January 6, 2014 - February 3, 2014
So, the plan.
Yes, The Plan. We'll launch Harmonie in Grenada, stay a bit in Prickly Bay, and then head north.
It's easy for us to say we are going to do this bit, since it's already been done. We arrived in Grenada on January 6 after three flight cancelations, lots of delays, two unplanned overnight stays, a bus trip, and unexpected flights to Panama City and Trinidad. What a nightmare! All was forgotten though after our luggage (carrying bunches of boat parts) miraculously appeared in the Grenada airport a mere twenty minutes after we did (it traveled a direct route from Miami, whereas we took the more circular and scenic route from Miami to Panama to Trinidad to Grenada). Still breathing giant sighs of relief, we found our taxi driver patiently waiting for us, armed with the papers needed for boat parts customs clearance. Forty minutes later, after a bumpy ride through the dark, curvy roads of Grenada, we were sitting in the lovely warm and humid air surrounded by the sounds of tree frogs and surf, with a glass of white wine in our hands and a perfectly seared fresh tuna steak on the table in front of us at the cheap (a relative term in the Caribbean) and cheerful beach resort we chose to stay in for our first two nights in Grenada. Ahhhhhhh, yes! The Caribbean.
What followed was two weeks of boat work. The boatyard did the worst of it, Don did the rest, and I did relatively little. All in all, a good plan. We arrived to find Harmonie in fine shape. A big relief as we had never left her for so long (seven months). There were no insect infestations, no water damage or leaks and no exploded cans of food - always a good sign (although there was a bit of excitement when the first can of tonic semi-exploded into a fountain of fizz when opened). The yard workers had completely sanded down the bottom, removing all layers of bottom paint accumulated over the years (or at least we hope they did, since we didn't actually see the bottom at that point), and applied the four layers of primer epoxy necessary before the application of four layers of Coppercoat bottom paint. We decided to essentially gold-plate the bottom this year with Coppercoat since the research says it should last as long as ten years, if applied properly. Assuming that's true, the savings in haul-outs and bottom paint not needed in future years will make up for the mountain of cash paid this year. The application was tricky. The layers of Coppercoat must be applied wet-on-tacky, and the entire surface must not be exposed to water for at least 48 hours after painting. This is slightly problematic while living on a boat in a boatyard in rainy Grenada. The yard guys constructed a skirt of polyethylene around the hull to keep the rain from dripping down, and also attached a hose to the bilge pump outlet to keep the water we used aboard from streaming down the bottom. While all this was going on, Don methodically checked all systems and installed all the pieces and parts carried down in our luggage as well as the bigger pieces and parts shipped down separately. I polished the cockpit. It looks darn good after two weeks of sporadic effort.
We launched with little fanfare on January 21, stayed one night on a rolly mooring near the boatyard, and sailed (mostly motored) a big 7 miles west from Grenada Marine in St. David's Bay to Prickly Bay. A planned 7-day stay turned into 11 days as we swung around on anchor watching new and old world sailing boater friends arrive from points southeast (Africa), and northeast (Europe). There was Taipan (Australians) and Contrails (American) and Sunflower (American). Taipan having just arrived from Africa via St. Helena, Contrails from Africa via Trinidad last season and Sunflower from Africa last June. Mr. Curly (British, and last seen by us in the Indian Ocean's Chagos) arrived from Africa after spending a season in Brazil. Silver Fern (New Zealand) and Summer Wind (American) just arrived from the Mediterranean via the Canary Islands. So, we couldn't leave Prickly for points north before properly meeting and greeting everyone, and in one case, celebrating Australia Day (think July 4th) in one marathon session aboard Taipan. After last year's dearth of boater friends in the Caribbean, we were thrilled to be socializing nearly every night. That's not to say boat work wasn't accomplished at the same time, of course. Never fear, Don methodically checked all the systems that couldn't be checked while on land (generator, water maker, instruments, etc.), installed the rest of the pieces of parts, not the least of which were new membranes for the water maker (which is at this very moment happily converting lots of liters of salt water into fresh). And I did…hmmm, what did I do? Can't remember, but I'm sure it was important.
Last Saturday (February 1), the wind quieted some, turned a little east, and we peeled ourselves away from cruiser's heaven in Prickly Bay and pointed north into the wind. At the moment, we are anchored in Tyrrel Bay, Carriacou, which is part of Grenada. Later today we'll clear out, and tomorrow morning we'll press on to the north to Bequia (part of St. Vincent and the Grenadines) in what will hopefully be lighter winds. Hopefully lighter, because sailing into the wind is never our favorite thing to do, and we don't enjoy bashing to windward between the islands as we battle north. Once we reach St. Lucia, however, all will be lovely as the islands further north from there are positioned just enough to the west to make sailing with the prevailing northeast trades a pleasant experience.
Back to the plan.
For the rest of February, March and April, we plan to continue north, island hopping from Carriacou to Bequia to St. Lucia to haven't-decided-yet to the Virgin Islands. From the Virgin Islands, we'll sail to the Turks and Caicos and on to the Bahamas. Late April, should find us in Ft. Lauderdale - the first time in US waters (not counting the Virgin Islands) for Harmonie since November of 2007. We'll then continue on up the Florida coast, stopping for sure in Fort Pierce or Vero Beach to visit Don's mom, then on to Georgia and South Carolina and North Carolina. After Charleston, the Chesapeake will be the next stop. We'll probably go as far north as Baltimore.
In September, we've been invited to join John and Sue on Storyteller in the Malaysian part of Borneo, and spend about a month with them cruising that area before flying back to the US and getting Harmonie ready to make the trip south again in November. We have decided to postpone our plans to re-enter the Pacific until early 2016, so tentatively, the plan for Season Eight is to sail south from the Chesapeake to the Bahamas or Florida (or elsewhere?), and then sail north again for the summer of 2015.
That's the plan. Subject to change, as always.
A thing of beauty.
Hull polished. Bottom painted. There used to be a narrow white stripe between the bottom paint and the orange boot stripe, but after seven years of scrubbing that persistently marine-life-green stained white stripe, Don decided it was time for it to go. So, a bit like an older fellow hiking his pants up dangerously close to his armpits, Harmonie now sports bottom paint up to her boot stripe.
Oh, and I should also point out that no one fell off the ladder. Even after dwelling high and dry for twelve days and nights. It was probably a good thing we decided to employ a pee bucket (which doubles as a normal bucket under normal circumstances) for nighttime use. In retrospect, the pee bucket was way more enticing than the boatyard bathrooms. Besides, Don volunteered to empty the bucket every morning, so who could complain?
Our birds-eye boatyard view from Harmonie's bow.
Aha! Boater friends.
We knew they were hiding somewhere around here in the Caribbean. We just couldn't find any last year. This is Kathie and Dave from American boat Sunflower - last seen by us in Thailand, 2012. Funny how things work out. Sunflower arrived in Grenada last June (after we had already left for home), and was hauled out and parked right next to Harmonie, which is where we found her upon our return.
Splash!
There's always that moment of slight anxiety when the boat is lowered into the water, and hopefully, floats (and stays that way). It did. And slight anxiety again after the lift operators remove the slings and Don shifts the engine into forward, when hopefully, the boat moves forward (as opposed to backward). It did. Yes! All this after Don had removed, disassembled and reassembled the complex feathering prop, which resembles a Chinese jigsaw puzzle. Not that I've ever seen a Chinese jigsaw puzzle, let alone put one together, but you get the idea. Of course, there was that one time in Langkawi, Malaysia when Don shifted the engine into forward and we went backward - mind you, there was massive jet lag and sweating involved during prop reassembly, so in all fairness, blame couldn't really be placed. Anyway, at the time, the Malaysians laughed, but I'm not so sure we would have gotten the same reaction in Grenada.
More in a bit.
Anne
May 24, 2013
And just like that, we're done. Not done, as in finished, complete, kaput, sell-the-boat kind of done, just done as in round-the-world, season-end, done. As always when looking back over the course of a boating season, the time seems to have flown. At the same time, our memories of sailing around Africa seem long ago, and are already fading. What used to be tangy, sharp-edged recollections of southwest busters in Richard's Bay and big southeast blows blasting down from Table Mountain in Cape Town, are now slightly blurred remembrances tinged with warm gold, causing us to feel nostalgic, rather than grateful, to have that part of the trip over with. Strange how the mind works. We've been floating around the Caribbean for so long now that even our meatloaf filled 23-day passage from St. Helena has morphed into vague thoughts of blue (the first part), gray (the middle), and bumpy (the end).
Season Six:
7 months
7,500 miles sailed (second only to our Season One, which was an 18 month/20,000 mile sailing marathon from Lake Ontario to New Zealand)
Hauling out at Grenada Marine.
7 months
7,500 miles sailed (second only to our Season One, which was an 18 month/20,000 mile sailing marathon from Lake Ontario to New Zealand)
1 major cape rounded
1 ocean crossed
1 ocean crossed
4th equator crossing
1st Prime Meridian crossing
New record set for longest passage (3,776 miles in 23 days, St. Helena to Grenada)
9 countries visited (South Africa, Namibia, St. Helena, Grenada, St. Lucia, Martinique, Dominica, Antigua, St. Vincent & the Grenadines)
9 countries visited (South Africa, Namibia, St. Helena, Grenada, St. Lucia, Martinique, Dominica, Antigua, St. Vincent & the Grenadines)
And last, but not least: world circumnavigation bragging rights
Hauling out at Grenada Marine.
As you can see, unlike our last haul-out experience in Simon's Town, South Africa, this was not a tight squeeze. In these slings, Harmonie looks more like a toy than a tubby 52-footer. Overall, on the haul-out stress scale, Grenada Marine rates only slightly above Rebak Marina in Langkawi, Malaysia where the stress was so low boaters were often caught snoozing throughout the process.
Covered in critters.
This is not the best photo, but suffice it to say Harmonie's waterline has never grown a garden quite as lush as this, nor has her bottom been covered with more barnacles. The fact that the last decent bottom painting was done two oceans ago might have something to do with it. It was a challenge for the guys doing the scraping and power washing, but Harmonie's bottom now resembles that of a boat and no longer a sunken dock. Sanding and painting will take place when we return in January.
Traveling through the boatyard (one Travelift driver and at least three spotters).
The waiting cradle.
