Voyages of the Strolla: Part II

I am spending another Winter in the Caribbean Sailing Strolla. This time, instead of Pete Hinman, I'll have three other friends aboard. I'm continuing to write about our adventures so please join us at our new blog site: http://voyagesofthestrolla.blogspot.com/

The End

Once it became apparent that the U.S. Virgin Islands were out of our reach Pete and I needed a revised plan. Keenly feeling the bite of homesickness by this point, the thought of living on the boat for the summer was not appealing. Pete wanted to be back in NH for the Summer and I was committed to a seasonal job river guiding in Jackson Hole. We needed a place to leave the boat. Enter our friend Laila. She had an empty dock at her house and generously agreed to let us park Strolla there for the Summer.

After a joyful reunion with her and our first night's rest on land in many weeks, we awoke the next morning ready prepare Strolla for a season of disuse. Over the next several days, anything that could mildew in Florida's muggy summer air was stripped out and stowed away in the dry heat of Laila's attic. The boat was emptied, the water tank bleached, the engine oil changed. Then, we cleaned. We scrubbed Strolla's ample interior from bow to stern. Ant poison was laid and cockroach traps set and, when there was nothing more we could do for her, we said goodbye to Strolla and Laila and boarded a plane for New Hampshire.

Our flight had a layover in Baltimore. The first leg of the trip from Florida was out over the ocean and I slept most of the way. The final hop home from Maryland, however, took us through clear Spring skies and right up along the coast.

Having spent so many hours studying our coastal charts on the passage South, I found I could readily identify the landmarks slipping by beneath me as I headed back North. I could even make out the individual harbors where we had spent the night, breakwaters we had groped by in the dark, lighthouse we had scanned for on the horizon. Like turning back the clock, I could count backwards through the days of our trip as we covered in minutes the distances that had taken days to travel in the other direction. A reminder of all we had done, all the places we'd been, all the things we had seen.


A very special thank you to everyone from Cape Cod to Cuba that helped us and housed us and advised us and fed us along the way. Without you this trip would certainly not have been possible.

Day 112 Last Day on the Water

Pete and I woke up at a very reasonable hour, weighed anchor, and motored out of Biscayne Bay and back to sea for our last day on the water.

The conditions were perfect for a speedy run up to Ft. Lauderdale. The Gulfstream was pushing us at maximum power and, with the waves and the wind, helped us achieve our fastest speeds of the entire trip, topping out at just under 12 knots!

We arrived at the inlet to Ft. Lauderdale happily and uneventfully, motored up the New River and were tied up at our friend Laila's house in time for dinner. It was a spectacular final day underway.

Day 110-111

Sometime in the night we began to veer north, sticking to the outside edge of the shipping lanes and riding the Gulfstream back to Florida. The more we turned north, the more we turned our starboard quarter to the steadily freshening breeze and the faster we went. Like horses to the barn, we could smell that the end was near. We pushed harder and harder. There was no question of stopping. We spent our fourth consecutive night underway.



The next day, the wind was blowing harder still and, with the waves and the current pushing from behind, we very nearly flew North. A fantastic day of sailing! Strolla charged forward, seesawing in the following seas, white froth from her wake dissipating in a long line astern.



We arrived back in Biscayne Bay and Miami late on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. The weekend boaters were out in force. While looking for an acceptable anchorage for the night, we stumbled upon a huge floating armada of party boats, anchored, music blaring. Everywhere we looked, boats, babes, and booze. For eyes that had seen no one but each other for nearly a week, this was nirvana. It sure was good to be back in south Florida.

We enjoyed the sights and sounds of the afternoon crowd. As they slowly drifted away with the coming of night, we drifted down to our bunks for our last night aboard Strolla. We would be with Laila in Ft. Lauderdale the next day.

Day 109

Our second night at sea passed much the same as the first, an exhaustingly rapid rotation of shifts, three hours on, three off, throughout the night.

