TWISTER! What's next? Tsunami or maybe an earthquake?

I’ve never wished more for monstrous 350HP engines and a sleek fast speedboat in my life. I actually looked down at my leathery bare feet, dangling from the (too tall) helm seat, wishing they were red slipper-clad, and that my name was Dorothy, and that there was truly a Kansas I could wish to disappear to at that instant.

Minutes before, we had been heading out of Nassau’s hectic harbor, Shiloh chugging along slowly with her 40HP engines purring perfectly, as the ‘fast toy’ electric blue and Florida orange speed boats zoomed in and out by us, literally leaving us rolling in their wake.

We were sighing that sigh you sigh when you leave a city for the country on a weekend after a busy week. Shaking off the lists of things to do, repairs, Government agencies who e-mail you requiring payments of $15 be made by money order and requiring letters to be faxed. Faxed?! What era are we living in?!

But I digress. We spent the week getting our errands done between massive storms that rolled in each afternoon, soaking our groceries and propane tanks as we headed back to the boat in the dinghy. Storms that blew over 45kts and obliterated the towering Atlantis resort behind a white wall of water. Storms where the thunder rolled continuously like the sound of fighter jets in the sky with a constant light show of our favourite menacing bolts…

But now, on a Saturday morning, leaving through a light sun shower, we head toward Rose Island – a little oasis only 5 miles outside Nassau. A place of beaches and clean turquoise water, swaying palms. Sigh…

But as we round the edge of New Providence, about halfway between our city anchorage and the relative safety of our beachy spot, our boat buddy calls on the VHF radio. “Shiloh, Shiloh, AlleyCat.”

“Alley Cat go ahead!” we answer, grinning at our escape from town.

“Look right guys.”

And we did. And I blinked. The sky, divided in two – the sunny expanse to our left and above us, pushed by the bully - the ominous end-of-world billowing charcoal sky to the right, complete with two perfectly formed water spouts, spinning down onto the ocean surface.

Wow! We thought at first. As if it was on TV and a great spectacle to therefore take time to watch. We took photos. We marveled. And then we realised. It was heading toward us. Fast.

I sped up. LOL. Shiloh went from 4.5kt to 5.3kt (as in slower than your average walking speed). We were NOT going to outrun a raging ocean tornado that was kicking up water around it to what looked like a hundred feet in the air.

Our little lightning gadget – bought on Amazon.com after our FIRST big strike – was beeping and beeping, like a tiny bird sent as a messenger of doom. “Beep beep! Beep beep! Beep beep!” the display warning that strikes were detected a mile away. A mile away!

AlleyCat had his radar on and assured me over and over that the storm was moving away – south and west. We were heading north. Like a snail with a lion in hot pursuit. 

Every time I looked back the spout was bigger, wider, the water below visibly churned up. I knew if we were in it’s direct path we would be no longer. We would be lifted, shaken, and tossed across this expanse of water in many pieces like a cheap child’s toy.

Nothing like blood-curdling fear to get your adrenaline pumping.

We sped up again, Shiloh’s little motors growling and panting and moving us a little faster. In the distance a sun drenched little sand spit of an island beckoning us. 

And then as if by wishing alone, the storm retreated. The water spouts spinning sideways, getting further and further away like the kites strings of demons… the storm moved away. South and west.

Half hour later, boats anchored in a mild swell, we sat waist deep in the luke warm water at the edge of an idyllic beach, squinting at the sun and marveling at our adventure.

The thing about this life, this cruising thing, is that life can come all at once in a day.

An hour after our swim we were barreling toward Rose Island to avoid the huge swells that had built up out of nowhere, knocking us from side to side while another storm threatened in the distance.

The first anchorage we tried was worse. We then headed around the south of the island toward the storm and through a choppy bouncy inlet between rocks where the waves splashed angrily up through our trampoline onto the front windows.

We crawled along the coast in the swell trying to imagine how horrible the prospect was, of dropping anchor in this washing machine but it was getting late and not much time to get all the way back into Nassau Harbour. So we’d have to make the best of it.

