Where’s You’ Bin?

“I’ve been to Florida.”

“No, where”s your wheelie bin?” …..goes the old joke. Well, we’ve been cruising down east coast USA now for four weeks so far this trip and I can tell you, wheelie bins are few and far between. Dumpsters is this name of the game here, or, skips as we would call them. You puts all yer trash in a plastic bag, all of it, and simply lob it into the nearest dumpster.

When we left home in Scotland to take up this cruising lark, nearly fifteen years ago now, heaven forbid, we left behind I think three or four wheelie bins and two boxes, all thoughtfully provided by the local authorities so we could sort our trash for recycling. Glass, cardboard, tins, garden stuff etc….

A couple of days ago we sailed into Cape Canaveral, filing past the towering cruise ships. We also filed past what looked like three old burnt out chimneys. It turns out these were the boosters from an earlier launch of a SpaceX rocket.

Recycling Florida style.

We've never cruised this lower part of the US east coast before. We are quite familiar with parts and places north of Norfolk but south of that is all new. Locals call it the "Deep South" which in itself is something of a misnomer as the waters seldom get deeper than ten metres and more likely just two or three.

I'm not entirely sure where the borders between the North, South and Deep South are but I think the "North" is, traditionally, those parts north of the Mason Dixon line, named after the two guys hired by that era's super wealthy to agree where their respective gardens should end.

The "South" and "Deep South" are from points south where in conversation people refer to "y'all" and its plural, "all y'all." It's Southern speak for the Glaswegian or Australian, "youse". When you hear it, you immediately know where you are, or where the speaker is from, give or take a continent or two.

Anyway, we've been sailing on south for the few weeks since we got back from South America and a couple of days ago, after New Year(s) (?) in Fernandina City, we pitched up in St Augustine, another "America's oldest town."

While we could have saved a lot of time, effort and money over the years and just stayed home on our Stressless recliners learning about such places on the National Geographic channel or Wikipedia, we've been fortunate to experience the likes of South America and this Deep South first hand.

It was therefore something of a surprise to learn that, no sooner had we mounted up on our motorcycle and left the silver mines of Potosi, Bolivia behind us than we inadvertently find ourselves in the primary staging post for all that loot as it made its way to Europe, whether in the hands of the Spanish who nicked it from Bolivia in the first place or, Sir Francis Drake and his ilk, who in turn, nicked it from the Spanish.

The city of St Augustine was founded by the Spanish in 1565 although I suspect the indigenous Native American peoples might have said the area was already founded. The Spaniards kept possession for about two hundred years while they pillaged South America, the silver and gold being transported by llama trains numbering up to five thousand (the last couple of thousand in the line must have been knee deep in s?!t.)

The bullion was then shipped up the Pacific coast, transferred across land to Cartagena where it was reloaded onto Spanish galleons to make for St Augustine.....if they got past the English galleons waiting just offshore.

Anyway, here we are in St Augustine, and just like the galleons we're replenishing supplies before heading out into the ocean in our quest to find warmer weather.

Just a shame that unlike the galleons we don't have four hundred million in silver in the bilges.

Meanwhile, I'm catching up on our motorcycling videos from South America. If you're inclined, here's the link.... More Two Hulls coming soon.

Now we've been underway for a few days, I'm struck by the similarities in the two means of travel we've been using of late, Two Wheels and Two Hulls.

Some people have asked why on Two Wheels in South America we drove so far each day. The answer is simple. There's bugger all between towns. On Two Hulls it's much the same. Norfolk to Beaufort ; Beaufort to Charleston. You might be just three, or perhaps ten but never more than twenty miles off the twinkling, suductive warm lights of the beach. A beach that seems to extend from New York to Florida, but unfortunately, while there are towns along the coast, or, being America, maybe it's just one huge, long town, inlets providing access and respite are few and far between. Most of these towns are annoyingly and tiringly (is that a word?) about one point five times a doable, days sail away. At this time of year with short days and long, black nights, that means we leave in the dark, freeze all day then arrive in the dark, breaking at least one of our rules of safe passage, never entering anywhere new in the dark. (That's a fib. We run the heating all day and leave the high tech thermostats to manage our comfort levels. We only freeze when we dash out on deck, through the well greased patio doors, to do boaty type things. Things we can't do from inside, like look over the back to see if the Watt&Sea, set for nine knots is still there after hurtling off bigger than expected waves at a more than expected nineteen knots in the more than expected winds.

