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.

Day 88 - April Fools Day!

April 1st we spent at Warderick Wells, swimming, sunning, and exploring the park. A big french toast breakfast on board kicked off the day. Fed and full, Connor, Megan, and I hiked overland to the park headquarters along the island's trails while Pete and Pete took the dinghy across the bay and met us there. It was a good 45 minute hike over jagged, coral rock. The sun was already high in the sky and with the dense vegetation blocking the breeze, the heat was stifling.


We arrived with sore feet and scratched legs, sweat soaking our shirts, to find Pete and Pete lazily reclining on the beach. They'd been there for a while already, had fully checked out the visitor's center, and were ready to go. When we stumbled in, they left us the dinghy and ambled off down the trail back to the boat. the visitor's center wasn't much of a place. Ten minutes later we were ready to go. We started up the Seagull outboard and headed out. The Seagull ran steadily for about thirty seconds, just long enough to get us out into ebb tide. Then it coughed a few times and died. I checked the fuel tank. Empty. An excellent April Fools joke from Pete and Pete!


It was a demanding row back to the dock for Connor with three in the boat, against the tide and wind. Seeing our dilemma, a couple guys from the visitor's center came out in their boat and gave us a tow the final fifty yards in. Megan stayed with the dinghy. Connor and I headed back down the trails to the boat to get gas. Connor, in flip flops, walked. I jogged ahead in my sneakers and caught up to Pete and Pete just as they reached the beach across from our boat.

We three Petes swam out to Strolla and climbed aboard up the anchor chain. Just as we reached the deck, Megan arrived at the bow of a big speed boat belonging to one of the mega-yachts anchored a half mile out in deeper water. After describing our dilemma to them back at the park offices, they had agreed to take her to get fuel. I grabbed a gas can from the cockpit, hopped aboard, and then Megan and I and our new friends sped off back to the dinghy.

For whatever reason, the man driving the speed boat didn't want to take us all the way back to the visitor's center. Instead, he dropped us at a beach about halfway. I was barefoot and bare chested from swimming out to Strolla. My shoes were still back on the beach by the boat. With all the thorny bushes and sharp rocks covering the island there was no way I would be able to walk the several miles still to go to get to the dinghy. Nor could I return to the boat. I was stuck on the beach we'd been dropped at. Megan had never started or driven the Seagull before. Excellent April Fools from our new friends!

Megan and I went over the things to check and steps to take to start up the Seagull. Then I handed her the gas can, said a silent prayer, and hunkered down in the shade for a long wait. I couldn't even sleep, but had to stay awake and alert for the next hour and a half fending off the advances of a couple of curious lizards. I may have won the day, but they won my respect with their perseverance, and strategy. Two pronged attacks, feints, and even flanking movements were all employed in their attempts to reach me. I don't know what they thought they'd find, but they never gave up.


Megan arrived in the dinghy and together we sped off back to the boat. The rest of the morning and afternoon was whiled away on the beach by our boat, swimming, snacking, and topless sunbathing. I now have a mighty tan.


At four thirty when the tide was slack, we swam back to the boat to get ready for snorkeling. It was while we were all back aboard that we spotted a black shape moving through the water a short ways off, just beneath the waves. After watching it from the deck for a while, I dove into the dinghy and, seeing that no one was following my lead, tore off after the shape alone. When I was directly over it, I donned my snorkel mask and, dinghy still moving, dove overboard to see what it was.

It turned out to be a huge manta ray, as big as the dinghy, gliding slowly through the aquamarine water, completely nonplussed by my sudden arrival on the scene. Enchanted by its silent grace, I swam along beside it, towing the dinghy behind me by its painter. Growing bored with my company, the ray eventually turned and loped off into the blue green depths.

The snorkeling was excellent. Columns of coral thriving with plant and animal life were scattered randomly across the sea floor, interspersed by stretches of clean, white sand. Huge rock lobsters were everywhere, crawling around and dueling with each other like giant insects. When caught out on the sand they would stand their ground, but if they had somewhere to hide, they shot off in a frantic backwards swim, even slamming into the coral columns in their desperation to get away.

We snorkeled right through the slack tide and then headed back to the boat for a big spaghetti dinner. Climbing up from the cabin with my full plate to sit in the cockpit, I tripped and dumped the scalding plate down my leg and all over the bench. April Fools! I was able to salvage enough not to go to bed hungry.

With dinner over, Pete Rowell mixed up rum punch for everyone and Megan got on the VHF radio to ask our neighboring boaters if anyone had any ice they could spare. After her third attempt with no answer, I grabbed the hand-held VHF from the abandon ship bag, climbed up to the bow and answered her. I was able to string her along for quite a while before she caught on. April Fools Megan!

I slept soundly, adding my snores to what has become a very noisy boat.

Day 87

Our first full day with our friends was spent in Nassau, getting the mainsail repaired, taking on provisions, fuel, and water. This done, we wandered as a group over to the market for fresh conch salad and fried conch fritters. We bought some Yellowtailed Snapper and Grouper from a very smelly fishmonger, and had a big, steamed fish dinner back at the boat. Afterward Connor, Megan, and I took a taxi to the Wannee Fish Fry to "see about a man with one arm."

