Well, the Sailing Gods must have been looking out for us. A combination of weather, mechanicals, and good fortune have landed us in Antigua for the week of the Classic Yacht Regatta. I can't imagine a better first regatta to be at: a stunning array of classic yachts; a venue steeped in history; a racecourse accessible to us by dinghy; and a generous lineup of events and parties open to all! I've never even had an interest in going to a regatta, but after this one I'm already thinking of next year!
This regatta is a world-class event, attracting yachts on a US - Caribbean - Mediterranean race circuit. Louis and I walked the docks every day and were awestruck by the beauty of these yachts, from the famous J-boat Velsheda built in the 1930's, with her classic lines, beautifully varnished brightwork, and gleaming stainless steel winches to the old gaff-rigged cutter Thalia, built in 1889 and still sporting her original deck fittings, hatches, and anchor windlass. There was also a local flavor to the regatta with a handful of "Carriacous", 20' - 40' wooden sloops built on the island of Carriacou from the late 1800's thru the 1970s to transport goods throughout the islands. And, unlike the seriousness of many regattas there was a fun aspect to this event which drew smaller yachts like "Old Bob" and Veracity, the "Pirate Boat". While it was impossible to pick a favorite out of the 58 participating yachts, the one I seemed most drawn to was Ranger, a modern replica of the original 1937 Ranger, a yacht commissioned by the Vanderbilt's to compete in the America's cup of the same year. Her sleek lines, fast appearance, and beauty above decks just called to me.
The first day of the event, Louis and I made a loose plan to catch up with some folks at the top of the lookout to watch the race. But as we left Scappatella in our dinghy, the sea beckoned us and we decided to head out in the dinghy to get a close-up look at the race. Good decision! While the view from up high offers a good perspective to watch the entire event, we were able to get within 50 feet of the boats at the start line, all jockeying to avoid hitting each other while keeping behind the official line until the gun went off.
Race number one was a single-hander's race - can you imagine handling a 70+' yacht by yourself? The skill of some of these sailors was amazing, as they steered, raised and lowered sails, tacked, plotted their course, etc. singlehanded. The following four days each offered a different course with staggered start times so all but the smallest boats ran the same course and finished somewhat together. Every day we'd contemplate hiking up to a lookout to get a different perspective, but each day the action of being in the dinghy would win out and we'd head out to sea to watch the race up close. After the last of the 5 races finished, I was left wanting more. I never would have thought I'd be so enamored with the racing scene! More to follow...
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You know all that stuff I said about how "fun" it is sailing upwind in big winds and seas? Fuh-gedda 'bout it!
After spending a relaxing 3 days in Los Roques, Venezuela we got a decent weather forecast to make the 4-day trip to Antigua, 450 miles northeast of us. You may recall that Antigua was our intended destination about 1 month ago, but we detoured to Bonaire because of a mechanical. Well, here we are all set to leave for Antigua again, when we discover a tear in our brand new genoa (the headsail)...bummer! It's a defect in the cut of the sail and we decide we can sail with it reefed (rolled up a bit) without risking further tearing. But it means either heading back to Curacao for repairs (NO WAY) or detouring to St Croix and then the British Virgin Islands (another 100 miles, round trip) to get it fixed. The BVIs wins out. We leave with a reasonable forecast of 18 - 20 knots the first day, dropping to 12 to 15 the next few days.
The first 12 hours the winds were 20+ knots with 6 to 7 foot seas and wind chop on top of that. Several times we've got green-water breaking over the bow of the boat clear back to the bimini, the shade structure covering the cockpit in the back of the boat! Given my previous writings about upwind sailing, this should have been fun and exhilarating, but unfortunately it was pretty uncomfortable. And the sounds the boat makes while slamming down over big waves are incredibly loud down below. My seasick meds were inexplicably not working and I became violently ill. Puking over the sides; sleeping when I wasn't on watch. Ugh. During one of those sleeping episodes I woke to a much louder BANG than normal and Louis' stressed voice saying, "JAAAAnet". I scrambled up top and took the wheel while Louis clipped in and went up on the foredeck to investigate. We both feared that a shroud had broken, one of the wires that holds up the mast. That would be really bad. Instead, Louis discovered that the furling line for our Genoa had snapped, and the sail had now unfurled itself and was flying off the side of the boat. With no way to take that sail in, this was not good, but it was way better than a broken shroud.
