Mailboats, masks, beaches and bonfires: Ragged Isolation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except for the elephant in the distance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ragged elements

Somewhere in a large body of water, there are a jagged, randomly lying set of tiny, ragged islands. Little rocks peeking up into the world, ants on the surface of vast oceans. 

Little ragged islands whose beaches are the receptacle of the human race’s discarded things. Bright yellow bottles, Jordan flip flops, the severed heads of dolls. 

These little islands are oblivious to TikTok and Trump and pandemics. There are no restaurants, no radio stations, no roads, no people but for a handful of die-hard fishermen and Jolly who runs the Ponderosa on Ragged Island.

And then there are the cruisers. A motley mix of boats from Scotland, Australia, Canada, South Africa, Germany, USA. It doesn’t matter where they come from. Whether their boat is big or small, old or new.

Down here in the Ragged Islands is a world unto itself. There is no source of water nor fuel. There is nowhere to pop in for eggs or milk. No convenience of any kind.

There is just you, your crew and your boat. What you brought is what you have. There are sunsets and beach hikes and salvaging washed up treasures.

Mostly, there is just nature in it’s omnipotence. Sure, they’ve built a small straw hut on one beach and called it a yacht club. We all love the irony. Sure, the loose group meets at 4pm there every day for ‘sundowners’. For a sense of camaraderie. For a semblance of community.

It’s our small fraction of humanity’s way of keeping the elephant at bay. The harsh reality that all society’s layers are peeled away. Nothing can protect us from the rawness of nature. We are literally at it’s mercy.

The wind howls. There are no buildings to take shelter. The waves mount and roll and rise. The next batch of random plastic is thrown violently onto the beaches. The little boats can only scramble between the ragged islands to find shelter. And as the wind clocks, so do the little boats…

Somewhere in the world, people are emptying supermarket shelves of hand sanitizer and toilet paper and breathing through masks in a panic.

We are looking at the waves and the wind direction and trying to decide whether we should face the 8 mile trip from this one anchorage back to the other. We’ve lost our protection here and the boat is creaking and groaning as the waves hit. Wind sings through our rigging. It’s over 30 knots. And we need to move. The sooner the better.

Our little armada gets engines going and with trepidation, head out from the warmth of our saloon cocoon to face the weather.

An hour later we have come out around a huge shallow bank and we can see the protected anchorage ahead. Only 3 miles. But we must turn directly into the wind that is peaking at 35 knots. The waves have grown and they fly up at us. Salt water assaults the boat, our faces, our sanity. We have slowed to 2 knots against the onslaught of weather. At this rate it will take an hour to reach that safe(ish) place ahead, where friends in other boats sit cuddled up with cups of coffee in their respective cocoons.

But then the banging starts. Smash, bang. Splash. Our bright green stand up board, tied to the trampoline on the front of the boat has come loose on one end and has joined forces with the enemy. Between the wind, the waves and the board, Shiloh and crew are losing this one.

John dons a flimsy jacket and tries to head to the deck to secure the board. Wave after wave slams him. There’s not much to hold on to up there and I’m on the helm, face full of wind, screaming ‘Be careful!’. I’m so sure he’s going to fly off. And then I see that the board has loosened our unfinished trampoline that now hangs flapping into the water. If John loses grip and slips, there’s nothing up there to hold him.

Internally I’m swearing at Posiedon and then begging for this all to calm down or be over, but alas no luck. John makes his way back to me. A wet rat, dripping. He shouts against the wind “We’ll have to cut it loose. It’s smashing the hull and I can’t secure it in these conditions”.

He heads forward again – rising and falling and sliding, hair blown sideways and matted to his face. I hold my breath. “Turn around!” he shouts.

I turn the boat 180 degrees and after the wobbly side waves, we fall into a much smoother wave surfing. I take the engines out of gear yet we’ve picked up speed now. We are flying along at 6 knots in the wrong direction! We are losing the tough ground we made by the second.

John crawls out to the front and lies precariously out over the anchor chain. He saws and saws and finally the rope splits. The green board slides below and I watch as it comes out between the hulls, bobbing along on the waves below.

John is back in the cockpit and we look at each other, then down at the sea, which has taken a little piece of us.

A shrug and then back to the grind. I swing the boat back and we start again. Up down, smash splash…

An hour and a half later we slide into the lee of the island and find our place among the other sheltering boats.

And we live to see another 4 o clock happy hour at the yacht club.

As the crowd toasts and shares their stories of the day, my mind wanders. Maybe our bright green board, lost but not forgotten, has washed up on a beach in Cuba. Salvaged and loved once more.

A mouthful of marbles

We were sitting amongst the throngs of tourists with beach bodies only produced in America. Tacky souvenier shops, restaurants of every description touting their deep fried wares on the sidewalks.

