Mailboats, masks, beaches and bonfires: Ragged Isolation

We are becoming professionals at this. Masked, dinghy bound, box toting professionals.

 It all begins with grocery wish-list emails to a supermarket in far off Nassau. Maybe they’ll have avocados?! Cherry tomatoes? We dare to dream… WhatsApp photo messages of food items follow with accompanying text “Is this what you want?” and “We only have this brand” etc…  Days later, our relative peace is interrupted. There is a palpable frenzy amongst the small tribe of boaters in the anchorages… the mailboat is on his way!

Then the chain of events unfolds in starts and spurts. Rumours, actual second hand info on VHF radio, WhatsApp messages with a few local ‘contacts’, sometimes I get a voice message from the Captain himself! Then I’m really at the epicenter of life here!

And then, either on the expected day, or perhaps a day before or two days or a week later, someone spots the huge blue metal ship that makes it’s way down to this remote island chain from Nassau weekly, or nearly weekly, or whenever he’s not encumbered by storms or faulty engine parts.

When he does arrive, the boats lift anchor, leaving our favourite beach front spots and make their way around to Gun Point, the one port in the Ragged Islands, on the only inhabited island, where the 30 or so fishermen who live here eagerly await their provisions, fuel, alcohol, propane and other goodies along with us boaters.

This is our 10^th week in the Ragged Islands and about the 6^th week living under Bahamas Emergency orders. Some boaters in the world found themselves adrift when Covid-19 spread and countries began closing borders. Some were asked to leave their host countries. We have been so lucky.

The Bahamas has literally shut down and their number one industry, tourism has understandably come to a grinding halt. The annual cruiser population, those of us that have not fled to America, make up the small remaining foreign population. We have been told that we must adhere strictly to the lockdown and that there will be no medical services for foreigners ashore, under any circumstances. This was a tough one for many. Those of us who stayed are taking that risk. 

The pay off for us, down in the most remote part of this island chain, is a day to day life literally unencumbered by Coronavirus. The beaches here line many uninhabited islands. There are rough trails cut through and across many of them. The reefs are still teeming with coral and pretty fish, the blue blue water is still warm and inviting. There are shells and sea glass to hunt and collect, and fish to catch for supper! Each night brings a breathtaking sunset...

The tribe has organised parties here for birthdays and anniversaries and is now even looking to ‘secure’ some of the local wild roaming goats for a beach curry day.

We all have desalinating water makers, we hand wash clothes (and towels and sheets! Ugggh), and gather power from the sun via solar panels and small portable generators.

It’s quite easy to ‘shelter in place’ now that we have developed from nothing, a system that meets all our daily needs. The only exposure we have beyond the finite group of us boaters is the weekly mailboat encounter. Hence the masks and box washing…

We have been given visa extensions online. There is no need to leave our paradise.

Except for the elephant in the distance.

Hurricane season is now imminent. The calm, sunny, peaceful weather days are now spotted with rain and crazy wind systems and the inevitable thunder and lightning storms. They foreshadow how vulnerable we really are out here, hiding behind islands that are so small you need to zoom in on a map or chart.

In the big scheme of things, we could be in trouble. We will need to leave soon, to start heading north or south. We had hoped to make it down to Grenada this year. It sits just below the hurricane belt and it’s a great place to stay onboard for the year.

But getting there involves a lot of stops down the Leeward and Windward islands. The joy is in the journey! We wouldn’t want to sail past the British Virgin Islands without stopping for a few weeks to see Dev, our son, the capable Moorings captain. We wouldn’t want to sail past Guadeloupe with it’s fresh baguettes and chocolate crossaints and wine and cheese! I mean really?!

But the virus has forced most of these countries to close their borders. And if and when they open, it will most likely be too late to head that direction with the prevailing trade winds kicking up…

So as we sit under the thatch roof of the Hog Cay Yacht Club, cold beer in hand, sand between the toes, we contemplate our insecure future. 

As a full time live-aboard sailor, life is by nature unplanned and insecure. And weather has always been our master. It has ruled our movements every season. This year however, with Coronavirus in the mix, we are up against something new. We don’t like our freedoms curtailed. But when there are no flights, countries are closed, the virus is spreading hard and fast in the states, we are left with a very small set of options.

But for now, for today, the mailboat has arrived. Fridge is full. Beer is cold. Beach is calling…

At 50 with love

It’s a dreary morning in the boatyard. The wind is the only one on duty today.

Grey. Swirling. Boats under flapping tarps. Dreams on hold. 

