Earlier in the season the systems formed off the African coast every couple of days and came rolling across the ocean straight at us here in Grenada, then usually at or before a few hundred miles off they’d skew northwards, turn into tropical storms/hurricanes and blast someone else instead of us. I felt like a skittle in a bowling alley that knew the guy playing couldn’t bowl for nuts, but concerned that he might fluke one. Still we had so much advance warning that we could always run south out of the way.
Later in the year, like now, the systems don’t get organized until they are close to our longitude. On Thursday night we got word that some bad weather was heading our way, on Friday morning tropical storm Tomas was born, predicted to hit us about midnight, with some of the more panicky forecasts predicting we were to be hit by six in the evening. So no time to run, just dig in wherever you are. As it happened we had come into a marina to do some work. So I had a half dozen unfinished jobs about the boat, on deck, on the pontoon. We had to stow everything.
I would have preferred to be at anchor. Then all I’d have had to do was put out all my anchors and clear the decks. At home the marinas are built of sturdy stuff inside of nice strong harbours, here not all of them are so sturdy, and this one is just in the bay, no harbour. In 2004, Ivan, a category 3 hurricane, sent this entire marina into the mangroves. However Tomas is a far cry from a category 3 hurricane, and we are fortunate in that there is no boat beside us, so we were able to tie to marina fingers on either side of us. I quadrupled my lines, 2 warps and 2 springs out of each of the four corners of the boat, and a few more lines besides. I was pretty knackered by the time we’d finished clearing away all the half done jobs, and I was in bed sleeping like a baby by 8.
And then the weather came! Or more correctly it didn’t! At least not to us. Sure, Barbados got hammered, but here, well it went all grey, and there were quite a few showers on Saturday. The weather gurus were astonished that we were reporting flat calm, no wind at all when they had predicted 40+ knots, gusting to 60. However they assured us of winds of 20 to 40 knots Saturday night. Well they were consistent : Wrong again! Another eerily calm night. It’s a strange feeling, to be within a hare’s breath of this monster, it smashing another country to pieces a short distance away, while we cower under a rock hoping it won’t come for us.
Another strange thing, my own sentiments, shared by just about everyone I talk to. Relief certainly, but tinged with an almost disappointing anticlimax. I mean we spent all day Friday building up our fortifications, psyching ourselves up for a life and death struggle against one of Natures worst tantrums, and then nothing! I mean there I was, looking forward to a lifetime of boring every dinner party with how I tackled hurricane Tomas when he was only a mere lad of a tropical storm. And then the little fucker didn’t show up!
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Pictures
So, I've finally gotten the finger out and downloaded Picasso to post my pics online. See http://picasaweb.google.com/103937943251204013492
Grenada
Grenada is a small Caribbean country of only about 100,000 people, with as many again living abroad, and whose remittances home make up a sizable portion of the countries income, echoes there of our own Irish economy of just a half century ago and before.
The people here are either descended from the African slaves brought here before the early part of the 19th century to work the sugar cane industry, or from Indian indentured workers (people who were sold into slavery by their own families or even sold themselves for their families benefit) to do the same work after "slavery" was abolished here in the 1820s.
But this is a country that stimulates the senses and emotions like no other I have been to. The beauty of its deep green jungles, spectacular waterfalls, a city of uncannily small but charming buildings, spice markets, and everywhere, even six years later, the sadness of the still evident destruction of Ivan, a category 3 hurricane that struck here in September 2004.
For Boaters, the most sheltered anchorages are in the many bays on its salamander shaped south coast. These deeply indented inlets are protected by land on three sides, and at the mouth by a zig-zag of reefs that require your full attention on entry and exit. Another advantage is the proximity to the capital, St Georges, at EC$2.50 each way (approx US$0.85/ €0.65), the twenty minute ride in buses that come every few minutes, make the city very accessible. The twenty minutes is provided that the driver doesn't decide he hasn't enough passengers, otherwise you can spend a further twenty minutes cruising the by-roads in search of more passengers. In this latter event, one adopts a Caribbean "Don't worry" mentality.
The capital St Georges is crowded around a double natural harbour, consisting of the city centre Carenage and the now almost completely marinafied Lagoon. Prior to Ivan the cruise ships came right into the Carenage, with its multitude of tiny spice shops and markets. Indeed another sad reminder of the hurricane is the new cruise ship dock outside the harbour and its shopping malls, together having all the character of an airport departure lounge. What an awful pity just a fraction of the money could not have been spent on the Carenage, which has instead been left to decline, with “Rum runner” tour boats attracting lowest common denominator tourists with deafening music that murders this beautiful place.
But Grenada's greatest asset is undoubtedly its people. On checking in to Grenada, the young customs officer told us they had the lowest crime in the Caribbean. What an understatement! A cruiser here recently came on the early morning VHF network to tell how his lost wallet had been returned to him, complete with contents!
Other examples of the bona fides of the locals friendliness are obvious as you walk around any of the towns. Zebra crossings are plentiful, and if you attempt to cross at them the first car will immediately stop. More, if you attempt to cross where there is no pedestrian crossing, they'll still stop for you.
There is a lady called Jan Pascal, who runs a "reading group" on Saturday mornings for kids that have fallen behind. The class is in Mount Airy about 6 or 7 miles outside of St Georges in the surrounding hills. By and large these are not backward children, but possibly through inadequacies of the education system or a cultural lack of emphasis on education, they were left behind. Sometime in the past a relationship developed between this group and the sailing community, and a busload of us go up there every Saturday to help the kids with the three Rs.
While teenagers are as they are anywhere in the world, I can't help but being struck by their good manners and politeness.
Recently, I was making slow progress in the mid-morning heat climbing the steep hill from the chandlers to my bus stop, where a bus was patiently waiting. When I got to within earshot, I called my destination, “Woburn”. “Sorry, next bus” came the reply and the bus went on. A taxi leaving the adjacent station called to me, “you going to Woburn?” Now my budget does not stretch to taxis when there's a perfectly good bus service, so I declined, a little irritated at the hussle. The taxi man's next words left me both charmed and ashamed as he said, “No man, I'm just going home for lunch, I can drop you, no charge”. His name was Rock, and I took him up on his offer.
The following afternoon, I left Catherine in St Georges, agreeing to meet up in Woburn. I took the opportunity while I was waiting for her to have a cool beer in Nimrod's rum shop, where pretty soon I was engaged in conversation with Nimrod and the only other customer, Rollo. Rollo not only insisted on buying me beer, but made it difficult for me to return the compliment. Our conversation covered quite some breadth, from the quality of beer brands to my anecdote about the generous taxi man, to his job on a very glamorous looking 60 foot ketch moored in the marina. My new friend's generosity was not restricted to me, Catherine on her arrival receiving the same treatment.
As we finally left, I confess a little unsteadily on my part, Rollo called after me, “Hey man, you know your friend Rock, the taxi man?” and without waiting for an answer, “He's my brother!”
I have only today installed picasso, Google's picture sharing program, and I have used it to post pictures from Mt Airy, and many other places in Grenada (and from previously in our adventure). Check it out on;
http://picasaweb.google.com/103937943251204013492
The people here are either descended from the African slaves brought here before the early part of the 19th century to work the sugar cane industry, or from Indian indentured workers (people who were sold into slavery by their own families or even sold themselves for their families benefit) to do the same work after "slavery" was abolished here in the 1820s.
But this is a country that stimulates the senses and emotions like no other I have been to. The beauty of its deep green jungles, spectacular waterfalls, a city of uncannily small but charming buildings, spice markets, and everywhere, even six years later, the sadness of the still evident destruction of Ivan, a category 3 hurricane that struck here in September 2004.
For Boaters, the most sheltered anchorages are in the many bays on its salamander shaped south coast. These deeply indented inlets are protected by land on three sides, and at the mouth by a zig-zag of reefs that require your full attention on entry and exit. Another advantage is the proximity to the capital, St Georges, at EC$2.50 each way (approx US$0.85/ €0.65), the twenty minute ride in buses that come every few minutes, make the city very accessible. The twenty minutes is provided that the driver doesn't decide he hasn't enough passengers, otherwise you can spend a further twenty minutes cruising the by-roads in search of more passengers. In this latter event, one adopts a Caribbean "Don't worry" mentality.
The capital St Georges is crowded around a double natural harbour, consisting of the city centre Carenage and the now almost completely marinafied Lagoon. Prior to Ivan the cruise ships came right into the Carenage, with its multitude of tiny spice shops and markets. Indeed another sad reminder of the hurricane is the new cruise ship dock outside the harbour and its shopping malls, together having all the character of an airport departure lounge. What an awful pity just a fraction of the money could not have been spent on the Carenage, which has instead been left to decline, with “Rum runner” tour boats attracting lowest common denominator tourists with deafening music that murders this beautiful place.
But Grenada's greatest asset is undoubtedly its people. On checking in to Grenada, the young customs officer told us they had the lowest crime in the Caribbean. What an understatement! A cruiser here recently came on the early morning VHF network to tell how his lost wallet had been returned to him, complete with contents!
Other examples of the bona fides of the locals friendliness are obvious as you walk around any of the towns. Zebra crossings are plentiful, and if you attempt to cross at them the first car will immediately stop. More, if you attempt to cross where there is no pedestrian crossing, they'll still stop for you.
There is a lady called Jan Pascal, who runs a "reading group" on Saturday mornings for kids that have fallen behind. The class is in Mount Airy about 6 or 7 miles outside of St Georges in the surrounding hills. By and large these are not backward children, but possibly through inadequacies of the education system or a cultural lack of emphasis on education, they were left behind. Sometime in the past a relationship developed between this group and the sailing community, and a busload of us go up there every Saturday to help the kids with the three Rs.
While teenagers are as they are anywhere in the world, I can't help but being struck by their good manners and politeness.
Recently, I was making slow progress in the mid-morning heat climbing the steep hill from the chandlers to my bus stop, where a bus was patiently waiting. When I got to within earshot, I called my destination, “Woburn”. “Sorry, next bus” came the reply and the bus went on. A taxi leaving the adjacent station called to me, “you going to Woburn?” Now my budget does not stretch to taxis when there's a perfectly good bus service, so I declined, a little irritated at the hussle. The taxi man's next words left me both charmed and ashamed as he said, “No man, I'm just going home for lunch, I can drop you, no charge”. His name was Rock, and I took him up on his offer.
The following afternoon, I left Catherine in St Georges, agreeing to meet up in Woburn. I took the opportunity while I was waiting for her to have a cool beer in Nimrod's rum shop, where pretty soon I was engaged in conversation with Nimrod and the only other customer, Rollo. Rollo not only insisted on buying me beer, but made it difficult for me to return the compliment. Our conversation covered quite some breadth, from the quality of beer brands to my anecdote about the generous taxi man, to his job on a very glamorous looking 60 foot ketch moored in the marina. My new friend's generosity was not restricted to me, Catherine on her arrival receiving the same treatment.
As we finally left, I confess a little unsteadily on my part, Rollo called after me, “Hey man, you know your friend Rock, the taxi man?” and without waiting for an answer, “He's my brother!”
I have only today installed picasso, Google's picture sharing program, and I have used it to post pictures from Mt Airy, and many other places in Grenada (and from previously in our adventure). Check it out on;
http://picasaweb.google.com/103937943251204013492
the dreaded Dengue
It was late July. We had the boat stocked up and were waiting for a decent forecast to head for Venezuela, but there had been no wind now for about a week. Then Catherine had been unwell over Wednesday night and she was no better Thursday, so we decided that she'd visit the doctor on Friday. Going to bed, I dismissed the beginnings of a headache I was feeling as the result of the stresses of the day. Neither of us slept well, and my headache got progressively worse, by morning there were two of us for the Doc, and he was quick to confirm our fears that we both had Dengue.
He gave us a prescription, each tablet contained 500mg paracetamol and 30 mg codeine, take one or two up to four times daily. Outside the pharmacy we both gobbled up two tablets each like bold children.
We normally do our week's shopping on Friday, so we forced ourselves around the supermarket, the drugs effective against the headache, but combined with the fever to turn us into zombies. For most of it we shouldn't have bothered, Catherine had already lost her appetite, and I was losing mine, I managed a small meal on Friday and Saturday before the nausea took hold.
I'm not sure when the headache went away, but by Sunday I was too nauseous to notice. The nausea and fever continued all week, while at the same time I went through a few days constipation, followed by a few days of diarrhea. I found that lying down the nausea abated some, and taking two of the tablets every six hours ensured that I was asleep, or at least not conscious, for a good 15 hours a day.
By Monday, the trip from bed to heads, a journey of perhaps 20 feet, I found impossible without a five minute lie down rest en route. By Wednesday we were getting concerned at our lack of nutritional input. I had been managing a glass of orange juice every day, but Catherine's diet was 100% water, the only things we thought we might be able to stomach, chicken broth and toast, meant a couple of minutes standing in the galley. By Thursday, taking it in turns we were able to do this. Chicken noodle cup of soup, diluted by 50%, and a slice of toast, heavily buttered, after fasting for a week I've got to have a few credits in the cholesterol bank!
On Friday, a neighbouring boat offered to do some shopping for us, although we needed little more than bread for toast and chicken noodle cuppa-soups, we were very grateful, neither of us was up to a trip to the shop. Over the weekend we progressed to eating boiled eggs (spooned out of their shells into a cup, with cholesterolly suicidal amounts of butter, yum! – I was never really responsible with credit).
On Tuesday we ventured out on the dinghy, just as far as the Marina at Calvigny, perhaps a half a mile dinghy ride. By the time we got there we were exhausted, but after a mineral and a rest in the big comfy chairs by the pool we were sufficiently restored to contemplate a light lunch, our first real meal in almost two weeks.
By the next Friday, two weeks after we had gotten sick, we were fit enough to do our own shopping, Today, four weeks on, we were still not quite back to normal, tiring easily and are still feeling a bit lethargic, but getting better all the time.
Although we got one of the less dangerous strains, Dengue fever is still one nasty disease, we had the bad luck to both get it at the same time. Perhaps the infecting mossies are hunting in packs!
He gave us a prescription, each tablet contained 500mg paracetamol and 30 mg codeine, take one or two up to four times daily. Outside the pharmacy we both gobbled up two tablets each like bold children.
We normally do our week's shopping on Friday, so we forced ourselves around the supermarket, the drugs effective against the headache, but combined with the fever to turn us into zombies. For most of it we shouldn't have bothered, Catherine had already lost her appetite, and I was losing mine, I managed a small meal on Friday and Saturday before the nausea took hold.
I'm not sure when the headache went away, but by Sunday I was too nauseous to notice. The nausea and fever continued all week, while at the same time I went through a few days constipation, followed by a few days of diarrhea. I found that lying down the nausea abated some, and taking two of the tablets every six hours ensured that I was asleep, or at least not conscious, for a good 15 hours a day.
By Monday, the trip from bed to heads, a journey of perhaps 20 feet, I found impossible without a five minute lie down rest en route. By Wednesday we were getting concerned at our lack of nutritional input. I had been managing a glass of orange juice every day, but Catherine's diet was 100% water, the only things we thought we might be able to stomach, chicken broth and toast, meant a couple of minutes standing in the galley. By Thursday, taking it in turns we were able to do this. Chicken noodle cup of soup, diluted by 50%, and a slice of toast, heavily buttered, after fasting for a week I've got to have a few credits in the cholesterol bank!
On Friday, a neighbouring boat offered to do some shopping for us, although we needed little more than bread for toast and chicken noodle cuppa-soups, we were very grateful, neither of us was up to a trip to the shop. Over the weekend we progressed to eating boiled eggs (spooned out of their shells into a cup, with cholesterolly suicidal amounts of butter, yum! – I was never really responsible with credit).
On Tuesday we ventured out on the dinghy, just as far as the Marina at Calvigny, perhaps a half a mile dinghy ride. By the time we got there we were exhausted, but after a mineral and a rest in the big comfy chairs by the pool we were sufficiently restored to contemplate a light lunch, our first real meal in almost two weeks.
By the next Friday, two weeks after we had gotten sick, we were fit enough to do our own shopping, Today, four weeks on, we were still not quite back to normal, tiring easily and are still feeling a bit lethargic, but getting better all the time.
Although we got one of the less dangerous strains, Dengue fever is still one nasty disease, we had the bad luck to both get it at the same time. Perhaps the infecting mossies are hunting in packs!
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Cruising the Caribbean, St Vincent and the Grenadines
North Atlantic
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Caribbean
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Leewards & Windwards
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The Windwards refer to the island chain from Martinique in the North to Grenada in the South. The Leewards are the islands from Dominica north.
Martinique
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Martinique is a Department of France. We chose it as our arrival point after the Atlantic crossing because we thought it would be like arriving in France. Well, some French people we met described it as "Yes, it's France, but it's not France". To me the place felt more like a French speaking third world country, although a pretty affluent third world country at that.
We stayed for a total of 6 weeks, partially to recover from the crossing, partially to make repairs to the things that broke on the way over, and of course to visit the island & see the sights.
Martinique, Le Marin
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This is a deeply indented bay in the southeast tip of the island. For anyone in a boat, this means lots of shelter. There can be some fairly big waves out at sea, but short of hurricane conditions the bay is like a lake, so no rolling around in the swell. However, it also means lots of boats. There is a 600 berth marina, and up to twice that number of boats anchored off. There are some more isolated spots around the bay, if you don't mind the long dinghy ride into town.
At least one river flows into the bay, so the water is a bit murky. Because of the murkiness and all the boats, we never felt comfortable about swimming here. We moved out to St Anne (scroll above map down slightly) at the entrance to Le Marin bay to scrape off the goose barnacles that grew on our hull while we were crossing the Atlantic. However we had to put up with rolling around in the swell while we were there.
