by Kim Petersen
26
From Miami it is 42 nautical miles, through the Gulf Steam, to the island of Bimini in the Bahamas. The Gulf Stream is a warm flowing ocean current which is birthed in the Gulf of Mexico, exits through the Strait of Florida and then continues northward up the eastern seaboard of America and Newfoundland, Canada, before heading east across the Atlantic where it becomes known as the North Atlantic Drift. It is between 50 and 100 miles wide and between 2,600 and 4,000 feet deep. The current can flow fast at its hump, or midpoint, up to just shy of five knots, but it tapers off to zero at its outskirts.
In good weather, the Gulf Stream poses little problem for boaters. You must factor the current into the crossing, but a good GPS and charting program will keep you right on course. Winds from the north can pose a problem, as they can stack the waves of the northerly flowing Gulf Stream and significantly increase wave height. From the marina in Miami, we kept a close eye on the wind forecast for several days before deciding to raise the hook and attempt our first maiden offshore voyage.
In midday sunshine, we cast off from the marina and emerged from Government Cut into calm waters. About an hour later, we began to skirt the Stream. The water changed from green-blue to a vibrant purple-blue. This being the maiden offshore voyage, there was a lot to do. We checked the fuel lines, filters, temperature of the engines, steering, GPS, and compass. All systems were working well, and Chrysalis was handling better than expected. Since it was calm, Mike decided to bump up our speed from 10 knots to 18 knots in order to test the engines. The engines roared and the bows rose up out of the water before falling slightly, as if she had planing hulls. This was curious to us because Chrysalis has twin, full displacement hulls, and should not rise out of the water. We traveled this way for awhile going at 18 knots, about 22 miles an hour. Just about the time I was thinking, “What's the big deal traveling offshore?” our starboard engine sputtered several times, then failed. With a concerned look, Mike left to check on it. Before he could make an assessment, the port engine quit as well.
I sat at the helm and nervously considered the possibilities should both engines fail to restart. We might drift in the Gulf Stream all the way up to Cape Fear, named, I suspected, for a reason. A more probable scenario would find us calling Tow Boat US. They could come and tow us back to Miami. It was fortunate for us that the coordinates between Miami and Bimini were well traveled. Help might not be minutes away, but likely a few hours at most. Not so if we were in the middle of the Atlantic, say, between Bermuda and the Azores. Even with a satellite phone, assistance of any kind would be several days away, possibly more. Self reliance on any kind of ocean passage was imperative.
Mike returned to the pilothouse and proceeded to explain what he thought was the problem. While we were an anchored, he had transferred most of our fuel and water to our forward tanks. This caused the boat to sit bow heavy. It also caused our fuel gauges on our day tanks to misread the level of fuel. Once we picked up speed, the bow rose so that the fuel now moved to the rear of the day tank. Since the fuel pickup was at the forward end of the tank, we would be “out of fuel” while the gauges had us at a quarter of a tank.
“So, we just need to remember to keep our day tanks more than a quarter full if we are going fast, right?” I said.
“Right. Every boat has its quirks and this is the first that we know of. We won't be going 20 knots regularly anyway, we would burn too much fuel. Our cruising speed is around 10 knots which won't cause a problem no matter how our fuel is situated on board.”
Since air had gotten into the fuel lines, Mike had to suck it out and get diesel back through the lines in order to feed each of the engines. At the time, he could do this only by sucking it out with his mouth, receiving a mouth full of diesel once the air had passed. Diesel breath, I discovered later on when he tried to kiss me, was an even bigger turnoff than garlic.
It took about an hour to rid the engines of air pockets before they resumed their rumbling. The afternoon had worn on. It was late. We weren't thrilled about navigating the shallow waters of the Bahamas in the dark, so we decided to return to Miami and try again another day. We anchored, this time in a different bay, making sure to set the anchor at 1000 rpms.