But we were with locals here on Lauderdale-by-the-sea beach so we definitely picked the right one.

It was one of these fusion/not so fusion places where the sushi chef is relegated to a corner on the other side of the patio and the waiters drop of his menu as an afterthought.

Our host and I decided to share some sushi rolls as a starter. I should have known then. But no, I was in the festive spirit.

When the waiter explained something about the separate kitchen for sushi, my friend volunteered to go order the rolls directly. Maybe I should have been a bit worried. But no, by then I was people watching, blabbing, laughing too loudly, sipping my well rum and Diet Coke.

 At some undetermined time later, plates of food arrived on our table. One of the dishes was our fancy looking sushi roll. I tucked in. Just like that. Without a thought. For my health, my decisions, the ramifications. It was good. Wasabi burn. Head rush. Woo hoo! Then wait… a strange texture. But just for a second. And then I suited up the next piece with a sopping of wasabi laden soya sauce. I was halfway through that piece when the texture hit me.

My stomach bottomed out. That was shrimp! The whole tourist world spun around me in nauseating circles. The faces and voices around me blurred behind my sheer rising panic.

With my eyes betraying my terror, I asked

“Peggy, what was in that sushi roll?!”

“I don’t know. It was a recommendation of the chef.”

“BUT WE CHOSE A SPECIFIC ONE!”

She read my redness and realised I was not just a picky eater.

“Could there be shrimps?!”

“Yes, I guess. I’ll go check.” She ran off.

Conversation at our table had come to a stand-still. Everyone was now looking at me. Was I going to explode into a thousand pieces?

“What do I do? I’m allergic!”

“Go to the washroom and vomit!”

For a split second I figured that was a ridiculous suggestion. All my previous reactions came flooding through my head. Maybe I was just being a 21^st century princess?! Maybe an antihistamine would do me just fine and just maybe I shouldn’t be creating this highly disruptive event on our previously pleasant evening out with friends at the beach…

But within seconds I fled for the loo hearing the discussion at the table behind me – something about an Epi Pen, antihistamines, clinics nearby, types of allergies etc etc…

Four years earlier I had found myself on a cold November evening in the Captain’s Lounge in St Augustine where our boat was hauled up onto land. I was itching and scratching as we sat in front of the TV. I was convinced there was literally ants in my pants. A quick trip to the ladies that time revealed a case of hivey-welt-things that proceeded to cover my whole body. In my ears, under my arms, in every crevice.

Marita brought me an antihistamine while we tried to determine the cause. I had never had an allergy to anything in my life besides exercise. But I remembered I’d scoffed a plate of peel-n-eat shrimps earlier on special. Something I hadn’t ingested in ages. Hmmm…

6 months later, anchored in an idyllic anchorage in the Bahamas I was once again covered in itchy welts. This time it followed an indulgence in fresh caught lobster tail in lemon butter. Oh No! An unofficially confirmed seafood allergy!

But I LOVE seafood, AND I live on a boat in the tropics! Oh Sod and is law…

One antihistamine didn’t cut it that time and I needed a few more to ease the symptoms.

I knew I’d have to become a bubble kid around seafood from now on. But then calamari is not a shellfish right? And it’s covered in batter with garlic aioli! Who could be allergic to that?!

Well, me, it turns out. Found out the hard way after a ladies tapas night where the calamari landed in front of me. Spent that evening gasping with acid reflux, breathing problems, hives, shaking… diarrhea… it was not a pretty sight.  But it cemented my knowledge, that despite my reluctance to accept, I WAS allergic to seafood.

Forward to Lauderdale. Bent over a toilet, retching and apologizing to each unsuspecting lady that entered…

“Not bulimic folks! Food allergy… didn’t realise…” followed by more retching.

Soon there was a crowd at the door. John was there with a waitress and my sister’s expired Epi Pen that I carry around with me in case something like this happens. But I just couldn’t. I believed if I got all that poison out of me I would be ok.

Marita and Peggy arrived back from the pharmacy with Extra Strength antihistamines as well. It was an impromptu allergy party. I popped out of the stall, and with my eyes bloodshot and watery, I tried to maintain an atmosphere of relative calm.

“I’m ok guys. I’ll be fine.” I swallowed two strong tabs and headed back to the table.

I was embarrassed. In seeking fame, no one wants to be the center of attention for intentional barfing at a restaurant. The questions came at me – all way too much information types, but there I was. The evening had been derailed at this stage, so I went for it. Explained all the previous incidents and then this one.

“I’m going to pass out soon after those Benadryls!”

So we tried to get back to other topics. Ordered other food and drinks. I tried to sit quietly. But then someone would look over at me.

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah, for sure!”

Until I wasn’t. My tongue spontaneously inflated and hardened. It was like a pressurized tire in the middle of my mouth. My eyes became saucers again and before I knew it, faces were huddled round my open mouth, observing the phenomenon.