We tucked up into the furthest end of the island where there was a bit of protection and made the best of it.

An hour later – no joke – the wind and waves were flat, calm docile. We sat waist deep in the luke warm water, beers in hand, and marveled at our adventure.

Then we ate supper, watched TV and were about to retire to bed – as you do – when a huge wind picked up about 11pm and the full moon sky disappeared behind a thick black clouded ceiling.

By 2am no one had slept and the wind blew like a horror film, whining and howling and bringing spurts of rain. Close the hatches. Listen. Hope it won’t pick up and drag our anchor in the pitch black of night.

But alas, the worst of that one missed us. Or took pity on us and allowed us some rest. And this morning, despite the daylight and the heat, captain JW sleeps. We take our moments when they come to us. Cruising is supposedly a lifestyle of freedom. And it is. Freedom from many things. But we are slave to the weather. We respect and fear the moods of mother nature. On her time we relax, on her time we are vigilant.

Today the wind is light, the water calm. We can relax. For now…

Serena down - the reality of the ocean's power hits home

Just when my irrational sailing fears are subsiding and I am looking forward to each sail, the reality of the dangers come crashing into my face, in front of my face to be precise. There I was, innocently sipping a Diet Coke, surfing in some wifi zone, my face illuminated by my computer screen, when JW pointed out an article he’d found on noonsite. The 38’ sailing vessel Serena had been abandoned at sea off the coast of Spain….

It struck me with a sinking feeling in the stomach, that we know that boat, in fact the crew of Serena are good friends we’d last heard from when they set sail across the Atlantic, headed for Europe a couple months ago….

“Oh my god! Are they ok?!”

I read the article with quick breaths, looking for the key words, and found them – ‘rescued’, ‘safe’…. Sigh of relief. But they had suffered through a gargantuan storm and they had lost their boat, having been lifted into a helicopter and watching their home and precious vessel dwindling into the distance among the crashing waves below as they flew away….

It’s been on my mind for days. They were/are the sweetest people! They had already done an ocean crossing. They were so friendly and calm and knowledgeable. How could this happen to them?! To someone we know!

And the truth just sits there, like a quickly eaten warm donut in your belly. It is doughy and makes you uneasy as it’s hard to digest.

The truth is that this can happen to ANYONE on a boat. No matter how nice or what an expert you might be, a storm can strike and your lives can be in danger. Your life can change in an instant. And if you are lucky, your experience and all your preventative gadgets will be applicable, accessible - to help make the difference between life and death.

Luckily for Hentii and Arja, they were able to access their EPIRB, and help came. But it took the rescue team 8 hours. That is 480 minutes in 20 meter (60 ft) waves, clinging to the remnants of their boat, smashing, crashing, water washing away their dreams…. Terror unimaginable previously. But they survived.

They are not the only tragic story we have heard lately either. But they hold a special place in my heart, and so it was this story that hit me so hard.

Serena's salon table - set for supper

 As clear as if it were yesterday, I remember coming down into Serena’s warm homey salon. Arja had decorated and filled the boat with the cutest European charm, and the whole boat was filled with the aroma of her home-cooked creamy mushroom soup. And though the swell rocked us through supper, we laughed and ate and drank, and afterwards Hentii set up his microphone and amp and serenaded us and the nearby boats with his amazing Elvis renditions. It was a lovely evening. It’s unlikely I’d ever forget it.

Great food and great friends - supper on Serena

Elvis is in the house!

And as I sit here now, imagining Arja and Hentii in the aftermath of their disaster, soaked and possessionless, without passports or dry clothes, I wish we’d been there to lend a hand. And a hug. And just to let them know how brave and great they are.

And deep down my hug would mean even more. That it’s such a wonderful miracle they survived, and how they are an inspiration above the fear that their ordeal has generated.

It’s humbling more than anything else. We play and frolic in these waves, we call the ocean home. But we are truly small and powerless in the face of the unpredictable giant.

It’s easy to forget, when I peer over the edge of the boat into the clear turquoise that invites me to jump in and cool off.

