Tag Archive | SV Catmandu

Remember the Main!

The definition of “cruising” is fixing your boat in exotic locations.

— Author unknown

After enjoying Bimini for almost two weeks, I picked a windless morning in mid-March at Brown’s Marina to raise our mainsail at the slip. I wanted to test the new Tides Marine plastic, low-friction mainsail track that our rigger had installed just two days before we left Florida. We did not even need the mainsail when we motored across the Gulf Stream to the Bahamas because there was no wind. However, we would likely need the mainsail for sailing to West End on Grand Bahama Island the next day, and I needed to make sure everything was working properly at the dock before heading out to sea — where things are harder to fix.

The sail Would. Not. Go. Up.

The mainsail is heavy, so I used the heavy-duty electric winch for persuasion. It only went up part way and then became hopelessly stuck. Releasing the winch, I tried to lower the main. Now, it would not go down! After hanging my full weight on it and bouncing, it finally came all the way down. What was the problem? The mainsail went up and down fine with the old plastic sail track, but would not go up with the new one.

Let’s back up to January and February to explain how we got into this predicament. Our boat mortgage requires us to always have boat insurance. Boat insurance covers sailing in the US, but coverage in the Bahamas requires an insurance endorsement. To get the insurance endorsement, our insurance provider required us to get a hull survey (“inspection”) and a “rigging aloft” survey. The term “rigging aloft” means the mast, boom, spreaders, shrouds, stays, and running rigging. The hull survey went fine. Our regular rigger was then able to perform the rigging survey. Everything was mostly fine, except that he said our old, plastic sail track was cracking and should be replaced. The danger of not replacing sail track is that the mainsail could get stuck in the up position and we would not be able to lower it when we needed to. The choice was clear, we had to replace it. However, the rigger was unable to finish the installation until two days before we sailed. There was no urgency to test it after installation, since it is so simple that nothing could possibly go wrong.

Back in Bimini, we were ready to jump to West End during a short weather window in the middle of March. I scoured the Tides Marine website to figure out the problem. The sail track is a long, low-friction plastic track that is attached to the mast on one side and has a long slot on the other side. Stainless steel sliders are attached to spaced locations on the mainsail and have a flat part that slides up and down inside the slot when the mainsail is raised and lowered, and another part that attaches to the sail. Simple!

*Old slider still attached to the mainsail in the new track*

The Tides Marine website, however, disclosed a slider manufacturing defect that lasted for several years, and that has long since been corrected. The result was that the old sliders with the manufacturing defect did not fit the new sail tracks. The sliders would get stuck in the track, and that was our problem. We had to get a replacement set of sliders and install them ourselves in the Bahamas.

We motor sailed 64 miles from Bimini north to West End using our engine and jib sail. It is about an 11 hour trip. We were quickly outside of cell tower range, so I deployed our Iridium Go!® satellite communication system. I sent text messages and e-mails to both our rigger and Tides Marine to get an order placed as soon as possible. I did not want to lose even a single day. We were going to be in Freeport / Port Lucaya in a week or two, and that is one of the easiest places to get parts shipped in when in the Bahamas.

*Iridium Go!™ satellite communication system*

Tides Marine was wonderful to deal with. They acknowledged the manufacturing defect, and agreed to provide and ship the replacement set of sliders to us for free. The retail price of the replacement sliders was about $1000, and shipping from the US to the Bahamas would have cost hundreds.

Getting boat parts shipped to another country is more complicated than shipping to destinations in the US. The quintessential way that you read about in the cruising guides and online is as follows. You get your parts to the US base of a tiny Caribbean airline like Makers Air. Their base is at a small airport outside of Fort Lauderdale. The airline puts your package on a puddle jumper airplane and they land at an airstrip somewhere close to you in the Caribbean. You hire a “customs broker” of your choice to navigate the impossible-to-understand paperwork. Think like you’re hiring a bail bondsman, picking him out of a list of names in the phone book. In my mind, a customs broker is a mustachioed man in a Panama hat and loud tropical shirt who may or may not have to pass the customs man a $50 to get your goods out of the pokey. Instead, I chose FedEx.

Why not ship FedEx? There are 700 islands in the Bahamas, but there are only two FedEx offices in the whole country. Fortunately, we were going very close to the one in Freeport, which is just five miles from Port Lucaya, our marina destination. I told Tides Marine to put my name on the shipping label and “hold for pickup.” As a cruiser, I have done this for other shipments in the US, and it seemed like the most straightforward way to get my shipment.

I checked the status of my shipment online daily using the tracking number provided by Tides Marine, and for 11 days it said “waiting for customs clearance.” I phoned FedEx customer service almost every day to see when the shipment would be released and if there was anything I needed to do. Each time, the agent told me the release would be very soon, and there is absolutely nothing I needed to do to receive my shipment. I asked whether I should go to the FedEx store in Freeport and talk with a representative. Absolutely not!

So, the next day I took a taxi the five miles to FedEx store and back so I could talk with a representative in person. The taxi cost me $80 round trip. That was very steep, but I understand they have flat rates on Grand Bahama Island. I had considered walking. However, my taxi was a spotless, unmarked black Range Rover driven by “Mr. Forbes” in a starched, white button-down shirt, who waited for me outside while I did my business with FedEx. I paid the fare, realizing it was just the cost of doing business to get my parts so we could repair our mainsail and sail on to our next destination.

At the FedEx store, the clerk was very helpful and very friendly. The steps for receiving an international package were clearly printed on a poster hung on the wall, and I had never heard of any of these steps in any cruising guide. I will share them with you so that you will not have to suffer the delays that we did:

Create a user ID and password on the Click2Clear website and register as an “importer.” There is no charge for this, and needs to be done only once. Cruisers in the Bahamas are required to use Click2Clear to apply for a cruising permit, but there is otherwise no need to create a user ID and password. FedEx registered me as an importer while I waited at no charge.
Fill out Bahamas Customs Form C44, which allows FedEx to act as my customs broker. They also had to scan my passport.
Present an original invoice and/or receipt for the goods showing the description. FedEx accepted the PDF invoice that Tides Marine had sent me by email.
Email all documents to FPOIMPORT@FEDEX.COM with the tracking number in the subject line.

After all that, the FedEx rep said Bahamas Customs could release my parts as soon as tomorrow. I received an email the very next day that my package had been released!

Instead of spending another $80 on a taxi, I found that I could take a “public bus” for about $2 each way. There is no bus schedule, there is no route map, and the bus stops are unmarked. But they show up every 30 – 60 minutes or so and somehow get you close to your destination. The “buses” are beat-up Mitsubishi minivans and the driver is usually playing Bahamian “rake and scrape” music on the radio enthusiastically. The buses themselves are a trip, the drivers and passengers are friendly, and I always got off the bus smiling. I took a public bus to FedEx and back and saved myself about $76 in taxi fare.

I had to pay import duty and pay for FedEx as my customs broker. All in, the fees came to about $50.

The next day, with 18 pieces of highly machined stainless steel of three different sizes in hand, I undertook the chore of replacing each of the old, bad sliders with a new one. This involved partially raising the mainsail at the marina slip so that I could remove an old slider one at a time and install a new slider — without having the mainsail catch the wind and cause damage. The chore took most of a day. I tested my work by raising the main all the way up to the top and letting it drop when I released the main halyard. Catmandu finally passed the test. Now, all we had to do is wait for the wind to change.

Installing the new sliders into the mainsail track

“Remember the Main”

The actual phrase is “Remember the Maine,” a slogan of the Spanish-American War following the explosion of the US battleship Maine in Havana Harbor in 1898.

The Lamb and the Lion at Ginn Sur Mer

Apr18

If humans just disappeared from the world, and you could come back to Earth … one year later,
the first thing you’d notice wouldn’t be with your eyes.
It would be with your ears.
The world would be quiet.
—Carlton Basmajian, Ph.D., Iowa State University

The Unrealized Resort

The Ginn Sur Mer development on the southwestern coast of Grand Bahama Island is not a ghost town. Despite its roads, stop signs, electrical lines and dredged waterways, it was never a town at all. No one ever lived here and only one house was ever built. The developers envisioned golf courses, luxury homes, hotels, restaurants and room for mega yachts.