All is well as we are now high and dry (only mostly dry since the rainy season is fast taking over), secure in the cradle and not moving (a very odd feeling after having spent most of the past five months swaying on board). Sails have been removed and stored below, kayaks will follow right before we step into the airport-bound taxi early tomorrow morning. Both booms are now stored on deck, and all lines that could be removed, have been. The sun cover will be put away, and the bimini folded and secured, leaving only the tie-downs (Harmonie will be strapped to the ground) to be installed by the boatyard in preparation for the hurricane season, which shouldn't (knock on wood) bring a hurricane. The likelihood of a hurricane is very slim in Grenada, (hence our insurance company's agreement to allow us to store here), but one did occur in 2004. There are about 230 boats stored here, so we won't be the only owners watching the southern Caribbean weather very closely this summer and fall.
Ok, so now what? Does it feel good to be done with the circumnavigation? Yes and no. Although the Caribbean doesn't hold the same wonder for us that it did the first time around in 2007/2008, it's still a lovely place where Triscuits can be found in supermarkets, and of course it's very nice to be closer to home. It feels good to have accomplished what we set out to do nearly six years ago, but now that it's done, it has taken us a few months of casting about and feeling directionless to come up with a new plan. Most importantly, a new plan that feels right. If we've learned nothing else, we've learned to trust the gut. Yes, yes, when formulating a plan, we still do all the logical stuff (research via guide books, internet, other cruisers, etc.), but in the end it all has to gel without making us feel nauseous. So there you go - Bob's you uncle - Season Six is done and plans for Seasons Seven and Eight are coming together. All is well.
We fly home tomorrow (5/25), and will be there until July, when we fly to Munich where a rental motorhome is waiting for us. After five weeks doing our best to survive in a much smaller space (but without the worry of big wind and waves) in and around Germany, Austria, Czech Republic and maybe Hungary and northern Italy, we will meet Sue and John (Storyteller) and Michael and Jackie (Lady Kay) and Claire and Fi (Sa'Vahn) in Salzburg for the last part of August. After that, we fly to Glasgow where another motorhome waits for us at the Highland Cow (love the name) rental agency. Outside Glasgow, Michael and Jackie will meet us in their own motorhome, and we will spend four weeks touring Scotland's green hills and Scotch whisky distilleries before flying home in early October. (Don has yet to decide whether he is more excited about Scotland's scenery or whisky, but I could hazard a guess.)
Season Seven will begin after New Year's. We'll head north through the Caribbean island archipelago, and eventually to the Bahamas and Florida. From there we'll continue north at least as far as Baltimore, and depending on our progress and timing, maybe as far as Maine. During that time we hope to complete several hefty maintenance projects and upgrades, not the least of which is a new engine. Our current thought for Season Eight is to transit the Panama Canal in early 2015, and re-visit the Galapagos and parts of French Polynesia before heading north to Hawaii, Alaska and the Canadian and US west coast for the summer. A lot can happen between now and then, but we feel we aren't done with ocean sailing just yet, so our decision to use 2014 to re-visit the US east coast and complete some much needed maintenance and upgrades feels right.
The blog will be back in January for the start of Season Seven.
Season Seven will begin after New Year's. We'll head north through the Caribbean island archipelago, and eventually to the Bahamas and Florida. From there we'll continue north at least as far as Baltimore, and depending on our progress and timing, maybe as far as Maine. During that time we hope to complete several hefty maintenance projects and upgrades, not the least of which is a new engine. Our current thought for Season Eight is to transit the Panama Canal in early 2015, and re-visit the Galapagos and parts of French Polynesia before heading north to Hawaii, Alaska and the Canadian and US west coast for the summer. A lot can happen between now and then, but we feel we aren't done with ocean sailing just yet, so our decision to use 2014 to re-visit the US east coast and complete some much needed maintenance and upgrades feels right.
The blog will be back in January for the start of Season Seven.
Cheers -
Anne and Don
Anne and Don
11:59.57N 61:45.69W
April 23, 2013 - May 16, 2013
After saying good-bye to Monkey and Rick in Antigua, we returned to Prickly Bay, Grenada in record time. Ok, not really. The roughly 350 miles between Antigua and Grenada is something we would normally cover in a little over two days at sea, but we took the long route, stopping in St. Lucia, Bequia, Union Island, the Tobago Cays and Carriacou before finally landing back in Prickly Bay 14 days later. Having never visited the Grenadines before (which include Bequia, Union Island and the Tobago Cays - all governed as part of St. Vincent), we found their less developed bays and beaches to be a nice break from the overdone tourist gloss that exists elsewhere in the Caribbean. Bequia and Union Island, although doing their best to promote tourism with accessibility by air and sea, still retain much of their Caribbean charm. Most of the locals will still meet your eye and return a greeting when encountered on the street, and many of the buildings in the still small towns are spruced up versions of the original wood structures. It didn't hurt that we visited these places as high season wound down, leaving only the more hard-core boaters and tourists (or at least the more cost conscious boaters and tourists - all looking for end-of-season bargains), which made it easier to find pleasant places to anchor and stay for a while.
A highlight for us was the Tobago Cays, one of St. Vincent's national parks, which consists of a collection of tiny islands surrounded by big reefs, and nothing else. Accessible only by boat, the islands are untouched and provide a safe haven for the sea turtles who live in the area. Although much of the reef coral has been damaged over the years by hurricanes, the water is the clearest we've seen since…since…Vanuatu in the South Pacific. Snorkeling in the Tobago Cays is like swimming in an enormous pool - every grain of sand twenty feet below is perfectly visible. Most of the anchorage area is protected by the Atlantic Ocean swell by a series of reefs, but completely open to the sometimes brisk trade winds, which churn up a choppy surf on a good day, and a bouncing, lumpy mogul field on a not-so-good day.
We chose a not-so-good day to paddle our kayaks over to the designated turtle watching area to do some turtle snorkeling. Don paddled, battling his way through the whipped up mess. I struggled and straggled behind, thinking perhaps this wasn't the best day to paddle around in a little kayak powered only by underpowered arms. It's not like we were in danger - there were anchored boats all around with lots of people aboard. No, it was more the issue of potential embarrassment. What if we (I) couldn't make it to the beach and had to be rescued by dinghy? How many boater blog stories would be written up boasting of the rescue of a hapless middle-aged boater woman on a kayak in the Tobago Cays on a not-so-nice day? Ooooh, way too embarrassing. So, as it usually does, the prospect of humiliation provided the necessary incentive to power on. After successful arrival on the beach, we dumped the kayaks and donned snorkel gear - all the while thinking there was no way the turtles would be hanging around in this choppy mess, waiting to entertain us. The thing we forgot was that no matter what is happening above, the sea below remains serene. And so it was. The turtles were there, gliding about, waiting for us. Once we floated close above, they commenced to eat. Sea grass is their thing. Lots and lots of sea grass. They didn't seem to mind at all while we floated above and they chewed below. Occasionally their heads swiveled in our direction, still chewing, their bulbous eyes blinking, probably wondering why all these large floating people feel the need to constantly watch them eat. After a little while longer in the silent sea watching the turtles blink at us as we bobbed around in the surface chop, we returned to the beach, re-launched the kayaks and paddled back to Harmonie. Another day, another something to remember - the quiet sea, the big turtles in their tastefully decorated shells gliding effortlessly below us, and then lifting our heads just high enough out of the water to return to noisy, choppy, sea level reality. The next time we encounter nasty wind and seas during an off-shore passage, we'll have to remember what it was like with the turtles, down there where the waves don't matter.
One of St. Lucia's Pitons, as seen from our 'bat-cave' mooring near the town of Soufriere.
Although the view was excellent, we didn't love the unfriendly locals, the untended moorings yachts are required to use, or the giant day-charter catamarans that pick up all remaining moorings each morning, swinging ever so close to our hull until their departure each afternoon.
We cleared out of St. Lucia in Soufriere on an unusually rainy day, and had no trouble clearing customs, but found the immigration office closed and locked at 3:30pm even though the sign posted outside indicated afternoon office hours of 1 to 4:30. A dash through the rain to the police station next door left us with only a vague indication that the immigration officer might be 'on a break'. We stood on the doorstep in the rain for about twenty minutes before checking with the police station again. Still no joy. Deciding it wouldn't be the end of the world if we left St. Lucia without immigration clearance, we carried on through the town in search of an internet cafe. Just as we passed one of the local bars, Don caught a glimpse of a uniform. "Wouldn't it be funny if that was the immigration guy?", we laughed to each other. Don decided there was no better time than the present to find out, so tromped directly into the bar and politely asked if the uniformed guy was in fact, the immigration officer. He was. And he was in the middle of watching a soccer match on the bar TV - but seemed happy enough to meet us back at the immigration office in 'a few minutes'. We moved back to our post on the immigration office doorstep and waited another twenty minutes before he came around the back way (avoiding anyone watching from the police station, we noted) to meet us. Five minutes later, we were done and all was well. There is a first time for everything and pulling an immigration officer out of a bar in the middle of the afternoon was a first for us. "Only in the Caribbean", Don would say.
Sunset over Admiralty Bay, Bequia.
The boating guide for the area raves about the 'lovely purple Bequia sunsets'. Yeah, yeah, we thought - every place in the tropics is described as having this or that kind of sunset (which, of course, many of them do), but after a week anchored in Admiralty Bay watching a deep purple sunset every evening, we have to agree with the author. Lovely.
Happy Island.
Just the name alone is enough to put a smile on your face, isn't it? I'm referring to the tiny island to the left, which is just big enough to hold the bar/restaurant sitting on top of it. Apparently, this island hasn't existed for long. An enterprising Union Islander took it upon himself to take a pile of the empty conch shells fishermen leave in a mountainous heap on Clifton's beach, mix them with a bit of cement, and build himself an island on Newlands Reef just off the coast of Union Island. Ta-dah! Happy Island was born. We tried to go to the bar for a rum punch on several occasions, but it never seemed to be open when we thought it should be. Instead, the shutters usually opened and lights came on just after we hauled the dinghy back aboard. We suspect foul play - either that or a bad case of poor timing.
To the right is one of the giant day-charter catamarans we are so fond of.
Grenada is filled with more blooming flowers than almost any other place we've visited. Love the color.
You may recall that brief interlude in 1983 when 12,000 US troops (and soldiers from other Caribbean nations) were sent to Grenada to stamp out the hard-liner Communist threat brewing here. The skirmish was brief, with all but 300 US soldiers returning home in December after only two months in-country (the remaining 300 troops returned home after two years). Based on our limited experience in Grenada, we would venture to say it is one of the more stable/prosperous/secure nations in the area (not to mention one of the most beautiful). This display of thank you graffiti remains after all these years. It's nice to see, when so often the news brings images of less than complimentary graffiti concerning the US in so many other places.
