Tag Archive | cruising the Bahamas

Uneventful

May25

Sailing is 90% boredom punctuated by 10% sheer terror.
–Author John Casey

Even though our sail repair parts were sitting in the same port just a few miles away from us, it took eleven days to convince FedEx and the Bahamian customs officials to hand them over. Phil repaired the mainsail in a couple of hours, and we left Port Lucaya early the next morning bound for Great Harbour in the northwest Berry Islands.

When traveling for pleasure, one doesn’t usually wish for “boredom” or for a trip that is “uneventful.” But for us, it is a victory when we get where we’re going without breaking anything. We didn’t.

Port Lucaya to Great Harbour

We motored out of Bell Channel and put out the jib before raising the mainsail, putting a happy grin on Phil’s face. But as the mainsail reached the top of the mast, a loud bang rang out and I ducked, thinking something heavy would fall on my head. We looked at each other.

“What now?” I said. Phil inspected the sail rigging at the mast and came back to the cockpit.

“I broke the boom vang,” he said.

Phil is finally able to sail with all the sails up. This is his happy face.

A month ago, I would have said, “The what?” But we had seen one of our Youtube sailors break his boom vang just a few weeks earlier, so I knew. Phil tied it up for stability and I asked what it meant for our setup.

“Not a thing,” he said. “I never use it.” We will ask our rigger to repair it when we get back to Florida, but until then, it’s just another broken thing on the boat. We keep a list of “broken things.” During the afternoon, we noticed that the wind instrument was not working and that one of the three filaments in our Dutchman Flaking System had snapped.

With all the sails, slightly heeling, Catmandu is underway.

The rest of the 60-nm trek to Great Harbour was uneventful, motoring with full sails to keep up a speed of 5.5 to 6.5 knots so we could arrive in daylight. The chart plotter noted that it was ten hours between waypoints. We had calm seas with a current that ran against us in the morning and with us later on as we approached the Great Harbour anchorage.

The islands to the west of the anchorage are used as playgrounds for cruise ships, and we saw three of them on our way in. Royal Caribbean calls Little Stirrup Cay “CocoCay” and leases the island for its passengers to enjoy their “Perfect Day,” with a water park, skidoo rentals, snorkeling areas, beaches, aerial ziplines, and a full-size helium balloon that takes passengers 450 feet into the sky on a tether. The water park has towering water slides, the Caribbean’s largest wave pool and a lazy river, all watched over by more than 100 lifeguards.

There were two other boats anchored off of Goat Cay when we arrived. We looked for a large sandy area to drop the anchor, and when Phil found the perfect spot, I took the helm. He went forward and lowered the anchor. Then when he asked me to reverse, I shifted and somehow got it stuck in reverse (it was revving too high to shift) so I could not get it into neutral.

Going in reverse, I ended up pulling the anchor out of its perfect spot and dragging it along as I struggled with the transmission in a panic. Phil yelled for me to slow the engine as we were in danger of plowing into the boat behind us, and with that I was able to shift to neutral. Of course, we had to start all over. That was my 10% of terror.

Sunset behind CocoCay, with the Utopia of the Seas on the right.

Safely anchored, I apologized to Phil and we both decided I needed more time at the helm so it would become second nature, like driving a car. A cocktail or two went by and we watched the sun go down over CocoCay. We turned to the east, anticipating the appearance of the full Pink Moon of April. It rose above the trees just a few minutes past sunset, and it wasn’t actually pink. Native Americans called it the Pink Moon because of the pink flowers that bloomed in early Spring.

The rising of the “Pink Moon,” from our anchorage at Great Harbour in the Berry Islands.

That wasn’t the end of the fun in the sky. There was a SpaceX Starlink launch from Cape Canaveral later that night, so we went out to watch. We could see the glow of the second stage as it crossed overhead, a plume of light gray and white mist surrounding the speeding spacecraft. The bright flare of the re-entry burn lit up the sky as the first stage made its turn to descend to a drone ship east of the Bahamas. It was a show worth watching.

The next day, Phil repaired the filament on the mainsail’s Dutchman Flaking system and re-folded the sail. It was a day of rest, brilliant and calm. We watched an impossibly large turtle lift its head out of the water, take a breath and descend. We both saw it. Usually only the first person sees the turtle. By the time the second person looks for it, it’s gone.

No Foreign Land shows our track from Port Lucaya to Great Harbour in the Berry Islands to Royal Harbor just west of Eleuthera. The sailboat icon is shown at Grand Bahama Island, and the tiny island in the center represents the Berry Islands. Marsh Harbour is on Great Abaco Island. Our destination, just above the “Bahamas” label, is near Eleuthera. See charts below.