So, by now it's 4:00am; the winds have climbed to 25 - 27 knots, and it's a moonless, pitch-black night. Louis is on the foredeck trying to fix the line amidst the howling winds and occasional seas breaking on deck. As I keep the boat steered into the wind, I run through the "man overboard" procedures, thinking through the steps of what I would do if Louis were washed overboard. Now, this is highly unlikely as he's clipped into safety lines on deck and it's not like we're in a big storm or anything, but it's the kind of stuff your (my) mind thinks about in the moment. (As my camera was at arm's reach, I also toyed with the idea of taking a photo of him up there, but decided against that.) After about 30 minutes of arduous work on deck, Louis fixes the line and we reef the sail further. We really should put up the staysail at this point, (a smaller, high-wind sail) but we're too exhausted. A few hours later the repair fails and the furling line breaks a second time. Louis again attempts to repair the line, directing me to turn downwind so the bow won't continually crash into the oncoming seas. The spreader lights illuminate the foredeck so he can see what he's doing, but at the helm this light is very disorienting. In my attempt to keep the boat pointed downwind, I accidentally jibe the boat...CRAP! (Jibing is when the wind crosses the stern from one side of the boat to the other; if you're not prepared for it, the boom swings violently to the other side, potentially breaking things in the process.) Louis comes back to the cockpit but then the wind crosses back and I jibe again, breaking a pin off of the traveler - another important piece of equipment. The pin was pretty wimpy and already bent; Louis had just recently put it on his repair list. This offered some small consolation, but nonetheless, this was definitely a "pendejo" moment for me!
We start the engine, bring the boat into control, and set a boom brake....a handy thing we have to prevent the boom from flying in case of another accidental jibe. Louis is finally able to repair the broken line and we reef the genoa down to 50% and continue on our way. Louis eventually gets some needed rest while I take the next watch. Over the next day the winds finally begin to abate, but after 36 hours we're still heeled way over beating into 18 - 20 knots, and I'm still puking. We decide to flatten the boat out by turning on the motor and heading straight into the wind. What a difference - my seasickness finally begins to subside and with the motor droning away we head directly to St. Croix. Another 36 hours later we finally drop anchor outside the main town and breathe a sigh of relief!
Isn't sailing fun?
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Another incredible anchorage in Los Roques, Venezuela. It's as still as a lake in here despite the big swell that has adversely affected so many other anchorages in the area. And, an unexpected bonus: the swell has kept away the typical weekend crowds of Venezuelans who normally drive their powerboats over here from the mainland. We have the place almost to ourselves. We snorkel over to a small reef just outside where we encounter huge barracuda, rays, mackerel, and a ton of other fishes. Louis is tempted to spear the mackerel, but spearfishing is illegal here. Damn - those mackerel are incredibly tasty!
But the mackeral gets us thinking about that Mullet Snapper in our freezer. This is our last stop before crossing the Caribbean sea, so we need to find a local fisherman who can tell us if our snapper is toxic. Luckily, we spot 2 Venezulan guys in a "panga" - a local fishing boat - cruising by. I wave them over, and they approach our boat warily. (It's probably not often that local fisherman get hailed over by a bikini-clad woman on a sailboat.) I attempt to converse with them in my limited Spanish: "Excuse me, a question, you are a fisherman, yes?" They nod. "We have a fish from Los Aves, but don't know if it's good. Ciguaterra? You know ciguaterra?" Louis brings up our fish book and points to the fish in question. The older man, probably the father, rattles off a whole bunch of Venezulean-accented Spanish words, of which I understand one: Mejor. "Mejor", I repeat, assuming (hoping) he's telling us it's one of the best eating fish around. A bunch more Spanish comes forth, and I get none of it. "Lo siento, no comprendo", I reply. "No ciguaterra?" Louis and I both ask. "No, no, no....he says, shaking his head. "Es bueno?", we repeat. Again, a battering of Spanish; the words "bueno" and "mejor" stand out. Ok, well, "muchas gracias, muchas gracias" we reply. I feebly attempt to make small talk by asking the father if he's going fishing now, but in actuality I think I said, "you are a fisherman now?". He kindly replies, "No, no, manana....". We wave goodbye, thanking them again, and watch them motor away.
"So, you want to have fish for dinner?" Louis hesitantly asks. "Well, I don't know...how well do you trust my Spanish?". I look up mejor in our Spanish-English dictionary to confirm it means better or best. It does, but then several words down appears the word "morir". Sounds kind of like "mejor", doesn't it? Only, morir means "to die".
