Sometimes we play a game while on Passage. Who will be the first to spot land and shout ""Land Ho""? We don't really win anything, except bragging rights dutifully debated over Arrival Beers as we enjoy the new sights, sounds and smells that is our anchored home for the night.

We spent a few days in the surprisingly protected anchorage that is the bay in Clarencetown, Long Island. While out there the winds blew (20+ knots, SE), we could hear the howling, see the surf pounding the reefs. Anchored in close by Strachan Cay we were quite comfortable in the very mild chop and an occasional surgey swell.

No conditions that either one of us needed to make mention of. Which was a relief given the negative comments this place received. Which annoys me to no end. Many cruisers take the time to write a comment, but neglect to mention the weather details, which is OhSo important! One review wrote it was the worst place ever, and they actually escaped to the seas out there as it was better and safer for them than in here. Wait, what? We were left wondering what type of weather this poor sailboat was being exposed to. Was it going to be the same coming conditions that we were going to be seeking refuge from? The posted comment held no information whatsoever, all we had was our own experience given the charts we were looking at, the weather details that were being forecasted, and hope for the best. We had nowhere else to go, and the Flying Fish Marina was full.

We were busy planning our next passage, this time to Matthewtown, Great Inagua. Route details revealed a distance of approximately 150 nm, and at our anticipated 6nm/hour, we calculated approximately 24 hours of sailing time. All depending on how the winds blew, and the currents would run.

The front has passed and the trades were slowly coming back. Time for us to leave. This time we were a little more vigilant. We had towed our dinghy {{ minus the outboard }} during our last two passages {{ from Georgetown to to Conception Island, and there to Clarencetown }} in the hopes that we would get ashore, but that didn't come to pass. This time though, when the winds abated, the dinghy went on deck.

We sorted the lazarette and made the life raft and ditch bag more accessible. Tightened the rigging. Prepped a meal {{ split pea, ham and pasta stew }}, baked some oatmeal shortbread {{my son-in-law's famous recipe }}. We washed some laundry, bucket style. And we responsibly filed a Route Plan with our friends and family. And that my dear family, friends and followers, is how the winds for our passage died.

Because, you know that the more ready you are, the calmer the sail is, right?!

We thought about leaving sometime after lunch, confirmed by Chris Parker's E-mail {{ our SSB was still not working }}. He clarified that the winds would be calm to non-existent in the morning, and were supposed to pick up in the afternoon sometime. As our morning coffee was perking, we knew we had to make power and water anyway, and no sense running the engine for 3 hours while staying still in the anchorage, right?

Anchors aweigh 09:00 am. and once clear of the reefy bits, we raised the main, ousted the jib and with enough wind out there {{ isn't there always 5+ knots more than predicted? }} we motor-sailed nicely along on a close reach, with beautiful breezes in calm ocean swells, generating power and filling our water tanks. Noice!



After lunch, the Capt'N napped and the winds died, so I brought in the jib, and watched the crystal clear waters in depths below me too large for the depth sounder to record. Impressive. Countless flying fish. Some planes overhead. And one beautiful large shades of brown Osprey glide right past me, as curious about me as I was about him left wondering what he was doing out here in the middle of ocean waters, far from land, with nowhere to land. No Land Ho for him.



And then, sometime in the late afternoon the winds slowly reappeared, first as cats paws on the water, then becoming quite consistent and from the same direction. Is there hope? Slowly the speeds started to increase. 8, 9, 10, 11, 12... here we go. What a great sound when the engine gets turned off.

One of us is always gazing out. Watching for anything around us. Weather. Debris. Other travellers. Today though, we only encountered three other ships, two MotorYacht Vessels and one Cruise Ship.



We were flying along at 6+ knots for a few hours, nice! And bonus? Being in the lee of Crooked Acklins Cays, the motion of the ocean, and the current, were negligible. Perfect time to have our stew and grilled cheese sandwiches. With cookies for dessert.



After supper dishes were cleaned up and we noticed an increase in the wind. Prudent practice for nighttime sailing in these conditions had us discussing reefing the main, so while there was daylight we did just that. One reef in the main, check.



Came back on course, and what? Our speed had increased?! Definitely more wind than predicted, by 5 knots.

Dave turned downwind, as I spill the main, and pulled in some jib and then he pointed us back on track. And we watched that that maneuver did nothing to our speed. In fact, we were going faster.

Do you know how hard it is to slow yourself down with increasing beam reach winds? It took three tries to get the jib reefed to satisfactory night-time speeds!

Sunsets at sea though?



Never disappoint.

Lighthouse Ho! It was night-time and we couldn't discern land form sea, disappointed that we wouldn't get to see Castle Rock lighthouse in the light of day.



The moon however did its best to grant us our wish, and we could just make out the distinctive white building as it stood tall on Castle Island, no turning light visible to warn mariners of the dangers that lay around it. The seas got a little confused in this area, the current died, and winds were coming around the cape.

The minutes and hours tick-tocked the night away, and it was the absence of sound that alerted us sometime before sunrise.Banyan's movement through the water slowed right down. Squall!

