Dispatches from the Caribbean – First Leg
(3rd update out of 4)
1/28/03
This is an excellent time to begin a new chapter. We are bobbing at an anchorage in a tiny little bay lined with beach, palm trees, and a few modest French homes. They form a simple little village here on the island Terre de Bas, which is the twin (fraternal only, by the looks of it) of the next door island Terre de Haut just to the east. I haven’t a clue on their meaning in French. The little bay is Anse des Muriers, jutting out on the north end is Pte. du Fer a Cheval and Pte. a Negre to the southwest, making for a gaping mouth. We’re parked about where the tongue would be. I laugh because these French names are causing my spellchecker to leap about with red squiggles. Too bad, that’s just the French.
Right as we dropped anchor, my dear mother dashed into her bathing suit, donned her mask and snorkel, and was standing at the stern deck ready to be pushed in before we even had the line pulled taught. She can be pretty cute. Mom and I swam out to check the anchor by diving down and giving it a good yank. The water was turquoise, naturally, with visibility about 50 feet, maybe 60. I’m starting to take that beauty for granted. Mom then paddled over to the nearby rocks to go exploring while Dad read his John Adams book. I motored around happily in the dinghy with plans to beach it and see what’s about, but Mom called me over to her. She found a fish trap, apparently, disconnected from it’s buoy, with plenty of innocent little fish stuck inside. This is so typical of her: she wanted me to bring out a knife so she could rescue them. Rescue fish! However, she was vacillating because maybe it’s illegal or bad form to sever someone else’s fish trap. So we talked about it tonight and the secret plan is to free the fish first thing tomorrow morning, then take off before anyone can say anything. That’s how decisions are made around here. Dad continued reading his book but, just like Dad, had a clear eye on everything happening around him.
They came in two days ago from St. Croix, where they’d been on a legal training. The topic had something to do with estate planning and ways to pass on the bucks to their kids. Naturally, I was encouraging them to attend. On the plane in, a lady was screaming madly during some turbulence and Mom tried to calm her. The airline then lost their one bag stowed underneath, which would lead to a great adventure later. That morning, John and I explored the little capital city of Guadalupe between heavy intermittent rain showers, and I struggled with a French keyboard at an internet café. During this time Mom had thought they would miss their plane and called to the U.S. to make that known. For reference, here is the procedure for meeting people upon arrival:
Procedure: There is an unlikely chance that I may not be there to meet your plane. This is no problem as long as we both follow the same game plan. Assuming you arrive at the airport on time, I plan to either meet you at the gate or, if restricted, at the baggage claim or nearest exit from there. With any luck, I’ll be wearing a white “Liana-Jane” cap. If I'm not there, please do the following:
If your plane has been seriously delayed, I'll keep waiting at the airport but will call that number myself after an hour. Don't fret if this occurs; it's really no big deal in this part of the world and we'll meet up, as long as we're all sticking to the same plan.
In any case, it was fun to meet my parents right on time, walking in from the taxi to catch them walking out of the arrivals section. I struggled to make some calls there from the airport, but no luck, so we took a cab to Mahoui Bay. This is the anchoring spot so saturated with bioluminescence that, at night, it’s like splashing a field of stars. The drive back was a reminder that Guadalupe’s economy was built on the back of sugar cane, interspersed with the occasional banana field, as we moved along the island’s butterfly shape.
Guadalupe is an overseas department and region of France. It consists of two large islands, Basse-Terre and Grande-Terre, as well as the off-lying islands of Les Saintes, Marie-Galante, and La Desirade. My book, Caribbean, talked a lot about the French and English battling over the place, as well as the Spanish. Once slavery really took off, blacks outnumbered whites by about 7 to 1, and there were a number of uprisings until slavery was abolished in the late 1800’s.
