Rain drops & lost props - a story of struggle and triumph on the ICW

Little daggers of wind powered water pelt my eyes. It gathers; a powerful soaking army that pummels me relentlessly and I am at its mercy. For me, there is nowhere to run. I’m at the helm and we are motoring down the narrow ditch called the ICW. It’s raining. I am perched on the edge of my seat, arms outstretched to the wheel, one eye closed against the onslaught. I am as prepared as I can be in a hooded raincoat with it’s drawstring squeezing my face at the edges to prevent neck drain. I will not be on the cover of any sailing magazines today. I am fully aware of the pooling puddle at my waist and trickling down my legs. It’s cold. I repeat my silent mantra – “we are out of the boatyard, we are off the dock, we are moving south.”

It’s not working wonders but it gets me through a few days of this, when many bascule bridges later, we arrive in West Palm Beach! And in the nick of time for Christmas.

And it’s a wonderful celebration. We’ve cooked up our boat-y contributions for the occasion and we stand on the street corner dressed as the Santa Twins and their eager groupies. We get accosted by the public, “Are you guys a singing group?!”

Finally our host arrives and drives us inland, far from the waterfront and it’s lights and palms, to the land of acreages and today, deep fried turkey! Oh, and homemade biltong. This is the home of a South African. 

The day goes off without a hitch and is even followed by an uneventful day of walking off our indulgences and then repeating the feasting on leftovers. Pretty typical Christmas season stuff.

But then, as is the way of our nomadic lives, it was time to move on. Woke up with that typical mixture of excitement and trepidation. But first, off to the fuel dock for a quick top up of diesel and water.

All went well, except the classist world raised its privileged head and chucked us to the back of the queue when we were ready to leave. A megayacht had thrusted his way over to the dock to grab a quick 1300 gallons… And the meticulously dressed crew girls flitted around with fenders bigger than themselves, like obscene fat blow up dolls… We lost our dock helper in an instant. He was enamoured. Or anticipating his tip. What would the tip be on $4000 worth of diesel?

I had the nerve to be affronted. We managed to entice the guy back with our meager $10 tip to throw us our lines. It was going to be a tricky exit, with wind and currents pushing the boat onto the dock and that looming white nautical apartment building that had pulled up directly in front of us.

I took the helm and confidently told the guy our exit plan, “I’m going to back up straight then turn completely starboard, reverse on the starboard engine and forward on port.”

“That’s exactly what I’d do” he says and proceeds to loosen our lines. JW is ready to grab the lines and fend us off.

And then we entered the Twilight Zone. Just like that 70’s TV show where the world you know is suddenly in black and white and nothing is as it should be.

No matter what I did the boat wouldn’t respond. The boat slid backward against the dock, dangerously close to the corner where metal beams held it all together and threatened to tear us all apart. I looked away and focused on my job. Get us out of here. I tried all my maneuvers but Shiloh turned the opposite way. The wind pinned us to the corner of the dock and while JW and the lowly tipped dude pushed with all their might, Shiloh crunched into the corner. The guys made groaning noises. Poor Shiloh! Not to mention my ego! There was damage to the hull but there was literally no time to stress about that.

Alas, the boat fell away from immediate danger and the dock dude walked away without another glance. His mega called. 

Ok, we will deal with what went wrong later; let’s just get this boat out into the channel. More water around us please, less dock. But it wouldn’t move. It was floating backward. Channel markers, mega million dollar boats, other docks. No! I gave it all I could and she wanted to do donuts. Finally I put her in reverse and we spun our way in circles out. What a spectacle.

Meantime we’d been calling Alleycat, waiting patiently for us at anchor. “Alan, the boat isn’t doing anything it’s supposed to!” “We crunched the dock!”… He launched his dinghy, threw on his superhero cape and buzzed on over to us, flailing there in the middle of Palm Beach Intracoastal waters. Mega yachts to the left, palm trees to the right…

By the time he reached us, we had realised the problem lied with the starboard engine. It had zero power. We hobbled back to our anchor spot on the one engine and clumsily dropped anchor to investigate.

