If, perchance, you watched our last SV Time Bandit YouTube, you'll have seen us country bumpkins, gawping wide eyed in amazement as we dinghied past marinas in Florida built and run for the exclusive purpose of parking of one's superyacht. So, if like us you wondered what the "billionaire class" did with their playthings, we've found the answer.
They're all parked in the Bahamas, music blaring, the "toys" deployed and roaring around the anchorage. Wealth doesn't necessarily mean you're smart. The super yachts are handily parked adjacent to the equally handy island airstrips, one just a stone's throw from us, kindly financed by Pablo Escobar, or, more accurately, his coke snorting customers. Being less than three hundred miles from Florida, the superyacht owners can take a break from the boardroom, hop in their Gulfstreams and Lear jets and get to the boat in time for Sundowners.

The Bahamas is, like most of the Caribbean cruising grounds we've visited in the last two years, pretty busy compared to what enjoyed ten years ago. I can't imagine what the Hiscocks and Pardeys would make of it, accustomed as they were, back in their day, when they'd be the only boat in the bay and when they were filling the yachting magazines, and my head, with stories of cruising these palm fringed beaches on azure blue seas on their own.

We're in a bay called Big Majors, anchored off Fowl Cay Resort, on the shore, a place we visited about ten years ago, when we were but one of the few yachts in the bay. Today there's over fifty.

During that particular visit, after an hour snorkelling around the reef, dodging the circling sharks, we thought maybe we'd splash out and go for a refreshing cocktail at the fancy resort, possibly even a bag of chips. It was a short ride to the mini-marina where we tied up the dinghy and, still dripping in our dookers and wet T-shirts, and admittedly not really dressed for dinner, we went for a walk round the white coral sand paths among the luxurious bungalows.

We hadn't got far, not that there's really very far you can go, when a woman came running down the path frantically waving her arms and shouting, "You can't be here. You can't be here. You have to leave now."

She wasn't much impressed when we said were only in for a drink, possibly dinner. It didn't cut any ice. She just wanted us off the island, tout de suite and we were duly hustled back to the dock and chased.

"That's was a bit odd." we thought. I mean, for the last few days we'd heard them putting out calls on the VHF saying call and book for a scrumptious dinner, then when you turn up you get treated like lepers. Lepers with Covid. Maybe there was an "A-Lister" staying.

Two days later we were walking around Nassau, mystified as to why the streets were totally deserted. Everywhere we looked, not a soul in sight. Until, at a road junction, we looked up the street and saw large crowds. "That's where everyone is. Wonder what's going on." And so, we went for a look. Getting closer, it seemed like the whole population was turned out, Girl Guides, Boy Scouts, school kids, folk in their Sunday best and elevated, shaded platforms where local dignitaries tried to look elegant in the steaming heat.

"What's all the fuss about?" we asked one of the crowd. "It's Harry." "Harry who?" I said. "Prince Harry, he's coming." It was the Queen's Jubilee year when members of the royal family had been despatched around the globe to wish those in the Commonwealth good fortune. That's who was staying on the island last night.

And so, like Muppets, we and a thousand others stood in the baking sun for the next hour waiting....and waiting...and waiting.

Finally, the motorcade showed up, all blue flashing lights and flags.

The rear door of the limo gets opened by an underling and the Great Man steps out, blinking, into the sunshine. With barely a nod to the crowds he made his way to a lectern, pulled his mum's letter from his pocket, read out the contents, folded it up again, got down from the lectern, back in the car and buggered off. That was it. No glad handing. No smiles. No chatting with the kids.

"What just happened?"

We, along with everyone else were kind of stunned at the brevity and hasty departure.

I don't think he'll have sold many books in Nassau.

“Malin, Rockall, Hebrides. Northwesterly seven, veering northerly by late afternoon, precipitation in sight”

That was the poetry of a maritime forecast when I was a lad.

Nowadays, a click of a button will get you as many different models of forecast as you want. All of them wrong.

A few years ago, well, decades actually, when Anne and I were first “walking out”, after work, I’d drive from Glasgow down to Largs for a Friday evening of teaching the young club cadets what little I’d learned about sailing and a weekend racing our Marauder dinghy and winching. The latter in the non Lewmar or Harken context.

In the early days of our relationship I was still in my probationary period with the head of the Rich family, George. Bunking up on the family sofa was a favour I could only ask for on a limited number of occasions.

Normally, I’d say my goodnights, hop in the car and drive round to the sailing club. Parked up, I’d go down to Cairnie’s Quay, pick up my father’s dinghy and row out through the moorings in the pitch black. No life jacket, no radio, nobody really knowing where I was. I’d then spend the night aboard one of dad’s many “tidy little cruisers” known to my mother as “Hell Ships.”

The tidy little Hell Ship that came to mind these last two nights, here in the Bahamas, was a Galleon. All twenty two feet of it. And this was a family cruiser in that era. Not much room for microwaves, air fryers, fridges, freezers, ice makers, washing machines and all the other paraphernalia which most cruisers wouldn’t even consider leaving shore without these days.

The Galleon was moored in the north half of Largs Bay on the Clyde. The Largs moorings, laid by George and David Howie** and the moorings committee were relatively sheltered unless the wind was from the north west or the south west. In either direction, the bay became exposed to a five to eight mile fetch, the seas having plenty time to build before hitting the mooring field.

