I loved the expression on J.D.’s face when I headed for the cliffs. It was a bit close, with birds on ledges almost within touching distance and about 12 feet of water below us, but it looked doable and was the route I would take on every other visit there simply because I could.
J.D. was quickly initiated into the world of boating, breaking two pairs of sunglasses in as many days and having to search for new ones (polarized, of course), and pay double what he would have paid elsewhere. (All boaters should invest in sunglass companies and have at least 10 of their favorite pair aboard.)
J.D.’s price of admission was adjusting our block-and-tackle davit system so that I could pull the dinghy up by myself. I couldn’t get the engine side out of the water and couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to do something as basic as lifting the dinghy by myself. It took a while, but J.D. finally pulled it off, resulting in a well-earned sundowner.
Tobago Cays (Again)
I had to thank our guests to date for bringing the perfect weather with them. We had another fantastic day of sailing, 30 miles south in five hours, and anchored on a different side of the reef this time (and away from the mooring field). This side definitely had more living corals, but also had stronger currents. We scrambled up and around the small uninhabited islands for different viewpoints and exercise, lay in the sun, took lots of pictures of one another, and then headed over to …
Union Island (Again)
I’m saying it again because I can. The sailing was fantastic. Our decision to get away from the cold fronts up north was really smart! The light winds were behind us, letting us sit forward for a change as we sailed downwind. (Winds on the bow mean getting wet.) We just sat on the trampoline enjoying the warm breeze as we sailed to yet another picture-postcard island.
We first let J.D. do a little souvenir shopping in Clifton, on the east side of the island, and then motored south around the 6 miles to Chatham Bay, on the west coast. While there we were approached by a local in a boat letting us know he could bring us ice, bread, and what have you. We said we were set, thanks, but the barbecue on the beach sounded interesting. J.D. bargained the guy down bigtime (two of us were vegetarians, after all) and the next thing we knew we were drinking rum punch on the beach. The meal was home style and delicious. Breadfruit salad made like potato salad—yummy. I watched one of the best sunsets I’d ever seen while sitting on the beach eating Caribbean-style food, with great company and with an island cat in my lap.
It just didn’t get any better than that.
Mayreau
Well, until we then went to Mayreau, 7 miles northeast of Union Island. Okay, now this was our new favorite island. What a great anchorage!
Caveat: We were traveling almost crowd-free, since most boaters were just now making their way down to this area (it was May). If there are a lot of boats in the small Saltwhistle Bay anchorage, located on the northwest corner of the island, or even a small cruise ship plying the area, it might not hold as much appeal, but we loved it. The island was ringed by blindingly white beaches, and we were overlooking a sandy spit to the ocean and the reefs beyond. I get giddy just thinking about it.
We hiked all over the place, including to a colorful church with a bird’s-eye view of the Tobago Cays (2 miles east), an overlook that cannot be missed. We made our way to the tiny town and had a much needed beverage at Dennis’s Hide-away. For our trek back, we decided to take the beach route. That wasn’t such a bright idea, so I wouldn’t recommend it. Boulders and trees made for some interesting side jaunts and caused two casualties: J.D. hurt his knee while leaping over some seaweed; and my hiking sandals split apart in the midst of it all, resulting in some uncomfortable walking/limping back to the dinghy. Neither was enough to diminish our enjoyment of the anchorage and the island though.
St. Vincent (Again)
Ho hum, we had another great 28-mile sail northeast, first to Bequia for an over-nighter and then the final 10 miles to St. Vincent. Actually, the 90-minute trip to St. Vincent was more exhilarating than the previous sails, putting J.D.’s stomach to the test. Although winds were on our beam, just the way we like them, the waves were a bit higher and choppier than we had been experiencing. This was a good chance for J.D. to get a feel for the seesaw action of a catamaran vs. the slicing action of a monohull. He got a bit green but did well otherwise.