The weather this far south is nice and warm, the conditions calm, but still we continue the three hour shifts at the helm. Why? Because with no autohelm, trial and error has taught us that three hours is the maximum amount of time we can sit in the dark staring at a dimly lit, lazily bobbing compass dial.

The shifts continue well into the next morning, until lunch actually, as we each try to catch up from the broken night before. Finally the heat of the noon sun beating down on the boat turns below decks into a sauna and sleep is no longer possible. The crew is reunited in the cockpit to douse the floorboards and slather on the sunscreen.

This morning was oppressively hot and still. The ocean, hazy and glass-like to the horizon. We motored, slicing through the placid waters like a lake. The mainsail was set and luffed against the mast in our self-generated headwind. I was fixing myself some lunch when Pete gave a shout from the cockpit. Dolphins! I climbed up on deck somewhat unenthusiastically. We'd been seeing dolphins since the carolinas. What I saw left me giddy with excitement, my lunch forgotten in the galley.



Strolla was chugging her way straight through the middle of a huge pod. There were at least thirty dolphins on all sides of us, cavorting through our wake and lapping the boat, playing and racing and launching themselves to amazing heights out of the water. We shouted and cheered and called out scores to the acrobatic competitors. Then, as suddenly as we'd entered, we passed out of the pod and were once again alone on the wide, wide sea.


Mid afternoon, a spur on the northern coast of Cuba shimmered into view off our port bow. It was a series of islands and peninsulas among which we were hoping to find an anchorage for the night. As we drew closer, a large pink building became visible. A hotel, I speculated. Closer still and we could see the dark specks of people milling around it. We continued straight towards until, about two hundred yards out, we were able to make out the olive drab uniformity of the their clothes and the unmistakable silhouettes of their guns. On one of the outbuildings painted in white letters over the pink facade was scrawled, "Vive Fidel!" Despite the unusual color scheme, this was a military base. No anchorage here.


Just as we'd changed course to leave the post behind us, we got a bite on the lure we'd been trolling. Fish on! Pete reeled it in. It was another Cero, a member of the Mackerel family like the one before. This second one was fully half again as big as the first and would prove to be just as delicious.








The breeze freshened and we picked up speed. Some men patrolling the beach waved to us as we glided by. Our chosen anchorage having been too close to the unmapped military post, we traveled on, scanning the charts and the coast for another likely place to spend the night. The sun dropped and dusk descended. We settled in for another night underway.

Day 108

Our second day out of Clarence Town dawned still and hot. Pete came up on deck for the sunrise and I gratefully turned the boat over to him, stumbled below to my bunk and fell fast asleep to the rhythmic rumble of the diesel motor. Two hours later I was up again. The sun had turned the cabin into an oven and it was too hot to bear, even after only three hours of sleep the night before.

Unalleviated by sea breeze, the heat of the southern sun beat down with physical force. I felt its weight pinning me to the bench. The dark deck boards became so hot they burned the bottoms of my feet and Pete and I had to dump buckets of sea water over the cockpit in order to stay at the helm.

The heat and monotony was broken at eleven thirty when Pete spotted a faint speck broad on our port bow. "Land Ho!" The northeast coast of Cuba now created a tiny break in the straight line horizon. This was as excellent an excuse as any and Pete declared a swim break. We shut down the core, lashed down the tiller, trailed a safety line, and plopped over the rail into the slightly less hot water beside the boat. The sea was a spectacular, mesmerizing blue, crystal clear and incredibly deep. Rays of sun sparkled through the smooth surface, golden beams reaching down and down, fainter and slimmer until they were disappeared completely.

According to the charts, the ocean here was more than 1,400 fathoms deep, more than 8,400 feet, more than a mile and a half of water straight down. It was an eerie feeling knowing there was that much water, that much space beneath me. I swam with my snorkel mask on, glowing white hands and feet flashing briefly on the periphery of my vision, suspended at that intersection of sea and sky, a mile and a half above the earth. As I moved slowly away from the boat, my mind wandered. I wondered what leviathans, what monsters of the deep might be down there, lurking just out of sight in the depths below my toes. I peered fixedly through the water, staring at nothing, watching as the sun beams were swallowed up, and waiting for some smokey form to suddenly solidify out of the dark and come rushing up, mouth gaping, swift and silent.

