A Sail of Two Idiots

by Renee Petrillo

  Tropical Storm Ana, however, was not a welcome guest. When I first saw the blob form southeast of us on various Internet weather websites, I became obsessed with watching its movements and reading the forecast discussions. We asked fishermen and boat charterers where they took their boats during storms and were told Dieppe Bay, in the northwest corner of the island. The big charter catamarans had moorings there for that purpose; the fishing boats anchored and hoped for the best. We had checked out that anchorage during a moped excursion and knew it was a tough but manageable harbor entrance. There wasn’t much swing room, though, so we’d have to go over early, and that would mean a long commute for Michael.

  The island marina, 30 minutes northwest in Basseterre, forced boats out during hurricanes because their breaker walls were not enough protection from hurricane-induced seas, so that was out.

  We weren’t too keen on the haulout place farther northwest either. We would have to dig holes for our keels/rudders/saildrives and fill the holes ourselves with concrete (and embed tie-downs in the concrete). Most other boaters in the yard weren’t doing that, which meant their vessels would go flying if the winds were high enough. They and the rest of the loose items on their boats could become missiles and do more damage to our boat than the storm itself. Plus, the haulout Travelift had broken during the last hurricane, and boats were marooned on the hard for months before the Travelift could be repaired. We couldn’t afford that, nor would we want to live in the yard for so long. That option was out.

  I could sail quickly to Antigua or St. Martin and haul out in a better facility, but that would be expensive, and Michael would have to find a place to stay. Outrunning a storm at sea brought its own complications. Let the nail biting commence.

  As Ana got closer, I realized that although we would likely be right in its path, the winds would be relatively minor, 30 to 50 knots. That was peanuts. We had been anchored in winds of that strength in the Bahamas and other places several times. We felt confident about staying where we were. Confident but not stupid, however, we packed up a few important things and gave them to a friend on land, just in case.

  It was time to prepare the anchor. We let out all the chain, set two anchors, and then, not satisfied with just our simple kellet this time, added a loaned anchor and some extra loose chain. We put it all in a bag that we hung from our main anchor chain to keep as much strain off the anchor as possible. The kellet bag probably weighed about 100 pounds. We also had almost 100 pounds of anchor on the seabed plus the chain leading to it. Bring it on.

  Tropical Storm Ana hit (south of us) in the middle of the night (of course) with winds a steady 35 knots with some gusts just under 50 knots, but seas remained low, so we weathered it well. The lightning made us nervous but was short-lived. That was it! What a relief!

  Except that Hurricane Bill made an appearance shortly thereafter. Worse, he couldn’t make up his mind where he was going. That storm got humongous (a Category 4) and could have been a really big deal had it not gone north of all the islands. Whew!

  We did get swells that made us green for a couple of days, but we were not complaining.

  Happy Feet

  As a matter of fact, we were celebrating. What?! Someone was interested in our boat. One of the divers involved with the mooring installation had mentioned Jacumba to someone he knew who had been itching for a weekend boat.

  Did we have a deal for him!

  One day we got back to Jacumba after doing laundry and were met by the interested party and his son. Would we mind showing them the boat? Mind? We couldn’t get them on board fast enough. This was also why I kept the boat ready to show at all times. A few days later, they came back again with the whole family (including grandparents). No problem!

  The good news was that he was serious and there would be no broker involved. The bad news was that he was lowballing us. We would barely cover the loan if we agreed to what he was asking. Negotiations ensued.

  We even took them sailing once so they could get a feel for the catamaran (a first for them). There were a few glitches—the zipper for the sail cover came off in our fingers, the new clutches were hard to open, the traveler was stiff—but Mr. Buyer didn’t seem concerned about any of these things. He did know about boats (monohulls) so he understood. Tip: You definitely want to sell to someone who knows about boats—they’re more realistic than the more idealistic first timers. But they’re also more likely to lowball you.

