Guantanamo incident
17 April 2015 | Santiago Cuba
Well what a difference a day makes, the sail from Labadee to Cap Mole had convinced me that this whole idea of sailing the Caribbean was far from idyllic, and often bloody dangerous. So with, let’s say, a little trepidation, we now had the voyage from Cap Mole to Santiago, which meant crossing the Windward Passage. The clue is in the name as to what one might expect from this channel that runs between Haiti and Cuba. Get the timing wrong and it could be a horrible, although only fifty miles across, at the shortest distance, at an average speed of 5 knots, that could still spell ten hours of hell, get it right and it just may be unpleasant.
The plan was to wait in Cap Mole until the trades died, which they do most nights, and slip out before God notices you’ve gone. Lisa and Rudolf on Tulum 3, who have our only access to weather info, reckoned that we should leave at about 3am, or earlier, depending on the trades behaving themselves. Now to anybody who doesn’t sail this must all sound like a nonsense, surely you want the wind, and the answer to that is yes, and no. To make a passage is not like being out for the day, playing about in boats. We want to go in a particular direction and often the wind won’t be playing ball, so you have to call on Mr Engine Sir to get you where you want to go and so it’s a bit of a lottery as to whether you get to haul up the sails. The motion of the boat under engine is always very rolly and unpleasant so we need the seas to be as calm as you could reasonably hope for.
Now leaving in the dead of night was to be another first for us and, of course, being the adventures of Picaroon, was not without incident. Just to complicate things our thing that winds up the anchor, all 60lbs of it, had been playing up when we’d had all the fiasco with setting the hook in Cap Mole the day before. This was going to mean hauling in the chain and anchor, manually whilst Jackie, back on the wheel inched the boat forward, and because we’d had all the fun anchoring it now meant we had 180ft, or more, of heavy chain out with the anchor at the end of it. So there I am balanced precariously on the bowsprit, heaving on this chain, in the pitch black, illuminated only by a torch that I’ve lodged on the deck pointing in my general direction. It’s very slow and sweaty business but inch by inch, foot by foot, and my puny muscles crying out stop, stop, stop, the chain ends up back on board. As it was dead calm, Jackie was able to leave the wheel and work the windlass as I hauled away for Rosy, and finally the anchor was visible in the crystal clear water 30ft below
.
Bear in mind it’s 2.30am, so it came as some surprise that out of the darkness there appeared a row boat with four Haitian guys, one is balanced on the bows and is helping me lift the last 30ft. Why on earth they’re out in the bay at this time we can only guess, maybe they came to say goodbye, maybe they were up to no good, but anyway the help with our hook was much appreciated. So at last the anchor was up and, although I’m dripping with sweat and exhausted, we’re able to slowly motor, in calm waters, the two miles to the open sea with me perched on the bowsprit teasing the anchor into position, whilst also shining a torch on the water to spot any fishing pots, which after our experience in Labadee we really didn’t want to repeat.
Under a blanket of stars we followed Tulum 3 out into the Windward Passage, which wasn’t windy at all, just a gentle swell that rolled us to and fro, as Mr engine Sir purred away below deck pushing us at about 5 knots away from Haiti, its dark silhouette soon melting into the nights blue black horizon and a crescent moon spread a pale glow onto Picaroons wake.
By first light, around about 7am, there was a gentle breeze that had sprung up out of the NE and Tulum 3 radioed us to say they were going to put up their sails and we did the same. Both Lisa and Rudolf are lifelong sailors, who hate motoring and sail at any opportunity and, according to Rudolf, this breeze, which was freshening all the time, was just what we needed. “It’s going to be a sleigh ride” whooped Rudolf, and for a few moments our VHF was filled with the sound of Led Zepplin coming from the cockpit of Tulum 3. “Ten knots” calls Rudolf, whilst we’re happy with 7.5 which is about as fast as we’ve ever sailed in Picaroon and we’re only on Gib and Mizzen.
By late morning the coast of Cuba is clear ahead of us, and the sail across has been a dream, much faster than we had planned. The tiny white triangle of Rudolf and Lisa’s Tulum 3 sparkled in the morning sun, about two miles ahead, but this was to be expected; it wasn’t a race, they were always bound to be the hare, and Picaroon the tortoise. “You’re going to come second” said Rudolf smugly on channel 68. We didn’t care, we we’re just enjoying the sailing, which is so much more of a joy after the nightmare of motoring from Labadee. With sails set, Picaroon’s motion is a different animal, and we’re making good progress along the mountainous south coast of Cuba, with a fair breeze pushing us towards Santiago.