Martinique, Fort de France
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A little further North is the capital of Martinique, Fort de France. Although also sheltered from the elements, the anchorage is right beside the ferry terminal, and with ferries coming and going every few minutes from early morning through until evening it got very rolly from their wakes.
Although a much bigger town than Le Marin, it is nowhere near as yacht friendly. There is one chandlers, and plenty of supermarkets, pubs etc., but it is a town focused on being capital of the Island, rather than on the boats anchored off.
St Pierre
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St Pierre in the North, is virtually not sheltered at all, but worth a visit in calm weather because of the volcano and its history.
St Lucia
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This is the next island south in the Windwards. It is an independent country.
Near to the northern tip on the West coast there is a reasonable anchorage in Admiralty Bay, which is the area just south of Pigeon Island. It is open to the West, but the winds normally don't come from that direction.
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However the lagoon just off it, Rodney Bay, is a natural harbour, and is sheltered from all directions. Nowadays, the lagoon is filled with a couple of marinas, private docks on shoreside properties, and what space is left over is taken up with moorings. So it is no longer possible to anchor there.
The "Googlemaps" version of Marigot Bay is nothing like the place we visited, so I won't bother sticking up their map.
Soufriere and the Pitons.
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Soufriere is a pretty town, dominated by the Pitons, twin volcanic peaks that provide a dramatic foreground to the landscape. The whole area is a national marine park, and anchoring is forbidden. Moorings are provided for about EC$20, = about €6.50, a night. We picked one up about half a mile west of the town, in an area with the unlikely named of "the Bat Cave"!
There is a customs office in Soufriere where we were able to check out of St Lucia before departing for St Vincent.
St Vincent and the Grenadines
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The big Island in the north of the above map is St Vincent, and the Grenadines are the collection of little ones running south from it. All except the biggish island in the South of the map, and one of the tiny islands off it, which are Carriacou and Petit Martinique respectively, which are part of the country of Grenada.
We were advised that the entire northern half of St Vincent is cannabis growing country, lawless, and if we stopped there we would almost certainly be boarded by armed robbers. So we kept going until we reached a small bay about half way down the west coast called Wallilabou. Here there is a customs office, a hotel, a museum, and nothing else. Nothing that is, except the remains of the film set from the Pirates of the Caribbean. In fact the museum was part of the set, with nothing but a facade held up by scaffolding hidden behind it. But they put a roof over the scaffolding and made it weatherproof, then filled it with photos and other memorabilia from the making of the movies.
Again Googlemaps shows Wallilabou in the wrong place, so no point in zooming in on the map.
Here are some pictures we took there, see if you can spot anything familiar from the movies.
We didn't stop anywhere else in St Vincent, instead heading for our first Grenadine, Bequia. The massive sheltered bay on the west coast at Port Elizabeth makes it a popular spot for yachts.
View Larger Map
Looking at the map, the entire island looks like a harbour built around the anchorage. If you're wondering why all the anchorages are along the west coasts of the various islands it is because the trade winds blow almost constantly all year round from the east, so the West coasts are the sheltered side.
We met up with an American couple, Bill & Susan, and the four of us took a taxi on an island tour. Well, they call them taxis here, at home they call them pick up trucks, you just climb up on the back. Our taximan took the job to heart, and was proud to tell us about his island.
The tour also took in a turtle rescue centre. Pictures show the taxi, the anchorage, and a few sites from around the island.
Further south we visted the Tobago Cays, which are a handful of small islands and reefs. We anchored behind the reefs facing East into the Atlantic, the reefs protect you from the swell, but with nothing but ocean in front of us for two thousand miles to Africa. Sitting in the trade winds kept our wind generator spoinning, and it was great to see full batteries all the time.
View Larger Map
Caribbean
View Larger Map
Leewards & Windwards
View Larger Map
The Windwards refer to the island chain from Martinique in the North to Grenada in the South. The Leewards are the islands from Dominica north.
Martinique
View Larger Map
Martinique is a Department of France. We chose it as our arrival point after the Atlantic crossing because we thought it would be like arriving in France. Well, some French people we met described it as "Yes, it's France, but it's not France". To me the place felt more like a French speaking third world country, although a pretty affluent third world country at that.
We stayed for a total of 6 weeks, partially to recover from the crossing, partially to make repairs to the things that broke on the way over, and of course to visit the island & see the sights.
Martinique, Le Marin
View Larger Map
This is a deeply indented bay in the southeast tip of the island. For anyone in a boat, this means lots of shelter. There can be some fairly big waves out at sea, but short of hurricane conditions the bay is like a lake, so no rolling around in the swell. However, it also means lots of boats. There is a 600 berth marina, and up to twice that number of boats anchored off. There are some more isolated spots around the bay, if you don't mind the long dinghy ride into town.
At least one river flows into the bay, so the water is a bit murky. Because of the murkiness and all the boats, we never felt comfortable about swimming here. We moved out to St Anne (scroll above map down slightly) at the entrance to Le Marin bay to scrape off the goose barnacles that grew on our hull while we were crossing the Atlantic. However we had to put up with rolling around in the swell while we were there.
Martinique, Fort de France
View Larger Map
A little further North is the capital of Martinique, Fort de France. Although also sheltered from the elements, the anchorage is right beside the ferry terminal, and with ferries coming and going every few minutes from early morning through until evening it got very rolly from their wakes.
Although a much bigger town than Le Marin, it is nowhere near as yacht friendly. There is one chandlers, and plenty of supermarkets, pubs etc., but it is a town focused on being capital of the Island, rather than on the boats anchored off.
St Pierre
View Larger Map
St Pierre in the North, is virtually not sheltered at all, but worth a visit in calm weather because of the volcano and its history.
St Lucia
View Larger Map
This is the next island south in the Windwards. It is an independent country.
Near to the northern tip on the West coast there is a reasonable anchorage in Admiralty Bay, which is the area just south of Pigeon Island. It is open to the West, but the winds normally don't come from that direction.
View Larger Map
However the lagoon just off it, Rodney Bay, is a natural harbour, and is sheltered from all directions. Nowadays, the lagoon is filled with a couple of marinas, private docks on shoreside properties, and what space is left over is taken up with moorings. So it is no longer possible to anchor there.
The "Googlemaps" version of Marigot Bay is nothing like the place we visited, so I won't bother sticking up their map.
Soufriere and the Pitons.
View Larger Map
Soufriere is a pretty town, dominated by the Pitons, twin volcanic peaks that provide a dramatic foreground to the landscape. The whole area is a national marine park, and anchoring is forbidden. Moorings are provided for about EC$20, = about €6.50, a night. We picked one up about half a mile west of the town, in an area with the unlikely named of "the Bat Cave"!
There is a customs office in Soufriere where we were able to check out of St Lucia before departing for St Vincent.
St Vincent and the Grenadines
View Larger Map
The big Island in the north of the above map is St Vincent, and the Grenadines are the collection of little ones running south from it. All except the biggish island in the South of the map, and one of the tiny islands off it, which are Carriacou and Petit Martinique respectively, which are part of the country of Grenada.
We were advised that the entire northern half of St Vincent is cannabis growing country, lawless, and if we stopped there we would almost certainly be boarded by armed robbers. So we kept going until we reached a small bay about half way down the west coast called Wallilabou. Here there is a customs office, a hotel, a museum, and nothing else. Nothing that is, except the remains of the film set from the Pirates of the Caribbean. In fact the museum was part of the set, with nothing but a facade held up by scaffolding hidden behind it. But they put a roof over the scaffolding and made it weatherproof, then filled it with photos and other memorabilia from the making of the movies.
Again Googlemaps shows Wallilabou in the wrong place, so no point in zooming in on the map.
Here are some pictures we took there, see if you can spot anything familiar from the movies.
We didn't stop anywhere else in St Vincent, instead heading for our first Grenadine, Bequia. The massive sheltered bay on the west coast at Port Elizabeth makes it a popular spot for yachts.
View Larger Map
Looking at the map, the entire island looks like a harbour built around the anchorage. If you're wondering why all the anchorages are along the west coasts of the various islands it is because the trade winds blow almost constantly all year round from the east, so the West coasts are the sheltered side.
We met up with an American couple, Bill & Susan, and the four of us took a taxi on an island tour. Well, they call them taxis here, at home they call them pick up trucks, you just climb up on the back. Our taximan took the job to heart, and was proud to tell us about his island.
The tour also took in a turtle rescue centre. Pictures show the taxi, the anchorage, and a few sites from around the island.
Further south we visted the Tobago Cays, which are a handful of small islands and reefs. We anchored behind the reefs facing East into the Atlantic, the reefs protect you from the swell, but with nothing but ocean in front of us for two thousand miles to Africa. Sitting in the trade winds kept our wind generator spoinning, and it was great to see full batteries all the time.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Checking in and out
We're all used to Immigration and Customs controls in airports and ferry ports. You arrive into a country and there's usually one or two lots of officialdom you've to pass through, the guy that looks at your passport, (sometimes he stamps it and others he just nods vacantly as you hold it up as you pass him by), and then there's the “green” or “red” zones of “anything to declare”. We sometimes deal with the port authorities slightly more subtly in the “taxes” added to our air fares, but sometimes they collect a fee from you as well. But whichever the system, crossing an international borders has become a fairly streamlined, and the ports are set up to deal with arrivals by the boatload or planeload..
But supposing you are arriving in your own little boat, and your first port of call can theoretically be anywhere, as you can drop anchor off any piece of coastline. So there's a process.
Certain ports are designated as ports of entry, and you must make one of these your first port of call. On arrival you hoist a yellow flag. This flag represents the letter Q, for quarantine. Strictly speaking you then wait for officialdom to contact you, and traditionally they made sure you weren't bringing disease into the country. These days most places let the skipper come ashore, with passports and boat papers, and they check you in in the comfort of their office. Some places are even more flexible. However, friends of ours arriving in Morocco had to stay on their boat until a guy in a space suit came and checked them for swine flu, once passed, they were warmly welcomed into Morocco.
Within the EU, we didn't have to bother with checking in. Frequently, if and when you arrived at a marina the office passed on your details to whatever branches of officialdom required them, otherwise you were subject to random checks, which averaged for us about once every six months. However, the situation for non EU boats is probably different.
Outside of the EU the situation can vary. In Rodney Bay, St Lucia, the Immigration, Port, and Customs each had a desk in a tiny little office that you squeezed into. You filled out a form with three carbon copies, and then visited each desk in turn, leaving one copy and a little money with each official, keeping the last copy for yourself. In other places the offices are in different buildings, or even different towns, and it can be quite a run around. Even after you have gone through all of this in some countries, they require that you check in and out of every subsequent port you visit. In the Cape Verdes they even hold onto your boat papers while you're there. Most places only require that you check out when you are leaving the country.
Martinique was the simplest, where I just went into the customs office, sat at a PC and filled out an on-screen form, printed it, and brought it to the counter where it and our passports were stamped. The only odd thing there was that Martinique, as you may have read recently, is part of France (well a Department of France), and thus in the EU, where I as I previously implied they don't seem overly bothered with your papers at all.
One other document that they require when you arrive is your check out papers from the last country you've been to, so if you try to sneak in without paying the taxes and visas, you will have an unaccounted gap in your paperwork, so don't try it!
Beware though, if you think these little inconveniences tiresome with a mindset of countries like Ireland, Britain, France, etc., because when you get to the Caribbean most of the countries are smaller than a small Irish county, and crossing international frontiers is a routine event.
But supposing you are arriving in your own little boat, and your first port of call can theoretically be anywhere, as you can drop anchor off any piece of coastline. So there's a process.
Certain ports are designated as ports of entry, and you must make one of these your first port of call. On arrival you hoist a yellow flag. This flag represents the letter Q, for quarantine. Strictly speaking you then wait for officialdom to contact you, and traditionally they made sure you weren't bringing disease into the country. These days most places let the skipper come ashore, with passports and boat papers, and they check you in in the comfort of their office. Some places are even more flexible. However, friends of ours arriving in Morocco had to stay on their boat until a guy in a space suit came and checked them for swine flu, once passed, they were warmly welcomed into Morocco.
Within the EU, we didn't have to bother with checking in. Frequently, if and when you arrived at a marina the office passed on your details to whatever branches of officialdom required them, otherwise you were subject to random checks, which averaged for us about once every six months. However, the situation for non EU boats is probably different.
Outside of the EU the situation can vary. In Rodney Bay, St Lucia, the Immigration, Port, and Customs each had a desk in a tiny little office that you squeezed into. You filled out a form with three carbon copies, and then visited each desk in turn, leaving one copy and a little money with each official, keeping the last copy for yourself. In other places the offices are in different buildings, or even different towns, and it can be quite a run around. Even after you have gone through all of this in some countries, they require that you check in and out of every subsequent port you visit. In the Cape Verdes they even hold onto your boat papers while you're there. Most places only require that you check out when you are leaving the country.
Martinique was the simplest, where I just went into the customs office, sat at a PC and filled out an on-screen form, printed it, and brought it to the counter where it and our passports were stamped. The only odd thing there was that Martinique, as you may have read recently, is part of France (well a Department of France), and thus in the EU, where I as I previously implied they don't seem overly bothered with your papers at all.
One other document that they require when you arrive is your check out papers from the last country you've been to, so if you try to sneak in without paying the taxes and visas, you will have an unaccounted gap in your paperwork, so don't try it!
Beware though, if you think these little inconveniences tiresome with a mindset of countries like Ireland, Britain, France, etc., because when you get to the Caribbean most of the countries are smaller than a small Irish county, and crossing international frontiers is a routine event.
Caribbean Geography
The Antilles is the collective name for the Islands of the Caribbean, the Lesser Antilles being the smaller islands, that means excluding Cuba, Jamaica, and the single island that accommodates the countries of Haiti and the Dominican Republic.
View Larger Map
The Lesser Antilles are subdivided into the Leeward Islands, running as far south as Dominica, and the Windward Islands stretching from Martinique down to Grenada. I should point out, Dominica the island is a country onto itself, and is nothing to do with the Dominican Republic, except of course that they are both fellow Antilles.
St Vincent and the Grenadines is a country made up of one big Island, called “St Vincent” and a cartload of smaller ones, collectively known as the Grenadines.
Now to get all the confusing stuff out of the way, the Grenadines includes a group of islands and reefs called the Tobago Cays (pronounced “keys”), but does not include either the islands of Grenada or Tobago. If this is only a little confusing, fear not, tips of icebergs come to mind. Let's deal with the easy stuff first, Tobago the island is part of the country “Trinidad and Tobago” as opposed to the Tobago Cays (pronounced “keys”), which is still part of the Grenadines, and hence part of the country of St Vincent and the Grenadines.
The southernmost island in the Grenadines is Petit St Vincent, which is part of the Grenadines and therefore part of the country of St Vincent and the Grenadines, but nevertheless is quite distinct from St Vincent, which, though part of the same country, is not a Grenadine.
Now if you are Gaelic like me you might be inclined to think the Grenadines are like a collection of little Grenadas. Well, they are similar in climate, but Grenada, the island, is part of the country of Granada, which includes the islands of Grenada, Carriacou, and Petit Martinique. This last of course being completely separate to the island of Martinique a hundred miles or so further north, which is of course, part of France.
View Larger Map
The Lesser Antilles are subdivided into the Leeward Islands, running as far south as Dominica, and the Windward Islands stretching from Martinique down to Grenada. I should point out, Dominica the island is a country onto itself, and is nothing to do with the Dominican Republic, except of course that they are both fellow Antilles.
St Vincent and the Grenadines is a country made up of one big Island, called “St Vincent” and a cartload of smaller ones, collectively known as the Grenadines.
Now to get all the confusing stuff out of the way, the Grenadines includes a group of islands and reefs called the Tobago Cays (pronounced “keys”), but does not include either the islands of Grenada or Tobago. If this is only a little confusing, fear not, tips of icebergs come to mind. Let's deal with the easy stuff first, Tobago the island is part of the country “Trinidad and Tobago” as opposed to the Tobago Cays (pronounced “keys”), which is still part of the Grenadines, and hence part of the country of St Vincent and the Grenadines.
The southernmost island in the Grenadines is Petit St Vincent, which is part of the Grenadines and therefore part of the country of St Vincent and the Grenadines, but nevertheless is quite distinct from St Vincent, which, though part of the same country, is not a Grenadine.
Now if you are Gaelic like me you might be inclined to think the Grenadines are like a collection of little Grenadas. Well, they are similar in climate, but Grenada, the island, is part of the country of Granada, which includes the islands of Grenada, Carriacou, and Petit Martinique. This last of course being completely separate to the island of Martinique a hundred miles or so further north, which is of course, part of France.
Hear the wind blow, love, hear the wind blow
So having given serious consideration to returning to the eastern side of the Atlantic, we have decided to stay in the Americas one more year, and press south, to exit the hurricane zone before the hurricane season. Now I should explain here the concepts of “hurricane zone” and “hurricane season”. Even if your name is not Michael Fish, you probably know that hurricanes, or at least hurricane strength storms, can occur anywhere and at any time of year. Indeed even Eliza Dolittle was at least partly aware of this. The hurricane zone is generally considered to be most of the Caribbean, except the very south bit of it (where we're going), and up to the Southern United States, I don't know exactly where the northern boundary actually lies. The “hurricane season” is officially 1st June through to the 30th November, and what that means is you are more likely to have a hurricane in that area at that time of year.
Grenada, just south of the Grenadines, used to be considered out of the zone until 2004 when it was pretty well devastated by hurricane Ivan, and then hit again the following year by the less destructive Emily. However the fact is, global warming or not, Grenada gets hit by a hurricane on average every fifty years, further South in Trinidad, the batting average is more like once every hundred years. Either way, I don't think much of them odds boss, at least not at first sight, but then, as no doubt the aforementioned Met man can tell you, didn't we have a visit in Ireland from one H. Charlie about 20 odd years ago. And then, I remember a book when I was at school called “the Big Wind” which described what must have been about as nasty as a pretty nasty hurricane, and then how often do we hear of hurricane force winds battering the coast (thankfully for us dubs that's usually the coast of Donegal, sorry Daniel!). So even if you stay under the bed you can still get a rude meteorological awakening.