At this point I pulled my head out of the water. Time to think about something else. I had now swum a fair distance from the boat and looked back. Pete was up on deck coiling a length of rope. The mainsail, which we'd left up, hung limply from the mast. Strolla bobbed softly in the low waves. From my vantage point in the water, the Cuban coastline was no longer in view. Water in every direction. I looked again at the boat and felt a sudden swell of affection for her, our little floating home, the only thing between me and a slow, lonely death. I swam back.

The only swim ladder we have is one Pete salvaged off a wreck on Block Island back in January and it doesn't seem to make climbing aboard any easier so we don't use it. Instead, we head for the chain plates, amidships, kicking up out of the water to grasp the shrouds, hooking a heal over the gunwale, and levering ourselves up and out and on deck from there. It takes a little practice.

Back in the sweltering sun we started up the motor and set off once more for Cuba dousing the deck periodically for the sake of our burning feet. Consulting the charts we realized that we would once again not be able to make port by dark and so decided to spend a second night at sea, turning west heading up the coast.

Day 107

Pete and I rowed over to the "E-Z" again this morning to catch the 6:30 weather report. The ocean beyond the little barrier reef that protected our anchorage was dead calm. From the radio we learned that it would remain so. Winds for the coming week were expected to be light, variable, and out of the west.

The last time we'd experienced winds like this was leaving Florida nearly a month before. Two days later, the easterly Trade Winds that prevail in these latitudes had kicked up again, ground our progress to a halt and forced us to divert south to Andros Island. Now that we were making our round-about way back to the states, we'd counted on those east winds to fling us along effortlessly. Apparently, fair winds and calm seas is asking a bit much. After our last few days of sailing, I'm happy with just the calm seas.

With the weather broadcast finished, we helped Lance take in his secondary anchor, made our goodbyes and paddled off to our Strolla to make ready. Three nights and two days of swinging around with the tides and our anchor chain was a tangled web in the rocks. We could see it clearly through the blue-green water, zigzagging back and forth crazily beneath the boat. With a sigh, I took up position on the foredeck. Pete hopped back to the tiller and, with a touch of forward throttle, began to weave the boat around the anchorage as I shouted directions and pulled in the slack chain. Despite our best efforts, we couldn't fully untangle ourselves until after Pete had snapped on his fins and mask and dropped overboard for a little underwater work. Anchors up and we slipped through the harbor entrance a few minutes ahead of Lance's trimaran.





The light west winds were good enough for a casual cruise south to the cape. We were trolling a fishing lure absentmindedly, the pole wedged against our propane tank. This was not the first time we'd tossed a lure out. There had been a few minor misadventures previously that had now left us low on lures and line. I won't recount the details of those events here. Its too painful but, suffice it to say that our inability to catch fish was not the fault of the fish.





Today's fishing episode began like all the others, with the rattle of the fishing pole and the whir of line running off the reel. I let out a yelp to Pete, released the tiller, and lunged for the pole, reaching it just before the line ran out. As I struggled to reel in the monster, Pete struggled to get the boat back on course and the sails reset. When all as back in order, I proudly hoisted my prize onto the deck. Neither of us knew what it was but it was a fish, the largest I'd ever caught, and we were going to eat it. Pete filleted it. I baked it in olive oil with salt and pepper and a side or canned beans and brown rice. It was the perfect size for a meal for two and we were both stuffed.


After sunset the wind died down and we began motoring. The next safe port was Duncan Town in the Ragged Islands. With the light winds we'd had all day, we wouldn't arrive until after midnight. Rather than risk the shallow approach channel in the dark, we decided to press on for Cuba through the dark. Although the wind picked up again after dusk, it remained light and unreliable and we were forced to motor intermittently all night.

