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-see-ums’ – the Bane of the Beach Braai (barbeque)

Caribbean beaches, pristine white sand framed by regal swaying palms and shallow turquoise waters, welcome sailors daily, and provide the backdrop for engine repair and general boat maintenance.

On many occasions though, boat work abandoned, spanners and hammers and grimy rags tossed aside, cruisers are enticed to drop their dinghies and head toward that beckoning shore. Promises of warm sand through the toes and wading in the tepid blue waters make the prospect irresistible. But there is an enemy lurking. A vicious and relentless monster – but you won’t see ‘um!

Our little flotilla of sailboats, mostly South African cruisers arrived in Tank Bay, Vieques the other day, after quite a bashing sail in high seas from mainland Puerto Rico. One of the boats is waiting on a boat part to be delivered (surprise surprise!) so we have a week to bide time – so why not visit all of Vieques’ beaches?!

After we’d settled and had a swim it was decided – we’d have a beach braai! Everyone busied themselves thawing sausages and chops, packing a lovely little picnic and putting the rum and cokes on ice.

The men, chests puffed up in anticipation of the age old testosterone building ritual of fire making. They rushed to the beach, secured the dinghies and went about searching for suitable firewood, and a protected spot for the fire pit, out of the wind.

One by one all the dinghies were on the beach and the evening was looking promising. What could be better than hanging with good friends on a post card pretty beach, cocktail in hand, meat on the fire.

But then, as quickly as if they’d known, there was the total onslaught. A take over to rival any rebel army. It was the 'no-see-ums' , affectionately known by scientists as ceratopogonidae.

We all began to jump and scratch and yelp uncontrollably. It was a spectacle of limbs flailing, rum splashing, cocktails tossed aside for the protection of ‘Off’. Cans were sprayed wildly as the people bounced around, but it was no use, the little invisible vermin were immune to chemical sprays and slaps and pleadings to cease. They ignored swearing and were not remotely bothered by smoke as we formed a tight cluster there, hoping it would flush them away. Instead, there we were a huddled mass of miserable bitten sods, eyes watering from chemical sprays and smoke fumes, still smacking and slapping ourselves silly.

Getting settled - already one friend is covering her head from incessant bites

And another on the right is shaking out her hair

The last photo taken - itching in full effect - Off bottle empty. Soon, mass exodus!

A rumour began, that they would all go away and this hell would end, as soon as the sun went down. So we braved on, we tried to withstand the attack in hopes of an end in sight. It was a miracle we lasted over an hour in the midst of the invisible war. The beach terrorists showed no mercy though. The sun dropped as it does, beyond the edge of the world but we were still under attack. The troops suddenly cracked. We could stand it no longer. Once the meat was cooked, it was thrown onto paper plates, stuffed into sandy bags, and the crowds made a mad dash for the water and for the safety of our respective boats.

We arrived back out of breath, as if we’d outrun a frightful enemy. I sat on the sugar scoop (back step) of Shiloh, still rubbing my scalp where they’d managed to burrow and bite, causing a lingering itch and eventually I poured myself over the side into the cool and welcoming water.

For some reason, these tiny no-see-ums are limited to one area of attack. They can’t get to us over the couple hundred meters of sea across the bay. It is the one stroke of luck we have. One thing the terrorists cannot penetrate.

I sighed a huge sigh of relief as I climbed out of the water and peered over at the moonlit beach. So, this is why we have ‘sun downers’ on our boats in these beautiful bays. It’s what preserves our image of such wonderful places. If we had to spend even one more evening on a beach, I think we’d all give up sailing completely.

The moments we never forget

Woke up this morning warmed by the sun and lulled by the waves below us. Wasn't in any hurry to wake. But the morning morphed along into eggs and beans and cleaning and then the computer called to me. I opened my old blog and felt the pull. It was that happy melancholy of motherhood. The empty nest. Missing my boy. And I read this old blog post. And shed a few bitter sweet tears.

