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.

Bahamas, USA: I choose adventure

People ask ‘Don’t you get bored’?

People gasp when we say we’ve been in the Bahamas for 6 months.

They scratch their heads and roll their eyes and say things like ‘Really?!’

Last night padding along yet another long white sand beach, we plotted and schemed – could we stay the whole season? – why not head further south in the Bahamas and enjoy a few more months? – what would we do in a hurricane? 

Weather plays a huge role in our lives and the storms of late have certainly kept us on our toes. Lightning, thunder and predictions of tropical storm development all around us.

In the end we resigned ourselves: we will go. America beckons. We will lift our anchor midday and set off across a little section of the Atlantic ocean and leave this expanse of paradise behind us.

By this weekend we’ll have replaced the dodging of jellyfish in the water, with dodging traffic - grocery bags in hand.

We will have the tangible memory of turquoise in our minds as the boats float in a broth of brown and grey…

A sea of turquoise off Little Sale Cay

No more searching tiny towns for the one onion and the last bottle of fresh milk in the fridge. Shopping will no longer be an adventure. Choice will overwhelm and bury us…

Organization and street lights; order and civilization, will take the place of stars in a vast sky, beaches and rocks and the distant sound of soca beating.

It’s a difficult trade off for people who’ve decided to make the sea their home. It’s like deliberately moving from a holiday resort to a concrete jungle.

It’s like choosing the mall over the beach.

But we’ve got landy pleasures planned. We’ll surely munch beignettes on Bourbon Street in New Orleans and comb the streets of tiny towns in Alabama. We’ll feel the breeze in our hair as we fly down a highway in the USA. It will be a rush.

Sure, we’ll have boat repairs and laundry and more lightning storms to endure as well.

But will we ‘get bored’??

I don’t think so.

Seven Days at Sea

In households around the western world, eggs were painted in pastels and hidden, cheap chocolate animals in foil were unwrapped and stuffed into the mouths of babes, and the great bunny’s name was evoked. In churches globally, the sermons were doled out, same as last year and the year before…  the institution of Easter was being observed.

Yet we missed it. We were on this planet in an entirely different realm for the past week. Land and society and all it’s rules and celebrations, comforts and conveniences were a distant memory. Left on a shore as we pulled out of the bay for our longest ocean passage to date.

Day 1: Between the squalls that pile up in the sky in so many shades of black and grey and cobalt, there are the other colours. We are between sky and ocean, and the colours are everything. Periwinkle, robin’s egg blue, muted royal blue, true turquoise, ice mint, and indigo sea below. Sunset splashes the sky with peach and fuschia and finally a rich purple before dipping us all into complete darkness.

Day 2: I’ve watched the sunrise on an indigo abyss. Our crew is getting into the groove of a moving home, sleeping, sitting watch, sleeping, sitting watch… our huge rainbow spinnaker is all puffed up, proudly pulling us along. It’s midday and we’re all awake and taking it in. The ocean lies around us, undulating and powerful, and then it happened. Three sets of eyes behold the beauty of a whale, breaching. Her massive body completely airborne. A mammoth ballet. It was a secret viewing, one of nature’s gifts. My heart sang. Sailing is amazing and this is why. 

Day 4: I’m bracing myself aboard, the thrashing seas lifting and dropping Shiloh, though her chain and anchor somehow manage to keep us in one place, against the 30 knot gale that has blown incessantly since we arrived at the first sight of land, this tiny desolate mound of rock and sand, two days ago. I pick at the crusty weeping salt scars that cover the boat and squint over at the little island, so close yet so far away. My legs long to walk, to stretch, to feel that warm sand but we cannot get into the dinghy in the waves, and ashore the surf is building and crashing violently. No chance. Haven’t been able to cook in days, each step aboard is an exercise in balance and strategic grabbing of walls and surfaces… yet still, I am bruised. It’s been rough. It’s still rough. We settle down to watch a movie as the ferocious elements bash us from all angles…

Day 5: Trudging through deep soft sand, my legs ache and burn and it’s a sweet pain. Awoke in the morning to a glass surface. Mother nature’s anger is gone and in it’s place a breathtaking beauty and an invitation to the beach.

Our flotilla, like insects in a jar in the grubby hands of a curious child, we’d been plucked up and tossed around for days, falling about each other in a tiny container, and then we were dumped out on land. We scattered. Running, kicking, exploring our new surroundings and spreading out. Bliss.

We walked most of the island that day. Dodging little cacti, picking up shells, kicking up the sad signs of civilization – plastic bottles and single shoes, washed ashore, leaving their stories with far off people. We climbed the hill and listened to the fish eagle’s sermon atop his broken lighthouse perch. 

