A Sail of Two Idiots (43 page)

In the midst of our readying frenzy, we got a request from Joe on
Half Moon
to help him get his boat from Antigua down to Grenada. His partner, Becky, had stuff to attend to in the States and had to give up her crew gig, and Joe didn't want the boat to be in the middle of the hurricane belt during hurricane season. So Michael flew up there and helped crew the boat down, getting his first monohull sailing experience. They made it down without incident, and although Michael had fun and learned some new stuff about boats and sailing, he was still happy with our catamaran choice. Good to hear.

Before Michael left for Mexico, we moved the boat around to Mt. Hartman Bay, 3 miles to the east. Prickly had all the conveniences, but it was also becoming crowded, could be loud, and could get bouncy. Mt. Hartman was quiet, near a friend's boat, and was within walking distance of Prickly Bay (and therefore all the stuff that bay had access to). Off to Mexico with Michael—right at the beginning of hurricane season (June 1).

Commentary on Being Alone:
I know a lot of women are asking right now—you stayed on the boat by yourself for months?! Weren't you scared? I can't tell you how many people asked me that. Well, the answer was no, I wasn't scared. From a safety and loneliness standpoint, I knew people in the harbor (the same people we had been tag-teaming with all the way down the Caribbean) and knew more who were coming, plus I was meeting new boaters every day. If anything, I was worried about being inundated by well-intentioned folks checking on me. I
like
being alone. From a boat standpoint, who knew the boat better? I had been doing most of the same tasks Michael had, at least once, plus my own, and I knew I could ask for help if needed. And crime wasn't a worry where the boat was anchored.

I wasn't scared; I was excited. Just me and a 37-foot catamaran. Who would have imagined it? Well, even
we
wouldn't have, but both of us were confident in my abilities and never questioned the situation. I would miss Michael's cooking though (and maybe even
him
a little bit).

You may feel differently, but you don't know how to sail yet! Your confidence level might change and so will your mind. Or maybe you'll never have to or feel the need to separate, so this will be a moot issue. For us, this separation was a good thing.
End of commentary.

I lasted exactly four days in Mt. Hartman Bay before I decided to move. There was no wind! At all! Using the engines just to keep the freezer, lights, and laptop running would take all our diesel! Plus, without wind it was hot. Really hot. Oy! Plus, it wasn't
that
close to Prickly, and there was a big nasty hill to get there, or anywhere.

Decision made, I was now going to have to lift the anchor, putter over to Prickly Bay, and drop the anchor again by myself. This was a first, although I did know how to do it. So I practiced. Luckily there was no one on the few boats in the harbor to watch (and laugh or critique), so I did it as many times as I felt necessary. It wasn't a big deal, except that I had a hard time with the clasp on the bridle (it was difficult to push in with my puny fingers), plus it was slippery (or sharp from barnacles) and I'd often drop the whole contraption in the water and have to fish it back out.

I also realized that trying to position the boat without being able to see the anchor chain was going to be an issue. Until you put the bridle on and after you've
taken it off, the anchor chain can go under the hulls and scratch them. That's why you usually have one person at the anchor signaling or yelling back to the captain where the chain is at all times.

And if that wasn't enough, I'd be standing at the wheel (in the cockpit) 30 feet away from the anchor (which was at the bow), so I'd have to find the perfect place to set the anchor and then stop the boat (that is, put it in neutral) and run or walk forward to drop the anchor. No problem unless a current picked me up or a wind gust shoved me back. I'd then have to run back to the wheel and reposition myself, all the while hoping I didn't run into any other boats … or the shore. Gulp. Well, there wasn't any wind or strong current, so I decided I was ready to go for it. Anchors aweigh!

I raised anchor, motored west for 20 minutes to Prickly, stopped the boat, calmly walked up to the bow, dropped the anchor, calmly walked back to the wheel like the proud single-handing captain I was, gunned the engines in reverse to make sure the anchor was in, went below, and then did an Irish jig and giggled like a little schoolgirl. I had done it. Give me a high five!