Had to share:

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Moments like this

Blurry, the park across the street melts in my view and slips down in huge heavy tears onto my t-shirt. Five minutes before, I was posing for photos, thumbs up, with my boy. Our last breakfast at a cheesy local diner, I sipped a giant diet Coke and looked around at what would be his new neighborhood. I was bursting with joy and pride. I poked and tickled him and felt the vicariousness of his new exciting life.



Soft, now my knees like marshmallows, the sidewalk so hard below me, I know I will drop, crashing like the 23 story building looming behind me. I sway in the earthquake of emotion.

Strong, the bond as he holds me, his mom, towering over my weakness. Child becomes parent, small becomes big, life shifts irrevocably. I give in to the abyss of sadness that bubbles up. I’m really losing my baby.

Common, this rituals plays itself out in dorm rooms and concrete school hallways across the continent today. But mine is different, I convince myself, mine is special, mine is my whole life that has led up to this moment! No one can possibly understand. No mother has felt this crushing pride of loss.

Buried, deep in the smell of his cotton t-shirt, I cannot face the world or the truth. I have grown up with this man, this boy, this child of mine.

Floating above myself now, I see us in the airport in Ghana, 1998. My little guy and I, after a year of volunteering, are headed home to Canada for Christmas. He is 6 years old. We are so excited and anxious to get home to the family, it’s palpable. Only, as we stand at the immigration desk, there is hesitation and the officer is upset. Something is wrong. He calls a superior and ushers us aside. My boy looks up at me with those huge innocent eyes. He whispers,

“Mom? What’s wrong?”

I shrug and squeeze his hand as they lead us into a small windowless room. We have apparently overstayed our visa and there is a massive fine to pay. We are in trouble. I don’t have the money, I am at a loss as to how this happened, as our passports are held with the NGO I am working for. We are not going to make our plane. As the minutes tick by and we sit alone and silent in the pitiful room, my heart sinks. Tears stream down my face. My boy jumps up from the chair and leaps forward. He touches my cheeks gently, wiping my tears

“Mom, don’t cry. Everything is going to be ok. It will work out. We’ll be ok. Ok?”

And it was. I squeezed him so close. My heart nearly burst.
Something was arranged and we made our plane, running, hand in hand down the runway, out of breath, we boarded the plane. Everyone was annoyed at the delay. We looked at each other with a knowing… it is the bond. We’d been through another of life’s experiences together.

Spinning, I’m jolted back to now - the world around us circles, and the moment threatens to pass. Time taps my shoulder, we will have to leave. My tears will have to be dammed.

He pulls away,

“C’mon Mom, you’re gonna make me cry.”

Which only make my tears come harder. And I’ve done it. He breaks. His strong face, cracks and our bond is exposed. Emotion all over his face. It’s sealed forever.



Our song plays in my head, the guitar he strums to me in the kitchen on Saturday afternoons back home, Bon Iver:

“I am my mother's only one,

It's enough…

I wear my garment so it shows.

Now you know.

Only love is all maroon,

Gluey feathers on a flume

Sky is womb and she's the moon.

I am my mother on the wall, with us all

I move in water, shore to shore;

Nothing's more.

Only love is all maroon

Gluey feathers on a flume

Sky is womb and she's the moon…

Gazing, incredulous, from behind he grows smaller as he skips away into the huge building that eats him up. The car carries me limp, further and further way. In the distance, the song still serenades me. My boy has grown up and the world has him now.

I like sailing.

The moon above me is playing hide and seek with the opaque clouds. When it appears, the shadows like a sun in a grey planet glisten on the deck.  I’ve got my harness on, tethered securely to a metal cleat, watching it rock back and forth as the wind and waves lift Shiloh and I over and over. It’s 3am and I’m on watch. Below, JW and Dev snore softly in a sea lulled coma.