Day 7: We are in a 65 mile wide shallow swimming pool. It is flat and as clear as the air, with a turquoise hue. We sailed the deep channel across to tiny Fish Cay at the edge of the main Caicos bank of the Turks & Caicos. After one night we decided to set off into the middle of the shallows and drop anchor. The closest land is at least 20 miles away but the water below us, no deeper than the deep end of a suburban pool. It glistens and shines under the sun. And we are awoken by dolphins. This is as close as our world can get to perfection. Beauty. The smile becomes internal. You glow. You haven’t seen other people or a building or a wifi signal for a week. And it doesn’t matter. It is nothing. 

And we begin the last leg of this passage – we head toward relative civilization, toward immigration formalities and stores and restaurants and bars and other people. To the Internet. But not before we soak in these last few hours on the bow of the boat. Legs swinging over the edge, sun on our shoulders, Shiloh’s hulls cutting through the serenity. Orange starfish dotting the vast sandy bottom, sting ray, nurse shark, all greeting us on this surreal trip.

With extreme caution we use the age old method of eyeball navigation through the coral bommies and patches of reef, and make our way into Southside Marina anchorage. Our depth metre reads zero and we are practically aground it’s so shallow. But now we must turn to earthly concerns. This part of the journey is over.

On shore, the immigration and customs officers are called and the flotilla crews are buried in ipads and laptops. We complete check-in around a picnic table in the gazebo and bid farewell to the officers, who’ve recommended tomorrow’s fish fry and a visit to Boogaloo’s while we’re here. In the evening there is a cruiser potluck and so it begins - the overly friendly interaction characteristic of sailors who know the other side, the world out there with no one else. No passports or paperwork, no crowded malls or Google references. A world of wind and waves, a world without Easter.

No zzz's at sea

I roll the name over and over on my tongue until it sounds absurd,

“Guadeloupe, Guadeloupe, Guadeloupe”

as the dark knobbly form of the island blurs in the distance.  Smoke billows from the volcanic peak of the grey, dusty remains of Monserrat off to our left. In the distance ahead, the promise of new adventures in Antigua. In between, just hours of blue ocean.

Today was supposed to be a short sail, just ‘around the corner’ from Deshaies where we’ve been ‘stranded’ for more days than planned, due to high winds and huge swells. But as sailors plans are apt to change with the wind, we discovered an hour out, that conditions were not going to allow us to safely enter the shallow channel, peppered with pesky coral heads. The waves were just too big still, so an instant decision was made, to soldier on to Antigua. A 2 hour journey just became a 9 hour journey.

After sails were set and the swell and wind settled a bit, there wasn’t much to do, and both the captain and I, after a night of little sleep, decided to take turns ‘napping’ en route.

I retired first. Headed down to our bed, and cozied into the undulating berth. But it raised and fell, there were squeaks and creaks and groans and bangs. The normal sounds of sailing. Only as I tried to free up my brain and relax into at least a semblance of sleep, my nerves and overactive imagination got the better of me. I lay there, imagining all the worst scenarios.

‘What if my captain gets knocked overboard and I come up later to a ghost boat?’

‘What was THAT noise? Not normal! Did something snap, crack?’

and on and on and on… and sleep eluded me completely. I made my way back up the galley steps looking defeated. Everything was of course fine. JW jumped at the opportunity to take his turn.

The captain in a hazy blue slumber en route...

 And there I found myself, wave watching, counting the peaks on the surrounding islands, singing aloud to my tunes, recalling names over and over in my head til they sounded silly. The wind was low, the waves moderate. No emergencies, perfect conditions for a nap.

My lack of ‘long passage’ experience will now become evident if it hasn’t before. I have just never been able to sleep while sailing. I wonder what will happen to me on a journey longer than 24 hours, when our night watches are doled out in 4 hour intervals and I lie there overthinking, anticipating when my time will be up and just how tired I’ll be and on and on…

Cruising friends say they love the long passages, weeks at a time at sea. They say you develop a routine, make meals, take turns on watches. Still can’t quite get my green little mind around it. Firstly, unless the sea is VERY smooth, you have to hold on just to walk from one area of the boat to the other. Cooking?! I suppose you get hungry enough and sick of quick snacks scoffed down while holding a railing or table edge with one hand… After all, there is a gimbled stove/oven (that swivels and compensates for the motion of the sea) on board for a reason!

But it’s the sleeping that worries me most. I’m liable to be a zombie a few days in.

I haven’t even begun to ask myself whether I’d go stir crazy out at sea for days and weeks.

My first two or three ‘dayer’ is coming up in a month or so. I’m looking forward to the new experience. Maybe before then I’ll learn a meditation technique or get used to chamomile tea or warm milk… whatever works.

We’ve arrived in Antigua! Yawn…