It was time to say goodbye to my intrepid Dutch sailing partner John, but not before he experienced a bit of how my parents work. John and Mom took the dinghy in to see about getting my parents’ lost luggage bag. To John’s utter horror, mom walked up to some young man on a motorcycle, asked him for a ride to the airport, and took off at about 70 miles per hour. This John reported back to Dad and me, who took it as Mom simply getting something done, but he was somewhat awestruck by her boldness. When Mom returned, successfully, John said goodbye then took her taxi back to town. We prepared to weigh anchor.
We didn’t get far, unfortunately. In my efforts to show off our use of GPS waypoint navigation, I failed to account for wind drift, and the Liana-Jane blew gently but solidly onto a mud flat in the big wide bay that John and I had so carefully maneuvered through a few nights before. We dashed about trying to determine the extent of the grounding. This involved double checking our location on the chart, jumping overboard and probing with my feet, and motoring around with the boat hook sticking it into the grassy bottom at intervals. To extricate ourselves, we used the engine, sought help from a passing fishing boat, tried to pull out from the bow anchor, and even attempted to tip the boat from the very top of the mast using the spare halyard. No luck. Dusk gradually crept up. We needed to spend the night, it seemed, grounded on a Guadalupe mud flat. So much for Mom and Dad’s first day of sailing.
In the morning, Mom got on the VHF and, with no qualms about sounding desperate, called for help, using “pan pan” instead of “Mayday.” The answer came from 60 miles away – Fort de France emergency radio, several islands down in the capital of the French West Indies. Go figure. VHF range is only line of sight, usually no more than 12 miles. The operator spoke decent English, gathered the requisite information, and informed us that he was sending out a dispatch for tug services. Not 30 minutes later an old fisherman came tearing up in a little 40 horsepower-driven aluminum boat. Dad and I greeted him with warmth but serious hesitation as to whether he could help. Looking over his little fishing rig, Dad noted an extensive cockroach crew, well fed and apparently working symbiotically with their human. Dad said, later, that there was a first mate at least three inches long who hid under the cowling and a bunch of others in charge of cleaning up spare fish guts. The fisherman tugged and pushed, to no avail. But 20 minutes later two more fishermen showed up in another similar boat. We encouraged the second boat to yank down on the halyard, lifting the keel off the bottom, while the first tugged us forward, and suddenly we were free! We gave them 50 Euro and a cold beer each then went our separate ways.
In case you’re interested, here are the different things to do in case of grounding, in a sort of order to try out:
Under way again, we rounded the northwest point of Guadalupe under heavy wind, sometimes gusting to 35 knots but averaging about 20 knots, waves cresting in the blue water, occasional light showers. We were running with the wind for the first time in my circumnavigation of Caribbean. This is a special treat that doesn’t happen much, I understand. It means the wind is directly or almost directly behind you, blowing the sailboat downwind very quickly. It’s strange, though, because you don’t feel like you’re going very fast, zipping along with the wave crests. The biggest fear is jibing. This means the boom, already pushed out to one side in order to maximize its thrust, can swing with great force across to the other side of the boat, yanking all the rigging and even banging into the shrouds, the wiring on either side that supports the mast. The solution is really quite simple: Post the most-complaining crew member right in the center of the boat and tell them to catch the boom in case it comes their way. When it does, they’ll go flying about fifty feet out into the water. The disadvantage to this, however, is all the attendant paperwork, so instead we tie a line off the boom down toward the bow of the boat. Because it prevents the sail from jibing, sailors call this little item, logically enough, the preventer. The whole process is sometimes called “poling out” and it can be used on the jib with a pole that you use to push it out – thus, “poling out.” Not a lot of creativity there, but very functional.
So, “poled out” with the “preventer” in place, we zipped around Islet Kahouanne into new territory for me, and continued the big push south. Guadalupe crept by to port, lush rich green mountains more verdant than the British Virgins. There were thick forest and little settlements, the occasional radio tower, and a long spine down the center of the western island. These little mountains seemed to suck in the lower clouds. They were punctuated with dark schist cliffs plummeting down into the breakers.
