Little America."
However, Trinidad has a great zoo. Well, maybe the zoo does not match up with the zoos in the States, but the lion cage is extraordinary. It was a little threatening to see them so close. To help people feel safe there was a plaque:
"This glass is made of bullet-proof glass. The lions cannot break
through: see the demonstration above."
Above this sign was a square of glass that had been shot at with a rifle. The glass was still OK, except for the starring effect of the impact of the bullet.
"All right," I thought. "That seems safe enough."
I went back to the glass and noticed some scratches on the inside where the lions had attempted to get out. The scratches looked deep, but it was hard tell from the outside. I stood there for a moment savoring the danger. Then a lion roared. I quickly withdrew to visit some of the other animals.
We're leaving tomorrow. I'm glad I saw the zoo, but . . .
San Juan, Puerto Rico
02/15/93 Lat. N 18 27.8' W 66 07.0' San Juan, Puerto Rico
I Thought I Left It Here!
We had been in Puerto Rico for about two months while I worked to build up our cruising kitty. For a while we thought we would have to stop cruising and sell the boat, as we had experienced some major financial setbacks in the U.S. This job, which was to last for six months, would help us pull out of the slump if Uncle Sam didn't take it all for taxes.
We picked up a mooring at a marina at the eastern end of San Juan Harbor. Normally we would have anchored, but we knew we would be leaving the boat alone a lot and felt more secure on a mooring. The dock was close to $400 a month, and we couldn't afford that and be able to take care of our other obligations. The mooring was inexpensive though.
It was a good place to be moored. Within walking distance was a grocery store and it was just a short dingy or bus ride to Old San Juan. I took a bus to work, but it took almost two hours one way. I got to know something of the people that way.
Every morning at 0600 I would row the hard dingy (Judy got the inflatable with engine) to the marina and head for work.
On this particular day, Judy was in Michigan visiting our daughter, who was ill, so I was batching it. As the sun was going down I got into my dingy to row out to the boat. As I came around the end of the pier I looked around for Butterfly.
I always enjoyed this first sight of the boat after a long day at work. It reminded me what I was working for. She would be sitting at the mooring, her image rippling in the small waves of the harbor, the setting sun's rosy glow reflecting on her masts. It was beauty and serenity combined.
My heart always skipped a beat as I rounded the pier.
This time my heart stopped beating completely.
Butterfly was not hanging onto the mooring. There was no reflection on the water, no sunlight on the masts.
There was no Butterfly at all.
Trying not to panic, I rowed faster to the spot where she should have been.
“I know I left her here,” I said, rather stupidly. “Perhaps she dragged the mooring in the afternoon wind.”
I looked down the bay, but didn't spot her. I rowed through the other boats anchored there.
There were people on one of them, but I couldn't bring myself to ask them:
“Have you seen my boat? I've lost it.” How could anyone lose a fifty-foot boat? No, I'd look around some more.
Could it be stolen? Maybe, but where is the mooring buoy? No one would steal the buoy. They would leave it behind. So it wasn't stolen and it hadn't drifted down the bay.
I rowed back to where I had left it that morning.
Maybe she sank and took the buoy down with her? I looked into the water to see if I could see her on the bottom. “Impossible, stupid,” I scolded myself. “The water here is only 25 feet deep. Your masts would be sticking out of the water.”
“Where are you?” I asked myself again, while the dingy drifted over the empty space usually occupied by Butterfly's reflection.
There was only one more place to look. I rowed along the marina's docks, and with great relief, spotted her tied up in a slip. It was a great relief, but I was curious . . . and angry. Who moved my boat?
I climbed on board but could find nothing wrong. Why had they moved her here? Where was the mooring buoy? I asked around the dock, but no one could tell me anything.
The marina was locked up tight for the night. The next morning I delayed going to work until the manager arrived.
“Why did you move my boat into a slip?”
"We decided we wanted to pull the mooring and service it,” came the calm reply.
“But why didn't you tell me? I about had a heart attack last night.”
“Well, we didn't think about it and we weren't sure where you were.”
“My work address and phone number is on the contract form. I can't afford slip fees. When are you going to put the buoy back?”
“In a few weeks, maybe a month. Meanwhile, I'll tell you what. You can have the slip at the mooring price. Will that be OK with you?”
“Well, OK,” I replied. In fact, it would be a great deal for us.
“Oh uh, how long will you be here?” he asked as an after thought.
“Until June,” I replied.
“Oh,” manager said, his face screwed up in thought. “That's almost five months from now.”
“Yeah, that's about right.”
Each month thereafter he would ask me, “When are you planning to leave?” They still hadn't replaced that mooring when we pulled out, five months later.
10/15/92 Lat. N 10 38.8’ W 61 32.5' Trinidad
A LONG TRIP JUST TO GO TO THE ZOO
My friends talked me into coming here three weeks ago. They were having a great time. Trinidad is only an overnight sail from Grenada, so we decided to come.
A lot of the cruisers are staying at the Trinidad Yacht Club, which offers real docks. They rent air conditioners, hire people to work on their boats, play bridge every afternoon, and walk a block for pizza or groceries. It seems too American for my tastes. We could not afford, nor was there room, for us to dock at the club. The anchorage is open and very rough when the wind blows, and it blows every afternoon.
You have to pay to land your dingy. For some it was heaven, especially for the women, but I had gone cruising to see different cultures, not find "Little America."
However, Trinidad has a great zoo. Well, maybe the zoo does not match up with the zoos in the States, but the lion cage is extraordinary. It was a little threatening to see them so close. To help people feel safe there was a plaque:
"This glass is made of bullet-proof glass. The lions cannot break
through: see the demonstration above."
Above this sign was a square of glass that had been shot at with a rifle. The glass was still OK, except for the starring effect of the impact of the bullet.
"All right," I thought. "That seems safe enough."
I went back to the glass and noticed some scratches on the inside where the lions had attempted to get out. The scratches looked deep, but it was hard tell from the outside. I stood there for a moment savoring the danger. Then a lion roared. I quickly withdrew to visit some of the other animals.
We're leaving tomorrow. I'm glad I saw the zoo, but . . .
San Juan, Puerto Rico
02/15/93 Lat. N 18 27.8' W 66 07.0' San Juan, Puerto Rico
I Thought I Left It Here!
We had been in Puerto Rico for about two months while I worked to build up our cruising kitty. For a while we thought we would have to stop cruising and sell the boat, as we had experienced some major financial setbacks in the U.S. This job, which was to last for six months, would help us pull out of the slump if Uncle Sam didn't take it all for taxes.
We picked up a mooring at a marina at the eastern end of San Juan Harbor. Normally we would have anchored, but we knew we would be leaving the boat alone a lot and felt more secure on a mooring. The dock was close to $400 a month, and we couldn't afford that and be able to take care of our other obligations. The mooring was inexpensive though.
It was a good place to be moored. Within walking distance was a grocery store and it was just a short dingy or bus ride to Old San Juan. I took a bus to work, but it took almost two hours one way. I got to know something of the people that way.
Every morning at 0600 I would row the hard dingy (Judy got the inflatable with engine) to the marina and head for work.
On this particular day, Judy was in Michigan visiting our daughter, who was ill, so I was batching it. As the sun was going down I got into my dingy to row out to the boat. As I came around the end of the pier I looked around for Butterfly.
I always enjoyed this first sight of the boat after a long day at work. It reminded me what I was working for. She would be sitting at the mooring, her image rippling in the small waves of the harbor, the setting sun's rosy glow reflecting on her masts. It was beauty and serenity combined.
My heart always skipped a beat as I rounded the pier.
This time my heart stopped beating completely.
Butterfly was not hanging onto the mooring. There was no reflection on the water, no sunlight on the masts.
There was no Butterfly at all.
Trying not to panic, I rowed faster to the spot where she should have been.
“I know I left her here,” I said, rather stupidly. “Perhaps she dragged the mooring in the afternoon wind.”
I looked down the bay, but didn't spot her. I rowed through the other boats anchored there.
There were people on one of them, but I couldn't bring myself to ask them:
“Have you seen my boat? I've lost it.” How could anyone lose a fifty-foot boat? No, I'd look around some more.
Could it be stolen? Maybe, but where is the mooring buoy? No one would steal the buoy. They would leave it behind. So it wasn't stolen and it hadn't drifted down the bay.
I rowed back to where I had left it that morning.
Maybe she sank and took the buoy down with her? I looked into the water to see if I could see her on the bottom. “Impossible, stupid,” I scolded myself. “The water here is only 25 feet deep. Your masts would be sticking out of the water.”
“Where are you?” I asked myself again, while the dingy drifted over the empty space usually occupied by Butterfly's reflection.
There was only one more place to look. I rowed along the marina's docks, and with great relief, spotted her tied up in a slip. It was a great relief, but I was curious . . . and angry. Who moved my boat?
I climbed on board but could find nothing wrong. Why had they moved her here? Where was the mooring buoy? I asked around the dock, but no one could tell me anything.
The marina was locked up tight for the night. The next morning I delayed going to work until the manager arrived.
“Why did you move my boat into a slip?”
"We decided we wanted to pull the mooring and service it,” came the calm reply.
“But why didn't you tell me? I about had a heart attack last night.”
“Well, we didn't think about it and we weren't sure where you were.”
“My work address and phone number is on the contract form. I can't afford slip fees. When are you going to put the buoy back?”
“In a few weeks, maybe a month. Meanwhile, I'll tell you what. You can have the slip at the mooring price. Will that be OK with you?”
“Well, OK,” I replied. In fact, it would be a great deal for us.
“Oh uh, how long will you be here?” he asked as an after thought.
“Until June,” I replied.
“Oh,” manager said, his face screwed up in thought. “That's almost five months from now.”
“Yeah, that's about right.”
Each month thereafter he would ask me, “When are you planning to leave?” They still hadn't replaced that mooring when we pulled out, five months later.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Exploring
7/10/92 Islas de los Testigos, Venezuela
Early the next morning we set off in our dingy to the nearest shore. The beach was sandy and being of the lee side of the Island, there was little wave action to hinder a dry landing. We stood on the shore and wondered what was missing. It was the silence.
Generally there would be taxi drivers wanting to give us a tour, but here just silence. The reason for this was simple. No roads, no town and no taxis.
Near where we beached out dingy was a huge sand dune which must have been over a hundred feet high. I have seen movies about the desert and the actors would climb the dunes as if they were on Park Avenue, New York. The hike up the dune just about did me in. I think maybe those actors had stairs under a thin covering of sand. But the trip was worth it as the Caribbean Sea in is hues of greens and blues spread out before us.
We scrambled and slid down the seaward side to a long wide white sandy beach. The beach was married by the thousands of plastic containers swept in by the sea as it tried to rid itself of the trash thrown overboard by careless mariners.
What caught our eye was the multitude of fresh tracks on the beach. We looked more closely and decided they must be sea turtle tracks made when coming to shore in the night to lay their eggs.
Several hours later they sky began cloud up and the breeze strengthened. A squall was coming, and since we did not want to get drenched, we got enough courage to surmount the dune.
Soon after we returned to Butterfly the wind gusted up to a full fledged storm with thirty-five plus knots of wind. The boat healed in the gusts and this time felt we were lucky to be anchored behind a reef.
The next morning it was still blowing and I became worried about food. Judy says I’m generally worried about food, but we were out of everything except two packages of unknown freeze dried stuff we bought in Dutch St. Martin’s (the labeling was in Dutch), a can of tomato paste, and the last of our box of Rice Crispies.
How could this happen? Bad planning. We had not known a storm would delay us. Next time I’ll be sure we have at least a week’s worth of food for a overnight trip.
We ate cereal in the morning. I went fishing in the lee of the reef and caught a small something, which we ate for lunch. That night we opened the strange bags of freeze dried food. I emptied one bag of lumpy gray dust into a pan of water, and to my delight it turned into a beef stroganoff. The other bag turned into something else that we never identified, but which tasted good anyway. Before going to bed I prayed the storm would be gone by morning so we could continue to Margareta.
My prayers were answered with a bright sunny day and only fifteen to twenty knots of wind. Judy had discovered some sardines we had missed in the bottom of a food locker. We hauled anchor, and after we were jogging along at five knots with jib and mizzen, we had them for breakfast.
7/10/92 Islas de los Testigos, Venezuela
Early the next morning we set off in our dingy to the nearest shore. The beach was sandy and being of the lee side of the Island, there was little wave action to hinder a dry landing. We stood on the shore and wondered what was missing. It was the silence.
Generally there would be taxi drivers wanting to give us a tour, but here just silence. The reason for this was simple. No roads, no town and no taxis.
Near where we beached out dingy was a huge sand dune which must have been over a hundred feet high. I have seen movies about the desert and the actors would climb the dunes as if they were on Park Avenue, New York. The hike up the dune just about did me in. I think maybe those actors had stairs under a thin covering of sand. But the trip was worth it as the Caribbean Sea in is hues of greens and blues spread out before us.
We scrambled and slid down the seaward side to a long wide white sandy beach. The beach was married by the thousands of plastic containers swept in by the sea as it tried to rid itself of the trash thrown overboard by careless mariners.
What caught our eye was the multitude of fresh tracks on the beach. We looked more closely and decided they must be sea turtle tracks made when coming to shore in the night to lay their eggs.
Several hours later they sky began cloud up and the breeze strengthened. A squall was coming, and since we did not want to get drenched, we got enough courage to surmount the dune.
Soon after we returned to Butterfly the wind gusted up to a full fledged storm with thirty-five plus knots of wind. The boat healed in the gusts and this time felt we were lucky to be anchored behind a reef.
The next morning it was still blowing and I became worried about food. Judy says I’m generally worried about food, but we were out of everything except two packages of unknown freeze dried stuff we bought in Dutch St. Martin’s (the labeling was in Dutch), a can of tomato paste, and the last of our box of Rice Crispies.
How could this happen? Bad planning. We had not known a storm would delay us. Next time I’ll be sure we have at least a week’s worth of food for a overnight trip.
We ate cereal in the morning. I went fishing in the lee of the reef and caught a small something, which we ate for lunch. That night we opened the strange bags of freeze dried food. I emptied one bag of lumpy gray dust into a pan of water, and to my delight it turned into a beef stroganoff. The other bag turned into something else that we never identified, but which tasted good anyway. Before going to bed I prayed the storm would be gone by morning so we could continue to Margareta.
My prayers were answered with a bright sunny day and only fifteen to twenty knots of wind. Judy had discovered some sardines we had missed in the bottom of a food locker. We hauled anchor, and after we were jogging along at five knots with jib and mizzen, we had them for breakfast.
Monday, February 1, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, January 25, 2010
ST. LUCIA TO GRANADA
Was That A Volcano?
6/13/92 Lat. N 12 20.0 W 62 36.8' Near Kick'em Jenny, Grenada
All was going along fine. We were having a great sail on almost a beam reach and eating up the miles from Carricau, where we had entered Grenada, on our way to the big island of Grenada. This would be our stopping point for a time. The waves were three feet high and not giving us much trouble. The Cruising Guide said to watch out for heavy currents and warned us that southeast of Kick'em Jenney, near The Sisters Rocks, there was an underwater volcano that had erupted now and again.
I knew we wouldn't have any trouble. The day was too great, sunny, with scattered clouds. Wind was from the east at twenty knots. What could be better?
My log reads that at ten-forty we experienced "steep breaking waves," which was an understatement. Without warning we found ourselves in nine-foot chop. They came three at a time. They lifted the boat up and dashed it back into the water as if attempting to throw us all the way to the bottom of the ocean. It was like a great hand grabbing the boat and shaking it with all its might. It was indescribable and unnerving.
All I could do was fall off every two minutes when a set of these monsters came along. Forty minutes later the sea was back as it was before, but I wasn't…nor was Judy.
"Was that a volcano erupting?" she asked me, her face pale.
"I don't know," I replied. "We were at least ten miles away from The Sisters."
"What was it?"
"Perhaps it was just a counter current or tidal rip; something like that."
But deep down inside I wondered if it really had been a volcano erupting.