So then, let's accept that we are slightly more at risk of being hit by a hurricane here than at home in the bosom of the cosy shire, there's the question of what we're going to do in the event.
Well we have a choice (usually) of whether to dig in or run. There is a very very very slight possibility of a hurricane forming on our doorstep too rapidly for the Met people to give enough warning for us to have time to run, in which case digging in is your only man. With all the met info, computer models, and satellite data that they have these days though, they can watch the hurricanes forming and predict where it's going to go with a good deal of accuracy. Unfortunately though, predicting the route of a hurricane is a bit like predicting the course of a spinning top. A butterfly flaps its wings and the whole thing goes off in another direction.
This unpredictability is the main problem with running, because there's always the chance that your engine will fail and the wind will die and then the big destructive spinning top will come after you, and catch you up at sea, and that would be that for a little boat like ours!
So dig in. Still we have choices. One I haven't made yet is whether t
o stay on board to protect the boat, or go to a hotel or land based shelter and leave the boat to fend for itself having secured it as best we can. Given that I'm essentially a wuss, and that there's danger to life and limb, I am inclined to opt for the run for the hills option, and patch up any damage to the boat later, but then, since the chances of the 'urricane hactually 'appening or so slim, I'm just going to cross that bridge if and when I have to.
Picture shows a Church in Granada's capital St George, missing some essential weatherproofing after Ivan's vis.it in 2004
Saturday, June 5, 2010
St Lucia
Rodney Bay Marina, famous in the yachting press as the arrival point of the Atlantic Rally for Cruisers (ARC), is now a quite a large, 600ish berth, marina. It is our first port of call in St Lucia, having gotten here in early May. We only stayed in the marina for a few nights, marinas are the exception rather than the rule. They are handy because you can just step ashore, unlimited supplies of water and shower power (like normal 220V electricity rather than the 12V we normally have which we can run through an inverter and get maybe half a kilowatt – but drains the batteries, and wouldn’t boil an egg!), however we still prefer to anchor, because it’s cheaper (like free) and you’re not squeezed together with other boats like sardines, it’s cheaper, more private, and cooler cause you’re that little bit further away from land, oh yeah, and did I mention it’s cheaper!
Anyway Rodney Bay is more like a lake, you enter it through a narrow channel, so it’s very protected. Around the shoreline there are houses, boatyards and various other marine related businesses, and bars and restaurants. There’s a supermarket which has its own dinghy dock, so you can wheel your trolly right up to your dinghy when you do the shopping (we had one of those in Martinique too). The houses vary from the affluent looking (if twee) terraced town houses with parking in the front garden for the car(s) and private dock in the back for the boat(s), to the ostentatious (and very twee) detached 6+ bed roomed yolks with a mini marina at the water’s edge for a private fleet of shiny fifty foot sailing boat, fifty foot stinky (stinky = motor boat, stand downwind of one when engines are running & you’ll know why), and the inevitable speedboat. I didn’t see anyone actually using these particular houses or boats, but presumably they are owned for trophy purposes.
I was initially impressed on our arrival at the marina, two well dressed polite young men addressed me as “Sir” and helped with our lines. However once I'd handed over the money in the marina office the young lady behind the counter quickly became bored with my tedious questions about the location of showers, shops, laundry, etc. The kind of thing that we'd gotten used to being given in a data sheet on arrival. No such thing here, more like “we've got your money, go fend for yourself. It didn't get any better in the chandlers, when I bought a few items. Prices advertised in US dollars, so it wasn't immediately obvious on my receipt in local currency that I had been overcharged (by up to 50% on some items), when I went back to see what the error was I met with shrugged shoulders from the younger shop assistants, who eventually directed me to a sign that wasn't completely hidden behind the cash register, to the effect that the price is what we charge you, not what we advertise!!! All this was explained to me while an older gentleman stood behind the counter chuckling quietly to himself.
OK, so I'll stop there before I descend into a rant about all the negative things we've encountered, because there's lots of good stuff too, and let's face it, I'd rather talk about that.
Like when we took a stroll outside the marina compound, and there was a few young guys with a truck full of young coconuts. These are coconuts cut from the trees before their shells have hardened and the “meat” has formed, and they are full of juice. One of the guys has a machete and with three strikes he has chopped off one end of the coconut and then nicks a hole with the pointy end, sticks in a straw, and there you have it, nature-fresh. Add rum, ice, or anything else you want. In our case we drank it neat there and then, through the straw.
Outside of Rodney Bay is Admiral Bay, which is open to the west, but sheltered by Pigeon Island to the north, and the curve of the bay to the east and south where it is punctuated by (I kid you not) by Barrel of Beef rock. While there we shared the anchorage with none other than the "Pearl" of "Pirates of the Caribbean" fame. We were planning on staying there for a couple of nights after leaving the marina. The first night was a bit of a trial, during daylight you are irritated by the wallies whizzing around on their jetskies and speedboats knocking you about with their wake, and when the sun goes down the various holiday hotels around the bay who equate sound volume with music quality. We wanted to visit Pigeon Island, which is a park, but when we went there yesterday morning we were told that the park was closed for the Jazz, although apparently if you bought tickets to the jazz you were allowed look over the fence into the park!
So we left Admiral bay and went to the more sedate (am I getting old?) Marigot bay. This is a tiny place by comparison, and the marina village and small peninsula beach is equally twee. There are steep cliffs on either side as you come in, with a dozen or so very affluent looking houses perched on the top. The occasional tourist boats are not much of a nuisance, one of them came through earlier today & I heard the guide tell his passengers that George Foreman owned one of them. Well George, you might own the fancy pad, but I’m the guy on the yacht!
An interesting thing about Marigot Bay is that it's a kind of a double bay, in that you come in to the first bay and then, right at the end, it narrows, and then opens out again into another bay. This is supposed to be good in a hurricane, because the shelter is doubled. However the best place to be in a hurricane is somewhere else, make that anywhere else.
From there we continued on South to Soufriere and the Pitons. While we were checking in at Rodney Bay, one of the officials (Customs, Immigration, Port Authority, I can't remember which), told me that there was a tax we'd have to pay to visit this area, and offered to take it from me there and then, telling me that our boat would be confiscated if we breached regulations. However, at the time I wasn't able to predict the date that we'd be there I was unable to pay the tax. Later we checked the guide book, but that just confused me, so we eventually decided that, since Soufriere is a port of entry we should be able to pay whatever tax there. But when we got there the local officials had never heard of the tax! Maybe I mis-understood what I was being told in Rodney Bay!
The “Pitons” are two volcanic steep cone shaped mountains, covered in greenery, and quite spectacular. They are across the bay from the town of Soufriere. The entire area is a national park and anchoring in the park is not permitted to protect the delicate coral. Instead they provide moorings, for which Park rangers collect a modest fee ($40 EC for us, or about 12 Euros), and for this we could stay up to two nights. The snorkeling in among the coral made it well worth it. We took the dinghy along the coast to a recommended dive spot, where we were able to snorkel along the remote and totally isolated coast. Between the fish and the coral it was like swimming in our own giant aquarium, and was really quite spectacular. Before we left Ireland we bought a cheap waterproof camera (in LIDL) and we gave it its first outing here. Regrettably it's not digital, so it'll be a while before we have the film developed, and before we'll be able to see if the pics are any good.
This was to be our last stop in St Lucia, but we had a decision to make. By now it was the middle of May, the hurricane season begins officially on 1st June, although in reality, the chances of any tropical storm before July this far south are pretty slim. Nevertheless, if you want to sail the return trip to the east side of the Atlantic, the best route to Europe is via the Azores, and the time to do it is Mid May.
It really only occurred to us while we were in Soufriere, but it would only take us a day to sail back to Martinique, where we could prepare and provision for an Atlantic crossing in a few days and be on our way by the 20th.
This idea had quite a bit going for it. First of all, it gets us out of the hurricane zone. Another thing is we are having difficulty getting our insurance sorted out, then there is the culture shock, things like the aforementioned consumer rights focus (or lack of), and the fact that in most of the harbours we come into we are “greeted” by an army of “Boat boys” in small boats offering “goods” and “services”. The goods are excessively overpriced, e.g., a “baguette” for $12EC (4 Euros) – the baguette more resembling the roll that you'd get with your soup at lunch time than the Cuisine de France thing we're used to. The “services” like “protecting” your boat or dinghy, or maybe just going away and leaving you anchor in peace without being harassed onto the rocks. Then there's the heat, the humidity, and the mosquitoes.
However, we had seen very little of the Caribbean to date, and all those negatives only add up to a minor hassle, the boat boys back off when you talk firmly to them, we are well stocked with essentials, Catherine recently learned to bake bread in the pressure cooker, and we have no need to buy at their excessive prices. The heat and humidity are tolerable when you can jump over the side and swim with the fishes through the coral to cool off, and well, having come this far, we're not going to be stopped by some insects!
So after two nights in Soufriere we dropped the mooring and continued south. Next stop St Vincent and the Grenadines, and then on to Grenada. If truth be told, at time of posting we've already reached Grenada, so I've a bit of catching up to do on the blog writing. I'll try to get it done over the next few days. We weren't that long in St V & the Gs, but theres plenty to tell.
Until then, fair winds and safe harbours to you all.
Margot Bay
The view back to Admiralty bay
Twee houses in Rodney Bay
The Pearl
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Cruising Marinique
You could probably spend several months cruising Martinique, but even in the six weeks or so that we were there, you could get quite a bit of exploration in. My list of excuses for only getting to a handful of places was that we spent so long catching our breath after the crossing, plus we had to organize quite a few repairs, and then there's the heat, which tends to sap your energy. However there were a couple of things that we weren't going to miss.
The first of these is Diamond rock. There's a phrase in our cruising guide that appealed to me, which goes something like "back in the days when Europeans used to go around in wooden boats taking pot shots at each other ....", written by an American I presume. Anyway, back in those days some bright sp
ark on the British side figured out that this rock, just around the corner from the current capital Fort de France, was a good place to station a ship. Rather than going to the hassle of building a ship and sailing it all the way over, they decided to commission the rock as a ship in the Royal Navy. So they loaded it up with canons and men and whatever else they needed and made a real nuisance of themselves to the French going about their business.
Now the fellah in charge of France at the time was not one bit pleased. Aside from the fact that all his nice ships were getting turned into match sticks, Martinique, indeed an estate in the near vicinity of Diamond rock, was home to a certain lady friend of his by the name of Josephine. Now this chap, Napolea
n, was renowned as one of the most proficient soldiers of his time, but unfortunately for him, naval matters were not his forte. He sent his naval head honcho, Admiral Villeneuve, off to boot the Brits off the rock, and destroy all their boats while he was at it. This latter was a tad optimistic, seeing as how the Brits had more ships and bigger ships and knew how to use them.
So Villeneuve set off, sneaked passed Nelson's ships, took back Diamond rock, and went home. Not good enough for Napoleon who wouldn't buy the "I didn't catch that other bit boss", and Villeneuve was re-dispatched to complete part 2. He met up with Nelson at a place called Trafalgar, which is down near Cadiz, and promptly got his backside kicked. However Villeneuve survived the battle, Nelson didn't.
There's not much to see these days on Diamond rock, it's a pretty steep cone shaped thing a few hundred feet tall. We sailed by pretty close to it and took a few pictures. Those above show the rock from up close, and the distance shot from the small town of St Annes across the mouth of Le Marin bay.
The second thing in Martinique that I didn't want to miss was the former capitol, St Pierre, situated temptingly at the foot of an active volcano. We were lucky when we there that the volcano top was not covered in cloud, we were told it usually is, see picture.
Now the Caribbean gets its name from the Caribe Indians, who were the people that lived there before the Europeans arrived and were fierce and noble warriors. The story goes that rather than let themselves be enslaved they fought virtually to the last man, and the final few threw themselves into volcano. Before they did they cursed the invaders calling on the mountain to erupt and destroy them. That was 1658.
Now everyone in the Caribbean takes their time, and Mt Pelée is no exception. Just shy of 250 years later, on the 8th May 1902, at 8:02 a.m. to be precise, it didn't so much erupt as explode. It wasn't as if the locals didn't get any warning. Streams of molten lava flowed down the mountain for a month or so beforehand, and seeing more than a few of their neighbours killed, about a thousand of the town's residents thought it a good idea to get out of Dodge. Amazingly, the bulk of the population, about 30,000 people, stayed put. You see, some of the merchants in town figured evacuation would be bad for business, also there was an election coming up, the Governor was fairly new to the job, and moving everyone out was going to be a real pain. So they formed a committee and let them worry about it.
Depending on whose report you read there were either one or two survivors. By all accounts Cyparis was one. Apparently he was in prison for murder, and was in a stone cell in the basement of the town gaol. He lived out his days working as a freak show for Barnum's circus in the US showing off his burn scars, presumably having been released for lack of witnesses!
The other survivor according to some accounts was a cobbler called Leon Leandre, who happened to be in his cellar.
Twelve ships anchored off the town were destroyed, one managed to get away with a few survivors. The town itself was leveled, with barely a few walls left standing.
Today St Pierre is a town of about 5,000 people, there is a museum that commemorates the tragedy with pictures before and after the eruption, and some interesting artifacts. A large brass bell, contorted, ripped and twisted takes centre stage, there are also perfect rectangles of nails and screws welded into the shape of their container by the time it was incinerated.
We also visited the capitol Fort de France where we met an interesting Kiwi called Richard and his dog Trouble. Richard had arrived in the Caribbean seven years ago crewing for "a mad Norwegian" (his words), found himself an old 9 metre steel boat, patched it up and has been living a kind of Crocodile Dundee lifestyle since, trading with the Indian natives up the Oronoco river in Venezuela, and selling on their wares to tourist shops while cruising the Caribbean. He took us through the city on a hunting/gathering mission looking for coconuts and mangos. I suppose that's just gathering really. We had better success with the mangos, finding a half dozen or so windfalls at the edge of a park. We didn't do so well at the coconuts as the park keepers had been out clearing up the area he'd previously found. Eventually we found one that wasn't rotten or previously part eaten by local wildlife on a pathway through some apartments, it had to have been a very fresh windfall, as it wasn't there when we'd passed that way fifteen minutes before. Richard then produced a machete and proceeded to chop it open for its milk. The machete was a bit on the blunt side, and the operation took quite a bit of hacking, much to the amusement of the apartments' residents watching us from their balconies. Eventually we shared first the milk, then the meat of the coconut.
We made a last visit to Le Marin for some final provisions before leaving Martinique for St Lucia. It is now early May, and coming to the end of the season in which 'urricanes 'ardly hever 'appen, it's time to get south of the hurricane zone.
The first of these is Diamond rock. There's a phrase in our cruising guide that appealed to me, which goes something like "back in the days when Europeans used to go around in wooden boats taking pot shots at each other ....", written by an American I presume. Anyway, back in those days some bright sp
ark on the British side figured out that this rock, just around the corner from the current capital Fort de France, was a good place to station a ship. Rather than going to the hassle of building a ship and sailing it all the way over, they decided to commission the rock as a ship in the Royal Navy. So they loaded it up with canons and men and whatever else they needed and made a real nuisance of themselves to the French going about their business.Now the fellah in charge of France at the time was not one bit pleased. Aside from the fact that all his nice ships were getting turned into match sticks, Martinique, indeed an estate in the near vicinity of Diamond rock, was home to a certain lady friend of his by the name of Josephine. Now this chap, Napolea
n, was renowned as one of the most proficient soldiers of his time, but unfortunately for him, naval matters were not his forte. He sent his naval head honcho, Admiral Villeneuve, off to boot the Brits off the rock, and destroy all their boats while he was at it. This latter was a tad optimistic, seeing as how the Brits had more ships and bigger ships and knew how to use them.So Villeneuve set off, sneaked passed Nelson's ships, took back Diamond rock, and went home. Not good enough for Napoleon who wouldn't buy the "I didn't catch that other bit boss", and Villeneuve was re-dispatched to complete part 2. He met up with Nelson at a place called Trafalgar, which is down near Cadiz, and promptly got his backside kicked. However Villeneuve survived the battle, Nelson didn't.
There's not much to see these days on Diamond rock, it's a pretty steep cone shaped thing a few hundred feet tall. We sailed by pretty close to it and took a few pictures. Those above show the rock from up close, and the distance shot from the small town of St Annes across the mouth of Le Marin bay.
The second thing in Martinique that I didn't want to miss was the former capitol, St Pierre, situated temptingly at the foot of an active volcano. We were lucky when we there that the volcano top was not covered in cloud, we were told it usually is, see picture.
Now the Caribbean gets its name from the Caribe Indians, who were the people that lived there before the Europeans arrived and were fierce and noble warriors. The story goes that rather than let themselves be enslaved they fought virtually to the last man, and the final few threw themselves into volcano. Before they did they cursed the invaders calling on the mountain to erupt and destroy them. That was 1658.Now everyone in the Caribbean takes their time, and Mt Pelée is no exception. Just shy of 250 years later, on the 8th May 1902, at 8:02 a.m. to be precise, it didn't so much erupt as explode. It wasn't as if the locals didn't get any warning. Streams of molten lava flowed down the mountain for a month or so beforehand, and seeing more than a few of their neighbours killed, about a thousand of the town's residents thought it a good idea to get out of Dodge. Amazingly, the bulk of the population, about 30,000 people, stayed put. You see, some of the merchants in town figured evacuation would be bad for business, also there was an election coming up, the Governor was fairly new to the job, and moving everyone out was going to be a real pain. So they formed a committee and let them worry about it.