The stringy thing under my tongue was a large marble that the rock hard tongue sat on. I breathed carefully. I realized I couldn’t speak. It felt funnily enough like I had a mouthful of marbles. But still, that Epi Pen in my purse didn’t tempt me.

Stabbing my leg through my jeans?! Really? Seems so extreme… The others fussed and doted. Paid the bill and we were in the car. Should we go to the clinic? NO.

“Let-th wait and thee how I feew” (marble talk). “Let-th juth-t doh home”

And we did. But inside I was terrified my tongue would kill me. I Googled allergy stories and read about all the deaths…. Bloody shrimp!

Finally I fell ath-leep, but woke all through the night having difficulty breathing. By morning my tongue had only half deflated and the stringy thingy (which I've since discovered, is called a frenulum), was still a round hard marble.

It took half a day to recede completely.

So now I know I actually have a food allergy. And apparently you have to take these things seriously.I'll never look at a set of chopsticks the same... :(

I've learned a hell of a lot more about this topic than I ever wanted to know. I could be allergic to the iodine in shellfish... somehow I am still able to eat clams, mussels, scallops but I get more wary of trying any seafood after this last fiasco! Luckily I can eat all the regular fish I want. Salmon, tuna, mahi, snapper etc etc etc... Chances are this spontaneous allergy will never go away though :(

And since reactions tend to get worse with each exposure, I will have to look the other way when our cruiser friends appear at the back of our boat with their spears and trophy lobsters proudly in hand, mumbling about the garlic butter they will have to melt... 

I will now have to be a real princess at restaurants, only ordering for myself and asking all those annoying questions about what might be in a particular dish, and what it might have come in contact with…

Or I could just stay home. Hmmm…

I guess I’ll have to live with being annoying! 

Anchor watch: Poseidon's folly, sailor's sleepless nights

Imagine an erratic stream of 3 foot nautical bucking broncos under your floor. The deep, angry howling sound of their leader Poseidon above, below, permeating everything.

The boat is at their mercy. Our anchor, a muddy claw, reaching deep into the mysteries below us, chain for muscly arm, holds us against the onslaught. All night. 

And we sit in the darkness peering around in our floating capsule, the hopeful against the futile – perhaps by our well wishes and generous doses of worry – that we, and all the other boats, will have strong anchors too.

We employ technology to confirm what we know – the chartplotter, on and ready for duty at the helm reports 33 knots - the wind is pumping. The digital display at once comforting and terrifying. The wind is definitely pumping and no one but us is here to deal with whatever emergency might ensue. And it’s 2am. It’s always 2 am.

This is a relatively common practice called ‘anchor watch’. It always happens in the dead of night, when, by Sod’s Law, all the storms happen. Poseidon loves to taunt the sailors. But tonight he is particularly the bully. The wind begins as forecast about 11pm. It’s now 7am and the seas are still agitated. The wind is still pumping. There is a massive system off the east coast of America and we are feeling it’s wrath.

Weather dictates our life. Weather is our life in many ways. Our plans and destinations and timing – weather. We are sitting in Nassau at this very minute because we calculated the potential for this storm and figured this would be the safest place to ride it out. Hemmed in on all sides by Atlantis Resort, cruise ship docks, marinas and massive bridges.

“We’ll be protected by the buildings” we said.

“And by the cruise ships!” we also surmised.

Well it all came to nothing as the wind and the waves bypassed our imaginary security measures and hammered us all night.

It’s not like we didn’t know this was coming. But we’ve learned there’s nothing much to do but carry on as normal until the wind hits the boat! Or the shit hits the fan. Sometimes those are two in the same.

But yesterday in the calm before, we feigned regular tourists for the day. Hid ourselves in the plain sight world of overfed cruise ship visitors.

We are even sporting our version of the farmer’s tan with it being the beginning of the season and all…

We literally joined the ranks of people who are in the festive holiday mood. Sampled the free rum, walked the town, perused the art galleries and marveled at the beach bodies of every shape and size. 

We pretended we would also be heading back to a secure cabin or hotel room for a hot shower and a prepared meal and maybe take in a show or hit the casino.

We looked just like those who would be hitting their pillows without worry of their homes dragging through an anchorage into a concrete wall or another boat while they slept.

But what is sleep to a cruiser on anchor watch? Something he’s not getting tonight.

Later today – if the weather permits - we will sit at the pub just over there on solid ground, amongst the fans and party folk, watching the Superbowl adverts and the halftime show.

Nothing to give away our secret, except maybe a few dark circles under the eyes or an extra grey hair. Nothing but a twinkle in our eyes to hint that we are living at the edge of society’s safety illusion. Living with the wind as our master. Living a life unknown, where the highs are higher than the highest skyscrapers and the lows involve anchors dragging through the mud.

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!