Great Harbour to Royal Island

The wind was blowing out of the northeast at around nine knots when we left the harbor early the next morning. I took the helm as Phil pulled the anchor at 7:30, and needing the practice, I drove for a while as Phil put up full sails. It was a perfect partly cloudy day with bright sun and temperatures in the mid-seventies. We motor-sailed through the morning. This was a long passage and we wanted to arrive at Royal Island in the daylight. It’s dangerous and scary to anchor in unfamiliar waters in the dark, so we try to time our trips in daylight hours.

 As the wind was building, we turned off the engine to see if we could sail fast enough to make it to our destination by 6. We couldn’t; the speed slowed to 4.5 knots under sail alone, which is a great pace if you don’t have a deadline. We enjoyed the few minutes of quiet and reluctantly restarted the engine.

Northeast Providence Channel can get rough at times. We crossed through on our way to Egg Island and Royal Island, shown to the right.

By mid-afternoon, as we crossed the open waters south of Great Abaco Island, the seas began to build and the wind picked up. Phil expected this to happen, as we were in the middle of the Northeast Providence Channel, a passageway known for heavier wind and currents. To our south, New Providence Island, home of Nassau, was more than 60 nautical miles away.

We started to speed up and heel over, with winds picking up from 15 to 19 knots with gusts over 20. The sails were full and the waves were exceeding three feet, with some building to four feet. Catmandu leaned into it, heeling over 15 degrees with an occasional 20. We were overpowered and started to think about reducing our sails. The speed was fun, but a little scary as we slid down the higher waves and pounded into the white-capped ridges. The clouds rolled in and we started to feel chilled.

******
Heeling: a basic process affecting all sailboats
which begins with the boat leaning over…
and ends as the sailboat finally exhibits its natural tendency
to come to a state of rest on the sea bottom.
–from Sail-ing, by Henry Beard and Roy McKie
******

Phil decided it was time to furl the jib completely and spill some air off the main, which made it much more comfortable. We rounded Egg Island and Phil hand-steered through Egg Island Cut, a narrow gap between the small cays. Egg Island was named for the many birds nesting there, where early sailors could go ashore and gather eggs for food. But someone had the bright idea of pasturing goats there, and that was the end of the eggs.

We crossed the cut between Egg Island and Little Egg Island and then on to the well-protected anchorage in the middle of Royal Island.

Early in the day, Phil had texted two boats anchored in Royal Island Harbour (found on the phone app, “No Foreign Land,”) asking if there would be room for us. Both captains assured us there was plenty of room. We dropped the mainsail and pulled into the small harbor at 5:30pm, finding just a few other boats. I was anxious to redeem myself as a good first mate as Phil went forward to drop the anchor and I took the wheel. The anchoring was uneventful — the anchor set right away and held.

Royal Island Harbour, looking southeast toward the narrow opening. We anchored here after a bouncy crossing from Great Harbour near Great Stirrup Cay.

After the wild ride in four-foot choppy seas and high wind, we were ready for a rest. A small green turtle wandered by, this one in no hurry to dive. We sat in the cockpit with gin and tonics and watched the sun go down. Our new surroundings in Royal Island Harbour were quiet, calm, and lovely, protected on all sides. We don’t consider this boredom; we think sailing is 90% peaceful. We will sit for a time while the sky fades into pink and periwinkle, and wait for the ibises to gather in the trees.

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?”

–Mary Oliver

The Kindness of Strangers

Apr9

“Carry out a random act of kindness, with no expectation of reward,
safe in the knowledge that one day someone might do the same for you.”
—Princess Diana

“Try to be a rainbow in someone’s cloud.”
—Maya Angelou

Bimini to Grand Bahama Island

The sun hadn’t quite popped over the horizon when we left Brown’s Marina on March 14, but it was light enough to see. We fought a 2-knot current as we made our way out of the harbor and swung wide to avoid marked sandbars. The sun came up as we turned north and headed straight for the side of a Carnival Cruise ship. It was very slowly backing into position on the Bimini Cruise ship pier, in no hurry to get out of our way.

The Carnival Paradise was backing into the Bimini Cruise Ship Pier very slowly.

We passed the Carnival Paradise on her bow and put out the headsail to take advantage of a light SE wind coming across our starboard beam. The sail gave us a little boost and we motored north at 6 to 6.5 knots, rolling rhythmically in a 1- to 2-foot swell. By 10am, we were shedding our sweatshirts as the day warmed up.