*An aerial view of Ginn Sur Mer from the Waterway Guide®.*

After the Ginn company defaulted on a $650 million loan, Credit-Suisse foreclosed on the property in 2010. Although the government was eager to find new investors, work stopped on the luxury property. The original developers left wide canals with stone sea walls and a 14-foot deep anchorage with room for 9 or 10 boats.

*An ad for Ginn Sur Mer, showing the high hopes of the developers.*

When we arrived there were three other boats in the anchorage but by the time evening came around, there were nine boats in the basin and one catamaran in the canal to the east. A stiff wind was predicted for the following night so anyone in the area looking for a safe refuge didn’t have many choices. It is really the only protected anchorage in this end of Grand Bahama Island, which is a very long island.

We were anxious to explore all the little canals, and after a brief friendly visit from one of our Canadian neighbors, we climbed into our dinghy to take a look around. “Deserted” doesn’t begin to describe the eeriness of this area. The sandy roads have stop signs at intersections, and a completed bridge crosses over the canal. The vegetation consists of low shrubs and trees that crowd in on the few cleared lots.

*Leaving* Catmandu for some dinghy exploration. Looks like the wind has started to blow.

*A bridge over the canal had been completed, and was ready for vehicles.*

We wandered around in the canals using our quiet Electric Paddle® electric motor, coming to a couple of small lakes where the canals ended (see the chart above). Because the waterways are lined with stone seawalls, there was no way to beach the dinghy and explore on land. The wildlife was silent; we didn’t even hear birds singing. We saw one turtle on the way into the basin, but no fish, turtles, dolphins or land animals after that.

*The only completed house sits empty and quiet on the beachfront. Here it is from the canal.*

We wanted to see the one house that was built, and found it on the canal closest to the beach. It stands on the beachfront, about three stories high, with a large garage and a finished roof. It looks ready for occupation, but no one lives there. Of course there are no nearby services except for the few amenities offered by the settlement of West End, four miles away over half-finished roadways. Our Canadian neighbors told us they had entered the house and looked around, but we were not about to trespass, no matter who owns the property.

*Phil, exploring Ginn Sur Mer by dinghy.*

The Big Blow

Phil keeps a close eye on wind predictions, so we knew a big wind was about to blow. The harbor was crowded because of the wind forecast, and the crowded anchorage made high wind much more dangerous. For inexperienced boaters who don’t exactly know how much chain to put out with the anchor, there is a danger of dragging and hitting other boats. But even for seasoned sailors, high winds can dislodge a well-placed anchor, and most cruisers have dragged their anchors at one time or another.

*Phil studying forecasts from Predict Wind™ and other sources, before the winds started howling.*

We were nervous about the 25-knot wind predictions. It doesn’t sound like a lot until it is howling above you and rattling your boat’s rigging. This wind began to whirr at sunset, and by ten o’clock, we were seeing 20-knots on the wind instrument. The wind howled above us. The shallow anchorage was whipped up to a froth and the waves rocked the boat. The sustained winds reached 25 knots with 27-knot gusts.

I tried to sleep, but Phil stayed outside and monitored the anchor watch. It was pitch dark, except for ten anchor lights and the cockpit lights of a few other boats with skippers staying at their helms, also on anchor watch. The concrete seawall on one side and coral ledge on the other side of the narrow channel were invisible except on the chart plotter.

At 11 pm, Phil saw on the chart plotter that our anchor had been briefly dislodged and had dragged about 25 feet before catching again. For the anxiety that caused, he stayed at the helm all night, finally coming to bed at 4:30 am. I offered to finish out the night, but he said the wind would die down soon. It was 7:30 am before we heard the wind settle down, just as the sun rose.

We stayed at Ginn Sur Mer for one more night and on Saturday morning we tried to raise the anchor. Phil pulled up as much chain as he could with the anchor windlass, but it wouldn’t budge from the bottom. He directed me to motor forward slowly, first to the right and then left, as he moved the chain in different directions. The anchor was wedged down tightly, and due to the high winds, it had been pulled with a lot of force, possibly under rocks.

After 20 minutes of maneuvering back and forth, Phil told me to motor forward and finally got the anchor off the bottom. If we hadn’t been able to free it, the alternatives were limited: let the anchor go with 150 feet of attached chain, or dive into murky water to attach another line to help pull it up. Luckily, we didn’t have to make that decision.

*The Ginn Sur Mer anchorage, peaceful at sunset.*

We love the peace of a deserted anchorage, being off the grid with no motors running. It is so often ruined by inconsiderate people in their loud boats and even louder music. And nature itself sometimes gets loud: howling winds, waves crashing, laughing gulls, ospreys, and (sometimes) ocelots. But after the boats leave and the winds die down, there’s just the musical lapping of ripples against the hull. Phil calls it happy boat sounds. My word for it is quiet.

Dinghy Drama and Docktails

Mar23

Friends come and go, like the waves of the ocean,
but the true ones stay like an octopus on your face.
– Anonymous

Clearing In

Fifteen minutes after Phil left to check in to the Bahamas, he was back. “What happened,” I asked. “They won’t let us in?”

“I need $75 in cash,” he said. “It’s overtime for Immigration officials.” It was 4 pm on a Saturday, and if you arrive on a weekend, you pay the officials for their overtime – and not by credit card. When he returned 30 minutes later, we were legal. We raised the Bahamas flag on Catmandu and put away the yellow Q flag.

*Raising the Q flag as we entered Bimini waters.*

At Blue Water Marina, we were docked next to a large working boat that had old tires hung around its entire deck. The workers yelled loudly to each other and to friends on shore, with lots of laughter and good-natured teasing. Phil called the shouting “Bahamian VHF,” as yelling (beginning at 6:30am) seems to be their main method of communication.

Farther down the dock, a large motor yacht played U.S. country music at top volume nonstop, whether anyone was on board or not. By the third day, Phil had had enough. He politely asked them to please turn it down and they did. But there was nothing we could do about the late-night bar a half mile away that blared unbearably loud music until well past 2 am. It was deafening. The marina office was sympathetic, but said it was a “licensed establishment,” so there was nothing they could do.

Internet Woes

Our next few days were spent trying to get wi-fi and internet services without spending a fortune. For various reasons, we don’t have StarLink on board, so we rely on our iPhone hotspots, a small Verizon mobile hotspot, and generally poor marina wi-fi. Our single sideband radio is good in remote locations for checking in with other cruising boats, and – when we can hear it – Chris Parker’s weather broadcast.

*Phil on the single sideband, checking in from the Bahamas for the first time.*

Phil hiked to the store and bought a BTC SIM card to use in the mobile hotspot, but it is apparently not fully unlocked, and problems started right away. He could use the card in his cell phone, but that meant he no longer had his U.S. phone number. After spending $100 on wi-fi bandwidth that kept running out, he had to go back to the store for some answers. We wound up putting my phone on an international plan with Verizon, and using that for our internet access. It’s all very confusing to me, and I generally use the marina wi-fi when it works. I am writing this offline, to be uploaded later.

Dinghy Rides

We are living in an aquarium. The water is clear and visibility is amazing. We can sit on the boat and watch tarpon and rays swimming next to us, including one baby ray that was only about a foot long. One large nurse shark hovers beneath the dock. We have wanted to take the dinghy out for some snorkeling, but conditions have not been great. The harbor is rough from a period of high winds, and the one day we managed to beach the dinghy, I sat on it to keep it from washing away in the surf while Phil swam and snorkeled. (He followed two enormous tarpons that day!)

*Phil swimming and snorkeling near the entrance to Bimini Harbor.*

When the waters calmed, we ventured out by dinghy to explore the rest of our neighborhood and check out an anchorage at the north end of the harbor. We motored through a little tunnel into the Resorts World Bimini property (the tunnel of love, Phil said) and remembered staying at this luxury hotel a few years ago. Behind us, we heard the rumble of a sea plane landing and watched as it descended onto the water and motored away.

The anchorage we were looking for beyond the resort was ugly, with construction along the shore, no sandy beaches for dinghy access, and no palm trees. The water was murky and very shallow. One star, not recommended. There were five boats anchored there, mostly small sailboats that looked well lived-in. Was this workforce housing?