We are pleased to report that while anchored in Prickly Bay for over a week, Canadian yacht Tagish arrived. First met in Chagos a year ago and last seen in Richard's Bay, South Africa six months ago, we were more than thrilled to see Brian and Dorothy's friendly faces again. In between a few excellent shared dinners, we took a Grenada island tour together. Tagish will be moving on to Trinidad soon, and after a visit home (Vancouver), will head west for the Panama Canal and the long trip home (via Galapagos, French Polynesia and Hawaii). You never know…it's possible we'll see them again on the west coast in the not too distant future.
Although tourism is important to Grenada, agriculture is just as important. If it weren't for hurricane Ivan, which decimated 99% of Grenada's nutmeg trees in 2004, Grenada would be the second largest producer of nutmeg in the world (after Indonesia). Grenada's nutmeg industry is recovering, albeit slowly, but cocoa production, which had an easier time of it during and after the hurricane, remains strong. This was our first good look at cocoa trees, the pods that grow from every available surface of the tree (trunk, branches), and the all-important cocoa beans inside the pods.
The cocoa bean processing 'plant'.
The word 'plant' brings to mind big, efficient machinery churning out heaps of product in a highly automated fashion. Not so in Grenada where all processes are manual, and most involve the natural power of the sun and warm sea breeze. Nothing wrong with that. In this plant, cocoa beans freshly arrived from the farms are piled in fermentation tanks (more like square wooden holding cells) to sit for about five days covered with banana leaves while micro-organisms grow and cause the chemical reactions and heat necessary for the cocoa color and flavor to develop. Once fermentation is complete, the beans are spread in the huge trays shown above and left in the sun to dry. At night (or if it rains), the trays slide neatly into the side of the concrete building for safe keeping (not unlike the cadaver storage drawers in morgues - a rather morbid analogy, and certainly the cadavers are never rolled out into the sun to dry, but you get the picture).
That's Dorothy from Tagish on the left, the cocoa processing plant guide in the center, and me on the right.
Grenada's oldest (and most unique) rum distillery.
The River Antoine distillery has been in operation since 1785, and it looks like it has been around for that long or longer. They claim this water wheel is the oldest in operation in the Caribbean, and it is still used to drive the sugar cane crushing operation.
The witches' cauldrons.
Boiling off the excess water and concentrating the sugar in preparation for the fermentation process. Looks mighty appetizing, does it not?
The final distillation process.
Gotta love the copper tanks. The stamp on the front indicates they were manufactured in Louisville, Kentucky sometime in the 1800's.
The distillery's rum tasting room was set up in a dark cellar with cracked walls, a few cases of rum and bits of sugar cane strewn about. Three bottles were set up on a rickety table and we were invited to try them at will. Rum #1 was a barn burning 75% alcohol, which caused steam to exit Dorothy's ears. Rum #2 was a more tolerable 50% and rum #3 was mixed nicely with passionfruit to disguise the alcohol. We went for a bottle of rum #3 after learning there would be no problem storing it on the boat for the seven months we will be away (lots of alcohol in there to keep it fresh).
Cleaning up.
Our haul-out date is approaching rapidly (May 22), so preparations began while we were anchored in Prickly Bay. Don emptied and cleaned all deck lockers, cabin lockers and bilges in an attempt (a successful attempt) to re-catalog all the spares, re-organize all the lockers, and clean out the stuff no longer needed after six years at sea. A big job. Surprisingly, there weren't that many surprises during Don's whole locker re-organizing exercise. One would think more long-lost items would have surfaced from the depths of the bilge, but it seems not. Too bad.
Believe it or not, all that stuff piled on the deck (and more where you can't see it on the other side of the boat) came out of the stern locker, which we fondly call the garage. Even our car (the dinghy and motor) fits in there (rolled up) when we are on passage or the boat is in storage. Don enjoys spending time in the garage (as he is doing here), it reminds him of all those hours spent building airplanes and helicopters in various garages at home.
Up next: Season Six Ends
Anne
April 12, 2013 - April 22, 2013
Just when we were feeling jaded and bored with the whole Caribbean experience after fighting for anchor space in Martinique, smiling and waving at other boaters who reciprocated with blank stares almost everywhere we went, and bumping our way to windward up the archipelago; our friends Sue (aka Monkey) and Rick arrived to remind us what a charmed life we lead. They had never visited us aboard Harmonie before, so we were a little concerned that the floating life would not agree with them. Wrong. After seven days anchored in two bays along Antigua's north coast (three of those days spent marooned aboard, with no trips ashore), Monkey and Rick stepped off Harmonie's stern onto the dock at Jolly Harbor Marina smiling and unscathed. Well, unscathed if you don't count the heat emanating from their unnaturally glowing skin, or the giant bruise slowly changing color on Rick's inner arm (caused by a particularly arduous sack-of-potato dinghy entry after snorkeling in Jumby Bay).
During those seven days of what for us was pure vacation mode (as opposed to boater mode, which includes less glamourous tasks like boat maintenance, cleaning, laundry and shopping - all of which require an inordinate amount of time compared to the same tasks done while land living), we visited two lovely bays on Antigua's north coast, Deep Bay and Jumby Bay on Long Island. We had visited Deep Bay back in 2008 on our way south, but Jumby Bay was new to us. We shared Jumby Bay with the $1,500/night Jumby Bay Resort, hundreds of fat, bright orange starfish, and no other boats. The blue of the bay changed with the rising and setting sun, rivaling that of French Polynesia's Society Island lagoons, and providing nearly enough entertainment for us to be content simply watching the intensity of the blue change over time. Nice.
Deep Bay, on the other hand, was not the same intense blue, the grandly named Royal Antiguan Resort was anything but grand, and we had to share the bay with a few other boats. However, the place did have its own charms. Not the least of which were uncanny acoustics that allowed us to play Janis Joplin at top volume well after boater's midnight (9 pm) without disturbing anyone. Deep Bay is also the setting for Fort Barrington, built in the mid-1600's to protect Antigua's capital city, St. John's, from the French. The remains of Fort Barrington sit atop what was called Goat Hill, but has since been renamed Meltdown Mountain in Monkey's honor. This occurred after she, I and Rick scrambled up the rocky path to Fort Barrington, and a typical Caribbean squall blew through, forcing us to seek shelter in a semi-cave, and causing Monkey to meltdown into mild panic. "I can't do it! The rocks are too slippery! Once we get up we won't be able to get down!", and so forth. After the squall passed through, we waited for Monkey's personal squall to subside before proceeding up the path (and back down) with no trouble. That afternoon, we decided to rechristen Fort Barrington's Goat Hill as Meltdown Mountain. Plans are currently in the works to inform Lonely Planet of the change.
Potato-head and tomato-head sharing South African bubbly on day two in Deep Bay. Guess who is the shade-dwelling boater and who is the sun worshipping guest?
Monkey and Rick on the way up Goat Hill, before the squall, meltdown, and subsequent renaming. The remains of Fort Barrington are above.
Deep Bay as seen from Fort Barrington. Harmonie is the boat anchored furthest to the right.
The lovely Jumby Bay Resort overlooking the very blue bay.
Jumby Bay was so calm and shallow, Don decided it was a good place to scrape off the garden growing on Harmonie's bottom. He does this using snorkel and fins, free diving as necessary to reach all of Harmonie's bottom parts. I usually keep an occasional eye on Don's progress from deck when he cleans the hull, just to be sure he hasn't become shark bait, been eaten by a giant squid or had some other marine disaster visited upon him. However, with Monkey and Rick aboard, I had the luxury of dumping off my Don watching duties on Rick while Monkey and I went kayaking. Who knew that Rick, in his unflagging diligence, would set such an impossibly high standard for all future hull-cleaning-Don-watching duty?
Mostly unscathed Rick and Monkey, and fully-relaxed-in-vacation-mode Anne and Don all decked out for dinner out in Jolly Harbor Marina.
Monkey's calling card left ready and waiting to take over at the helm upon Monkey and Rick's departure from Harmonie.
Next up: There and Back Again - Prickly Bay, Grenada
Anne
February 21, 2013 - April 10, 2013
How very odd to have a rainy day in the lovely Caribbean. It's not just a little bit of liquid sunshine either, it's a downright, full-out, gray cloudy day with rain parading through just slow enough for ports and hatches to be opened right before they need to be closed again. It's odd, but nice - the gray reminds us of home. Of course it also gives us an excuse to lay around and read a book or write something for the blog (as if we need an excuse to lay around, but there you go).
More than six weeks have gone by since we arrived in Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, and we've not much to show for it aside from a pile of empty wine and beer bottles and a heap of good memories left over from my sister Margy and brother-in-law Rick's visit. They were only with us for a short week, but we managed to laze around Rodney Bay for a full month, finally rousing ourselves out of our St. Lucia stupor three weeks ago to sail the short 30 miles north to Martinique. After spending two weeks in various anchorages on Martinique's southwest coast and managing to mangle the French language beyond repair, we sailed on to Dominica, and then finally to Jolly Harbour, Antigua, which is where we are now. One would think we'd have more to report after floating around the Caribbean for over two months, but most of it can be boiled down to the following:
The weather is perfect. The breeze is just right. The water is lovely. The music is excellent. The vibe is purely Caribbean.
-and-
The prices are shocking. The anchorages are crowded. We feel more like tourists than boaters. We have no friends.
That's it in a nutshell.
For those of you who prefer a bit more detail, read on. For those who prefer a shorter and snappier blog, skip down to the photos.
The weather, wind and water are lovely.
We have Syracuse weather bookmarked on our browser so when we have internet access, we read what's going on there, and then feel really good about what's going on here. Here, the weather is perfect (except for the very occasional rainy day). It's just hot enough during the day to make swimming something to look forward to, and just cool enough at night to require a top sheet. Unlike Indonesia, Malaysia and Thailand, our eyebrows do not sweat, our faces do not melt, and we can no longer track each other's movements throughout the cabin via trails of sweat.
The main reason the weather is so lovely is the very consistent trade wind. Without it, the Caribbean islands might approach the holy humid hotness of Southeast Asia….but not quite. With it, the temperature is always near perfect and sailing is always possible, except when in the lee of a giant volcanic peak. The only problem with the wind is it seems to blow forward of the beam no matter which direction we are sailing. Sailing into the wind just isn't very fun for those of us who prefer a gentle wind blowing from behind. In short, the Caribbean is no place for sailing wussies. Don is faring well, but I seem to have morphed from triumphant circumnavigator into quivering sailing wuss in record time. We had a particularly bumpy ride from Carriacou to St. Lucia, and then again from Martinique to Dominica, during which there was a fair bit of whining going on in the cockpit (and it wasn't coming from Don).