Depending on whose report you read there were either one or two survivors. By all accounts Cyparis was one. Apparently he was in prison for murder, and was in a stone cell in the basement of the town gaol. He lived out his days working as a freak show for Barnum's circus in the US showing off his burn scars, presumably having been released for lack of witnesses!
The other survivor according to some accounts was a cobbler called Leon Leandre, who happened to be in his cellar.
Twelve ships anchored off the town were destroyed, one managed to get away with a few survivors. The town itself was leveled, with barely a few walls left standing.
Today St Pierre is a town of about 5,000 people, there is a museum that commemorates the tragedy with pictures before and after the eruption, and some interesting artifacts. A large brass bell, contorted, ripped and twisted takes centre stage, there are also perfect rectangles of nails and screws welded into the shape of their container by the time it was incinerated.
We also visited the capitol Fort de France where we met an interesting Kiwi called Richard and his dog Trouble. Richard had arrived in the Caribbean seven years ago crewing for "a mad Norwegian" (his words), found himself an old 9 metre steel boat, patched it up and has been living a kind of Crocodile Dundee lifestyle since, trading with the Indian natives up the Oronoco river in Venezuela, and selling on their wares to tourist shops while cruising the Caribbean. He took us through the city on a hunting/gathering mission looking for coconuts and mangos. I suppose that's just gathering really. We had better success with the mangos, finding a half dozen or so windfalls at the edge of a park. We didn't do so well at the coconuts as the park keepers had been out clearing up the area he'd previously found. Eventually we found one that wasn't rotten or previously part eaten by local wildlife on a pathway through some apartments, it had to have been a very fresh windfall, as it wasn't there when we'd passed that way fifteen minutes before. Richard then produced a machete and proceeded to chop it open for its milk. The machete was a bit on the blunt side, and the operation took quite a bit of hacking, much to the amusement of the apartments' residents watching us from their balconies. Eventually we shared first the milk, then the meat of the coconut.
We made a last visit to Le Marin for some final provisions before leaving Martinique for St Lucia. It is now early May, and coming to the end of the season in which 'urricanes 'ardly hever 'appen, it's time to get south of the hurricane zone.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Settling into port
So greetings from Martinique, where we arrived safely last Friday afternoon after a 20 day Atlantic crossing. This was an incredibly slow time due to the fact that the trade winds disappeared. We suspect that we had no wind because of all the storms they were having further North. The same storms that had some people worried about us, however I can assure everyone that the storms up around Madeira were a thousand miles North of where we were.
Since arriving in port we've been busy reorganising ourselves from life at sea to life in port, and there's quite an amount of work in that. On top of that there's our own recovery, the repairs and the maintenance, a 3,000 mile trip takes its tole not only on the boat, but on her crew as well.
Our first order of business was to let immediate family etc. know of our safe arrival, a task not helped by my phone running out of credit in the process. We had been saving a bottle of bubbly for our journey's end, and as soon as we saw land it went in the fridge. Once we had the boat securely tied to our marina berth we celebrated. Later we went for dinner in the nearest cafe, conveniently situated literally on our marina pontoon, the “Mango bay” can boast poor quality, an overpriced menu, and sloppy service, but it still knocked the socks of cooking and washing up for ourselves in a rolling boat.
Then we had to get details of Neil's flight, which we were expecting to be Monday at the earliest, but it turned out to be the next morning. That lit a bit of a fire under us, as the immigration office was closed by the time we got into port, and we had to check in when they opened Saturday at 7 a.m. with Neil's airport taxi waiting outside the door. All went well I'm glad to say and flights were duly caught.
The marina was full and was only able to give us a berth for a single night. In many ways that's just as well, because it's cheaper to anchor (well, free actually), and much more pleasant swinging free on the anchor than being packed like sardines. However, the marina has plus points too, the conveniences of being able to step ashore, unlimited electricity, etc. are particularly welcome after three weeks at sea. At anchor there is a much greater urgency about getting reorganised, without shore power sorting out our power generation is an immediate concern, we have to inflate the dinghy before we can go ashore, and so on. Of course these are all things we would have had to do eventually, but we could have used more of a rest first.
Saturday morning after Neil left we went back to the boat, filled up with water, washed the decks, checked email, rang home on Skype, and then, before dark took the boat out and found ourselves a spot in the anchorage.
Sunday, we took out the big dinghy and inflated it. It's a 3.8 metre dinghy, with five air chambers, and takes about 2,000 depressions of the pump to inflate, in addition, everything had been stowed for our ocean passage, every tool and accessory that we needed had to be dug out from the bottom of another locker, plus the fact that we're still recovering from 3 hours on 6 hours off for the last three weeks, the dinghy took us all day.
Martinique, as you probably know, is a French Department, and I am struggling with my 1974 pass Leaving cert French. Worse, they all just ignore my attempts and speak to me in English. Now that we had the dinghy we thought we'd have a look ashore, where we found a nearby restaurant. The barman decided he was going to be my new best friend, but despite the fact that his entire English vocabulary consisted of the word "Hello" and an assortment of "Ers" and "Ehs" and "Ums", he resolutely avoided speaking French to us to the extent that we were on our second beer before discovering the chef was on a night off, and the restaurant was closed! Not having the energy to go looking for another restaurant we settled for the increasingly obvious mediocrity of Mango Bay.
The big dinghy is made of PVC, which under the hot sun has a tendency to sweat, and being red, the red dye runs, gets on our clothes and skin, and the dinghy gets sticky and dirty and awful looking. So Catherine had resolved to put our €55 Lidl sewing machine to good use, and to make a cover for it. She had even bought the material months previously. So with the dinghy up, she went to work first thing Monday morning.
For my part, my main concern was our power needs. During the crossing our solar panels were producing only about half the power that they used to. In hindsight the obvious thing to check was whether each panel was still working. However I'd gotten it into my head that the connections were corroding, so I first wasted half a day checking them, and only when I found them all in as new condition did I think to try the obvious. By Monday evening I had established that the starboard panel was indeed the culprit, and fixed the problem.
I was expecting Catherine's dinghy cover to be a loose baggy thing, but as the first segment took shape on Monday I could see that it was turning out to be more like a tailored suit. On Tuesday, as she continued with it, I set about restoring the towed generator to wind generator mode. Were I a bit more of a DIY expert this task might have taken me an hour or two, but as it is, under normal circumstances I'd be at it for half a day. This is not normal circumstances, I am still suffering the sleep deprivation from three weeks at sea, plus, I'd never done this job before, so it was getting dark on Tuesday evening when I finally had the Wind generator reassembled and ready to be hoisted at first light.
Wednesday morning, before breakfast, soon after daybreak with hardly a breadth of wind, conditions were ideal for hoisting the wind generator on top of it's eight foot mounting pole. I perched precariously on the pole while Catherine used a halyard (that's a rope) on a winch to hoist the generator and I guided it into place.
Wednesday, the 17th March, that is. Catherine continues to beaver away at the dinghy cover, which is looking great as its ultimate shape becomes more apparent. Meanwhile, I'm contemplating what job I'm going to tackle next, when I see a dinghy headed our way. Mike and June Kelly, from the sailing boat “Idunno” out of New York, having seen our Irish flag, stopped by to say happy St Paddy's day. Mike being obviously of Irish American stock, so we celebrated with tea and biscuits.
I settle for being gofor for Catherine as she repeatedly climbs in and out of the dinghy, measuring and adjusting the pattern. In between, I manage to return the pilot berth to “workshop” status, making all my tools more accessible, and I also got the v-berth rearranged. All the while, I'm counting the amps going in and out of the batteries from the solar panels and the wind gen. We're doing alright, except that the sewing machine is chomping up a lot of the battery power. Even still, we are generating almost as much as we are using, and when the cover is finished we should be quids up on our power generation/consumption.
Wednesday evening, it's Paddy's day, we're going out. Now eating out three times within a week was a rarity for us at our most affluent times. Now, as penny pinching live-aboards, it's a no-no. Yet here we are, but the first two times we've had the mediocrity of “Mango Bay”, it's Paddy's day, and we've just sailed the Atlantic. We're not going to penny pinch tonight. We found a nice little restaurant, where we shared a tasty scallop starter, I had lamb cutlets, Catherine had spare ribs, and we even eventually persuaded our waitress to talk to us slowly in French. Washed down with a bottle of fairly ordinary wine, and a glass of brandy before bed back on the boat. I think I am rejoining the human race at last.
Thursday. Again I awake just before dawn, and eventually give up trying to get back asleep and get up as day breaks. I contemplate. The setting not so bad, 9 a.m. local time, sitting under the bimini (bimini = a kind of sun shade over the boat's cockpit), temperature hasn’t gotten too high yet, probably not yet over 30 in the shade, I've just finished my morning coffee and considering another. Although, life does still retain a few challenges, my task list is now down to the jobs that have to wait until the interior of the boat ceases to be a sewing workshop. Among these are unblocking the heads, and jobs I have to recruit expertise for, electronics problems, getting main sail repaired so that the battens will stay in, and getting the batteries tested to find out why they aren't holding their charge. I am resigned to the fact that the battery bank will have to be replaced, a right kick in the budgetary teeth that'll be, but more importantly, I want to have the wiring checked, as the batteries are only three years old, and I want to make sure that the new ones won't be thrashed due to some undiagnosed electrical problem.
So now I take out my computer and start to catch up on some emails and my blog.
You might be a bit surprised that I'm up so early, but there are a few drivers to that. First, we stayed on Irish time (= Canarian time) for the entire trip, where as they are 4 hours behind here in the Caribbean, so body clock is somewhere in between at the moment. Second, at these latitudes you get pretty much 12 hours day and 12 hours night, with only a little variation Summer and Winter, and that means we have daylight from about 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. local, (or 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. Irish, much more civilised!). Thirdly, the winder on my watch is stuck, so I've been unable to switch it to local time!
Since arriving in port we've been busy reorganising ourselves from life at sea to life in port, and there's quite an amount of work in that. On top of that there's our own recovery, the repairs and the maintenance, a 3,000 mile trip takes its tole not only on the boat, but on her crew as well.
Our first order of business was to let immediate family etc. know of our safe arrival, a task not helped by my phone running out of credit in the process. We had been saving a bottle of bubbly for our journey's end, and as soon as we saw land it went in the fridge. Once we had the boat securely tied to our marina berth we celebrated. Later we went for dinner in the nearest cafe, conveniently situated literally on our marina pontoon, the “Mango bay” can boast poor quality, an overpriced menu, and sloppy service, but it still knocked the socks of cooking and washing up for ourselves in a rolling boat.
Then we had to get details of Neil's flight, which we were expecting to be Monday at the earliest, but it turned out to be the next morning. That lit a bit of a fire under us, as the immigration office was closed by the time we got into port, and we had to check in when they opened Saturday at 7 a.m. with Neil's airport taxi waiting outside the door. All went well I'm glad to say and flights were duly caught.
The marina was full and was only able to give us a berth for a single night. In many ways that's just as well, because it's cheaper to anchor (well, free actually), and much more pleasant swinging free on the anchor than being packed like sardines. However, the marina has plus points too, the conveniences of being able to step ashore, unlimited electricity, etc. are particularly welcome after three weeks at sea. At anchor there is a much greater urgency about getting reorganised, without shore power sorting out our power generation is an immediate concern, we have to inflate the dinghy before we can go ashore, and so on. Of course these are all things we would have had to do eventually, but we could have used more of a rest first.
Saturday morning after Neil left we went back to the boat, filled up with water, washed the decks, checked email, rang home on Skype, and then, before dark took the boat out and found ourselves a spot in the anchorage.
Sunday, we took out the big dinghy and inflated it. It's a 3.8 metre dinghy, with five air chambers, and takes about 2,000 depressions of the pump to inflate, in addition, everything had been stowed for our ocean passage, every tool and accessory that we needed had to be dug out from the bottom of another locker, plus the fact that we're still recovering from 3 hours on 6 hours off for the last three weeks, the dinghy took us all day.
Martinique, as you probably know, is a French Department, and I am struggling with my 1974 pass Leaving cert French. Worse, they all just ignore my attempts and speak to me in English. Now that we had the dinghy we thought we'd have a look ashore, where we found a nearby restaurant. The barman decided he was going to be my new best friend, but despite the fact that his entire English vocabulary consisted of the word "Hello" and an assortment of "Ers" and "Ehs" and "Ums", he resolutely avoided speaking French to us to the extent that we were on our second beer before discovering the chef was on a night off, and the restaurant was closed! Not having the energy to go looking for another restaurant we settled for the increasingly obvious mediocrity of Mango Bay.
The big dinghy is made of PVC, which under the hot sun has a tendency to sweat, and being red, the red dye runs, gets on our clothes and skin, and the dinghy gets sticky and dirty and awful looking. So Catherine had resolved to put our €55 Lidl sewing machine to good use, and to make a cover for it. She had even bought the material months previously. So with the dinghy up, she went to work first thing Monday morning.
For my part, my main concern was our power needs. During the crossing our solar panels were producing only about half the power that they used to. In hindsight the obvious thing to check was whether each panel was still working. However I'd gotten it into my head that the connections were corroding, so I first wasted half a day checking them, and only when I found them all in as new condition did I think to try the obvious. By Monday evening I had established that the starboard panel was indeed the culprit, and fixed the problem.
I was expecting Catherine's dinghy cover to be a loose baggy thing, but as the first segment took shape on Monday I could see that it was turning out to be more like a tailored suit. On Tuesday, as she continued with it, I set about restoring the towed generator to wind generator mode. Were I a bit more of a DIY expert this task might have taken me an hour or two, but as it is, under normal circumstances I'd be at it for half a day. This is not normal circumstances, I am still suffering the sleep deprivation from three weeks at sea, plus, I'd never done this job before, so it was getting dark on Tuesday evening when I finally had the Wind generator reassembled and ready to be hoisted at first light.
Wednesday morning, before breakfast, soon after daybreak with hardly a breadth of wind, conditions were ideal for hoisting the wind generator on top of it's eight foot mounting pole. I perched precariously on the pole while Catherine used a halyard (that's a rope) on a winch to hoist the generator and I guided it into place.
Wednesday, the 17th March, that is. Catherine continues to beaver away at the dinghy cover, which is looking great as its ultimate shape becomes more apparent. Meanwhile, I'm contemplating what job I'm going to tackle next, when I see a dinghy headed our way. Mike and June Kelly, from the sailing boat “Idunno” out of New York, having seen our Irish flag, stopped by to say happy St Paddy's day. Mike being obviously of Irish American stock, so we celebrated with tea and biscuits.
I settle for being gofor for Catherine as she repeatedly climbs in and out of the dinghy, measuring and adjusting the pattern. In between, I manage to return the pilot berth to “workshop” status, making all my tools more accessible, and I also got the v-berth rearranged. All the while, I'm counting the amps going in and out of the batteries from the solar panels and the wind gen. We're doing alright, except that the sewing machine is chomping up a lot of the battery power. Even still, we are generating almost as much as we are using, and when the cover is finished we should be quids up on our power generation/consumption.
Wednesday evening, it's Paddy's day, we're going out. Now eating out three times within a week was a rarity for us at our most affluent times. Now, as penny pinching live-aboards, it's a no-no. Yet here we are, but the first two times we've had the mediocrity of “Mango Bay”, it's Paddy's day, and we've just sailed the Atlantic. We're not going to penny pinch tonight. We found a nice little restaurant, where we shared a tasty scallop starter, I had lamb cutlets, Catherine had spare ribs, and we even eventually persuaded our waitress to talk to us slowly in French. Washed down with a bottle of fairly ordinary wine, and a glass of brandy before bed back on the boat. I think I am rejoining the human race at last.
Thursday. Again I awake just before dawn, and eventually give up trying to get back asleep and get up as day breaks. I contemplate. The setting not so bad, 9 a.m. local time, sitting under the bimini (bimini = a kind of sun shade over the boat's cockpit), temperature hasn’t gotten too high yet, probably not yet over 30 in the shade, I've just finished my morning coffee and considering another. Although, life does still retain a few challenges, my task list is now down to the jobs that have to wait until the interior of the boat ceases to be a sewing workshop. Among these are unblocking the heads, and jobs I have to recruit expertise for, electronics problems, getting main sail repaired so that the battens will stay in, and getting the batteries tested to find out why they aren't holding their charge. I am resigned to the fact that the battery bank will have to be replaced, a right kick in the budgetary teeth that'll be, but more importantly, I want to have the wiring checked, as the batteries are only three years old, and I want to make sure that the new ones won't be thrashed due to some undiagnosed electrical problem.
So now I take out my computer and start to catch up on some emails and my blog.
You might be a bit surprised that I'm up so early, but there are a few drivers to that. First, we stayed on Irish time (= Canarian time) for the entire trip, where as they are 4 hours behind here in the Caribbean, so body clock is somewhere in between at the moment. Second, at these latitudes you get pretty much 12 hours day and 12 hours night, with only a little variation Summer and Winter, and that means we have daylight from about 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. local, (or 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. Irish, much more civilised!). Thirdly, the winder on my watch is stuck, so I've been unable to switch it to local time!
Bananas
Over the Winter of 2008/2009 we berthed in Portimao marina in the Algarve, where I had the pleasure of making friends with Ron and Grace Newton from London on their Catamaran “Flo”. Ron and Grace with three other crew crossed the Atlantic with the Atlantic Rally for Cruisers (ARC) in 2001 on their previous catamaran, “Kim”. One of their crew was inspired to summarize their journey in verse, and his lines capture our trip in a way that I cannot express better.
One little caveat, this is written by a sailor, for sailors, and therefore contains a little “sailors' language”!
“Provisions”
Too many fucking bananas
That was the problem we had
We thought of the fresh fruit and vitamins
We'd be ever so glad.
But too many fucking bananas
That's what we went and bought
Despite all the careful planning
The discussions and the forethought.