Life In The Lagoon
6/14/92 N 12 00.O' W 61 46.8' St. George’s, Grenada
Getting into the lagoon was not easy because of the shallow water at the entrance, but one inside the bottom remained fairly the same depth. Our main problem was to find a resting place amongst the multitude of boats anchored here. Ketches, sloops, cutters and cruising catamarans all snuggled together.
I surveyed the harbor and noticed some burnt out buildings on a ridge to the west. Probably, I thought, part of the destruction of when we invaded the island in late 1983 under President Reagan. There had been a bloody coup and a friend of Fidel Castro became dictator. Under the guise that U.S. students in Granada were in danger we sent in the marines. My thoughts were disrupted by Judy.
“Ames, am I having hallucinations or is that a grocery store over there?”
I grabbed the binoculars to see that she was talking about. It was hard obtain fresh meat on the way down here. You could generally find a frozen (many times over) chicken; one who was too old to outrun the butcher. We had been relegated to mostly a vegetarian diet, although I got fancy with cooking Southern Fried Spam, a delicacy the crew did not enjoy.
Through the lenses I saw a medium sized building with a dingy dock in front of it.
“That does look like a grocery store.” I refocused the instrument. “Yes! Indeed! That is definitely a supermarket.”
“Get the dingy down. Hurry. We might have some meat tonight.”
“I was planning to have meat. I was going to cook my specialty: County Fried Spam.”
“If you do, I’ll jump ship. Hurry! Let’s see what they have.”
We dinged over found the store was fairly complete, having a large choice of meats. We bought some steak, potatoes, and a six pack of Carib, and headed back to the boat. On our way we stopped at the boat of one of our cruising friends we had not seen in months.
“I am afraid,” he said, “you will have to lock up your boat at night here. There have been a series of thefts. The guy sneaks aboard, steals what he can find and leaves before you wake up. Otherwise it is a very charming island.”
We discussed other cruising friends and where they were and where they were headed for a half an hour. But most on my mind were the steaks, what I would do with them on the BBQ, and the meal we would have this night. At the same time,I was shocked that we would have to lock the boat at night.
The next morning, we headed in the dingy to the other lagoon where the city of St. George’s sat with a great gray fortress looming over it. As we entered the harbor Judy turned to me.
“There is another one.”
“Another one what?”
“Another supermarket. Let’s go and see what they have for sale. We can dock our dingy right in front.” Judy was so excited I thought she would fall out of the boat.
As we tied up the dingy a half dozen taxi drivers converged on us offering us a tour of the island. But Judy only wanted to tour the grocery store.
The Real Story Of The Mystery Volcano
6/18/92 N 12 00.O' W 61 46.8' Prickly Bay, Grenada
One morning, Judy and I went into town to the see the central market. I stopped at a little stand where a knurly old woman, in a ragged black dress and long gray hair, was selling herbs.
“I can see you need my help.” This question was directed to Judy.
“What do you mean?”
The old woman slowly looked at me and then at Judy. “I have special herbs for the lazy man.”
“I’m not lazy,” I stated, feeling very defensive. How dare this woman whom I had never seen before make such accusations. The wrinkled face and her penetrating eyes were focused on me for a minute. Then she turned back to my wife.
“There herbs will help you with a lazy man at night.” She grinned and her only tooth stood out like a beacon at night. “You know, the man who would rather sleep than…”
After a moment I understood her insinuation and I began to blush. Judy just laughed and said in a loud voice,
“How much are they?”
I ducked into a small bar to get out of the sun and my embarrassment while my wife continued her shopping. It was really just an excuse to quench my thirst with a Carib beer. This "bar" was a shack that could hold maybe four or five people.
Besides the bartender, whose chocolate face had a crooked smile, and me, there was one other person attempting to cool off. We balanced, rather than sat, on rickety stools.
He was a toothless old fisherman, his face wrinkled like a piece of balled up foil from a candy bar. He gave off the air of a fisherman; he smelled like fish.
We got to talking and I told him of my experience near Kick'em Jenny.
He smiled a toothless smile, which wrinkled his face so much that his eyes almost disappeared.
"Mon, dat is interestink. A long tale," said he, "it makes me thirst."
I bought him a beer.
"Yes mon, dat dangerous place, dat Kick'em Jenny. She have volcano, you know."
"I had heard that," I said.
"But you neber hear how dat same volcano hate the ships. No you neber heard of dat now, did you?" He took a long pull on the beer, almost emptying the bottle.
"The volcano hates ships?"
"Dat right mon. She chase de ships. When I was a young boy, I go to sea. Working on a little brigantine called the Marylee. She go up and down islands from Trinidad to Antigua and back. A good ship she was, but dat volcano hate her. We usually pass way to leeward of Kick'em Jenny, but there was times when we got close, 'cause we was late or somethin' and jus' about every time we have troubles. We have waves like you and break rigging, or we got dead calm and we goes in circles. Dead calm when ‘afore the wind be twenty-five knots, mon. It were sompin’ strange, mon. I no like dat place.” He finished his beer and I bought us another round.
"But one time, the las' time dat Marylee sailed. De waves bad, mon. The Cap'n, he knows we don't like that place, but he decides he hafe to get close. I thin' he like tempt the devil, mon. That's what, tempt de old devil hisself, mon! But we went anyway, too close and dat volcano knew it was we. The wind died down and all the sudden there was a roarin'. Made one hell of a noise, mon. To starboard we sees the huge tower of fire coming right at us. De cap'n calls to tack, and we sure wanted to tack, but we barely had way on and it took us long time. The ship moved out of de way of dat fire for a space, but the fire changed its course to follow us. We was barely doing three knots, and dat der fire coming close all de time.
"Ole Sam, de cook, he got down on his knees and prayed to he God, and any other gods he know, to save us.
"De Cap'n he yells for us to tack again, dis time we did a little faster. You know, mon, when the devil is chasen' you, you move real fas'.” (he chuckled, which sounded like a rumble in his chest) and then finished his second beer. He slammed the bottle down to get my attention, and I bought him another).
“Well, dat fire disappeared and we all were feeling better, when der was a hissing noise, which sounded like it came from under de boat. In our wake, the sea bubbles up and it smell like eggs left too long in de sun. Smell bad, mon. And then, a cable length behind us the bubbling turned into another tongue of fire. Now we all on deck praying, but not the Cap'n. He shake his hand at dat debil. He say he goin' to get away.
"Just then de wind pick up and we move out from there.
"When the Marylee get to Trinidad, we drop de anchor off Port au Prince. De Cap'n go to his cabin. Hour later, I went to get our orders for unloading. I knock on de door, but no answer. I open it just a little and de Cap'n is on bed, asleep I t'ink. But no…he were dead, and his hair had turned white. He neber got away from dat devil at all. No mon. De devil got he at last.
"Dat ship never sail again. No one would work her with de devil aboard."
He took another long swig of his beer.
"You lucky mon, dat de devil not get you too!" he said with a grin
6/13/92 Lat. N 12 20.0 W 62 36.8' Near Kick'em Jenny, Grenada
All was going along fine. We were having a great sail on almost a beam reach and eating up the miles from Carricau, where we had entered Grenada, on our way to the big island of Grenada. This would be our stopping point for a time. The waves were three feet high and not giving us much trouble. The Cruising Guide said to watch out for heavy currents and warned us that southeast of Kick'em Jenney, near The Sisters Rocks, there was an underwater volcano that had erupted now and again.
I knew we wouldn't have any trouble. The day was too great, sunny, with scattered clouds. Wind was from the east at twenty knots. What could be better?
My log reads that at ten-forty we experienced "steep breaking waves," which was an understatement. Without warning we found ourselves in nine-foot chop. They came three at a time. They lifted the boat up and dashed it back into the water as if attempting to throw us all the way to the bottom of the ocean. It was like a great hand grabbing the boat and shaking it with all its might. It was indescribable and unnerving.
All I could do was fall off every two minutes when a set of these monsters came along. Forty minutes later the sea was back as it was before, but I wasn't…nor was Judy.
"Was that a volcano erupting?" she asked me, her face pale.
"I don't know," I replied. "We were at least ten miles away from The Sisters."
"What was it?"
"Perhaps it was just a counter current or tidal rip; something like that."
But deep down inside I wondered if it really had been a volcano erupting.
Life In The Lagoon
6/14/92 N 12 00.O' W 61 46.8' St. George’s, Grenada
Getting into the lagoon was not easy because of the shallow water at the entrance, but one inside the bottom remained fairly the same depth. Our main problem was to find a resting place amongst the multitude of boats anchored here. Ketches, sloops, cutters and cruising catamarans all snuggled together.
I surveyed the harbor and noticed some burnt out buildings on a ridge to the west. Probably, I thought, part of the destruction of when we invaded the island in late 1983 under President Reagan. There had been a bloody coup and a friend of Fidel Castro became dictator. Under the guise that U.S. students in Granada were in danger we sent in the marines. My thoughts were disrupted by Judy.
“Ames, am I having hallucinations or is that a grocery store over there?”
I grabbed the binoculars to see that she was talking about. It was hard obtain fresh meat on the way down here. You could generally find a frozen (many times over) chicken; one who was too old to outrun the butcher. We had been relegated to mostly a vegetarian diet, although I got fancy with cooking Southern Fried Spam, a delicacy the crew did not enjoy.
Through the lenses I saw a medium sized building with a dingy dock in front of it.
“That does look like a grocery store.” I refocused the instrument. “Yes! Indeed! That is definitely a supermarket.”
“Get the dingy down. Hurry. We might have some meat tonight.”
“I was planning to have meat. I was going to cook my specialty: County Fried Spam.”
“If you do, I’ll jump ship. Hurry! Let’s see what they have.”
We dinged over found the store was fairly complete, having a large choice of meats. We bought some steak, potatoes, and a six pack of Carib, and headed back to the boat. On our way we stopped at the boat of one of our cruising friends we had not seen in months.
“I am afraid,” he said, “you will have to lock up your boat at night here. There have been a series of thefts. The guy sneaks aboard, steals what he can find and leaves before you wake up. Otherwise it is a very charming island.”
We discussed other cruising friends and where they were and where they were headed for a half an hour. But most on my mind were the steaks, what I would do with them on the BBQ, and the meal we would have this night. At the same time,I was shocked that we would have to lock the boat at night.
The next morning, we headed in the dingy to the other lagoon where the city of St. George’s sat with a great gray fortress looming over it. As we entered the harbor Judy turned to me.
“There is another one.”
“Another one what?”
“Another supermarket. Let’s go and see what they have for sale. We can dock our dingy right in front.” Judy was so excited I thought she would fall out of the boat.
As we tied up the dingy a half dozen taxi drivers converged on us offering us a tour of the island. But Judy only wanted to tour the grocery store.
The Real Story Of The Mystery Volcano
6/18/92 N 12 00.O' W 61 46.8' Prickly Bay, Grenada
One morning, Judy and I went into town to the see the central market. I stopped at a little stand where a knurly old woman, in a ragged black dress and long gray hair, was selling herbs.
“I can see you need my help.” This question was directed to Judy.
“What do you mean?”
The old woman slowly looked at me and then at Judy. “I have special herbs for the lazy man.”
“I’m not lazy,” I stated, feeling very defensive. How dare this woman whom I had never seen before make such accusations. The wrinkled face and her penetrating eyes were focused on me for a minute. Then she turned back to my wife.
“There herbs will help you with a lazy man at night.” She grinned and her only tooth stood out like a beacon at night. “You know, the man who would rather sleep than…”
After a moment I understood her insinuation and I began to blush. Judy just laughed and said in a loud voice,
“How much are they?”
I ducked into a small bar to get out of the sun and my embarrassment while my wife continued her shopping. It was really just an excuse to quench my thirst with a Carib beer. This "bar" was a shack that could hold maybe four or five people.
Besides the bartender, whose chocolate face had a crooked smile, and me, there was one other person attempting to cool off. We balanced, rather than sat, on rickety stools.
He was a toothless old fisherman, his face wrinkled like a piece of balled up foil from a candy bar. He gave off the air of a fisherman; he smelled like fish.
We got to talking and I told him of my experience near Kick'em Jenny.
He smiled a toothless smile, which wrinkled his face so much that his eyes almost disappeared.
"Mon, dat is interestink. A long tale," said he, "it makes me thirst."
I bought him a beer.
"Yes mon, dat dangerous place, dat Kick'em Jenny. She have volcano, you know."
"I had heard that," I said.
"But you neber hear how dat same volcano hate the ships. No you neber heard of dat now, did you?" He took a long pull on the beer, almost emptying the bottle.
"The volcano hates ships?"
"Dat right mon. She chase de ships. When I was a young boy, I go to sea. Working on a little brigantine called the Marylee. She go up and down islands from Trinidad to Antigua and back. A good ship she was, but dat volcano hate her. We usually pass way to leeward of Kick'em Jenny, but there was times when we got close, 'cause we was late or somethin' and jus' about every time we have troubles. We have waves like you and break rigging, or we got dead calm and we goes in circles. Dead calm when ‘afore the wind be twenty-five knots, mon. It were sompin’ strange, mon. I no like dat place.” He finished his beer and I bought us another round.
"But one time, the las' time dat Marylee sailed. De waves bad, mon. The Cap'n, he knows we don't like that place, but he decides he hafe to get close. I thin' he like tempt the devil, mon. That's what, tempt de old devil hisself, mon! But we went anyway, too close and dat volcano knew it was we. The wind died down and all the sudden there was a roarin'. Made one hell of a noise, mon. To starboard we sees the huge tower of fire coming right at us. De cap'n calls to tack, and we sure wanted to tack, but we barely had way on and it took us long time. The ship moved out of de way of dat fire for a space, but the fire changed its course to follow us. We was barely doing three knots, and dat der fire coming close all de time.
"Ole Sam, de cook, he got down on his knees and prayed to he God, and any other gods he know, to save us.
"De Cap'n he yells for us to tack again, dis time we did a little faster. You know, mon, when the devil is chasen' you, you move real fas'.” (he chuckled, which sounded like a rumble in his chest) and then finished his second beer. He slammed the bottle down to get my attention, and I bought him another).
“Well, dat fire disappeared and we all were feeling better, when der was a hissing noise, which sounded like it came from under de boat. In our wake, the sea bubbles up and it smell like eggs left too long in de sun. Smell bad, mon. And then, a cable length behind us the bubbling turned into another tongue of fire. Now we all on deck praying, but not the Cap'n. He shake his hand at dat debil. He say he goin' to get away.
"Just then de wind pick up and we move out from there.
"When the Marylee get to Trinidad, we drop de anchor off Port au Prince. De Cap'n go to his cabin. Hour later, I went to get our orders for unloading. I knock on de door, but no answer. I open it just a little and de Cap'n is on bed, asleep I t'ink. But no…he were dead, and his hair had turned white. He neber got away from dat devil at all. No mon. De devil got he at last.
"Dat ship never sail again. No one would work her with de devil aboard."
He took another long swig of his beer.
"You lucky mon, dat de devil not get you too!" he said with a grin
Monday, January 11, 2010
DIAMOND ROCK TO ST. LUCIA
H.M.S. Diamond Rock
5/20/92 Lat. N 14 35.3' W 61 4.5' Ft. de France, Martinique, France
Martinique is a beautiful island but our experience in Guadalupe had spoiled it for us. Early the next morning we raised our anchor and bid fare well to the French Islands. As we headed south along the coast toward San Lucia, we passed a small island named Diamond Rock, which lay off the coast of Martinique. Roughly pyramid shaped, it gained its place in maritime history in 1802.
The British, who were fighting Napoleon in France, were attempting to blockade Martinique with its excellent harbor at Fort de France. Being short of ships, Vice Admiral Sir Samuel Hood sent a crew with some twenty four and eighteen pound cannons, powder, and provisions to the top of this island and named it "H.M.S. Sloop Diamond Rock." This "ship" was extremely successful in surprising French ships as they sailed through the pass between St. Lucia and Martinique. For 18 months they held the island until a French fleet captured it.