By early afternoon, we were close to the very southern tip and could see a white-washed lighthouse standing sentry-like. Just south of the city of Basse Terre was a marina and we began our docking at dusk, the ruins of a fort on the hillside above, a protective breakwater around the entrance. They were using Mediterranean-style mooring. This technique uses less precious dock space but is trickier. We came into one of the last spots very slowly, a creep really, turning the boat sideways and backing it straight into the dock where a couple of helpful men took the aft lines and tied us off. Next, I jumped in the dinghy and towed a bow line out to an anchored mooring ball and secured the front of the boat. Combined, we were perfectly wedged in for the night, in a sort of sling between the dock and the mooring ball. It’s still tricky, though, to land a 12 ton 38-foot long sailboat not really designed for close maneuvering – I was glad Dad did it instead of me.
That night we came to know our neighbors a bit. Yannique, to one side, told me a bit about the marina and where to find an internet connection. He even walked me around a bit; offering to help me, with my insistence, finish off the last remaining beer in the fridge. He had a little closeted family below decks we found out later, a wife and a baby boy, but the cutest addition was his black lab. During the daytime, Yannique would let the lab tow him around in the marina on a surfboard. There was a French family on the other side, just past a derrick steel-hulled boat, having a fancy meal in their cockpit with invited guests and dressing up. Mom, Dad, and I dined at a place on the water and went to bed early.
In the morning, I made a circuitous search to town, going the wrong way consistently for at least an hour before someone wrote directions out in a note. I finally found a terrific little cyber café, so friendly and inexpensive it was easy to forget the horrible French keyboards, like stepping through wet concrete. It was a pleasure walking around the town, watching the French islanders do little town bustling, waving at each other, very friendly. The post office had a big line, as post offices are wont to do anywhere. I picked up some presents for my mom’s birthday: a stunt kite, a wooden fish mobile, decorated hair clips. Back on the boat, we made a slow departure, finally fueling up by hurrying a French charter group along. They were an unusual crew in their catamaran, a topless old lady in a thong, sunburned guys in their skimpy European suits. I wonder if they’re comfortable? My sister, bless her soul, calls them marble bags. We were befriended by an adorable little terrier who, when we finally pulled out, jumped in the water and swam after us. Mom burst into tears.
The sailing that day was great, as usual. Since Mom fell asleep after all the emotion, Dad and I tried racing the boat in the cockpit, experimenting with sail arrangements, messing around with the wheel brake and the autopilot. I did push-ups as we made for Islet des Saintes, a little group of half-populated islands just south of Guadalupe and right on the run to Dominica. Dad and I laughed about the dinghy bailer: The Liana-Jane is named for family (and ex-family) members, but not my mom, whose name is Diane. Since she had a cold the other week, she did, however, write her name on a water jug so we wouldn’t accidentally drink from it. I cut up that same jug for a dinghy bailer when she was done, and it’s weathered all the adventures so well that it’s really aptly-named. Mom is officially a permanent part of the exhibition. I’m just happy she hasn’t killed me yet as I try to keep things orderly down below. My parents are more, shall we say, spontaneous in their living arrangements, which puts me trudging along behind them cleaning things up until I finally just give in and try to live differently. It’s a good experience and I appreciate the opportunity to be more open-minded.
1/29/03
We made an early start from that really pleasant anchorage so as to push the 40 nautical miles to Dominica, an English island between two big French ones. Although the island is English-speaking, a strong French influence seems to seep in between neighboring Guadeloupe and Martinique. The locals speak a sort of French Creole. Medical care is very limited and hospitals and doctors require cash payment in advance. Like a lot of islands on the Windward chain, they use the Eastern Caribbean Dollar. One U.S. dollar is worth about EC$2.68. Interestingly, the U.S. does not maintain an embassy in Dominica. If you’re in trouble, you have to go to Bridgetown, Barbados – not on my travel plans, actually.