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.....guess we'll keep that fish on ice for now!
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Tuning into the weather yesterday morning, we received confirmation that the huge north swell which has been talked about for days has begun. As the swell builds and waves begin to break over the reef, our anchorage will likely morph into an uncomfortable, confused bay. We decide to depart at dawn for Los Roques, Venezuela, an 8 or 9 hour upwind trip.
So, I may have said that the sport of sailing has never been what's drawn me to this lifestyle. It's always been about the exploration and adventure for me; sailing as a sport in and of itself has not had much appeal. Part of this comes from its technical and mechanical nature, which I unfortunately have little aptitude for, and part is no doubt due to my ongoing battle with seasickness. (It's kind of hard to get excited about going sailing when you're either puking or drugged up on seasick meds!)
Well these past few days, the sailing has been incredibly FUN! Odd as it may sound, I think my favorite point of sail is heading upwind into big waves, the boat slamming down and spraying us with water as it crests one wave and then falls into the trough below. (Good thing, since most of our sailing seems to be upwind!) On the foredeck yesterday, I discovered a new "game": hanging onto the shrouds and jumping up into the air as we crest a big wave, my body suspended in midair as the boat falls away below me...it was truly exhilarating!
Today, we continued our eastward progress. As it was a short 12-mile trip, Louis and I decided to forego seasick meds (yes, he gets seasick too!) The waves were about 7' with the winds around 15 - 20 knots; we were heading upwind so we had to tack our way up to our destination. Again, the exhilaration of steering the boat up and over the waves overtook me, and involuntary yells of glee would come out of me as the boat would slam down a big wave or a particularly large wave would hit us, spray flying overhead.
Two very fun sails! And the best part? Neither of us puked - yahoo!
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We're finally "living the dream", anchored inside another incredibly beautiful barrier reef in Aves Borlavento, about 20 miles east of where we last wrote. A few hundred yards to our north is a very small, picturesque island: low-lying pinky-green grasses surrounded by a white sand beach, ringed by a small reef covered in turquoise-blue water. The wreck of an old fishing boat lies in the distance.
I snorkeled over to the island this afternoon to look for "sea treasures" to add to my little collection of shells & stuff, and to my delight discovered a small flock of nesting yellow-footed boobies in the grasses! (I sound like a real bird officianado saying that, don't I?) The baby boobies are quite young; some of them look as if they're only a week old. I walked up to one boobie who appeared to be sitting on her egg, but then I saw a little white ball of fuzz sticking out from under her. I plopped myself down on the thoughtfully placed viewing perch - a smooth driftwood log - and waited. A few moments later a little head peeped out, and then this gangly fuzzy white baby booby crawled out! Its wings were not yet fully formed and it was apparently quite hungry; it kept poking its mom's beak with its beak, looking for some food, I imagine. It was REALLY cute! I watched it for about 10 minutes, and then cruised around the rest of the island as far as I could without disturbing the boobies. There were baby boobies in all stages of development and, sadly, one dead little fuzzy white booby, lying there completely limp. A few boobies still appear to be sitting on their nests so hopefully we can go back tomorrow to see if any of these have hatched.
Update: Well, it's "tomorrow"; Louis and I dinghied back to the island today, camera and video-camera in tow (thank you Todd!). We didn't spot any recent hatchlings, but we were able to get a good view of a boobie egg as its Mom shifted around in her nest. It looks to be the size of a chicken egg, so I guess these little guys must be a bit older than I originally thought. And, a miracle has occurred: the little limp dead boobie has been resurrected! I guess it wasn't dead, just tuckered out and, for some reason, temporarily abandoned by its mom.
We then dinghied out to the far reef to hunt up some dinner (got skunked), and later motored over to the tiniest little island we've ever been on. It was just a little spit of sand out in the middle of the bay. It took 96 steps to walk around the waterline of the island. I searched for one special shell to bring home to remind me of this incredible day and the miniature island, and there it was, lying in the sand: a tiny, beautiful hinged pinky-white shell.
What a perfect day!
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There are few places left in the Caribbean where it is still legal to spearfish; the Aves is one of them. Louis has been spearfishing since our sailing days in Mexico, but hasn't had much practice of late. He does have all the "right stuff", though: the hunting prowess, which he developed as a kid with his father and brothers in the rice fields of the Sacramento valley; a beautiful speargun his sweetie bought him one year for his birthday; and most importantly, an incredible set of lungs!