I first read about the rock in a fictional account some years before, but did not realize it was taken from actual history. Passing it, we could still see what looked like pock marks where the French shelling had blasted the island. It must have been quite a feat to get the cannons up to the top, 570 feet above the water.
Shark Bait
5/21/92 Lat. N 14 6.0' W 60 57.2' Rodney Bay, St. Lucia
The day became wet and breezy. We had to fall off our course each time a squall hit us, which was about once an hour, and the current between the islands pushed us to the west. By the time we were off Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, we were several miles west of the harbor. We tacked about and started dodging fish trap "buoys," clear plastic Pepsi Cola bottles. We were hard on the wind and making good time when the boat suddenly slowed and I heard a knocking on the bottom.
We had caught ourselves a fish trap. Our prop freewheels when we go over three knots and a fish buoy had wrapped around the shaft. The thumping was from the Pepsi Cola bottle.
I put the boat in irons, dropped the sail, and went overboard to cut the fish trap off. I say this as if it was nothing . . .you know, just "jump overboard." The truth of the matter is that I was scared to death. We have snorkeled a lot along the shore and reefs, but here we were two miles offshore with hundreds of feet of water under our keel. Who knows what strange creatures lurk down there?
I have watched National Geographic shark documentaries on TV, and what I have missed my brother-in-law has kindly put on tape and sent me. But in these films the people put on stainless steel mesh so that if a shark bites it won't hurt them too much. I don't have a dive suit made of stainless steel mesh.
The other sea animal I don't like is a jellyfish. I know that if I get stung I can put meat tenderizer on the sting, but I've been stung before, and really don't like the experience, meat tenderizer or not. So you have to know that I was not crazy about jumping in.
I looked 360 around the boat, looking for a telltale sign of the "triangular fin" or jellyfish in the water. I wondered if we could sail into shallow water before I did this…in fact, maybe I could find someone else who would do it for me if I was able to anchor.
"Are you about ready?" asked Judy.
"Yeh, sure," I mumbled, not wanting her to know how chicken I was. "Oh, I can't find my snorkel."
"Here it is," she said, being too helpful. "You were sitting on it." She always accuses me of sitting on things. She is usually right.
"I need some gloves," I said, trying to stall.
"Here they are. You are so brave to do this."
I puffed out my chest and swaggered to the lifeline gate.
"Oh, it's nothing. Part of cruising, you know."
I jumped in and swam around to the stern of the boat. Dipping my head under water, I saw that the fish trap was very tangled in the prop. The drift of the boat and the air in the buoy bottles made it impossible to untangle. I would have to cut it off.
I had grabbed hold of the rudder to steady myself as I checked the situation and when I surfaced for air found that I had cut my hand on barnacles in various places. Blood was streaming into the water.
Now everyone knows that blood attracts sharks, and the last thing I wanted to do was to become bait for them. I decided I would have to hurry, and get the job done before they arrived.
I grabbed my knife and slashed away at the yellow polyurethane cords holding the floats to the traps. I looked around, searching for gray shapes swimming near me–the kind with large teeth. I didn't see any, but when the lines parted I sprinted back on board anyway.
As I stepped on the deck Judy asked me,
"Did you have any trouble, Honey?"
"No, everything went smooth," I said, looking at the bleeding cuts on my hands and arms.
"If you like being shark bait," I thought to myself.
French Are Very Friendly People
5/22/92 Lat. N 14 6.0' W 60 57.2' Castries, Rodney Bay, St. Lucia
When we finally reached our anchorage it was getting dark and a mile out we could hear the music emanating from the resorts on the beach. Since the bay was huge and well protected, we anchored almost a mile from the general outside anchorage.
(There are two anchorages here: one well protected inside and behind the beach, the other outside off the beach hotels.)
That night the music blasted at us, and we were glad we had not gone closer to shore. Since no one was anchored around us, I slept peacefully.
When I arose the next morning, I made a cup of coffee and went on deck to relieve myself as a proper captain should. When I looked around I saw we were surrounded by French boats. There was one about one foot off our bow (how surprised was I? They were French, after all) and one on either side of us, just a few feet away.
I suppose I should be thankful they were quiet in their anchoring, but I was angry. On either side of us was about a mile of anchoring room. In front of us was another mile of space. Why did these people have to anchor right on top of us? I woke Judy and we hauled anchor, threaded our way around the boats and moved to the close outside anchorage. At least we had a private breakfast.
Companionship
5/23/92 Lat. N 14 6.0' W 60 57.2' Castries, Rodney Bay, St. Lucia
The management of the Yacht Club at Castries was very kind and welcoming. They let all cruisers, whether anchored outside or tied to one of their slips, use their facilities at no charge. There was a fresh water swimming pool where most of us gathered in the evening to swim, salute the sun going down, or just yarn.
The skippers drank beer, teased one another and passed vital information.
“I heard it’s dangerous to take a taxi to Soufriére by one’s self.” Gary, always clean shaven, wearing creased shorts, had a center cockpit ketch and tended to be conservative when it came to adventuring. “I heard that some of the drivers strand or rob you. If we go, we’ll go with a tour group.”
“That is too expensive for me. I’ll chance a taxi.” This was Bill, a laid back cruiser with a full black beard and mischievous eyes, who was on the first step on a world cruise with his wife, Gina. He sailed a seaworthy double ended, thirty-two foot sloop.
“Anybody know anything about Marigot Bay?” I asked. “We might stop there on the way south.”
“I heard it was crowded, but very smooth water. Well protected though.”
“Jim’s right. But you have to watch that you go in with high tide if you carry much draft.” Gary said and took a long swig on his beer. “God, I love the beer here.”
“How much is ‘much’?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Seven foot, maybe.”
I draw seven and a half foot so I’ll watch the tides.
The women discussed where the best native fabrics, curios and dresses could be
found at the market in town. I think that for them this is the best part of cruising.
We stayed in San Lucia for several weeks, touring, shopping, and just lazing around the pool with our old and new friends. I felt a certain pressure to continue down island, as we had an appointment for a haul out in Grenada in a few weeks. Also, according to my boat insurance policy, if I’m not below the thirteenth latitude North by July 1, I’ll have to pay fifty per cent on all damages.
Still, Judy wanted to stay longer and I procrastinated, because I enjoyed the relaxed companionship.
When I felt I could wait no more I hired two native skin divers to clean my fouled bottom, then hauled anchor and headed to Margot Bay.
5/20/92 Lat. N 14 35.3' W 61 4.5' Ft. de France, Martinique, France
Martinique is a beautiful island but our experience in Guadalupe had spoiled it for us. Early the next morning we raised our anchor and bid fare well to the French Islands. As we headed south along the coast toward San Lucia, we passed a small island named Diamond Rock, which lay off the coast of Martinique. Roughly pyramid shaped, it gained its place in maritime history in 1802.
The British, who were fighting Napoleon in France, were attempting to blockade Martinique with its excellent harbor at Fort de France. Being short of ships, Vice Admiral Sir Samuel Hood sent a crew with some twenty four and eighteen pound cannons, powder, and provisions to the top of this island and named it "H.M.S. Sloop Diamond Rock." This "ship" was extremely successful in surprising French ships as they sailed through the pass between St. Lucia and Martinique. For 18 months they held the island until a French fleet captured it.
I first read about the rock in a fictional account some years before, but did not realize it was taken from actual history. Passing it, we could still see what looked like pock marks where the French shelling had blasted the island. It must have been quite a feat to get the cannons up to the top, 570 feet above the water.
Shark Bait
5/21/92 Lat. N 14 6.0' W 60 57.2' Rodney Bay, St. Lucia
The day became wet and breezy. We had to fall off our course each time a squall hit us, which was about once an hour, and the current between the islands pushed us to the west. By the time we were off Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, we were several miles west of the harbor. We tacked about and started dodging fish trap "buoys," clear plastic Pepsi Cola bottles. We were hard on the wind and making good time when the boat suddenly slowed and I heard a knocking on the bottom.
We had caught ourselves a fish trap. Our prop freewheels when we go over three knots and a fish buoy had wrapped around the shaft. The thumping was from the Pepsi Cola bottle.
I put the boat in irons, dropped the sail, and went overboard to cut the fish trap off. I say this as if it was nothing . . .you know, just "jump overboard." The truth of the matter is that I was scared to death. We have snorkeled a lot along the shore and reefs, but here we were two miles offshore with hundreds of feet of water under our keel. Who knows what strange creatures lurk down there?
I have watched National Geographic shark documentaries on TV, and what I have missed my brother-in-law has kindly put on tape and sent me. But in these films the people put on stainless steel mesh so that if a shark bites it won't hurt them too much. I don't have a dive suit made of stainless steel mesh.
The other sea animal I don't like is a jellyfish. I know that if I get stung I can put meat tenderizer on the sting, but I've been stung before, and really don't like the experience, meat tenderizer or not. So you have to know that I was not crazy about jumping in.
I looked 360 around the boat, looking for a telltale sign of the "triangular fin" or jellyfish in the water. I wondered if we could sail into shallow water before I did this…in fact, maybe I could find someone else who would do it for me if I was able to anchor.
"Are you about ready?" asked Judy.
"Yeh, sure," I mumbled, not wanting her to know how chicken I was. "Oh, I can't find my snorkel."
"Here it is," she said, being too helpful. "You were sitting on it." She always accuses me of sitting on things. She is usually right.
"I need some gloves," I said, trying to stall.
"Here they are. You are so brave to do this."
I puffed out my chest and swaggered to the lifeline gate.
"Oh, it's nothing. Part of cruising, you know."
I jumped in and swam around to the stern of the boat. Dipping my head under water, I saw that the fish trap was very tangled in the prop. The drift of the boat and the air in the buoy bottles made it impossible to untangle. I would have to cut it off.
I had grabbed hold of the rudder to steady myself as I checked the situation and when I surfaced for air found that I had cut my hand on barnacles in various places. Blood was streaming into the water.
Now everyone knows that blood attracts sharks, and the last thing I wanted to do was to become bait for them. I decided I would have to hurry, and get the job done before they arrived.
I grabbed my knife and slashed away at the yellow polyurethane cords holding the floats to the traps. I looked around, searching for gray shapes swimming near me–the kind with large teeth. I didn't see any, but when the lines parted I sprinted back on board anyway.
As I stepped on the deck Judy asked me,
"Did you have any trouble, Honey?"
"No, everything went smooth," I said, looking at the bleeding cuts on my hands and arms.
"If you like being shark bait," I thought to myself.
French Are Very Friendly People
5/22/92 Lat. N 14 6.0' W 60 57.2' Castries, Rodney Bay, St. Lucia
When we finally reached our anchorage it was getting dark and a mile out we could hear the music emanating from the resorts on the beach. Since the bay was huge and well protected, we anchored almost a mile from the general outside anchorage.
(There are two anchorages here: one well protected inside and behind the beach, the other outside off the beach hotels.)
That night the music blasted at us, and we were glad we had not gone closer to shore. Since no one was anchored around us, I slept peacefully.
When I arose the next morning, I made a cup of coffee and went on deck to relieve myself as a proper captain should. When I looked around I saw we were surrounded by French boats. There was one about one foot off our bow (how surprised was I? They were French, after all) and one on either side of us, just a few feet away.
I suppose I should be thankful they were quiet in their anchoring, but I was angry. On either side of us was about a mile of anchoring room. In front of us was another mile of space. Why did these people have to anchor right on top of us? I woke Judy and we hauled anchor, threaded our way around the boats and moved to the close outside anchorage. At least we had a private breakfast.
Companionship
5/23/92 Lat. N 14 6.0' W 60 57.2' Castries, Rodney Bay, St. Lucia
The management of the Yacht Club at Castries was very kind and welcoming. They let all cruisers, whether anchored outside or tied to one of their slips, use their facilities at no charge. There was a fresh water swimming pool where most of us gathered in the evening to swim, salute the sun going down, or just yarn.
The skippers drank beer, teased one another and passed vital information.
“I heard it’s dangerous to take a taxi to Soufriére by one’s self.” Gary, always clean shaven, wearing creased shorts, had a center cockpit ketch and tended to be conservative when it came to adventuring. “I heard that some of the drivers strand or rob you. If we go, we’ll go with a tour group.”
“That is too expensive for me. I’ll chance a taxi.” This was Bill, a laid back cruiser with a full black beard and mischievous eyes, who was on the first step on a world cruise with his wife, Gina. He sailed a seaworthy double ended, thirty-two foot sloop.
“Anybody know anything about Marigot Bay?” I asked. “We might stop there on the way south.”
“I heard it was crowded, but very smooth water. Well protected though.”
“Jim’s right. But you have to watch that you go in with high tide if you carry much draft.” Gary said and took a long swig on his beer. “God, I love the beer here.”
“How much is ‘much’?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Seven foot, maybe.”
I draw seven and a half foot so I’ll watch the tides.
The women discussed where the best native fabrics, curios and dresses could be
found at the market in town. I think that for them this is the best part of cruising.
We stayed in San Lucia for several weeks, touring, shopping, and just lazing around the pool with our old and new friends. I felt a certain pressure to continue down island, as we had an appointment for a haul out in Grenada in a few weeks. Also, according to my boat insurance policy, if I’m not below the thirteenth latitude North by July 1, I’ll have to pay fifty per cent on all damages.
Still, Judy wanted to stay longer and I procrastinated, because I enjoyed the relaxed companionship.
When I felt I could wait no more I hired two native skin divers to clean my fouled bottom, then hauled anchor and headed to Margot Bay.
Monday, November 16, 2009
PART 3: ANTIGUA TO ST. LUCIA
5/18/92 Lat. 15 16.8' W 61 24.3' Reseau, Dominica
"According to the net . . ."
At 7:30 am, island time, all boats that have a single sideband radio turn to 6215 Mhz, and listen to the traffic between cruising boats.
I listen for "Butterfly, Butterfly . . .Nona Rosa," which means that the boat NONA ROSA, on her way across the Atlantic, is trying to reach me. And although I hear from other boats, I receive no word from her.
That’s pretty usual for my radio, still trying to recover from the soaking it took on the way to Bermuda. In St. Thomas a captain of a sailboat who made money by repairing electronics did a fair job. Yet I knew it would never be the same, it just did not have the range.
I did receive some interesting news:
In St. Martin they discovered a French boat leaving the harbor towing three dinghies behind it. The police, wonders of wonders, stopped it and found six more folded up inside. Cruisers can rest easier in Marigot Bay now.
Word comes that Guadalupe is stopping U.S. boats that are not documented and fining them. The fine is hefty too, one thousand Francs. They do not want U.S. Registered boats in their waters. We were lucky, and the officials at Dieheis admitted our crew but not our boat. I'm a bit worried about Martinique. Will we have trouble there? I can't afford a fine. So I radio a friend, in Fort de France to check out the situation for me. I really need to go there, as it is a mail stop.
There is a lot of discussion about Venezuela.
"I heard the state department is telling people not to go to Venezuela," says one man.
"I don't know. We were there last year and it was fine. Got my whole boat and bottom painted for $300," replies his friend.
"They do a good job?"
"As good as the States."
"Sure would like to go there, but I won't if it’s dangerous."
I also get a call from a friend in Bequia, who tells me he received word through another boat that Nona Rosa had made it safely as far as Bermuda. Good news!
I'm the independent type and a loner — as long as I have a working radio and a great crew like Judy.
5/19/92 Lat. N 14 35.3' W 61 4.5' Ft. de France, Martinique,France
Anything To Get Mail
Mail has become very important since I've started cruising. I can't afford to make too many phone calls to the States, so I have to rely on the mail for news of our daughters and the rest of my family. And it's not easy to get mail.
It has to be sent to an address in the States, Judy's father who lives in Wyoming, and he mails it to predetermined place. If all works out, we are at the port at the same time as our mail.
When we get a packet of letters, we savor it for several days.
It had been set up for our next mail to arrive in Fort De France, Martinique, by May 15. However, word was out that even Martinique was giving U.S. boats troubles. So I was frightened to go there. If we wanted our mail, we had to.
What a dilemma.