Seaplane Scares

On the way back, we encountered two more seaplanes that landed in front of us and let customers off at Fisherman’s Village. Each plane carried around 12 passengers. We watched as the first one passed by us, went farther down the small waterway, and began to turn around. I heard Phil swear and gun the outboard, quickly getting our dinghy to the side. The seaplane was headed right for us at increasing speed.

“They always take off into the wind,” Phil yelled over the sound of the engines. As we tried to get out of the way in the narrow channel, the plane sped by us and lifted into the sky. It was a close call. The second plane was gearing up behind us so we quickly got off of the airstrip and headed back to our boat.

The seaplane taking off too close to our dinghy!

In between dinghy explorations, we walked to Radio Beach and stopped at Coconut Brian’s, a quirky beach bar with large multicolored cloth triangles overhead instead of a roof. The music was deafening, but when we asked, they did turn it down (a little). And it was good reggae/island music, so we sat at the bar and enjoyed the local beer. They let us put up a Catmandu sticker. If you visit Bimini, be sure to look for our stickers at the tiki bars.

*Phil displaying our Catmandu sticker and a Kalik at Coconut Brian’s.*

Brown’s Marina

Walking along the road can be treacherous, with scooters, cars and golf carts all trying to navigate the narrow pavement. They supposedly drive on the left here, but they mostly drive in the middle. We went out one afternoon looking for a restaurant and found Brown’s Marina. The restaurant, Big Johns, was closed. Some restaurants are only open when a cruise ship is in port.

We found the dockmaster, Christian, and talked about moving the boat to save some money. He told us he was running a $250/week special so we jumped on that and decided to move to Brown’s from Blue Water. Because moving day was so spectacular, we thought we would go out for a day sail just for fun. Christian told us to report for the dock at high tide, because currents were strong and dangerous. So we sailed out of the harbor and just for fun, sailed around in a big circle just outside of Bimini. People following us on No Foreign Land wondered what we were doing, making circles in the ocean.

*Our crazy route on No Foreign Land shows our day sail off of Bimini.*

Getting back in proved to be difficult, as Brown’s Marina didn’t answer our radio calls and our phone calls dropped out until we got close. We had to kill some time by circling close to the harbor entrance and noticed other boats doing the same. When we got through to the dockmaster, he advised waiting another half hour, so we motored south along the coast of South Bimini.

*We motored along the pretty coast of South Bimini.*

Finally, on VHF Channel 16, a loud call came through: “All boats docking at Brown’s Marina, come now!” I have never heard this before, but we became part of a mass docking of three large sailboats and a million-dollar motor yacht. Phil made a perfect landing into the slip as dockhands rushed around handling lines for all the new boats. They collected credit cards and paperwork right at the dock, and we were home.

Docktails

One of the great joys of cruising is meeting people who become instant friends. We were docked between a 40-foot monohull named Destiny, and a luxury yacht that looked brand new, named Valiansea. Phil noticed the latter boat hailed from Annapolis, and started a conversation with the owners. As so often happens in marinas all over the cruising world, we discovered we had mutual friends. Our close friends Dan and Jaye were dockmates of Phyllis and Bill in Port Annapolis Marina.

For the next four days, all of our new friends gathered on the dock at 5pm for Docktails, or migrated to the shady yard next to Big John’s. Two other couples from the sailboats next to us joined in, and the eight of us bonded quickly over drinks, talking about cruising plans, wind predictions, diesel filters, health issues, and every other common theme among boaters.

As the windy weather cleared, the boats began to depart and soon we were left alone. It was a lonely feeling after days of camaraderie with so many wonderful dockmates. We were sailing north, and others were going west or east so our weather windows were different. We missed them: Deb and Jeff on Destiny, Dave and Susanne on Kolibri, and Phyllis and Bill on Valiansea. Fair winds, wherever you are – we will see you again.

*Our friends on Valiansea left us at daybreak as the sun rose.*

A new sailboat came in next to us with netting around the lifelines and as I was about to ask if they had dogs or kids, a small boy popped out of the companionway. I smiled and waved, and another boy popped out, a few years older. Then another, and another. Four little boys and their parents were cruising in a 30-foot sailboat. “You are brave people,” I called out.

“Brave or crazy?” the father called back.

The Hermit Crab

On our last afternoon in Bimini, we took the dinghy to the sand bar that appears at low tide across the harbor. Two small islands sit just beyond the shallow area, and we dragged our dinghy onto the sand to explore the clear waters. I hoped no one was watching as I tumbled awkwardly over the side (I must practice my dismount). We were alone in the bright sunshine and cool breeze, and walked along looking into the seagrass that grew just beyond the sandbar.

*Phil enjoying a G&T on a Bimini sandbar.*

Two small rays the color of sand swam up to Phil’s toes and quickly turned away. I tried to follow and get a picture but they were too fast. Phil pointed out a conch shell that was rocking back and forth in about two inches of water. It reminded me of the giant statues on Easter Island that were walked along a path by rocking, moving forward with each sway. Phil picked up the shell and discovered a hermit crab inside.

Turn up the sound for Phil’s commentary.

“There you are, little buddy,” he said, looking into the shell at the little eyes staring out. He gently put the shell back. Phil took a video of the crab rocking through the water with his house on his back. Conch shells are heavy, I thought, a big burden for a little crab.

The next day, we were off to our next port of call, heading north to Grand Bahama Island, to find new friends or connect with old ones. Not unlike the little hermit crab, we pilot our home through the clear water, rocking back and forth as we move forward.

So long, little buddy.

Crossing the Gulf Stream

Mar10

It simply isn’t an adventure worth telling if there aren’t any dragons.

— J. R. R. Tolkien

Sailing South

Clang!

It was only 7:45am on a Friday morning, and the marina was quiet, so our small collision sounded pretty loud. Phil had gotten up early and disconnected the hose and the electrical cables, and because it was so calm, he had released the starboard lines. Our boarding stepladder and dock rug were locked in the Prius, which sat covered up in the parking lot.

I stood at the bow to release the port bow line, ready with a boat pole to fend off our neighbor boats in the narrow channel. The engine purred. But as Phil struggled to get the boat cleanly out of the slip, it veered sideways and clanged the anchor of our friend Les’s boat. “I hope we didn’t wake you,” I wrote to him later, “It was just a little goodbye kiss.”

Phil said it was his worst undocking ever but it would have been fine if I were quicker to fend off. I had left lines on the deck that tripped me up as I tried to hurry over with the boat pole. Learned a lesson: keep the deck clear of hazards, even when just pulling out of your slip.

Defiant against superstition, we were starting our three-month cruise to the Bahamas on a Friday. It was a calm, clear day and we were only going as far as Miami in preparation for crossing the Gulf Stream to Bimini on Saturday. Boats like ours generally depart from a point to the south of their destination to compensate for the northerly push of the mighty Gulf Stream.

Heading out into the Intracoastal Waterway, Phil called the first bridge to request an opening and we easily made the 8 o’clock lift, then raced toward two more bridges and made their 8:15 and 8:30 lifts, with the last bridge-tender holding the bridge open for a full five minutes to let us pass.

As we motored into the turning basin at Port Everglades, I noted our speed at 6.4 knots. Phil said, “This is the calmest I’ve ever seen it out here.” It is usually a washing machine full of small and large power boats kicking up huge wakes, but this was something else.

*Phil went forward to attach the lifeline as we left Port Everglades.*

There was no wind for sailing so we turned south and started a smooth ride on quiet seas. With current in our favor, we saw 6.9 knots on the speedometer and motored toward our anchorage at No Name Harbor. Our weather router, Chris Parker, had predicted a mild crossing for the following day, so we were planning to be there just one night.

*No Name Harbor, marked by 35 on the chart.*

As we neared Miami, we saw the color of the ocean change from sapphire to aqua. Bright afternoon sun lit up the Cape Florida Lighthouse on the southeastern tip of Key Biscayne as we rounded the cape. We were in no need of the wind protection of No Name Harbor, so we anchored outside in 14 feet of water. The anchor was down at 2:15pm. We lunched on grapes and pretzels, took a rest, and watched the sun go down. We were on our way.