The music serenades me. I sing along. Joy and sleepiness hold me firmly on the helm seat as my eyes scan robotically – from the wind instruments to the sails to the horizon and back. I’m alone in a way that makes me tingle. I believe it’s freedom or the illusion of it, tinged with fear and quite possibly some sea sickness. But I like it. I’m buzzing. My feet swing below me, my arms grasp the back of the chair. I feel the gusts lunging at the boat, pulling and tugging and moving us swiftly forward. Shiloh and I are sailing and it’s bliss.

___________________

We’ve been doing a lot of sailing lately. That’s good I suppose, after all we live on a sail boat!

In the past 3 weeks, we’ve bounced from Grenada to the Grenadines, past St Vincent and St Lucia, past Martinique and Dominica… We stopped at Guadeloupe and then popped in to Antigua. And now we sit in fancy cafés, downloading apps and catching up on the highly developed dual nationality island of St Maarten.

It’s a bit of a whirlwind, a blur if you will. I’ll be remembering an event or a hike or a restaurant and realise I have no idea which country we were in at the time.

This is how I like life. On the move. The move is what it’s all about. I’m learning more about sailing now, despite the fact that we have a junior captain on board. JW and son have been organising each sail, lifting anchor as a team, plotting the course, hoisting the mainsail and the jib and adjusting constantly. I just do my watches with pleasure and calm. When the swells are slight I make sandwiches for the crew. Just a few bruises on the hips from being jostled around in the galley. It’s all good.

I love the interludes. I love coffee in a café, happy hour at the yacht club, snorkeling with sting rays. But I have come to realise I like the sailing – and not just as a means to an end. I’m looking forward to the next passages as much as the next destinations.

Captain obvious might say “Well I hope so!”

But let me take a step back. Back to my christening on Shiloh. It was my first time ever on a boat of any description. I mean I’d never been on a hobie cat or even a boogie board. Nothing. Nada. No sailing courses, safety courses, lessons of any description. And my captain, though a natural, is NOT a teacher by nature...

The more cruisers I meet, the more I realise they have a lot in common. They’ve been sailing or around boats for a long time. Since childhood in many cases. They know they love life at sea. The knew when they bought a boat and sold everything and jumped aboard, what they were ‘in for’ more or less.

And then there’s me. At first everything terrified me. I had no benchmark, no yard stick for what was safe, what was dangerous. And the sea was just so big, so ominous. I remember in the first few months, sitting in the anchorage at Hog Island, Grenada, watching boats heading off for Trinidad and thinking how brave they were. A 12 to 18 hour sail lay ahead of them and I just couldn’t imagine doing it.

Now we’ve done many of those and many longer passages and all I can think is how I’d like a longer one. A chance to get out there and watch land disappear. Watch the sun set over charcoal foam lined waves.

On the omnipotent universe and other deep thoughts

It’s been ages since I’ve written – hell, it’s a new year even! I’ve always found writing cathartic but then I procrastinate. I’m sure there’s some psychological significance there, but then who has time to analyse when the wind is blowing 38 knots and our anchor needs all the support it can get.

Spent the night cringing at the gusts that pushed and shoved Shiloh back with such strength and bravado, and left our stomachs a few feet back. Amusement park ride all night. I was not amused.

Shiloh in the bay - taken by John Aldworth

We’re heading north. Very. Slowly.

The original plan, concocted over rums at various beaches and bars near the end of 2013, was to get to the Virgin Islands by Christmas. Then it was pushed to after new year. Now it looks like February. But alas, we’re in no rush. The only deadline is reaching Bahamas in enough time to enjoy it for long enough, before needing to head further north for the hurricane season.

In the meantime, parties, hikes, island hop sailing...

On the windward side of Carriacou - pic by John Aldworth

And so, it’s a new year and a lot more of the same and yet every day is so new.

We got out of Trinidad alive. The bimini is complete and it catches a helluva lot of rain. I’m so excited! When the skies open I sit watching and running out to feel how full the jerry cans are getting… small wonders. And rain water as drinking water is blissful. It just is.