For our last day together (whaa), we took an inland tour of St. Vincent. We were somewhat restricted with J.D.’s bum knee and my lack of hiking shoes, so we took a taxi tour. We went to farms and gardens and walked through beach tunnels dug by slaves for pirates to smuggle their loot. Aarrr! We loved the island’s black volcanic beaches. For some reason in some places, the black beaches look dirty; here they were romantic and exotic.
On our final night we went ashore, had one too many rum punches, returned to the dinghy, and then tried to motor off but couldn’t move. This would be a good time to remind you about LESSON 78, Dinghy lessons, about driving with beer goggles on. We knew that all the lines were off the dock, so we were stumped when we gunned the engine but didn’t go anywhere. J.D. finally noticed a rope going over the side and yanked up a bent anchor. Oops! The funny thing is that one day we had given another boater pal a hard time about forgetting about his dinghy anchor. In his case the anchor was high in the air, flailing kite-like behind him. Sailing (and dinghying) by idiots …
We got back to Jacumba to find a huge catamaran picking up a mooring next to us and being way too close. They obviously thought it was too close, too, since they stuck out some fenders. Since they had arrived last, they were the ones who should have moved. But noOOoo.
I fell asleep uneasily (the guys never seem to have a problem) and sure enough was woken up at 2:30 a.m. by a bump. I popped my head out of the hatch like a prairie dog to see if the crew on the other boat noticed, and got confirmation when a naked man came running on deck cursing in French. He tied their boat’s stern to another mooring and we all went back to sleep.
We were sorry to see J.D. go because he was a good crew member, plus he was taking the good weather with him. Hrmph.
So what did a monohuller think of a multihuller? He could see the appeal and did not immediately write it off. As a matter of fact, he later chartered a catamaran with his family, so we just might have a convert (Erin, you can thank me later).
Um, our dinghy anchor was bent.
The genoa hem needed be sewn again.
We finally got one of the leaking windows fixed. One more window to go.
During one of our snorkeling excursions, we had blue skies so we left the hatches open. I mean, we were right next to the boat, right? But it’s the Caribbean. It showers. Unexpectedly. Duh. So it rained, and before we could scramble back to the boat and close the hatches (of course, by which time the quick downpour had stopped), a four-month-old computer monitor developed big black splotches on one side that never did go away.
LESSON 93A: SHUT UP! Close your hatches when you’re not on the boat! I can’t tell you how many close calls we had like this. Just close the darn things and be safe, or at least make sure that if you decide to leave them open, you’re okay with whatever might get wet below them.
LESSON 93B: LOCATION, LOCATION Don’t put electronics under your hatches unless they’re protected by something waterproof.
A backup computer I had bought on St. Martin fell on the floor during one of the sails. This resulted in a broken DVD reader. Sigh. Nothing ever lasts on boats.
LESSON 94: STRAP IT DOWN I know I bragged earlier about not having to secure items when sailing, but I lied. We did conduct a cabin check before each trip, but it’s easy to become complacent. Even if you’re in calm seas, you could unexpectedly be passed by a ferry, a freighter, a cruise ship, or another motorized yacht and encounter some waves, so be prepared.
Our engine alternator belts (that’s right, plural) needed to be replaced, and somehow we didn’t have any more spares. They’re usually easy to find, but not this time. We had to fudge it
with what we were able to find and hope they’d charge our batteries until we could find a source for the right ones.
On our awesome sail to Bequia, one of our lines somehow got wrapped around the wind generator and threw it off balance. And we thought it was loud before! We eventually replaced even the blades (thinking that one was bent), but we never did get that darn thing to stop wobbling. We ended up tying it down, which restricted where it caught wind (the head spins to find the breeze) but was less jarring—you can see what our priorities were.
Our clothes “broke” when a ballpoint pen somehow got into the laundry and distributed ink all over that load (sheets and some clothes). With no big-box store to run to, we just had to live with it. We absolutely meant to have Rorschach inkblot sheets; we might even market them.
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Solo Sailor on Grenada
We would have loved to bounce around the Grenadines until hurricane season, but we had a new development. In addition to worrying about our finances and getting a bit tired of togetherness, Michael had kept in touch with the developer he had worked for previously (LESSON 11 about your bridges!) and discovered that the guy was onto another project in Mexico and was interested in using Michael for a limited time on the project. It sounded perfect. Michael would spend hurricane season in Mexico making money, and I’d stay on Jacumba maintaining her and trying to get her sold.