I’ve left it too long. My hair hangs around, sadly, leaning on my shoulders for support. It’s futile. I can’t write. I should write. Writing is my wind. It whistles through my ears. It is the voices I hear. It is my own voice.

My hands are pale. The pores, the brown spots. The veins are on duty. They are prominent. They exert authority above my docile keyboard. These are fifty year old hands.

Weeks ago the day came. The ‘officially old’ day. But before that I was reminded. My eyes. Blur. The tiny font on labels taunting me. My one dollar glasses, stuffed in every pocket and purse. Lenses smudged, scratched. In the mirror, the dark circles of age framing the failing eyes.

My hair, in clumps sliding down my body into the drain. Thinning. Duller. Older

But I was alive. Moving. Traveling. Fishing for my passport in the backpack with that sinking feeling each time, it might not be there! Then reassured. Removing my shoes for security machines. Setting my liquids aside in a ziplock. Worried. Excited. Alive.

And before that I was stood in blue, in a park near the boatyard, between friends. I was reminded. I am lucky. It was a ‘colour of the sea’ themed barbecue. It was a gathering of a certain type of people. A family of my choosing. Age, culture and country melting away over pop songs sung off key in unison. The food! Cake. The speech! The two hour drive for some. None of it taken for granted. All of it swirling in my mind, my heart. This family of my choosing. It’s fluid. People come and go. We come and go. 

I’ve slept in 26 beds between September and today. 26 pillows. 95 days. 11 flights. 6 countries. I’m moving. 

SO MANY PRICELESS REUNIONS.

Sitting on a plane to Zurich with South African elephant dung in the grooves of the soles of my shoes. Clung to my soul.

The joy in Emma’s eyes as she cuddled Rainbow the rhino. In the Gredos mountains of Spain, a little blond, blue eyed girl with a South African father who is American too, spends her days running and jumping through forests of wild mushrooms and chestnut trees. She is our grand daughter, and her tiny warm hand in mine, led us through her little life, while she held her rhino. Brought from Cape Town, with love. 

We’ve indulged, sampled the world - pizza, fresh fish off Cape Town’s shores, slap chips, meat pies, Spanish Iberica ham, blood pudding, roasted chestnuts. I’ve slurped aromatic sauces through my fingers over a bed of injeera in an Ethiopian restaurant in downtown Vancouver with my son and his girl and a dear old friend. 

Special moments. Burned into me. Carrying me beyond 50.

Carrying me back to this boat. Climbing the makeshift stairs. Working and waiting for the day she is gently returned by hoist into the sea where she belongs.

We will keep moving. South, away from cold. South to where the sun shines most days. Banishing grey. Places where the sun is always on duty. Where we have chosen to be. We will meet the friends who are family in different places. There will be more barbecues. There will be sand. Sunsets.

I will sweep my thinner hair up into a clip to let the breeze onto my sweating neck. I will splash my weathering face with cool water to start the days.

I will hold all these memories of our travels. Of the faces. Smiles. Loving the life I have.

I will write. It’s a promise I need to make to my fragile heart. I will put it all into words. The magic of sorrow and the flashes of beauty.

Here’s to life beyond 50.

Our easter blows!

My hair is airborne. Resenting it’s roots, it beats my face relentlessly. Medusa, spaghetti wars, the wind’s bad influence has made it all wild. I pry and pat and pull frantically, dragging strands from my mouth, trying to enlist my ears as clips. It’s all to no avail.

This is ‘our easter’. Not to be confused with the ‘other’ Easter; the Christian observance where a bloody cross is dragged through the streets, nor the highly commercialized holiday where children run around madly looking for eggs layed by a monstrous imaginary white bunny. And where there are chocolates. Lots of chocolates.

Though here in Bimini on ‘That Easter’ we did observe the massive cross being dragged up the one and only road that connects the two tiny towns. This one had a wheel at the bottom though, so, cheating really. We sat with the rest at Stuart’s Conch shack, our easter blowing the sharp stench of rotting conch shells toward the merry makers who listened to the local singer belt out his reggae versions of random songs. We all drank beers and for the brave, the infamous local drink, ‘Bimini Knock Out Punch’. 

No, our easter involves good old Mother nature. She has a vengeance against the west. Not the ‘West’ which refers loosely to countries like America, but in this case, down Florida way, she does seem to be ceaselessly battering the eastern shore. And it has been weeks. And we were there, trying to head east. In a sailboat. Doesn’t work so well. 