It was kind of fun to be up at 6:30 with the dawn and rollers from the south, out of bed and moving before the damn roosters by god. We made excellent time in some very pleasurable waters, making landfall on the north side of the island by 10 AM, then continued south. The heavy winds died around 11 AM so we decided to drop the mainsail motor. I gobbled up some hard boiled eggs for breakfast with hard bread, Mom and Dad ate bean salsa with corn and onions; I had peanut butter crackers later. Mom loved being at the helm then. Anything that doesn’t involve the boat heeling over makes her happy. It picked up, though, in the afternoon as we cleared some mountains, gusting to 23 knots or so. In heavy rollers a local zipped up in his outboard to ask us something about scuba diving; we acknowledged him and waved goodbye. Lots of sleeping, reading, enjoying the view: another lush green mountainous island slowly unfolding on the port side, motorsailing at about 6.4 knots average in 18 – 23 knot wind. We were aiming for the southern tip of the island, thinking already of our next run to Martinique. There was a gorgeous rainbow stretching across a tiny stream valley and settlement. I captured it on my digital camera and we decided to spend the night there.
Thus, we practically fell into this delightful little harbor, after tacking way too soon in excellent wind and having to motor the last couple of miles in. This remote Dominican village has a Mediterranean feel except for the high, steep mountains that plummet down to little swatches of land before the ocean. Similarly, there are deep dropouts off the shore, which didn’t even read on the depth meter coming in. Upon entering, the meter showed “too deep” then suddenly jumped to 2.5 meters, the alarm wailing. We had double checked the chart just previously, showing 170 meters there, but immediately stopped our forward movement and let the wind blow us back. The measurements continued to jump wildly from 3 meters to “too deep” as we peered into the deep, dark blue water. Not long after we motored into a huge pod of dolphins! They swarmed around the boat to check us out, but there were about a hundred rounding up fish in the bay, leaping out of the water, plunging past the bow. I took more photos. As we came into the bay, a local swimming calling for our attention, waving his arms in the water. This turned out to be our first experience with a boat vendor, who dominate many of the poor islands to the south. He talked us into hooking on a submerged line attached to a thick concrete piece of a building, then tried to get $15 for the mooring, stating that this was a marine park and we couldn’t anchor. He then asked for $20 for all night. I figured he was lying so insisted on a receipt and he ultimately settled for $10. That wasn’t a bad price for a secure spot. He finally left the boat as I swum around, looking down an incredible wall dropping to at least 150 meters. The waters were crystal clear. Just below were basket coral, schools of blue and silver fish, clumps of young sponges, and a rigged line descending into the far darkness below. The water was lusciously warm, like bubbling around in your own bathtub or a summer-heated outdoor pool. Mom adored the swimming, especially at the end of the day, and Dad and I got busy planning her birthday to be full of things she likes. Or, to celebrate, we’ll do a 14-hour sail heeled way over and she can scream, clinging to the main sheet winch.
1/31/03
We’re motoring with the jib up only across the bay that shelters Fort de France, that big industrial seaport and capital of the French West Indies. We’re making about 6.3 knots, downwind, heading sideways to the setting sun. The Genoa is puffed up, tugging us gently to our next mooring. It’s quite a beautiful experience, as the city drifts away to the stern (the way I’m facing, propped up here in the cockpit).