Okay, so now I was back in Prickly. Despite my reluctance to be there, it made the most sense to stay there. Getting groceries was a cinch—by bus, delivery, or walking; there were lots of other boaters when I
did
want company or help; there were happy hours to attend; and there was even a gym I joined nearby. Plus, it was easy to catch the university bus that took students to hashes. Boaters were organizing tours to leatherback turtle watches and hiking, so I took part in those, too. And I worked on the boat.

I'm saying it again: I worked on the boat. Even though I knew I
could
do everything, it was an entirely different story when I
had
to. Here are the boat chores, which have to be done almost every day: clean exterior, clean interior, clean windows, clean metal, lubricate stuff, check the weather, and track hurricanes (in season). Then there are the occasional chores: clean the boat bottom, dinghy, and heads; defrost the freezer; do the laundry; get water (in heavy jugs—185 gallons of it); get boat and dinghy fuel (in heavy jugs—90 gallons of it); go grocery shopping; and … fix things! Was I bored? Lonely? No—I was too busy!

Joe from
Half Moon
was in Prickly Bay with me but thought he'd feel more comfortable farther out of the hurricane belt in Trinidad, about 110 miles due south. I offered to help crew him there, figuring I could use the monohull experience. Plus, I was curious about Trinidad. Who knew, maybe I'd take
Jacumba
there at some point. I definitely would if I thought a hurricane was gunning for Grenada.

The problem with the route between Grenada and Trinidad was that people were being shot at and robbed (as of this writing, they still were). Needless to say, Joe wanted to buddy-boat if possible. At it turned out, a couple of other boats were
heading south, so we made plans to go with them. The problem with buddy boating is the pressure to stick with people when they're willing to go out in conditions you're not comfortable with (LESSON 40, baa).

Knowing that
my
boat could go the distance in 12 hours, allowing for a day sail, I would have gone during the day (I like to see who's shooting at me). These folks didn't want to take a chance on a night arrival, so we decided to sail overnight and get in by morning. Joe wanted to go with them and it was his boat, so a night sail it would be.

I went to Joe's boat at 6:30 the evening of our planned departure. We took the engine off his dinghy, hauled it onto his boat, got the dinghy up, and then waited for midnight. Around 11 (we couldn't wait) we headed out of the harbor with two other boats. About a half hour later we came back into the harbor, alone. The waves were 8 to 10 feet and the winds were gusting up to 33 knots. It was so bad we couldn't even get the mainsail up (we'd turn into the wind and then get bashed out of it). These conditions were
not
what the forecasters had predicted. We came back in, motored around in the dark for half an hour, and ended up in exactly the spot we had just left.

Right after we re-anchored, Joe radioed one of the other boats and asked how it was out there. They said that it had gotten better, so we decided to try again. This time we'd put in two reefs and hoist the sail before we left the harbor. We went to put in the second reef, only to find that the reef line had become disconnected. It's now about 1:30 a.m., we're tired, it's dark … So we decided it was time to get some rest. Forget buddy boating; we'd just leave early in the morning.

Everything came together beautifully, and we had a fantastic sail the entire way. The winds were between 18 and 23 knots, the waves were 6 to 8 feet, and there weren't any squalls. Perfection. The only negative was that Joe's autopilot was acting up, so we had to steer the whole way. Maybe I'm not a true sailor for making a statement like that, but it's really tiring when your sails are full of wind (particularly on a larger boat—over 35 feet) and you've got waves knocking you back and forth for 12 hours. Joe would take a two-hour shift at the wheel and I'd last 45 minutes to an hour before my wimpy arms gave out. Sorry, Joe.

We got to the south side of Trinidad with plenty of light, but then we had to motor for another hour to get to the main anchorage. The Port-of-Spain harbor was industrial (a lot like Guadeloupe's Pointe-a-Pitre).

There we were, puttering around an unfamiliar, crowded anchorage, in diminishing light, in search of a spot to drop anchor. According to the chartplotter, the bay was supposed to be 12 feet deep. In actuality, the bay was over 30 feet deep, requiring a lot of chain—that Joe didn't have. So that left moorings. There were only two left, neither with pendants on the balls to tie off to. We couldn't drop the dinghy for assistance because it had no motor.

