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.
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