  By the end of August, it was official. We had a contract! Yippee! Yahoo! We also had a deposit, a date for a survey (on St. Martin), and the excitement of knowing we’d finally be moving onto land soon.

  Come on, everybody! Join hands, jump up and down, and scream like prepubescent little girls at a Justin Bieber concert. Come on men, you too! You know you want to.

  42

  Sold … Based on Survey

  Although we were jubilant, our days were now filled with boat tasks; trying to find a place to live; giving information to Mr. Buyer so he could get his paperwork done; allowing various technicians representing the buyer on board to check engines and rigging, all while keeping an eye out for any more hurricanes heading our way. All went pretty smoothly, but slooooowly.

  We struck one task off our list when we found a place to live. We got lucky when one of the villas in the same complex where we had spent Christmas became available. Construction was just being completed, but the unit was due to be ready by the time we were. And we’d be able to get another cat!

  Another Survey Story

  Now it was time to get the survey out of the way. We were feeling confident. We had done well in our last survey, and Mr. Buyer’s technicians had been happy with what they found (I told you the boat was in good shape!), so this would just be a formality.

  Normally, the buyer would be aboard for the survey (and the seller wouldn’t be), but he couldn’t make it. We were more than happy to take the boat to St. Martin for the survey because we needed some boat parts and were hoping for one more chance to stock up on food and paper supplies.

  After a great sail in unexpectedly high winds, we arrived in Marigot, St. Martin in probably our fastest time ever. Michael went to check in and returned very red faced. Someone had stolen one of our dinghy oars (it was latched to the boat, so it did not just fall off). That would be another $50 added to the $2,500 we had just spent on the new dinghy. Sigh. Oh well, at least we were in the right place to get another one. Plus there was wine, a baguette, and cheese to drown our frustrations.

  The next morning we motored through the bridge without any problems and headed to the haulout dock, which was in the narrow canal leading to the drawbridge. I was only too familiar with the currents there, so I was nervous.

  As we got closer to the main dock, we could clearly see many signs that read “No Dinghi,” but dinghies were there anyway and hogging the whole dock. There didn’t seem to be any room for an actual yacht! Maybe these dinghy owners didn’t read French.

  Michael dinghied himself there to see if he could move any of the boats, but all of them were locked. If he shoved one sideways, I might be able to squeeze in. No problem. I cautiously maneuvered my way in, pleasantly surprised to have the current on my side, and settled between the two little boats. I had thought about punching holes in them with the “No Dinghi” sign pole, but I restrained myself.

  At 8:30 a.m. we met with the surveyor and watched as the boatyard guys started placing straps all over the hulls. Why did they look as though they’d never done this before? The straps were not where we normally put them (it matters), but nobody seemed to listen to us. We even had photos showing the strap placement in previous surveys, but no one would look at them.

  When they asked us the weight of the boat, we told them, but they insisted that it was heavier. I’m not sure how that was possible. We had run out of water that morning, and the gas tanks were less than half full. We had tiny engines, no generator, no a/c, empty storage.

  No one seemed sure if they could hoist the bo
at. Normally we were hauled out by Travelift, a large motorized contraption that strapped us in from underneath and then lifted Jacumba by tightening the straps (from below). This boatyard was using a crane lift, using the same straps (and smearing the antifouling paint as always) but attaching them to a tall crane and lifting Jacumba from above. I cringed at how close the top of the crane was to our masthead and was also worried about the huge metal hook constantly swinging around. The process was repeated over and over again as the workers moved the straps, tried to lift, got concerned about something or other, and stopped. Time was slip-sliding away.

  We had a lot to do, so while I stayed with the surveyor, Michael was dinghying around to the marine stores getting what we knew we needed: saildrive oil and a water pump as well as some stuff for a friend’s boat.

  After much hand-wringing and yelling in French, the yard workers tried one more time, got us lifted about two feet in the air, and then dropped us! At least we were still over the water. Yikes!