So many fucking bananas
We hoisted them up the backstay
And got a huge cheer in Las Palmas
When we finally got under way.
Too many fucking bananas
It was obvious from day one
As they quickly started to ripen
Under the tropical sun.
We had fucking bananas for breakfast
And fucking bananas for lunch
If you needed a snack in between meals
Bananas you had to munch
We tried fucking bananas in Brandy
Bananas in fucking gin
For a treat we had bananas in custard
But we knew we just couldn't win.
One morning at fucking day break
We beheld a terrible sight
Our pristine yellow bananas
Had gone fucking black overnight.
Skipper gathered the crew in the cockpit
And said with a heartfelt sigh
As he chucked the bananas over the side
Fuck off, cheerio, and good bye.
The moral of this story is simple
Let the voice of experience speak
when buying fucking bananas
Just buy enough for one week.
So whenever the going is heavy
With the wind and the waves looking grim
Smile as you read our story
And remember your friends on yacht “Kim”
Luke Priest
ARC 2001
One little caveat, this is written by a sailor, for sailors, and therefore contains a little “sailors' language”!
“Provisions”
Too many fucking bananas
That was the problem we had
We thought of the fresh fruit and vitamins
We'd be ever so glad.
But too many fucking bananas
That's what we went and bought
Despite all the careful planning
The discussions and the forethought.
So many fucking bananas
We hoisted them up the backstay
And got a huge cheer in Las Palmas
When we finally got under way.
Too many fucking bananas
It was obvious from day one
As they quickly started to ripen
Under the tropical sun.
We had fucking bananas for breakfast
And fucking bananas for lunch
If you needed a snack in between meals
Bananas you had to munch
We tried fucking bananas in Brandy
Bananas in fucking gin
For a treat we had bananas in custard
But we knew we just couldn't win.
One morning at fucking day break
We beheld a terrible sight
Our pristine yellow bananas
Had gone fucking black overnight.
Skipper gathered the crew in the cockpit
And said with a heartfelt sigh
As he chucked the bananas over the side
Fuck off, cheerio, and good bye.
The moral of this story is simple
Let the voice of experience speak
when buying fucking bananas
Just buy enough for one week.
So whenever the going is heavy
With the wind and the waves looking grim
Smile as you read our story
And remember your friends on yacht “Kim”
Luke Priest
ARC 2001
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Martinique. Nous sommes arrivé!
I've got to tell you about these French guys, they call each other Bouchon & Chou Chou (that's “Cork” and “Cabbage”, aka Stefan and Patrick). Bouchon/Stefan is a real character. He can't be much more than forty, he has a round face and a round shape, a permanent twinkle of mischief in his bright blue eyes, and a long and bushy mustache that is quintessentially French, If you haven't got the picture yet, he looks like he has just stepped out of an Asterisk and Obelisk comic strip.
We met him first in Las Palmas, where his boat was berthed on the same pontoon as us, and he introduced himself to me by playing a few bars of “Dirty ol' Town” on his flute as I walked past his boat. I obliged by singing a verse and we've been pals since, a mean achievement, since he has no English and we've been working with my little bits of pigeon French and Spanish and lots of body language. When Paul and Maura on Noble Warrior arrived I heard him again use his flute to introduce himself, this time with a few bars of “God Save the Queen”, like I said mischief!
And the pigeon French and Spanish is not to be sneezed at, they speak Portuguese in the Cape Verdes, and “Please” and “Thank you” being about the extent of my vocabulary in that idiom, I chanced my arm with my laboured Spanish. This was not only understood, it earned me the appreciation of the locals – my Spanish being so bad they couldn't tell it wasn't just bad Portuguese!
Anyway, leaving Mindelo 20/02/2010, Saturday, 16:45, Chou Chou and Bouchon came to cast off our lines, and they came armed with air horns to ensure that our exit was anything but quiet. Once free of the pontoon we let Aragorn drift about the bay while we lashed stuff down on the deck in places where it would have been in the way while casting off. Then we set sail under genoa only (a single forward sail), and left Mindelo bay and out in the rolling Atlantic.
We had met Greg and Paul from “Roma” an English boat, while in Mindelo, and they left at the same time as us. This was reassuring as it meant for at least our first night at sea there would be another boat within radio range. However it has worked out even better than that as both of us are traveling at similar speeds and we seem to have arrived at an unspoken agreement to keep each other in sight. Without this we'd be certain to be out of contact with each other very quickly. It's now Monday morning and we have just been within fifty yards of each other, taking pictures that we'll exchange later via email.
Yesterday, Sunday, we gave up on genoa only sailing as we were barely making four knots. Neil has a flight home to catch from Martinique, and at that rate it would be touch and go whether he made it. So in the morning, at the 9 a.m. watch change Catherine and Neil hoisted the mainsail, and we have been getting up to six knots since. However the winds have been a bit slack, and traveling slowly means that the towed generator is not creating as much power. That combined yesterday with a cloudy day, so we ran the engine for ninety minutes after dinner to make sure the batteries had enough juice to get through the night. A good wind all night meant we had a good charge through the night from the towed gen., so as long as we continue to have half decent winds we shouldn't have to resort to the engine for a while.
This morning shortly after dawn I noticed that one of the top battens in the sail was coming out. The battens help to keep the sail at the best angle to the wind, so when Catherine came up to relieve me at 9 we dropped the sail and fixed it. To drop and re-raise the sail we simply sailed close to the wind on genoa (headsail) only, this is a new technique for us that we learned from Neil. Having done the 3 to 6 pre dawn watch, Neil was sleeping (or trying to) for the exercise.
Later we had a call over the VHF from Roma to say they'd caught a Dorado, and Greg was recommending putting out a line. I was a bit concerned about letting out a fishing line simultaneously to the towed generator line, but reasoned that both lines should swing together. Readers of older blogs will recall the results of my previous attempt at fishing in Cadiz, where I caught a fish that was all of two inches long, and I was anxious to improve. So out went the fishing line and ten seconds later it was well and truly snagged in the towed generator rope. I spent the next hour unraveling the mess & that was the end of fishing for today.
Bad things happen in threes they say, and sure enough, after the sail's batten problems, then the fishing line tangle, before the sun had set the forward heads blocked. Neil had a look at fixing it, but the blockage is in the pipe and he didn't think it was one he could tackle at sea. Over the next few days I will summon the courage to tackle it, or at least take a look for myself. In the meantime, thankfully, we have the aft heads.
Speaking of trials & tribulations, here's a thing that I picked up from my Spanish lessons in Las Palmas. English words that end in “ation” generally translate directly into Spanish by changing the ending to “ación”, therefore “preparation” becomes “preparación”, “station” becomes “estación”, “nation”, nación”, and so on. Got the idea? OK. Spanish lesson for today, the word for “crew” is “tripulación”!
You may cringe at the poor humour, but I am already flinching at the abuse I am going to have to face from my tripulations for that.
.....
Tuesday, 23rd February.
Last night while I was on the midnight to three watch I saw that we were gradually separating from Roma on different tracks. By the time Catherine took over their light was disappearing and reappearing as we rolled about in the swell, and they were out of sight by the time Neil took over at six. When I came on again at nine I tried to raise them on VHF, and searched for them on the radar, but there was no sign. No particular problem with this, but it was reassuring to have had the company.
This morning we had another batten pop out of the sail. This time it was the bottom one, so we didn't have to lower the sail as much to fix it. I think the problem is that the shackles holding the sail to the mast are on the wrong way, causing them to chafe at the webbing that holds in the batten.
Since leaving the Cape Verdes we've been sailing on a “broad reach”. This morning we changed to a “Goose wing”. For the benefit of the non sailor, “broad reach” is sailingese for the wind is blowing from behind but not quite directly behind, or from the “aft quarter”. However now the wind is blowing directly in the direction we want to go, but when we steer that way the genoa (forward sail) is completely blanketed by the main sail. So we have gybed the genoa (pulled it out the other side) and used a pole to hold it in position. The only suitable pole we have is a big heavy spinnaker pole, so Neil and I had a bit of grunt work on the fore deck, but eventually got it set up. This set up, with the main out one side and the genoa out the other, is called a “goose wing”. It is not a very fast point of sail, but it looks elegant.
Commercial shipping have a piece of whizzkiddery on board called “AIS”. This device is linked into the ships systems and broadcasts its position, heading, speed and other relevant information by radio wave to any other AIS. Before leaving Ireland we had one of these devices installed and from time to time we pick up other ships with it. When we do we call them up and ask them for an updated weather forecast. Today we saw the Dutch tug “Statum”, first on AIS, but then he came within a couple of miles of us. We chatted briefly over the radio to Jos, the update to the forecast is more of the same, which is good.
After dinner we ran the engine for ninety minutes to boost the batteries. I am now convinced that there is a problem with the solar panels, as we are getting so little juice from them. Making matters worse is our slower speed, a combination of our “goosewing” and the fact that the winds are dropping. The slower speed means we are getting less from the towed gen. There's not much I can do about the solar panels before we reach port. Another job for the list when we get there. In the meantime, we have enough diesel to run the engine for as much battery charging as we need, and I can switch off some of the non essential systems during the day to save power if necessary.
Speaking of dinner, chili fajitas, prepared by Catherine who is today's scheduled mother. Neil being scheduled daughter today got to do wash up. As it was my turn to be son I marked our position on the chart.
Overnight the winds were slack, however with the genoa poled on a goosewing we decided that we'd keep sailing downwind, which unless there was a dramatic change in wind direction was approximately our course.
...
Wednesday 24th February
Our goose wing point of sail has sailing a little south of our ideal course, as opposed to a little north while we were broad reaching. Last we saw of Roma they were on a course diverging southerly. With our new course there is a slim chance that we might catch up with them again. Roma is a slower boat, but they are a bit more trigger happy to use the engine.
Sure enough early this morning I got a blip on the radar about six miles off our beam. Once the hour was respectable enough I gave them a call over the radio, and in a few hours we were back in sight of each other. Greg, Roma's skipper, continues to tell us of his fish dinners, caught by trailing a line. So today, while we were running the engine to charge the batteries I decided to have another go, having first hauled in the towed generator.
After about an hour I got a bite. This was a first for me, aside from two goldfish sized things that I caught in Cadiz last summer, I'd never caught a fish before, and neither had Catherine or Neil. So of the four of us, it was only the fish that had any idea what to do!
I reeled him in slowly as the fight wore him down, and got him to the back of the boat. Apparently fish change colour to the grey we're used to in the shops when they die. I still don't know what type of fish this guy was, but in the water he was a beautiful yellow green. Neil came back with net and bucket. The fish was about the size of a full grown salmon, we estimated at the time at least 18 inches, although he grew substantially subsequently! Neil was trying to get the net under him, but the net wasn't big enough, it did have the effect of panicking the fish into one final flurry of resistance that I wasn't expecting, and the line broke. Dinner escaped. I had an odd mixture of feelings; respect for this beautiful creature, relief that I wasn't going to kill it, and a part of me was glad to see him go. I wished him luck and hoped that he would be able to eject the hook from his mouth.
I put the line out again, and after about another thirty minutes I got another bite. A smaller fish, we think a dorado. He was easier to manage and we got him on board, although, as I'd never killed a fish before I made a bit of a messy job of it. Catherine cleaned and gutted him, but as there was only really enough meat on him for one dinner, or two at a push, we had him as a starter, and had a main course of sausage and mash. I'm mum today, so I got to cook him too, although once again under supervision.
The wind has been up and down all day. We continue to sail on a goosewing, and we are staying within sight of Roma. Overnight though the wind dropped very light. However we decided to follow the same strategy as last night and continue directly downwind.
Thursday, 25th February.
In the early morning the wind had died away to nothing, and with light winds for the previous 24 hours we had not been getting much power from the towed generator (the slower you go the less it produces). So when Catherine came up to relieve my watch at 9 a.m. the batteries were low and we ran the engine to charge them,. This time we put the engine in gear so that we'd have some propulsion as well. We rolled up the genoa and motored at a fuel efficient 4 knots.
Overnight Roma had overtaken us and motored ahead. Just before dawn I could barely see their nav light on the horizon, but as daylight came I lost sight of them. A little later Greg called us on the radio to say that his autohelm (automatic steering) had failed, and so had his backup steering. He was trying to fix it, and we would probably overtake him. Roma also has wind steering, but so far they have been unable to get it working properly. Wind steering is a piece of kit that I am very envious of, at it steers the boat at an angle to the wind, and you can set the angle, therefore it doesn't require any power. Unfortunately Greg and Paul on Roma haven't had much success getting that working either. If they don't sort something out they will have to steer the whole way to the Caribbean, two weeks non stop steering with only two people on board they will arrive two very tired men.
We have neither wind steering nor backup autohelm. Our fall back plan in the event of automatic steering failure is to hand steer, that would be a huge amount of extra work, but with three of us less of a nightmare than what Roma face.
As we are heading west at in excess of 100 miles a day, and since we have kept all our watches on UT (Irish time), the sunrise and sunset are both getting later every day by about eight minutes.
At home we'd also be getting the benefit of the lengthening days,. but in these latitudes the amount of daylight only varies about an hour or so between our mid winter and mid summer.
Continued light winds mean that our batteries keep getting drained. Neil has suggested that we let them drain during the day, and then run the engine at night when there is a greater drain on our power resources.
We are getting to sail slowly, but I have calculated that if we can make 90 miles a day (average 4 knots) we should be in Martinique by the 14th March. Neil has a flight home to catch, we won't know exactly what date until we arrive, other than on or after the 15th.
This afternoon, buoyed by my success yesterday as “hunter gatherer” I took out the fishing rod and sat at the aft of the boat for a couple hours. I took the line in before coming back to the cockpit for lunch to find that the lure was gone! After lunch I had another go, and another fruitless couple of hours reading my book. Finally, about 6, after a chat over the radio with Roma in which Greg told us of yet another fish that they have caught, I went aft with rod one more time. Third time lucky, or so it seemed, as soon enough I was reeling in another fish that we think is a dorado. Once again he was big enough to make a hearty meal for one, or could be stretched to a meal for two, but definitely not big enough to feed the three of us. I cast the hook again, but I sensed the crew had a little less enthusiasm as they set about the gutting and cleaning, and I could hear plans being discussed for dinner of chili con carne. I took the hint and put away the fishing gear.
Friday 26th February
Catherine's comment in the log at three o'clock this afternoon “Whoever heard of Westerley trade winds in this neck of the woods!?” The trade winds, reliably as clockwork the books tell us, blow consistently from the North-East at about 20 knots. Yet here we are beating into light airs, and having to go way north of our track. And even still we are glad of the breeze such as it is, it's better than sitting in the swell going nowhere with our sails banging about. Progress towards Martinique on our current course is about 2 knots (= 2 MPH), with almost 1,500 miles to go, and Neil with a flight to catch, my old teacher's line of “must do better” comes to mind.
Saturday 27th February
Still becalmed, plodding along with banging sails, occasionally the breeze getting up enough to push us along at 4 knots, then dying away again. Catherine ran the engine for a couple of hours during her early morning watch when the batteries got so low they were threatening to drop the autohelm. This brought the days miles covered figure to a still-not-nearly-respectable 80. One week out of the Cape Verdes today, and after the last two days of calm, we have barely averaged a hundred miles a day. Our target is 120, and I had been harbouring ambitions of 150.
All day we barely drifted along in almost no wind. At times making 2 knots, more often less than that. In this the third day of calm morale is visibly dropping.
I cheered myself up this morning by going for a swim. Not just any old swim, a swim in the Atlantic over a thousand miles off both Africa and any point in the Americas, only the Cape Verdes, 700 miles behind us are nearer, unless you count the ocean bed beneath three miles plus of water. It was a rather short swim, jumping off the front of the boat and swimming directly to the transom ladder at the back. The mention of sharks and killer whales as I was jumping in doing enough to ensure my prompt return.
Earlier on a ship passed on the horizon, Roma called them on the radio to get an updated weather forecast, force three today, but force 4 tomorrow, north easterly too, very promising! As we were finishing lunch we saw another ship, and as we were chatting with Roma over the radio trying to identify her, she called us. They too gave us a forecast, but said tomorrow's wind would be from the northwest. Not so good.
Lunch, now that I mention it, included home made brown bread that Catherine made yesterday on her “mother” shift”. And it wasn't made from a mix either, not bad for mid Atlantic! Me being mum today I served it up with ham, salami and cheese. For dinner I made them spaghetti carbonara – a fistful of spaghetti, a carton of carbonara sauce, with a packet of rashers chopped up small to supplement the bacon content. Catherine stuck some pre-bake garlic bread in the oven to go with it.
We spent the afternoon reading in the shade of the bimini (sun shade over the cockpit). The wind did occasionally reach force 3, however most of the time it was varying between beaufort 1 and 2, that's between no wind and no wind at all at all at all!
Working the watches three hours on, six hours off, no one gets a full 8 hours sleep in one go, so usually at least one of us peels off for an early night shortly after dinner (about 9ish), and usually it is midday before all three of us are up and about again. This has the advantage that despite the fact that the three of us our eating, sleeping, working, 24/7 in an area the size of a small room, we are not tripping over each other all the time, at least not as much as one would expect.
Sunday, 28th February
Last day of the month, and as I take over from Neil's watch at 6 a.m. we are still crawling along, rolling about in the swell and making very little progress. However, just before Catherine came up to relieve me at 9 a.m. a gently breeze got up and we were making 4 knots, not long after it had reached its promised force 4, and from the North East to boot! Thus with the wind on the starboard quarter we are now broad reaching nicely at 5 knots. Aragorn doesn't sail as well as some boats on this point of sale, especially not in her current state loaded to the gills with provisions, so we'll gladly take 5 knots. If we can keep it up we'll be in Martinique by the 10th March despite the last three days.