Of course there has been the usual number of mini-calamities along the way, but nothing to write home about (yet, once again, here I am writing home about it). There was the sudden, massive 'POP!' when the line holding the top of the headsail snapped after tacking through a particularly blustery headwind. Then there was a giant 'TWANGGGG!!' when the main sail's leach line broke (a self-inflicted mini-disaster, details of which will remain under wraps in the interest of continued marital bliss). The generator and main battery charger have thrown a few mini-fits, and the water maker, although now making lots of water in record time, still sometimes forgets to take out enough salt. On the bright side, Don found a new sensor for the chain counter in Martinique so we can once again sit happily in the cockpit while anchoring and watch the chain counter count meters of chain while the windlass does its thing.
The Caribbean vibe.
Even though we've found many places to be overrun with tourists, the unique Caribbean vibe is still very much alive and well. Most places are laid-back, slow and easy; with reggae, calypso or some other distinctly Caribbean beat wafting around in the background. Each island has its own personality, which is shaped in large part by religion, whether it be Catholicism, Rastafarian, fundamental Christian, or some combination of those or others. The ethnicity of the people, their food, and music, and the island's topography, natural resources and economy complete the picture. In St. Lucia, our best local informers (taxi drivers, tour guides and hair dressers) worry about government corruption and crime. "The politicians! They say they are for the people, but when they get into office, they care only about three people: me, myself and I.", says taxi driver Bennie. Beautician Lucy laments the state of St. Lucia's youth, "I send my daughter to England. She no like it and cry every day, but I can't have her here. She will go with a handsome young man and get into drugs. It's no good for young people here. They don't want to work anymore - they just want the fast drug money." We can't help but think that an island economy based heavily on tourism (which is true for many, but not all of the islands) is not necessarily all good. It's easy to see why the island young people, who are surrounded by glamorous resorts, marinas and restaurants filled with flashy tourists, might be tempted to seek the shortest route to the pot of gold.
On the bright side, you can't beat the many intrepid entrepreneurial souls roving the beaches and bays of St. Lucia and Dominica, wanting to provide a service or sell you something. There's beads from the guy who apparently designed something for several of The Bachelor contestants when the show was filmed in St. Lucia, fruit from a variety of floating sources including the guy in the rickety wooden dinghy-thing festooned with a multitude of country flags, and eco-friendly hats and baskets from the roving Rastafarian palm frond weaving specialist. Then there's Evans, who hangs out near the ferry dock in Dominica's capital Roseau. We arrived in Roseau on a particularly windy day, with a big swell running through the anchorage, so were very glad to see Evans waving from shore as we tried our best to negotiate the rolling waves in our little dinghy. He motioned us into a small harbor used by the local fisherman, tied up our dinghy and helped us climb up the concrete wall. "I'm Evans," he enthusiastically proclaimed, "This is what I do. I look for yachties in dinghies and help them tie up and find customs. This is what I do. I watch your dinghy, no problem. This is what I do." We happily gave him $12EC (~$4US) upon our return from customs, and hoped he got enough business that day to carry him into the next. North of Roseau, in Dominica's Prince Rupert Bay, the boat boys have organized themselves into a single group responsible for all boaters' wants and needs: roving security at night, garbage pick-up, laundry service, various boat and bus tours, local information, water taxi services, etc., etc.. You'd have to work hard to turn down help from a mostly smiling guy in a brightly painted wooden boat called 'Lawrence of Arabia'.
We had forgotten how nice the Caribbean is.
But...
The prices are shocking - probably because we are used to cheap South Africa and even cheaper Southeast Asia. What we spent in a month for a dock in South Africa was gone in five days in the Grenada, St. Lucia and Antigua marinas. While it's true one could argue the sturdier dock construction, garbage pick-up and laundry service demands a higher price, we still find the difference disconcerting. Groceries are also top-dollar, and even the fruit and vegetables in the local market aren't what we would consider a bargain. However, we will admit the unique floating fruit delivery system used in St. Lucia is worth the extra money. If we were feeling cynical though, we might point out that in Vanuatu, we were often fruited free of charge via dugout canoe. Ah yes, we keep telling ourselves, if every place were like Vanuatu, it wouldn't be quite so special, now would it?
The anchorages are crowded. There are a lot of sailboats in the bits of the Caribbean we've seen so far, but the south of Martinique wins the prize based on sheer numbers. We were surrounded by hundreds of boats at anchor (and nearly 600 in the nearby marina, many of which are owned by local Martinique sailors or charter companies). In general, the crowds have forced us to re-think our approach to anchoring. Gone are all thoughts of an anchorage private enough for a daytime cockpit shower; except of course if you are French or German. Since English-speakers' tea time coincides nicely with French and German bath time, we prudish Americans have taken to sipping tea in the cockpit while the show goes on around us just before sunset. We figure since we've been forced to severely reduce our personal space while at anchor, we might as well make the best of it.
We feel more like tourists than boaters. Right or wrong, as boaters, we often feel superior to the typical tourist. This is because we can get to places they can't, and once there, we can stay much longer; all the while getting to know the places we visit in a way that's almost impossible for the usual tourist to do. However, here in the Caribbean, we may be on a sailboat floating in a bay, but the tourists are in the same bay, doing mostly the same things. Our visits are still longer than the usual tourist, but the nature of the visit is nearly the same. The only locals we meet are those that serve us in some way, which is not the same as a chance (and often memorable) meeting with a local in a remote village. We've had a few brushes with the 'real' Caribbean so far, including a couple very pleasant rides in the local minivan buses and an excellent trip to the main market in Castries, the capital of St. Lucia. However, because we are so used to the local culture plopping itself into our lap when we visit a place, having to search for the real Caribbean under its touristy veneer feels strange to us.
View of Rodney Bay and St. Lucia's northwest coast from what used to be a British fort on the top of Pigeon Island.
St. Lucia's iconic twin Piton mountains.
Sunset over Rodney Bay as seen from Harmonie's stern.
The quaint French town of Ste. Anne on Martinique's southern coast. We were anchored there for nearly a week with at least eighty of our closest boater friends. Not really. But we did enjoy the teatime shows.
Dominica's Indian River.
For us, Dominica was a nice change from very touristy St. Lucia and very crowded Martinique. Dominica (not to be confused with the Dominican Republic, which shares an island with Haiti, and is located a fair distance to the northwest between Puerto Rico and Cuba), is a young volcanic island with very tall, forest covered peaks and not many sandy beaches. Because of the shortage of beaches, Dominica is not a major Caribbean tourist destination. We felt more at home there surrounded by other boaters (no charter boats) and locals. Its unspoiled coastline attracted the makers of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, and many of the scenes were filmed here. We went on a rowboat tour of the Indian River with boat boy (really, boat man) Martin, and he pointed out the various locations used in the movies, including the one in the photo above. These trees are called bloodwoods and their fantastic root system loves the brackish water. Very cool.
Machete wielding tour guide Paul.
We also took a full day minibus tour of Dominica's northern coast with Paul - a martial arts teacher/construction worker/taxi driver/certified tour guide/guitar player/security consultant/herbal medicine specialist (and coconut-husker extraordinaire). It seems most local Dominica folk involved in the fledgling tourist business have a few things going on the side to ensure a steady stream of income.
Dominica's Red Rock Beach.
The red is actually leftover ash from a big volcanic blow. A nice spot, and one maintained by an extremely relaxed group of Rastafarians. We each paid $5EC (~$2US) to walk the beach using the handy stairs carved into the ash by the care takers. Not a bad way to live - carve a stair or two, take a few bucks from a few tourists, and smoke a boatload of weed.
A Rainy Day in Paradise.
Our view of Guadeloupe's pretty peaks as we sailed past on our way from Dominica to Antigua.
Hey, we do have friends! Sue (aka Monkey) and Rick are flying in from Syracuse today, and will be with us for a week in Antigua. We are looking forward to a renewed social life and a week of making fun of our non-boater friends as they struggle (or not?) with life on a boat. After they leave us on the 18th, we'll start making our way back south toward Grenada where a cradle is waiting for Harmonie in May.
Anne
February 5, 2013 - February 20, 2013
"You mean you want to sail across an ocean?" I asked Don, incredulous that such a normally rational and responsible person would even suggest such an obviously reckless venture.
That was about ten years ago when we were discussing retirement plans. At the time, I thought maybe, just maybe, I could handle the trip down the Intracoastal Waterway to Florida, and then on to the Caribbean, as long as we returned home within a year. That was our original contract: down the canal from Lake Ontario to New York, into the Chesapeake, the Intracoastal to Florida, and on to the Caribbean for a short stay before reversing course and returning home. But then Don bought a book written by a guy who sailed down the Intracoastal to the Florida Keys. I quit reading it about halfway through. At the time, I blamed my failure to finish the book on the author's poor writing (it was an exceedingly boring book). Maybe it wasn't the author's fault the book was boring though, maybe it was the trip itself - a bit too safe with all that motoring and sailing on flat water with land within sight on both sides of the boat nearly the whole time.
Then we bought Harmonie in 2005 and spent a week with the previous owners while we brought her up from Baltimore through the canal system to Lake Ontario. They had sailed around the world, even around both capes (South America and South Africa), and seemed no worse for the wear. But wait - let's talk about Harmonie for a minute. Don, in his infinite wisdom (I mean this sincerely), decided it wouldn't do to take a semi-reluctant wife on a sailing trip to the Caribbean for a year on a boat that was too small. As much as we liked our previous boat with its beautifully classic lines and lovely teak trim, there was nowhere to hang our paltry boater wardrobe, let alone do laundry, entertain guests or install a microwave. After months (or was it years?) of research, Don selected the Amel for many reasons, not the least of which was its tried and true construction and four watertight bulkheads (if we ram something with bow or stern and hole the hull, we can seal off a bulkhead and carry on - the sealed compartment will fill with water, but the boat will remain afloat). We have not tested this particular feature, but like knowing it's there if we need it. Anyway, I will admit I had very little to do with the process of choosing our boat (aside from the final looking and buying), but have always felt it was the perfect choice for us. Huge kudos to Don for realizing I needed a microwave, and then choosing the perfect setting in which to put one.
After we purchased Harmonie, Don bought me another book called Changing Course written by a woman who had interviewed at length one hundred 'boater' women (women living on sailboats). When asked the all important question, "If you had it to do over again, would you still leave home and go sailing?" Ninety-six percent said yes. The other four percent were in the middle of divorce proceedings (ok, I'm kidding…I can't remember what the other four percent said - I was too overwhelmed by the overwhelmingly happy 96% at the time). After that, we went to the Annapolis Boat Show and listened to Beth Leonard (author and longtime sailboat dweller) talk about she and her husband's sailing voyages. Of the hour-long session, I remember only one sentence, which went something like, "I have compiled all the data, and in all the time we have spent sailing in the tropics, we have only encountered winds higher than 25 knots (or was it 30?) for less than 1% of the time." Aha! I thought. It's not that hard to sail in the tropics. Then we read more books about blue water cruising, and then Don told me the British company World Cruising was organizing a round-the-world rally based on Jimmy Cornell's routes. Imagine Don's surprise when I said we'd better sign up (and this even after learning the hefty deposit was non-refundable), which we did. Just like that, the one-year contract turned into 2 1/2 years and included several ocean crossings.
