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
Monday, January 25, 2010
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.
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