By two in the morning we were passing Duncan Town, fifteen miles to the west, a faint yellow glow on the blacked out horizon. That was the only thing we saw all night. The star gazing was incredible.

Day 105-106

We've spent the last two days in Clarence Town, waiting for the sea to calm down, exploring the town, snorkeling, and hanging out with Lance, the old sailing and fishing charter captain anchored next to us.


Our first morning in the harbor we were down in the dinghy, taking turns yanking on the pull cord of the Seagull until our arms ached. Once again the row ashore would be long and against the wind and we wanted to avoid it if possible.

We were taking a breather when Lance putted over in his motor skiff to ask if we'd like a ride in with him. "Yes please."







Lance had errands to run and Pete and I spent our morning ashore wandering around town. It didn't take long. We visited the community center, toured both the town's churches and the bar, combed the streets and the beach. In our travels we were followed everywhere by "Happy", a little dog that was so certain we would feed him he even waited patiently on the front stoop while we went inside the buildings.




Back in the anchorage with Lance, we were invited aboard his trimaran charter boat "E-Z" for a beer. Lance kept them coming and we kept knocking them down for the next three hours. We lounged in the shady, cushioned comfort of his sheltered cockpit sipping ice cold Heinekens (he had a refrigerator) and listening to the Sunday afternoon programing on NPR (he had satellite radio) and wondering the whole time why we hadn't thought to install these amenities on our boat.

Lance shared some great stories garnered over a lifetime of sailing and fishing among the islands of the West Indies and a tour of duty in Vietnam which he apparently spent working as a lifeguard and ski boat driver at the officer's beach on Cameroon Bay. It was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon and as the sunbeams turned to early evening gold, we made our way unsteadily into the dingy and puttered back to Strolla for some snorkeling. The highlight was when Pete chased off a four foot Barracuda hiding under our keel.


The next morning I rowed over to listen to the weather report with Lance on his Single Sideband Radio, another item to add to the Strolla wish-list. Lance had offered to let us tinker with our little outboard on the spacious deck of one of his pontoons. He said it would be a much easier, more stable platform. I agreed and spent the morning listening to classic rock and trying unsuccessfully to breathe life back into our little British outboard.

The afternoon was spent back in town. Lance went in to do laundry and Pete and I went along to get online. Brown rice with canned corn again for dinner.

Day 104

I was moving a little slow this morning. Consequently, we didn't get out of Calabash Bay until around 8:30. The wind was still holding strong out of the east as we set out. We tacked our way around the tip of the cape and then began our trip south, down the windward side of Long Island to Clarence Town, the first safe harbor we'd come to.

Right from the beginning, as soon as we had nosed out from behind the protection of the cape, we were bashed by the wind whipped swells of the open ocean and I began to feel queasy. I think the gastronomical fragility I was experiencing may have been tied in some way to the hangover I was also nursing this morning.

Thinking back over the trip, I realized every time I've been touched by seasickness, has been on the day immediately following a night of heavy drinking. Obviously there is a correlation, but could this also be the cause? Of course, extensive field testing will be required to be sure.

Today, as expected, was another full day of heavy weather sailing. Staying well off the lee shore to our west, we thrashed along in the sun and the spray and the salt, soon regaining the sand-papery skin and crusty clothes of yesterday.

The amount of extra energy expended during rough weather compared to moderate weather is impressive. The mere act of keeping your balance for the day on a wildly rolling boat is an isometric workout that lasts for ten hours. So, I felt a certain amount of relief when we finally saw the church steeples of Clarence Town pop above the horizon and slowly swell into view.

I would argue that the final couple of hours making our way into Clarence Town harbor were the roughest of the trip thus far. The waves were the biggest we've seen and worse, were steep enough that the crests were breaking and cascading down on us in vertical white walls. At times I even found it necessary to veer off course in order to attack the rolling giants at a more favorable angle.