A few months before we retired, we went to the Toronto boat show and attended a seminar by a woman in her forties, Tania Abei, who had sailed around the world, alone, starting when she was 18. This took place back in the days of real sailing - before GPS, internet, satellite phones, etc. She left Lake Ontario, went through the canal system to New York, and set off for Bermuda without really knowing how to take a position with her sextant. Quite a few years later, she returned triumphant. After the seminar, Don and I had the same thought - if she could do it at 18, alone, with none of the modern day instruments and tools, then it should be a piece of cake for us.
And it has. Sometimes. Other times it hasn't. But, the truth is, if someone asked me now if I had it to do over again, would I still leave home and go sailing? No question about it - yes!, or maybe YES! is a better way to put it.
Round the world in 1,854 days.
So here we are back in St. Lucia, just over five years from when we started off for Panama with the World ARC Rally on January 23, 2008. Yes, we are a bit late - nearly four years behind our original round-the-world schedule - but who in their right mind would trade those years for anything different? Not us. It's all been too marvelous. Even the nasty bits.
When we arrived in Rodney Bay at daybreak last Wednesday (2/20), we were surprised to find there was no brass band waiting for us. There were plenty of sailboats anchored in the bay, but not a one of them hailed our arrival with a toot of an air horn or a chorus of 'Congratulations!' on the radio. Nope, it was dead quiet, just like any other day at 6am in a Caribbean anchorage. We put the anchor down (a relief after a nasty upwind sail from Grenada with a quick stop in Carriacou…whose idea was it anyway to make landfall in Grenada and then sail 140 miles into the wind to St. Lucia??) and looked at each other. 'We did it! We sailed around the world!', we said, but we didn't feel triumphant. We just felt tired after a night of little sleep and an uncomfortable sail. Breakfast and a shower helped, but it wasn't until we tied the dock lines in the newly renovated Rodney Bay Marina that we started to feel good, like we had 'arrived' - with a capital 'A'. Then, the perfect thing happened. Don walked down the dock and saw someone who looked familiar. As is often the case, he saw a boat that looked even more familiar. Talulah Ruby. Don spun around and headed back toward the familiar face - it was Paul. Talulah Ruby Paul. He and his wife Andy were in the World ARC with us. Unlike us, they finished the rally, sailed back home to the Canary Islands (off the northwest coast of Africa, belonging to Spain) for the intervening three years, then crossed the Atlantic to the Caribbean again this year. They plan to sail around the world again, this time more slowly. They will be sailing with another World ARC boat, Just Do It (which is also here in Rodney Bay, although owners Ian and Annie are at home in the UK at the moment). We might have been four years late for the big World ARC celebration in Rodney Bay in 2009, but we feel our evening with Paul and Andy, her four visiting sisters, and lots of champagne in the cockpit of fellow World ARC boat Talulah Ruby was a perfect ending.
Ending? Did I say ending? No, no! We're not done yet. We look back on all the crazy and fabulous places we've been and sometimes can't believe it. How can we seriously think about packing it all in when there is so much more to see and do out there? Yes, we've finished the round-the-world thing, and it's safe to say we won't be crossing the Indian Ocean again any time soon, but the Pacific Ocean continues to beckon, and there's always Alaska, right?
Was it really only ten years ago I thought Don was off his rocker for suggesting we sail across an ocean??
More from the Caribbean after we party for a week with my sister Margy and brother-in-law Rick arriving today (2/26).
Happy 50th Brother!!
Anne
January 12, 2013 - February 4, 2013
Twenty-three days. My, oh my, that was long. Not scary or difficult or even boring , just long. So long, that until we were more than halfway to Grenada, neither Don nor I felt completely at ease. Surprising, given that the first ten days were some of the most glorious sailing days we've ever had - gliding ever so smoothly with the downwind rig, twin headsails pleasantly filled with the very kind southeast trades. Yes, we should have been prancing around the boat gloating about the blue sky and soft wind. But - it didn't happen. Instead, we were busy thinking about all the things that could go wrong over the course of a 23-day passage in the middle of an ocean. And then of course, formulating the corresponding contingency plans for each imagined disaster. We were doing this separately until a good week into the trip when one of us happened to admit to the other that we didn't feel completely relaxed, and why. After discussing it, we felt better that we weren't alone in our individual quests to plan around all potential calamities, and we decided we would feel better when we were within one week of our destination - which we did. But until then, no matter what disaster we were able to conjure up in our minds, after working through the details of how we would deal with it, we always ended the conversation with the same refrain, "If we had to, we could do it."
In the beginning, we were both worried about power. Harmonie is an electricity-hungry boat, no doubt about it. All the luxuries we have (two fridges, one freezer, electric winches, electric furling, autopilot, radar, instruments…) all this stuff sucks power - to the tune of about an 8-10 amp draw during the day and 10-12 at night when the radar is on (8-12 amps is hefty power use for a sailboat). We have eight, very large batteries (much bigger than car batteries, more like those used in trucks), and a ninth used only as an engine start battery (to start the motor or generator). When on passage, we usually need to run the generator a little less than twice per day, six-seven hours total per day. Yes, that's a lot, but that's the price we pay for all the electricity-driven luxuries. Our fear was that if the generator quit, or if all three of the battery chargers powered by the generator quit, we'd have to charge the batteries using the alternator on the engine. Using the engine to charge the batteries is a perfectly sensible alternative, but is very inefficient compared to the generator/battery charger option. So inefficient, we worried we wouldn't have enough fuel to finish the trip if, starting early on, we had to use the engine to charge the batteries. Our contingency plan if this were to happen was to reduce power use. We would shut down the freezer (didn't have to worry about that, now did we?) and one of the fridges, use the radar more sparingly, and as an absolute last resort, turn off the autopilot and hand steer. Oooooh, just the thought of hand steering for all those miles day after day made us shudder….but, we agreed, if we had to, we could do it.
Power wasn't the only thing we were worried about though. There was the water maker, which was spewing out fresh water at a record low rate and with an abnormally high salt content. We bought a bunch of bottled drinking water in St. Helena, but still worried we wouldn't have enough for 23 days at sea. Not knowing what exactly was wrong with the water maker, we were also concerned it would stop working completely, leaving us short of fresh water for washing and cooking. We decided to put our fresh water contingency plan into play early on. The plan? Use less water, and collect rain water. (It's not rocket science, is it?) This plan was much more fun to implement than the power reduction plan would have been had we needed to use it. We wore the same shorts everyday and no one complained. Shower frequency was decreased to once every two days (once every two days for each of us - anything less might have been cause for mutiny since we were sailing through the heat of equatorial waters). Dishwashing was minimized. None of this was a hardship. When we neared the equator and the rain storms came, Don rigged our sun cover to funnel rain water into a bucket. Having never collected rain water before, we were amazed how fast our five gallon bucket filled. We collected so much water so quickly, we decided after less than a day we had enough drinking water to last the trip - plus we dumped a bunch of rain water into the water tank to reduce the overall salt content. Not that the salt content in our tank water was alarmingly high, we just didn't want it to go any higher. In retrospect, we could have collected enough rain water to last a lifetime during the six days it took us to clear the rain storms just north of the equator. In any event, our water use reduction and rain collection activities barely qualified for the 'if we had to, we could do it' category since it was easy, and in a twisted sort of ocean-passage way, fun.
What else did we worry about? The autopilots, the steering, the engine, the sails, the freezer, eating too much meatloaf, eating meat that had been through four freeze/thaw cycles, rotting vegetables. That sort of thing. All for naught. In the scheme of things, our 23-day passage was pretty uneventful. Uneventful, but full of character. There was a definite beginning, middle and end. The first ten days were lovely (yet filled with angst). The middle was annoying, and peaked out at miserable as we made our way through the doldrums and associated muddled wind and rain (yet we were more relaxed as the distance-to-go shrank). The end was pleasant after the northeast trade winds evened out, the sun reappeared, we got used to the constant leftward lean, stopped worrying about equipment failures, and started to breathe normally.
In the end, the worst that happened was one (the largest) of the three battery chargers quit working on day 17, which wasn't much of a hardship because the other two chargers handled the load perfectly fine. Of course the freezer quit, but aside from an overdose of meatloaf, we survived. We were concerned about the steering throughout the trip because there were strange noises coming from the steering mechanism when the Autohelm 7000 autopilot was in use. A bit of hand steering revealed a very stiff wheel, which didn't help to ease our fear of impending steering disaster. We opted to use the other autopilot (6000) exclusively, and hoped for the best. All was fine until Don disengaged the autopilot as we approached Grenada and found the wheel to be extremely difficult to turn. He muscled us into Prickly Bay Marina and later that day disassembled the steering mechanism (again). The new racks and pinion were fine and everything else appeared normal as well. After reassembly, the wheel was still a little difficult to turn, but better. We decided to leave it be (it has since improved for reasons unknown).
Once we arrived in Grenada, it only took a few days for Don to address the rest of our equipment issues. The battery charger problem was simply a blown fuse. The freezer compressor required a new dryer (moisture in the system was indeed the problem), which a very able technician in Prickly Bay installed for us. The high pressure pump on the water maker required a little TLC in the form of new seals and valves - the system has now returned to its former self.
So, 23 days, lots of worry, and no calamities.
Even if there were though…whatever the situation required, we could have done it if we had to.
Planned route (blue dotted line) and actual track (purple dotted line).
The beginning of our actual track was erased because the computer decided it couldn't store more than 5,000 data points. In other words, our passage was so long, the navigation software had to erase data points from the beginning of our trip to make room for those at the end.
WP0022 is about where the equator is , and if that portion of our track was blown-up, you could better see where we turned due north on several occasions when the rains storms bent the wind in the wrong direction. At the time, it felt like we were pointed north for eons. Looking at the overall picture now, it looks like we stuck to the rhumb line fairly well. Given that we only sailed 26 miles more than the planned route (3,776 vs. 3,750), I guess we did pretty well.
In hindsight, we probably should have sailed closer to the South American coast in order to pick up the positive current that runs along it. Instead, we managed to sail into the equatorial countercurrent, which we did not find enjoyable as it slowed us down a good 1-2 knots over the course of several days.