Yes, it was time to put her on the market and see what happened. No, we hadn’t chosen an island yet, but we figured we had plenty of time thanks to the Great Recession. Better to put the boat up for sale now and start getting the word out.
With Michael’s leave date fast approaching and the weather deteriorating (J.D., come back!), we decided to go straight from St. Vincent to Grenada. Although we had a fantastic 90-mile sail heading southwest again, going a pleasant 7½ knots almost the whole way, we still reached Grenada’s Prickly Bay anchorage, on the south side of the island, in the dark. We had everything on our chartplotter so we knew how to avoid the reefs to get in there, but we had a hard time seeing the boats and their dinghies. We had never before purposely come into an anchorage in the dark (nor do we recommend it), but it was another first and we did it without drama.
Together we fixed everything on the boat that we could and cleaned up everything else (sailing and even just sitting in a harbor is dirty business—dealing with trash, pink Saharan Desert dust, grime, rust, salt, bleh, bleh, bleh). We hoped the boat would sell so we could go out on a high note. The past two years had been interesting, and the last four months in particular had been a lot of fun. We had sailed the Caribbean with no experience and made some great friends and were now ready to move on to our next adventure. You know, been there; done that.
In the midst of our readying frenzy, we got a request from Joe on Half Moon to help him get his boat from Antigua down to Grenada. His partner, Becky, had stuff to attend to in the States and had to give up her crew gig, and Joe didn’t want the boat to be in the middle of the hurricane belt during hurricane season. So Michael flew up there and helped crew the boat down, getting his first monohull sailing experience. They made it down without incident, and although Michael had fun and learned some new stuff about boats and sailing, he was still happy with our catamaran choice. Good to hear.
And He’s Gone
Before Michael left for Mexico, we moved the boat around to Mt. Hartman Bay, 3 miles to the east. Prickly had all the conveniences, but it was also becoming crowded, could be loud, and could get bouncy. Mt. Hartman was quiet, near a friend’s boat, and was within walking distance of Prickly Bay (and therefore all the stuff that bay had access to). Off to Mexico with Michael—right at the beginning of hurricane season (June 1).
Commentary on Being Alone: I know a lot of women are asking right now—you stayed on the boat by yourself for months?! Weren’t you scared? I can’t tell you how many people asked me that. Well, the answer was no, I wasn’t scared. From a safety and loneliness standpoint, I knew people in the harbor (the same people we had been tag-teaming with all the way down the Caribbean) and knew more who were coming, plus I was meeting new boaters every day. If anything, I was worried about being inundated by well-intentioned folks checking on me. I like being alone. From a boat standpoint, who knew the boat better? I had been doing most of the same tasks Michael had, at least once, plus my own, and I knew I could ask for help if needed. And crime wasn’t a worry where the boat was anchored.
I wasn’t scared; I was excited. Just me and a 37-foot catamaran. Who would have imagined it? Well, even we wouldn’t have, but both of us were confident in my abilities and never questioned the situation. I would miss Michael’s cooking though (and maybe even him a little bit).
You may feel differently, but you don’t know how to sail yet! Your confidence level might change and so will your mind. Or maybe you’ll never have to or feel the need to separate, so this will be a moot issue. For us, this separation was a good thing. End of commentary.
I lasted exactly four days in Mt. Hartman Bay before I decided to move. There was no wind! At all! Using the engines just to keep the freezer, lights, and laptop running would take all our diesel! Plus, without wind it was hot. Really hot. Oy! Plus, it wasn’t that close to Prickly, and there was a big nasty hill to get there, or anywhere.
Decision made, I was now going to have to lift the anchor, putter over to Prickly Bay, and drop the anchor again by myself. This was a first, although I did know how to do it. So I practiced. Luckily there was no one on the few boats in the harbor to watch (and laugh or critique), so I did it as many times as I felt necessary. It wasn’t a big deal, except that I had a hard time with the clasp on the bridle (it was difficult to push in with my puny fingers), plus it was slippery (or sharp from barnacles) and I’d often drop the whole contraption in the water and have to fish it back out.