Now, some time has passed and we just anchored in a tiny, sheltered bay all the way across from Fort de France. The bay is probably the width and breadth of a football field. I dropped the anchor so we’d have maximum scope without putting us against the nearby wall, which is palm trees, scrub grass, and little green trees. There’s a long jetty – about 45 feet, quite new – coming from a little cupola over at the beach on the inside of the bay, and some people are walking around, but it’s really very quiet. The only other boat is a white catamaran with a good handful of French aboard. We’re all essentially ignoring each other. The most beautiful part, though, is the steep canyon coming up from the beach, jutting into the sky with streaks of gray and brown. Mom thinks this place is a little French park, and I’m tempted to believe her. Tomorrow is her birthday, of course, and we’ve been joking about spending it sailing on a hard beam reach (way tipped over) for 12 or 14 hours, but she doesn’t think that’s funny. She’s wearing a purple bathing suit and dripping in the cockpit, talking about how much she wish she had her whole family here for her birthday. Mom is often talking about family; we make up about 80% of her life focus, not counting Dad’s 200% to start with. Meanwhile, we’re drifting around in half circles, the anchor line twisting down into the darkness (it’s somewhat deep here, about 6 meters at the shallowest, 40 or so at the deepest under this 40 foot cliff, moving with gentle wave action. We tested the anchor line to make sure we had maximum scope (the chain on the bottom) and maximum line, but not so much to put us into the cliff. Now, the sun is making it s big splash into the west, sizzling up the Caribbean somewhere over there, but too far to worry about. In short order, the cliffs around us, the trees, everything fades into darker shades. Dad is moving around the boat doing something with lines and Mom is taking a shower, I believe. Dad says, “Darn, it doesn’t quite fit,” about some plastic pike hook he dug up today in a chandlery. He’s trying to jam it on the end of this long plastic PVC pipe that my uncle Darrell found in Tortola and we’ve been carrying around, for no particular reason, since then. Dad is especially proud that he’s fixed one of the 7 or so inverters, mostly broken, that we’re also carrying around on the boat. It’s good, of course, to have them, it’s just funny how Dad works on things. I know where I get my interest in “projects, projects” all the time. When he’s doing stuff, I’m usually not, and vice versa. Today, however, we dug around under the pots and pans storage, tore up the wood covers, and got into the three mysterious bilge pumps down there. The main bilge pump hasn’t been working consistently. As one would guess, the real problem had nothing to do with anything under there, but the floater switch itself way over in the bilge. Dad found that one, dug out some garbage bag ties stuck in it, and got it fixed. Just luck, but he nailed the problem and I didn’t! Dad’s a kick. Mom is up from the shower carrying around hair scrunches and “hair monsters” (those little clips that hold hair together). I just took a moment to watch some fishermen about a mile out setting their traps. Mom thinks they’re trapped out there trying to row back against the current. On the contrary, I’m sure they’re just rowing around setting or lifting their fish traps (which are everywhere it’s shallow in the Caribbean and near an island so far) then they’ll start their motor up and head in. It’s cool to have fishermen earning their livelihood on one side, French islanders starting a little bonfire at the park on the beach, and the (presumably) wealthier Frenchies in their catamaran. All walks of life enjoying this place, it’s quiet, subtle, but deep beauty.
2/1/03
It was an excellent, leisurely day. For Mom’s birthday, I made a breakfast of crêpes with a rum raisin sauce and did the dishes. Dad cooked up sauerkraut with sausages for dinner, and I think Mom made us lunch. Whoops, so much for planning. Her big present was an entire day of no sailing. Instead, we floated on our anchor, swam, read books, puttered around doing little projects, and otherwise frittered the day away. When the wind moved us just right, we were only 10 feet or so from a cliff wall – the anchor had been perfectly set the night before so there would be no danger. After watching some local kids on the cliff, I picked my way up there and jumped off, a good 40 feet into the drink, higher than I’ve ever jumped. I was carrying my scuba mask the first time and felt it blow apart on impact. Without skipping a beat, like a fool, I dug up an old halyard line, climbed back up, tied it off a tree, jumped back in (whoa, what a rush), and attempted to climb straight up the line. Having little experience with the proper technique, I just hauled myself up, stopping a couple of times to rest on little rock ledges. Some fishermen motoring by yelled out Tarzan or something and I didn’t think I could make it all the way up. Somehow the line held and the tree came closer and closer, until I clambered over the top and fell on the ledge, heaving with exhaustion. What an experience. I’ll definitely be sore tomorrow.
My last surprise for Mom was bringing the boom off to the side and dropping the bimini top. We watched a movie on my laptop under the stars before turning in.