Spearfishing is typically done while free-diving, so you really need to develop some lung capacity to successfully hunt your prey while hanging out underwater. Louis is a natural. The other day I was down around 15 or 20 feet and up comes this apparition from way down deep on the reef. It's Louis, calmly kicking his way to the surface from the depths of 50 or so feet! And, recently, he made it down to 70 feet - a new record for him! I call him "Acqualung".
Anyway, this morning Louis decides to head out in search of dinner. The sea-life around here isn't exactly prolific, as much of the coral has been ravaged by storms, man, and global warming, I imagine. He's optimistic, but not overly. About 30 or 45 minutes later I hear him calling, "Sweetie", in an excited voice. I run up top as he's struggling to lift this whoppin' 20lb snapper-looking fish over the side! I excitedly get the camera and the fish book, and we identify him as a "mullet snapper". Here comes the Russian Roulette part...
As it says in "The Cruiser's Handbook of Fishing": "The majority of tropical cruising grounds are rife with opportunity to poison oneself from eating fish". Great. The toxin we're worried about, Ciguatera, is well-known in the Caribbean and typically found in reef-dwelling "piscivorous fish" (that would be your fish-eating fish variety). Like Snappers. Bummer. Unfortunately, there is no easy way to tell if a fish is "ciguatoxic". The toxicity of fish varies from one region to another, so the best method is to talk with local fishermen to see what they're eating, and what they're not. But we're all alone here. We've seen Snapper on the menu in Bonaire, but is it "mullet snapper"? The fish book suggests, "one strategy, in the unlikely event you have an expendable mammal on board, is to feed it some fish first..." Fortunately, we left all the obnoxious barking dogs behind in Curacao so we're all out of expendable mammals. (Ok, so we won't win any Greenpeace awards with that comment!) Another strategy, the one we're considering, is to eat just a little bit of the fish and see if it makes us sick...
But we're not just talking about an upset stomach here. A mild case of ciguatera includes "abdominal pain, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, numbness, and tingling of the mouth and limbs within three to five hours following ingestion". Severe cases include all of those symptoms PLUS what's behind door number two: profound exhaustion (we just got over that!), muscle pain, feelings of loose and painful teeth, visual disturbances, slow reflexes, skin disorders, loss of hair and nails, reversal of hot and cold sensations, muscular paralysis, coma, and in some cases, death. Assuming you don't die from ciguatera, recovery can take months, with some symptoms continuing for years. WOAH.........
So, needless to say, the fish is currently sitting in the freezer...on hold until we get some local knowledge, or come across an expendable mammal. Wait...sshhhh.....is that barking I hear in the distance?
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Finally - a decent weather window in which to head east! Winds were expected to fall to 15 knots, although the seas were predicted to be quite "lumpy". So at 7:00am, (1 hour later than our planned start), we left behind our friends in the anchorage of Kralendijk and enjoyed a beautiful close-hauled sail alongside the shoreline of Bonaire. Hilary, our friend on "Miss Charlotte", saw us raising our sails and hailed us on our VHF radio to wish us well. Then, shortly after lamenting there were no pink flamingos accompanying us on our sail, two flew by overhead as if to say goodbye! What a great start to our trip!
After an hour's sail we "turned left" into the wind, furled our genoa and motored due east to the island of Aves de Sotavento. The 6' seas were much milder than anticipated, allowing us to make the 45-mile trip from Bonaire to Aves de Sotavento in about 9 hours. On familiar ground now, we navigated our way inside the reef-enclosed bay, threading our way over and around shoals, and dropped our hook in a big sandy patch just off the main reef.
What a beautiful anchorage: all around us we see waves crashing onto the reef which completely encompass our anchorage. We passed a few boats anchored outside of the reef system, but we're all alone in here. (Does that bring to mind any Far Side cartoons...like maybe they know something we don't? Naaaah....) We enjoy a glass of wine watching the sun fade away, and are later rocked to sleep by the gentle motion of the sea, with the roaring surf audible in the distance. Paradise!