Was it worth the extra thousands and months in a grimy boatyard? Um, since it’s already fading into memory, I’d say yes. We love it. And my boat is feeling so homey lately. It’s got my imprint. It’s comfy.

Comfort is up there on the imaginary list of important things. But it’s all relative what we define as comfort.

Some need hair dryers, washing machines and microwaves onboard. Some of us find that warm water for showering is pretty important.

We met a family of cruisers on a big wooden cat in Carriacou who have redefined it all. They've just crossed the ocean on this huge unprotected catamaran - 8 people who used only 200 litres of fresh water total for the crossing...

Dreadlocked, tanned and tattoed, lithe and sinewy, sailing around the bay without a dinghy motor. They reject all the ideals and modern amentities of society. To those in my parents generation, they’d be dismissed as hippies in a heartbeat.

‘Everyone who works is a slave.’

‘The universe provides.’

Eat only fruits and vegetables. Never eat an animal. Wheat is evil, and as addictive as heroin.

Bathe in salt water.

Simple.

My skeptical captain had a field day with questions. Turns out that even the most simple, freedom embracing philosophies can be dissected and broken down, leaving some gaping holes and glaring hypocrisies.

Though their children are following the French curriculum by correspondence, the parents don’t believe in helping with school work or forcing any schedule for learning. It’s all up to the kids. Hmmm.

And they require Internet access to complete assignments and exams. But the use of internet surely falls within the ‘society of slaves’ and necessitates a dependence on modern technology that they despise and eschew.

So, though it turns out their 63’ Wharram catamaran cost over 200,000 Euro – and the money came from a house they sold, and the fact they must pay for the fruits and veggies and immigration fees at each island they visit, they do not believe in money. It’s all in the way you view the world and where your faith lies.

Something to think about. We would never have embarked on this lifestyle if we believed in a conformist reality where we needed jobs, a mortgage, car payments, and most of all the ‘false’ security of a retirement fund.

I think all cruisers fall somewhere outside ‘the box’, along the scale of trusting in something outside the norm. Our new friends on the wooden cat just took this concept a whole lot further.

The universe does provide. Help at a critical moment. An old friend in an unexpected place. Challenges that help you learn. What you need, even if it’s not what you want.

But we do still need money. I guess it’s more about how you view that, and what you’re willing to risk. If we need to work, then we will. If not, we will keep sailing. Simple.

In a sense we look to the universe with a blind faith that things will work out.

Every time we head out of a bay, the ocean beckoning with an unknown strength, both terrifying and enticing, we are trusting in the universe.

Renovations in and out

Today’s post was supposed to be about renovations, about befores and afters. About the realization of a plan. Work completed. The light at the end of the tunnel.

And it is. Or it was, at least it will be. But for now I’m thinking of a different kind of renovation. A reshuffle, cobweb cleaning of the mind. The kind that comes over you on the morning of a birthday. The culmination of all the years and days and minutes that have lead up to this very moment.

I sit in my rocking bed, noises of my captain, best friend and one true love upstairs in the galley, fumbling around trying to make me a cup of coffee. I am deep in thought. Feeling warm beyond the sweat of my brow, feeling lucky and blessed and so grateful for all the experiences my life has crossed path with. For the love and love lost, for my children, travels, jobs, struggles, joys… and he pops his head down into the passage, interrupting my thoughts with two bottles of instant coffee – “this one or this one? Sugar?”

I am grateful for the day to day of life. I vow at this moment to make a life renovation to appreciate it all. The salt water splash on my bum in the dinghy rides to shore, the constant rain storms that won’t allow our towels to dry on the line for days at a time. These are part of what is offered, along with the beautiful moments.

