A Thousand Miles from Anywhere

by Sandra Clayton

  One of the things about high winds and an anchored boat is that it keeps you focused on your cleaning and maintenance schedule because you can’t escape by finding something more interesting to do ashore or sailing off somewhere. But the wind does finally begin to subside and we begin to make plans to move on.

  We collect our first mail in three months. Among the items is a renewal of our VHF radio licence which we are pleased to have before we visit the French half of the island.

  ‘They fine you if it’s out of date,’ a fellow yachtsman had warned us when we’d mentioned going there. ‘The French fine you for everything. It’s an easy form of income generation.’

  We buy a new snubbing line from one of the chandleries, the existing one having broken from the constant tugging of the recent relentless wind. We also join the great rush to the fuel dock. Because the weather has kept people at anchor so long, now everybody wants to buy fuel and move on. The fuel operator moves at the speed of a glacier. The American couple in front of us, on a Grand Banks 46-footer, proceed with a similar lack of urgency as they negotiate their bulk discount. In the meantime, an increasingly bitter Frenchman circles for 45 minutes before reaching some sort of emotional crisis and hurtling away, while the skipper of another American motoryacht radios in every 15 minutes for an hour and a half to ask when he can expect to take on fuel.

  42

  Marigot

  With our fuel tank finally filled we check out of Sint Maarten, motor out to sea and turn on the water maker. We are heading for Saint-Martin, the French half of the island, and in just over two hours are anchoring off its capital, Marigot.

  We go ashore – there is an excellent dinghy dock – clear in and have a look around. The town is much more European than any we have so far visited. We refresh ourselves in La Belle Époque overlooking the marina, which is very pleasant, and then go for a big shop-up in Match, quite the best supermarket encountered in the Caribbean so far. It is so good that we intend to dinghy in again for more tomorrow, as our stores have been depleted and we do not know what opportunities we shall find at our next port of call. After that we intend to clear out with the French authorities, stow our shopping and set off for Anguilla. A swell develops during the night which is big enough to interrupt our sleep.

  The following day begins well enough. Despite the swell we have another decent trip into Marigot’s dinghy dock. It is a generous length and, unlike the temporary plywood one with a tendency to sink under your feet that we’ve been using lately, it is a substantial one.

  Unfortunately, as we shall discover, its length and strength is also its weakness for those wanting to leave a dinghy safely while they go ashore. Since yesterday larger boats have been allowed to tie up alongside, reducing the space left for dinghies to only a few metres. But there is only one other dinghy here and we tie up alongside it.

  We set off to the Match supermarket and fill our rucksacks – not least from its wine shelves where the prices, unusually for the Caribbean, are very reasonable. At Immigration we wait in line to clear out, behind an anxious woman enquiring about a yacht well overdue from South America, and then return to the dinghy dock.

  At first we think our dinghy has been stolen. Then among all the others, butting and grinding into each other on the swell, we spot what appears to be the propeller of our outboard sticking up and realise that it is still there, only upside down. Shortening the dinghy dock has put unreasonable pressure on space. Dinghies are now three or four deep and to get ashore from their own dinghy people have to climb over other people’s.

  An aluminium dinghy does not behave like a rubber one. Someone has stepped onto its edge and flipped it over. What is unforgivable is that they have simply left it that way, with our outboard under water. We drop our rucksacks onto the dock and rush forward in the hope that we are not too late to save our outboard. A crowd begins to gather.

  A tall young American steps out of it and takes my place in the struggle to turn over and empty our dinghy. I am very grateful to him, not least because an aluminium dinghy full of water, with a heavy outboard attached, takes a lot of very awkward lifting; but also because the gathering crowd has cut us off completely from the two rucksacks we abandoned when we first spotted our tender under water.

  Given the amount of theft being reported over the airwaves here, I suddenly become panic-stricken that, shielded behind the growing crowd observing the resurrection of our dinghy, someone may be walking off with them. The loss of our ship’s papers, insurance documents and passports – all the things you have to present to officialdom when clearing in or out – not to mention things such as cheque book and credit cards that we no longer feel confident about leaving on board Voyager when we go ashore – would cause enormous problems, time and expense. And with the companionway door key gone we should have to break into Voyager. Thankfully the rucksacks are still where we left them but I drag them to where I can keep an eye on them.

  As soon as the dinghy is upright our first priority is to see if the engine will start but it has been too long under water. The problem now is to get it somewhere fast before the salt ruins it completely. The obvious solution would be to take it to someone here at Marigot. Unfortunately, because of all the reports of outboard thefts, we have chained it to the dinghy. The key to the padlock is on Voyager. And no-one can tell us if there actually is anyone in this very small town who can service it. Although the French half of the island has the largest land mass, thanks to its 17th century wine-bibbing walker, it has by far the smallest population and the island’s service facilities all appear to be located on the Dutch side. Which was one of the reasons we went to Simpson Bay Lagoon in the first place, to get our anchor winch repaired.

  We have another problem, too. There has been a forecast for a severe swell here by Sunday, which is why we had been planning to leave for Anguilla today and be settled there before it arrived. But the swell appears to be arriving earlier than predicted and the exposed anchorage at Marigot Bay is not a place to be when it does.