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Well, we're sportin' our new Doyle sails, the hull's all spiffy, and the brightwork is glistening...but here we still sit in Bonaire waiting for a good "weather window" to make our 4+ day crossing. Weather windows are one of the more common topics among cruisers, although in popularity they still rank well after sailing stories, boat systems, and mechanical problems. In the Caribbean, this magical window describes a short period of time when the steady trades and seas are predicted to mellow a bit, allowing sailors to make their journey to the next island without (ideally) getting trashed in the process. But unlike the hearty sailors of years' past, we don't just look out our "window" to check the weather. We, like many cruisers in the Caribbean, regularly listen to the "Weather God", Chris Parker, on our single sideband (SSB) radio. Chris gathers data from a myriad of sources: satellite imagry, weather models, grib files, etc., combines that with a healthy dose of weather-witchcraft, and usually comes up with an amazingly-accurate forecast, 3 to 5 days out. If you pay a couple hundred bucks a year, you can even call him on your SSB, tell him your starting point and destination, and he'll give you specific wind forecasts and sea conditions for your trip. We're pretty spoiled out here!
So every morning at 8:30am we tune into Chris' weather report, and then listen to boats calling him from as far north as the Bahamas and as far south as Columbia. Yesterday we asked him for "wind and sea states" from Bonaire to the island of St Croix or St Martin - about 450 miles directly upwind from us. Chris wisely suggested we change our destination to the south coast of Puerto Rico, allowing us a better point of sail (it's a bit further west) and giving us shelter from the predicted "North Swell" that's due to arrive in these parts on Thursday. Sounds good, except that we really don't want to "get stuck" in Puerto Rico with tons of civilization around as we wait for the next weather window to continue on our way. We're really ready for some peace and solitude right now! So we've decided to instead head to Los Aves, a beautiful set of desolate Venezuelan islands about a 10-hour trip east (yes, upwind and against the current), where we can really have some R&R! So now we're waiting for that weather window to arrive...
p.s. The photo above is from Carnival in Curacao...looks like we missed that one in our blog! What a spectacular event - hundreds of elaborately costumed people paraded down the main street accompanied by local marching bands and intricately decorated floats. It took them 4 to 5 hours to walk then length of the parade route. We heard that the average participant spends an average of one month's salary on their Carnival costume each year! Needless to say, it's a pretty big deal on the islands.
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Yesterday we got the very sad news that our friend, Lars Holbek, died from an aggressive cancer he was diagnosed with last fall. Lars and Louis grew up in the same town and went to Boy Scouts together, although their friendship was really formed as they each discovered kayaking in the rivers of the Sierras. As anyone involved in kayaking knows, Lars was an incredible whitewater pioneer and leaves behind a legacy of exploration and adventure for generations to come. Thanks to our dear friends Phil and Mary, we had the good fortune to spend our vacation in Ecuador a few years back with Lars and his partner Nancy Wiley. We all shared many laughs and more than a few Pisco Sours as we kayaked the wonderful rivers of Ecuador, and we feel grateful to have shared that time with them. Our heart goes out to Nancy, Lars' brother Suren, and to all those who are touched by Lars' life and passing.
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One of the really cool things about Bonaire is the abundant sea life living on the reef that rings the entire island. Marine life is thriving here due to the creation of the Bonaire National Marine Park back in 1979, protecting the waters of Bonaire from the destruction many other islands in the Eastern Caribbean islands have faced. Anchoring is not allowed anywhere on Bonaire, as anchors can ravage coral beds if not carefully placed. Instead, all boats must be kept on designated moorings. Snorkelers and divers cannot wear gloves, as touching coral can also do damage the reef, and dive sites are monitored and temporarily removed from public dive maps if they appear to be suffering from "overuse". These and other rules make Bonaire one of the top diving spots in the Caribbean.
So today, after puzzling a bit over how to put our gear together, we jumped off the boat, dropped down about 40 feet, and explored the abundant sea life below. We saw all sorts of cool and unusual fish, like the "scrawled filefish" pictured above, an "odd-shaped swimmer", according to our fish book. We also saw a bunch of the fish from the "big lips, large bodies" section of the book...although I think the fishes might object to that description. But, by far, the coolest encounter of the day was the sighting of 2 octopusses - make that octopi - toward the end of our dive. Louis initially spotted them - he always points out cool stuff that I've somehow missed. (I'm about as observant underwater as I am walking past the full garbage cans at home that need to be taken out....I swear, I just don't see stuff!) Anyway, we watched them slither along the bottom and then saw their bodies morph from long, tubular (man) bodies to the blobby, gangly things we all know as octopuses. Or octopi. Whatever they're called, they were very cool!
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