Around mid-day, Phil noticed that we were once again out of the sight of land. “Who will see land first?” he asked, but I knew he would. He pointed out a lighthouse to our right that I could barely make out in the hazy distance. “Great Isaac Cay,” he said. “We’re at the same latitude as Fort Lauderdale now.”

We talked about the lack of dolphins (or whales) and the plenitude of flying fish, little silvery missiles that torpedo through the air just above the surface for a few yards before re-entering the water with barely a splash. “Wonder what’s chasing them,” I said.

“Dolphins,” he said.

“And whales?”  I tried to imagine giant beasts just below the surface, mouths open to receive a silvery meal.

Land appeared ahead of us and to our right, showing up as a light border on the edge of a darker mass. That was sand; pristine deserted beaches lead into the ocean on every side of Grand Bahama Island except around the industrial city of Freeport.

We entered the inlet at West End Point and docked in those slips you see to the left of the word “Beach.”

We headed to West End, the aptly named town on the western point of the island. The marina, Old Bahama Bay, had a narrow winding approach between stone jetties that boats had to enter single file. A greedy catamaran suddenly came up on our right and raced to squeeze in front of us at the entrance. Phil slowed and let them pass while I called them names under my breath. (He’s nicer than I am.)

Old Bahama Bay Marina

As Phil motored into the small harbor, docks appeared on the left with a long fuel dock hugging the jetty along the right side. I readied the bow lines and got a mid-ship line just in case. Phil was forced to make a starboard loop to manage the tight turn into our allotted slip. The slip was the first one on the left, around a narrow dock. He took a right turn to get the boat angled into the parking space, when a sudden gust came at us from the west, pushing the boat into the long empty fuel dock.

Here is the fuel dock across from the slip we were assigned. Wind pressed us up against this dock as we tried to pull in to our slip. Note that none of the docks have cleats.

We both rushed to the port side, pushing off the dock as hard as we could, but couldn’t fight the wind. We stayed pinned there while Phil tried to steer the bow off to the right and I pushed the pilings away. I felt panicked; I think Phil did, too. I heard him swear as a gust blew us back to the dock and disconnected one of the bimini supports.

The woman who runs the fuel dock saw our dilemma and ran out to help us. She reached out for the bow pulpit and pushed us off. Then she ran to the middle of the boat and used a leg to push off one of our stanchions. Phil tried backing up with a sharp turn of the wheel and finally got the bow to swerve right. He pushed forward harder and I put my feet off the side of the bow to push off of the dock. We finally eased into the middle of the channel and I yelled a quick thanks to the woman on the dock.

The wind slowed as quickly as it had started, and Phil was able to steer Catmandu into her parking spot. A couple of cruisers from the next slip rushed over to help with the lines. The woman tying our spring line suddenly looked up.

“Is that Phil?” she said. “Oh my gosh.”

“Astrid?” Phil said.

“It’s the former Gulfstream commodores club!” she said. Ross and Astrid had both served as commodores, and so had Phil.

They had just arrived on their sailboat Commotion after a long crossing, and coincidentally (as it so often happens) had docked into the slip next to ours. They helped with lines, chatted with us about the crossing, and suggested what to order at the local restaurant. (Ah, the Grouper Grilled Cheese sandwich – so gooey and delicious with “magic” sauce – I took their advice.)

Catmandu safely tied up at Old Bahama Bay Marina.

A local bread woman came by, offering $7 loaves of wheat, cinnamon raisin, coconut, and banana breads. I hesitated while Ross bought a couple of loaves and then she was gone, down the dock pulling her wagon of bread behind her. I regretted not picking up a loaf of raisin bread, and when we saw her later outside the restaurant, she was sold out of all but banana bread.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Phil said, but we didn’t see her again until the night before we left, when she only had $12 white bread, not something we needed. Phil makes delicious French bread from scratch every week. I confess I thought about homemade cinnamon raisin bread for days.

When we brought our coffees into the cockpit early the next morning, Astrid and Ross were gone. Neither of us woke as they backed out of the dock right next to us. The next night, a  new catamaran pulled into the slip on the other side of us. They had crossed from West Palm Beach expecting to arrive in daylight. The wind and sea state had slowed them down and they ended up banging into the wind and waves and arriving long after dark. They were from New Hampshire, on their way to a family gathering on Treasure Cay, just stopping long enough to wait for a weather window, do laundry, and recover.

