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.