Fortunately, we arrived in Clarence Town without mishap, dropped anchor, and made a big dinner. We are still comfortably provisioned from our shopping spree at Costco back in Ft. Lauderdale, but the selection is now wearing a bit thin. With no refrigeration, nothing perishable could last this long and with so much food already on board, neither of us can justify buying more so, we eat our pasta and rice and canned corn and dream of the day we'll once again have dairy and red meat.

Day 103

From Indian Hole Point north to Cape Santa Maria was one of those perfect sails. Strong wind, small seas, sunny skies. We didn't even have to shake out the double reef that we'd left in from yesterday. It was a half-day trip, only about thirty miles, and we slid along in fine fashion, smooth and fast.

Once we'd rounded the point and turned north from Indian Hole, once all sails set and trimmed, there wasn't much to do besides sit back and enjoy. But, Pete and I did get a little exercise right at the end, beating our way up into Calabash Bay through a break in the reef that forms its western barrier. Just five tacks is all it took, but that was enough work with the sheets to leave me sore and out of breath. [At this point I should probably clarify that the sheets to which I refer are the ropes that control the sails, as in "port jib sheet" or "main sheet", not "bed sheet"] During the long period of idleness on San Salvador and again in Georgetown the carefully cultivated calluses on my palms had softened and begun to peel off. Now, my hands were throbbing.

We set anchor a safe distance offshore and, it being mid-afternoon, decided to head off for some exploring. Our little Seagull had refused to start the last time we'd tried in Georgetown and neither of us wanted to waste daylight working on it now. Rowing against the wind the quarter mile to the beach didn't sound very pleasant either. So, we pulled on our snorkeling fins, flopped over the side, and swam for it. Fifteen minutes later we were still swimming. Another five after that and we'd dragged ourselves up onto the sand, shucked our fins, and set out.

We headed first for a nearby estuary. The tide was out and great, white sand flats lay empty and exposed for our inspection. The surfaces of these flats were dimpled with small, steep depressions which had remained full of water as the tide receded. Scattered throughout these isolated pockets, hundreds of jellyfish of all colors and sizes clung desperately to life until the changing of the tides would set them free again.

The sand flats sloped imperceptibly downwards to the deep channel. Here, the water puddles grew larger and began to merge together until the water to sand surface ratio was reversed. All was water with only the isolated tops of the small, steep hills poking above like little islands.

It was an interesting phenomenon of these tidal flats that while some of the little islands were hard packed sand that would support our weight with barely a divot, others were soft and waterlogged and allowed us to sink down to our ankles or more.

Now, Pete and I discovered a new game; racing each other at full speed across the flats, leaping from island to island. It was a game of chance as much as skill. We each never knew when we would land on a soft island and be instantly dumped on our faces. Competition was fierce. Crashes were spectacular.

We went on to explore some coral caves, found a buoy and, still covered in sand from our foot races, wandered our way into the swank Club Santa Maria to check the weather forecast. Later, when wading out into the deeper water to begin our swim home, a man came motoring up to us in his dinghy. His name was Frank. He's seen us swim ashore the first time and thought that this time we might like a ride back to our boat. We gratefully accepted.

It was Happy Hour at the club's bar Frank informed us and the Pina Coladas were the best he'd ever had in his life. That was enough for us. We dashed back aboard Strolla, pulled on some shirts and, still barefoot, hopped back in the dinghy with Frank to zoom off to the bar. The Pina Coladas were just as delicious promised.

Day 102

It was a hard, wet trip across from Georgetown to Long Island but, it felt good to be off again, tearing along, bashing through the waves and bending the wind to our will. I have noticed lately that during these rougher weather passages, the old thrill is now tempered by annoying practical concerns. I've begun to worry more about the unnecessary strain we're putting on the hull and rigging. I've also grown weary of the putting life back in order after our home is dumped on its side and shaken violently for a day. This waning enthusiasm for the rigors of ship life are just another little indicator that the trip is nearing its natural end... and that we should shorten sail and next time wait for a better weather window.

