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?
Monday, October 19, 2009
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.
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