But it’s a relationship of respect, admiration and forgiveness it seems.

I wrote to Arja this week and she explained that they are now living in a tiny apartment, fighting with the insurance companies, trying to find jobs. She is blogging... The search continues for Serena, which may be floating or beached somewhere along the coast of Portugal...

What could be the fate of Serena...

 But in their heart of hearts, the sailing dream is still alive. And one day, they will be out here again. Sailing the ocean blue.

Near maydays, mooring from hell and a great holiday

Yesterday as JW and I stood on the bow of Shiloh, discussing the disaster that was our attempt at picking up a mooring ball at Sandy Island, we heard a faint but strained call,

“John?!”

JW’s sister, hubby and kids, visiting for a week, were piled in the dinghy, looking a bit lost as it drifted quickly backward with the wind and current.

“We can’t get the motor down”

They had decided to head in to the beach at this gorgeous deserted island, after our angst ridden arrival with the mooring ball incident, and most likely they thought they’d leave us to our ‘after lesson in what-not-to-do in a mooring situation’.

JW looked at the situation with the dinghy blowing further and further out of reach, muttered “sh*t” under his breath, and jumped in the water. He struggled to catch up but managed to swim out to the dinghy and heave himself up. All the while, I stood at the back step biting my nails and knowing there wasn’t much I could do. Here we were on a deserted island, our visitors being blown swiftly out to sea.

JW got the motor down and it started after a few revs and all was well. He motored back to the boat and I reached out to grab the dinghy painter (rope). But just short of the boat he cut the engine and I missed the rope. And they started floating backward again. But this time JW pulled the choke over and over and it wouldn’t start. It had flooded.

Now I stood once again watching them all drift away, but this time JW, my all-knowing captain was with them.

Luckily for us, there was one other little sail boat at Sandy Island and I ran to the front of our boat, waving my hands wildly in their general direction, hoping they’d see me and then see the dinghy as it disappeared.

The man jumped in his tiny dinghy and headed toward them. But his motor was very small, and in the endless time it took for him to reach them and grab a rope to tow them back, they discovered he couldn’t pull the weight of the bigger dinghy and group of ‘flounderlings’.

I felt a pit in my stomach, stabbing now. What could I do? In this boating life, I’m finding that I really struggle with the sense of helplessness. Mostly it is my lack of knowledge that renders me useless in critical situations. But this time it was the fact that there was nothing I could do, barring calling out a mayday on the radio. And I had to decide at what moment that should be done?

Just then, JW pulled the choke for the umpteenth time, and this time it worked! They let go of the struggling man in his well-meaning little would-be rescue boat, waved a big thanks and headed back finally to Shiloh.

Crisis averted. Again.

JW the ever calm and able captain of SV Shiloh

 Just an hour before, I had been up at the bow of the boat trying to catch a mooring ball and feed two ropes through it, pulling them each back to a hull and tying them off. After a few tries, where JW motored forward and his brother-in-law and I directed him, got hold of the mooring ball and then failed dismally to get the ropes the right way round, eventually Shiloh was blown back by the strong winds and the ropes came flinging along, as we let go. But in my panic-mode, during one attempt, I tried to hold one of the ropes so we wouldn’t drift away from it. I, me, tried to hold a 20 ton boat, against 20knt winds, with a little rope. Not smart. I ended up almost losing my legs as the rope pulled swiftly, and I was trapped between it and the front stay. JW was livid. I was shaken by the experience and hotly embarrassed by my inadequacy, not to mention the burning on my thighs where the rope had whipped past. It was ‘all bad’, especially with our guests as the innocent victims, just trying to have a relaxing holiday.

We did eventually get ourselves hooked on the mooring ball. They did eventually have a great swim over the corals and with all the multicoloured reef fish. And hopefully all was forgotten.

They had all survived the day before, as we made the 6 hour journey from St. Georges in Grenada, up to Carriacou, with the wind on our nose and 12 ft (4m) swells. We had at least one seasick moment, with breakfast being offered up to the sea below, but all in all, the crew handled all those salty, shaking, jarring, jolting hours quite well.