On Two Wheels, in the chilly south and Patagonia we'd get togged up in woolly socks, clumpy boots, Long Johns, which Lee Marvin would have been proud of, three layer biking jeans and waterproof trousers. On top, we had heated, long sleeved shirts plugged in and set to Gas Mark 7, quilted jacket, three layer biking jacket and waterproof. We could at best waddle and needed a small step ladder to mount the bike. On Two Hulls right now it's pretty similar, just change biking pants to sailing pants. We've thought about getting extension cords and wiring ourselves up to the boat batteries so we could A) be toasty and B) look like one of these cheap remote controlled cars from when I was a kid, before radio waves were invented.

On Two Wheels we often had fuel anxiety, the bugger all between towns extending to petrol stations. On Two Hulls, aforementioned heating is sucking away our reserves necessitating refills when we'd normally go for months without thinking about fuel. I lie in bed listening to the little pump squirting diesel into the mini furnace, doing the math in my head of litres per hour times hours running, divided into the capacity of our recently filled tanks. Maybe we should just put on more clothes.

On reflection, we've become our children when they stayed in our house, wandering around in T-shirts, central heating at full blast and the windows open for that cooling breeze.

Two Hulls? Two Wheels?

"Wouldn't it be nice if we had a wee house, a Stressless Recliner and a TV remote with big buttons?"

Happy Christmas.

Is it just us or is a good proportion of time spent sailing; not sailing but waiting?

It's our fault, when we should have called it a day and ended our South America trip, we didn't. As we'd arrived in Patagonia pretty much in their winter, we changed plans and headed north, looking for sunshine and warmth. Over three thousand kilometres, nearly two thousand miles later we found the heat. We also found ourselves quite a long way from where we started and an even longer way to get back. Hence, our three to four week trip turned into eight to nine weeks.

After a run down the length of Argentina, nipping across the border, in and out of Chile to follow the mountain routes, we made it back to Patagonia. Having enjoyed it so much the first time, and to save another thousand miles or so in the saddle, we reversed our Navimag trip and caught the ferry back to Puerto Montt.

Around that time we got the good news we couldn't get the boat back in the water as the yard's Travelift was kaput. Rather than dash back and sit around in the freezing cold, we thought, why just fly over Peru when we could stop for a look and oddly, save money on the flights back "home"?

And so, there went another week. A week when we should have been making headway south before the winter storms settled in along the US East Coast.

Which, they have. In Scotland, some folk say you can get four seasons in a day. It's not quite the same here but you can certainly get four seasons in a week. None of them favourable. A few days ago we woke, fought our way out from under three duvets and a fleece blanket to find frost on the deck.

The yard finally got Time Bandit in the water where again we waited on a weather window. After a couple of days, we considered the "least bad" option suggested by Chris Parker, waiting for the weekend and motoring into light headwinds. Never keen on motoring and, knowing we'd been in worse, we decided waiting was for wimps and chose to just go for it.

01:00 we peeled off the dock in Cape Charles, near the mouth of the Chesapeake and headed out into the freezing cold. Just like a winter frostbite race. Only dark.

Many, many years ago I read, "Overboard. A True Blue Water Odyssey of Disaster etc..." If you like a good sailing yarn and / or, tales of survival, this is an excellent read. Just keep in mind it might put you off the Gulf Stream, or indeed, The Mull, for life.

Reading that book left indelible scars in my addled brain and has severely coloured my thinking of the Gulf Stream. It's a piece of water that deserves respect and a lot of caution. It's not something to be trifled with although, as you may have read here or seen in one of our stunning, yet little watched YouTubes, we've pushed our luck with Gulf Stream crossings on a couple of occasions.

Nonetheless, we were routing south, alongside the Stream, not actually crossing it. However, we'd certainly feel its effects. We'd be squeezed tight between the shoals off Cape Hatteras and the Stream, all in twenty knots of wind against current. Not a great plan but, other than being patient, sensible and waiting, there were few alternatives.

The good part of the plan was that we'd get fifteen to twenty plus knots on a broad reach so we'd make good time, which we did, sitting at around ten knots for much of the way.

