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.
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