I also realized that trying to position the boat without being able to see the anchor chain was going to be an issue. Until you put the bridle on and after you’ve taken it off, the anchor chain can go under the hulls and scratch them. That’s why you usually have one person at the anchor signaling or yelling back to the captain where the chain is at all times.
And if that wasn’t enough, I’d be standing at the wheel (in the cockpit) 30 feet away from the anchor (which was at the bow), so I’d have to find the perfect place to set the anchor and then stop the boat (that is, put it in neutral) and run or walk forward to drop the anchor. No problem unless a current picked me up or a wind gust shoved me back. I’d then have to run back to the wheel and reposition myself, all the while hoping I didn’t run into any other boats … or the shore. Gulp. Well, there wasn’t any wind or strong current, so I decided I was ready to go for it. Anchors aweigh!
I raised anchor, motored west for 20 minutes to Prickly, stopped the boat, calmly walked up to the bow, dropped the anchor, calmly walked back to the wheel like the proud single-handing captain I was, gunned the engines in reverse to make sure the anchor was in, went below, and then did an Irish jig and giggled like a little schoolgirl. I had done it. Give me a high five!
Okay, so now I was back in Prickly. Despite my reluctance to be there, it made the most sense to stay there. Getting groceries was a cinch—by bus, delivery, or walking; there were lots of other boaters when I did want company or help; there were happy hours to attend; and there was even a gym I joined nearby. Plus, it was easy to catch the university bus that took students to hashes. Boaters were organizing tours to leatherback turtle watches and hiking, so I took part in those, too. And I worked on the boat.
I’m saying it again: I worked on the boat. Even though I knew I could do everything, it was an entirely different story when I had to. Here are the boat chores, which have to be done almost every day: clean exterior, clean interior, clean windows, clean metal, lubricate stuff, check the weather, and track hurricanes (in season). Then there are the occasional chores: clean the boat bottom, dinghy, and heads; defrost the freezer; do the laundry; get water (in heavy jugs—185 gall
ons of it); get boat and dinghy fuel (in heavy jugs—90 gallons of it); go grocery shopping; and … fix things! Was I bored? Lonely? No—I was too busy!
A Trinidad Quickie
Joe from Half Moon was in Prickly Bay with me but thought he’d feel more comfortable farther out of the hurricane belt in Trinidad, about 110 miles due south. I offered to help crew him there, figuring I could use the monohull experience. Plus, I was curious about Trinidad. Who knew, maybe I’d take Jacumba there at some point. I definitely would if I thought a hurricane was gunning for Grenada.
The problem with the route between Grenada and Trinidad was that people were being shot at and robbed (as of this writing, they still were). Needless to say, Joe wanted to buddy-boat if possible. At it turned out, a couple of other boats were heading south, so we made plans to go with them. The problem with buddy boating is the pressure to stick with people when they’re willing to go out in conditions you’re not comfortable with (LESSON 40, baa).
Knowing that my boat could go the distance in 12 hours, allowing for a day sail, I would have gone during the day (I like to see who’s shooting at me). These folks didn’t want to take a chance on a night arrival, so we decided to sail overnight and get in by morning. Joe wanted to go with them and it was his boat, so a night sail it would be.
I went to Joe’s boat at 6:30 the evening of our planned departure. We took the engine off his dinghy, hauled it onto his boat, got the dinghy up, and then waited for midnight. Around 11 (we couldn’t wait) we headed out of the harbor with two other boats. About a half hour later we came back into the harbor, alone. The waves were 8 to 10 feet and the winds were gusting up to 33 knots. It was so bad we couldn’t even get the mainsail up (we’d turn into the wind and then get bashed out of it). These conditions were not what the forecasters had predicted. We came back in, motored around in the dark for half an hour, and ended up in exactly the spot we had just left.
A Sail of Two Idiots Page 28