  This happened around noon. We were told they’d have everything fixed by 2 p.m., and then they went to lunch. Sigh. The surveyor left to do other things, and Michael went grocery shopping by himself. I e-mailed the buyer (who was always online) telling him what was going on and recommended that he call another haulout place (he was paying).

  I also happened to notice a storm system brewing just east of us, probably hours away. Uh-oh.

  The surveyor came back at 2 p.m., inspected all the inside stuff, and discovered a few normal maintenance-type things, which we added to our list of things to fix.

  At 2:30, with still no hope for the crane doing what cranes do, the surveyor managed to find another yard that could take us. This haulout facility used a hydraulic lift, which was the easiest and least stressful method yet. A lift with two prongs wheeled toward the boat, which was in shallow water on a boat ramp. The prongs were inserted between the hulls, and what are called air bunks were inflated. No straps, no cranes. Just soft pillows for Jacumba to rest on as the tractor-like lift wheeled back onto land. Time for the survey to begin … finally.

  Jacumba’s bottom was a little worse for wear, but it was clean! This surveyor’s methods were no more impressive than those of any others as he went around the boat bottom with a mallet banging on things. I was not pleased to later see a chalk circle around one specific area on the hull. When I asked him about it, he had the nerve to use the dreaded “D” word. He was concerned about delamination. He was banging in an area behind which tools were stored, which would account for the “off” sound. The bad paint batch and uneven sanding job would explain the discoloration and undulation there as well. I was not happy. Worse, we didn’t have time to get a second opinion. That’s all he found, but it was enough. Now we knew how the guy with the Fountaine Pajot Athena felt when we surveyed his boat.

  Once we put Jacumba back in the water, I had to head over to the original dock, since the surveyor’s transportation was there, and Michael was meeting me there with a car full of groceries.

  By now it was about 4:30 p.m. (remember we had started at 8 a.m.). Michael still wasn’t back but called to say he was on his way. While I was waiting for him, the boatyard was nice enough to give me a hose to refill the water tanks.

  Michael pulled up around 5 p.m. and we ran back and forth from the car to the boat, literally throwing groceries on board. Despite the rush, it was awesome being able to load everything directly from the car to the boat. A first! And last!

  We had to get out of the lagoon during the 5:30 bridge opening, since we had an early-morning sail to make and the bridge wasn’t scheduled to open again until 8 a.m. that morning (you’ll note the word “scheduled”; there was never any guarantee). It was now 5:20 p.m. I pulled away from the dock and lined up to get ready. I was on my own since Michael had to drive the rental car back to the dock in Marigot, where he had left the dinghy. By the time I got through the bridge, Michael was in the dinghy waiting for me on the other side. I stopped long enough for him to motor up to me, board, and help me anchor. Whew! That was crazy!

  Despite our exhaustion (and depression), we were proud of all we had accomplished in one day. We even had time to grab a few baguettes to take back with us! Hey—they would be our last, so no comments!

  The next morning we awoke at 3 a.m. and hauled anchor by 4, warily watching lightning from the storm that I had been tracking online now lighting up Anguilla to the north. There was absolutely no wind to sail with. None. Our saving grace was that there were also no waves. So we had the engines at full throttle going a whole 6 knots.

  Around 8 a.m., near Statia, we saw some ugly squalls approaching, both on radar and with our own concerned eyes. We were about 1½ hours out of St. Kitts when the winds came up in our face, as did the swells. Our speed was down to 4½ knots. We needed to get to White House Bay, where the car was, to off-load and get to customs by 4:30 p.m. We were not going to make it at this rate. We unfurled the genny and starting tacking (with the engines on), but the winds were so fluky that we weren’t gaining time.

  About two hours later we got behind the island, only to find the large swells unimpeded, which hampered our progress. We’d never get there!