Usually when a squall appears,the winds prep you into anxious action stations. This one had our winds die to nothing, and we floundered around as we checked radar, which depicted a bit of a conga cluster line of pink blobs. Rain! We were on the outer edges of it, our and thankfully the only casualty was a wet Capt'Ns butt. Engines On and OnOn!

Once clear of the disturbed air, the winds quickly re-established themselves and we were happy for the reef already in place. We were gliding though the water at 7+ knots, however making somewhere between 5-6 knots speed over ground. Damn Current ! {{ Sigh }}

With the sunrise, the Capt'N happily yelled "LandHo" and as I gazed out there, and saw nothing, I told him he was seeing things! Great Inagua was another low lying Bahamian Cay, and I was seeing nothing on the horizon or anywhere around me that I could even pretend to call land. It wasn't until after breakfast sometime that I confirmed LandHo myself, the tips of the cell towers just barley visible through the binoculars. I had to admit he won that call.

Then off in the distance we could see a mountain of white. And a conveyor belt. Wait, what? Morton Sea Salt comes from here {{ one of the stops we'd like to visit if our timing allows.}}

"I estimate we have another 12 miles to go..." Said Dave. Which is where and when I got cranky. Seeing land gives the mind a false impression that we are so close to our destination. And after 24 hours at sea, my dreams got squashed knowing we had two more HOURS left to go. In the grand scheme of life, it's not much, but cranky doesn't own reason or perspectives.

So while HE was having a grand ole time, using every puff of wind to round us up, keep us sailing, pinching us closer to our target. I was getting crankier from lack of sleep, from too much movement, from the heeling, from the water splashing on deck after the rain had rinsed us clean. Everything! And getting mouthier each time we heeled our fenders into the water. Thank goodness my Capt'N has sailor ears.

Gerry, our friend and Justice of the Peace who married us {{ on the boat, many moons ago }} had it right when he said that the true test of our vows and love for each other would be while we were out here, living our dream. I think he might've been right.

"Well, hello Banyan" said the very pleasant sounding Matthewtown dockmaster, promptly retuning our hail on VHF 16. "My name is George. I am sorry to let you know but the Matthewtown Port is closed to all vessels and traffic today. You cannot come in. We apologize, but you see, there are celebrations happening." He provided us with anchoring options, and mentioned that maybe later in the day, after 5, the port might reopen.

Our Land Ho, was a NoGo! We anchored in the north side of the bay, very close to shore, in about 10 feet of water. Organized ourselves, our sails, and the boat. Banyan's hull swaying in the slight surge and roll, bow to the breezy winds, in crystal clear waters, but when the winds died, we'd swing over and roll with the slight surge. Weather was incoming sometime during the night, and our tired selves didn't relish the prospect of being out here when it did. But, it's not like we had any other choice.

An Arrival Beer, lunch, and the Capt'N fell asleep before he finished either. He slept through most of the Sécurité messages from the Royal Bahamaiam Defence force, precisely timed at 30 minute intervals, enthusiastically voicing that "the Matthewtown Port is hereby closed to all marine vessels and traffic, I say again, the Matthewtown Port is closed all marine vessels and traffic".

Not tired enough, or perhaps too tired to sleep, I couldn't settle. I tidied up, prepped some dough for pizza, and listened to at least 4 planes fly over us as they landed.



We were near the airport runway but it still seemed unusual that this little Bahamian Island would have so much air traffic. All in one afternoon. And two of these planes looked pretty darn fancy. I mused that maybe there were some special visitors being flown in for whatever celebrations were happening in the Port that had the Port closed to all marine vessels and traffic?

Right at 5 p.m. the Sécurité broadcast again, but this time the Capt'N got up, and we discussed our options. Stay where we were or motor the one hour to Man O War Bay, a potentially better Anchorage for the night, and motor one hour back the following morning. Fuel was precious now, we were guarding every last drop, two hours of motoring was not on the agenda. We chose to stay put. LandHo was so close, yet so far.

Then the next broadcast at five minutes short of 5:30, had the voice announcing that the Sécurité was lifted, and the port was resuming normal operations. LandHo?

I had already prepped the lines and fenders, just in case {{ never underestimate the power of positive thinking my friends }}

The Mathewtown Dockmaster was far from port as the hails to come alongside started. We could barely make out his words in the static that is distance, but caught enough to know we could come in, and he would be there soon. There were two other boats anhcored in the south side anchorage and we surmised that they must've been asked to leave the docks earlier that day.

We passed by two Haitian boats as we entered the bay, noticed the large rocky wall was breaking some of the slight surge and swell, and were surprised that the whole port area, was both bigger and yet somehow smaller than we had envisioned. The brand new wooden docks immediately beckoning their empty spaces ahead of us, and the Defence Force boat cleaning up from whatever celebrating had been happening here.



The boat that had arrived before us helped us with our lines {{ sweet }} and just as the last fender was in place, George, having just arrived, strolled over to welcome us.

"Welcome... " he said, with a smile and a handshake.



LandHo! For real. For now.