Though we did choose a day, motivated by visa concerns and the imagined worst case scenario involving coast guard and cops, not wanting to ‘overstay our welcome’; we made the first crossing into the Bahamas. And the ocean, wild and wavy, told us what it thought of that with a big bitch slap of salty water, right up and over the helm. The instruments, cockpit, even our indoor rug were all soaked. I stood there, dripping, shivering, completely indignant. Yet as the sea tends to teach, there is no time for self pity, I was changed and dried and back up at the helm for another nine or ten hours trading off and on with JW before we reached the safe harbor of North Bimini.

And here we are. Days and weeks have blown by. And boy has it blown. Our easter blows constantly. She is not concerned with the ‘one week off a year’ tourists up at the fancy rooftop pool of the Hilton. Those whose cocktails are pushed over, making sticky puddles that are then blown slowly across the fancy tiles… Where the infinity pool is splashing all the wrong places. Where the umbrellas are packed away for safety concerns.

Our easter has zero concern for our seasonal sailing plans, which involve leaving this tiny sliver of land and heading east. Oops. East. Sorry sailors, claims our easter with a wink. You won’t be going anywhere just yet! If you can keep your boat anchored without dragging like some of your neighbors in the face of my wrath, you have accomplished something! But sailing onward?! Ha!!! (She is heartless our easter).

And so we are here, the little A on the map. On this tiny island, 7 miles long, by only 200 ft wide, with a population of roughly 300. Plus us. 

The water is blue. The beers are cold. But the wind, she blows. 

We’ve had our first annual ‘talking heads’, however due to prevailing conditions, it was not in a bay on a remote island, but the huge hot tub of the Resorts World Bimini’s Hilton. We brought our own beers, the wind was provided.

We did sneak out of the inlet one day to investigate the Sapona, a massive concrete and steel wreck that was once a famous rum runner in prohibition days. Now, a tourist attraction and man made reef. But we had to retreat back to the relative protection of our bay. Our easter so demanded.

The weather sites are predicting a lull in the wind followed by a change of direction early next week. We’ll believe that when we see it, or sail it!!! For now, it’s not so bad to be stuck here; we found a Laundromat and refilled our propane tank. And we’ve got a beach and 5 pools to choose from. We can walk into town for cheaper beers and decent grilled meat by the roadside. 

We’ve heard the supply ship is coming from Miami today, so there might be something fresher than moldy $5 avocados. It will be the highlight of our day walking into town to investigate. Ok, maybe there will be a sojourn in the hot tub after that. Life is pretty good despite our easter. I just have to remember my hair ties!

When sailing is like being born

Sun is pouring through the windows, enticing my eyes with glitter and gleam. That turquoise reflecting upwards, smiling at the sun above. See it! Breathe it, feel it. The palms are the greenest of green, the epitome of nature’s bounty, breeze blowing the tops, heavy with coconuts below, shining, glowing. We’re in the Bahamas. 

It’s not important that we’re anchored near the construction zone of Resort World, tractors, cranes and mountains of man made dunes all around. The point is that the sun is shining, I am not cold, I may even be a tad warm! We’re expecting a huge cold front with it’s signature downpours and high winds tomorrow. But for now, for this moment I am basking in the sunshine promises of the Bahamas that have brought us back for yet another season. Exhale…

But some passages are difficult. Take birth for example. Many would argue that the end result is worth the drama, pain, anguish. But halfway through, both mother and baby are convinced that they’ve never experienced anything worse. That no human should have to endure the sheer hell that is this hours long journey.

Yesterday we were that baby in the birth canal. A 12 hour long voyage where nature not only refused to cooperate, but fought us the whole way. We arrived near screaming, feeling like we’d been hung upside down by our feet and slapped on the ass. And that first night in our new world was not easy. We were shoved and rolled by the swell of the ocean, the raw lack of protection out here, far from the safe womb of Miami’s inshore waters.

Maybe we should have read the signs. 

When we tried to lift anchor and found ourselves utterly stuck, the symbolism knocked me over. And while our windlass groaned and the chain squealed like a pig with it’s leg in a snare, I actually smirked. Some force, perhaps our own complacency had become an active antagonist – we weren’t ready to go. Half an hour later, after much strain on the boat and captain, we pulled up an abandoned anchor and chain. It was someone else’s perilous sea story, but for us it was only the first sign of many. We dropped it with a watery thud and headed out the channel; America spat us unceremoniously out.