Once we'd passed Indian Hole Point we approached a couple of sailboats anchored out in the bay a good half mile from shore. This was far enough out that the east wind had room to whip up some fairly respectable whitecaps between us and the beach. This in turn would make for light and interrupted sleep on our rolling, little boat. It was agreed to continue forward in search of more comfortable sleeping conditions.

The white sand bottom of the bay was clearly visible and none too far beneath us as we held our breath and crept forward. The waves were getting smaller. Finer and finer detail of the ocean floor was coming into focus. When at a point where the waves were low enough to permit easy sleep, I called a halt. We began coasting to a stop as Pete prepared to drop anchor. I wondered aloud why those other boats had stayed so far out in the rougher water. Then, we ran aground.

It was a nice light tap, a gentle warning in soft sand. The bottom shoaled so gradually here that we were still moving forward, digging a shallow groove in the sand with our keel. I threw the tiller hard over. We made a slow u-turn and headed back for deeper water, scraping along the whole way. Ten minutes later we took up our place back among the other boats.

When the anchor was set and the ropes coiled down, it was time for a dive overboard in what has become a ritual and almost requisite swim. Its not just to check that the anchor is properly set, which we do, its an essential step towards proper hygiene in these sweaty latitudes. The last time Pete's skin saw a shower was in Nassau a full two weeks earlier. I'd managed a shower on San Salvador only a week before and so, by boat standards, was actually quite clean. I didn't really even need swim. The sun, however, was still beating down and the heat required some relief. Also, it had been a rough sail and I was feeling a bit salty.

A Note on Ocean Spray: Sailing on any point closer than ninety degrees to the wind results in regular collisions with the oncoming waves. It also means that the splash from these collisions is carried back on the wind the length of the boat, soaking everything. In the relentless tropical heat, the water quickly evaporates. The sea salt in that water does not. It stays and accumulates as each new soaking of spray adds to it.

Today was fairly typical. After being doused in spray every few seconds for the last ten hours, enough salt had been deposited to be visibly white and granulated. The decks felt sandy beneath my bare feet. My shirt and shorts were stiff enough to be bent into shapes. Worst of all was my face. Its creases were caked with a gritty white paste made of salt and sunscreen.

This evening, I dove in after Pete, fully clothed, for a vigorous rub down.

Day 96-101

With our friends from home gone and the boat once more to ourselves, Pete and I spent five more days in Georgetown. Officially we were waiting for the weather to change but really we were just enjoying being sedentary for a while.


We relocated across the harbor from Kidd Cove to the lee side of Stocking Island, the northern barrier of the harbor. Here were the majority of the expatriate cruising community in Georgetown. Many had not moved anchorages in several months or more. Most were retired couples. A few were younger families with children. All spent their days on the beach, in the shade of its coconut trees, playing dominoes, reading, drinking, feeding the manta rays that congregated in the shallows with conch scraps. Volleyball began promptly at 2.


Pete and I carved ourselves out an anchorage among close neighbors and the days quickly began to slide by. We explored the island with its many hills and trails, wandered over its exposed northern beaches and coves, and joined in on some surprisingly competitive beach volleyball with our retiree fellow boaters.

We slept soundly and got up late, ate big meals, read, swam, and made only nominal attempts at productivity. Out on the ocean the headwinds howled but here the waters were calm and the breeze was light. It was a lazy, listless life.



After having been more than three months underway, Pete and I were tired and homesick. The Virgin Islands, where we'd planned to leave the boat for the summer, appeared increasingly out of reach. Time for a new plan. Instead of continuing southeast through the islands we would complete a circle southwest and back up to Florida. The prevailing east winds would make for excellent sailing south along Long Island over to the Ragged Islands in the Jumentos and then across to Cuba. From there we could run east along Cuba's north coast with the wind and the current and then turn north up to Florida and back to Ft. Lauderdale.


Rested and finally bored with Stocking Island, we were ready to be off again. The wind was predicted to swing northeast just enough to permit us to reach over to Indian Hole on Long Island on a port tack. Wednesday night we made our goodbyes and stowed our gear in preparation for an early departure Thursday.