I decided to go anyway, claim a mechanical problem and ask for the courtesy of the port. I spent hours last night thumbing through the French/English dictionary to see how to say I was having troubles with my stuffing box.
Early in the morning we went to the Immigration and Customs office. There I stammered and stuttered in French trying to explain the situation.
"You are having difficulties with your boat?" said the official in perfect English, and a huge smile on his face.
"Yes sir," I replied, "I had not intended to stop here, but I would like to stay only twenty-four hours to make repairs. Can you clear me in and out at the same time?"
"No problem," he said and started stamping our papers. As he did this I felt relief and more than a little foolish. I knew that the officer knew I was lying, and probably I would have had no problem had I just entered normally. After thanking him, we left in search of the American Express office to see if our mail was there.
The people on the island were very helpful, but we had difficulty understanding the directions they gave us waving their arms and pointing fingers. In order to get our bearings we had to stop at all the little bakeries we discovered to taste the great French pastry. Judy said she was happy we couldn't stay longer as we would probably get fat just trying to find places.
When we arrived at the American Express office, we found that it would not open for another fifteen minutes. This meant we had to eat more cream filled goodies. Drat!
Our mail was here. It is hard to describe the feeling I have when I get mail. Elation and fear. That's as near as I can put it. Elation if there are letters from family and friends, fear if there is bad news or huge bills.
This batch, which we took to a restaurant to read, had both. The family was doing fine, and no one was sick. However, there was news that my supply of money was beginning to run short. That was frightening. Guess I'll have to figure some way to earn some more.
"According to the net . . ."
At 7:30 am, island time, all boats that have a single sideband radio turn to 6215 Mhz, and listen to the traffic between cruising boats.
I listen for "Butterfly, Butterfly . . .Nona Rosa," which means that the boat NONA ROSA, on her way across the Atlantic, is trying to reach me. And although I hear from other boats, I receive no word from her.
That’s pretty usual for my radio, still trying to recover from the soaking it took on the way to Bermuda. In St. Thomas a captain of a sailboat who made money by repairing electronics did a fair job. Yet I knew it would never be the same, it just did not have the range.
I did receive some interesting news:
In St. Martin they discovered a French boat leaving the harbor towing three dinghies behind it. The police, wonders of wonders, stopped it and found six more folded up inside. Cruisers can rest easier in Marigot Bay now.
Word comes that Guadalupe is stopping U.S. boats that are not documented and fining them. The fine is hefty too, one thousand Francs. They do not want U.S. Registered boats in their waters. We were lucky, and the officials at Dieheis admitted our crew but not our boat. I'm a bit worried about Martinique. Will we have trouble there? I can't afford a fine. So I radio a friend, in Fort de France to check out the situation for me. I really need to go there, as it is a mail stop.
There is a lot of discussion about Venezuela.
"I heard the state department is telling people not to go to Venezuela," says one man.
"I don't know. We were there last year and it was fine. Got my whole boat and bottom painted for $300," replies his friend.
"They do a good job?"
"As good as the States."
"Sure would like to go there, but I won't if it’s dangerous."
I also get a call from a friend in Bequia, who tells me he received word through another boat that Nona Rosa had made it safely as far as Bermuda. Good news!
I'm the independent type and a loner — as long as I have a working radio and a great crew like Judy.
5/19/92 Lat. N 14 35.3' W 61 4.5' Ft. de France, Martinique,France
Anything To Get Mail
Mail has become very important since I've started cruising. I can't afford to make too many phone calls to the States, so I have to rely on the mail for news of our daughters and the rest of my family. And it's not easy to get mail.
It has to be sent to an address in the States, Judy's father who lives in Wyoming, and he mails it to predetermined place. If all works out, we are at the port at the same time as our mail.
When we get a packet of letters, we savor it for several days.
It had been set up for our next mail to arrive in Fort De France, Martinique, by May 15. However, word was out that even Martinique was giving U.S. boats troubles. So I was frightened to go there. If we wanted our mail, we had to.
What a dilemma.
I decided to go anyway, claim a mechanical problem and ask for the courtesy of the port. I spent hours last night thumbing through the French/English dictionary to see how to say I was having troubles with my stuffing box.
Early in the morning we went to the Immigration and Customs office. There I stammered and stuttered in French trying to explain the situation.
"You are having difficulties with your boat?" said the official in perfect English, and a huge smile on his face.
"Yes sir," I replied, "I had not intended to stop here, but I would like to stay only twenty-four hours to make repairs. Can you clear me in and out at the same time?"
"No problem," he said and started stamping our papers. As he did this I felt relief and more than a little foolish. I knew that the officer knew I was lying, and probably I would have had no problem had I just entered normally. After thanking him, we left in search of the American Express office to see if our mail was there.
The people on the island were very helpful, but we had difficulty understanding the directions they gave us waving their arms and pointing fingers. In order to get our bearings we had to stop at all the little bakeries we discovered to taste the great French pastry. Judy said she was happy we couldn't stay longer as we would probably get fat just trying to find places.
When we arrived at the American Express office, we found that it would not open for another fifteen minutes. This meant we had to eat more cream filled goodies. Drat!
Our mail was here. It is hard to describe the feeling I have when I get mail. Elation and fear. That's as near as I can put it. Elation if there are letters from family and friends, fear if there is bad news or huge bills.
This batch, which we took to a restaurant to read, had both. The family was doing fine, and no one was sick. However, there was news that my supply of money was beginning to run short. That was frightening. Guess I'll have to figure some way to earn some more.
Monday, November 9, 2009
PART THREE - ANTIGUA TO ST. LUCIA
We stayed at Antigua until our friends on the sloop Nona Rosa left for Bermuda and from there to Portugal. The crossing to Guadalupe only a few hours on an overcast day with the trade winds blowing its usual twenty knots.
ANTIGUA TO ST. LUCIA
5/4/92 Lat. N 16 18.3' W 61 48.5' Dieheis, Guadalupe, France
MISSING FRIENDS
One of the easiest things to do while cruising is to make friends. Judy's greatest fear when we set out from Beaufort was that we would not be able to find friends. However, we have been surrounded by friends for the last ten months. Not just acquaintances, but really good friends, a hard commodity to find these days anywhere.
It is a hard to leave them, not knowing if you will ever seen them again.
It may be "unmanly" to cry, but I've been so sad all day after leaving our friends who are headed across the Atlantic, that tears have formed and run down my cheeks.
I try to remember that we didn't say good-by, but "see you Down Island."
5/15/92 Lat. N 15 32.8' W 61 29.9' Portsmouth, Dominica
Ghost Fleet
I heard the rippling of the water –like little wavelets lapping against the side of a ship. I was rowing across the Prince Reupert Bay, heading for a dock on the north side. I'd been told I could leave my dinghy there and explore the fortress at the top of the hill.
I was half way across the bay and pulling at the oars when I heard the sound again. Definitely water lapping. Were there rocks ahead I hadn't seen? I twisted on the thwart to look ahead, but the water still looked deep. The sound of water lapping continued.
Every so often I could hear what sounded like the creak of ropes through blocks and the voices of men talking in hushed tones. But there was nothing around me. I told myself it must be an echo or some freak of nature and continued rowing toward the dock.
I arrived at the dock and tied up the dinghy. When I looked out over the bay I could see nothing except the few cruising boats at anchor and a small coastal banana boat anchored halfway across the bay.
On the path I met an old man who showed me the trail up to the old fort. It was not steep, but it continually wound upward through a forest. I stopped every so often to watch the large lizards stare at me and then scamper back into their hiding places. The air was still damp from the rain earlier that morning.
I felt great. Alive. I love forts and had visited them in Antigua, Guadalupe, and the Ils des Saints. The trail became steeper and I began breathing hard. Soon it made a switch back and I came out on the top of the hill.
There were no trees here, just a few ruins where a couple of batteries had stood. But I could see for miles in the rain-cleared air. I saw the Saints, only about ten miles away, quite well. In the distance, looming up in the purple haze, lay Guadalupe.
I turned back toward Prince Reupert Bay, and to my astonishment it was full of ships. Not just ships, but frigates and ships of the line. I could make out the English ensign flying from them. There must have been well over a hundred.
"What in the world are all these tall ships doing here?" I thought. "A tall ship parade? No. They couldn't have gotten in and anchored that fast. Anyway they don't use frigates." I rubbed my eyes and looked again, but they were all still there.
Just then I heard the ringing of ships bells. I looked at my watch; it was noon — eight bells. Then a cannon fired from one of the larger ships. As I watched, a hoist of signal flags went up on one of the ships of the line, and all the ships began to raise their anchors, with officers yelling, and bosens' pipes calling, sending the men up the masts and on the yards. There was the rumble and cracking of flapping canvas, although there did not seem to be a breeze on the hill.
Soon, one after the other, the fleet moved out to sea and headed toward the Saints. I looked over toward those islands and saw other sails, a number so great I could not count them.
I heard a loud roar and the sky darkened. There was lightening and a rumble which I recognized as thunder. A squall was coming fast through the island's mountains. I looked back to see how this great fleet would prepare for the squall.
But they were no more.
Not one sail.
The sea was as empty as before.
A few drops of rain preceded a downpour. I was soaked by the time I reached the dock again. The old man, who had earlier shown me the trail, gave me a piercing look, which chilled my blood.
"You look sick, mon," he said, moving closer to get a better look at me. "Did you see something up there?"
I remained silent for a while staring at the bay. "Ships," I said at last.
"Ah yes," he said, "Sometimes you can see the English Fleet as it leaves to smash the French Navy. You’re lucky. Not everyone gets to see them, mon. They hid here in this bay for months waiting to sight the French sail. They built that fort so they could see what's happenin' over there." He took the stub of a pipe out of his mouth and pointed toward Guadalupe.
"Beat them up pretty good and chased the rest all the way to the channel, they say. You lucky, mon, you get to see them."
I nodded to him and clambered down to my dinghy. As I rowed back to Butterfly, I thought about the experience. I was only sure of one thing: I was not going to say a word to anyone.
ANTIGUA TO ST. LUCIA
5/4/92 Lat. N 16 18.3' W 61 48.5' Dieheis, Guadalupe, France
MISSING FRIENDS
One of the easiest things to do while cruising is to make friends. Judy's greatest fear when we set out from Beaufort was that we would not be able to find friends. However, we have been surrounded by friends for the last ten months. Not just acquaintances, but really good friends, a hard commodity to find these days anywhere.
It is a hard to leave them, not knowing if you will ever seen them again.
It may be "unmanly" to cry, but I've been so sad all day after leaving our friends who are headed across the Atlantic, that tears have formed and run down my cheeks.
I try to remember that we didn't say good-by, but "see you Down Island."
5/15/92 Lat. N 15 32.8' W 61 29.9' Portsmouth, Dominica
Ghost Fleet
I heard the rippling of the water –like little wavelets lapping against the side of a ship. I was rowing across the Prince Reupert Bay, heading for a dock on the north side. I'd been told I could leave my dinghy there and explore the fortress at the top of the hill.
I was half way across the bay and pulling at the oars when I heard the sound again. Definitely water lapping. Were there rocks ahead I hadn't seen? I twisted on the thwart to look ahead, but the water still looked deep. The sound of water lapping continued.
Every so often I could hear what sounded like the creak of ropes through blocks and the voices of men talking in hushed tones. But there was nothing around me. I told myself it must be an echo or some freak of nature and continued rowing toward the dock.
I arrived at the dock and tied up the dinghy. When I looked out over the bay I could see nothing except the few cruising boats at anchor and a small coastal banana boat anchored halfway across the bay.
On the path I met an old man who showed me the trail up to the old fort. It was not steep, but it continually wound upward through a forest. I stopped every so often to watch the large lizards stare at me and then scamper back into their hiding places. The air was still damp from the rain earlier that morning.
I felt great. Alive. I love forts and had visited them in Antigua, Guadalupe, and the Ils des Saints. The trail became steeper and I began breathing hard. Soon it made a switch back and I came out on the top of the hill.
There were no trees here, just a few ruins where a couple of batteries had stood. But I could see for miles in the rain-cleared air. I saw the Saints, only about ten miles away, quite well. In the distance, looming up in the purple haze, lay Guadalupe.
I turned back toward Prince Reupert Bay, and to my astonishment it was full of ships. Not just ships, but frigates and ships of the line. I could make out the English ensign flying from them. There must have been well over a hundred.
"What in the world are all these tall ships doing here?" I thought. "A tall ship parade? No. They couldn't have gotten in and anchored that fast. Anyway they don't use frigates." I rubbed my eyes and looked again, but they were all still there.
Just then I heard the ringing of ships bells. I looked at my watch; it was noon — eight bells. Then a cannon fired from one of the larger ships. As I watched, a hoist of signal flags went up on one of the ships of the line, and all the ships began to raise their anchors, with officers yelling, and bosens' pipes calling, sending the men up the masts and on the yards. There was the rumble and cracking of flapping canvas, although there did not seem to be a breeze on the hill.
Soon, one after the other, the fleet moved out to sea and headed toward the Saints. I looked over toward those islands and saw other sails, a number so great I could not count them.
I heard a loud roar and the sky darkened. There was lightening and a rumble which I recognized as thunder. A squall was coming fast through the island's mountains. I looked back to see how this great fleet would prepare for the squall.
But they were no more.
Not one sail.
The sea was as empty as before.
A few drops of rain preceded a downpour. I was soaked by the time I reached the dock again. The old man, who had earlier shown me the trail, gave me a piercing look, which chilled my blood.
"You look sick, mon," he said, moving closer to get a better look at me. "Did you see something up there?"
I remained silent for a while staring at the bay. "Ships," I said at last.
"Ah yes," he said, "Sometimes you can see the English Fleet as it leaves to smash the French Navy. You’re lucky. Not everyone gets to see them, mon. They hid here in this bay for months waiting to sight the French sail. They built that fort so they could see what's happenin' over there." He took the stub of a pipe out of his mouth and pointed toward Guadalupe.
"Beat them up pretty good and chased the rest all the way to the channel, they say. You lucky, mon, you get to see them."
I nodded to him and clambered down to my dinghy. As I rowed back to Butterfly, I thought about the experience. I was only sure of one thing: I was not going to say a word to anyone.
Monday, October 19, 2009
ANTIGUE AND TIME TRAVEL
04/16/92 Lat. N 16 59.1' W 61 46.3 English Harbor, Antigua
TIME TRAVEL AGAIN!
As I walked through the old area in English Harbor glimpsed out of the corner of my eye eighteenth century sailors. When I turned my head to look they would be gone, leaving only the hustle and bustle of Antigua Race week with mega yachts, sleek racers with their crews all dressed the same, support yachts and groupies.
But now and again I could see the old dockyard with its tall square rigged ships and, if I listened carefully, I could hear the chantyman on a ship hauling its anchor, sailors at the capstan.
"Call all hands to man the capstan.
See your cable flank down clear.
We are sailing homeward bound boys.
For the channel we will steer.
Rolling home, rolling home,
Rolling home across the sea.
Rolling home to dear old England.
Rolling home dear land to thee."
I could hear the pawls clank, first slowly, then faster, as the capstan turned and the ship moved up on its anchor. Must be a merchant ship. The Navy would never allow singing, I thought.
"Goodbye girls we're bound to leave ya.
All the tow rope all aboard.
We shall leave Antigua sternward.
Clap all sail we can afford.
Rolling home, rolling home,
Rolling home across the sea.
Rolling home to dear old England
Rolling home dear land to thee."
"She's up and down," cried the bosun on the foredeck.
"Bring her home," shouted the mate. "Back the jib....lower foretop'syl and man the braces."
I saw a barkentine with jibs and foretopsail set heading out of the harbor.
I knew it was not reality. Reality was all those young deck apes getting sails on a mega racer to check them over. But the ghosts, they were still there. I wonder what Captains Nelson, Hornblower, or Bolithio would say about this modern bunch of sailors?
TIME TRAVEL AGAIN!
As I walked through the old area in English Harbor glimpsed out of the corner of my eye eighteenth century sailors. When I turned my head to look they would be gone, leaving only the hustle and bustle of Antigua Race week with mega yachts, sleek racers with their crews all dressed the same, support yachts and groupies.
