A Sail of Two Idiots (27 page)

We replaced a cracked shower bilge pump.

We bought enamel paint so we could repaint the interior (again). Each can was $15 a gallon as opposed to the $50 a gallon we paid in the Bahamas.

We replaced the anchor light (bulb only) again.

We re-covered our dilapidated cockpit table with some pretty blue tile that we found and bordered it with sea glass that we had picked up in the Bahamas.

I
n planning our trek, we had to make a choice. We could stop at various harbors along the Dominican Republic's northeastern shore (the same ones we had passed on a motorcycle during our road trip) or simply wave at the coast as we passed and head directly for Puerto Rico. We didn't want to deal with the bribery and theft issues reported in the other anchorages, particularly Samana, so we decided to sail straight to Puerto Rico, 287 miles away.

We had a choice of sailing two days and one night or two nights and one day. We would have much preferred only one overnighter, but Van Sant's “bible” told us we had to worry about daytime trade winds that could gust over 30 knots, causing irregular and unpredictable wave conditions (especially around the capes), as well as confused seas in the Mona Passage. Despite knowing that the winds and seas were predicted to be low, we went against our instincts and decided to follow the book's recommendations like sheep (eschewing two fundamental lessons: Don't always go by the book [Lesson 63] and Trust your instincts [Lesson 23]). We'd be out there for two nights and one day. Can we get a do-over?

We raised anchor with some sunlight remaining (around 4:30 p.m.) so we could see (and avoid) scattered crab pots along the way. We were hugging the coast close enough to be bitten by a no-see-um and to smush a mosquito!

While we were shedding tears about leaving Shaka behind (he should have been in his spot in the kitchen), two dolphins swam up and frolicked in the water around the boat. We greatly appreciated their antics.

About four hours into our trip, massive thunderstorms developed. We dodged them for about 13 hours, from about 8 p.m. to 9 a.m. The radar came in handy, allowing me to judge direction and distances. At one point we were sandwiched between two storm cells—one on land, the other on water. Worried, I took advantage of our proximity to the coast and checked the weather online. I was unnerved by what I saw. The two blobs weren't even red; they were white (for most severe), huge, and sprawling—heading for us. Aack! Must go faster! Just a few minutes later they merged behind us and gave us quite a show.

The rest of the night we were flanked by storms but managed to stay slightly ahead of them. The next morning was more of the same, but at least we could see everything. Maybe that wasn't a good thing. The storms were coming from every
direction. At times I motored
Jacumba
in a circle trying to figure out whether I could get around the worst of it.

About 10 a.m. we could see some serious nastiness ahead and realized that we couldn't dodge this one. The rain was bouncing hail-like off the ocean, and the thunder sounded like pins being knocked down in a bowling alley. We scrambled to drop the sails as quickly as possible. Some squalls pack winds that can blow out a sail (rip or detach it), and with these dark, swirling skies we weren't taking any chances. What stunk about this particular timing was that we were just passing Cabo Cabron, the second cape on the northwestern edge of the Dominican Republic. Remember how I told you that capes can generate their own winds? Just like that, we were swallowed by the storm and walloped with 31-knot winds (up
from
5 knots) and pelting rains (ouch!).

We endured 25- to 30-knot winds for about 20 minutes, but the seas never got higher than 3 feet. My gamble paid off. With our sails down and the winds swinging around on our nose occasionally, though, we lost speed and therefore time. Worse, we were nervous about the lightning. It wasn't even safe to escape to various anchorages because some of the most viscous storms were coming from shore. Oh well, we had experienced similar conditions in the Bahamas, so we knew we could get through it (only more easily because we were smarter now).

We decided to keep going, and I continued to avoid the storm cells when I could. Hours later, while I was staring straight ahead looking for garbage, dead cows, and other boats (well, that's what I was supposed to be doing, but I felt rather comatose), a geyser shot up about 500 feet ahead. I watched it happen again and then went to wake up Michael from a light snooze and get the camera. Sure enough it was a whale! Two of them in fact! Michael spotted a third one a little later. We spent the rest of the day looking for more, so we had no problems staying alert and awake.

The second night was just like the first (yep, I really want that do-over). The radar became useless because it was just a mass of black (from the storms), which meant we couldn't see other boats. It was harrowing.