Let me explain... Connor had left his cell phone in the taxi on the way from the airport when they'd first arrived and had been trying unsuccessfully to track it down ever since. The only thing he had to go on was that the taxi driver had had one arm and drove a stick shift. Apparently, he had been able to do this while also talking on his phone and drinking a Pepsi.

Now, we three were off to follow the latest lead offered up by the cab company. We found our man at the fish fry as promised and learned that he'd dropped the phone off at the police station the day before, a few hours after Connor had gone to check. The 24 hour police station was closed and when Megan called 911, she was informed that all four people who had keys could not be reached.

The next morning we shoved off out of Nassau and motored southeast to Warderick Wells Cay in the Exuma Islands. Warderick Wells is part of the Exuma Land and Sea Park, a beautiful national park filled with hiking trails and snorkeling. The family from Maine tied up on our pier had stayed there and claimed it was the prettiest place they'd ever been. That was enough of a recommendation for us.



Light winds and calm seas made for an easy, relaxing first day underway for our friends. We even were able to drop anchor in the shallow waters of the Exuma shelf for lunch and a refreshing midday swim. The afternoon, like the morning, was filled with books, sunburns, lively conversation, and the steady drone of the diesel motor. We pulled into the anchorage after dark.

Day 86

We weighed anchor in the early morning under overcast skies. The predicted southerly breeze was blowing steadily, raising small ripples across the harbor. As soon as we left those protected waters however, and rounded coral cliffs of Morgan's Bluff, we were slammed by the full force of an unobstructed near gale and the steep white-capped waves it drove before it. We didn't know it at the time, but the wind that day would reach a sustained 35 mph by the time we arrived in Nassau.

The water was blue-gray beneath white streaks of foam. The wind howled through the stainless steel rigging and peppered everything with salty spray. Strolla was heeled over to her port gunwales, once again ploughing along smartly under double reefed sails, shipping solid water over her bow with each passing wave, us on her windward rail, bracing ourselves against the shock.


Rain squalls dotted the empty horizon, benign dark smudges on a light gray backdrop until one would sneak up unannounced. Then, marble sized drops would rain down painfully, pelting the deck and making the sea boil. A few minutes later the squall would pass on just as suddenly, leaving me wrapped around the tiller, soaked, chilled, and fetal.


We covered the fifty mile crossing from Andros to New Providence Island in a little over seven hours. Nassau Harbor lies on the north side of the island so the final approach into its narrow entrance was a close hauled beat to windward. Just as we entered the tightest part between two rocky outcroppings, our mainsail finally gave out under the force of the wind and burst wide open. We had it down and furled in short order, but the damage had been done. We continued on under our jib until the core was warmed up and then motored the rest of the way into the harbor.

Pete and I were picking up our friends Peter Rowell, Connor Ahearn, and Megan Zottoli in Nassau and we were both looking forward to having another Peter on board. In a brief phone conversation six days earlier in Ft. Lauderdale Connor and I had agreed we would all meet at the Nassau airport. As the weather worsened over the Bahama Bank in the following days, it had become doubtful that Strolla would make it to Nassau at all. When we finally limped into port with our tattered mainsail, our friends had already been on the ground for several hours and it was anybody's guess where they had headed off to when we weren't there to meet them.






We were motoring through the harbor looking for a marina to tie up at when a police boat came racing out towards us. This was not a welcome sight and Pete and I were both on edge as the boat approached. However, after my initial inspection, I didn't look at them again. I had enough other collision opportunities to worry about. Also, I wanted to appear nonchalant and unconcerned. It wasn't until I heard my name called from a few feet away that I finally turned to look at the police boat again. There stood two very large, very imposing policemen and between them stood Megan, straw cowboy hat and bright orange life preserver, blond hair blowing in the wind.


Megan told us that they had all watched our arrival from the mail boat docks, had shouted to us, waved to us, and tried to raise us on the VHF radio. These things having failed, (our attentions lay elsewhere and the VHF can't be heard on deck) the police had agreed to take her out to get us. Thus notified, we stood by in neutral while they raced back to the dock, picked up Pete and Connor and all the luggage and then returned for a tricky floating transfer. It was a wonderful reunion.

With everyone on board, we quickly found a slip at a marina, tied up, and cleaned up. We met our neighbors in the marina, inquired about sail repair, stowed everyone's gear, grabbed showers, and headed out on the town. After a little asking around we learned that the best/cheapest local restaurant was a place called Double D's. No, I don't know what the name referred to. The special that night was steamed Grouper head. Pete Rowell and I each tried it. The side dishes were good and the sauce was excellent but, not counting the eyeball, there were only about four bites of meat on the whole head.







Afterward, we strolled back to the marina bar called the Poop Deck. It seemed to be going strong so we stopped in for a couple of Pina Coladas before continuing on to our slip.