But now and again I could see the old dockyard with its tall square rigged ships and, if I listened carefully, I could hear the chantyman on a ship hauling its anchor, sailors at the capstan.
"Call all hands to man the capstan.
See your cable flank down clear.
We are sailing homeward bound boys.
For the channel we will steer.
Rolling home, rolling home,
Rolling home across the sea.
Rolling home to dear old England.
Rolling home dear land to thee."
I could hear the pawls clank, first slowly, then faster, as the capstan turned and the ship moved up on its anchor. Must be a merchant ship. The Navy would never allow singing, I thought.
"Goodbye girls we're bound to leave ya.
All the tow rope all aboard.
We shall leave Antigua sternward.
Clap all sail we can afford.
Rolling home, rolling home,
Rolling home across the sea.
Rolling home to dear old England
Rolling home dear land to thee."
"She's up and down," cried the bosun on the foredeck.
"Bring her home," shouted the mate. "Back the jib....lower foretop'syl and man the braces."
I saw a barkentine with jibs and foretopsail set heading out of the harbor.
I knew it was not reality. Reality was all those young deck apes getting sails on a mega racer to check them over. But the ghosts, they were still there. I wonder what Captains Nelson, Hornblower, or Bolithio would say about this modern bunch of sailors?
Monday, October 12, 2009
ST. BARTS TO ANTIGUA
ON THE BEACH
4/14/91 Lat. N 17 54.2' W 62 52.8' Anse Colombier, St. Barts
As I visit beaches on the various islands, I see the strangest sights. Some women go without the tops of their bathing suits; some without the bottoms. Some men have suits so tiny they are almost not there at all. This wouldn't be so bad, and might even put one in a state of lust, if all these people were slim and beautiful or handsome. But they are not. Some are dumpy and fat, some have "romantic" figures -- you know, round. Some are so skinny that you can't tell male from female. And all of them are getting sunburned. I ask myself, "Why this immodesty?'
I found the answer to my question one day while visiting a clothing store. There were racks and racks of bathing suits. Most of them cost more than $l00. Some cost $250. "No wonder," I thought. "These people can only afford a top or a bottom, but not both. And some are so very poor that they can't afford any bathing suit at all.”
TIME TRAVEL
04/16/92 Lat. N 16 59.1' W 61 46.3 English Harbor, Antigua
I scrutinized the entrance to English Harbor with great awe. Lord Nelson himself spent time here, and also Captain Hornblower. As I approached the harbor I could see the remains of two 18th century British fortresses on the cliff tops and could feel the spyglass of Nelson on me — checking to see if I ran a taunt ship.
I reached down and shut off the engine.
"What are you doing?" Judy asked, with a lot of concern in her voice.
"We're going to sail in."
"But the harbor is crammed with boats at anchor."
"Hornblower could do it. So can I!" I said with bravado.
"But he was a fictitious character!" she shouted.
The harbor was indeed filled with hundreds of sailboats. It was race week and the anchorage was jam packed with yachts and racing sailboats. But all I could see were images of the towering masts of the British Navy frigates and ships of the line anchored there.
"Avast ye, boys," I called. "Let's enter yonder port and show them lubbers what seamanship really is!"
"Maybe you ought to go below for a rest," said my mate, thinking the all night sail had distroyed my mind.
I was elated as the boat, under main alone, was now making six knots on a beam reach. We were headed for a narrow opening between the cliff to port and a reef to starboard.
"Have you gone out of your mind?!"
"Go up forward, me hardy," says I, "and prepare to lower the main on my hand signal."
We fairly flew through the narrows and I rounded her up between two mega racers and headed directly up wind. I made the thumb down hand signal and the main slid to the boom with a rattle. The boat slowed and I looked for a likely anchoring spot.
Steering to starboard around another anchored boat, we drifted into a clear spot and I ran forward and dropped the anchor.
The rest of that day I strutted around the deck.
4/14/91 Lat. N 17 54.2' W 62 52.8' Anse Colombier, St. Barts
As I visit beaches on the various islands, I see the strangest sights. Some women go without the tops of their bathing suits; some without the bottoms. Some men have suits so tiny they are almost not there at all. This wouldn't be so bad, and might even put one in a state of lust, if all these people were slim and beautiful or handsome. But they are not. Some are dumpy and fat, some have "romantic" figures -- you know, round. Some are so skinny that you can't tell male from female. And all of them are getting sunburned. I ask myself, "Why this immodesty?'
I found the answer to my question one day while visiting a clothing store. There were racks and racks of bathing suits. Most of them cost more than $l00. Some cost $250. "No wonder," I thought. "These people can only afford a top or a bottom, but not both. And some are so very poor that they can't afford any bathing suit at all.”
TIME TRAVEL
04/16/92 Lat. N 16 59.1' W 61 46.3 English Harbor, Antigua
I scrutinized the entrance to English Harbor with great awe. Lord Nelson himself spent time here, and also Captain Hornblower. As I approached the harbor I could see the remains of two 18th century British fortresses on the cliff tops and could feel the spyglass of Nelson on me — checking to see if I ran a taunt ship.
I reached down and shut off the engine.
"What are you doing?" Judy asked, with a lot of concern in her voice.
"We're going to sail in."
"But the harbor is crammed with boats at anchor."
"Hornblower could do it. So can I!" I said with bravado.
"But he was a fictitious character!" she shouted.
The harbor was indeed filled with hundreds of sailboats. It was race week and the anchorage was jam packed with yachts and racing sailboats. But all I could see were images of the towering masts of the British Navy frigates and ships of the line anchored there.
"Avast ye, boys," I called. "Let's enter yonder port and show them lubbers what seamanship really is!"
"Maybe you ought to go below for a rest," said my mate, thinking the all night sail had distroyed my mind.
I was elated as the boat, under main alone, was now making six knots on a beam reach. We were headed for a narrow opening between the cliff to port and a reef to starboard.
"Have you gone out of your mind?!"
"Go up forward, me hardy," says I, "and prepare to lower the main on my hand signal."
We fairly flew through the narrows and I rounded her up between two mega racers and headed directly up wind. I made the thumb down hand signal and the main slid to the boom with a rattle. The boat slowed and I looked for a likely anchoring spot.
Steering to starboard around another anchored boat, we drifted into a clear spot and I ran forward and dropped the anchor.
The rest of that day I strutted around the deck.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
DOWN ISLAND: ST. BARTS , STORM, NATURE
The Picnic
4/10/92 Lat. N 17 54.2' W 62.8' AnseColombier, St. Barthélemy
After anchoring in the pretty bay with its long sandy beach, we went ashore to see if we could find some place to enter the country. We found a trail that led along a cliff, past some rocks and a cave.
The ocean seen from this height was a mixture of blues, from the far off indigo to the blue green close to shore. Toward a point of land to our left, the waves danced and sparkled over the reefs. Breaking the silence and proving the great force of the seemingly calm sea was the deafening noise of the waves breaking on the rocks below.
We reached a village and attempted to ask the shopkeeper where we should go to enter the country. Since we had but a rudimentary knowledge of French, we finally gave it up and hoped that our papers from French St. Martin would suffice for this French Antilles island.
We bought a loaf of French bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine and headed back up the cliff trail. When we came to the dark cave we had passed earlier, we stopped and sat on some rocks in the coolness of the shade, eating our lunch. As I sat there looking over the ocean, I wondered how in the world I had made it this far.
Return To Nature
4/10/92 Lat. N 17 54.2' L W 62 52.8' Anse Colombier, St. Barthélemy
Why is it that when men get to sea they have this compelling need to relieve themselves over the side of their boat? At home they use the bathroom. At the dock they use the boat's head or rest room facilities on shore. What makes such a difference underway or at anchor?
When you arise early in the morning and look at the boats anchored around you, you see that one by one the males come up on deck and stretch, yawn, and then pee over the side. I know this because I observe it while joining them.
I wonder if this is a left over from the early days of humans. Dogs, cats, and other animals mark their territory by peeing. Perhaps that's what we are doing. We could be trying to say to any other males..."Hey, I've been here. Keep away or be prepared to fight."
Maybe it's just a need for freedom from the social constraints of civilization. We may really be saying, "To hell with the rules and customs of society. I'll piss here if I want to. Damn society to hell!"
The Storm
4/11/92 Lat. N 17 54.2' L. W 62 52.8' Anse Colombier, St. Barthélemy
As usual when there is more than one boat in an anchorage, a pot luck dinner is held. We dinghied to a boat anchored ahead of us. This evening we gathered with the crew of a beautiful center cockpit ketch, and chatted for a while before eating. The wind began to gust, but we did not pay much attention to it. It so happened I was sitting in front of the anemometer. I glanced at it during a gust; it read forty knots.
I shakily announced that we were going to have to leave immediately, and we jumped into our dingy, started the engine, and were blown the fifty yards to our boat in a matter of seconds. I tried not to think what would have happened if we had been blown past Butterfly. As we struggled to take off the awnings, the wind gusted again and we almost took flight.
Then, under power we set out a second anchor and played out most of our anchor rode.
Approximately fifty feet behind our stern was a rocky reef with waves splashing through its teeth twenty feet in the air. The once benign reefs had now become dangerous open maws waiting for Butterfly to come too close.
We sat and watched the reef smothered in turbulence and ate peanut butter sandwiches. We had left our dinner on the other boat in our rush to leave. The wind was now blowing a steady fifty knots, with higher gusts. I knew if our anchor dragged we would be in the jaws of the reef within minutes. I was just happy that the waves in the bay were not very high, if they had been, we would have had big problems.
For the next three days and nights the wind howled, but our anchors held.
There is an old Protestant hymn I kept singing: “Be very sure your anchor holds,” but Judy didn’t like that song and made me stop. We set anchor watches of four on, four off, and waited for the storm to pass. When it finally died out thee days later we were able to dingy around the bay before setting out for a reunion with other cruising friends in Antigua.
4/10/92 Lat. N 17 54.2' W 62.8' AnseColombier, St. Barthélemy
After anchoring in the pretty bay with its long sandy beach, we went ashore to see if we could find some place to enter the country. We found a trail that led along a cliff, past some rocks and a cave.
The ocean seen from this height was a mixture of blues, from the far off indigo to the blue green close to shore. Toward a point of land to our left, the waves danced and sparkled over the reefs. Breaking the silence and proving the great force of the seemingly calm sea was the deafening noise of the waves breaking on the rocks below.
We reached a village and attempted to ask the shopkeeper where we should go to enter the country. Since we had but a rudimentary knowledge of French, we finally gave it up and hoped that our papers from French St. Martin would suffice for this French Antilles island.
We bought a loaf of French bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine and headed back up the cliff trail. When we came to the dark cave we had passed earlier, we stopped and sat on some rocks in the coolness of the shade, eating our lunch. As I sat there looking over the ocean, I wondered how in the world I had made it this far.
Return To Nature
4/10/92 Lat. N 17 54.2' L W 62 52.8' Anse Colombier, St. Barthélemy
Why is it that when men get to sea they have this compelling need to relieve themselves over the side of their boat? At home they use the bathroom. At the dock they use the boat's head or rest room facilities on shore. What makes such a difference underway or at anchor?
When you arise early in the morning and look at the boats anchored around you, you see that one by one the males come up on deck and stretch, yawn, and then pee over the side. I know this because I observe it while joining them.
I wonder if this is a left over from the early days of humans. Dogs, cats, and other animals mark their territory by peeing. Perhaps that's what we are doing. We could be trying to say to any other males..."Hey, I've been here. Keep away or be prepared to fight."
Maybe it's just a need for freedom from the social constraints of civilization. We may really be saying, "To hell with the rules and customs of society. I'll piss here if I want to. Damn society to hell!"
The Storm
4/11/92 Lat. N 17 54.2' L. W 62 52.8' Anse Colombier, St. Barthélemy
As usual when there is more than one boat in an anchorage, a pot luck dinner is held. We dinghied to a boat anchored ahead of us. This evening we gathered with the crew of a beautiful center cockpit ketch, and chatted for a while before eating. The wind began to gust, but we did not pay much attention to it. It so happened I was sitting in front of the anemometer. I glanced at it during a gust; it read forty knots.
I shakily announced that we were going to have to leave immediately, and we jumped into our dingy, started the engine, and were blown the fifty yards to our boat in a matter of seconds. I tried not to think what would have happened if we had been blown past Butterfly. As we struggled to take off the awnings, the wind gusted again and we almost took flight.
Then, under power we set out a second anchor and played out most of our anchor rode.
Approximately fifty feet behind our stern was a rocky reef with waves splashing through its teeth twenty feet in the air. The once benign reefs had now become dangerous open maws waiting for Butterfly to come too close.
We sat and watched the reef smothered in turbulence and ate peanut butter sandwiches. We had left our dinner on the other boat in our rush to leave. The wind was now blowing a steady fifty knots, with higher gusts. I knew if our anchor dragged we would be in the jaws of the reef within minutes. I was just happy that the waves in the bay were not very high, if they had been, we would have had big problems.
For the next three days and nights the wind howled, but our anchors held.
There is an old Protestant hymn I kept singing: “Be very sure your anchor holds,” but Judy didn’t like that song and made me stop. We set anchor watches of four on, four off, and waited for the storm to pass. When it finally died out thee days later we were able to dingy around the bay before setting out for a reunion with other cruising friends in Antigua.
Monday, September 28, 2009
TRELLIS BAY
There is a story going around the British Virgin Islands about a conversation overheard on the VHF radio.
“Just Charters, Just Charters, this is Maribell.”
“Go ahead Maribell, this is Just Charters.”
“Could you bring us another anchor?”
“Why do you need another anchor? There were two of them on the boat when you left.”
“Well…we've anchored twice already, and will want to anchor tonight.”
I guess that cutting one's anchor line is easier than hauling it up, but…
Trellis Bay
5/10/92 N 18 ' W 64 ' Trellis Bay, British Virgin Islands
After visiting the islands for a few days we anchored in Trellis Bay, behind Beef Island. A great anchorage and a gathering place for cruisers and charterers alike. We found many of our friends anchored there.
We stayed here for more than a week while I fixed our fuel tanks so they would not clog again. I hoped! After a great sea chantey fest with our cruising friends, we gathered our courage and departed the next afternoon for the overnight crossing of the Angola Passage to the French and Dutch island of St. Martin.
The passage was to windward and after twenty-three hours, we reached St. Martins in the late morning.
Beware the Thieves
3/26/92 Lat. N 18 5.3' W 063 2.5' Marigot Bay, St. Martin
I was humming "Happy Birthday to Me" when we came to anchor in this beautiful and huge shallow bay. There was room for hundreds of boats to anchor. With part of France just a short distance off my hook, my mouth was literally drooling. I was going to have a real French dinner to celebrate fifty-four years of surviving work, raising a family, and sailing.
All this disintegrated quickly when some friends rowed over and told us there were thieves in the anchorage. Boats were regularly broken into between five and ten in the evening. Our friends surmised that the thieves waited in the parking lot near the dingy landing. When the cruisers come ashore they diligently lock their dinghies to the posts in the rocks.
The thieves, using bolt cutters, free the dingy and head out to the vacant boat, whose name is painted on the side of the dingy. They have at least two hours to plunder that boat and any other boats whose crew is ashore eating the delicacies of French cooking. You can be sure they had made a list of all the dinghies nestling against the rocks at the landing.
So, no French cooking for me tonight!
Instead we sat on the port side of the cabin top sipping our sundowner and watching the boats bob in the anchorage. In particular we were watching a boat that had arrived late in the afternoon and gone to town for dinner. There was no moon, but we could sort of see the boat in the reflected lights of the harbor. It was only about fifty yards from us. We ate a late dinner on deck and went to bed about nine.
The next morning, the captain of the neighboring boat dropped by in a borrowed dingy.
"Did you see anyone on my boat last night?"
"No. We sat outside until about nine," I replied, "Why?"
"Someone stole our dingy on shore and broke into our boat. They took our electronics, went through our papers, and took the money they found. We were lucky they didn't find our stash of cash."