We spent the night in a deserted anchorage on the north coast of Carriacou, called Anse La Roche, which only attracted a single sentence in the most popular guide book. It advised that the place was great for a lunch break but not for an overnight due to the big northerly swells. We stayed anyway. Right about now, you are thinking,

‘That probably wasn’t a good idea.’

Well, after putting out a second anchor manually from the side of the boat (a first for us), we did have a great swim and a walk on the beach, a peaceful supper and cocktails, then retired early. All good, right?

Forward to 3am when we awoke to our anchor drag alarm, and realised that the second anchor had come slack and the current was busy trying to beach us completely. The back of the boat was swinging toward the shallow sand at a fast pace. JW had to use the winch and bring the second anchor in, then heave the rusted chain and anchor up by hand. That done, we motored forward, lifted anchor and tried again further out in the bay.

It held, though the northerly swell had us in a rolling stomach churning motion pattern for the rest of the night, and though my eyes did close, I didn’t manage to get any more actual sleep. Luckily, the kids, exhausted from swimming, diving and snorkeling, slept through it all.

We were all good and ready to up anchor at 8am and head toward Union Island of the Grenadines.

After a peaceful stroll through the sleepy dusty main road and immigration sorted, nurse sharks visited by the dinghy dock, we headed out to our main destination – Tobago Cays.

And we did arrive alive, but not before we encountered some 15ft (5m) waves that lifted and dropped us, toying with the 20 ton boat like a mouse in the paws of a cruel giant cat.

I braced myself in those moments and apparently I made ‘the face’ – which is the face of panic and terror that JW claims he sees wash across my face when I sense danger (real or because of my lack of experience).

In response, I got The Look, and that one says,

‘Holdsworth, don’t you dare go into panic mode, we have guests and if you look all worried, they will get worried and it’s our job to be the calm and controlled, gracious hosts.’

Just then a wave blindsided us and all the wine, whisky, rum and vodka bottles on display went flying with an ear jarring slam and resounding clangs.

Luckily they all made it through in tact. Less cleaning for me on arrival, and more for us to ingest later. In fact, there’s a party on the beach, the kids are swimming happily around the boat, the afternoon sun is coming down to a burnt orange warm, I’ve got butternut and broccoli with chicken ready to bake, and it’s time for a rum n’ coke now.

The evolution of a sailor

As I sit sipping my coffee, looking out into the bay, my little tube of lip balm rolls back and forth in a steady rhythm on the table beside me.

It’s 7am. It is a rolly anchorage and we had a bit of a bumpy night. But I slept well.

I’m realising two things – that gone are the nights of lying awake, terrified of the strange noises and constantly worrying about our anchor dragging, sending us out to sea, or into the boat behind us. Secondly, the rise and fall of a swell in the bay doesn’t affect me any longer. I’ve become used to my house pitching up and down, with the horizon peaking through my windows and disappearing just as fast, over and over.

It proves how adaptable the human brain is. There was a day when this movement would have had my tummy gripped in nausea.

Yesterday as we made our way from Union Island to Mayreau, with 21 kn winds on our nose and huge swells rocking Shiloh quite hard, both JW and I realised we’ve overcome seasickness. This journey a month ago would have warranted Gravol or Dramamine or Stugeron.

So many things have changed while they’ve stayed the same. There’s been a paradigm shift within me.

When we made all our plans to leave work, home, land life, I suffered from a deep seated fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what could go wrong, and of my complete inability to face whatever that might be.

But the longer we’ve been at sea, the more great experiences and things that have gone wrong, have made this life all that more believable, manageable, loveable.

A ‘boat boy’ has just motored up to Shiloh. I peek out and a blond blue-eyed rasta man is grinning at me. His big red wooden boat is called ‘Yellow’. He offers me fresh baked baguette. I tell him we’re fine, but thanks and he’s off. I love those moments.

I loved the moment a lot less a few days ago, when we found ourselves motoring forward in a crowded bay, only to hear the one engine fail completely. 