Unfortunately, a low passed through the area and for the next few days a northerly kicked up winds over 30 knots. Although I was nervous, the anchor held. We waited impatiently for the low to pass. When things had calmed down slightly, we decided to make a second attempt. The forecast was for six-to-seven foot waves outside the Gulf Stream. Although we were wary, we were curious as to how Chrysalis would handle seas of that kind. We decided to venture out.
Skies were clear and the sun shined brilliantly, but as soon as we exited Government Cut for the second time, we were met with significantly heavier seas. True to the weather forecast, we plodded through six-to-seven foot waves. The further east we went, the taller the waves became. Foam capped large, breaking, confused seas. We were bombarded from every direction. Mike attempted to navigate from the flybridge. The kids and I sat flanking him. From this vantage point, twelve feet above the waterline, I looked out with an even gaze to the top of the waves approaching us. Spray erupted over the sides up at us. The rocking was substantial and uncomfortable. We hung on.
I decided I wanted to see what the waves looked like from the cockpit. I inched my way down the stairs on my posterior, standing only briefly to open the pilothouse door. Once inside, I radioed up to Mike to tell him I had made it indoors. I groped my way into the galley and out the back door. From the hollow or valley between waves, I looked up on the crest of waves that were higher than the flybridge, making them about 12 to 14 feet high. I considered: these waves approached the size of waves I had seen in my dreams.
Since all of our systems were working and Chrysalis seemed to be handling the situation, there was no immediate danger. I studied the power of the waves with a surprising neutrality. Just a few steps over the stern existed a world with little mercy. The waves cared nothing for my past, present, or future. They cared little for my life as a woman or that I was a wife and a mother. If I was to stand along the wingdeck, a misstep, a sudden awkward jerking motion, and I could slip overboard and even with my lifejacket on, the water, with impartiality, would likely steal me away indefinitely.
I crawled back up to the pilothouse. I could only crawl as walking had become impossible. At the helm, I radioed Mike to tell him that I was coming back up. I crawled to the flybridge, getting doused along the way by a large wave that hit us broadside. The four of us sat on the settee in silence for a few minutes before I said, “There doesn't seem to be much sense in continuing on in these conditions for another four or five more hours. Should we head back?”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Mike replied.
We turned slowly, in a wide arc, and once again pointed the bows toward Miami. Nearing the shoreline, Lauren said in a hoarse whisper, “I never imagined the sea could be this wild.”
I had imagined it. Unlike my visions of horror, everything had turned out just fine.
Back at our anchorage, we discussed how well Chrysalis had maneuvered in such conditions. Although tossed, no green water hit the pilothouse windows. Nothing leaked or ceased working. What a great boat, we both said, pleased.
Mike asked me how I had felt seeing those large waves.
“It is becoming obvious to me that my imagination is far worse than the reality,” I said. “How did you feel about it?”
Smiling, shaking his head, he said, “Those were some pretty significant seas out there. I think a few of those waves that hit us were over fourteen feet. Once I saw how well Chrysalis was managing, I wasn't nervous. But that rocking was uncomfortable! I am glad for the experience, though. Knowing how Chrysalis handles seas that large will go a long way in building our confidence should we ever encounter those kind of seas again, don't you think?” he asked.
I told him I thought it would.
Stefan, who had been sitting in the cock
pit listening to our discussion, said with dismay, “I don't think we are ever going to get to the Bahamas.”
The northerlies gradually abated that night, but it wasn't until two days later that things calmed down sufficiently for us to try again. Experiencing the seas of our last attempt, while going a long way toward building our confidence, was not something we wanted to repeat. We exited Government Cut for the third time. The waters were tame and although the skies were overcast, the wind was almost non-existent. The land disappeared and for three hours we saw nothing on the horizon but water and sky. During that time, it occurred to me that I was in the middle of nowhere. Timbuktu. There were no buildings, no cars, no people, and no land. Time could fast forward or rewind. How would I know? It was an ageless ocean. Spin the wheel and set the date. With binoculars, I scanned the horizon for a galleon with a Spanish flag. Maybe, I thought, I could wave to Ponce de Leon.