"I feel bad," I said. "We were sitting right here trying to keep an eye on your boat, but we saw absolutely nothing."
"Not only did they hit my boat, but they also cleaned out the boat anchored ahead of me. We called the police on VHF last night, and they told me to call back this morning. I called this morning and they said to call back this afternoon."
"It doesn't sound like they are too interested."
"No. I think it’s too late. Maybe last night they could have done something to catch them, but it's too late now." As he left I felt very sad for him and wished I had seen something. I was happy, though, we had decided to stay at home. From now on when I leave the inflatable, I'm going to lower the hard dingy and leave it astern so that it looks as if there is someone home. It will be my decoy dingy.
The trip from St. Martins to St. Barts took only a few hours. Along the way we saw a whale in the main channel between the islands, and then threaded our way through some cays until we reached anchor in Anse Colombier, St. Barthélemy, French West Indies.
“Just Charters, Just Charters, this is Maribell.”
“Go ahead Maribell, this is Just Charters.”
“Could you bring us another anchor?”
“Why do you need another anchor? There were two of them on the boat when you left.”
“Well…we've anchored twice already, and will want to anchor tonight.”
I guess that cutting one's anchor line is easier than hauling it up, but…
Trellis Bay
5/10/92 N 18 ' W 64 ' Trellis Bay, British Virgin Islands
After visiting the islands for a few days we anchored in Trellis Bay, behind Beef Island. A great anchorage and a gathering place for cruisers and charterers alike. We found many of our friends anchored there.
We stayed here for more than a week while I fixed our fuel tanks so they would not clog again. I hoped! After a great sea chantey fest with our cruising friends, we gathered our courage and departed the next afternoon for the overnight crossing of the Angola Passage to the French and Dutch island of St. Martin.
The passage was to windward and after twenty-three hours, we reached St. Martins in the late morning.
Beware the Thieves
3/26/92 Lat. N 18 5.3' W 063 2.5' Marigot Bay, St. Martin
I was humming "Happy Birthday to Me" when we came to anchor in this beautiful and huge shallow bay. There was room for hundreds of boats to anchor. With part of France just a short distance off my hook, my mouth was literally drooling. I was going to have a real French dinner to celebrate fifty-four years of surviving work, raising a family, and sailing.
All this disintegrated quickly when some friends rowed over and told us there were thieves in the anchorage. Boats were regularly broken into between five and ten in the evening. Our friends surmised that the thieves waited in the parking lot near the dingy landing. When the cruisers come ashore they diligently lock their dinghies to the posts in the rocks.
The thieves, using bolt cutters, free the dingy and head out to the vacant boat, whose name is painted on the side of the dingy. They have at least two hours to plunder that boat and any other boats whose crew is ashore eating the delicacies of French cooking. You can be sure they had made a list of all the dinghies nestling against the rocks at the landing.
So, no French cooking for me tonight!
Instead we sat on the port side of the cabin top sipping our sundowner and watching the boats bob in the anchorage. In particular we were watching a boat that had arrived late in the afternoon and gone to town for dinner. There was no moon, but we could sort of see the boat in the reflected lights of the harbor. It was only about fifty yards from us. We ate a late dinner on deck and went to bed about nine.
The next morning, the captain of the neighboring boat dropped by in a borrowed dingy.
"Did you see anyone on my boat last night?"
"No. We sat outside until about nine," I replied, "Why?"
"Someone stole our dingy on shore and broke into our boat. They took our electronics, went through our papers, and took the money they found. We were lucky they didn't find our stash of cash."
"I feel bad," I said. "We were sitting right here trying to keep an eye on your boat, but we saw absolutely nothing."
"Not only did they hit my boat, but they also cleaned out the boat anchored ahead of me. We called the police on VHF last night, and they told me to call back this morning. I called this morning and they said to call back this afternoon."
"It doesn't sound like they are too interested."
"No. I think it’s too late. Maybe last night they could have done something to catch them, but it's too late now." As he left I felt very sad for him and wished I had seen something. I was happy, though, we had decided to stay at home. From now on when I leave the inflatable, I'm going to lower the hard dingy and leave it astern so that it looks as if there is someone home. It will be my decoy dingy.
The trip from St. Martins to St. Barts took only a few hours. Along the way we saw a whale in the main channel between the islands, and then threaded our way through some cays until we reached anchor in Anse Colombier, St. Barthélemy, French West Indies.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
DOWN ISLAND - PART 2 B
NOTES ON ANCHORING
Anchoring is somewhat like sex. You really don't want other people watching you while you're doing it. However, how you anchor tells other boaters what kind of sailor you are.
First there is the “screamer.” He stands at the wheel and screams and yells at his crew on the bow. He does this because he doesn't have the slightest notion how to anchor. There is also the “reverse screamer,” who stands at the bow and yells at his crew at the wheel. Next there is the “do-it-yourselfer.” He doesn't let his crew do anything because he doesn't trust her, him, or them. He must have a history of running track, because he sprints up to the bow . . . then back to the wheel . . . up to the bow . . . back to the wheel.
And, of course, there is the Frenchman. He plows through the anchorage at five knots and drops his anchor. When the boat comes to the end of the anchor line it swings madly around, just missing the boat behind it. Then the captain and crew hop into the dingy and are away. You will notice that I said that his boat just misses the boat behind him. This is because there is always a boat just behind a Frenchman. If there is only one boat in a harbor a Frenchman will anchor just in front of it, allowing about six inches of swinging room between the two boats. Obviously the boat behind them is their anchor alarm.
One sailing couple we know was so impressed by the French way of anchoring they even bought a French anchor.
“They anchor so quickly,” he said. “I just had to have one of those anchors.”
“Have you noticed how many French boats drag their anchors all through the anchorage?” I asked.
He blushed and said, “Well, yes, that's why we still anchor the old way.”
Saturday we sailed for Norman Island with Nona Rosa, cruising friends the Steven sons we met in Annapolis. Norman Island is a nice little island where pirate treasure really was found some years ago. There are caves there near Treasure Point where you can snorkel. Most all the charters anchor in a bay named The Bight, but we elected to try to get away from the charterers by anchoring in Benures Bay.
This is a deep bay and one has to anchor in fifty feet of water; therefore, it is not one of the recommended charter anchorages. We dropped anchor in 48 feet of water so clear we could see the anchor on the bottom and watch it dig in. We put out 250 feet of chain and settled in for the night. Toward evening a charter boat came into the bay and dropped his anchor. He just let it go, tied off the end of the nylon line, and went swimming. It must be nice to have such faith in your anchor, I thought.
The night was calm with hardly a breeze blowing. There was so little wave action it felt as if we were at dockside. I got up at dawn, made some coffee and went up on deck. Looking around the bay, I noticed the charter boat had dragged her anchor clear to the other side of the bay.
Now how could that happen without wind or waves? I thought. Later that morning Jim from Nona Rosa came over. He had talked with the man on the charter boat and reported on their conversation.
“Hi there,” said Jim. “I see you've dragged anchor.”
“It looks that way,” said the charterer.
“It's hard to drag on a calm night,” said Jim. “How much line did you have out?”
“Oh, I put it all out,” he said. “There must have been at least 100 feet.”
There is a story going around about a conversation overheard on the VHF radio.
“Just Charters, Just Charters, this is Maribell.”
“Go ahead Maribell, this is Just Charters.”
“Could you bring us another anchor?”
“Why do you need another anchor? There were two of them on the boat when you left.”
“Well . . . we've anchored twice already, and will want to anchor tonight.”
I guess that cutting one's anchor line is easier than hauling it up, but . . .
We stayed at Trellis Bay, Tortola, BVI, for more than a week. After a great sea chanty fest with our cruising friends , we gathered our courage and departed the next afternoon for the overnight crossing of the Angola Passage to the French and Dutch island of St. Martin.
Anchoring is somewhat like sex. You really don't want other people watching you while you're doing it. However, how you anchor tells other boaters what kind of sailor you are.
First there is the “screamer.” He stands at the wheel and screams and yells at his crew on the bow. He does this because he doesn't have the slightest notion how to anchor. There is also the “reverse screamer,” who stands at the bow and yells at his crew at the wheel. Next there is the “do-it-yourselfer.” He doesn't let his crew do anything because he doesn't trust her, him, or them. He must have a history of running track, because he sprints up to the bow . . . then back to the wheel . . . up to the bow . . . back to the wheel.
And, of course, there is the Frenchman. He plows through the anchorage at five knots and drops his anchor. When the boat comes to the end of the anchor line it swings madly around, just missing the boat behind it. Then the captain and crew hop into the dingy and are away. You will notice that I said that his boat just misses the boat behind him. This is because there is always a boat just behind a Frenchman. If there is only one boat in a harbor a Frenchman will anchor just in front of it, allowing about six inches of swinging room between the two boats. Obviously the boat behind them is their anchor alarm.
One sailing couple we know was so impressed by the French way of anchoring they even bought a French anchor.
“They anchor so quickly,” he said. “I just had to have one of those anchors.”
“Have you noticed how many French boats drag their anchors all through the anchorage?” I asked.
He blushed and said, “Well, yes, that's why we still anchor the old way.”
Saturday we sailed for Norman Island with Nona Rosa, cruising friends the Steven sons we met in Annapolis. Norman Island is a nice little island where pirate treasure really was found some years ago. There are caves there near Treasure Point where you can snorkel. Most all the charters anchor in a bay named The Bight, but we elected to try to get away from the charterers by anchoring in Benures Bay.
This is a deep bay and one has to anchor in fifty feet of water; therefore, it is not one of the recommended charter anchorages. We dropped anchor in 48 feet of water so clear we could see the anchor on the bottom and watch it dig in. We put out 250 feet of chain and settled in for the night. Toward evening a charter boat came into the bay and dropped his anchor. He just let it go, tied off the end of the nylon line, and went swimming. It must be nice to have such faith in your anchor, I thought.
The night was calm with hardly a breeze blowing. There was so little wave action it felt as if we were at dockside. I got up at dawn, made some coffee and went up on deck. Looking around the bay, I noticed the charter boat had dragged her anchor clear to the other side of the bay.
Now how could that happen without wind or waves? I thought. Later that morning Jim from Nona Rosa came over. He had talked with the man on the charter boat and reported on their conversation.
“Hi there,” said Jim. “I see you've dragged anchor.”
“It looks that way,” said the charterer.
“It's hard to drag on a calm night,” said Jim. “How much line did you have out?”
“Oh, I put it all out,” he said. “There must have been at least 100 feet.”
There is a story going around about a conversation overheard on the VHF radio.
“Just Charters, Just Charters, this is Maribell.”
“Go ahead Maribell, this is Just Charters.”
“Could you bring us another anchor?”
“Why do you need another anchor? There were two of them on the boat when you left.”
“Well . . . we've anchored twice already, and will want to anchor tonight.”
I guess that cutting one's anchor line is easier than hauling it up, but . . .
We stayed at Trellis Bay, Tortola, BVI, for more than a week. After a great sea chanty fest with our cruising friends , we gathered our courage and departed the next afternoon for the overnight crossing of the Angola Passage to the French and Dutch island of St. Martin.
Monday, August 31, 2009
The British Virgins Are Better
5/7/92 Lat. N 18 20.0' W 64 57.1' St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands
Early the next morning, we hoisted our dingy onto the davits and hauled up the anchor. We had a lovely fast sail to Jost Van Dyke Island, which is part of the British Virgin Islands. The anchorage at Jost Van Dyke was nearly empty when we arrived just before noon. It took several attempts at anchoring before we felt the anchor was truly secure. The test I use to determine this is running the engine in reverse at 1500 RPM until the prop wash reaches the bow. If the anchor doesn't drag then, it’s not likely to drag in a blow.
We went ashore to clear customs and see some of the island. The whole beachfront is given over to restaurants, the most famous of which is “Foxie’s,” so we headed there for lunch and found something a little different from what we were expecting.
Foxie's is a restaurant/bar with a dirt floor, a thatched palm roof, and a few long picnic tables. One section is floored for dancing. Foxy himself sits around playing guitar and singing songs, needling those who enter the place. There were a few people sitting around, drinking beer and eating sandwiches, but all in all it was rather quiet at noon.
There were two thirtish looking men, dressed in shorts, T-shirts and deck shoes, sitting in the bar sipping their beer quietly. A woman, in her late 20’s wearing a bikini, came over to the table.
“Hi there,” she said, sitting down.
“Hi, you want a beer?” One of the men motioned for the waitress.
“Sure,” she said. “You guys chartering?”
“No, we're just cruising around.”
She looked around the place disdainfully and asked, “Is this all there is?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, is this all there is to do? Doesn't it get any more exciting and fun than this?”
“Ah . . . no,” replied one of the men, leaning back in his chair. “This is about it.” He took another swig of beer and added, “But it sure beats working!”
We returned to the boat and at about 1500 just in time for the show to begin. The charter boats started to enter the anchorage one after the other, and I watched their anchoring techniques. They would come roaring in, drop the anchor, get into the dinghy and head for shore. Very few of them set their anchors. One came in across the wind and dropped his anchor directly ahead of us. He was amazed to find his boat coming down on ours when it swung to the wind.
Early the next morning, we hoisted our dingy onto the davits and hauled up the anchor. We had a lovely fast sail to Jost Van Dyke Island, which is part of the British Virgin Islands. The anchorage at Jost Van Dyke was nearly empty when we arrived just before noon. It took several attempts at anchoring before we felt the anchor was truly secure. The test I use to determine this is running the engine in reverse at 1500 RPM until the prop wash reaches the bow. If the anchor doesn't drag then, it’s not likely to drag in a blow.
We went ashore to clear customs and see some of the island. The whole beachfront is given over to restaurants, the most famous of which is “Foxie’s,” so we headed there for lunch and found something a little different from what we were expecting.
Foxie's is a restaurant/bar with a dirt floor, a thatched palm roof, and a few long picnic tables. One section is floored for dancing. Foxy himself sits around playing guitar and singing songs, needling those who enter the place. There were a few people sitting around, drinking beer and eating sandwiches, but all in all it was rather quiet at noon.
There were two thirtish looking men, dressed in shorts, T-shirts and deck shoes, sitting in the bar sipping their beer quietly. A woman, in her late 20’s wearing a bikini, came over to the table.
“Hi there,” she said, sitting down.
“Hi, you want a beer?” One of the men motioned for the waitress.
“Sure,” she said. “You guys chartering?”
“No, we're just cruising around.”
She looked around the place disdainfully and asked, “Is this all there is?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, is this all there is to do? Doesn't it get any more exciting and fun than this?”
“Ah . . . no,” replied one of the men, leaning back in his chair. “This is about it.” He took another swig of beer and added, “But it sure beats working!”
We returned to the boat and at about 1500 just in time for the show to begin. The charter boats started to enter the anchorage one after the other, and I watched their anchoring techniques. They would come roaring in, drop the anchor, get into the dinghy and head for shore. Very few of them set their anchors. One came in across the wind and dropped his anchor directly ahead of us. He was amazed to find his boat coming down on ours when it swung to the wind.
Monday, August 24, 2009
DOWN ISLAND, PART TWO (A)
We made the trip from Bermuda to the Virgin Islands in seven days arriving on December 13, 1992. The sailing was spectacular and I was sorry that I could not continue to South America, but my wife talked me out of it – vociferously! That's what it's all about; six to seven and a half knots day and night even with reefed main. We ate well this time and, although tired, we are in great shape. Paradise at last!
Paradise
5/5/92 Lat. N 18 20.0' W 64 57.1' St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands
We have been hanging out in the USVI for five months now. I don't know why. We took a side trip to Culebra, an island off the east end of Puerto Rico, but mostly we've been anchored in Honeymoon Cove.
Why? Maybe we stay because our friends are here. Maybe because we can buy boat equipment and get mail from the States easily. To stock the boat? To have friends visit -- at least Judy's parents came for a week. And perhaps to rest and recover from the trip here. Whatever, the scenery here is great, especially at St. John. I know what is not keeping me here. The islanders! They don't like tourists. They don't like each other. They are rude. Perhaps we have taken their pride away from them and given them good old American dollars to take its place.