 As we started to drift dangerously back toward an old anchored boat, I flew down the stairs, to the port aft cabin, woke our friend and crew member from her nap, and threw all the bedding out into the hallway so JW could get into the engine compartment underneath and find out what was going on.

Meanwhile we called the friends on our ‘fleet’ (the boats we’ve been traveling with), to let them know what was happening. 

 We enlisted two dinghys to act as the port engine and JW motored forward on the starboard engine while I dropped anchor and we all crossed our fingers, hoping it would set. Once we were securely in place, the team dived down to have a look at our port propeller.

Turns out we had motored right over a dark grey, unmarked fishing rope. It had become completely entangled in the prop as it spun, bringing it to a halt. Hence the engine failing. It had even begun to melt into itself with the heat of the action.

As diving and holding my breath for long periods under water while prying melted rope from a propeller are not yet on my list of skills, I stood above, while members of our fleet spent the couple hours up and down, coming up with chunks of the offending rope.

 This experience was not pleasant. But it was not wracked with the horror it would have been, had we been alone or had we been a month younger at sea. But these things happen.

I’m realising that, just like the rest of life, sailing has it’s ups and downs. Things work out. Things work out much better without the fear and panic.

I now know why boats come so slowly into bays, with crew right on the front tip of the boat, surveying and scrutinizing the water below. I will follow suit.

It’s a learning curve. But now it’s a fun one. Some things will change the more I know, some will stay the same.

Apparently seasoned sailors get their dinghy painters (ropes) caught in their props, and even those who have crossed oceans have been known on occasion, when the winds are high or gusty, to spend sleepless nights, worried about dragging anchor…

Letting go of the fear

The idea of a life at sea is so compelling for me that I didn’t let my complete lack of experience stop me from barreling forward, tripping over my flippers to get here. But in the back of my mind, I knew that deep down it terrified me.

I do know that experience squelches fear and practice makes perfect, or at least calm. I am counting on this, and I know JW is doing the same, as he sees the noticeable tension across my face each time we decide to move.

I am at home when Shiloh is safely at anchor, all the moving over with, the GPS having given us the peace of mind that we are held in place, that the anchor is nestled snugly into the mud deep below us.

But I do not handle stress well when it comes to the boat. Our anchor has been giving trouble since we collected Shiloh from her charter company. When we’ve swung into a nice position in a bay, and JW calls out for me to drop, I begin with the remote and the anchor disappears into the water, the chain pummeling after it, heavy and loud and ominous. 

 And then when I let go, the chain doesn’t stop. I start imagining the chain flying so fast, pulling so hard that it will just fly off and we will be left without an anchor, the boat floating dangerously close to our neighbors in the new bay and with the knowledge we cannot actually anchor or stop anywhere. And then my heart races and my hands shake. I become useless as a first mate. All I want to do is jump up and down and cry or retreat below deck and bury my face in a pillow.  Anyone who sails, knows this is a completely irrational, unnecessary and counter-productive response. It simply doesn’t help. Neither does panic at the suggestion that we try out the new autopilot, since the memory is still strong, of how we reached out into heavy seas and the autopilot decided we should turn in jerky, bouncing, jarring circles. Sigh…

My mind plays tricks on me - it teases me with the worst case scenario - at any given moment we could end up beached on rocks, overturned or drifted out to sea with no instruments...

I believe this post is cathartic. Therapeutic. I’ve admitted my silly fears, in the hopes of killing them off one by one, so I can get on with enjoying not just the new bays, with their inviting patches of white beach and pretty ice blue reef patches, but the sailing as well. The amazing freedom of wind in your face, Shiloh the strong and brave vessel, carrying us along to somewhere new.

Each day a new lesson, a bit more experience, a feeling of belonging and purpose and each day the fear dissipates. That is the plan!

As I look around me, I see people of every description who embrace the beautiful, rewarding side of sailing. They are calm and confident and they face technical glitches with reason and logic and steady hands. It doesn't matter what size or age of the boat, if you have confidence, it is a beautiful thing.

Some Grenada boys heading out to sea

Sailors since birth - calm and at home on the ocean.