Day 91-95

The easterly winds were blowing hard and not predicted to subside. From Georgetown it would be at least four days of hard sailing and motoring to reach the island of San Salvador where Pete Rowell and Connor had friends. With only five days left in their vacation, this simply would not work.

We spent Easter Sunday in Georgetown, making plans. There was no public transportation to the island from Georgetown and no private boats traveling that way we could book passage on. The group settled on chartering a private plane to get across. Pete Hinman opted to stay with the boat in Georgetown. After three months of constant companionship, a little alone time dear indeed. I tagged along to San Salvador.


The flight was fun, no baggage check or airport security, just walk right through with the pilot. Our ride was a little twin engine prop plane with seating for six. Megan rode copilot and the only scary part of the flight came when the pilot let her fly without warning the rest of us. We went immediately into a steep nosedive. The ocean below loomed up to filled the windshield. The deep roar of the engines rose to a high scream. Objects in the cabin began to rise up and float around weightlessly as we shrieked helplessly into the void. Not really, but Megan did get to fly for a couple seconds, which was scary.


We landed safely in San Salvador, Pete and Connor's friends Mike and Melissa picked us up in their Isuzu Amigo and we raced off for a quick tour of the island on our way to their beach side home. Everyone in this small island community, we learned, had a nickname. Mike's was SweetDick. Melissa's was MikeWife. They insisted that we call them by these names for the duration of our stay.


SweetDick and MikeWife were excellent hosts, sharing their home and the beautiful island on which they lived with unfailing enthusiasm. The four days we spent on San Salvador were a wonderful blur of delicious food and beach combing, swimming, spear fishing, and spelunking.

Megan played with puppies at the dump.


Pete, MikeWife, and I drove bulldozers.




We all agreed it was a fantastic time and even I was sad to have to return to my normal life.

Day 89-90

We put Warderick Wells Cay on our stern and headed south for a beautiful day of sailing, working our way along the west side of the Exuma Island chain. These islands protected us from the larger waves of the open ocean so all day it was like sailing on a lake, fast and smooth.

Lunch time saw us in Black Point, a cute little town with a beautiful harbor. It was Easter weekend and the local church was having a barbecue. Food wouldn't be served for a couple hours so we split up and each wandered around and amusing ourselves. Pete H. played basketball with some of the local kids. Megan taught swimming. Connor went swimming. Pete R. and I drank lemonade in the shade. After a delicious lunch, it was back on the boat for more perfect sailing.


After a full day of wind and water, we stopped for the night in the anchorage off Little Galliant Island just in time for rum punches with the setting sun. The perfect end to a perfect day in the Caribbean!


In the morning Pete H., Megan and I went ashore and hiked over the spine of the island to see how big the waves were on the windward side. One of the other two boats we'd shared our anchorage with was already making its way through the cut and bucking the waves hard as it headed north. We three agreed it looked a bit rough.

The Exuma Islands form a crescent curving south and east with our destination of Georgetown on its inside end. Cutting straight across the inside of the curve would be faster but, out from under the protection of the islands, would be much rougher. A brief discussion back on deck and it was decided to stay in the smooth waters of the leeward west side for as long as possible, finally cutting through the islands towards Georgetown at the last possible point. It seemed like the perfect plan. Of course, had I scouted those southern cuts more closely on the charts, I would have discovered that they were all narrow, shallow, and subject to shoaling. The last good cut through the Exumas was the one we were anchored next to.

The oversight wasn't apparent until about four hours later while I began searching with growing alarm for a way through. By this time there was only one possibility left open to us, a place called Rat Cay Cut. Our cruising guide said it was a poor option and not to be attempted without local knowledge. Faced with the prospect of backtracking all the way up to Little Galliant, we decided to give it a try.