*Phil at anchor just south of No Name Harbor, Key Biscayne.*

*First sunset from our anchorage south of Key Biscayne*.

Sailing East

Phil was up early and out on deck when I joined him at 6:45am. He started the engine and I took the helm as he raised the anchor. Other boats in the anchorage were heading out, too, as this was the best crossing conditions in the next week. The big catamarans headed due east, not the southerly heading we were advised to take.

It was cool and clear, a calm and gorgeous sunny day. With the autopilot engaged, Phil went below to make a pot of coffee. After coffee and breakfast bars, we motored east southeast into the rising sun. I was on dolphin and turtle watch, but didn’t see any. Phil spotted a turtle (“Turtle pop!”), but from experience I knew only the first observer sees the turtle, they pop up and dive so fast.

*Kay at the helm as we motor out past Cape Florida.*

The cities of Miami and Miami Beach got shorter in our rear view, and we talked about how Columbus and early sea explorers guessed the world was round because they could see the tops of the masts of the boats coming in from the sea before the hulls. I could still see the tops of the Miami Beach skyscrapers as they faded into the distance behind us.

At around 9:30, we felt the offshore breeze strengthening and put out the jib. It flapped around a little at first, but as the wind filled in, the sail ballooned out and quieted. The boost from the sail put our speed back up to 6 kts. Our bearing at 125 degrees (see chart, below) seemed to push us too far south so Phil changed course to 120 degrees and the sail pulled us along, steadying the boat.

*From Bahamas Land and Sea, by Addison Chan, showing recommended bearings to offset the Gulf Stream’s northerly flow.*

By noon we were out of sight of land, a first for us on this boat. There was nothing but flat, gray ocean in all directions. It was eerily calm with light winds, and if this was the typical crossing, we had nothing to worry about. Our weather routing service called the conditions “mild,” and we concur. We think now it was actually extraordinary.

Here is our route, as shown on NoForeignLand. Click the link to follow our journey.

On our chart plotter, we have an AIS system that broadcasts our position and alerts us of ships in the area. Suddenly, AIS said we were on a collision course with a gigantic ship coming from the north, a monster of 293 meters – nearly 1,000 feet. Being on their right, it was up to us to avert, but they changed course for us. They didn’t have to, but I’m sure these captains can’t rely on pleasure boat captains to know the rules the way we do. They turned slightly to starboard and passed our stern, without contacting us.

*Gigantic ship passed us, altering course to avert a collision*.

We changed our course bearing from 120 to 108 degrees magnetic by the compass when Phil determined that we were four miles south of the rhumb line, our charted route to the entrance of Bimini Harbor. Our guideline was a little extreme for the force of the Gulf Stream. It did push us north but not by that much. Is the Gulf Stream weakening? Some oceanographers and meteorologists warn of dire consequences if it does.

At 1:40 Phil saw Bimini at a distance of 12 miles. “We are 3/4 of the way,” he said. “I think we are going to make it!”

*Approaching Bimini, in clear aqua water*.

The water soon turned to a brilliant aqua blue, and even with 50 feet of depth, we could see the bottom. The shore was sandy and full of beach goers, and the entrance was so shallow and close to shore, I thought we would end up on the beach. The sand bar obstructing the passage is well marked on the chart and does have navigation markers. Unfortunately, the channel is also marked as an anchorage, so we had to dodge anchored boats.

*Phil, about to raise the yellow quarantine flag for the first time*. *It was so calm, he is not using the jackline and tether.*

Our biggest problem coming in to the marina was communication. We had a reservation at Blue Water Marina but not a slip assignment. The marina did not answer VHF channel 16 or 68. We finally called on the phone, and they said to call on channel 68. We kept trying as Phil navigated very shallow water (7 ½ feet at one point) into the harbor.

Finally we got an answer: Switch to 71. Then we could not understand the Dockmaster at all. We finally arrived at the marina and he yelled, “Wait one minute,” then gestured where to dock. He barked orders at us in a thick Bahamian accent and we did our best to follow his directions for line placement. “Line” sounded like “one.” “Midship” sounded like “Me-shit” and “pull you” sounded like “poo-you.” Phil said it didn’t help that the dockmaster was sadly missing several (many) teeth. But Phil pulled Catmandu into the slip like the pro that he is, and we were tied up by 4 pm.

*Catmandu tied up at Blue Water Marina.*

No Dragons

The crossing of oceans is beyond our dreams right now, and we have no desire to cruise around the world. Venturing across the passage from Miami to Bimini, navigating the famously volatile Gulf Stream, proved to be an experience of calm waters and gentle breezes, not a wild adventure worthy of bragging rights. There were no rogue waves, no hurricane-force winds, no dragons. Not even one dolphin. But we were proud of ourselves.

“We made it,” I said, as we relaxed in the cockpit for a minute. It was a moment of anticlimax.

“I guess I should go find Customs and Immigration,” said Phil, “And make us legal.”

So off he went on foot into the wild narrow streets of Bimini – passports and documents in hand – to make it all legal.

Reasons for Moving

May11

“In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body’s been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.”

– Mark Strand, Keeping Things Whole

Our plan, to the extent that we had one, was to explore the quirky environs of Key West and take a week or so in the Dry Tortugas for some snorkeling and walks around the historic fort. Then, when the weather and wind were right, we would turn eastward and jump over to the Bahamas for a season. True to the cliché, “cruisers’ plans are written in the sand at low tide,” ours changed – for very good reason.

The trip to the Dry Tortugas required a favorable weather window, not only to get out to the remote site, but also to get back. The prevailing winds were from the east and north, so sailing there could be fairly easy but sailing back, beating our way into the wind and waves, could be a nightmare.

We had friends who got smacked down by a waterspout during a storm at the anchorage there, and we didn’t want to experience that firsthand. They were okay; they were able to turn the engine on and motor hard into the wind, avoiding being beached. Of the six boats anchored that night, three ended up on the sand.

Key West

As we waited for favorable weather, we survived more than four months in the Garrison Bight mooring field of Key West. It was a rough way to live; we were buffeted by north winds almost constantly, had infrequent pump outs, and often got soaking wet just crossing the mile of choppy water to the dinghy dock. Phil’s review of the location on Active Captain featured two stars:

Exposed and often uncomfortable

The mooring field is completely exposed to the prevailing winter winds from the north, which makes living on the ball often uncomfortable and sometimes unsafe in a north wind. Very windy and wavy. We were there for four months. I kept a spreadsheet and recorded that 1/3 of the days had small craft advisories. Dinghy travel to shore typically involves full foulies or a swimsuit since the salt spray is unavoidable. There was one fatality from a neighbor taking her dinghy to her boat while we were there. Pump out is supposed to be weekly, but could be delayed to two weeks or more due to weather. Very little communication from the marina office. The mooring balls have NO PENNANTS, making picking up the mooring ball difficult except in calm weather.

*Hank’s Hair of the Dog Saloon, where their motto is, “In dog beers, I’ve only had one.”*

Despite the difficulties, we enjoyed Key West’s unique vibe, its “fabulous” restaurants and bars, and the chance to be locals. We changed our drivers’ licenses to a made-up Key West address, since the mooring field itself was not acceptable for that purpose. (We used the address of the dinghy dock.) We started asking for the local discount at the bars after a bartender at the Harry’s Hair of the Dog Saloon told us most places take 10% off for locals.

*Kay enjoying a Smoked Old Fashioned at the Hard Rock Cafe on Duval Street.*

We climbed the Lighthouse, toured the Coast Guard ship and the Truman Little White House, marched in the locals parade before Fantasy Fest, and placed a few “Catmandu” stickers in our favorite bars. We ate and drank our way down Duval Street and then explored restaurants on the back streets and narrow walkways.

*Phil and I marched in the locals’ parade during Fantasy Fest.*

*We climbed the lighthouse, across Whitehead Street from Hemingway’s house.*

We found the best Italian place (Only Wood Pizzaria Trattoria down a brick-lined alleyway off Duval St.), the best Mexican (Old Town Mexican Café, open-air patio with a tree for a rooftop), best vegetarian (The Café, friendliest staff in town) and attended the Friday night sound checks at The Green Parrot. We bought the T-shirts.