Out into the growing waves and building winds. Directly against us. And within an hour the gulf stream was shoving us with the power only mother nature has, north, sideways, and way, way off course. To compensate, we were forced to head further south, into the oncoming everything, and while glasses toppled in the cupboards and cherished family photos fell flat on their faces inside, we came to a near halt, now making headway at under 2 knots. Smash, crash. Groan, slam. The sounds of the day’s toll on Shiloh accosted us. While on the VHF radio, the captains consoled and coerced each other.

“This is insane!”

“Yeah but it’s getting a bit better… maybe”

There were a few times we seriously considered giving up and heading back to the relative calm and safety of the states, but as we all know, once a labour begins, there really is no turning back. We were on this one way trip and at the other side was the other world we needed to reach.

So we held on, salt spray everywhere, waves splashing and slamming the boat, the front windows crying, the crew near crying. We exclaimed with incredulity from time to time how many miles we’d come and yet how many we still had to go. The 40 mile expectation became a 60 mile journey, leaving us no chance to get in the tricky dog-leg river entrance of Bimini during daylight, and realizing that we’d have to anchor offshore for the night, whenever it was we arrived.

When land was in sight, with it’s promise of a calming of both the wild waves and the wind, we were happy. As much as someone in extreme pain can be happy that it might soon end. But it was premature. Our labour was stalled. And so, hours after the darkness had enveloped the ocean and it’s foolish adventurers, we edged forward toward the land and prepared to drop the anchor. But no matter how close we got to land – we could even see the lights of a few cars – the huge swell didn’t dissipate. We were stuck side on to the swell, facing the wind. The result – every few seconds the boat would lunge sideways, and shudder. One hull up then down, and then the other. Over and over. Dishes still slid and slipped, the crew tossed from side to side, to our peril, should we attempt to stand and move without holding on firmly to something…

So we were stuck in the birth canal, thrown around for the night, waiting sleepless for the break of dawn to make our final entrance into this world.

Only, as dawn arrived, it brought with it a monster. A wall of black cloud, billowing forward, approaching like an army of sky ninjas, arm in arm, approaching swiftly from behind us. We took one look, threw t-shirts over sleepless unkempt hair and crusty eyes and started the engines. With wild eyes we pushed Shiloh, so rudely awoken, as fast as she could go, and we rounded the corner, amongst the breaking waves, into the tight channel just as the wind whipped up and the stinging rain hit. 

We made it up the 3 mile channel under the full force of the storm. I could barely see and held my jacket hood against the side of my face, a barricade to the pelting rain and wind.

But we did arrive, into the small anchorage, a dredged out square at the edge of the new resort, protected on three sides by the construction materials, a barge and some new unused chalets. And though the wind still blew, we sat inside and sighed.

It was our birth story. A bit anti-climactic, but ours all the same.

The sun was yet to come. After some homemade soup, some restorative sleep and the chance to awake truly to this new world. The Bahamas! We’ve arrived.

Worlds away: from Starbucks to sandbars

The place is abuzz with sipping, slurping, green straws, computer keypads, tall chai caramel latte decaf macchiato flat white black Americano….

It’s our last day in America.

It only seems appropriate to spend an inappropriate amount of it in a Starbucks.

Tomorrow we set sail for Bimini, sailor’s gateway to the Bahamas. Only 45 miles into a different world completely.

We change worlds from time to time. The day or two before that magic sail between worlds is strange. I see things in a yellowish hue. Reality vibrates and bends.

I can’t help but look around me at the people, living their lives, driving along, calling their friends, sipping their coffees. They become part of a static thing. They are America. They will be left here, carrying on with all this when we are gone. When for us there are no more traffic lights and Best Buys and Walmarts and Starbucks. When for us there are only desolate beaches and understocked shacks/stores and shallow waters and showers off the back step. When the sky and the sea take up our days with their omnipotence, back here they will be the backdrop to civilization. They will remain outside the honking cars, the bright lights of the shops and the clanking glasses on the restaurant patios.

I stand in the line and try to memorize my order – must remember the words – not small, tall. Not medium, Grande! Meanwhile there’s a double blended skinny caramel Frappucino up. Names are written on cups, green aprons flitter about behind the counter. I feel inadequate. A novice, an outsider. How do they keep this stuff in their heads? There are no skinny whip cream vanilla bean crèmes in the other world. You’re lucky if you find coffee. At all.