Jeez. The nights of hell I spent on board that little boat. Character building or at least, building a lifelong immunity to seasickness. Sleeping in a bunk was never an option, the pitching and rolling just too wild to contemplate. To make the most of it I’d put the bunk cushions on the cabin sole in the vain hope that being on the centres of gravity and balance, I’d actually hardly move at all. Fat chance! I’d lie there, braced against the sides and I swear you could hear the waves building as they left the Kyles. The noise would increase in volume as the waves passed Tomont and, just as they were about to hit, the little Galleon, weighing all of a couple of tons at most, probably less, would pitch violently upwards and crash into the foaming crest before diving headlong into the trough. I’d spend the night listening to the oncoming waves, the roar getting increasingly more threatening as it approached, then, BANG, I’d brace myself against all the movement and wait for the next one. Finally, exhausted, I’d fall into a semblance of sleep.

And so, there I was, all these decades on and, despite being in a somewhat larger boat, listening to the howl of the wind in the rigging, the sound of the waves approaching and the lift and crash of them hitting the hulls.

It was Force 7 through the anchorage these last two nights and I could easily have been back in Largs on a cold, windy, summer’s night.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we had a wee house?

** Talking of breaking cardinal diving rules, I was beavering away at my “Forthcoming Book” the other day, writing a piece about how Anne and I pursued our PADI diving certificates in Largs and Lisbon. In it I wrote about Anne breaking a cardinal rule of diving by shooting to the surface after seeing a monster crab.

David Howie’s fingerprints are all over the length of Largs moorings. He would set them up, diving on his own for hours, no dive buddy, using, what by today’s standards was pretty rudimentary gear. George would be hanging over the back of a wobbly dinghy in support, more moral than practical, watching for bubbles, although what he could have done to help in any serious situation was probably pretty limited. No cell phone, no VHF……. but probably a flask of tea.

After weeks of tide-ripped, inlet hopping down the Georgia and Florida coasts, and before we got tainted by the extreme wealth of West Palm Beach, not to mention its politics, finally the wind turned from easterly with its on-the-nose windward bashing to a more favourable direction, giving up-yer-chuff sailing and a quick scoot across the Gulf of America Stream to West End in the Bahamas.

Now, in our travels we've "cruised"the Bahamas three times and in case of doubt, that's cruising, in Time Bandit, gotta-press-on style. On two of these visits we were intentionally just passing through rather than cruising, "yellow flagging" it's known as, a.k.a. hiding out from customs and immigration.

In 2012, we spent all of two weeks dashing through the five hundred mile long chain of around seven hundred islands, seeing only a handful and, at that, getting just a passing glimpse. The islands sit on a limestone shelf that is the platform for the Turks and Caicos and Bahamian archipelagos, an area eleven times the size of Belgium but with fewer shops. None of this expanse of sea is more than a few metres deep and much of that is in the one to two metres range. "Shallow draft and VPR rules apply". Initially I thought VPR was something to do with how visible your underwear was but in fact it is Visual Pilotage Rules where one is required to stand on deck or halfway up the mast looking for shallow bits and rogue coral heads. For miles there are coral-head-infested areas waiting to spoil the day of the unwary by snapping off a dagger board or biting a big chunk out your keel.

Having been brought up sailing in the deep, inky black waters of the West Coast of Scotland, and despite a good few miles in tropical, shallow, light blue, reef infested waters, thrashing around here, at speed, with dagger boards just one third down, (and we can still outpoint the Condomarans) we're nervous, feeling vulnerable in the event of a newly relocated sandbank or, worse, an uncharted coral head, it doesn't make for relaxed cruising.

Unless you're in a charter boat that is.

Here's what some of it was like in moving pictures!

We were in West Palm Beach last week, home of millionaires, billionaires and "yer man", the primary contributor to the interestingly named "Truth Social" - The Donald.

Us peasants anchor out in the fairway that includes the Intra Coastal Waterway. The squillionaires keep their boats in one of the many marinas lining the shores. It's not as convenient being out at anchor but at $5.50 to $8.00 per foot, per day it's a lot cheaper. It's also quieter, well away from the exhaust noises of the Lamborghinis, Maybach Mercs and Hummers.

Regular readers might have seen me write about the "St Martin Navy", the rafts of super yachts that inhabit the St Martin lagoon during the cruising season in the Caribbean. Well, now we know where they come from, West Palm Beach.

We could take all the boats out of our three largest marines on the Clyde, perhaps numbering more than two thousand decent-sized sailing boats and there still wouldn't be enough room to park all the super yachts and sport fishing boats.

In need of topping up our diesel tanks, we dinghies into the fuel dock, armed with our two, twenty-litre Jerry Cans.

"Will you fill me up please".

"Sure", said the smartly uniformed marina man. "Once I've filled this guy." Ahead of us, dwarfing our little rubber dinghy, was a seventy-foot or so sport fishing boat. You know, these very rakish looking powerboats with forty or fifty feet of scaffolding above the deck, from which lofty, swaying perch they can steer towards the game fish they're chasing ..... or vomit on the crew below.

We sat and sat and sat as the wide-bore diesel pump filled this guy. Five thousand gallons of diesel!

No wonder fish is so expensive.

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.