Neil is mother today, and as I type he is preparing lunch. Catherine has once again slipped into the galley ahead of him and made some more brown bread, we fairly demolished yesterday's.
And then the aft heads blocked! You'll remember the forward heads blocked on Monday, so it was looking like we were out of options, until I figured that we could still use it via the holding tank. Another job for when we reach port.
Other than that we spent the day reading our books, and Neil and I had a few games of chess. I have to be careful with him, in most games now he is getting an initial advantage, I have maintained the upper hand against him only on the strength of his slip ups.
For dinner Neil prepared what is becoming our “Aragorn Atlantic special” - Tinned duck and sausages. We got the duck in Carrefoure in Las Palmas as a special treat dish. We had come across it in Carrefoures in previous ports, but it was usually in short supply. In Las Palmas they were well stocked, and we cleaned them out. However first time we had it Neil barely touched his, so since then we cook it with sausages, Neil gets them, Catherine and I have duck, and everyone is happy.
Monday 1st March
The wind that got up yesterday morning has been holding, so we've been making good progress. Miles covered in the 24 hours up until noon today is 111. However, not quite as good as it seems, as overnight Catherine saw what she thought was a green flare in the sky to the South East just as Neil was taking over the watch. Distress flares always burn either red or white and we all thought it most likely that this was a shooting star, but we hadn't been in touch with Roma for a couple of days, and from our diverging courses the last time we saw them, South East was the direction we thought they'd be. Catherine woke me to let me know and I agreed that we should investigate. So we spent the next few hours going in the wrong direction.
There were no more flares, nothing on the horizon in any direction, and we could not make radio contact with anyone even though we called Roma several times and put out a “pan pan” relay call. So when I came up for my watch at 9 a.m. we resumed our course, Westward.
With the continued favourable wind, everyone's in good humour and spirits are high. Neil has been entertaining us by singing old Beatles numbers off key until we threaten to make him walk the plank. We don't seem to have quite exhausted our repertoire of riddles and corny jokes. For the latter Neil has been benchmarking them against those his father tells, and so we have arrived at the Jim Maher award for same!
Tuesday 2nd March
Overnight I saw a “green flare” in the sky. This time it was definitely a shooting star, but having seen it I felt more comfortable about having abandoned our detour yesterday morning.
Unfortunately from this morning the wind started to ease and go a bit southeasterly, slowing us down and forcing us to steer North of our best course. The miles covered in the 24 hours to noon was 117, one of the best since the Cape Verdes, but at an average of under 5 knots nothing to write home about -- hmm, even though that's what I'm doing, isn't it? And now with the wind failing again, it looks like that'll be a record for some time. No one is talking about it, but the drain on everyone's previous good form is noticeable. In addition, we're all pretty tired. Yes, we've gotten into our rhythm of 3 hours on 6 hours off, but it's a tiring one. We cheer ourselves up with facts like we have covered 2,000 miles since leaving the Canaries – a threshold I think we crossed yesterday, tomorrow we expect to cross the half way point between the Cape Verdes and Martinique, and the next day our distance to go should dip below the 1,000 miles. This afternoon I got really low and fed up as we wallowed around in the swell barely making three knots, and even that is not in the most direct course.
Enough of this depressing introspection. Today I'm mother, and as the sun went down I began to prepare this evening's gourmet presentation, salmon pasta. This is a dish we hadn't done before, but seemed straightforward, cream sauce, tin of salmon, pasta, seasoning. Not being a fish eater, it took a bit of encouragement to get Neil to go along with this, but as our menu is limited he went along.
Now perhaps if it had been Catherine, with her culinary skills, to have prepared this dish at least the first time, then maybe it would have worked out better. I had been thinking more on the lines of the tasty smoked salmon pasta that we used to enjoy in La Strada in Dun Laoghaire. But the gruel I slopped up was yee-uch! We all managed to force it down, but I am afraid it will be a while before that particular dish gets another outing.
After dinner I took over the watch from Neil and he took off to bed promptly, but Catherine stayed up long enough for the two of us to have a cup of tea. We had been discussing the overnight sail plan earlier, and we had switched from a goose wing to a broad reach in the hope of at least a more comfortable night – Aragorn feeling a little less prone to the swell at that point of sail in the light winds. However as we finished our tea the wind disappeared completely. Rather than spend another night with sails banging as we wallowed in the windless swell I decided to burn some of our precious diesel and run the engine. We have enough diesel left for three days motoring, provided we go slowly, that's about 100 miles a day, however with over 1,000 miles to go we have to use it judiciously. So before Catherine went to bed we took in the sails and started motoring.
It was then, as I settled myself down on my own for the last two hours of my watch that I had my extra terrestrial experience. First I saw an area of clouds on the horizon behind us in the East light up, too bright to be a ship, it was more like the light pollution from a small city, except brighter, and impossible where we are – a thousand miles from land. I watched, momentarily startled, as a bright yellow dome emerged from the sea. Slowly the dome on the horizon grew becoming more round, until it lifted itself clear of the water altogether as a bright yellow disk of light. Of course I had realised after the first half second that I was looking at the full moon rising, but it was none the less awe-inspiring for that. Last night too, I noticed Catherine had remarked in the log about another spectacular moonrise.
You weren't expecting me to talk about little green men, were you?
Wednesday, 3rd March
Once again this morning I am on the 6 – 9 dawn watch. Well I've been calling it the dawn watch, but as we travel westwards dawn comes later every day, and in fact today dawn was just after 9 a.m.
As I took over from Neil at 6 a.m. We noticed a slight breeze getting up, we decided it would be worth trying to sail again, so we unrolled the genoa, killed the engine, adjusted our course slightly to windward, and sure enough we were getting 4 knots on the calm sea.
After Neil had gone to bed I realised that we had not redeployed the towed generator, which we took in when we turned on the engine last night. The engine generates all the power we need, and there is no need to trail a propeller on a rope for extra juice, aside from the risk of wrapping the generator's rope around the engine's propellor, it slows us down. So later, when Catherine came to relieve me at 9, as we were still sailing, we relaunched the towed genny before breakfast.
Over the period of my watch we had been averaging 4 knots in the light winds. If we can keep this up all the way to Martinique, we should just make it in time for Neil's flight, which he tells us will be on or after the 15th. However, having had mainly light winds since leaving the Cape Verdes, lighter even than this morning, I'd be happier if we could put something in the bank, so to speak. So after breakfast, leaving Neil to enjoy his well earned kip, Catherine and I set about deploying the last card in our hand for improving our sailing speed – the cruising chute.
The “cruising chute” is a huge light wind headsail, which we can use instead of the genoa. It is so much like an asymmetric spinnaker that I couldn't tell you the difference. Thus far in this crossing we hadn't used it for a few reasons, including that it is a rather finicky sail to both deploy and sail with, and requires extra work from the crew. Also, based on our previous attempts with it, I wasn't entirely sure that we'd get any more speed from it. However, I'd estimated about 17 days for the entire trip, Cape Verdes to Martinique, yet here we were on the eleventh day, and thanks to the disappearance of the trade winds, we weren't quite half way yet. Something had to be done.
So I spent the next 45 minutes crawling about the foredeck, getting whacked by sails and lines, while Catherine laboured over the halyards and winches from the cockpit. Because we've used it so rarely, there was also a bit of trial and error before we got it right. Eventually though we got there, and when I hauled up the snuffer to release the sail I immediately felt Aragorn surge forward, and add a knot to our speed.
I mentioned half way, well this morning we crossed the halfway mark of this final leg of the crossing (Cape Verdes to Caribbean). The total distance for the leg is 2,070 miles, and as of today we have less than 1,035 to go. To celebrate we all had showers, such a simple luxury, but our only source of fresh water is what we carry in our tanks, so we have to use it carefully.
Of course we have sailed more than 1,035 miles to get here, on account of the way we have been fish tailing about to make the most of the winds. Later today we crossed another milestone, when the distance to go dipped below the 1,000 mile mark. These distances do not reflect our trip from the Canary Islands to the Cape Verdes, nor our passages between the Cape Verdes' islands, all of which accounts for another 1,000 miles plus, so the optimist in me says that we are past the two thirds stage. One more fact buried in all these numbers is that we are a thousand miles from the nearest land. Sobering.
We occasionally see passing ships, the last one was a few days ago, “Advantage”, we chatted briefly over the radio with the American crew and they gave us an updated forecast. They also mentioned that there was a fleet of rowing boats ahead of us, (in case you thought we were mad!!) - we might catch upon them over the next couple of days. We haven't had any contact with Roma since then either.
Neil being Mum today made us a fry up of sausage, rashers, mashed potatoes and beans, although I passed on the beans.
We had a busy day, as we spent a lot of time steering the boat, the cruising chute did indeed prove finicky and we had to make constant intersessions as the autohelm lost its way. Then, at sunset, the wind increased, and though Neil was enjoying himself piloting the boat at 8 knots with the big light wind sail, I chose discretion over speed and we reverted to the genoa, which poled out in a goose wing enabled us to follow a more direct course. The change of sail meant another 20 minutes on the foredeck getting whipped and beaten by the lines and sails flogging in the wind, and leaving a lump of skin off my toe there in the process. Although I am daughter today, seeing the state of me when I came back, Catherine volunteered to do the wash-up, I was too wrecked to protest and went straight to bed.
Thursday, 4th March
I was awoken ahead of my 8:45 alarm clock by the swell as Aragorn surged and rolled in a way that told me the trade wind was back. Still tired, I clung to my half-sleep, hooking my knee over the edge of the bed to stop me rolling on top of Catherine, and managed a few more minutes doze. I envy the way Neil apparently wakes two minutes before his watch, and is wide awake in the cockpit, ready for duty within 60 seconds, still early for his watch. I need at least 10 minutes, to gather my thoughts, get dressed, and stumble bleary eyed into the cockpit.
Sure enough, bleary-eyed or not, it was quite apparent that the trades were back, blowing us directly towards our target of Martinique, and at speeds up to 7 knots. Although 5 knots was the more usual, and sometimes even a little less, with the result that we covered 16 miles in my three hour watch up to 12 o clock. If we could repeat that in every three hour period we'd be there in a week. Our 24 hours to noon miles traveled figure today is 121 miles, bringing us110 miles closer to our target – we lost the extra 11 miles due to our fishtailing.
Sunrise was about half nine this morning (still Irish time, when we arrive in Martinique we'll gain four hours). Not as spectacular as some, due to a lot of cloud about. Before too long I was sheltering under the spray hood from a light rain that fell for a few minutes, but afterwards it cleared up and I could feel the sun burning me through my jeans. Today we've reached 45 degrees west, Martinique is approximately 60. The significance is that sunrise/sunset is exactly one hour later for every 15 degrees west you go.
Yet another batten is slipping out of the mainsail this morning, we'll have to drop the sail at some stage today to sort it. Another thing that Neil noticed was the genoa sheet (that's the rope we use to control it) was chafing on the spinnaker pole. I dug up some hosing to protect it, which we can put on at the same time.
As the day wore on the wind veered southerly and we had to keep pointing more and more north to maintain our goose-wing. Eventually we had to gybe the mainsail, and before we could do that we had to sort out the batten. Another foray onto the foredeck, but we got it sorted with out much fuss, we're improving!. Then in the afternoon the wind dropped again and backed, so this time we gybed the genoa, and poled it out on the other side, so we're back to a goose-wing again for the night.
That's right, I said the wind dropped, and our speed is down to little more than a crawl once more. At least there's enough to keep the sails full, and they're not banging about uselessly as they had been, but our speed is down to three and a half knots.
Dinner tonight was sweet and sour chicken, Catherine being mum today, and the chicken came from a tin, but it was very tasty,.
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Tuesday 9th March
Ok, I've skipped a few days. What'd I miss? Not a lot, the wind gets up from the East or North east and we think the trades are back, but then it dies away again, and we are left at best tootling along at a snail's pace of three knots, or worse, going nowhere at all with the sails just banging about as we drift with the current. Why don't you turn on the engine I hear you ask, simple fact is we brought enough diesel for at best 100 hours of very economic motoring at about 4 knots, in other words 400 miles worth. We didn't have room for any more, and even at that we have jerrycans tied to the deck. Anyway, we're not supposed to need it, the trade winds blow reliably from the East or North East non stop from December to June, and my chart announces authoritatively, the North Equatorial Current flows West at between a half and one and a half knots. I wonder if whoever proclaimed these pieces of wisdom was ever out here, heck I wonder do they know what a boat or the sea looks like!
Enough belly-aching. Actually we have had both wind and progress, and even some excitement, in the last few days, and the westward current does seem to have resumed, albeit with as much South in it as West.
The wind that we've been getting has been from the South, so hardly the trades, but we've had it on and off since Saturday. It's been good enough to keep our mileage over 100 a day, although, now that we're getting closer to land, we are feeling affluent enough with the diesel to run under engine in the calms. The 24 hours up to noon today were the best since we left the Cape Verdes, coming in at 129 miles. On Sunday the winds were light so we put up the cruising chute again, and sure enough it added a knot or two, but it was a lot of work to hoist and to sail by, the watch having to sit on the autohelm to take over when things went askew, which they did regularly. Eventually, during the night when the wind died away we took it down again and motored for a few hours until the wind returned. We had gambled on the wind holding overnight to keep up the good speed, but we lost the bet and had the added grief of taking the thing down in the dark. The downside of this wind is that the boat is leaned over and bouncing about a lot on the waves, which is alright when sitting in the cockpit, but working in the galley, i.e., cooking, washing up, etc, is a bit more difficult. I think all of us have received minor scalds in the process. Still, we'll take it, it's a lot better than wallowing around in the swell and not making any progress.
We have started to see more shipping again as we get closer to the Caribbean. We can only see for a few miles to the horizon in any direction, but we get advance warning from either the AIS our radar detector. This latter screeches at us when we've been pinged by radar – at which point we turn off the sound and look for the approaching vessel on our own radar or the AIS. The AIS is another piece of whizzkiddery that big ships use to broadcast their position, speed, direction etc., and we have the kit too, so we can pick them up. Then we call them up, say hi, and get an update of the weather forecast, if they answer us that is.
Last Friday we saw a sail on the horizon. As the day wore on it seemed to inch closer to us. We tried calling them on the radio several times, but they didn't respond, presumably they had their radio switched off, or maybe they don't speak English. By nightfall they were probably only a couple of miles away, but then after dark they didn't seem to turn on any navigation lights and in the morning they were out of sight.
Then on Sunday, I was making one of our routine checks on the instruments, when I saw this boat pop up on the AIS, 5 miles ahead of us, and traveling South West at less than a knot. Just as I was guessing it must be one of the rowers, albeit headed in the wrong direction, he called us over the radio. And that was how we met Pete the single handed rower from South Africa. He explained that he was taking a break, hence was just drifting with the current. I'll repeat that for anyone that thinks we're mad sailing the Atlantic, Pete is rowing single handed across. Apparently there's an Irish guy doing it single handed as well, but I didn't catch who it was. Pete told us that he was rowing from the Canaries, and had left nine weeks previously. We didn't have to make any significant adjustment in our course to meet up with him, as he was right on our course. Spotting his little boat in the ocean swell wasn't so easy, even with him standing up, but with the help of our instruments we rendez-vous'd mid ocean.
We'd had time to prepare a goody bag containing a couple of beers from the fridge, some fresh scones that Catherine had baked, with some Kerrygold and jam, all made as waterproof as we could get it, and tied to an empty water bottle for buoyancy. As we were sailing under cruising chute at the time we were whizzing along at 6 knots as we passed him, Neil steered us as close as we dared, I lobbed the goodies towards him, and Catherine took the pictures. Then as the Crusoe figure disappeared behind us we sang him a verse of Molly Malone. For anyone interested, Pete's boat's name is “Nyamezela” and his web site is www.rowpeterow.co.za, and he's updating the site from the boat. So you don't have to wait until he arrives in Antigua to get his latest.
This evening the wind has died down a bit, which means we've slowed down, but as we'd been thumping along at up to seven and a half knots, slowing down to 5 overnight will be a bit of a relief. Especially as it means I'll be able to get a nights sleep without having to cock one leg over the side of the bed to stop me sliding on top of Catherine.
We would be going quite a bit faster, except that we are probably losing half a knot on account of all the extra provisions we are carrying, plus another half knot on account of the growth and barnacles beneath our waterline – I haven't scrubbed the bottom since lifting out last July. Then we are losing half knot because of the resistance caused by trailing the towed generator, and the other day, we had to give up on the battens in the mainsail and take them all out before they came out by themselves, thus losing another half knot. I'm thinking if we lose any more half knots we'll be going backwards.
Dinner tonight is chili again, out of a tin of course. Neil being Mum is doing the cooking, me being today's daughter, I get to wash up.
We crossed the 300 miles to go milestone just after eight this evening, so it looks like we'll arrive in Marin, Martinique, probably Friday. Or if we're real lucky Thursday. However, if it's after dark we'll wait off shore until morning to go in in daylight.
Wednesday, 10th March
Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we nearly there?
The wind has gone light again. We'd hoist the cruising chute, but we've had such grief getting it up and down that nobody has the will or the energy. The trip is taking its tole that way.
Aside from our routine chores, cooking, cleaning, watch duty, etc., we usually entertained ourselves reading, either fiction, or one of our Caribbean cruising guides, or one of our astrology guides. The downside of the latter was we could only read during daylight, but the stars obviously are only visible at night. Also, I've had the occasional game of chess with Neil, and the three of us have played cards – when there was no wind to blow the cards away. Otherwise we have engaged in such mentally challenging enterprises was “I Spy”.
Thursday, 11th March
Watching the miles to go's slow but relentless decrease helps counterbalance the lethargy of almost three weeks at sea. The light winds have made our arrival in tomorrow almost a certainty in le Marin, Martinique. As the wind dropped away to nothing we turned on the engine, and with only a hundred miles to go, we have enough diesel to motor all the way.