*Phil, exemplifying “happy hour” at Smokin’ Tuna.*

Toward the end of our stay, we realized we were never going to get a good enough weather window to visit the Dry Tortugas. We decided to try again in another year, another season, sometime in the future. We had good reasons for not going.

We welcomed my son Anthony and his wife Maeghan for a February vacation, opting for a week at a dock instead of subjecting them to travel through the mooring field. (The week at the Key West Bight Marina was nearly $1,200.) We took them to the Brewery for lunch, and they presented me with a morse-coded gold bracelet. Phil whipped out his “decoder ring,” and it took two letters for me to start crying with joy: G-R. Grammy! They brought me a gift like no other: a grandchild on the way, my first.

When March came, it was time to move. We had spent all the fun chips Key West had to offer, and we were tired of the mooring field. We had other reasons for moving, and slowly, sadly, we were realizing our dream of a spring season in the Bahamas would have to wait.

Key West to Key Lois to Marathon

We set out for Marathon two days after dropping the “kids” at the bus station. We had just been sailing with them a few days earlier, so it was fast and easy to leave the dock. We followed our October course in reverse: out of Key West Bight, left to the channel, past the harborside resorts and bars, past Wisteria and Tank Islands, and into Hawk Channel.

*Looking back at Key West, we saw a gigantic cruise ship docked across the island.*

The winds were light from the ESE, so we motored the 21 miles to Lois Key. Along the way we kept our eyes out for wildlife and saw several Portuguese Man-of-Wars, the blue-tinged floating blobs you want to avoid while swimming. Although we were using the autopilot, we had to hand-steer around scores of annoying little crab-pots. At just after 1 pm, we saw Lois Key in the distance and at 1:45, we dropped anchor there in 10 feet of water.

The winds had died down to about one knot, and seas were calm. We saw one large turtle break the surface near the stern as we relaxed in the cockpit. He dove again a minute later. Just before sunset, four large dolphins appeared from the east and swam under the boat. They came up on the other side, close to the cockpit. We watched them as they swam off to the west together.

Sunset was little more than an orange-pink glow in the western sky, and when darkness fell, it was intense. There were so many bright stars, but the only man-made lights came from the keys to the northeast. We could still see a faint glow to the west from Key West, but it was still a very dark night. The next morning, we had coffee and breakfast bars at 7:30 and then tried to pull the anchor. The anchor windlass failed to turn on. “I guess it’s arm day on the boat again,” Phil said, and muscled the heavy chain and anchor onboard at 8:40.

The wind and waves were calm as we motored toward Marathon. The ocean was flat with tiny ripples that sounded like turtles breaking the surface, but when I looked, it was nothing but water. I was at the helm for most of the day, giving Phil a deserved rest. We recognized land features to our left, sailing by the Bahia Honda Bridge and then the Seven-Mile Bridge as we approached Marathon. Since there was a waitlist for the mooring field, we anchored along the west coast of Boot Key at around 1:45 in the afternoon.

*First sunset in our new home in Boot Key Harbor, Marathon.*

The next day, we boarded a bus for Key West, retrieved our car and closed our PO box. On the way back, we got a call from the city marina – our mooring ball was ready: Romeo 8. It was easy to grab the pennant this time, and we settled in to our new home in Boot Key Harbor, near the entrance to Sister Creek. Ospreys and bald eagles were calling overhead, and later that afternoon, dolphins came to meet us.

*Enjoying live music at Dockside, a Boot Key Harbor waterside bar.*

I have already written my Love Song to Marathon, and Phil wrote a tribute to its many tiki bars. Nothing in the next six weeks changed my mind about this worthy cruisers’ destination. On the mooring balls, a community of helpful, friendly, concerned citizens take to the radio every morning at 9 and share the news of the day: upcoming activities, people coming and going, people needing help, and truly corny “Dad” jokes. We met friends at the Friday night happy hour that we will reconnect with, down the line. But this is a sailing blog, and by mid-April, it was time again to go sailing.

Other Reasons

To explain our reasons for moving, for not going to the Bahamas, and for heading north, I have to go back a few months. While we were hanging on to the mooring ball in Key West, I had a few medical tests done that I had put off for too long. One of these was a mammogram, followed by a biopsy. Here is an excerpt from my journal:

Feb. 1, 2024: I guess I will remember this date for as long as I live. It’s the last day I woke up without cancer.

The doctor called me and asked how I was, any soreness, swelling. Then she said, “The tests came back positive for malignancy. There are cancer cells in the breast and the lymph node.”

Pause. Breathe.

“It’s invasive ductal carcinoma and it’s metastatic,” she says quietly.

Phil is listening so I stay quiet while she tells me to pick up a CD of my images at the doctor’s office and make an appointment right away with an oncologist. She recommended Baptist Hospital Breast Cancer Center in Miami.

“Okay,” I said. “Is it treatable?” Then Phil got up and put his arm around me.

“Yes,” she said, and added, “I was pretty sure this would be the result. Sometimes I hate being right.”

Phil held me while I explained what she had said. I cried a little. I guess I’m allowed. I have metastatic breast cancer.

So, instead of planning a crossing of the Gulf Stream and a season in the Bahamas, we were planning a way to get closer to my oncologist, my future treatments, and an affordable dock where we can spend the hot hurricane season with air conditioning.

Some treatments were available at Fishermen’s Hospital in Marathon, so we headed for the mooring field there. Weekly treatments would start in mid-May in Miami, so we called our previous home, Loggerhead Marina in Hollywood, and asked about a slip.

“Your old slip will be available,” the manager said. “When will you be here?”

“Mid-April,” said Phil. It gave us six weeks in Marathon, where we could get some treatment, and it was closer to Miami, where we would be going for tests and appointments.

I am going to be a grandmother. Phil and I are sailing to the Bahamas next spring. Our plans have to be rewritten, in the sand, but these things will remain even after high tide.

We all have reasons for moving.

*Kay, in her Easter bonnet, getting treatment at Fishermen’s Hospital on Easter Sunday.*

Having a Ball in Key West

Oct26

“They must often change, who would be constant in happiness or wisdom.”

– Confucius

“Go West, young man.”

– Attributed to Horace Greeley

After 15 months at Safe Harbor Marina Marathon–with just a few sailing excursions into Hawk Channel– we took our dock rug, hoses, and electrical cords and prepared to sail away. Our friends Guy and Pam were there to help with lines, and it was sad to say goodbye. Phil backed out of the slip that early Saturday morning while I put away the lines and fenders. We wouldn’t need those where we were going.

Day One: Marathon to Key Lois

It was still, calm and sunny with no wind as we motored past the familiar vessels in the marina for the last time. We passed the boat wreck where cormorants, pelicans and ibises had entertained us as we watched them preening or fishing, or just drying their wings. Last week we watched every other species scatter as a bald eagle landed on the wreck with his fish dinner. Soon, his partner swooped in to share the leftovers. The panicked cormorants swam away in a tight group of about 20 birds, safety in numbers. There was no doubt as to who rules the roost. (We will miss the roost.)

The sea was as flat as it gets, so the boat moved smoothly through the morning. We saw dolphins for a few minutes, surprising since we hadn’t seen any in Marathon since around June. The smart ones must have moved on to cooler waters. Our poor seasick cat tossed her Friskees under the salon table and curled up under the aft bed. She is 19½ human years old, so we forgive her.

Phil had plotted a two-day course to Key West using paper charts and our Garmin chart plotter, so it was easy to navigate. We put Otto the autopilot on and with minor course corrections for the numerous crab pots, we made our way west to the first night’s anchorage at Key Lois (aka Loggerhead Key), arriving in early afternoon.

When we found a good spot to drop the anchor, I took the wheel and steered into the wind. However, I was not very good at keeping it there, and the boat kept turning. I’m working on that. We did manage to anchor in nine feet of water and turned off the engine. We were the only boat in the anchorage. A frigate bird, with its M-shaped wingspan and swallow tail, paid us a visit wheeling close to the mast on its way around the boat. We didn’t kill it and eat it, so I think it was a good omen.

When night came, we barbecued our veggie burgers and had celebratory gin and tonics. The half-moon lit up the sky, and the stars – so many stars – were brilliant. In the distance, we could see the glow coming from the lights of Key West, the only sizable community in the lower keys. The boat was rolling side to side, but we didn’t really notice until we went below. For such calm seas, we didn’t know why it was so roll-y. With the hatches open and a breeze blowing through, we slept like babies in a giant rocking cradle.