Desperation and whining (I won't say who) were starting to set in when out of the darkness I heard someone yell “Renee!” Who the heck would know me
there—and on someone else's boat, no less? Our guardian angels were Kathy and Kerry, on S/V
Bellagio
(I didn't know them all that well but had last seen them in the Dominican Republic). They came out and helped us get moored. Awesome!

Now, in Trinidad, you're supposed to check into customs immediately upon arrival, no matter what time it is, but we just didn't have it in us. So we decided to take our chances. We went to bed instead. We got up in the morning to discover that Joe's toilet wasn't working properly, nor was his back. After not drinking enough water and spending hours steering with the boat in a heeled-over position, his back had had enough (I'm not sure why the toilet decided to konk out—I swear I didn't do it). Not good.

We were supposed to meet the
Bellagio
crew at the customs dock at 8 a.m. (so they could help us with lines), and we were pushing our luck, so Joe took a muscle relaxant. He was pretty much skipping around by the time we needed to head out. Of course, he was giggling happily at the customs office too (I would like some of those pills myself), but at least he felt better.

In no time, Joe was being directed into a marina slip where he would spend the summer, so my mission was complete.

Trinidad had an amazing variety of birds flying overhead (the first thing I noticed), but I didn't like the anchorage (too dirty and crowded) and had heard that people had to be escorted if they wanted to go anywhere outside the harbor area. Dinghies were being cut from davits and dinghy engines stolen at docks. That was not going to work for me.

So what did I think about
my
first sail on a monohull? Like Michael, I was happy with my choice of catamaran (and working autopilot). Our catamaran had much wider decks to walk on when we needed to go forward to check gear; it was lower to the water, making mooring easier; and it allowed effortless access to our navigation equipment. And I definitely preferred being upright to being heeled over for 12 hours. The monohull was quieter though.

With weather coming, now we had summer squalls to contend with, I didn't like leaving
Jacumba
unoccupied, so I was on the next flight back to Grenada. Hmm, 12 hours from Grenada to Trinidad by boat; 45 minutes from Trinidad to Grenada by air. Maybe our next purchase should be a plane.

While Michael was going to clambakes, attending photo shoots for the Mexico project, taking pictures of eagles, and having his bed and food made for him, I was recaulking windows, scrubbing tape residue off said windows, washing pink Saharan dust off the boat, scrubbing mold out of all the seat cushions, walking 4 miles round-trip for groceries because I thought that taking the bus was for wus-sies, and doing my laundry by bucket because I was too cheap to pay someone else to do it.
Ay caramba
!

Nights could be exciting too. One evening I could hear a lot of chitchat on the VHF about an unoccupied boat that had become unmoored and was heading sideways down a nearby beach. As it dawned on me that the beach being discussed was the same beach I was anchored next to, I looked out my front windows and saw the shadow of a mast coming right at me. Aack! I ran outside to grab a couple of fenders and prepare myself to push the boat off with my feet when I saw two guys in two dinghies pushing the boat away from me and toward the beach. The phantom boat barely missed me and was soon secured again thanks to my new heroes. Whew!

When I wasn't fixing things (wait until you get to the What Broke? section), I let other boaters attempt to keep me sane. Mexican Train Dominoes was a form of a therapy I still practice today.

About mid-July, guess who decided to come back for some more abuse … I mean fun? Chuck and Jen, the couple who decided to have a baby instead of buying a boat. The plan was for us to sail together to Carriacou (50 miles northeasterly), where they had rented a villa. They had been married on Carriacou and were back to celebrate their anniversary. I'd play third wheel and mooch off the villa's extra bedroom. We'd be there for two weeks, enjoying Paradise Beach, Sandy Island, and other spots that Jen knew on the island. I knew
I
was ready.

Of course, Jen and Chuck brought the requisite good weather, and we had a great sail. Once there, I definitely enjoyed some much needed time away from
Jacumba
.