There is a lovely pool area, open to marina guests, and a pool bar to the right.

The Old Bahama Bay Marina was practically empty for the few days we were there, with lots of open slips. The marina consists of a fuel dock, a restaurant, a hotel or two, a small store which is only open at the whim of the proprietor, and a drink shack called Banana Hammock. The adjoining resort property has a sandy beach and a lush pool area with a pool bar that serves food. All of the servers there wore shirts with “Dis” before their names: Dis Becky, and Dis Francine as in, This is Becky.

Here’s our selfie at the pool bar with Dis Becky.

We have found that stores and restaurants tend to be closed on Sunday, so we were surprised and delighted to find the Banana Hammock open on Sunday afternoon. There were two well-dressed middle aged Bahamian women sitting there (fresh from church, I thought) and the music was pure American country. We sat and drank “Sonds” beers – the local beer is Sands, but natives call it sonds.

We enjoyed cold beers at Banana Hammock in the company of two Bahamian women dressed for church.

I listened to the lilting dialect of the women beside me, realizing I didn’t understand every word but loving the sound of it. There was no food there; it’s just a drink shack. Back at the boat, we had gin and tonics in the cockpit and a dinner of veggie brats on the grill.

Captain’s hour on Catmandu with crackers, cheese, veggies and dip.

Snorkeling with Rays

We visited the beach the next day with our snorkeling gear and swam above the grassy sand watching little fish dart around beneath us, weaving in and out of the swaying grasses. Phil swam ahead with the Go-Pro into deeper water. Suddenly, a large dark shadow caught my attention down below my feet and my heart sped up. A black, shiny ray about three feet across swam just under my stomach and I felt a moment of panic. I squealed and stood up, watching the tail of the ray move across my path.

“What!” Phil yelled, coming to my side. I laughed because you would have thought I was in mortal danger and it wasn’t even big for a ray. But it was exciting, and I told Phil where it went so he could follow with the Go-Pro. As he left, I stuck my face back in the water and saw a cloud of little 3-inch fish in the hundreds swimming all around me. I can’t identify fish, but these were silvery and fish-shaped with gray stripes (possibly striped seabream?).

The next day, we tried to get a ride to the convenience store in West End. We hoped to hop on the free bicycles, but the seats were all too high for me and despite efforts by two hotel workers, the rusted seats would not budge.

Finally, one of the men offered to take us to the store in his own car. There is one taxi, but he was not answering the call. Phil gave the driver money and we took the short ride along sandy roads, past small houses with broken gates, brief views of the ocean beyond the scrubby bushes, and finally turned into the small lot in front of the Express Food Market. All along the route, the driver honked and waved at every human we passed. “Do you know everyone here?” Phil asked.

“Of course. Lived here my whole life. I went to school with all these guys,” he said. He offered to wait while we shopped. The small store was packed full of merchandise, with a small amount of produce (potatoes, tomatoes, peppers, zucchini), some dairy items but no eggs, and shelves of rice, noodles, pasta, boxed crackers, canned goods and even spices. There were no meat substitutes in the freezer case, but that didn’t surprise us. We spent $28 and got what we needed.

On our last day at the marina, I decided to do laundry in the marina laundromat. Only two out of the eight machines were working and three very cooperative women were juggling loads. I could not believe the kindness and helpfulness of these women. One was a local patron, and one was our dock neighbor. We coordinated our washer loads, rushed the dryers, transferred loads for each other, and chatted outside during wait times. It was the most fun I’ve ever had doing laundry. At the end, Phil hiked over and brought me a cold “sonds” from Banana Hammock. (He also told me what a “banana hammock” is.)

Old Bahama Bay Resort and Marina is a full service resort, with hotel rooms as well as slips. This is the shared pool, looking north toward the ocean.

 The Old Bahama Bay Marina is a bit expensive. They charge 2.50/ft per night plus .70/ft for electricity and a mandatory $20/day for water. For the sake of our screaming credit cards, we planned to leave this marina as soon as the strong winds subsided. The winds blew over 20 kts. for four days. Finally, after five nights here, we were ready to tuck in to a protected anchorage just four miles away.

I was ready to be alone with Phil at anchor. Marina life is social, with neighbors in close proximity. I like a little respite from the rest of humanity once in a while. But everyone here — at this marina and in the community — was kind, friendly, and helpful. From the woman on the fuel dock to the man who drove us to the food market, to the servers in the pool bar, to the women at the laundry, we were treated to the kindness of strangers. That’s what I will remember about Old Bahama Bay.