At about 3 a.m. I heard someone hailing a catamaran. How many other catamarans could have been out there? I listened more closely. “Hailing the catamaran at coordinates X, Y, Z.” Hey! That was sort of where we were. So I answered the
disembodied voice in the darkness and was then asked our speed and direction intention. Curious, I told him. Within five minutes a brightly lit boat towing a heavily loaded barge motored out of the gloom, passed just behind our stern, and then just as quickly disappeared into the darkness on the other side. How in the world had they known we were there? Sure, we had a radar reflector (a metal device that would help make us visible to others on their radar) hanging from our mast, but the storms were blacking out our radar display. We couldn't see squat, not even a boat towing a freighter. Good thing they saw us though. Next time I want
their
radar!

The towboat passed before the next storm cell hit—a particularly bad one. The lightning lit it up quite nicely, thank you, so again we rushed to get the sails down. In the midst of our scurrying, the radar reflector fell down from its high perch on the mast and hit Michael on the head. He wasn't hurt, but he was mad at the offending contraption and told it so. That's where phrases such as “curses like a sailor” come from. At least it fell onto the boat (you'll remember last time the barbecue grill went adrift). Of course, no one could pick us up on their radar now …

This squall was so bad that we put all our electronics in the oven and microwave to protect them from the lightning, a trick we had learned from other boaters in the Bahamas. Even the chartplotter … Hey! I need that! Not really, I had my trusty handheld GPS (previously loaded with the track) at the ready. The storm was psycho. It looked as though it was going north, so I'd slow down to let it get away from us, and then it would come back. It was undulating, keeping us in the middle, as if we were the heart of the storm, for 1½ hours. Ay yiy yiy. So tired …

The pièce de résistance was when we hit something
big
(in the dark), with the bow
and
the propeller. We were afraid it might have been a sleeping whale (they float with their airhole exposed), but later, after looking at the damage, we were fairly sure it was a log. We were motorsailing (the rain was gone, but so were the associated winds), and we now had a bent propeller, which meant 10 hours of shaking and rattling before we could finally drop anchor. At least it didn't kill the engine completely, or tear off the rudder, or send water gushing into the boat, or …

Jeez, anything else? Praise be, no. The possible Mona Passage nightmares did not come to pass (we had gone through the passage at about dawn). We lost and gained about half a knot with the changing currents, but nothing else too noticeable. No washing-machine effect, no rogue waves. Finally, a break.

We were almost there! We had planned on a quick stop at Mona Island for some hiking, but we were too tired to even consider such a thing. Mayaguez, in the middle of the west coast of Puerto Rico, is normally the main check-in place on the island, but the holding was supposedly lousy there. Wanting to be able to sleep soundly, we headed for Boqueron, also on the west end of the island but slightly more to the south. That decision added yet another hour to our trip. Oy.

Yes! We had arrived! After motoring/sailing from 4 p.m. on Wednesday to 7 a.m. on Friday, we were incredibly happy to be anchoring in clean, nice-smelling, empty Boqueron. Let the celebrations commence!

We were proud of ourselves, not to mention relieved. What we learned during that trip was that we would never do any journeys longer than the one we had just taken. We had bought a bluewater boat to make sure that if we wanted to do ocean crossings and sail around the world, we could. Now we knew we wouldn't. Such a trek would be too exhausting. Getting to the Pacific or to Europe would require at least 30 days at sea, and that was
not
going to happen (shipping the boat would not happen either).

This was not a depressing thought. If anything, it helped us focus on the task at hand—finding an island to live on in the Caribbean. It was the Caribbean or bust!

C
onsidering we had been awake since 6 a.m. on Wednesday, minus tiny catnaps here and there, you'd think we would have gone right to bed upon dropping anchor, but we were just too hyped up. We had just accomplished a 2½-day sail! Can you believe it? We couldn't either! Plus we were no longer in Pooperon! Breathe in the fresh air. Look at the clean water. I hear angels' trumpets! Or was that a Jet Ski?

Instead, we grabbed a cab to Mayaguez and stumbled, bleary-eyed, into customs (after hitting rush-hour traffic on the way). Checking in was free and painless (it would have been even more painless had we previously purchased a customs decal that would have allowed us to check in via telephone). We headed back to the beach where we were anchored, wandered on the beautiful sand, had a nice sundowner, and were passed out by 7 p.m.