Passage Statistics:
Total nautical miles traveled - 3,776 (wow!)
Total time - 23 days, 0.5 hours
Total time sailing - 21 days, 9.5 hours (93%)
Total time motoring and motorsailing - 1 day, 15 hours (7%) Starting about 90 miles south of the equator, we motorsailed three consecutive nights until the northeast trade winds filled in around 90 miles north of the equator. Other than that short interlude, we sailed the whole way.
Average speed - 6.8 knots (7.8 mph)
Degrees of latitude traveled - 28 to the north
Degrees of longitude traveled - 56 to the west
Highest wind - 28 knots (32 mph). As expected, the northeast trades were consistently higher than their southern cousins, generally ranging from 15-28 knots with gusts into the 30's in rain squalls. Overall, we really couldn't complain about the mostly moderate wind throughout the passage.
Highest cabin temperature - 89F (on day 10, our last day of sun before crossing the equator)
Number of near-calamities - no real calamities or even near-calamities. Maybe just a few challenges like pulling the downwind rig down in the rain, enduring days of rain and gloom, and eating too much meatloaf.
Number of major milestones achieved - three. Crossing the equator for the fourth time, crossing the Atlantic Ocean, and completing our longest passage.
Number of dead flying fish found on deck - over 100.
Number of fish caught - 3. One big king mackerel and 2 small UFO's (Unidentified Fish Objects).
Aha - there's the king mackerel. Pretty fish. Nasty teeth. Ugly sucker-fish sores. Don threw him back.
Drying out our lovely blue ballooner in the cockpit the day after dismantling the downwind rig in the rain.
Rain on the radar.
I know, I know, this is too blurry. That's because the boat was moving a lot when this was taken during the night of miserable rain storms (day 17). The blobs of bright green inside the circles are an indication of rain. The radar was very green throughout that particular night.
A tardy sacrifice to the sea gods.
The cherished jean shorts received a well-deserved, sunny burial at sea.
As you can see, the northeast trades were churning up a pretty good sea that day.
Land ho!
Approaching Grenada on the morning of day 23.
Sunset over calm Prickly Bay, Grenada.
Measuring out Harmonie's length (all 52 feet) in the hallway.
Our great-nephew Robbie's kindergarten class followed our progress as we crossed the Atlantic. Near the end, the kids took their rulers into the hall and measured out Harmonie's length. Once finished, they then skipped down the length of Harmonie (as you would).
Robbie is near the back of the pack, peering out over the shoulder of the girl in the orange shirt.
Thanks to all the kids and Ms. Alexander for making our passage more fun with all their highly anticipated emails filled with 5-year-old-kid questions.
(Photo courtesy Ms. Alexander, Robbie's teacher)
Next up: The Caribbean and St. Lucia.
Anne
11:59.903N 61:45.553W
February 4, 2013
Done!
All 3,750 miles.
Yesterday turned into a lovely sail with light wind, the
countercurrent left us to be replaced briefly by a nice positive current, and we
ended up having to slow down overnight in order to arrive
in daylight. We couldn't have asked for better conditions with
which to eat the last of the cabbage and indulge in a celebratory
end-of-passage glass of wine. When we arrived, there were no gift basket
bearing dockhands, barber, freezer guy or bevy of Heineken girls waiting for us,
but docking was no hassle, and the boat next to us is one we were parked next to
in Simon's Town, South Africa. Single-hander John and his boat Arctic Tern
left Cape Town stopping only very briefly in St. Helena
and a Brazilian island, and arriving here in Grenada 64 days
later. 64 days! Makes our 23 seem paltry in comparison. John
is looking very salty with a full beard and bones poking through his extremely
thin frame. Single-handing a sailboat around the world makes what we do
seem nothing more than a frolic in the park. No thanks.
Don has already lined up a freezer guy to come by tomorrow,
and is now rinsing the worst of the salt off the decks and stainless. The
giant mound of laundry will be taken care of by a local service tomorrow, and
we've already purchased a phone sim card and bananas that taste like something
more than sawdust. Ahhh..it's good to be back in the Caribbean. It's
also strange (but good) to be sitting still.
We'll stay in Grenada for about a week before moving on to St.
Lucia. Once there we'll celebrate the official completion of our
circumnavigation with our first round of guests, my sister Margy and her husband
Rick.
Now it's time for lunch and our first Caribbean
beer.
More in a week or so.
Anne and Don
11:17.742N 59:11.316W
February 3, 2013
We're ready.
The last of the aging bits of food were cleaned out of the
fridge to make room for arrival champagne, tonic, and beer.
This meant removal of what used to be the bag of Namibian
carrots, which had transformed itself into a mass of semi-solid
orange mush spotted with black ooze and white fluff. The last of the
meatloaf and a bit of uncooked bacon were also removed, and the whole lot tossed
overboard with great satisfaction. Also tossed was my last, and most
cherished, pair of jean shorts. The widening tears under each back pocket
were deemed beyond repair, so after six years of reliable service they received
an honorable burial at sea. I take comfort in knowing they are now resting
peacefully with the flying fish.
All is well as we make the final run into Grenada.
The northeast wind is lighter and a little more easterly than we would like, and
the countercurrent has come back to haunt us, impeding our speed by as much
as one knot. This makes no sense as all the information we have for
this area says we should be enjoying a cushy positive current by now.
Hmmmm. No worries though, one way or another we'll make it into Prickly
Bay Marina tomorrow. There's no choice in the matter. We have to get
there because the last of the cabbage is in the plan for tonight's dinner
(leaving nothing but a few onions and one lonely apple).
Day 22 progress miles - 187 (very good!)
157 miles to go
More after our arrival in Grenada tomorrow.
Anne
10:30.236N 56:07.110W
February 2, 2013
Return to normal.
Or as normal as possible when cooped up on a boat in the
middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
Conditions have finally returned to what we would consider to
be normal trade wind sailing in the tropics. Sunny sky, puffy white
clouds, the occasional - but very manageable - rain squall, consistent wind, no
adverse current, gentle seas. Yes, this is more like it. The
equatorial countercurrent finally left us (or more likely we left it) early this
morning, and we've been enjoying more reasonable seas ever since.
Port-side lurches are far less violent, resulting in fewer unplanned slides
across the cockpit or cabin floors (and fewer colorful
expletives). We had our first sunset, moonrise and sunrise since leaving
St. Helena (all previous sunsets, moonrises and sunrises having been obliterated
by gray gloom), and a first rate star-gazing opportunity last night before the
half-moon made a showy appearance. We were hoping to finish this trip
with a few days of lovely, peaceful sailing, and with less than 48 hours to
go, it looks like we'll get our wish. Nice.
Day 21 progress - 166 miles.
344 miles to go.
Anne
09:12.940N 53:35.010W
February 1, 2013
Arrival thoughts.
A little less than three days to go and antsy-ness has
officially set in. We are thinking about arrival while still leaning
heavily to port in seas churned up more than they should be in 20 knots of
wind. What can only be the equatorial countercurrent has come back to
haunt us, slowing our progress by 1-2 knots and creating surface chop as it
flows against the wind. We'll still arrive on Monday, but only after a
bumpier ride than we were hoping for unless the countercurrent gives way to the
more favorable Guiana Current which runs northwest along the South
American coast (the plan was to pick up the Guiana Current several
days ago, but it never happened). On the bright side, after nine days of
gray gloom, the sun has returned. Last night we saw the moon for the first
time in ages, and even the Big Dipper and Southern Cross came out to say hi (or
good-bye in the Southern Cross's case).
About our arrival.
Ahhhh....three days from now we will no longer have to plan
every hand and foot placement in advance when moving about the cabin. Nor
will excursions outside the cockpit be so adventurous (or salty). Boiling
water on the stove will not be a death defying feat, brushing teeth will not be
interrupted by an unplanned fall onto the toilet seat, drinking coffee will not
result in constant dribbles down shirtfronts, and pulling on shorts after a nap
will not result in backward tumbles across the stern cabin bed into the
port-side wall. The humongous towering pile of laundry will not tip
over and spread itself throughout the rest of the cabin, toweling-off after a
shower will no longer qualify as high adventure, there will no longer be a need
to wedge oneself into the helm seat to prevent sideways slips, and a very large
glass of wine (served in a real glass) can be placed on the counter without
fear. Blogs will no longer need to be written daily, logbooks filled in
hourly, or battery chargers run day and night. Sleep will entail more than
three hours and won't involve being pressed hard up against the
leeboard. Showers won't require the three-point stance (feet placed wide
apart, body bent with butt firmly pressed into the nearest wall), and neither
will cooking (feet placed wide apart, body bent with butt firmly pressed into
the nearest counter, left hand griping the nearest hand-hold while
right hand stirs dinner). There will be no concern for the wind or weather
(or very little), and interest in the outside world will re-emerge.
Personal hygiene will improve by way of haircuts and more daily showers, clean
clothes and towels. Hair will be combed more often and t-shirts scrubbed
in Sri Lanka until holes formed will not be worn.
I'd like to see a bevy of dock hands waiting for us upon
arrival in Prickly Bay Marina - each carrying a gift basket filled with all the
things we've been deprived of (tomatoes free of black sores, fresh pineapple,
chilled champagne, pedicure gift certificate, and a big vat of top quality ice
cream). Don would prefer a barber waiting on the dock with #2 clippers in
hand, a freezer-guy next to him equipped with all the tools necessary to crank
up the freezer (to make ice for a nice vodka and tonic), and a bevy of Heineken
girls with buckets of ice cold beer. We don't ask for
much. Certainly after 23 days at sea we deserve no less?
Day 20 progress - 160 miles
510 miles to go.
Anne
08:31.416N 50:59.391W
January 31, 2013
Countdown.
Now that conditions have returned to pleasant
tradewind sailing (aside from the continuously gray sky above us), we can move
on to more important topics. Like counting things. We always start
calculating arrival time as the end of a passage nears, however, this
exceptionally long passage calls for a broader approach to the usual
countdown. What follows are some of the things we are keeping track of as
Grenada draws near.
Alcoholic beverage tally: Don - 3 beers, Anne - 0
Our successful passage prohibition program proves we can
exhibit extraordinary willpower when we choose to. It
also proves that a long sailing passage without alcohol could
easily be packaged and sold as an excellent weight loss
program.
Total dead flying fish - Hmmmm....not sure, but if you include
the two from last night, we must be well up over 100 by now.
Total fish caught - 1 35 pound king mackerel (thrown back) and
two grayish, smallish UFO's (Unidentified Fish Objects) also thrown back.