  When you live close to the elements in a constantly changing environment your mental processes settle into an ongoing equation that involves not simply wind speed and direction, weather and sea state but also limited supplies, erratic services and the time it takes to get anything done. Into the present equation has to be added the fact that neither our present anchorage, nor paddling back and forth in a dinghy is tenable. If we are going to save the outboard we have to act quickly, but we also need to do it safely. We decide to return to Simpson Bay Lagoon. Apart from being sheltered, we also know where we can get our outboard fixed.

  Naturally, our baler and all those useful things you keep in a dinghy have floated away and initially we fear our paddles will have gone too, leaving us no way of getting back to Voyager. Fortunately they are still wedged under the seat. Nevertheless I rain curses on whoever did this to our dinghy because it takes a feverish amount of paddling to get back to Voyager, not just in what has become a greatly increased swell but also the rapidly rising wind and sour grey clouds of what appears to be an approaching squall.

  On the one hand our decision turns out to be justified, since the lowering cloud and rising wind turns out not to be a passing squall but the beginning of prolonged stormy weather. On the other hand, it involves us in one of our nastiest sailing experiences ever.

  43

  Back at Simpson Bay Lagoon

  It is a rough passage back to Simpson Bay. We have hours to wait for the 5.30pm bridge opening and even at anchor the swell is disturbing. So I find it horrifying watching David preparing to paddle his way through it. We are the only people in the anchorage but during our stay earlier there had been so many people roaring about in large RIBs with powerful engines that with a lot of nagging I persuade him to make a call on the VHF and ask if one of them would be willing to collect him and our outboard and take them into the repairer. Shortly afterwards an American called Will, off a ketch called Lucky Strike, comes through huge waves in a little g
rey rubber dinghy and takes David and our outboard into the lagoon.

  Will is extremely kind and waits with David at the repair shop for several hours so that he can bring him back. He drops David and the outboard off around 4.30 and, much thanked, sets off back for his own yacht. By this time a lot of boats have arrived for the bridge opening and as the time gets closer a melee ensues as they begin jockeying for pole position to go through the canal into the lagoon. The behaviour is appalling, to the point of recklessness.

  Most of them are much bigger than we are but despite being the first boat there we decide to go through last rather than have Voyager damaged. But even by simply remaining where we have been for the last umpteen hours there is no escape when the dead-eyed man on the flying bridge of a 90-foot Argyll motoryacht sporting a red ensign begins remorselessly bearing down on us.

  Assuming that like him and almost everybody else we are milling about he clearly expects us to get out of his way, but had he bothered to look over his huge bow he would have noticed David on the foredeck struggling to get our anchor up. Before he rams us I leave the steering position and waive the fool off with some choice words while the lady of the house waves decorously back at me as she tiptoes about in an abstracted sort of way with a fender with a knitted sock on it. Fishermen and rich people!

  The sea swell is even bigger than before and combined with the wash from so many large boats constantly circling in a confined area, as they keep pushing relentlessly to get closer to the front of the queue, the result is pandemonium.

  The time arrives and there is a surge of boats towards the opening. We gravitate to the rear. An American yacht falls in behind us so that we are the last but one. Our turn finally approaches. Immediately in front of us two fishing boats and a large yacht fight for who will go through first, and for a time it looks as if, with none of them willing to give way, they are going to charge the narrow channel’s entrance three-abreast. We anticipate one of the fishermen at least having to go into reverse, to avoid a collision, for which David allows room.

  Throughout this unseemly exercise, a man in a dinghy has been roaring about among the boats frantically waving them ever faster into the channel. He now appears beside Voyager, waving us furiously on. David accelerates to maximum speed.

  You need to concentrate when going through a narrow opening in heaving water. He is going flat out straight for it when a man in blue overalls appears on the platform beside the bridge waving his arms and shouting. David has two engines roaring behind him, a doghouse roof over his head and a man in a dinghy beside him yelling at him while revving his outboard engine to a high-pitched whine.

  I look at David and realise that he can neither see nor hear the man on the bridge platform. I can’t hear what the man is saying either. I assume it’s to go faster but I climb up onto the side deck anyway. When I get there I can see that the bridge is no longer fully upright and that the man is waving at us to go back.

  ‘They’re closing the bridge!’ I shout down to David in disbelief. ‘What?’ he shouts back, all his attention on the entrance to the lagoon.

  I begin again, ‘They’re...’ but I go no further.

  In retrospect, there is always a fascination at the working of the brain in times of crisis. How it receives data, assesses it, forms a conclusion and initiates action, all in the blink of an eye. There is no possible way, at this distance and at this speed, that Voyager can be brought to a stop before she hits the bridge.

  Our mast is right beside the helm. Fixed around it is our sturdy doghouse roof. When the mast comes down and brings everything else with it, David is going to be underneath it all. Even worse, he won’t know it is coming and will have no chance to dive for cover.

  The bridge is coming down slowly. There should be just enough room. I am unaware of actually making a decision. I simply react. And standing on the side deck, eyeing the man above me, I yell, ‘Keep going!’ and like the man in the dinghy beside us I wave David furiously on.