Friday, 12th March
LAND!
Almost twenty days at sea, and we have sighted land. When I handed over the watch to Catherine at 9 a.m. this morning (Irish time) it was before dawn, but with only 35 miles to go, I expected that land would be visible with daylight. But after grabbing a few hours sleep I was disappointed to come up to the cockpit with 18 miles to go to see only a haze on the horizon.
Staring into the distance we were unsure whether we were looking at the vague outline of mountains or whether we were just straining our eyes. But finally it cleared a little and we were looking at the low contours of South East Martinique.
It has been a slow crossing, 14 days would have been good, 17 average, but by the time we tied on at 6 pm Irish time it was 20 days to the minute after we'd untied in the Cape Verdes.
Before we saw land we got reception on our phones, and started to send and receive SMS messages – until that my phone ran out of credit, and I discovered I need the Internet to top up. Neil's flight, we've just found out is 10 a.m. tomorrow, which cuts it just about as fine as we can be.
Saturday, 13th March, Martinique
We had to wait until 7 a.m. this morning to check in with immigration. Neil's airport taxi was waiting outside while I went through the formalities, which I had to do before I could give him back his passport.
The marina is full, but they have given us a berth for one night only, so we've got to get back to the boat now and get her ready to go out into the anchorage. Then it's back to the to do list, and plan where we go from here.
Au-revoire!
We met him first in Las Palmas, where his boat was berthed on the same pontoon as us, and he introduced himself to me by playing a few bars of “Dirty ol' Town” on his flute as I walked past his boat. I obliged by singing a verse and we've been pals since, a mean achievement, since he has no English and we've been working with my little bits of pigeon French and Spanish and lots of body language. When Paul and Maura on Noble Warrior arrived I heard him again use his flute to introduce himself, this time with a few bars of “God Save the Queen”, like I said mischief!
And the pigeon French and Spanish is not to be sneezed at, they speak Portuguese in the Cape Verdes, and “Please” and “Thank you” being about the extent of my vocabulary in that idiom, I chanced my arm with my laboured Spanish. This was not only understood, it earned me the appreciation of the locals – my Spanish being so bad they couldn't tell it wasn't just bad Portuguese!
Anyway, leaving Mindelo 20/02/2010, Saturday, 16:45, Chou Chou and Bouchon came to cast off our lines, and they came armed with air horns to ensure that our exit was anything but quiet. Once free of the pontoon we let Aragorn drift about the bay while we lashed stuff down on the deck in places where it would have been in the way while casting off. Then we set sail under genoa only (a single forward sail), and left Mindelo bay and out in the rolling Atlantic.
We had met Greg and Paul from “Roma” an English boat, while in Mindelo, and they left at the same time as us. This was reassuring as it meant for at least our first night at sea there would be another boat within radio range. However it has worked out even better than that as both of us are traveling at similar speeds and we seem to have arrived at an unspoken agreement to keep each other in sight. Without this we'd be certain to be out of contact with each other very quickly. It's now Monday morning and we have just been within fifty yards of each other, taking pictures that we'll exchange later via email.
Yesterday, Sunday, we gave up on genoa only sailing as we were barely making four knots. Neil has a flight home to catch from Martinique, and at that rate it would be touch and go whether he made it. So in the morning, at the 9 a.m. watch change Catherine and Neil hoisted the mainsail, and we have been getting up to six knots since. However the winds have been a bit slack, and traveling slowly means that the towed generator is not creating as much power. That combined yesterday with a cloudy day, so we ran the engine for ninety minutes after dinner to make sure the batteries had enough juice to get through the night. A good wind all night meant we had a good charge through the night from the towed gen., so as long as we continue to have half decent winds we shouldn't have to resort to the engine for a while.
This morning shortly after dawn I noticed that one of the top battens in the sail was coming out. The battens help to keep the sail at the best angle to the wind, so when Catherine came up to relieve me at 9 we dropped the sail and fixed it. To drop and re-raise the sail we simply sailed close to the wind on genoa (headsail) only, this is a new technique for us that we learned from Neil. Having done the 3 to 6 pre dawn watch, Neil was sleeping (or trying to) for the exercise.
Later we had a call over the VHF from Roma to say they'd caught a Dorado, and Greg was recommending putting out a line. I was a bit concerned about letting out a fishing line simultaneously to the towed generator line, but reasoned that both lines should swing together. Readers of older blogs will recall the results of my previous attempt at fishing in Cadiz, where I caught a fish that was all of two inches long, and I was anxious to improve. So out went the fishing line and ten seconds later it was well and truly snagged in the towed generator rope. I spent the next hour unraveling the mess & that was the end of fishing for today.
Bad things happen in threes they say, and sure enough, after the sail's batten problems, then the fishing line tangle, before the sun had set the forward heads blocked. Neil had a look at fixing it, but the blockage is in the pipe and he didn't think it was one he could tackle at sea. Over the next few days I will summon the courage to tackle it, or at least take a look for myself. In the meantime, thankfully, we have the aft heads.
Speaking of trials & tribulations, here's a thing that I picked up from my Spanish lessons in Las Palmas. English words that end in “ation” generally translate directly into Spanish by changing the ending to “ación”, therefore “preparation” becomes “preparación”, “station” becomes “estación”, “nation”, nación”, and so on. Got the idea? OK. Spanish lesson for today, the word for “crew” is “tripulación”!
You may cringe at the poor humour, but I am already flinching at the abuse I am going to have to face from my tripulations for that.
.....
Tuesday, 23rd February.
Last night while I was on the midnight to three watch I saw that we were gradually separating from Roma on different tracks. By the time Catherine took over their light was disappearing and reappearing as we rolled about in the swell, and they were out of sight by the time Neil took over at six. When I came on again at nine I tried to raise them on VHF, and searched for them on the radar, but there was no sign. No particular problem with this, but it was reassuring to have had the company.
This morning we had another batten pop out of the sail. This time it was the bottom one, so we didn't have to lower the sail as much to fix it. I think the problem is that the shackles holding the sail to the mast are on the wrong way, causing them to chafe at the webbing that holds in the batten.
Since leaving the Cape Verdes we've been sailing on a “broad reach”. This morning we changed to a “Goose wing”. For the benefit of the non sailor, “broad reach” is sailingese for the wind is blowing from behind but not quite directly behind, or from the “aft quarter”. However now the wind is blowing directly in the direction we want to go, but when we steer that way the genoa (forward sail) is completely blanketed by the main sail. So we have gybed the genoa (pulled it out the other side) and used a pole to hold it in position. The only suitable pole we have is a big heavy spinnaker pole, so Neil and I had a bit of grunt work on the fore deck, but eventually got it set up. This set up, with the main out one side and the genoa out the other, is called a “goose wing”. It is not a very fast point of sail, but it looks elegant.
Commercial shipping have a piece of whizzkiddery on board called “AIS”. This device is linked into the ships systems and broadcasts its position, heading, speed and other relevant information by radio wave to any other AIS. Before leaving Ireland we had one of these devices installed and from time to time we pick up other ships with it. When we do we call them up and ask them for an updated weather forecast. Today we saw the Dutch tug “Statum”, first on AIS, but then he came within a couple of miles of us. We chatted briefly over the radio to Jos, the update to the forecast is more of the same, which is good.
After dinner we ran the engine for ninety minutes to boost the batteries. I am now convinced that there is a problem with the solar panels, as we are getting so little juice from them. Making matters worse is our slower speed, a combination of our “goosewing” and the fact that the winds are dropping. The slower speed means we are getting less from the towed gen. There's not much I can do about the solar panels before we reach port. Another job for the list when we get there. In the meantime, we have enough diesel to run the engine for as much battery charging as we need, and I can switch off some of the non essential systems during the day to save power if necessary.
Speaking of dinner, chili fajitas, prepared by Catherine who is today's scheduled mother. Neil being scheduled daughter today got to do wash up. As it was my turn to be son I marked our position on the chart.
Overnight the winds were slack, however with the genoa poled on a goosewing we decided that we'd keep sailing downwind, which unless there was a dramatic change in wind direction was approximately our course.
...
Wednesday 24th February
Our goose wing point of sail has sailing a little south of our ideal course, as opposed to a little north while we were broad reaching. Last we saw of Roma they were on a course diverging southerly. With our new course there is a slim chance that we might catch up with them again. Roma is a slower boat, but they are a bit more trigger happy to use the engine.
Sure enough early this morning I got a blip on the radar about six miles off our beam. Once the hour was respectable enough I gave them a call over the radio, and in a few hours we were back in sight of each other. Greg, Roma's skipper, continues to tell us of his fish dinners, caught by trailing a line. So today, while we were running the engine to charge the batteries I decided to have another go, having first hauled in the towed generator.
After about an hour I got a bite. This was a first for me, aside from two goldfish sized things that I caught in Cadiz last summer, I'd never caught a fish before, and neither had Catherine or Neil. So of the four of us, it was only the fish that had any idea what to do!
I reeled him in slowly as the fight wore him down, and got him to the back of the boat. Apparently fish change colour to the grey we're used to in the shops when they die. I still don't know what type of fish this guy was, but in the water he was a beautiful yellow green. Neil came back with net and bucket. The fish was about the size of a full grown salmon, we estimated at the time at least 18 inches, although he grew substantially subsequently! Neil was trying to get the net under him, but the net wasn't big enough, it did have the effect of panicking the fish into one final flurry of resistance that I wasn't expecting, and the line broke. Dinner escaped. I had an odd mixture of feelings; respect for this beautiful creature, relief that I wasn't going to kill it, and a part of me was glad to see him go. I wished him luck and hoped that he would be able to eject the hook from his mouth.
I put the line out again, and after about another thirty minutes I got another bite. A smaller fish, we think a dorado. He was easier to manage and we got him on board, although, as I'd never killed a fish before I made a bit of a messy job of it. Catherine cleaned and gutted him, but as there was only really enough meat on him for one dinner, or two at a push, we had him as a starter, and had a main course of sausage and mash. I'm mum today, so I got to cook him too, although once again under supervision.
The wind has been up and down all day. We continue to sail on a goosewing, and we are staying within sight of Roma. Overnight though the wind dropped very light. However we decided to follow the same strategy as last night and continue directly downwind.
Thursday, 25th February.
In the early morning the wind had died away to nothing, and with light winds for the previous 24 hours we had not been getting much power from the towed generator (the slower you go the less it produces). So when Catherine came up to relieve my watch at 9 a.m. the batteries were low and we ran the engine to charge them,. This time we put the engine in gear so that we'd have some propulsion as well. We rolled up the genoa and motored at a fuel efficient 4 knots.
Overnight Roma had overtaken us and motored ahead. Just before dawn I could barely see their nav light on the horizon, but as daylight came I lost sight of them. A little later Greg called us on the radio to say that his autohelm (automatic steering) had failed, and so had his backup steering. He was trying to fix it, and we would probably overtake him. Roma also has wind steering, but so far they have been unable to get it working properly. Wind steering is a piece of kit that I am very envious of, at it steers the boat at an angle to the wind, and you can set the angle, therefore it doesn't require any power. Unfortunately Greg and Paul on Roma haven't had much success getting that working either. If they don't sort something out they will have to steer the whole way to the Caribbean, two weeks non stop steering with only two people on board they will arrive two very tired men.
We have neither wind steering nor backup autohelm. Our fall back plan in the event of automatic steering failure is to hand steer, that would be a huge amount of extra work, but with three of us less of a nightmare than what Roma face.
As we are heading west at in excess of 100 miles a day, and since we have kept all our watches on UT (Irish time), the sunrise and sunset are both getting later every day by about eight minutes.
At home we'd also be getting the benefit of the lengthening days,. but in these latitudes the amount of daylight only varies about an hour or so between our mid winter and mid summer.
Continued light winds mean that our batteries keep getting drained. Neil has suggested that we let them drain during the day, and then run the engine at night when there is a greater drain on our power resources.
We are getting to sail slowly, but I have calculated that if we can make 90 miles a day (average 4 knots) we should be in Martinique by the 14th March. Neil has a flight home to catch, we won't know exactly what date until we arrive, other than on or after the 15th.
This afternoon, buoyed by my success yesterday as “hunter gatherer” I took out the fishing rod and sat at the aft of the boat for a couple hours. I took the line in before coming back to the cockpit for lunch to find that the lure was gone! After lunch I had another go, and another fruitless couple of hours reading my book. Finally, about 6, after a chat over the radio with Roma in which Greg told us of yet another fish that they have caught, I went aft with rod one more time. Third time lucky, or so it seemed, as soon enough I was reeling in another fish that we think is a dorado. Once again he was big enough to make a hearty meal for one, or could be stretched to a meal for two, but definitely not big enough to feed the three of us. I cast the hook again, but I sensed the crew had a little less enthusiasm as they set about the gutting and cleaning, and I could hear plans being discussed for dinner of chili con carne. I took the hint and put away the fishing gear.
Friday 26th February
Catherine's comment in the log at three o'clock this afternoon “Whoever heard of Westerley trade winds in this neck of the woods!?” The trade winds, reliably as clockwork the books tell us, blow consistently from the North-East at about 20 knots. Yet here we are beating into light airs, and having to go way north of our track. And even still we are glad of the breeze such as it is, it's better than sitting in the swell going nowhere with our sails banging about. Progress towards Martinique on our current course is about 2 knots (= 2 MPH), with almost 1,500 miles to go, and Neil with a flight to catch, my old teacher's line of “must do better” comes to mind.
Saturday 27th February
Still becalmed, plodding along with banging sails, occasionally the breeze getting up enough to push us along at 4 knots, then dying away again. Catherine ran the engine for a couple of hours during her early morning watch when the batteries got so low they were threatening to drop the autohelm. This brought the days miles covered figure to a still-not-nearly-respectable 80. One week out of the Cape Verdes today, and after the last two days of calm, we have barely averaged a hundred miles a day. Our target is 120, and I had been harbouring ambitions of 150.
All day we barely drifted along in almost no wind. At times making 2 knots, more often less than that. In this the third day of calm morale is visibly dropping.
I cheered myself up this morning by going for a swim. Not just any old swim, a swim in the Atlantic over a thousand miles off both Africa and any point in the Americas, only the Cape Verdes, 700 miles behind us are nearer, unless you count the ocean bed beneath three miles plus of water. It was a rather short swim, jumping off the front of the boat and swimming directly to the transom ladder at the back. The mention of sharks and killer whales as I was jumping in doing enough to ensure my prompt return.
Earlier on a ship passed on the horizon, Roma called them on the radio to get an updated weather forecast, force three today, but force 4 tomorrow, north easterly too, very promising! As we were finishing lunch we saw another ship, and as we were chatting with Roma over the radio trying to identify her, she called us. They too gave us a forecast, but said tomorrow's wind would be from the northwest. Not so good.
Lunch, now that I mention it, included home made brown bread that Catherine made yesterday on her “mother” shift”. And it wasn't made from a mix either, not bad for mid Atlantic! Me being mum today I served it up with ham, salami and cheese. For dinner I made them spaghetti carbonara – a fistful of spaghetti, a carton of carbonara sauce, with a packet of rashers chopped up small to supplement the bacon content. Catherine stuck some pre-bake garlic bread in the oven to go with it.
We spent the afternoon reading in the shade of the bimini (sun shade over the cockpit). The wind did occasionally reach force 3, however most of the time it was varying between beaufort 1 and 2, that's between no wind and no wind at all at all at all!
Working the watches three hours on, six hours off, no one gets a full 8 hours sleep in one go, so usually at least one of us peels off for an early night shortly after dinner (about 9ish), and usually it is midday before all three of us are up and about again. This has the advantage that despite the fact that the three of us our eating, sleeping, working, 24/7 in an area the size of a small room, we are not tripping over each other all the time, at least not as much as one would expect.
Sunday, 28th February
Last day of the month, and as I take over from Neil's watch at 6 a.m. we are still crawling along, rolling about in the swell and making very little progress. However, just before Catherine came up to relieve me at 9 a.m. a gently breeze got up and we were making 4 knots, not long after it had reached its promised force 4, and from the North East to boot! Thus with the wind on the starboard quarter we are now broad reaching nicely at 5 knots. Aragorn doesn't sail as well as some boats on this point of sale, especially not in her current state loaded to the gills with provisions, so we'll gladly take 5 knots. If we can keep it up we'll be in Martinique by the 10th March despite the last three days.
Neil is mother today, and as I type he is preparing lunch. Catherine has once again slipped into the galley ahead of him and made some more brown bread, we fairly demolished yesterday's.
And then the aft heads blocked! You'll remember the forward heads blocked on Monday, so it was looking like we were out of options, until I figured that we could still use it via the holding tank. Another job for when we reach port.
Other than that we spent the day reading our books, and Neil and I had a few games of chess. I have to be careful with him, in most games now he is getting an initial advantage, I have maintained the upper hand against him only on the strength of his slip ups.
For dinner Neil prepared what is becoming our “Aragorn Atlantic special” - Tinned duck and sausages. We got the duck in Carrefoure in Las Palmas as a special treat dish. We had come across it in Carrefoures in previous ports, but it was usually in short supply. In Las Palmas they were well stocked, and we cleaned them out. However first time we had it Neil barely touched his, so since then we cook it with sausages, Neil gets them, Catherine and I have duck, and everyone is happy.
Monday 1st March
The wind that got up yesterday morning has been holding, so we've been making good progress. Miles covered in the 24 hours up until noon today is 111. However, not quite as good as it seems, as overnight Catherine saw what she thought was a green flare in the sky to the South East just as Neil was taking over the watch. Distress flares always burn either red or white and we all thought it most likely that this was a shooting star, but we hadn't been in touch with Roma for a couple of days, and from our diverging courses the last time we saw them, South East was the direction we thought they'd be. Catherine woke me to let me know and I agreed that we should investigate. So we spent the next few hours going in the wrong direction.