“It’s the clutch cone. Or the propeller is gone!” The second suggestion was absurd, so the boys quickly tore apart our bed to get access to the engine and check the clutch cone.

Alan emerged with a plan. First we'll move the engine forward, then drain all the oil from the gear box, open the gear box from the top, loosen the nuts under it that hold the clutch cone in place and pull the cone out. The hemispherical gears will have to come out as well.  It sounded like a multi-day, grunting, dirty, greasy frustrating job. We all sighed.

“But we should check the propeller first!”

And just then, a huge manatee flopped his massive self over with a bubbly breath. We exchanged glances as he disappeared under the opaque surface.

“Alan let’s hope he’s not feeling amorous!”

So we tied Al on to the boat against the raging current, equipped him in unmatching flippers and a snorkel set and he jumped into the cold grimy water.

He emerged a minute later, tearing off his mask,

“There’s no propeller! It’s just gone! The whole prop has slipped off the drive shaft. Nothing!”

I was exonerated. Inside, my ego and I did a quick little dance. It wasn’t me! I had been doing everything right but I had no power…. I wanted to rush back to the fuel dock to explain everything to dock dude. “I’m not an idiot. No, really!” But alas, that thought passed and it was time to focus on the problem at hand.

We had lost a $1500 specialized three bladed composite Kiwi prop! Luckily we had our old propellers on the boat, in a bucket. For an occasion like this? Who would have imagined.

Al convinced us this would be an easy install, despite the ripping currents, lurking manatees and zero visibility.

He went back to Alleycat for a rest while we waited for slack tide.

We put our cabin back together and sighed. The bridge we were to be heading through at 10am opened and closed, opened and closed on the hour and half hour. And we were not going through it. Plans on hold. Fingers crossed…

And then he was back with a plan. It involved a weight belt and ropes to hold him, the prop, the cone. There were tools and prayers and then it was time. Al was under the boat, popping up from time to time (to breathe) and asking for the scapula, the spanner… we eagerly played nurse.

There was pacing and nail biting. What if the prop dropped? It would be gone. What if the smaller pieces fell?!

Until Al was resting, exhausted at the sugar scoop. “It’s on! It’s tightened! Yeehaw!”

Time for another little victory dance, but now it was a gratitude dance. That involves a warm towel and glass of juice for the superhero.

He checked the other prop and gave it a little tightening for good measure and then we tested her out. Engine on, thrust, propelled forward!!!! Yippee! Reverse, same. Yeehaw!

But by now it was 5pm and the daylight was nearly gone and our plan had slipped by a day – hours of disaster followed by triumph. Our friend/savior/hero made his weary way home to Alleycat.

Time for a sigh of relief, a lesson or two learned, a glass of wine and some serious chilling.

Tomorrow we will begin again with the same enthusiasm and trust in the loose plan, the boat that carries us, and the amazing friends we have!

Glorious silence, neon toys and canned food - The Exuma reality

I’m squinting at the tiny mangrove roots, marveling that they push up through the mushy white sand. Sun bakes my dry corn-husk hair and exposed limbs. The tide is rapidly flowing out through rivers to the sea, leaving our dinghy exposed on the ever growing beach. We are like castaways. Salt caked and leather brown. Our small bottle of water is empty. 

JW and I sit in silence in the sand on this uninhabited island in the Exumas. Tiny resilient seeds and crispy dry leaves whisper as they tumble along the sand, at home in this harsh environment. The only other sounds are far off airplanes and distant speed boats. They try to encroach, to remind us that this reality is small and confined. But it’s ours. And it is wild and it’s free.

It could be a Saturday or a Tuesday. Shiloh is anchored out in the unprotected bay, a huge ocean swell slapping her from side to side. We’ve escaped to the shore for some peace from the incessant rolling. 

We’ve been in the Exumas for 6 weeks. We left the last town two weeks ago. The last ‘proper’ grocery store about 4 weeks ago. We’ve run out of beers and cokes and snacks. Same with eggs and bread. Haven’t seen a fresh vegetable in a while. We are in the land of the scarce.