But you will find yourself. More raw, less busy, more mindful. No yoga classes, just your feet on grainy sand, plodding along, feeling the pull in your thighs of the muscles as you sink ever so slightly with each step. You will sink down, sweating under the sun drenched sky. You will sit for long periods at the edge of the water, feeling it’s undulating warm surface with the palms of your hand. It’s magical in the way that no shopping mall can recreate. It’s all in slow motion in that other world. 

The thing is that the worlds remain, whether we come back again or not. Next year I may find myself on the reverse journey. Arriving into this world, anticipating the availability of everything with giddy anxiety in the core of my being.

Or we might sail on to a different world again entirely. New immigration offices, new smells, new walks, new adventures.

It’s a life of uncertainty. I’ve learned something curious about that. Life changing. Straightforward in it’s simplicity. You can only open yourself to new worlds when you expand your tolerance for the uncertainty of everything. What will the sail across be like? Will we have good weather? Will we meet storms? Will we find a place to anchor? Will they be friendly at the Immigration office?

A day or two after arrival in a new world, there are more uncertainties. Where will we sail next? What will that island be like? Will we find a protected anchorage? Will there be storms? Will the boat drag toward the rocks at 2am in a massive wind? Where will we do our laundry? Will our boat freezer die, leaving us with rotten, smelling sopping food and no chance to replace it all?

But none of these unknowns can put us off the adventure quest. 

It’s the life of the maritime squatter. And it’s time to move on.

As the air-conditioning and ice coffee shooters closes behind me with the door, and we head out into the warmth of a Miami afternoon, I’ve moved on to the journey. Legally and mentally we’ve left this world and there are only a few things left to do. Fill the diesel and water tanks and anchor way out, on the edge of America, ready for tomorrow morning’s nautical flight to new lands.

Between a rock and a sleepless place

It’s 2 am and one moment I am deeply sleeping, my body slightly rolling with the waves. The next moment I am at the helm, starting engines, blinking wildly to get the eyes to focus. The harsh rocky coastline of Fowl Cay was beautiful in the day when we anchored into the prevailing east winds, and tucked ourselves nicely up in her lee. 

At 2 am when the wind has swung against all predictions to the west, and the frantic sound of waves slamming against sharp defiant rock is now just a few feet from the back of the boat – not so beautiful. We have to move. Now.

As JW balances up front, his headlamp blinding me as he moves around lifting the anchor, I reflect on the bizarre reality we live in.

There are no 6 am alarm bells or morning traffic for us. A Sunday is the same as a Monday. There is a lot of laughter and freedom and of course rum punch. But there are nights like this. Sleep is not sacred on a boat. It’s the shut-eye you catch when the seas allow. In the very early days of my sailing career I would meet these interruptions to my nights with exasperation and fear. Being woken to an impending disaster that requires immediate action, is something you have to develop a taste for. Tonight I realise that I have. It’s exactly what has happened. Expect the unexpected. Deal with it as it comes.

I gun the engines into forward and leave the crashing slamming disaster looming all behind us. We are blind navigating and choose a spot just far enough away from the island and before the ocean floor dips further out. Apart from our buddy boat Alley Cat, we’re alone out here. It’s another one of those strange realities. We spend much time socializing, either on boats or partially submerged, treading water by countless beaches, a beer in hand. But only one sail away, we can be totally alone. And it’s an amazing feeling. Like camping deep in the woods. You hear all nature’s sounds. You see things that are invisible in a city. 

Tonight, the charcoal sky has been torn in one small spot and the moon peeks through. It’s only half exposed but it’s enough to make out our surroundings.  We drop the anchor, tug back the engines in reverse and wait for it to grip. We are set.

It’s all over and the excitement has died down but sleep is now a distant memory. In the morning we’ll be diving with the sharks who prowl the reefs just around the corner if all goes well.

For now I ponder the world we discovered earlier in the evening. Sundowners on the tiny beach, after the boat loads of happy rowdy tourists have made their way back to marinas and resorts and we had Fowl Cay to ourselves. The terrain is other worldly. Sharp towers of spiky rock poke out from the soft sand, making walking treacherous. We made our way to the little shelter built as a vista – or a bus stop where no bus will ever arrive?!

Tiny hermit crabs, who like us, take their little homes with them as they go, made their way along the sand. To destinations unknown, they made patterns between the huge science fiction style rocky mountains. I was fascinated. Filled with wonder. As if I’d shrunk and seen their world from their height. A new adventure. Another of natures amazing mysteries. I close my eyes now and smile. And sleep comes. 

The other-wordly landscape of Fowl Cay

Sundowners in the Fowl Cay shelter