An example: We go into the “Tourist Welcome and Information Center” for directions to a store. The lady behind the desk is talking with her friend. After several minutes I clear my throat and move around, hoping to get her attention. Can it be she can't see me standing here? Judy and I have been in front of the counter five minutes now. No, she can see me. She looks at me with annoyance. I am disturbing her conversation.
“Miss Julie ain't got no brains, she think George gonna take care of her more than sexin' her.”
“You right.”
I can't take it anymore.
“Excuse me,” I say. She looks at me with anger smoldering in her eyes.
“What you want?”
“I'm a visitor here,” I say, hoping that I might get welcomed.
Silence. She just stares at me.“I need some information.” I thought I'd try this, since the welcome part wasn't working.
“Well, what is it?” she asks as if I were intruding on her private time.
“We are trying to find Carneba Street,” I said.
“Don't know where that is.”
Silence.
“Do you have a map?”
“There's one over there.” She points.
“We've already looked on that map and can't find it.” The map referred to was only of the downtown section.
“I t'ink it may be in French Town,” says her friend.
“Yeah. Go to French Town. It must be there.”
“Where is French Town?”
“It down the street mon,” she says, looking at me as if I'm stupid.
“What direction?”
She sighs a great sigh as she points behind her. “Go that way. It not far.” She turns back to her friend.
It's time for us to pull up anchor and move on. We've lost paradise here, at least.
Paradise
5/5/92 Lat. N 18 20.0' W 64 57.1' St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands
We have been hanging out in the USVI for five months now. I don't know why. We took a side trip to Culebra, an island off the east end of Puerto Rico, but mostly we've been anchored in Honeymoon Cove.
Why? Maybe we stay because our friends are here. Maybe because we can buy boat equipment and get mail from the States easily. To stock the boat? To have friends visit -- at least Judy's parents came for a week. And perhaps to rest and recover from the trip here. Whatever, the scenery here is great, especially at St. John. I know what is not keeping me here. The islanders! They don't like tourists. They don't like each other. They are rude. Perhaps we have taken their pride away from them and given them good old American dollars to take its place.
An example: We go into the “Tourist Welcome and Information Center” for directions to a store. The lady behind the desk is talking with her friend. After several minutes I clear my throat and move around, hoping to get her attention. Can it be she can't see me standing here? Judy and I have been in front of the counter five minutes now. No, she can see me. She looks at me with annoyance. I am disturbing her conversation.
“Miss Julie ain't got no brains, she think George gonna take care of her more than sexin' her.”
“You right.”
I can't take it anymore.
“Excuse me,” I say. She looks at me with anger smoldering in her eyes.
“What you want?”
“I'm a visitor here,” I say, hoping that I might get welcomed.
Silence. She just stares at me.“I need some information.” I thought I'd try this, since the welcome part wasn't working.
“Well, what is it?” she asks as if I were intruding on her private time.
“We are trying to find Carneba Street,” I said.
“Don't know where that is.”
Silence.
“Do you have a map?”
“There's one over there.” She points.
“We've already looked on that map and can't find it.” The map referred to was only of the downtown section.
“I t'ink it may be in French Town,” says her friend.
“Yeah. Go to French Town. It must be there.”
“Where is French Town?”
“It down the street mon,” she says, looking at me as if I'm stupid.
“What direction?”
She sighs a great sigh as she points behind her. “Go that way. It not far.” She turns back to her friend.
It's time for us to pull up anchor and move on. We've lost paradise here, at least.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
One Boot Jackson
12/10/94 Lat. N 21 00.0 W 63 30.0' En-route to VirginIslands
The days passed by as waves under our keel as we sailed en route to the Virgin Islands. This part of the trip was as soft as the trip to Bermuda had been hard. One afternoon, while I was on watch and steering the boat just for the fun of it, I began to think of the first boat we had — El Marinero.
Although designed to be a ketch, she turned out to be a yawl, mainly because the West Indian boat builder had only built sloops and had no idea about mast placement for a ketch.
With pine planking and Santa Maria frames and keel, she was built under an almond tree in Coxen Hole on the Island of Roatan, Honduras, back in 1965. Captain Freddy, who built her without the use of any power tools, was 83 years old. His friend Captain James, who sewed the sails for her, was much the same age. Captain James had lost most of the four fingers of his left hand, yet he had sewn beautiful sails.
I asked Captain Freddy how Captain James had lost his fingers.
"We were sailors then and workin' on a clipper carrin' grain from Australia. I tell you it was the roughest trip I ever made round the Horn. We was homeward bound from Australia with a hold full of grain. The weather had been fearsome. It was so cold and snowy that our beards froze solid on our faces, and the waves were a steady thirty feet with some forty and even fifty feet high. The wind was howlin' and screaming through the rigging and the deck was always awash. We couldn't do no work except to trim the sails. Sometimes when we were at the leeward sheets a wave would board us and we all grabbed for a hold on, or we'd been washed over.
"Me old shipmates, which had sailed together for three voyages, was together on this trip and were on the port watch with me. There was poor Jim, what we now call Captain James, who was short and scraggly, but with a fine sense of humor, strong as an ox. And Tom, who could beat everyone to the maintop if challenged. And 'One Boot' Jackson.
"One Boot got his name 'cause he only had one boot. He'd lost t'other at the beginning right after we left old Boston. A great squall it was too. He come on deck with one boot on at the call of 'All Hands' and as he was trying to put the other on a wave washed it from his hand. He were so proud of his new boots too.
"'Ain't gon' ta buy no more,' he told us. 'Ain't got me money's worth from this one yet.'
"So 'One Boot' could be seen on deck in this terrible weather wearing the boot, one day on his left foot and on his right'un the next. He truly were the character in the group.
"Anyways, one day we had just got off watch in the miserable weather off the horn, when we hears the bosen's call whistling us from off soggy bunks to shorten sail.
"We only had the fore lower t'sail set, but the ship was laying over with her lee rail a foot under water. We was mighty feared that this would be our last voyage. We got ourselves spread out the slippery sixty foot yard, covered with ice, and tried to furl the sail. But it was stiff as a board and frozen solid. We tore our fingers on the icy canvass, but couldn't make no way on it. At times the yard was almost touching the waves, and at times we could only grab a becket and hold on.
"We knew that if we couldn't get the sail off o' her we'd capsize.
"About that time we heard a wild yell from above and old 'One Boot' came swingin' down on a line from the upper yard and kicked that sail right in the middle with his one boot. This broke the ice from off it and we were able t' get our hands on it. Someone started up 'Patty Doyle' and singin' we furled that sail in a minute or so.
"To me way heh, he....heh,
We'll pay Patty Doyle for his goods
To me way heh, he.....heh,
We'll all shave under the chin.
To me way, heh, he.......heh,
We'll all buy whisky and gin.
"As we was making our ways back to the ratlines to go on deck, Jim called out for us to help him. He'd made a bad mistake and grabbed the steel yard, instead of the becket, with his bare hand. His hand had frozen to the yard. We tried to pull it off, but it wouldn't budge.
Jim yells 'I'll get it off, by God!' and he pulls his knife out and cuts off the fingers on his left hand at the second knuckle. We helped him down the rat lines and into his bunk below. Poor old Jim he wouldn't be goin' to sea no more now. Yes Mon, that was my worst trip ever.
"So I hopes you appreciate those sails he made for you, 'cause he put him whole sailing spirit in 'em."
They weren't modern sails, but I don't think I've had any others I've appreciated more.
The days passed by as waves under our keel as we sailed en route to the Virgin Islands. This part of the trip was as soft as the trip to Bermuda had been hard. One afternoon, while I was on watch and steering the boat just for the fun of it, I began to think of the first boat we had — El Marinero.
Although designed to be a ketch, she turned out to be a yawl, mainly because the West Indian boat builder had only built sloops and had no idea about mast placement for a ketch.
With pine planking and Santa Maria frames and keel, she was built under an almond tree in Coxen Hole on the Island of Roatan, Honduras, back in 1965. Captain Freddy, who built her without the use of any power tools, was 83 years old. His friend Captain James, who sewed the sails for her, was much the same age. Captain James had lost most of the four fingers of his left hand, yet he had sewn beautiful sails.
I asked Captain Freddy how Captain James had lost his fingers.
"We were sailors then and workin' on a clipper carrin' grain from Australia. I tell you it was the roughest trip I ever made round the Horn. We was homeward bound from Australia with a hold full of grain. The weather had been fearsome. It was so cold and snowy that our beards froze solid on our faces, and the waves were a steady thirty feet with some forty and even fifty feet high. The wind was howlin' and screaming through the rigging and the deck was always awash. We couldn't do no work except to trim the sails. Sometimes when we were at the leeward sheets a wave would board us and we all grabbed for a hold on, or we'd been washed over.
"Me old shipmates, which had sailed together for three voyages, was together on this trip and were on the port watch with me. There was poor Jim, what we now call Captain James, who was short and scraggly, but with a fine sense of humor, strong as an ox. And Tom, who could beat everyone to the maintop if challenged. And 'One Boot' Jackson.
"One Boot got his name 'cause he only had one boot. He'd lost t'other at the beginning right after we left old Boston. A great squall it was too. He come on deck with one boot on at the call of 'All Hands' and as he was trying to put the other on a wave washed it from his hand. He were so proud of his new boots too.
"'Ain't gon' ta buy no more,' he told us. 'Ain't got me money's worth from this one yet.'
"So 'One Boot' could be seen on deck in this terrible weather wearing the boot, one day on his left foot and on his right'un the next. He truly were the character in the group.
"Anyways, one day we had just got off watch in the miserable weather off the horn, when we hears the bosen's call whistling us from off soggy bunks to shorten sail.
"We only had the fore lower t'sail set, but the ship was laying over with her lee rail a foot under water. We was mighty feared that this would be our last voyage. We got ourselves spread out the slippery sixty foot yard, covered with ice, and tried to furl the sail. But it was stiff as a board and frozen solid. We tore our fingers on the icy canvass, but couldn't make no way on it. At times the yard was almost touching the waves, and at times we could only grab a becket and hold on.
"We knew that if we couldn't get the sail off o' her we'd capsize.
"About that time we heard a wild yell from above and old 'One Boot' came swingin' down on a line from the upper yard and kicked that sail right in the middle with his one boot. This broke the ice from off it and we were able t' get our hands on it. Someone started up 'Patty Doyle' and singin' we furled that sail in a minute or so.
"To me way heh, he....heh,
We'll pay Patty Doyle for his goods
To me way heh, he.....heh,
We'll all shave under the chin.
To me way, heh, he.......heh,
We'll all buy whisky and gin.
"As we was making our ways back to the ratlines to go on deck, Jim called out for us to help him. He'd made a bad mistake and grabbed the steel yard, instead of the becket, with his bare hand. His hand had frozen to the yard. We tried to pull it off, but it wouldn't budge.
Jim yells 'I'll get it off, by God!' and he pulls his knife out and cuts off the fingers on his left hand at the second knuckle. We helped him down the rat lines and into his bunk below. Poor old Jim he wouldn't be goin' to sea no more now. Yes Mon, that was my worst trip ever.
"So I hopes you appreciate those sails he made for you, 'cause he put him whole sailing spirit in 'em."
They weren't modern sails, but I don't think I've had any others I've appreciated more.
Monday, August 10, 2009
THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE DARK
From Goulies, Ghosties and Things That Go Bump In The Night…
Good Lord Deliver us!
12/1/91 Lat: N 32 15.8’ Lon: W 65 0.4’ St. Georges, Bermuda
Now that I’m sitting in our cockpit, feeling the bright sunshine and the cooling breeze on my face, none of the voyage to Bermuda seems real. I feel rested enough to attempt to put my thoughts together concerning some strange occurrences that transpired en route.
It all started about the third night out from Beaufort, while the storm was howling around my ears as I kept watch from my cozy corner of the cockpit.
“Ames, dinner is ready,” Judy called from the galley. “Hurry, Ames. Dinner’s ready.”
I was starving. We had been eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the last two day while we banged and walloped into eight to sixteen foot seas. No sun. No moon or stars. Just gray clouds closing in on us, trying to press us into the grey turbulent sea, and screaming wind – a steady thirty-five knots and gusting to fifty. I was hungry and frightened.
If I stopped to think at all, I would have become immobilized with fear.
Again Judy called. As I unwound myself from the corner of the cockpit, which protected me somewhat from the wind and spray, and while untangling my safety line, I thought it was strange for her to make dinner at 0200. I danced across the bucking cockpit and leaped over the wash of water left from a wave that had crashed aboard. Making my way down the ladder, I noticed that the galley was dark and Judy was snuggled in her bunk, sound asleep.
Shaking my head in wonderment, I stumbled across the deck again, trying to miss the splash of wave over the weather cloths and failing. I checked the horizon for ships, noted the compass course was being held by the autopilot, adjusted my life jacket and settled into my comfortable corner again. Had I dreamed she was calling? I settled back down to complete another hour of watch.
“Ames…Ames…Dinner is ready,” called Judy again.
The galley was dark. Was I beginning to hallucinate? Perhaps I had OD’d on peanut butter sandwiches? It must be the wind in the rigging combined with wishful thinking.
I told Judy about these experiences, half hoping that she would indeed cook a big dinner. I was to be disappointed, as it was impossible to cook much of anything, even a can of chili, as the waves tossing the boat also tossed our pans from the stove. Judy once tried to make a stew, but the boat threw the pressure cooker at her.
Judy said had heard our daughters calling to her. We heard whole choirs singing in the rigging the following night and we started looking forward to the company of these ghoulish, disembodied voices which kept us company during our watches.
Our violent motion through the waves caused a cacophony of clashing and banging. Rags, towels, cloths and anything else available were stuffed between dishes, pots and pans, equipment, and foodstuff in order to quell the noise and get some rest. However, there was one sound that drove me crazy. It was a deep, hollow thump…thump, thump. Then there would be no sound for a while.
As soon as my eyes closed, following my aching body’s command to sleep, that darned noise was repeated, “Thump…thump, thump.” It sounded as if something was knocking on the bottom of the boat. I searched the boat over but could not locate the source of the sound. Was King Neptune trying to grab the boat?
I was relieved the day before entering Bermuda when, on lifting the bottom of the starboard bunk to open the fuel tank valve, I found a can of beans that had slipped down from the locker above. It would roll up the side of the hull and then come down, hitting the tank. One “thump” at the top and two “thumps” on the tank.
After we arrived in Bermuda, all the boats that had just crossed gathered to compare notes and tell stories of the rigors of the voyage.
“I was tired and very discouraged,” said one skipper. “I spent most of one watch petting our dog. It relaxed me and I felt much better.” He smiled sheepishly, “Until I remembered we had no dog!”
Another captain told us how he would lay his head on his arms, which were resting on the binnacle. As he rested he would hear his compass talking to him. “It will be O.K. Everything’s going to be just fine,” it said, reassuring him.
One day a little land bird, blown out to sea by the storm, arrived on Butterfly. He stayed with us for five days. We named him “Stormy” and his antics took our minds off the raging tempest outside. He would sit on my stomach as I slept, peck on the chart to show me where he thought we were, and the one time Judy did attempt to cook, he sat on her head.
However, he was a lousy crewman. At night he slept clutching the port bungee cord, unwilling to stand a night watch. At dawn he would come on deck and scold me until I got him fresh water and breadcrumbs. The day before we arrived at Bermuda Stormy left. Both Judy and I were overwhelmed with sadness, and it helped to picture him on a beach with the girl-birds in Bermuda.
“Let me tell you girls,” he would brag, taking a puff on his cigar, “about my cruise out here. The weather was stormy, the cuisine great, but the service could have been better.”
That evening as we hoisted our “dark and stormy” drinks, toasting the setting of the sun, other skippers and crews shared more stories of voices and music heard while on watch. Although all of us experienced these auditory illusions, none of us seemed to have been frightened by them.