The Bahamas Telecom network forgot about the northern Exumas as well. But we’ve managed to devise a makeshift system for getting an Internet signal once every few days. Our iphone is double wrapped in ziplock bags, then tied to a keychain float and hoisted up the mast. If we are lucky it finds weak reception and we scramble to answer emails, check in on facebook. Say hello to the real world. And then we sink back into the salty, sun soaked world of islands we love so much.

This is the land of shifting sand that creates works of art daily. Swirls of electric turquoise, emerald green, soft teal, creamy beige. And if you can hike to any vantage point above, the rewards are awe and amazement and a humbling so profound. It floors me daily. This is natural beauty unmatched. White tropic birds with their long ribbon tails swirl above, turning blue over the water with the reflection of the sea, and back to white over land. 

Each island offers something unique – hikes to ancient ruins, bubbling pools to play in between the ocean and rocks.

Earlier today we took kayaks and the SUP and paddled a dense and still mangrove river out to the ocean on an outgoing tide.  

Some days the silence is broken – pierced by the wild whirling jet skis of the mega yacht crowd. From any shoreline you might see, anchored out in the deeper waters, a colossal white or silver multi-million dollar, crew-run floating funhouse for the rich. In this place where nature is king and money is useless, it is a jarring sight. And the huge tenders with their massive outboard engines cut through the waters with disregard, shuttling the privileged owners and guests to-and-fro. Some take over a beach with elaborate umbrella systems, blankets, baskets, neon pink and green beach toys that bob around at the water’s edge, claiming their territory. 

Today it is a convoy of power boats, here to break the silence. Down from Nassau for the weekend; kids, beers, bright toys. The breathtaking beach at the end of the mangrove river is overtaken by bikinis and bellies and exuberant chatter. The decibel level is too high for us. We haven’t been in a crowd forever it seems.

They are friendly enough, one guy in a Blue Jays baseball cap sipping a Labatt Blue he’s brought all the way from Canada. “It’s snowing back home!” he tells me, as his little pink two year old, clad in full body sun-shade armour and a wide brimmed hat that covers his whole face, plays happily in the sand. I can barely hear him. My mind does not compute. Snow? Holiday makers with Canadian beer? It seems absurd. I thought we were castaways in our own little world. I think I wished it so.

But this world, free and wild as it is, must be shared. It must come to an end even for us. One day soon our canned goods will run out too. We will need to make a bank transfer or talk on a phone. My backpack/purse will have to be transformed from a sandy vessel for water, sea shells and sun block, to wallets and cell phones. The real world will call to us and we will have to answer.

But for now intense sun. Salt. Sand. Silence.

The Devil made me do it - surviving paradise

All the bravado of the day before has vanished along with the weather prediction of calm seas, low winds and clear skies.

We are about to navigate The Devil’s Backbone – an aptly named 8 mile route along the northern coast of Eleuthera. 

Eleuthera, the island that got it’s name from the 70 Eleutherian puritans, first from England and then Bermuda, who crashed into this set of reefs in 1609 and colonized the little island, living in a huge cave for years along the Devil’s Backbone, where they lost the ship and all supplies.

We had met this community 400 years later, the same 5 families whose names can be traced back directly, on the tiny island of Spanish Wells. 2 miles long. Populated now by 1500 people, mostly white even here in the middle of the Bahamas. Mostly church going folk whose accent can apparently also be traced back to their forefathers. We were intrigued by this little place where the all ages school loses it’s male pupils at the age of 14 when they join the tradition of lobster fishermen, making between $80,000 and $350,000 annually. 

We marveled at how the pristine beachfront is unoccupied. No beach bars, no hotels, no holiday making at all. This community are ‘god-fearing’ and simple. But they have money. Lots of it. The largest exporter of seafood in the Bahamas. And it is quaint. The Pinders own everything. And Bandit will rent you a mooring ball. But we’d been there for days now. Time for a change.

We want to visit the exclusive Harbour Island – land of the rich and famous. The island where mega yachts are routinely brought through by hired local captains like Bandit with lifetime’s worth of knowledge about the coral obstacle course along this treacherous path.