Back on the boat, we all brushed our teeth, there's never an excuse for poor oral hygiene, and then turned in. Around 2 a.m., the wind, still blowing strong, pulled a very new, very expensive kevlar staysail free of its furl on a catamaran near us. The noise of the sail flapping and cracking like a whip woke everyone in the marina up. No one got up to take care of it. Our next door neighbor turned his stereo on and then cranked the volume up to drown out the noise.

Unable to sleep, Megan wanted to go over and fix it. I grudgingly agreed to join her. I had to loosen every halyard on the catamaran's mast before I found the right one in the dark, but we finally got it taken in and lashed down. Back in bed twenty minutes later, Pete Hinman was up and knocking on our neighbor's boat to get him to turn his stereo off. Finally, we all fell asleep.

Day 83-85

Our first morning in the Bahamas started late. Pete and I had a little sleep to catch up on after our 24 hour push from Ft. Lauderdale. Once awake though, our day began with gusto. Pete whipped up some breakfast while I poured over the charts and read up on the route ahead in our cruising guides. Then we both retired to the cockpit, sated and lethargic, to stare at nothing and enjoy the tropical weather. Finally I roused myself enough to topple over the stern rail into the dinghy and head ashore to track down a weather forecast for the next few days.

No one I could find onshore was able to help me, but Pete and I found some friendly French Canadians on a nearby sloop who invited us aboard and let us copy down the forecast. Fair weather for the rest of the day and the next but growing progressively worse through the remainder of the week. With three friends meeting us in three days in Nassau, if we wanted to make the rendezvous we'd have to get a move on to stay ahead of the weather. We announced that we would be departing directly. With a look of surprise, the Canadians bid us farewell.


Lovely sailing east from the Biminis, crossing the great Bahama Bank, headed for the Berry Islands. The weather, however, reached us much sooner than we expected. A cold front approached, passed, and brought the rain. Caught out in the open, we sailed on. Pete at the helm, me offering moral support from the safety of the cabin.




That night we anchored on the Bahama Bank, out of sight of land or lights. All alone on the wide, wide sea. The waves weren't very big but, like the Gulfstream, were choppy from the shifting winds and the boat rolled heavily. I slept poorly.

The next day we awoke to heavier seas and foul winds, weighed anchor and started motoring. It was a full day of smashing our way through waves and wind at three miles per hour, wearing down the boat, wearing down our fuel reserves, wearing down ourselves, and then we dropped anchor with considerably less excitement for another night on the bank. The sustained high winds through the day had whipped up large waves and this night was much rougher.

The snubber I attached to absorb the shock of Strolla bucking against her anchor chain chaffed through and parted, twice. Each time, awoken by the change in the boats rocking, I made my way forward up the wet, dark deck with my headlamp to kneel at the bow and tie on a new one. The bow was plunging from just underwater to ten feet in the air and back with each passing wave, the unhindered chain snapping taught in its guide and jerking at the deck cleat with sudden, sharp jolts. I am grateful to have kept all my digits.

We were up with the sun to begin our third day crossing the Bahama Bank. Around noon, with the southern islands of the Berry Archipelago in sight, we changed plans. The wind, out of the east now, was expected to shift to the south the next day, right when our course shifted from east to south as well to take us in to Nassau. Better to turn south today and ride out the east winds on a beam reach. We could spend the night in Morgan's Bluff on Andros Island and then when the wind shifted, have another beam reach east into Nassau.

It was a relief to turn off the wind and begin sailing, but only briefly. Screaming along with a double reef in the mainsail, our average speed over four hours of sailing was 7.6 knots. Strolla stayed well heeled over on her starboard edge, broadside to the swells, dipping and weaving in a rhythmic dance with the waves. Pete and I were perched on the windward rail in our rubber slickers, with a steely grip on the tiller and a steely eye on the sea.

The east side of Andros island was one of the nastier lee shores I'd sailed along. shoals and mangrove swamps gave way to jagged coral cliffs on which the rolling waves beat themselves to frothy white. Surprisingly, the entrance into Morgan's Bluff was wide and well marked and not nearly as hairy as I was preparing myself for. All of the drinking water used by the city of Nassau is brought by tankers that come out of this harbor so it makes sense that it is easily navigated.

We were the only boat in the harbor, although there was an inner harbor called Regatta Park that had a few more. Free water, bar right on the harbor edge with a dance party that night, a couple of derelict fishing trawlers to scavenge for parts, coral caves and spray swept cliffs to clamber over and explore. It ended up being a fun stopover.

A family come over from Palm Beach on a fishing trip, the only other boaters we could find in town, told us that the wind the next day would be out of the south. This was what Pete and I had expected and the reason we'd come to Andros Island in the first place. With a south wind we'd be able to sail east to Nassau all day on a broad reach, the fastest point of sail.

The father of the family, doughy, bleary eyed, and already weaving in place at five in the evening, couldn't tell us anything more about wind speed or wave height and direction. Neither could any of the locals we asked. We'd have to poke our heads out of the harbor the next morning and check for ourselves.