I will always notice the way JW’s eyes change colour by mood and lighting and his wardrobe. This morning the green has separated and there is a glowing yellow radiating from his pupils, giving way to a deep soulful grey. I love him. This morning I can see his soul. Like a child, like me. We are two naughty children, dared to run away with our back packs and not much more, opting for adventure and insecurity, and there are times we cling to each other with a fear so powerful it knocks us over. But we get back up and scamper around, learning how to sail, to live island to island, one mishap to another, broken boat part to the next, creak in the mast, leak in the hatch.

We have recently completed some long discussed changes to make this boat our home. It has taken a lot out of us, spiritually and financially. But it feels like progress.

It feels like a home that could take us places. Far away places, both spiritually and geographically. And as long as I have his warm strong hand in mine, I’m up for the challenge and the ride.

Below, some pics of the renos:

Making due - trying to make the purple velveteen cordouroy sofa look ok...

Life during renovations

Life during renos 2

When they cut out the wall of one of our heads

All the innards are gone, right down to the hull - OMG, it's so thin! There are holes!!!

The completed top cupboard! My new pantry and linen closet!

The completed bottom cupboard - to be used for tools and captain stuff

Finally collecting Shiloh from her unnatural home - heading back to the water!

En route through the boatyard - good riddance!

The renovated saloon - new chair, upholstery, table, and cut off nav seat (on the left - now a cupboard)

A view from further back - including new suede stools for foot rests, storage and seating!

And a view to the right....

And here's Shiloh - back in the water, new graphics proudly displayed, and a happy crew onboard

A little list of what to consider before buying your dream boat

Being ‘on the hard’ for boat works makes a person introspective when it comes to what’s important and what matters in a cruiser’s life.

Why are we going through these painful weeks of camping in an industrial yard with shared toilets and showers and enough dust to rival a north African desert?

Do we really need a washroom converted to cupboards or a hard top bimini to replace our old canvas one? At the risk of sounding like a cruising princess, I'd like to think, YES.

The simple answer is that there is no simple answer. We should have bought a boat with these things in mind. We should have waited until we knew more about what we would find important in a boat. We shoulda, we coulda, but then we might still be sitting behind desks, looking out the window and wishing we’d taken the plunge – literally.

Back in the day of boat research for us, we knew absolutely nothing about a life at sea. The captain took me aboard a few monohulls, from which I emerged utterly claustrophobic, suffocated by the dark wood walls and submarine feeling inside, and convinced, having never sailed on one, that they were not for me. So it was narrowed down pretty quick to catamarans. Captain looked at a lot of forums discussing the common problems with certain catamaran brands and it was narrowed down further. We eventually chose a charter boat, since we knew that we’d still have to work a few more years, and she would have to do some work herself in a charter fleet. Hence here we are with a Lagoon 410S2, 4 cabins, 4 heads (washrooms), making quite a few not-so-insignificant changes.

And here I am, ready to indulge in a list – in the hopes that future boat buyers will benefit from what we’ve learned in our humble corner of the floating world so far…

What to consider when choosing a boat to live in and on and love as a home:

1.     Storage space/cupboards – From the first time we stepped aboard the boat that became ours, I wondered where we would put things. We don’t have much of anything really, yet the storage still seemed an issue. This Lagoon has tons of empty cavities, but they are in the most inaccessible, un-user-friendly places. Both front cabins as well as the original crew bunks in the bow of the boat are 6ft deep holes. You either have to lift mattresses and huge wood planks, or climb down a small hatch on a treacherous ladder to get anything in or out. I’m sweating and I’ve got cuts on my shins just thinking about it.