Day Two: Key Lois to Garrison Bight Mooring Field

I awoke before dawn and fed the meowing beast before settling outside to watch the sun rise. Phil made coffee in the French press, and we toasted bagels for breakfast. It was a sunny, cool morning with a better breeze, so we were anticipating a sailing day. Sure enough, as I motored into the wind and Phil pulled the anchor, we felt the rise of wind out of the east. The wind predictions (notoriously unreliable) were for northerly winds, but any wind that allowed us to raise the sails and head west was a blessing.

We sailed downwind with the mainsail pulled to the left side and the foresail to the right. This arrangement is called sailing “wing on wing,” as the two sails look like wings pulling the boat along. We occasionally hit 4.5 knots in a 10 or 12 knot breeze, but mostly cruised along dodging crab pots at 3 to 4 knots. It was peaceful and relaxing. We passed the keys we often traversed on our many trips down Route US1 from Marathon and saw the million-dollar mansions lining the beaches, which aren’t visible from the Overseas Highway. We sailed for more than ten nautical miles.

*Million-dollar mansions along the southern coast of Sugarloaf Key*

Welcome to Key West

When it was time to enter the Key West channel, I pointed into the wind and Phil dropped the sails. As usual, I couldn’t keep the boat from spinning too much, but I did a much better job this time. So that counts as progress. Phil got us back on course and we made the right turn at the end of Key West. That’s when the wind picked up and we saw wind speeds of 13 knots just when we didn’t need it. A narrow, busy channel is not a great place to rely on your sailing skills.

We motored through the channel between Tank Island and Key West. I made a little video of this passage as we tried to pick out the landmarks we knew: Galleon Resort, Southernmost Point, Mallory Square, Sunset Pier with strains of live music coming across the water.

We passed Wisteria Island (a much better island name than Tank, don’t you think?) and entered a narrow passage to make our way around the northern end of Fleming Island and south into our mooring field. A small motor boat pulled directly across our path as we made the turn, with no one onboard looking in our direction. (We didn’t sound the air horn. Phil is kinder than I am when it comes to inconsiderate boat captains.)

It was around 3 pm when we started searching for an empty mooring ball. The mooring field between Fleming and Sigsbee islands holds 149 mooring balls, chained securely to the bottom of the harbor. Boats hook their strongest lines to a ring at the top of the ball and hang on without anchoring. We were told there would be balls available, but we wandered through rows of moored boats and finally found one – but it was broken.

*Late afternoon in our* new neighborhood

Finally, at the far northeastern end of the field, we found two available balls. Phil drove up to one very slowly and left me at the helm to get him as close as possible to the ball. He had a boat hook to grab the line, a tricky maneuver even with his experience, and trickier still in the brisk wind. As I got too close to the ball, he yelled “neutral,” indicating that I should downshift. Only I couldn’t budge the shift lever and I panicked. “It won’t shift!” I said, as we drifted past the ball. Phil came to my rescue, and figured out that the engine was revving too fast to shift, so I relearned that important lesson.

Feeling like a mooring ball failure, I let Phil spin the boat around to approach the ball a second time. This time, I was driving so slowly, Phil was able to lasso the ball, muscle it up so he could reach the ring, and attach a mooring line. We were home.

Right away, the man in the adjacent boat introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Jack,” he yelled across the water. “Phil and Kay,” we answered and waved. He appears to be living alone on his boat (which I thought was named “Arrer-ten”) and maybe he was lonely and glad to have a neighbor. Phil chuckled when I asked him what Arrer ten means in French. “After Ten,” he said. The “f” and the “t” had worn off at the top.

We had just a couple more things to do: check in with the dockmaster, and have dinner. The dockmaster was a half hour dinghy ride away, but we found the right channels in the unfamiliar harbor and caught him just in time. He introduced himself as Beaver and collected $424 for a month of mooring, showers, laundry, dinghy dock and pump-out service. “It’s the only affordable housing in Key West,” he said.

Thai Island Restaurant was open, so we headed up to the outdoor seating area and got acquainted with our server, Roger. He was another Key West character, the interesting and unusual people we keep finding in our new community. (Read more about “Quirky Key West“) Roger, self-described as “fabulous!”, somehow got us to tell him our whole history, and he learned our names. We ordered two plates of delicious Thai stir fry and he brought a selection of sauces. I mentioned that one sauce was way too hot and he said, “Maybe you’re just way too white.” I wasn’t offended; he was joking. I think if your food hurts you, maybe you shouldn’t eat it.

*Sunset in the Garrison Bight Mooring Field*

Back in the dinghy with my tiny take-out box, we made our way back to Catmandu before dark. As we rested in the cockpit and sunset approached, we heard strains of bugle or cornet music coming from the nearby naval base. They play a familiar tune five minutes before sunset, and then the trumpet sounds the “Retreat” at sunset, signaling that the workday is over. We sat quietly and listened to the trumpet from across the waters of our new home, a poignant ending to a very long day.

Suck, Squeeze, Bang, Blow

May7

“Diesels have an unrivaled record of reliability in the marine environment.”

— Nigel Calder, “Marine Diesel Engines: Maintenance, Troubleshooting, and Repair”

“The test of the machine is the satisfaction it gives you. There isn’t any other test. If the machine produces tranquility it’s right. If it disturbs you it’s wrong until either the machine or your mind is changed.”

— Robert M. Pirsig, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”

As Kay wrote in her blog post Night Passage to Marathon, we limped in to our resort marina back in August with an engine pouring out white smoke and producing only low power on a twenty-hour overnight passage. It was an ordeal, but we had made it to our new home. After settling in at our marina, we started researching mechanics who could come and fix our engine. The closest Westerbeke reps were back in Miami and Fort Lauderdale who were not particularly interested in helping us when we were bobbing around on the anchor at No Name Harbor for five nights. I knew we could do better. We had to do better.

One morning, I chimed in on the Boot Key Harbor Cruisers’ Net that is broadcast every morning on VHF channel 80. I asked for help. The one mechanic that everyone recommended was the famous Diesel Don. I called him on the phone, and made an appointment to have him take a look.

Diesel engines, such as our Westerbeke 42B Four, are typically four-stroke internal combustion machines that operate according to four simple processes: suck, squeeze, bang, blow. If any of these processes do not occur, the engine does not run.

Suck: the piston sucks a mixture of air from the intake manifold and atomized diesel fuel from an injector.

Squeeze: the piston squeezes the diesel and air into a very small volume, on the order of 400 psi, which also heats them to a very high temperature.

Bang: when the temperature exceeds the self-ignition temperature, the mixture explodes with a bang, driving the piston downward with the expanding gas and rotating the crank shaft.

Blow: the piston blows the exhaust products out the exhaust manifold and toward the muffler.

Over a series of visits, Diesel Don tried all the less-expensive tests and fixes that could cause the white smoke and low power output conditions. First, he took off the valve cover and adjusted all the valves. Wasn’t that. (Please note, we are going to show some of the guts of the diesel engine below. If you are squeamish about engine guts, please avert your eyes.)

*Valve cover removed exposing the rocker arms, valve tops, and springs*

Next, we replaced all of the injectors. Wasn’t that.

Then, we decided to do a compression test of each cylinder. Cylinders 1 through 3 were in spec, but cylinder 4 had no compression whatsoever. That is, no squeeze.

There is a short list of conditions that could cause a lack of compression in one cylinder and not the others: blown head gasket, bad valves, bad piston rings, and broken piston connecting rod. Resolving any of these issues requires major engine surgery. Resolving some of them would require removing the 450-pound engine from the boat somehow and taking the engine apart in a machine shop. I hoped we could avoid having to remove the engine. That would mean towing the boat to a boatyard with a big crane to get the engine hoisted out, and then living in a hotel for week or two while the engine gets fixed.

Don and I rolled the dice and decided to remove the cylinder head at the marina, since maybe it could be fixed in place. The photos below showed the problem immediately: broken exhaust valve on the number four cylinder. The diesel fuel and air mixture was being pushed out the exhaust without being combusted, which created the white “smoke” we were seeing.