Sixteen hours and one hundred and thirty odd bouncy miles after leaving we skooshed around the Cape, doors firmly shut, Webasto heater blazing. All said, our passage plan worked well and, shortly after dawn, as we neared Beaufort, ten boats filed past making their next jump south. However, we'd had enough. These overnighters aren't as easy as they used to be. Sails down, engines on, we winkled our way through the sandbanks into a beautiful, newly vacated Taylor's Creek.

And so, having watched Christmas in the Caribbean fade from our plans we've changed our mindset to having "Happy Holidays" somewhere down the USA east coast. Meanwhile, we'll enjoy some winter sunshine in Beaufort, the crux of the trip behind us.

Next weather window we'll work our way south to South Carolina and Georgia and eventually, check the weather real close and cross the Gulf Stream and go for a closer look at the Bahamas.

It's not something I usually lose much sleep over but occasionally, when the boat is out the water, all chocked up nice and safely, I think back to an event some fifty years or so ago and think "what happens if the yard goes bust as happened to my dad's pal?" Or, for whatever reason, the yard can't, or won't put the boat back in the water.

Back then, dad's pal, also a Largs Sailing Club member, was eagerly awaiting delivery of his new boat, making its way to Largs overland, from a yard in Scandinavia somewhere. The boat made it as far as the south coast when word came through that the yard and all its contents were now in the hands of the receiver, behind locked gates as the builder's UK dealer had gone bust.

Somewhat concerned about his new purchase and a distinct lack of interest from the Receiver, dad's pal rented himself a Land Rover, bought a pair of bolt cutters and headed off down the M6 with mischief on his mind.

Under cover of darkness, both Land Rover and bolt cutters were put to good use and the boat made it safely back to Largs. I'm sure there was a bit of a to-do behind the scenes but sometimes, there's things you gotta do.

Which brings us to Norfolk Virginia on a cold winters night. We left Time Bandit in the yard for three to four weeks while we went gallivanting around South America. Three to four weeks turned into nine weeks and, just as we're getting ready to head back, we get an email that says, "Whoops, the Travelift is kaput. We can't get you back in the water."

It is getting cold in Norfolk, Virginia and we really need to get south so the butter will melt and we can thaw out. Ironically, we will be heading back almost on a reciprocal course to the one we painfully flew all day yesterday.

The Blog has been "off the air" for a while as those last nine weeks have been on two wheels rather than two hulls and you don't really need to read about these travels. (Although, if I can ever get WiFi there will be hours of tedious YouTube videos to watch).

The grand plan is to head for Antigua and hopefully, this time we won't find any missing sailors. That is, if we can get the boat back in the water and if everything works.

Welcome back, thanks for reading and Happy Christmas.

My apologies for the absence of insightful and educational posts in the blog over these many weeks. We’ve been a bit busy. Mostly either covering hundreds and hundreds of kilometres every day….or sleeping, priming ourselves for the next long distance slog.

“Why do you go so far every day?” our younger son asked. “‘Cause there’s hee haw in-between” was the reply. And these isn’t. And we’re over camping.

In this video we get north to the picturesque village of San Pedro De Atacama, the freezing cold border town of Ollague, bump and grind our way across the desert and salt flats to Uyuni - home to a REALLY big salt flat.

As I just said in my previous blog, this trip is full of continuing daily surprises. Not the least of which is that, apparently, I've ticked off another year this morning. Thanks to all who wished me feliz cumpleaños as we say here.

Not that anyone can understand what I say, but after months of listening to my Spanish For Idjits courses, I like to try conversation. If only those to whom I am speaking didn't look quite so mystified, I'd feel quite chuffed.

Making progress out here is a real challenge as the scenery, and we've done scenery before, is simply amazing......other than the Nullabor type, straight-as-die roads across wide expanses of desert. However, in their own way, these can be pretty interesting, at least for a while. Range after range of mountains reach off to the horizon in all colours. Ravines and chasms cut through the landscape where, at times, copious amounts of flood water patently scour the land. We spend a lot of time slowed down or at a standstill simply to "stop and gawp".

This morning we passed a sign that showed, "Ruta 40 - 4,000Km". I think that 4,000km to Ushuia. That's not in the agenda, at least right now but Puerto Natales is and that's only 3,300km.

Better get our skates on!

This trip is delivering a never ending succession of surprises. Vistas, meals lost in translation, hotel bookings and the odd corner.

We’re a bit behind schedule but here’s Part 1 of Time Bandit Does South America, or, actually, has another go at it.