“I hope you’ve got a pilot to lead you through!” we heard from many well meaning friends and boaters as we sipped well poured rum-n’-cokes at Happy Hour (at the Shipdeck – the island’s only true bar) the night before. Ha! Us? No problem, we can do this.

Turns out the bravery was somewhat rum induced and even more misdirected.

When we woke the next morning, the sky was riddled with clouds. Hmmm. That means low visibility. Or rather it means you can’t see the coral heads under water that could shred the bottom of your boat to pieces.

Then we decided to carry on with the plan anyway. And tried to lift the anchor. It’s something we’ve done probably 1000 times. But not today. It wasn’t budging. Something was stuck on it. Holding it down. It was a sign. But we ignored that too and spent the better part of 30 minutes fighting with the engines and dragging Shiloh around in circles as the chain groaned and fought back, making us lurch forward and threatening to tug the windlass right out of the boat. And then suddenly we had won this particular battle, and the chain came up, and we were off.

With all our electronics charged up and ready, we headed out of the safety of the bay and out around the corner. Within minutes we realised that our two chart plotters (the non verbal GPS mainstays of modern boating navigation) did not agree. One of them would have us sailing along a carefully mapped out line through the dangers, while the other showed that if we followed that path, we’d be on top of the coral heads.

Which to trust? Can’t see anything in the water. And then the small non-threatening clouds gathered together and halfway along became a freak storm. The skies along the coast were deep fuzzy grey. The ocean responded as she does, waves rising to meet the shore. And there we were in the middle of this ominous dance, but a fly in the soup, about to be swatted away.

We were a few feet away from the waves that broke with thundering vigour, onto the rocks and what lie ahead was a stretch of this devilish spine that would have us only feet from the actual shore. With possibly inaccurate charts to guide us. And a storm overhead.

And so, halfway up the spine we made the most last minute, boat jerking decision to veer away, through a clear patch outward, to the ocean.

And there we were, two catamarans escaping the Devil, motoring against the coming waves, our buddy boat doing a disappearing act between the massive swells.

And we stayed like this, enduring the extra 10 miles or two hours of ocean sailing that would take us out and around Harbour Island.

Alley Cat fought and caught a huge fish. A strange grey creature that was subdued while the boats undulated along. At least we would have fish for supper!

We would just come through the inlet below the island. Fillet the fish there. Go for Happy Hour somewhere… No problem.

Only what happens after a storm? The surge through a narrow inlet is agitated. It wants more. It throws white foamy waves through the break in the rocks. And we chose then to approach.

I could see it, just a mile away through the violent waves at the mouth, it was calm turquoise shallow water. It beckoned. So tranquil in there!

But the reality as we approached was that as each mounting wave grabbed us, Shiloh was lifted at the back, high! – we slid down the wave at 10 knots and fell into the lull between. And again! Meanwhile on both sides of us the waves crashed onto rocks, threatening to smash them to pieces. 

But the rocks survived, and as we came down our 10^th surfing wave we found we’d also survived. Dumped into a big flat basin of blue. Clear clear water and sunshine everywhere. The storm? Gone. No trace.

We motored in awe to an approved anchorage and Alley filleted his fish. Two hours later we were on a dock.

“What a day!” we said.

“Well at least we’ve got a fresh gorgeous fish fillet for supper!” we said.

And then we asked the fishermen and the locals.

Turns out the mysterious fish was an Amberjack. At worst it is poisonous. Best case scenario they carry worms and the dreaded disease Ciguatera. Hmmm.

So, fillets overboard then.

By that time we needed a drink. And so apparently did the couples who are chartering Moonraker, a 165 ft mega yacht for $217,000 a week. We nodded across the tables in a friendly display of ‘cheers!’.

As we choked on the food prices on the menu, in this town of the rich and richer, we decided to share a basket of sweet potatoes. Maybe they had caviar.

When we realised that each of our rum drinks cost more than a whole bottle of Bahamian rum we concluded that one pays for hobnobbing…

We went home with no fish to eat. But we’d survived another day in paradise.