*Underside of the cylinder head, showing a broken exhaust valve. See the missing edge?*

*Close-up of the broken exhaust valve showing a piece is missing*

Don and I reviewed the parts manual for our engine, and he made me a long list of parts to order from Westerbeke. The list included replacing all of the valves, not just the broken one.

Two weeks and a thousand bucks later, the parts were in. Don had the engine back together and painted. We started it up, and it ran as good as new. No white smoke. Power to spare.

*Cylinder head and upper assembly, painted like new and ready to install*

*Bottom of repaired and refinished cylinder head*

“Are you happy?” asked Don.

“Yes, I’m happy!” I replied.

Beset by Turtles

Apr25

The turtle lives ‘twixt plated decks
Which practically conceal its sex.
I think it clever of the turtle
In such a fix to be so fertile.

– Ogden Nash, “The Turtle”

Our latest outing into the waters around Boot Key took us farther south and west than we had ever been on Catmandu. We left the dock without a clear destination in mind, thinking we would sail west and visit one of two or three anchorages that had been recommended by friends. The original plan was to anchor between the old and new bridges at Bahia Honda, but currents are known to be strong there and we didn’t want to find ourselves pinned against a bridge in the middle of the night if our anchor dragged.

Other suggestions were farther away, and since the wind was so light (4 or 5 kts), we would have to motor all the way back, even if we managed to sail there slowly. So, we backed out of the slip on a fair Friday morning with the idea of sailing around just for fun and anchoring right outside our home harbor. It would give me some practice sailing and anchoring, which we will need for our future expeditions. (Phil doesn’t need practice, but as he puts it, “we are a team.” Winning teams practice.)

Phil sailing SV Catmandu near Marathon, FL — *Phil at the wheel.*

Phil drove out of the channel while I stowed the fenders. As soon as we cleared the markers, Phil went forward to hoist the mainsail. The wind was light and variable, mostly from the east and southeast. I drove in a crooked line, trying to keep the bow into the wind for Phil. After that, we let Otto drive (he seemed to work better than I did). I helped pull out the jib, noting that I forgot to put a stopper knot in the jib sheet (again). Soon we were sailing slowly toward the west, and we cut the engine.

What a difference it makes when the engine goes off. Every sailor loves that moment, when the diesel engine quiets and the wind takes over. We sailed a parallel course to the 7-Mile Bridge and passed the western end. We approached Bahia Honda, headed a little to the south, and kept going. The ocean was nearly flat, and it was a peaceful few hours.

We heard splashes all around us, and saw rings of white foam on the surface of the water. Phil figured out that they were made by turtles, and called them “turtle pops.” Sometimes we caught a glimpse of a turtle’s head, if it stayed up long enough, and sometimes a flipper would fly out. Most of the time they were too fast to see, and all we got was the ring of white foam and a splash. But they were all around us or possibly swimming with us. “We are beset by turtles,” Phil announced.

From the rare parts I could see, we think they were Hawksbill turtles, with a possible Loggerhead or two. The Hawksbill turtles have a distinctive spot pattern on their front flippers, and that is what I used to identify them. Turtles do not stay on the surface for long, and they are pretty quick to dive if they spot a human or a boat. Here is a Hawksbill turtle. They are about three feet long from head to tail.

We sailed for a few hours and then turned toward home. The wind was so light, it would have taken us several hours to get to the anchorage, so we had to motor sail. There were only three other boats there, so we had no problem picking out a spot. I drove while Phil dropped the anchor. He had to adjust the clutch on the anchor windlass, so I’m glad he didn’t send me forward to drop the anchor. I do have to practice that at some point.

We knew not to get too close to shore. In light winds, the bugs (no-see-ums) can be brutal. We had some adult beverages, listened to music and watched our old cat Maggie climb the companionway stairs and join us in the cockpit. She rarely comes outside, so it was good to see her making the effort. She took a walk around the deck and settled down beside us. In the distance, we could see a sailboat levitating over the water. Or, atmospheric conditions make it look like that.

*The sailboat in the distance appears to be floating above the water, not in it.*

Memorial for Mom

A few months after my mother died, the people at Seasons Hospice who cared for her during her last days gave my sisters and me a memorial lantern. We hadn’t planned a time or place to deploy it, and my sisters expected that I would light it and release it somewhere over the ocean. Phil thought it would be a good time and place to finally send it off. After grilling Impossible® burgers for dinner, we waited in the cockpit for the sun to go down.

My mother and father had a running argument about where to vacation. My dad wanted to go to the woods, and he usually won. But Mom loved the beach. She grew up in Westerly, Rhode Island and her grandfather had a beach house on Misquamicut Beach. She spent her summers there until she was 10, when the Hurricane of ’38 blew the beach house away. It also killed nearly 300 people in Rhode Island that day, including some of my mother’s schoolmates.

There was little left of the house on the beach, just a tiny bit of the cement sea wall. The top floor ended up two miles inland, the bedspreads still dry and folded on the beds. The hurricane did not dampen her desire to spend time at the beach. (It was different for her grandfather. Devastated, he sold the property without ever going back.) When my sisters and I would visit the beach with my mom, we would find that bit of sea wall and lay our towels out beside it.

This made me feel that flying that magical lantern over the ocean would be a fitting way to honor my mother. My sisters live far away, so they would not be able to participate. Phil and I got out the paper lantern kit, and making sure it was environmentally safe and ocean-friendly, we looked for the instructions to light it. Hilarity ensued. Apparently, AI has not advanced sufficiently to translate Chinese into understandable English. Wishing Light Operating Instructions (I am not making this up.):

After the distribution of fuel to packaging equipment Kong Cross wire in the side of the field again deduction presses the fuel pressure lock firmly.
A person wishing light take up a Top; another person fuel ignited the four angle.

After cracking up at this bit of nonsense, we figured out how to attach the fuel tile to the wire at the bottom of the lantern, and just after sunset at the anchorage, we tried several times to light it. It was old; it had been on the boat for almost two years, and it just would not light easily. It finally ignited, and we held it up off the deck, fire extinguisher at the ready.

When the “four angle” (the fuel tile was a square) was fully engulfed, the top of the lantern expanded to its full height and started to float away. I’m sorry I don’t have pictures, but it took both of us to hold the lantern and light it safely. I said, “I miss you, Mom,” and Phil let it go into the fading twilight.

We watched it float off the boat for about ten feet and then sink into the sea. We both started laughing, and I knew if my mom were looking on, she would be laughing too. The next day, as we were making our way back to the west to calibrate Otto again, I thought I saw the remnants of our memorial Wishing Light, disintegrating into the ocean as it was meant to do.

***

How does one tie up a blog with so many threads? I try to make each piece a complete tale, wrapping up all the facets in a well-constructed bundle with some kind of conclusion to make it all work, but this one is about a herd of turtles, my mom, and an overnight outing with Phil on our sailboat. A writing friend of mine asked me once if I consciously looked for a common thread to tie the blog together, and I said, “yes, I keep writing until I find it.” But the only thing I can think of to tie this one together is the ocean.

We live on it, my mother loved visiting it, and turtles pop out of it.

“I have been feeling very clearheaded lately and what I want to write about today is the sea. … It is my favorite thing, I think, that I have ever seen. Sometimes I catch myself staring at it and forget my duties. It seems big enough to contain everything anyone could ever feel.”

― Anthony Doerr, All the Light We Cannot See

Running in Circles

Apr6

When in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout.

― Herman Wouk

If you were driving east into Marathon last week on the Seven Mile Bridge and looked out on the ocean side, you would have seen a sailboat with no sails up, spinning in place. That was us, going around in circles on a flat, calm sea. I could have called this article “Donuts in the Deep,” “Circling the Drain,” or simply “Calibrating the Compass,” but I was trying to imagine what people would think as they drove by and spotted a sailboat slowly rotating.

Our auto-pilot had stopped working on our way to Marathon last August, and although Phil had replaced the rudder reference (what’s that? see photos), the direction of travel was still about 50 degrees off, so we knew the compass had to be calibrated. For months, it was on the “to-fix” list, but since the engine was blowing white smoke and losing power, it wasn’t our first priority. It took many months (on island time) but finally, the old Westerbeke was patched up, fitted with all new valves and a new head gasket, and ran like a top. It was time for a shake-down cruise.