The middle of nowhere was actually somewhere, for there I was in it. The motors hummed. The sun was shining, the breeze, cool. I sat alone on the flybridge under the shade of a Bimini canopy. I had volunteered for the first official watch. On lengthier ocean passages, taking a turn on watch is important. Each crew member is assigned a block of time, while the rest of the crew takes a break. The person on watch keeps a lookout for other boats, rocks, and debris in the water. They record longitude and latitude, mark any mechanical notes down in a ledger. I took my job seriously. My head scanned from left to right like a metronome searching for any possible danger. For the moment, there was little to be concerned about. The waves were on the nose, roughly one foot swells. I barely felt them. They were just enough to combine hypnotically with the motors to put me in a trance-like state.
So, I was lulled. I sat for an hour, a day, a month. My mind was completely void of thoughts. As was Chrysalis, I was on auto pilot. There was nowhere to go. Nothing to buy. No plans to make. No news from the outside world. Nothing to be concerned about for miles and miles. Nothing between there and the moon.
As I floated brainlessly along the space-time continuum, I was jolted out of my stupor by rush hour. A cigarette boat materialized from the southeast and passed in a blur. It took me a few moments to comprehend it. It smacked of some other world I once knew. The craft turned suddenly northwest toward land. I was sorry to see him go. This was a newsworthy event in la la land. A head poked up through the hatch from down below.
“Did you see him whiz by?” Mike asked.
“I certainly did,” I replied. After all, I was on watch and it was my job to notice such things. As soon as I said this, I saw the arced bodies of dolphins approaching.
“Dolphins ahoy!” I yelled down a hatch, which, gauging from the response, was similar to saying, “Here comes the ice cream truck!” The crew emerged from below and we made a beeline for the bows. A pod of spotted dolphins raced towards us as if they had an urgent message. They were after our bows, which was their playground. Upon arrival, they began to jump exuberantly back and forth directly in our path, darting under one bow, perilously close to the hull, only to reappear on the other side. Two or three of them discovered the space between our two hulls and were content to leap there. The more we cheered them on, the more they seemed to enjoy their own antics. We whooped and leapt ourselves as if sharing some inside joke. For a full ten minutes we relished their company, and then they disappeared just as quickly as they came. We stood leaning over the rails, heaving and smiling, before wandering off in contented silence.
Since it was rush hour, the traffic continued. As soon as I was back at the flybridge, a small bird appeared. I noticed it was not a water bird, but some kind of sparrow. I wondered how he had come to be almost forty nautical miles offshore. I considered that he might be taking the scenic route on his way north after a warm winter in Florida. He did a complete 360 around our boat, chirping at me for the duration. I assumed he was wondering what we were doing this far out into no man's land. After receiving little response from me, he turned and, interestingly enough, headed north.
“Land Ho!” I shouted. Through the binoculars, I saw the grey loping outline of land between water and sky. The water gradually began to change from greenish blue to milky turquoise. Lauren and Stefan emerged and made their way to the bows in order to keep a look out for reefs and rocks. As we pulled in through the narrow entrance of Bimini Sands Marina, they began jumping up and down, hollering “hooray! We made it!” Stefan turned to me and yelled, “Mom this is the happiest day of my life!” They both proceeded to do the chicken dance.
The dockhand helping us asked where we had come from and what the seas were like. He nodded his head at our report.
“Nice day for a crossing,” he said smiling at me as I handed him our stern line.
“Sir,” I said, “you have no idea.”
Not long before, I had read Nathaniel Philbrick's The Mayflower, in which he described the journey of the Pilgrims and their attempt to make a life in a new world. As they became friends with the natives, they began to realize that the land that was new to them was already ages old and had a history all its own. While on scouting exhibitions with the locals, the Pilgrims noticed many circular, foot-deep pits, several feet wide, placed along trails through the forest. Upon inquiry, the pilgrims learned that these were “story” holes. When the course of their travels took them by a pit, the natives would stop and everyone traveling with them would get into the pit. Someone would then recount the story of what had happened there, thus keeping history alive for their community.