  The man in the blue overalls is now screaming at me in rage but the bridge begins to go up again and we pass through. David has to go into reverse the moment he has us the other side because the two squabbling fishing boats and the yacht are milling about in front of him. And it suddenly becomes obvious why they make you sign a waiver before letting you enter.

  The man on the bridge is dancing about apoplectically.

  ‘I’m going to see you get the maximum fine going!’ he roars. ‘I’m going to report you to the coastguard! You’re gonna get fined...’ David, bewildered by the shouting behind him, looks up and sees the man on the bridge for the first time. But only briefly, as he now has to shuffle Voyager between the bridge and the three boats in front of him which are still engaged in some sort of scuffle and leaving him nowhere to go.

  Meanwhile, the man in the dinghy is still roaring his outboard engine and yelling at the top of his voice behind us, the ultimate absurdity being that although the man on the bridge and the man in the dinghy appear to be working together they do not communicate with one another. From his position on Voyager’s port side, the one in the dinghy was just as incapable of seeing the bridge coming down, or its yelling operator, as David.

  Given that middle-aged laundry ladies can maintain effective ship-to-shore communication via a handheld VHF, one feels it should not be beyond the wit of a bridge operator and his colleague in a dinghy to do as much. If they had communicated with one another, what happens next would not have occurred.

  I look up at the hysterical madman above me at the bridge’s controls, still dancing about and waving his arms like something from a pantomime. But if he is angry, I am furious. This is the most outrageous, dangerous behaviour I have ever experienced.

  ‘You can’t stop a boat there!’ I roar back at him, jabbing my finger behind us, at the other side of the bridge opening. But to my horror I realise that he has. The American yachtsman behind us, the last man in line and the only person polite enough to wait his turn, is still being urged hysterically forward by the whipper-in in the dinghy just as we had been – while having the bridge dropped right in front of him.

  As he wrenches the wheel violently, to avoid hitting the bridge at full speed with his mast, the only thing that prevents him smashing his boat onto the rocks beside him is the quick thinking of the only other decent man on the water that day. He drives his RIB between the yacht and the rocks to cushion the impact and then uses the full force of his engine to push the yacht off them.

  We find a place to anchor and I insist on going with David to clear in. He has no first-hand knowledge of what just happened and there is no way any fine in my name is going to be paid for the actions of a homicidal maniac in blue overalls.

  Sint Maarten’s motto is The Friendly Island.

  Next morning, on the 7.30 VHF broadcast, a rather shaky-voiced American says he would like to warn yachtsmen of a navigational hazard in the form of a marina employee who drops bridges on people without proper warning for the saving of approximately 12 seconds. The marina says it would like his complaint in writing. He still sounds angry from the previous evening. Which is not surprising, really, since on top of everything else he’s had to ride at anchor all night in a vicious swell until the bridge opened again this morning.

  He is followed by a pastor of the Sint Maarten International Baptist Church which runs this 7.30am network who says the bridge is only supposed to be open for fifteen minutes (I don’t recall seeing that anywhere on the waiver we signed but it might go some way to explain that unseemly stampede of yesterday evening) and that when there is an ambulance waiting they drop it at a moment’s notice. (I didn’t read that anywhere either.) He also says that a few years ago they did the same thing to another yachtsman who had a heart attack and died.

  We go ashore to post some letters and send some e-mails. We also learn that the fugitive Swede, appalled at seeing his and his boat’s identity on posters everywhere, has given himself up and that he and the American whose boat he damaged a
re sorting out the matter of restitution amicably.

  When we return to Voyager, the boat beside us has the same music blaring out of it as when we left although it has been unoccupied since early morning. As before, people are driving RIBs and dinghies at enormous speed and setting all the yachts heaving, while planes roar overhead every fifteen minutes. So we move further down the lagoon where it is uncrowded and very pleasant.

  We invite Will and his wife over on Sunday afternoon, as a quite inadequate thank-you for Will’s kindness – and courage – in making the journey through that huge swell four times on our behalf in his small dinghy. On Monday we leave the lagoon. I take up my position on the side deck and eyeball the operator for any sign of revenge on his part but the bridge stays up.

  There is a forecast for a swell from the north and our intention is to make another attempt on Saba. But the swell turns out to be coming from the south-east, the same as before, so we abandon Saba a second time.

  Given the passage of time and the unpredictability of the weather we also abandon our plans to visit Anguilla and head directly for the British Virgin Islands instead. Apart from a brief period with an engine on, just to charge the batteries, we sail all the way. All through the warm Caribbean night.

  THE BRITISH VIRGIN ISLANDS

  44

  Paradise to Purgatory

  I have begun to think that this entire venture had its origins in the mid-sixties. It was then that David read an article about the Mamas & the Papas singing for their supper in the American Virgin Islands. The group that was destined to become so rich and famous was unknown and penniless at the time and its four members had gone to the islands because living there was cheap. But accompanying the article were pictures of golden beaches, palm trees and a yacht anchored in a beautiful, secluded bay. For someone born and raised in England’s industrial heartland it was the stuff of dreams.