*This is a rudder reference – a faulty one.*

We picked a calm day that promised light winds. After going through the cabins and salon and putting away everything that could go flying, we were ready to leave the dock. You wouldn’t believe the loose items we had accumulated in seven months. We had grocery bags full of loose breakables secured in the v-berth. I tied up the drawers in my mom’s jewelry box – that was a disaster the last time we sailed in rougher waters; the drawers came out and scattered earrings and necklaces all over the captain’s cabin. I locked cupboard doors, secured the cat food and water dish, and took everything off the galley counters. As it turned out, we probably didn’t have to do all that. I probably didn’t need my seasickness relief band, either.

No neighbors were around that Wednesday morning, so Phil and I unhooked our electric cord and took down the dock lines. Without a breath of wind, Phil backed out of the slip easily and we were on our way. I lifted the fenders and Phil hooked up the lifelines. It was partly cloudy, not a beautiful day, but not hot. The purring of the engine was music to our ears.

We have an 18 ½ year old cat who doesn’t like to travel much. No purring was heard from the cat quarters. Maggie hunkered down underneath the salon table, threw up, and went into the head to lie on the floor. She got extra treats when we got home.

We exited through the channel and headed west toward deeper water. The ocean was flat calm and the engine sounded healthy and happy for the first time in a year. Phil followed the instructions for calibrating the flexgate compass, pressing a series of keys on the autopilot controller. Then, when the screen said, “Turn boat,” he slowly rotated Catmandu while I thought about how comical it must look from the bridge.

*The directions for calibration of the fluxgate compass*.

We made two or three revolutions before the message told us how many degrees of compass deviation we had so we could adjust it to our actual course heading. Done! Our autopilot is fixed. For those who don’t sail, this device allows us to set a course, set the sails or run the engine, and relax while “Otto” steers. (Yes, it reminds me of the inflatable pilot in the Airplane movies.)

We were not ready to head back to port, so we pointed into the wind, raised the head sail and turned off the engine. It wasn’t worth raising the mainsail; there was almost no wind. We bobbed around in the water, loving the peace that descends when the engine turns off. The breeze was no more than a light caress on the jib, and we managed to move about a half mile at .5 knots. But we were off the dock. We were sailing.

Dolphins appeared off the port stern, and we heard one just behind us slapping his tail. There were several more off the port bow, swimming so close we could see them under the water. They slap their tails to stun fish and to tell their pod members where the fish are. They swam around us for a while, and after they disappeared, we spotted a large sea turtle with a patch of seaweed on his shell. The turtle wasn’t close enough to identify the species. He dove back under the water, and we turned for home.

*Just one of the dolphins who visited during our slow sail.*

Where are we from, and where are we going?

Our slow cruise began nearly ten years ago in Annapolis. Now it can continue. We have a working engine, an autopilot, a new water maker, and updated charts. We have the means to visit Key West, the Dry Tortugas, the west coast of Florida, the Bahamas and beyond. But hurricane season approaches, and we will have to be somewhere safe until November. We have been here in Marathon for almost a year, loving the climate-controlled pool, the easy access to laundry and supplies, and the incomparable sunsets. We travel by dinghy to restaurants and tiki bars – and back. Maybe we are a bit spoiled, for cruisers.

Living the island life just south of mainland Florida, we find ourselves in the company of other boat-dwellers, sailors, and wanderers. Phil makes friends easily, and we socialize at the pool and the marina parties, only to discover weeks later that our new friends have moved on. Most people are just passing through, but we have been here so long, we got a 10% discount on dinner the other night for being “locals.”

It is a welcoming community, and when they ask us where we are from, we look at each other for an answer.

“All over,” I say. Born in California, raised in a nomadic military family in communities on both U.S. coasts, eventually landing for a time in Colorado, Washington State, and New Hampshire, I never know what to say.

“Where’s home, though?” they might ask.

“Wherever the boat is,” says Phil.

We don’t know exactly where we are going next, and we don’t know when. But we do know we can find our way there with a working autopilot, a working engine, and a correctly calibrated compass. Until we have a float plan, a destination or at least a route on the chart plotter, I guess we will be running in circles. At least we are finally running.

Servicing the Electric Anchor Windlass … Sort of!

Mar7

This is how the electric anchor windlass is supposed to work

Phil here, with a tech update on servicing and maintaining our Catalina 380, 38-foot sailboat. Boats of our size and larger have anchors that weigh on the order of 35 pounds and above, and have anchor rodes (i.e. lines) that are all chain. They are heavy. Thanks to gravity, anchors and chains are usually easy to deploy. However, it is difficult to retrieve them when it is time to pick up the anchor and sail away. That is where the electric windlass comes in.

Catmandu came with a very nice Maxwell Freedom 800 electric windlass, that has worked flawlessly for the past three years. However, last July when Kay and I were testing the boat’s systems at the dock in preparation for sailing south, the anchor windlass would. not. deploy.

We contacted our dear friend Mike Dillon, an engineer for Maxwell in Fort Lauderdale, for help. A new windlass costs about $2000, and I hoped we could repair ours instead of replacing it.

“When did you last service the windlass?” Mike asked when he came aboard with his bag of tools.

“You have to service anchor windlasses?” I replied. I had no idea. I thought they were magical devices that just worked for years when you pushed the buttons. They have shiny, stainless steel turny things on top and magical whirring things that are invisible below the deck.

It turns out you have to service anchor windlasses periodically. #Sad. It appeared that the windlass had not been serviced in over 20 years. Mike took apart the top part of the windlass and found that the two clutch halves had seized together, and that had prevented the anchor chain from deploying. We pried them apart with hand tools and brute force, cleaned out some embedded dirt, and greased the clutch. Then the anchor and chain deployed normally once again. Note to self: the user manual says the clutch has to be greased every year or bad things can happen.

Mike opened an access panel below deck and inspected the gearbox and electric motor. The gear box was empty when it should have been at least half full of 90 weight gear oil. All the oil had leaked out. Left empty, the gears would have eventually ground each other to dust and the windlass would be ruined. Mike was able to throw some regular oil into the gearbox so that we could get underway, and it was good enough for our cruise from Hollywood to Marathon.

Change the scene to the present day. Catmandu has been at a slip in Marathon for seven months, and properly servicing the anchor windlass has finally come to the top of the to-do list. Servicing involves greasing the clutch, removing the gear box, replacing all the oil seals, and replacing the gear oil. I was able to grease the clutch again. I even installed a “pressure arm” that presses the anchor chain against the chain wheel of the windlass since it was missing on my unit. However, after accessing the rest of the windlass below deck, the gear box would not come off. It had seized to the shaft and I could not get it off, even after applying penetrating oil daily, banging on it with a hammer, and applying heat from a heat gun.

Worm wheel and gearbox cover would not come off the shaft, so I left them in place

The next best thing was to merely remove the bottom part of the gear box and the electric motor from the assembly while leaving the worm wheel and gear box cover on the shaft, as seen in the photo above. As you can see below, out of oil again.

Then I turned the gearbox to the side, and identified an oil leak past one of the oil seals. Oil seals are partly rubber and partly metal, and must seal the gearbox and shaft precisely in order to keep the oil in.

I bought a Maxwell rebuild kit for this windlass, which includes replacement oil seals, clips, o-rings, and a sight glass for the gear oil. I was able to get all the old seals out and replace them, except for the seal in the gearbox cover. Of course, there is a YouTube video for that.

Gearbox with overhaul kit, ready to install

I installed the new hardware and bolted the gearbox assembly back onto the windlass with fresh 90 weight gear oil. After applying anti-seize compound to the bolts, I secured the gearbox to the shaft and re-installed the electric motor.

Plenty of gear oil seen in the sight glass. Bueno.

To prove it works, I ran the anchor up and down at the dock a few times, and called it a success. Now, the anchor windlass has been completely serviced — except for greasing the worm wheel on the shaft and replacing the oil seal on the gearbox housing. Good enough, as long as they never have to come off.

Under the Boom

Chronicles of S/V Catmandu (and Catnip, too)