Before even reaching the cut itself, we had to first make our way through more than a mile of small cays and sandbars that had formed in the lee of the larger islands. We dropped sail and began motoring. I climbed the mast to stand on the spreaders and from this uncomfortable crow's nest, called down directions to the helmsman to keep Strolla in the tentative safety of the channel's center. At one point the channel was hemmed in so tightly by reef and shoal that from my position on the mast I could have leaped easily into waist deep water on either side. It was a tense time. Everyone anxiously braced for the sudden deceleration of ship's hull driving into sand.




The charts read three feet of depth. Strolla draws five feet but, with perhaps a bit more luck than we really deserved, we squeezed through the narrows without a scratch. I blame it on the high tide. After entering a wider spot in the channel and thus regaining a bit of breathing room, I slid gratefully back down to deck. With the cut now in view and fast approaching, we stowed all gear, fastened all hatches, and made ready to enter the fray.


Once in the cut, the waves were steep and tightly stacked. Forward progress was painfully slow. The danger lay in the lack of maneuvering room. If a wave caught the bow and turned us broadside, Strolla could be dashed up on the rocks in a matter of minutes. Our guests from Woods Hole later confessed to a bit of nervousness during this period but, Strolla pushed through steadily enough.


Soon, we'd gained enough sea room to turn off the wind and set sail. Even with the stabilizing effect of the sails however, it was still a rolling ship on which we now lived. Megan, not yet used to the sea's rhythms, was quickly sick. She spent her time happily retching into our dish washing bucket until Connor, perhaps tired of having to keep emptying it, "accidentally" threw it as far as he could overboard, never to be seen again. This was a sad moment for me. That bucket had belonged to my grandfather, had traveled with me across the country from Iowa, and was one of only two things I'd brought aboard from the wreck of my previous sailboat. It had been a familiar and comforting part of Pete and my daily lives since leaving Cape Cod. Now, it had gone to join our french press in the depths and I went to the bow to mourn our loss.


We made great time to Georgetown, arriving with plenty of light left in the day to anchor and get ashore for a little exploring, drinking, and karaoke. Details are spotty.

A Note on our British Seagull Outboard Motor

When Pete and I got a new dinghy in Ft. Lauderdale we also picked up a little outboard motor to mount on it. Like our boat this outboard is of British make and, like our boat, is considerably older than both Pete and I. Its a 1976 British Seagull that we got for $75 and got running for about another $100 in parts and a lot of help from our friend John.

We're told its pretty much the simplest outboard ever made. It starts with a pull cord that has to be wound around the top. The cord that came with the motor was somehow left on the dock in Florida and the replacement we made also mysteriously disappeared. Out of the proper diameter rope, the pull cord we now have is just a little too thick for its groove. If its not pulled hard enough, the end sticks in the spinning motor, whipping it around several times a second like a big weed whacker and preventing anyone from getting close enough to shut it down.


Once turned on, the motor is moving forward. There's no clutch and so no reverse or neutral. It starts in gear and stays in gear until being shut off. This means the motor has to be clear of anything that might damage it or the dinghy before it can be started. The easiest way to do this to is for Pete and I to cast off from Strolla and drift free. The ever present wind then immediately begins pushing us towards whatever sharp rocks are closest while we frantically pull on the cord to start the motor. As catastrophe looms, the motor finally catches, coughs to life, and off we zoom. Only near misses so far.

With the motor running smoothly, the next excitement comes when its time to turn it off. The Seagull can only stopped by shutting off the fuel at the tank or covering the air intake. Shutting off the tank takes several minutes because the motor still has to burn through all the fuel in the carburator. Blocking the air intake with your palm is faster but requires keeping your hand firmly in place on the running motor lest it burst suddenly back to life.


Properly timing the shut-off has quickly become an art. Wind speed and direction as well as load characteristics of the dinghy all affect timing. Shut the motor down too late and you slam into the dock, too early and you drift to a stop ten feet out and have to try and start it again.

When it starts we love it. When it doesn't, we hate it. But, down here in the islands, where anchorages are considerably farther from shore, we sure need it.