2/5/03
From the little bay near Fort de France, we had a gentle, pleasurable sail across to St. Lucia. St. Lucia is the largest of the English speaking Windwards. It’s mountainous and lush, with many beautiful white sand beaches. Tropical rainforests cover the steep slopes of the center, giving way to cultivated agricultural land around the gently-sloping coastal fringe. Bananas, interestingly, are the principal crop. There’s a low-lying rock about a quarter mile off the southern side to Rodney Bay called Barrel of Beef. I liked the name. Rodney Bay is a mile long on the northwest tip of St. Lucia. An artificial causeway connects Pigeon Island to the mainland. In the old days, when Europeans used to entertain themselves by sailing around in wooden boats taking potshots at each other, Pigeon Island was the main base for the British navy. From the top, you can see Martinique. Much of the fort has been carefully restored by the St. Lucia National Trust as a delightful park. There are shady gardens and signs all over talking about the history.
We anchored in Rodney Bay with plans to spend the next couple of days finalizing some work projects in the marina. My parents will be leaving on Thursday and I’ll be picking up my next crew member, Robert. He and I will continue the push south to Grenada, across to Margarita Island, and then west to Bonaire. Around dusk, the steep island next to us, Pigeon Island, caught on fire. We were safe about 30 meters off the shore so we made popcorn and watched the firefighters battle the blaze, which burned until about midnight.
Today was a work day. The various projects included – but were not be limited to – changing the engine oil, topping off all the tanks, taking off the bimini top for repair, replacing the refrigerator compressor belt, tearing up the forward cabin to track down an overflow leak to the main water tank, buying a bunch of supplies, and rewiring the bow light.
A moment ago two German ladies sat down at my table, as it’s crowded here in a little marina café sundeck. One of them is quite an adventurer, it turns out, having traveled virtually all over the world either alone, with a friend, or in groups. Her name is Simon but it was pronounced Zee-mon-a, I think. She’s an insurance adjuster who takes advantage of two delightful coincidences in her hometown of Hanover: her 5 weeks of paid vacation, and her apartment. Apparently, every year, there’s a huge technology festival in Bremen, during which she rents her apartment out and stays with a friend. She makes enough money every year to fund her lengthy vacations. Talk about perfect, huh?
The sun has plummeted below the palm trees and cone-shaped mountain just beyond the gently-bobbing field of masts. I bet it was a perfect screensaver sunset, but who knows? It happened too fast. We’ve had gorgeous sunny days at the marina, punctuated by a couple of brief rain showers each day. It’s so odd to get rained on and be in the sun at the same time. No wonder this part of the world is half-populated by rainbows.
I’m looking out over what must amount to more than a hundred boats. They’re mostly white, mostly sailboats, but also blue, black, even red. The motor boats are pretty large, usually a main cabin and a deck. The sailboats are all the length of the Liana-Jane and much longer, taller, dominating. They’re must be a billion dollars worth of boats and equipment here. That’s pretty amazing, the GDP of many smaller countries, I think. Most of them are flying the St. Lucian flag, as is appropriate and expected. It’s a pale blue background with a yellow triangle; within the triangle is a blue marking sort of like two Nike swooshes stuck together. If flags of the world were distinguished and even imposing, this one is sort of opposite, I’d have to say. Over to my left some workmen are running a compressor and making a fuss, plus there’s just enough mellow rock and roll coming from the speakers to remind a relaxing sailor that he’s in a port and not, safely, back at sea. Most of interesting of all is the people. Next to me is a local woman of probably German background and accent with a newly six-year-old daughter, whose dark skin and hair suggests a father of more local accent. Large groups of tourists stroll by and look into the café and it’s tidy little sundeck. Around me, a couple of men alone read books, sip coffee, and shuffle through the paper. Two French women just sat down and ordered hot chocolate. That’s really bedazzling as it’s at least 80 degrees. On the dock, the captain of Seeadler , a tiny little sloop, is poking his head around. He came from Canada, crossed the pond to Portugal, returned by way of the Caribbean, and is hanging around the marina now. His boat must be 25 feet long. It’s dwarfed by all the bigger lugs tied up around us, but he’s got an intrepid little solar panel mounted on the stern and a Monitor wind vane. Wind vanes are simple hydraulic mechanisms that steer the boat based on the direction of the wind. They have a flat piece of wood on top that can be angled to where the wind is, which is connected down a pole to a rudder. Much simpler than the Liana-Jane’s fancy electronic autopilot, and very effective I understand. As I was sitting here, a middle-aged German popped by for some coffee – an infrequent rain shower drove them inside. We talked about their experiences with boat boys to the south. Mostly, there had few problems, but one kid trying to sell them lobster became menacing. It could be worse.