After that, fishing was suspended due to freezer malfunction.
Number of battery charging cycles left - 8 (2 per day).
The generator (knock on wood) continues to chug along and the two working
battery chargers are doing the job.
Liters of water in the tank - 600. Don suspects the
watermaker's high pressure pump is in need of some TLC, and this is
why the fresh water salinity content is up and the watermaker volume down.
No worries though, we've been mixing bottled water with tank water for drinking,
and 600 liters is enough to last us several weeks, let alone four
days.
Liters of diesel on board - tons. We still have a few
jerry cans full of fuel, and haven't checked the tank level lately because it's
not a concern. We've only run the engine 38 hours since leaving St.
Helena, and although the generator has gotten plenty of use, its fuel
consumption is minimal.
Card-playing champion - Unofficially, it's Don (but I don't
like to admit it). Tea time and card playing (when conditions allow) have
been our substitute for happy hour, and have worked out quite nicely (other than
the Don winning thing).
Books - Don is on book 9 or 10, I lag behind at book 4
(the change in boat motion north of the equator and the bad
weather are to blame).
Night watches left - Eight 3-hour watches for each of
us.
Remaining dinners to be prepared while simultaneously bouncing
and leaning to the left - four.
And the finale...
Vegetables remaining after 3 weeks at sea and 5 weeks since
our last visit to a 'real' grocery store in Namibia:
5 surly onions who continue to sneer up at us from
their basket on the galley counter.
1 bag of carrots sitting in the back corner of the
back-up fridge untouched and uncared-for. You could say the cook is afraid
to look in that particular bag - afraid of finding a remarkable collection of
orange mush threaded with black ooze and white stringy mold.
1 partial, continuously bending, cucumber.
10 very well looked after St. Helena green beans - like the
cucumber, extremely flexible; but unlike the tomatoes, have not succumbed to the
weeping black death.
1 extremely perky half cabbage.
2 pleasantly healthy oranges.
5 semi-bruised, but still edible, apples.
1 dozen age-spotted eggs.
With that vast collection of appetizing tidbits to keep us
going, we are sure to arrive in Grenada four days from now in tip-top shape and
vigorous health.
670 miles to go.
(Day 19 progress: 183 miles)
Anne
07:33.536N 48:04.472W
January 30, 2013
We can see clearly now the rain has gone.
We can't remember the artist, or the name of the song, but
this particular lyric seems fitting for today. Unfortunately, the
other line we remember from this song, "it's gonna be a bright, bright,
bright, sunshiny day" doesn't appear to be part of the plan. However,
there are several widening blue cracks in the lighter gray facade above us, so
there's hope for this afternoon and tomorrow. A review of our ship's log
for the past week shows solid gray skies and rain ever
since crossing the equator. Who would have guessed our
native northern hemisphere would be so unkind to sailors returning
home after such a long time in the deep south?
We've thought long and hard about yesterday's very ugly 24
hours and now have a new theory. It's possible the sea gods (and northern
half of the universe) weren't conspiring against us after all. Instead, it
may just have been their twisted way of saving us some money. Had we
arrived in Grenada on Sunday per our original plan, we would have had to
pay customs an extra fee for weekend overtime. Arrival on Monday means no
extra fee. So, there you have it. The sea gods are apparently a
frugal bunch.
The gods have also seen fit to make the bothersome
countercurrent go away. Now we're waiting for the positive equatorial
current to arrive (it's late).
We had a quiet afternoon and night sailing in 16-23 knots of
northeast wind with just a few innocuous rain clouds and no
sailing direction diversions to the north. Today's wind is a little
lighter, but should increase back to an average of 20 knots tonight, and remain
there for the next few days. The steady wind means seas are no
longer confused, resulting in a more gentle leftward lean
onboard. This respite is giving our new crop of bruises a chance
to heal before things get boisterous again.
Last night's flying fish count was strangely high given the
benign conditions. Don rounded up (and tossed overboard)
19 carcasses during his deck rounds this morning. They couldn't
have been drunk (what's to celebrate on a Tuesday night in January?), and the
sea wasn't churned up enough to toss them aboard, so what was it? Night
blindness? It's a mystery.
Day 18. Wow. We've broken our own passage length
record (previous record: 17 days, Galapagos to Marquesas). It doesn't feel
like we've been out here that long until we look at the calendar and realize
nearly three weeks have slid by. We've fallen nicely into the
passage mode (except when giant rain storms intervene to make life
miserable), and are used to living life while simultaneously rolling,
bouncing and lurching. When it's fairly calm, like today, it's
sometimes possible to forget we are moving. Sometimes.
Day 18 passage progress: 170 miles.
2,897 miles down, 853 miles to go.
Anne
06:31.878N 45:26.785W
January 29, 2013
Miserable.
We can't think of a better word to describe the past 24
hours, so we'll go with miserable. The sun never made it past a glimmer
yesterday afternoon, the glimmer fast replaced by ugly black rain clouds that
dumped rain almost continuously for 21 out of the last 24 hours. Just as
one giant rain system finished with us, another stepped in to take its
place, at times leaving only a few minutes between thrashings. Winds were
a little higher this time, reaching 33 knots. Not bad, but like the rain
storms of the past few days, these bent the wind to the east
and southeast, causing us to point toward Newfoundland with each passing
storm. We like Canada, and very much enjoyed our voyage through Canadian
waters back in 2007, but we really don't want to go there right now. We've
been through lots of rain squalls over the years, but a rain squall appears,
does its thing, and then moves on. These behemoths stick
around and torture us.
To add insult to injury, we picked up a negative current
yesterday that reached a peak of 2.5 knots last night during the worst of the
rain. When this happened, our faces turned as black as the rain
clouds. It's good it was dark during our night watch changes
so neither one of us noticed the other's nasty glower. It's hard to
say whose was uglier. However, when the large battery charger quit
working, Don's glower might have been the ugliest.
We've decided it's not just a curse of the sea gods. No,
it's bigger than that. The entire universe has aligned against us (or at
least the northern half of it).
Ok. Enough doom and gloom - time to move on to
something more positive.
We've had to swallow our pride and officially revise
our arrival estimate to Monday (2/4) instead of Sunday.
Hmmm, that's not really positive, is it?
How about this:
The dead flying fish count reached a new high last
night of 22. They were definitely not drunk this time. They
just couldn't help being tossed up on Harmonie's decks in
the chunky sea and rain. Several ended up in the cockpit and had to
be flushed down the gutter and out to sea with the fresh water hose. The
rest weren't so lucky - all spending their last minutes crammed up against some
obstacle on deck, which kept them from rejoining their friends in
the sea. This isn't really positive either, is it? The flying
fish do have a lovely silvery-blue color though, so maybe that qualifies
them for the silver-lining category. Hmmmm.... unfortunately, their
lovely silvery-blue color fades fast to dark gray (matching the sky) in a
jiffy after they suffocate.
Or this:
The other two smaller battery chargers can handle the charging
load, so all is well on that front. Investigation into the large battery
charger's problem will have to wait until after our arrival.
Or this:
The negative current has decreased to a more reasonable
(but still irritating) 1.5 knots.
Ah, now this is positive:
Our great nephew Robbie's kindergarten class has been
following our progress. Several times a week we receive an email from
their kind teacher filled with questions from the kids. Who wouldn't smile
when a five-year old asks where we got our big boat, how we take a shower, or
how many times we have to get up and look at the sails at night?
2,730 miles down, 1,021 miles to go.
(148 disappointing, but hard-won progress miles for Day
17)
Anne
05:19.220N 43:14.588W
January 28, 2013
Revenge of the sea gods?
We never did the promised equator-crossing sacrifice to the
sea gods. It's not clear why. It's possible we were distracted
by the bad weather, or the higher winds, or bouncy conditions, or bout of
seasickness, or our fast speed, or maybe we just plain fell too far down into
the pit of passage laziness. Whatever the excuse, it didn't happen.
A big mistake. We haven't seen the sun for longer than an hour or two
since crossing the equator five days ago. That's five full days (and
nights) of gray gloom. On top of that, we've had a constant parade of rain
storms, particularly at night. Granted, the rain hasn't brought
particularly high winds (30 knots, tops), and we do like the cleansing effect
the rain has on all of Harmonie's very salty surfaces, but the storms
also often bring an east or southeasterly wind, which causes us to point
north instead of west northwest. Last night we were hounded by a
line of rain stretching ear-to-ear on the radar screen for hours.
Unfortunately, our less than desired sailing speed seemed to match that
of the rain front's progress, so the two of us were stuck
together for a good eight hours. We were pointed north for a good part of
that time, which eventually would have taken us several hundred miles to
the east of Newfoundland had we continued on that way for another
month. The rain also likes to play hide-and-seek with the wind, which is
equally annoying as the light wind causes our speed to plummet,
leaving Harmonie prone to the will of the waves and sometimes negative
current.
Of course, the real reason we find all this bad
weather so irritating is because it's messing with our predicted arrival
time in Grenada. Having just published (and bragged about) our stellar
progress, and boasted that we were on track to beat our total passage
time estimate by one day, we are now perilously close to recanting that
boast. How embarrassing.
As the Zulu would say, 'I'm tell'n you man! I'm tell'n
you!' it's the sea gods!
(Even after all our whining, progress for the past 24 hours
wasn't really all that bad at 180 miles. It's just that we love to brag
about 200 mile days and the rain last night robbed us of that opportunity.
Woe is us!)
2,580 miles down, 1,170 miles to go.
Anne
04:00.116N 40:31.992W
January 27, 2013
It wasn't a 200 mile day.
No, it wasn't. But it was a 199 mile day.
Big smiles from the captain when reporting our daily progress
today. Ah yes, this kind of speed makes the seasickness pill and extra
four hours of sleep (only some of the crew required) that much more
worthwhile. The rain showers left us, but the gray gloom remains - if only
hanging on by a thread as the near-equatorial sun tries its best to burn
through. The northeast wind has moderated from the higher
than forecast 22-30 knots to a more reasonable (but still slightly above
forecast) 16-23 knots. The seas have quieted down some so the bounces
between deep leftward-leans are less vigorous, enabling stomachs to regain
equilibrium. All good.
So, about the speed.
Harmonie loves a beam or broad reach, and that is what we have
(and what we expected once the northeast trades arrived). With positive
current kicking in on occasion, we easily clear 8 knots and hover closer to
9. At the moment, the positive current has turned negative, which pushes
us closer to 8 knots - a situation we hope will not linger. However, even
at 8 knots, we should arrive in our chosen Caribbean destination (Grenada) seven
days from now (next Sunday, 2/3), beating our original passage timing
estimate by one day (22 vs. 23). Yes, it's a little early to make such
predictions, but the trades are so consistent in these parts, confidence is
running high.