There were no more flares, nothing on the horizon in any direction, and we could not make radio contact with anyone even though we called Roma several times and put out a “pan pan” relay call. So when I came up for my watch at 9 a.m. we resumed our course, Westward.
With the continued favourable wind, everyone's in good humour and spirits are high. Neil has been entertaining us by singing old Beatles numbers off key until we threaten to make him walk the plank. We don't seem to have quite exhausted our repertoire of riddles and corny jokes. For the latter Neil has been benchmarking them against those his father tells, and so we have arrived at the Jim Maher award for same!
Tuesday 2nd March
Overnight I saw a “green flare” in the sky. This time it was definitely a shooting star, but having seen it I felt more comfortable about having abandoned our detour yesterday morning.
Unfortunately from this morning the wind started to ease and go a bit southeasterly, slowing us down and forcing us to steer North of our best course. The miles covered in the 24 hours to noon was 117, one of the best since the Cape Verdes, but at an average of under 5 knots nothing to write home about -- hmm, even though that's what I'm doing, isn't it? And now with the wind failing again, it looks like that'll be a record for some time. No one is talking about it, but the drain on everyone's previous good form is noticeable. In addition, we're all pretty tired. Yes, we've gotten into our rhythm of 3 hours on 6 hours off, but it's a tiring one. We cheer ourselves up with facts like we have covered 2,000 miles since leaving the Canaries – a threshold I think we crossed yesterday, tomorrow we expect to cross the half way point between the Cape Verdes and Martinique, and the next day our distance to go should dip below the 1,000 miles. This afternoon I got really low and fed up as we wallowed around in the swell barely making three knots, and even that is not in the most direct course.
Enough of this depressing introspection. Today I'm mother, and as the sun went down I began to prepare this evening's gourmet presentation, salmon pasta. This is a dish we hadn't done before, but seemed straightforward, cream sauce, tin of salmon, pasta, seasoning. Not being a fish eater, it took a bit of encouragement to get Neil to go along with this, but as our menu is limited he went along.
Now perhaps if it had been Catherine, with her culinary skills, to have prepared this dish at least the first time, then maybe it would have worked out better. I had been thinking more on the lines of the tasty smoked salmon pasta that we used to enjoy in La Strada in Dun Laoghaire. But the gruel I slopped up was yee-uch! We all managed to force it down, but I am afraid it will be a while before that particular dish gets another outing.
After dinner I took over the watch from Neil and he took off to bed promptly, but Catherine stayed up long enough for the two of us to have a cup of tea. We had been discussing the overnight sail plan earlier, and we had switched from a goose wing to a broad reach in the hope of at least a more comfortable night – Aragorn feeling a little less prone to the swell at that point of sail in the light winds. However as we finished our tea the wind disappeared completely. Rather than spend another night with sails banging as we wallowed in the windless swell I decided to burn some of our precious diesel and run the engine. We have enough diesel left for three days motoring, provided we go slowly, that's about 100 miles a day, however with over 1,000 miles to go we have to use it judiciously. So before Catherine went to bed we took in the sails and started motoring.
It was then, as I settled myself down on my own for the last two hours of my watch that I had my extra terrestrial experience. First I saw an area of clouds on the horizon behind us in the East light up, too bright to be a ship, it was more like the light pollution from a small city, except brighter, and impossible where we are – a thousand miles from land. I watched, momentarily startled, as a bright yellow dome emerged from the sea. Slowly the dome on the horizon grew becoming more round, until it lifted itself clear of the water altogether as a bright yellow disk of light. Of course I had realised after the first half second that I was looking at the full moon rising, but it was none the less awe-inspiring for that. Last night too, I noticed Catherine had remarked in the log about another spectacular moonrise.
You weren't expecting me to talk about little green men, were you?
Wednesday, 3rd March
Once again this morning I am on the 6 – 9 dawn watch. Well I've been calling it the dawn watch, but as we travel westwards dawn comes later every day, and in fact today dawn was just after 9 a.m.
As I took over from Neil at 6 a.m. We noticed a slight breeze getting up, we decided it would be worth trying to sail again, so we unrolled the genoa, killed the engine, adjusted our course slightly to windward, and sure enough we were getting 4 knots on the calm sea.
After Neil had gone to bed I realised that we had not redeployed the towed generator, which we took in when we turned on the engine last night. The engine generates all the power we need, and there is no need to trail a propeller on a rope for extra juice, aside from the risk of wrapping the generator's rope around the engine's propellor, it slows us down. So later, when Catherine came to relieve me at 9, as we were still sailing, we relaunched the towed genny before breakfast.
Over the period of my watch we had been averaging 4 knots in the light winds. If we can keep this up all the way to Martinique, we should just make it in time for Neil's flight, which he tells us will be on or after the 15th. However, having had mainly light winds since leaving the Cape Verdes, lighter even than this morning, I'd be happier if we could put something in the bank, so to speak. So after breakfast, leaving Neil to enjoy his well earned kip, Catherine and I set about deploying the last card in our hand for improving our sailing speed – the cruising chute.
The “cruising chute” is a huge light wind headsail, which we can use instead of the genoa. It is so much like an asymmetric spinnaker that I couldn't tell you the difference. Thus far in this crossing we hadn't used it for a few reasons, including that it is a rather finicky sail to both deploy and sail with, and requires extra work from the crew. Also, based on our previous attempts with it, I wasn't entirely sure that we'd get any more speed from it. However, I'd estimated about 17 days for the entire trip, Cape Verdes to Martinique, yet here we were on the eleventh day, and thanks to the disappearance of the trade winds, we weren't quite half way yet. Something had to be done.
So I spent the next 45 minutes crawling about the foredeck, getting whacked by sails and lines, while Catherine laboured over the halyards and winches from the cockpit. Because we've used it so rarely, there was also a bit of trial and error before we got it right. Eventually though we got there, and when I hauled up the snuffer to release the sail I immediately felt Aragorn surge forward, and add a knot to our speed.
I mentioned half way, well this morning we crossed the halfway mark of this final leg of the crossing (Cape Verdes to Caribbean). The total distance for the leg is 2,070 miles, and as of today we have less than 1,035 to go. To celebrate we all had showers, such a simple luxury, but our only source of fresh water is what we carry in our tanks, so we have to use it carefully.
Of course we have sailed more than 1,035 miles to get here, on account of the way we have been fish tailing about to make the most of the winds. Later today we crossed another milestone, when the distance to go dipped below the 1,000 mile mark. These distances do not reflect our trip from the Canary Islands to the Cape Verdes, nor our passages between the Cape Verdes' islands, all of which accounts for another 1,000 miles plus, so the optimist in me says that we are past the two thirds stage. One more fact buried in all these numbers is that we are a thousand miles from the nearest land. Sobering.
We occasionally see passing ships, the last one was a few days ago, “Advantage”, we chatted briefly over the radio with the American crew and they gave us an updated forecast. They also mentioned that there was a fleet of rowing boats ahead of us, (in case you thought we were mad!!) - we might catch upon them over the next couple of days. We haven't had any contact with Roma since then either.
Neil being Mum today made us a fry up of sausage, rashers, mashed potatoes and beans, although I passed on the beans.
We had a busy day, as we spent a lot of time steering the boat, the cruising chute did indeed prove finicky and we had to make constant intersessions as the autohelm lost its way. Then, at sunset, the wind increased, and though Neil was enjoying himself piloting the boat at 8 knots with the big light wind sail, I chose discretion over speed and we reverted to the genoa, which poled out in a goose wing enabled us to follow a more direct course. The change of sail meant another 20 minutes on the foredeck getting whipped and beaten by the lines and sails flogging in the wind, and leaving a lump of skin off my toe there in the process. Although I am daughter today, seeing the state of me when I came back, Catherine volunteered to do the wash-up, I was too wrecked to protest and went straight to bed.
Thursday, 4th March
I was awoken ahead of my 8:45 alarm clock by the swell as Aragorn surged and rolled in a way that told me the trade wind was back. Still tired, I clung to my half-sleep, hooking my knee over the edge of the bed to stop me rolling on top of Catherine, and managed a few more minutes doze. I envy the way Neil apparently wakes two minutes before his watch, and is wide awake in the cockpit, ready for duty within 60 seconds, still early for his watch. I need at least 10 minutes, to gather my thoughts, get dressed, and stumble bleary eyed into the cockpit.
Sure enough, bleary-eyed or not, it was quite apparent that the trades were back, blowing us directly towards our target of Martinique, and at speeds up to 7 knots. Although 5 knots was the more usual, and sometimes even a little less, with the result that we covered 16 miles in my three hour watch up to 12 o clock. If we could repeat that in every three hour period we'd be there in a week. Our 24 hours to noon miles traveled figure today is 121 miles, bringing us110 miles closer to our target – we lost the extra 11 miles due to our fishtailing.
Sunrise was about half nine this morning (still Irish time, when we arrive in Martinique we'll gain four hours). Not as spectacular as some, due to a lot of cloud about. Before too long I was sheltering under the spray hood from a light rain that fell for a few minutes, but afterwards it cleared up and I could feel the sun burning me through my jeans. Today we've reached 45 degrees west, Martinique is approximately 60. The significance is that sunrise/sunset is exactly one hour later for every 15 degrees west you go.
Yet another batten is slipping out of the mainsail this morning, we'll have to drop the sail at some stage today to sort it. Another thing that Neil noticed was the genoa sheet (that's the rope we use to control it) was chafing on the spinnaker pole. I dug up some hosing to protect it, which we can put on at the same time.
As the day wore on the wind veered southerly and we had to keep pointing more and more north to maintain our goose-wing. Eventually we had to gybe the mainsail, and before we could do that we had to sort out the batten. Another foray onto the foredeck, but we got it sorted with out much fuss, we're improving!. Then in the afternoon the wind dropped again and backed, so this time we gybed the genoa, and poled it out on the other side, so we're back to a goose-wing again for the night.
That's right, I said the wind dropped, and our speed is down to little more than a crawl once more. At least there's enough to keep the sails full, and they're not banging about uselessly as they had been, but our speed is down to three and a half knots.
Dinner tonight was sweet and sour chicken, Catherine being mum today, and the chicken came from a tin, but it was very tasty,.
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Tuesday 9th March
Ok, I've skipped a few days. What'd I miss? Not a lot, the wind gets up from the East or North east and we think the trades are back, but then it dies away again, and we are left at best tootling along at a snail's pace of three knots, or worse, going nowhere at all with the sails just banging about as we drift with the current. Why don't you turn on the engine I hear you ask, simple fact is we brought enough diesel for at best 100 hours of very economic motoring at about 4 knots, in other words 400 miles worth. We didn't have room for any more, and even at that we have jerrycans tied to the deck. Anyway, we're not supposed to need it, the trade winds blow reliably from the East or North East non stop from December to June, and my chart announces authoritatively, the North Equatorial Current flows West at between a half and one and a half knots. I wonder if whoever proclaimed these pieces of wisdom was ever out here, heck I wonder do they know what a boat or the sea looks like!
Enough belly-aching. Actually we have had both wind and progress, and even some excitement, in the last few days, and the westward current does seem to have resumed, albeit with as much South in it as West.
The wind that we've been getting has been from the South, so hardly the trades, but we've had it on and off since Saturday. It's been good enough to keep our mileage over 100 a day, although, now that we're getting closer to land, we are feeling affluent enough with the diesel to run under engine in the calms. The 24 hours up to noon today were the best since we left the Cape Verdes, coming in at 129 miles. On Sunday the winds were light so we put up the cruising chute again, and sure enough it added a knot or two, but it was a lot of work to hoist and to sail by, the watch having to sit on the autohelm to take over when things went askew, which they did regularly. Eventually, during the night when the wind died away we took it down again and motored for a few hours until the wind returned. We had gambled on the wind holding overnight to keep up the good speed, but we lost the bet and had the added grief of taking the thing down in the dark. The downside of this wind is that the boat is leaned over and bouncing about a lot on the waves, which is alright when sitting in the cockpit, but working in the galley, i.e., cooking, washing up, etc, is a bit more difficult. I think all of us have received minor scalds in the process. Still, we'll take it, it's a lot better than wallowing around in the swell and not making any progress.
We have started to see more shipping again as we get closer to the Caribbean. We can only see for a few miles to the horizon in any direction, but we get advance warning from either the AIS our radar detector. This latter screeches at us when we've been pinged by radar – at which point we turn off the sound and look for the approaching vessel on our own radar or the AIS. The AIS is another piece of whizzkiddery that big ships use to broadcast their position, speed, direction etc., and we have the kit too, so we can pick them up. Then we call them up, say hi, and get an update of the weather forecast, if they answer us that is.
Last Friday we saw a sail on the horizon. As the day wore on it seemed to inch closer to us. We tried calling them on the radio several times, but they didn't respond, presumably they had their radio switched off, or maybe they don't speak English. By nightfall they were probably only a couple of miles away, but then after dark they didn't seem to turn on any navigation lights and in the morning they were out of sight.
Then on Sunday, I was making one of our routine checks on the instruments, when I saw this boat pop up on the AIS, 5 miles ahead of us, and traveling South West at less than a knot. Just as I was guessing it must be one of the rowers, albeit headed in the wrong direction, he called us over the radio. And that was how we met Pete the single handed rower from South Africa. He explained that he was taking a break, hence was just drifting with the current. I'll repeat that for anyone that thinks we're mad sailing the Atlantic, Pete is rowing single handed across. Apparently there's an Irish guy doing it single handed as well, but I didn't catch who it was. Pete told us that he was rowing from the Canaries, and had left nine weeks previously. We didn't have to make any significant adjustment in our course to meet up with him, as he was right on our course. Spotting his little boat in the ocean swell wasn't so easy, even with him standing up, but with the help of our instruments we rendez-vous'd mid ocean.
We'd had time to prepare a goody bag containing a couple of beers from the fridge, some fresh scones that Catherine had baked, with some Kerrygold and jam, all made as waterproof as we could get it, and tied to an empty water bottle for buoyancy. As we were sailing under cruising chute at the time we were whizzing along at 6 knots as we passed him, Neil steered us as close as we dared, I lobbed the goodies towards him, and Catherine took the pictures. Then as the Crusoe figure disappeared behind us we sang him a verse of Molly Malone. For anyone interested, Pete's boat's name is “Nyamezela” and his web site is www.rowpeterow.co.za, and he's updating the site from the boat. So you don't have to wait until he arrives in Antigua to get his latest.
This evening the wind has died down a bit, which means we've slowed down, but as we'd been thumping along at up to seven and a half knots, slowing down to 5 overnight will be a bit of a relief. Especially as it means I'll be able to get a nights sleep without having to cock one leg over the side of the bed to stop me sliding on top of Catherine.
We would be going quite a bit faster, except that we are probably losing half a knot on account of all the extra provisions we are carrying, plus another half knot on account of the growth and barnacles beneath our waterline – I haven't scrubbed the bottom since lifting out last July. Then we are losing half knot because of the resistance caused by trailing the towed generator, and the other day, we had to give up on the battens in the mainsail and take them all out before they came out by themselves, thus losing another half knot. I'm thinking if we lose any more half knots we'll be going backwards.
Dinner tonight is chili again, out of a tin of course. Neil being Mum is doing the cooking, me being today's daughter, I get to wash up.
We crossed the 300 miles to go milestone just after eight this evening, so it looks like we'll arrive in Marin, Martinique, probably Friday. Or if we're real lucky Thursday. However, if it's after dark we'll wait off shore until morning to go in in daylight.
Wednesday, 10th March
Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we nearly there?
The wind has gone light again. We'd hoist the cruising chute, but we've had such grief getting it up and down that nobody has the will or the energy. The trip is taking its tole that way.
Aside from our routine chores, cooking, cleaning, watch duty, etc., we usually entertained ourselves reading, either fiction, or one of our Caribbean cruising guides, or one of our astrology guides. The downside of the latter was we could only read during daylight, but the stars obviously are only visible at night. Also, I've had the occasional game of chess with Neil, and the three of us have played cards – when there was no wind to blow the cards away. Otherwise we have engaged in such mentally challenging enterprises was “I Spy”.
Thursday, 11th March
Watching the miles to go's slow but relentless decrease helps counterbalance the lethargy of almost three weeks at sea. The light winds have made our arrival in tomorrow almost a certainty in le Marin, Martinique. As the wind dropped away to nothing we turned on the engine, and with only a hundred miles to go, we have enough diesel to motor all the way.
Friday, 12th March
LAND!
Almost twenty days at sea, and we have sighted land. When I handed over the watch to Catherine at 9 a.m. this morning (Irish time) it was before dawn, but with only 35 miles to go, I expected that land would be visible with daylight. But after grabbing a few hours sleep I was disappointed to come up to the cockpit with 18 miles to go to see only a haze on the horizon.
Staring into the distance we were unsure whether we were looking at the vague outline of mountains or whether we were just straining our eyes. But finally it cleared a little and we were looking at the low contours of South East Martinique.
It has been a slow crossing, 14 days would have been good, 17 average, but by the time we tied on at 6 pm Irish time it was 20 days to the minute after we'd untied in the Cape Verdes.
Before we saw land we got reception on our phones, and started to send and receive SMS messages – until that my phone ran out of credit, and I discovered I need the Internet to top up. Neil's flight, we've just found out is 10 a.m. tomorrow, which cuts it just about as fine as we can be.
Saturday, 13th March, Martinique
We had to wait until 7 a.m. this morning to check in with immigration. Neil's airport taxi was waiting outside while I went through the formalities, which I had to do before I could give him back his passport.
The marina is full, but they have given us a berth for one night only, so we've got to get back to the boat now and get her ready to go out into the anchorage. Then it's back to the to do list, and plan where we go from here.
Au-revoire!
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