The angle of the wind requires us to take long tacks back and forth all day as Cuba slips by to starboard and as daylight fades we’re about 8 miles out into the windward passage with the seas building and we decide that, without any electronic wind instruments for night sailing, we should head back towards the relative shelter of the coast. Just before dark we fired up the engine and furled the gib. With the wind blowing now at about force five to six this proved to be a bit of a disaster of cracking sails and flying sheets but after a minute or two of sheer panic all was well and we turned to complete the night passage to Santiago under engine and mizzen which we left up to try and give Picaroon some stability in the rising swell and breaking waves. It was going to be another difficult and long night as we inched our way on the chart plotter along the southern coast of Cuba, about 2 miles away.
We took one hour watches, fighting the invisible waves that every now and again visited the cockpit as we momentarily lost control, buffeted by some rogue swell, it was decidedly unpleasant and a real struggle to stay focussed and on course, with tiredness engulfing us both, as well as aching arms legs and numbed feet fighting the unforgiving motion of Picaroon. The night went on and on, and at about 11.30pm we neared the blazing lights along a darkened coast of Guantanamo Bay. We had been warned to give this place a wide berth, maybe eight miles, but we checked the charts that seem to indicate that two miles would be fine, so we stayed about two and a half miles off, trying to catch some shelter from the coast rather than be further off shore where the seas were more than we wanted to deal with, even where we were was difficult enough.
Guantanamo took forever to pass, we seemed to be stationary. The red shaded area on the chart, an absolute no go area, slipped by at the speed of a sloth, and all the time the waves would try and push us towards the shore and the dreaded red area, but with some considerable effort we managed to avoid running foul of the US navy no go zone.
Then, just before midnight, I’m dozing in the cockpit whilst Jackie is at the wheel, there’s a commotion that brings me bolt upright and the boat is being bathed in a brilliant blinding searchlight. The VHF, which should have been on channel 16, but is on 72 from the last contact with Rudolf. I dash down below to respond to a rather curt sounding US coast guard. “Sailing vessel identify yourself, this is the US coast guard you have entered a restricted area, please respond switch channel 16”
Meanwhile up in the cockpit Jackie has panicked, disoriented by the bright lights, she’s going round in circles with the waves washing the decks. Below on the VHF I’m now in conversation with the guy on the boat with the big light. “Turn off your stupid spotlight or this suicide yacht lady is going to blow you all to kingdom come with our special laser guided bazooka” Well that’s what I wanted to say, but thought better off it and said, “sorry we’re just trying to stay close to shore as it’s very rough further out.” “Turn away from the restricted zone and head out one mile sir” says the cold curt voice. “we will do no such thing, it’s hell out there that’s why we’re here dumbo” I wanted to say, but instead said, “sorry, we’ll do just that” Thank you said the voice, have a nice day, or something like that, and I hastened back to the cockpit to find Picaroon headed back the way we had just come.
Unable to function, Jackie passed the helm to me. She had been so disorientated by the blinding spotlight that nothing was making any sense and Picaroon was wallowing like a headless chicken.
Somehow we headed away from the red zone, and got back on course without any further ado from homeland security and sped off into the night at four knots to continue our crawl towards Santiago. We had lost all contact with Tulum 3 at this point, although we heard them call us for some reason they never heard us and we assumed they must be miles ahead and perhaps already in Santiago.
At 7.30am we sailed into the bay of Santiago passing some imposing fort on the cliff top above the entrance. We were given co-ordinates by the Guarda Frontera, which I wrote down wrong, and dropped the anchor in front of the Marina. Tulum 3 were nowhere to be seen. The windlass that had failed in Cap Mole refused to work here as well so I dropped a load of chain and Picaroon came to a stop in the calm bay of Santiago yacht club. We were in the wrong place, but after explaining our difficulties, the Marina manager said it was OK they would come out to us where we were, which they did in the shape of Louis, who shared our last beer with us and welcomed us with open arms to Cuba.
Three hours later, Tulum 3 entered the harbour; seemed the hare had been pipped by the tortoise by almost three hours, and wasn’t quite so smug after all.