Judy had a book she had started to read before we left, but never finished. It was Dr. Cohen’s Healthy Sailor Book, by Michael Martin Cohen, M.D., International Marine Publishing Company, 1983. The one chapter she had not read was “Sailing Psychology.” Although it speaks mainly to single-handed sailors, we found it to be very applicable to small crews. What had happened to us, according to the book, probably stemmed from fatigue and sensory deprivation.
Was the bird, “Stormy,” real? Or was he an hallucination? Judy assures me that he was a reality and not a figment of our imaginations. She proves it by showing me the picture we took of him and the stained cushion over which he perched at night.
One thing is for sure. I’m going to add part of an old English Litany to our prayers: “From ghoulies, ghosties and things that go bump in the night . . . Good lord deliver us.
Good Lord Deliver us!
12/1/91 Lat: N 32 15.8’ Lon: W 65 0.4’ St. Georges, Bermuda
Now that I’m sitting in our cockpit, feeling the bright sunshine and the cooling breeze on my face, none of the voyage to Bermuda seems real. I feel rested enough to attempt to put my thoughts together concerning some strange occurrences that transpired en route.
It all started about the third night out from Beaufort, while the storm was howling around my ears as I kept watch from my cozy corner of the cockpit.
“Ames, dinner is ready,” Judy called from the galley. “Hurry, Ames. Dinner’s ready.”
I was starving. We had been eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the last two day while we banged and walloped into eight to sixteen foot seas. No sun. No moon or stars. Just gray clouds closing in on us, trying to press us into the grey turbulent sea, and screaming wind – a steady thirty-five knots and gusting to fifty. I was hungry and frightened.
If I stopped to think at all, I would have become immobilized with fear.
Again Judy called. As I unwound myself from the corner of the cockpit, which protected me somewhat from the wind and spray, and while untangling my safety line, I thought it was strange for her to make dinner at 0200. I danced across the bucking cockpit and leaped over the wash of water left from a wave that had crashed aboard. Making my way down the ladder, I noticed that the galley was dark and Judy was snuggled in her bunk, sound asleep.
Shaking my head in wonderment, I stumbled across the deck again, trying to miss the splash of wave over the weather cloths and failing. I checked the horizon for ships, noted the compass course was being held by the autopilot, adjusted my life jacket and settled into my comfortable corner again. Had I dreamed she was calling? I settled back down to complete another hour of watch.
“Ames…Ames…Dinner is ready,” called Judy again.
The galley was dark. Was I beginning to hallucinate? Perhaps I had OD’d on peanut butter sandwiches? It must be the wind in the rigging combined with wishful thinking.
I told Judy about these experiences, half hoping that she would indeed cook a big dinner. I was to be disappointed, as it was impossible to cook much of anything, even a can of chili, as the waves tossing the boat also tossed our pans from the stove. Judy once tried to make a stew, but the boat threw the pressure cooker at her.
Judy said had heard our daughters calling to her. We heard whole choirs singing in the rigging the following night and we started looking forward to the company of these ghoulish, disembodied voices which kept us company during our watches.
Our violent motion through the waves caused a cacophony of clashing and banging. Rags, towels, cloths and anything else available were stuffed between dishes, pots and pans, equipment, and foodstuff in order to quell the noise and get some rest. However, there was one sound that drove me crazy. It was a deep, hollow thump…thump, thump. Then there would be no sound for a while.
As soon as my eyes closed, following my aching body’s command to sleep, that darned noise was repeated, “Thump…thump, thump.” It sounded as if something was knocking on the bottom of the boat. I searched the boat over but could not locate the source of the sound. Was King Neptune trying to grab the boat?
I was relieved the day before entering Bermuda when, on lifting the bottom of the starboard bunk to open the fuel tank valve, I found a can of beans that had slipped down from the locker above. It would roll up the side of the hull and then come down, hitting the tank. One “thump” at the top and two “thumps” on the tank.
After we arrived in Bermuda, all the boats that had just crossed gathered to compare notes and tell stories of the rigors of the voyage.
“I was tired and very discouraged,” said one skipper. “I spent most of one watch petting our dog. It relaxed me and I felt much better.” He smiled sheepishly, “Until I remembered we had no dog!”
Another captain told us how he would lay his head on his arms, which were resting on the binnacle. As he rested he would hear his compass talking to him. “It will be O.K. Everything’s going to be just fine,” it said, reassuring him.
One day a little land bird, blown out to sea by the storm, arrived on Butterfly. He stayed with us for five days. We named him “Stormy” and his antics took our minds off the raging tempest outside. He would sit on my stomach as I slept, peck on the chart to show me where he thought we were, and the one time Judy did attempt to cook, he sat on her head.
However, he was a lousy crewman. At night he slept clutching the port bungee cord, unwilling to stand a night watch. At dawn he would come on deck and scold me until I got him fresh water and breadcrumbs. The day before we arrived at Bermuda Stormy left. Both Judy and I were overwhelmed with sadness, and it helped to picture him on a beach with the girl-birds in Bermuda.
“Let me tell you girls,” he would brag, taking a puff on his cigar, “about my cruise out here. The weather was stormy, the cuisine great, but the service could have been better.”
That evening as we hoisted our “dark and stormy” drinks, toasting the setting of the sun, other skippers and crews shared more stories of voices and music heard while on watch. Although all of us experienced these auditory illusions, none of us seemed to have been frightened by them.
Judy had a book she had started to read before we left, but never finished. It was Dr. Cohen’s Healthy Sailor Book, by Michael Martin Cohen, M.D., International Marine Publishing Company, 1983. The one chapter she had not read was “Sailing Psychology.” Although it speaks mainly to single-handed sailors, we found it to be very applicable to small crews. What had happened to us, according to the book, probably stemmed from fatigue and sensory deprivation.
Was the bird, “Stormy,” real? Or was he an hallucination? Judy assures me that he was a reality and not a figment of our imaginations. She proves it by showing me the picture we took of him and the stained cushion over which he perched at night.
One thing is for sure. I’m going to add part of an old English Litany to our prayers: “From ghoulies, ghosties and things that go bump in the night . . . Good lord deliver us.
Monday, August 3, 2009
DOWN ISLAND, PART 1, Sec. A
Waiting
10/24/91 Lat: N 34 42.5' λ: W 76 39.5' Beaufort, North Carolina
I am tired of waiting. We arrived here several days ago. Had a great time down the ditch (ICW), and I am a more than a little frightened as to what lies ahead. I once was navigator on a racing boat being ferried to Hawaii for the Clipper Cup Races, but I have never made an ocean passage in my own boat before. From here to St. Thomas, VI, is about l, 000 miles.
I am trying not to let Judy know I'm scared. She thinks I know everything. I don't, and I don't want her to find out. Will the boat hold up? I've gone over the standing rigging three times now. It should be replaced as it is seventeen years old, but we can't afford it. The forward hatch could be replaced. It seems strong, but in a storm will it hold up? Will I hold up?
There are so many boats here waiting for good weather to cross the Gulf Stream that we are anchored bow and stern. The marinas are all full, and every night the skippers and families roam the streets of Beaufort looking for some information to give them the courage to head out.
All I heard while hoisting my glass of beer were the words "Gulf Stream." They have instilled terror in my soul.
"You had better watch out or the Gulf Stream will get you!"
“Yeah. Especially when the wind blows from the north.”
“Those off-shoot currents are not nice either. Got’ta watch out for them.” I don't want “it” to get me, so I'm watching out.
Right now it's blowing thirty-five mph from the north. Not a good time to cross the stream. With its northerly current against this wind they must have thirty-foot waves out there. Meanwhile, the cruisers stand around trying to out-guess the weather.
We all know in our heart of hearts that we are mostly stalling. The weather we really want doesn't exist. One of the skippers has enough money to hire a private "weather service" which sends him a fax daily detailing the weather situation. We all crowd around to see what it says. None of us, including myself, wants to make a commitment. We are all apprehensive.
"I donno," says one. "Looks like that low over Georgia may be coming too quickly."
"Maybe," says another, "but looks like the northern wind has calmed down. The Stream must be getting better."
"What'd your weather people say?" one brave soul asks the guy with enough money for his own personalized weather service.
"They said to leave between Sunday and Wednesday. Think I'll go on Sunday," came the confident reply. Panic gripes my heart and my guts become watery. I know that it is time to leave. Is the boat ready? Is Judy ready?
No, I know that's not the real question. Am I ready?
"I'm leaving on Monday," I state, as everything I had eaten in the last twenty-four hours gives a flip in my stomach.
After traveling through the “ditch” (ICW) from Annapolis, MD, to Baufort, NC., spending three weeks checking rigging and loading stores, my wife Judy and I set sail with the assurance of good weather, for St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands. We left in the afternoon and by morning we were in the middle of the Gulf Stream, which was still filled with large waves leftover from the recent storm.
Offshore
11/8/91 Lat: N 18 25.0' λ: W 630 7.8' Offshore
Every time I go offshore I get a strange feeling. I realize that between me and the ocean floor, a thousand fathoms down, there is only one and one quarter inch of fiberglass. Pushing the boat down towards ocean floor is the weight of 8,000 lbs. of lead keel, engine, fuel tanks, anchor chain and tons of equipment. All of this stuff wants to go to the bottom but can't because of that thin layer of resin and glass. I feel suspended above the rocky and craggy floor and hope that the hull doesn’t give way.
At the same time, I also know that the wind is trying to blow me over. It hits the sails, masts and rigging, and actually tries to roll the boat over so the ocean can get in and push that thin fiberglass layer to the bottom. Rationally I know the ballast and the hull and the rigging all work together to make the boat sail. I just hope they keep on doing so.
Bermuda Isn’t the Virgin Islands
11/11/91 Lat: N 32 15.8' λ: W 65 0.4' St. George's, Bermuda
Eight days and 730 miles since we left Beaufort headed for the Virgin Islands . . . so why are we in Bermuda? Six days of winds between 25 and 40 knots on the nose is why. No sun. No moon. Just grayness: gray sky and high waves during the day, and dark gray sky and black raging seas at night. Only once did we get a glimpse of the sun.
I had picked the best weather . . . I thought. I even used the weather report from the guy with his own weatherman. We even left with six other boats . . . surely we all couldn't have been wrong. The experienced cruisers had guaranteed the wind would be from the east, but we had wind from the southeast. It was on our bow and we were taking a beating.
Six days out, we turned north to Bermuda. I felt as if I had failed. Judy and I were tired of being beaten to death, and I was very tired of eating peanut butter sandwiches (for eight days it had been too rough to make anything else). Our HAM radio complained after being baptized in salt water and gave up the ghost the second day out. I had no idea where the other boats were, but I was sure that they would make it to the Virgins while I sat in Bermuda and licked my wounds.
I was ecstatic when five out of the six boats entered St.Georges within hours after I did. The sixth had fled to the Bahamas. It was a year later that I discovered we had been in the tail end of the Low Pressure system what was part of the “perfect storm.” Great!
Exhausted and bruised we cleared customs in Bermuda, crossed the little bay and anchored for the night. The next morning we discovered that we were anchored in the old munitions anchorage, where it was said, a ship had sunk with all its cargo.
10/24/91 Lat: N 34 42.5' λ: W 76 39.5' Beaufort, North Carolina
I am tired of waiting. We arrived here several days ago. Had a great time down the ditch (ICW), and I am a more than a little frightened as to what lies ahead. I once was navigator on a racing boat being ferried to Hawaii for the Clipper Cup Races, but I have never made an ocean passage in my own boat before. From here to St. Thomas, VI, is about l, 000 miles.
I am trying not to let Judy know I'm scared. She thinks I know everything. I don't, and I don't want her to find out. Will the boat hold up? I've gone over the standing rigging three times now. It should be replaced as it is seventeen years old, but we can't afford it. The forward hatch could be replaced. It seems strong, but in a storm will it hold up? Will I hold up?
There are so many boats here waiting for good weather to cross the Gulf Stream that we are anchored bow and stern. The marinas are all full, and every night the skippers and families roam the streets of Beaufort looking for some information to give them the courage to head out.
All I heard while hoisting my glass of beer were the words "Gulf Stream." They have instilled terror in my soul.
"You had better watch out or the Gulf Stream will get you!"
“Yeah. Especially when the wind blows from the north.”
“Those off-shoot currents are not nice either. Got’ta watch out for them.” I don't want “it” to get me, so I'm watching out.
Right now it's blowing thirty-five mph from the north. Not a good time to cross the stream. With its northerly current against this wind they must have thirty-foot waves out there. Meanwhile, the cruisers stand around trying to out-guess the weather.
We all know in our heart of hearts that we are mostly stalling. The weather we really want doesn't exist. One of the skippers has enough money to hire a private "weather service" which sends him a fax daily detailing the weather situation. We all crowd around to see what it says. None of us, including myself, wants to make a commitment. We are all apprehensive.
"I donno," says one. "Looks like that low over Georgia may be coming too quickly."
"Maybe," says another, "but looks like the northern wind has calmed down. The Stream must be getting better."
"What'd your weather people say?" one brave soul asks the guy with enough money for his own personalized weather service.
"They said to leave between Sunday and Wednesday. Think I'll go on Sunday," came the confident reply. Panic gripes my heart and my guts become watery. I know that it is time to leave. Is the boat ready? Is Judy ready?
No, I know that's not the real question. Am I ready?
"I'm leaving on Monday," I state, as everything I had eaten in the last twenty-four hours gives a flip in my stomach.
After traveling through the “ditch” (ICW) from Annapolis, MD, to Baufort, NC., spending three weeks checking rigging and loading stores, my wife Judy and I set sail with the assurance of good weather, for St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands. We left in the afternoon and by morning we were in the middle of the Gulf Stream, which was still filled with large waves leftover from the recent storm.
Offshore
11/8/91 Lat: N 18 25.0' λ: W 630 7.8' Offshore
Every time I go offshore I get a strange feeling. I realize that between me and the ocean floor, a thousand fathoms down, there is only one and one quarter inch of fiberglass. Pushing the boat down towards ocean floor is the weight of 8,000 lbs. of lead keel, engine, fuel tanks, anchor chain and tons of equipment. All of this stuff wants to go to the bottom but can't because of that thin layer of resin and glass. I feel suspended above the rocky and craggy floor and hope that the hull doesn’t give way.
At the same time, I also know that the wind is trying to blow me over. It hits the sails, masts and rigging, and actually tries to roll the boat over so the ocean can get in and push that thin fiberglass layer to the bottom. Rationally I know the ballast and the hull and the rigging all work together to make the boat sail. I just hope they keep on doing so.
Bermuda Isn’t the Virgin Islands
11/11/91 Lat: N 32 15.8' λ: W 65 0.4' St. George's, Bermuda
Eight days and 730 miles since we left Beaufort headed for the Virgin Islands . . . so why are we in Bermuda? Six days of winds between 25 and 40 knots on the nose is why. No sun. No moon. Just grayness: gray sky and high waves during the day, and dark gray sky and black raging seas at night. Only once did we get a glimpse of the sun.
I had picked the best weather . . . I thought. I even used the weather report from the guy with his own weatherman. We even left with six other boats . . . surely we all couldn't have been wrong. The experienced cruisers had guaranteed the wind would be from the east, but we had wind from the southeast. It was on our bow and we were taking a beating.
Six days out, we turned north to Bermuda. I felt as if I had failed. Judy and I were tired of being beaten to death, and I was very tired of eating peanut butter sandwiches (for eight days it had been too rough to make anything else). Our HAM radio complained after being baptized in salt water and gave up the ghost the second day out. I had no idea where the other boats were, but I was sure that they would make it to the Virgins while I sat in Bermuda and licked my wounds.
I was ecstatic when five out of the six boats entered St.Georges within hours after I did. The sixth had fled to the Bahamas. It was a year later that I discovered we had been in the tail end of the Low Pressure system what was part of the “perfect storm.” Great!
Exhausted and bruised we cleared customs in Bermuda, crossed the little bay and anchored for the night. The next morning we discovered that we were anchored in the old munitions anchorage, where it was said, a ship had sunk with all its cargo.
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