So anyway, what we do today is continue working on the boat. Mom and Dad leave tomorrow. Maybe we’ll take our rental car somewhere, I don’t know. I’m going to wish bon voyage to a boatload of sailors I met last night; they’re heading south, like I plan to, to St. Vincent and the Grenadines. Checking into Immigration a couple of days ago, I got talking to some sailors coming up from that area. They were sharing stories about the boat boys and the consequences of political upheaval in Venezuela. Apparently, when you get within a few miles of St. Vincent – which is very poor and there’s a lot of desperation – kids come tearing out in their little outboard fishing boats and cling onto your dinghy or your stern. They fight amongst themselves about who “gets” you. As you approach the island, they get increasingly agitated about being the one who takes your line for mooring. There’s a steep drop-off, so you have to drop an anchor our then tie your stern off from threes on shore. During this time, boat boys are swarming around the shore and your sailboat trying to sell you things, climb up on your boat, be your line handler, get you to come into the village, and so on. I guess they’re like ants.
According to a sailor from Florida, one couple had a boat boy climb through their companionway hatch in the middle of the night. The owner nailed him with pepper spray. The boy ran screaming out of the cabin and jumped over the side. When dawn came, a big boatload of villagers came out to the sailboat. The owners were terrified – what are they going to do, should be weigh anchor and make a run for it? As it turned out it was the boat boy’s parents telling them, in broken English, thank you for teaching their son a lesson about breaking into other people’s homes. Another couple off Venezuela was not so lucky. I guess about a month ago they were traveling alone north of the coast. A boatload of Venezuelan gunmen approached them and boarded. Naturally, they didn’t put up any resistance. The men had assault rifles. They came inside, ransacked the place, tore out all the electronics, and shot the man in the leg. When they left, the wife was unable to call for help without a radio, but found an old one they had stowed, installed it, and was able to get her husband to a hospital by medivac. I guess he lived and that’s why the story is now circulating. Considering this information – however accurate it may be – I want to make sure that Robert and I travel westward along the Venezuelan islands in a flotilla, or at least with one other sailboat, just to be safe.
This is the end of my third dispatch home. That last couple of weeks have been beautiful. We’ve covered another 150 nautical miles or so, experienced virtually perfect sailing, and had an opportunity to finalize some work on the boat. That will make her more completely ready for the next five months.
I am now a month into this journey. My beard, still ridiculous-looking, is growing into a blondish scruff and I’m deeply tanned, especially on my back. Of course, I could yank my shorts up and down rapidly and pretend I’m a marker buoy, blinding boats with white flashes. Maybe there’s someway I could complete this tanning cycle in the next few weeks without grossing Robert out. We’ll see. Meanwhile, I’ve been missing friends and family from home, but enjoying the whole experience here so tremendously that it helps with the distance. In the last couple of weeks, the space shuttle crashed, chaos is reigning in Venezuela, Germany had an election, an island next to us caught on fire, I climbed up a rope and jumped off a 40-foot cliff, I had a wonderful time with my wacky parents, and have truly enjoyed the long days of sailing, sailing, sailing. Things continue to go well.
The next dispatch should cover the last of the Leeward Islands and the Venezuelan Antilles as far as Bonaire. Once Robert and I make Margarita Island, off the northwest coast of Venezuela, the first of four legs will be complete. The second is from Margarita Island to Aruba – the South American stretch, the third is long bluewater sailing from Aruba to Jamaica, the Caymans, down to Honduras and ultimately to Belize City. The last leg is up the coast of Mexico, across to Key West, finally wrapping things up in Florida. Thank you for your interest, for reading my (overly-detailed) updates, and for being part of this. Let the adventure continue!