Why Grenada?
It's a little closer than St. Lucia, and we're planning to
store Harmonie on the hard there over the upcoming hurricane season
(May-December), so would like to check out Grenada Marine's boatyard before
paying the necessary deposit for hardstand storage. Also, we've never been
to Grenada, and have heard marvelous things about it from Jackie and Michael,
who based Lady Kay there for several seasons before joining the World ARC
in 2008. Lastly, there is a renowned (on a very small scale) chocolate
factory there, said to produce the very best. We can't think of a
better reason to visit a place, can you?
2,401 miles down, 1,349 hopefully very fast miles to
go.
Anne
02:48.072N 37:26.020
January 26, 2013
It was a dark and stormy night.
Which has turned into a dark and stormy
day. Yesterday's friendly cornflower blue sky and puffy white clouds
were never able to completely assert themselves, which enabled this endless gray
gloom to move in and toss us around with wave after wave of rain storms, some
packing sustained 30 knots of wind. Yuck. The wind direction is at
least consistent, all of it coming from the northeast, so the silver lining is
(oh how we love a silver lining) we are making very fast progress. 188
miles over the past 24 hours - very commendable. We are not sure where the
end of this gloom is, but we hope it's coming soon. The churned up
iron-gray seas are making it difficult to stay seated without falling over, let
alone type.
On the bright side, the moon was almost full last night,
shedding enough light on the gloom to allow us to see the black rain clouds as
they approached. The endless rain has helped bring the temperature
down to a level we are happy with, without cooling the air so much that we
feel the need to moan about the cold. In other positive
news, meatloaf was prepared for dinner last night using the last of the
four freeze/thaw cycle hamburger. Once again we've had no ill
effects, so we can now claim victory over the freezer debacle.
We continue to have to work hard to sail the boat, bringing
sails in and out as the wind fluctuates up and down with each passing rain
storm. As a result, our reading and email writing has suffered. We
should break out of this soon as we make more progress to the north
and leave the messy doldrums/ITCZ weather behind.
Two weeks down, one week (plus one or two days) to
go.
Anne
01:46.147N 34:28.402W
January 25, 2013
Life at a new tilt.
After several fits and starts throughout yesterday and last
night, the northeast wind appears to have won the battle - shoving the weaker,
more lovable southeast breeze back down below the equator where it
belongs. It's a good thing too because over the past 24 hours, we
went through three cycles of engine off - sails up - sail adjustments -
sails down - engine on while the northeast wind appeared, turned east, then
southeast, then died. Geez, we had forgotten how exhausting it is to
sail a boat. The eleven days we spent languishing about while
the downwind rig did all the work made us soft.
Thankfully, all that messy wind change stuff seems to be over
now as we sail fast (8 knots) on a broad reach in 15-20 knots of steady
northeast wind. The doldrums sweaty gray sky is giving way to a more
friendly cornflower blue filled with puffy white clouds. This
morning, the sunrise came with a nice orange glow instead of the
gradations of dull gray the doldrums gave us at dawn the previous two
days. It's a whole new world out here, and a whole new tilt. After
eleven days of mostly gentle rolling, we are now adjusting to a permanent
leftward-lean. With the wind just aft of the starboard beam, Harmonie
moves with a few center bounces, followed by a long lurch to port as
we sail up and over the northeast swell. Don claims this makes for
easier toilet use (the lids stay up much better when the boat leans to port),
easier refrigerator spelunking (the door doesn't swing wildly, although it still
takes great skill not to allow it to bash into the oven), and easier microwaving
(the food and glass plate shouldn't - note the use of the word 'shouldn't' -
shoot out of the microwave when on a starboard tack). I say it's a
difficult adjustment. Sitting at the helm, which is on the port side, one
must lean consistently to starboard to keep upright. Also, all the careful
planning associated with foot placement and hand holds for moving
safely about the boat while sailing downwind must be completely
reconfigured to compensate for the new leftward lean. This is not easy as
what was starting to come almost naturally, now must be deliberately
thought through before moving around from A to B. The good news is,
depending on how long it takes us to sail the remaining 1,720 miles, we have 8
or 9 or 10 days to develop a new system with which to move about the cabin
without bashing body parts or critical boat bits.
In other news:
The Namibian butternut squash was totally pissed off when it
didn't receive even the slightest honorable mention in the vegetable
blog. Its incessant whining forced us to take extreme
measures. We ate it. Since then, the onions' blank
grayish-black skin has taken on a decidedly accusatory sheen.
For dinner last night, (along with the whiny squash) we
had chicken that had gone through at least four freeze/thaw cycles.
We are happy to report no ill effects. Tonight, the last of the hamburger
will be made into meatloaf. Given the number of meatloaf meals consumed on
this voyage, it is predicted meatloaf will be conspicuously absent from our
land-lubber dinner fare for the foreseeable future.
Don is onto book seven. Four for me. However,
having to actually sail the boat yesterday severely cut into our reading
time. We hope to amend this situation as soon as we learn to live
with the new tilt.
2,030 miles down, 1,720 miles to go.
Anne
00:24.867N 31:52.821W
January 24, 2013
They are not playing well together.
Nope, the northern and southern hemisphere weather systems do
not enjoy each other's company. Too bad, because it puts us right in the
middle of a giant rain storm. There is no thunder and lightning, and the
wind has only gone up briefly as high as 30 knots, so it's not really
a storm per se, but the giant blob of rain on the radar says we'll be in this
for a while. Don is excited though because the rain brought the
northeast wind with it. We'll see if it sticks around longer than the east
wind that came with yesterday's rain...
Just as the blog went out yesterday, the wind turned
east, and spiked up to 25 knots bringing lots of rain. We
thought, 'Aha! This is it! The east wind we've been waiting
for.' So we went through the pain and suffering of dismantling the
downwind rig in the pouring rain. It took about an hour, and would
have gone perfectly except that the rain (and bit of wind) made
it difficult to get the big blue ballooner sail down. The process
we've found works best is to collapse the ballooner onto the genoa by turning
the boat to starboard and into the wind until the ballooner is backwinded,
then loosening the sheet until the ballooner lays flat against the
genoa. This way when we release the top of the ballooner, the
sail should slide down the face of the genoa, and fall neatly onto the deck
(as opposed to in the water, which has happened before, and is
never pretty). All good in theory, but the rain and wind acted like
glue, keeping the ballooner up and pinned to the genoa no matter
how hard we tugged at it to get it to slide down the foil. By
the time the rain had soaked through our clothes and into our underwear, the
ballooner decided it was ready to come down. With a few mighty tugs from
Don, the soaking sail came down and was unceremoniously shoved into its
deck locker. There was no time to reminisce about how well our lovely
blue sail served us over the past eleven days, paired so perfectly with the
genoa, and allowing us to glide more than sail in front of the
southeast wind so nicely. No, there was no time for sentimentality, but I
do wonder if all the water running down Don's face as we
manhandled the sail onto the deck and into the locker was rain?
Of course, as soon as the sail was down, poles brought in and
downwind rigging stowed, the rain stopped and the wind shifted back to the
southeast.
Doesn't it figure? But that's always the way around the
equator where north meets south and the two do battle for dominance.
Anyway, at that point there was no way we were going to put the downwind rig
back up, so we broke down once again, and fired up the engine. After
motorsailing in light southeast wind through most of the night, the
northeast wind finally showed up in a blast of 30 knots at ten this
morning. We've been sailing ever since in a more moderate 15-20 knot
breeze from the northeast, with the rain at first pounding, then tapering off to
a steady drizzle (as it continues to do now). We are hoping this batch of
northeast wind hangs around, especially now that we are in the northern
hemisphere. Yup, that's right, we had an uneventful fourth equator
crossing last night just before midnight. I was on watch at the time, and
didn't even bother to look for the dotted blue line since we've decided it
doesn't really exist. We do have a few sacrifices we plan to toss to the
sea gods, but we're waiting for the weather to clear up a bit. Hopefully
they won't mind our tardiness.
And that's not all - later today, about seven hours from now,
we'll finally reach the half-way mark. Twelve days in and we're only
half-way! Holy moly.
Oh, and we gave up on the freezer. It's been cleared out
and is now resting peacefully. We'll be eating lots of meatloaf over the
next several days.
Half a passage nearly down, half a passage to go (1,875
miles).
Anne
00:45.691S 29:44.630W
January 23, 2013
Waiting for the wind.
We are just 42 miles south of the equator, and still waiting
for the southeast wind to turn east. As well as the southeast wind has
served us over the past eleven days, it's time now to say good-bye so we can
point more to the west and less to the north. The wind forecast
is obviously confused because it indicated the east wind would arrive 36
hours ago. It's late. We don't mind sailing slowly with what's left
of the southeast wind, but its southerly tendency is causing us to point 20
degrees further to the north than we'd like to. It's like wanting to go to
Buffalo from Syracuse, but ending up in Watertown instead - both routes will get
you to Canada, but you'll end up at the wrong end of the lake. How's that
for an analogy upstate New Yorkers can relate to? Anyway, yesterday
afternoon, we broke down and turned on the engine for the first time since
leaving St. Helena. Motorsailing allowed us to point directly
toward our destination, and make good headway overnight.
Today we are back sailing again with the downwind rig, but once again pointing
20 degrees further to the north than we'd like. We could take down the
downwind rig, point directly toward our destination, and sail with the wind
150 degrees off the bow, but we'd go mighty slowly in this light wind, and our
progress would be slower than it is now. Ah well, the wind will
turn. It will. We just have to cross the equator and get beyond this
slightly doldrum-y area to where the more boisterous northeast trade winds are
sure to be waiting for us.
We hear it's slightly chilly at home. This would
certainly be the place to come for a quick warm-up. The sweaty gray clouds
are back and we are experiencing the typically unsettled weather often found
around the equator. It's very, very mild compared to the ITCZ mess we
experienced in the Indian Ocean around the equator last year though. There
has been a little rain, but no big wind and no lightning. There's enough
heat and humidity to remind us the equator is very near. It's nice to know
all of this will subside in a few days when we reach the upper half of the world
and start moving away from the center.
Tomorrow will be a big day for us - our fourth equator
crossing and passing the half-way point of this passage. We
are working on celebration plans. At the moment, we are celebrating a
working freezer (Don has been busy). We don't have high hopes for a full
recovery, but a blast of cold air on what's left of the thawed meat pile won't
hurt.
Hey - the bank of clouds behind us just brought a blast of
higher wind from the east! Aha! Maybe the wait is over?
11 days down, 12-ish to go.
Anne