I consider the Gulf Stream a story pit. In the future, every time I cross over it, whether by sea or by air, I will gather everyone together and tell the tale of our first offshore voyage and the struggle to get to the small island of Bimini. All the hard work of building the boat. Learning to tie a bowline knot. The color of the water. The smiling faces. Large waves. The relief. It is possible that I will begin to take a little license on the story pit idea and just start telling the tale in any old place. I'll even recount it to grandchildren who will roll their eyes and say, “Not again, Grandma! We've heard this story a hundred times already!”
27
The next day, after the kids completed some neglected school work, we left to explore the area. The Bimini Islands consist of two, low lying, main islands with a few tiny ones lying to the south. Although there has been talk in the past, North and South Bimini are not yet connected by a bridge. Since the marina where we were docked was in South Bimini, we took a taxi about a mile or so to the small ferry service. This took us to North Bimini, and the main hub of Alice Town. We disembarked the rickety, wooden ferry, and proceeded to walk by several whitewashed, ramshackle shops selling trinkets and shells. For a dollar, you could buy a conch shell, smooth, pink, and polished. A few restaurants, one advertising Bimini Macaroni and Cheese, were scattered along the main thoroughfare. Since macaroni and cheese was a favorite, I made a mental note. When we went by later for lunch, I found the mac and cheese, cut into squares and sparsely populated with peas and carrots, to be a delicious rendition of the dish I was familiar with.
While in town we discovered a shop that rented golf carts, the general means of island transportation, and set about securing one. Upon signing the back of a scrap piece of paper legalizing the transaction, I inquired about a map. The guy we were renting from threw his head back and laughed. He said we certainly wouldn't need one as there were only two roads, “Dis one, and dat one” he said pointing first one way, then the other. “You ride up three or four miles and then catch da linking road and ride back, mon.”
The rest of the family found this amusing, me asking for a map, and throughout the remainder of the day, kept inquiring if I needed a map to: find the toilet in the restroom, the cheese in the small grocery store, and once back onboard, the way to my stateroom.
Since traffic was sparse, we let each of the kids take a turn driving up and down The Kings Highway. Stefan, new to the automotive world, hit almost every pothole and narrowly missed a goat w
ithin the first hundred and fifty feet. While traveling down the left hand side of the road, dodging carts, pedestrians and the occasional chicken, he said with exuberance, “This is better than playing Frogger!”
All the way up and then back down again, friendly locals waved, nodded, or called out “Hello there!” We were smitten. What Bimini lacked in Internet and convenience, it certainly made up for in hospitality.
Ernest Hemingway lived and wrote on the North Island from 1935 to 1937. From his yacht, Pilar, he trolled the surrounding waters for tuna and mackerel. When he was on land, he lived and wrote at a local pub, The Compleat Angler, which used to be a hotel. Mike, Lauren, and I went to the pub where he used to write. It was just as I had pictured it, an antiquated version of an “old boys club” with carved dark wood paneling, tables, chairs, and pictures of Hemingway's glory days covering every inch of spare wall. Here he was standing on a dock next to a hoisted sailfish. Over here it was a grouper and next to that a shark. Other memorabilia, glasses, a pen were kept in enclosed viewing tables. Interspersed were written snippets about his life and sound bite quotes from him, some of which I tucked away for future reference.
I sat in what the bartender told me could very well have been his chair. He told me this with a smile and wink, so I wouldn't bet my life on it. Even so, my writing self was all alert hoping some of his residual talent was still hanging about the place and if I inhaled it, perhaps it would attach itself to my brain. I looked out the window on to a dusty street, and wondered what it would have been like for him to sit in that chair, or somewhere close by, writing To Have and Have Not. I wondered what drew him to Bimini. Was it just the fishing? Or did the lonely solitude and beauty of the turquoise waters become the muse he was looking for?