  Eleven hours after raising anchor, we were hurriedly dropping it in White House Bay. It was 3 p.m. We furled sail, dropped anchor, and dropped dinghy all at the same time; took two hectic full-dinghy trips to shore and back, and were raising anchor, unfurling sail, and dragging dinghy toward Basseterre 10 minutes later.

  Because we were now temporary “residents” thanks to Michael’s work permit, we had to have the boat inspected upon our return. That meant our first trip into the marina, where we were instructed to tie up against the concrete pier.

  At 4:10, Michael was literally running to the customs office to get there before it closed.

  At 4:30, the customs agent came on board, opened up everything (more out of curiosity than duty, I think), and chatted with us about living on our boat for three years. We shook hands and off he went. Back to White House to anchor before the sun set.

  The next morning, our property manager allowed Michael to off-load our goodies in our almost-ready apartment. Michael did this knowing that the worst had happened. Before we went to bed, we received an e-mail from Mr. Buyer telling us that the surveyor had definitely found some delamination and blistering. The surveyor also gave an incredibly low value to the boat. I e-mailed back that, without testing, delamination was just a guess and an unfair assumption. If he wanted to test and do the rest, we’d come down in price. Our final communication was that he’d get back to us in the morning.

  The next morning, he e-mailed that he really liked our boat, but …

  43

  D Is for Deflated, Dispirited, Depressed

  Talk about taking the wind out of our sails. Both of us were deflated. And angry. The boat had been surveyed only a year before on Grenada with no evidence of delamination. The latest surveyor had no right to make such a definitive statement without further testing and to put our boat in the price range of an over-chartered catamaran.

  I did a lot of research, made a lot of calls, and Michael and I discussed whether we wanted to pay for the delamination test ourselves. We’d have to go back to St. Martin, pay the $1,000 for another haulout, pay another $500 for a surveyor, and then pay another who-knew-what for the test itself. Even if the results came back negative, we’d still have to fix the hole made during the test. And what if the results came back positive? Would we fix the problem? Would anyone buy it fixed or unfixed? With what money could we do all this?

  There was always the possibility that another surveyor (such as the one on Grenada) wouldn’t even come to the same conclusion and the boat would just smoothly sell. Maybe … but we still had to wait for another bite.

  While we were torturing ourselves, you might imagine our surprise when the buyer returned, lowballed us even further, and said he’d take the boat as is. This offer would be $13,000 less than what we owed on our boat loan. Ouc
h! What to do?

  Tropical Storm Erika decided it for us. Here was yet another storm coming at us. Enough. Peace of mind is priceless.

  Another contract was signed.

  This time our jig was more subdued. Tippity-tap.

  44

  Change That to Delighted, Delirious, Disembarking!

  Until the boat closed three weeks later, boat life would continue. It ain’t over till it’s over. So that meant a bunch of “lasts.”

  Our Last Tropical Storm!

  Tropical Storm Erika produced some swells and gusty winds, but once again we escaped largely unscathed. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

  Our Last Shark Sighting!

  Maybe twice we’d seen a stingray jump out of the water in White House Bay. One day we were staring at the water just chatting about things when a 2- to 3-foot-wide stingray flung itself out of the water about 150 feet away. Then it propelled itself up again and this time there was a frantic gray mass behind it. We whiplashed a look at each other and yelled, “Hey—was that a … ?!” A third time, splash! And that time we clearly saw the fast-moving dorsal and tail fin of a shark. AAAACKK!

  We loudly rooted for the stingray for about two minutes, with the poor thing getting as high out of the water as possible while the shark manically circled underneath it. Then it all went silent. Boo. We didn’t see any outright proof of the stingray’s demise, so we decided to pretend it got away.

  Meanwhile, we were both unnerved to realize there was a shark, about the size of a dolphin, 150 feet from our boat. Hunting. Who was going to draw the short straw to clean the boat bottom next time? Did sharks eat squid? The following week, pieces of a human body were found inside a shark that had washed ashore on nearby Nevis. Eew and eek!