2.     Beds – considering we spend half our lives lying in these, the level of comfort makes a big difference to feeling ‘at home’. This model Lagoon does NOT come with standard size mattress spaces, with cut corners and tapering sides, and so we CANNOT even think of buying a sprung mattress that all landlubbers take for granted. And so, it’s foam. There is foam and then there is foam. And we’ve tried all of them. And nothing compares to a bed with springs. Ah, what I’d give for a good old posturepedic… When we got to Trinidad I sought out a good foam factory and ordered the best. We were so excited. It had 5 inches of reformed industrial foam with a 3 inch layer of soft foam glued on top. I had it covered and delivered and voila! We now have an 8 inch high block of rock hard bedding. Sigh…

3.     Helm seat – if you are going to do any passages at all (which really, you must), then have a good feel for the helm seat’s comfort. Ours came without cushions either under or at the back. And having a shiny fibrelass finish means that any cushion you try to slip under you will just slide right on out. Also, this thing was obviously made for a man of about 6’ tall. My feet won’t reach the platform below, so the seat cuts off my circulation at the thigh and I basically cannot sit there for more than a few minutes at a time. So I have to sit night watches by standing or leaning, or popping up from the cockpit table below to look out by the helm and then back again, continuously. These things make a big difference to a peaceful passage.

The full extent of the galley

4.     Counter space – the galley in any boat smaller than 50ft is small to begin with, but the layout of our Lagoon is such that there is no more than a couple feet of counter space. When trying to cook – especially for more than 2 of us – it is highly frustrating to say the least. When you step aboard a potential boat to buy, imagine yourself in there, cooking up a dinner for you and some guests. Possible? If not, think hard. The cruising life involves a lot of time in anchorages and aboard. You need to feel that you are not camping, but in your home. Small doesn’t have to mean cramped.

5.     Galley/pantry layout, storage – this is sort of like points 1 and 4 above, but specific to the galley is where to store food. I was recently on a friend’s boat and happened to be watching as she got some items out of the cupboard for cooking. I was awestruck. “OMG!, You have eye-level cupboards! You don’t have to spend 30 minutes with your butt in the air, blood rushing to your head, sifting through cans to find what you’re looking for! So lucky!”  Simple things make such a difference to life on a boat. Have I already said that?

6.     Veneer/finishing – imagine you weren’t a big fan of wood veneer, and even less of a fan of a garish orange, fake cherry look. Then imagine your ‘home’ is completely kitted out on every surface in every room with it. Walls, cupboards, fake flooring… you get the picture. I’ve seen quite a few South African built catamarans, completely white, glossy finish gelcoat. Modern, simple, easy to clean. I love it. Some don’t. You need to know what you like as you will look at it every day.

The orangey, fake cherry look that I'm not the greatest fan of...

7.     Hard top bimini – In my humble opinion, its best to try to get a boat with a hard top awning/bimini. Ours came with a navy canvas one. It’s hot hot hot under her shade and the canvas loses the waterproofing every couple of months. As I balance precariously on top, roller in hand, reapplying the waterproofing chemical I think, ‘Sunbrella is great stuff but it’s not invincible’. This is the ocean and the conditions are harsh. Sun all the time, salt, wind, rain… And the fabric rattles against the stainless steel frame in anything above 10kts.

A nice, sturdy hard top bimini, retro-fitted on a Lagoon here in Chaguaramas

8.     The dangers of production charter boats – Charter boats are made with that purpose in mind. They are slapped together in a production line – seems kinda obvious. But this means they lack the finishing, the panache of boats built for the sole purpose of cruising. They squish in lots of seating – for those 4 couples who’ve paid their USD $2000 each for the week with their friends onboard. Same thing with cabin and head space. Lots of toilets, not lots of cupboards. Fridge that fits lots of beer, deep freezer that chows electricity. All thoughts of the one-week-long stay. Not the forever sail. 

The Lagoon 410 layout

In retrospect, we’d never have bought a Lagoon, nor a Fountaine Pajot for that matter. The good old, strong Privileges, Mantas, Catanas, seem to hold their value and their popularity as great cruising boats.

Here I am at the end of my rant, I mean list. And here we are in Trinidad, finally addressing most of the issues above. If you throw money at a boat, you can make her just the way you want. The more money you throw, the more you get.

But for those of you who haven’t bought your boat yet, maybe you could just choose the boat that you like as is. That fits your needs. That can take you around the world, safely and as comfortably as possible. Just a thought.