Sharing Paradise

My friend Colleen is visting for three weeks, and we have been touring the soutthern Grenadines...

Colleen

Hiking on Union Island

Chatam Bay

A little chateau on Union Island

Frigate Bay

Mopion

Petite Saint Vincent

At a beach bar in Salt Whistle Bay, Mayreau

View from Mayreau

Salt Whistle Bay Resort

 

Windlass Repair

New windlass motor: US$145

Shipping: US$110

Duty and brokerage fee: EC$108

Having a functional windlass: Priceless

 

 

 

Merry Christmas!

I know I haven't posted in awhile. I've really just been hanging out, kitesurfing, reading, and enjoying the fact that I don't have to scrape the windshield. But last night, Christmas Eve, game me something to write about.

I'm anchored in Clifton Harbor on Union Island, and I've been here for a few weeks. In just the last couple days, the yacht traffic really picked up, and the harbor is nearly full of boats. I'm anchored as far forward as possible, just behind the shallow area where we kite. When I say "forward", it's because the wind here almost always comes from the east. Almost.

Christmas Eve brings a brilliant light show from a nearby thunderstorm, and after watching for a while, I go to bed early, as is my norm while on the water. The storm intensifies after midnight, and I am jolted out of bed by the unmistakable shock and thump of the boat hitting ground. I run up and see that the wind has switched 180 degrees, and I am now over the shallows. I thought that I had room to swing in all directions, but it is currently dead low tide, and I've run out of room. I'm not stuck, I'm just bouncing. I start the engine and pull forward, then run out onto the foredeck (naked) in a driving rainstorm to shorten scope by hand. Did I mention that my windlass is broken, and I'm waiting for a part coming by FedEx? So, with that taken care of, I reverse to keep from coming too close to the French boat which was behind me and is now in front of me, and when my boat falls back, it is no longer hitting bottom.

 

This is the strongest electrical storm I have seen in two years of cruising. In fact, it's the strongest electrical storm I have ever seen. Fortunately, there doesn't seem to be a lot of ground strikes around here, it's mostly cloud to cloud. I have time now to go below, put some clothes on, and check the radar loop on the internet. There is no end in sight. I'm going to be on anchor watch most of the night.

 

The harbor is chaos. It is brilliantly and frequently lit up, though for only for milliseconds at a time. The wind continues to swing through 360 degrees, and the storm continues to rage. One boat near me has stuck in the shallows, and those aboard are scrambling around when, as I watch, it comes free and smashes into another boat on a mooring. I see another boat which has drug anchor and is pinned sideways on the reef in the middle of the harbor. There's a lot of activity on the radio. I facilitate what I can over the air, but there is no way I'm leaving my boat in this. I guess my Christmas present is that my boat made out OK.

 

At one point during the night there is a lull in the storm, and I shout over to the French boat, which is now abeam me (all four of them are on deck).

"Merry Christmas!"

"What?"

"I say Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!"

Goin' Where the Sun keeps Shining through the Pouring Rain

 

 

Escape from The Yard!

I have finished painting the bottom with new antifouling and completed a couple of other minor things, and I can't wait to get out. I use a couple of calm mornings to get my sails on and lines run. I clear out before splashing, so all I have to do is make sure she doesn't leak, check the engines, and head out. The yard is there to lift the boat at 10:00AM sharp, and by 11:00, I have cast off the lines and motored out of the box. The main is up as I pass through the Boca at 11:30. The Orinoco River must be running a lot lower than it was in June, since the water is not nearly as muddy, and there are no standing waves. When I arrived last June, I think I was too tired and distracted to appreciate the beauty of this little straight - it is jungle on both sides with caves along the water. I don't find enough wind to sail at first, so I motor straight up wind for about an hour, getting a nice tour along the wild north coast of Trinidad.

Unlike the other islands, Trinidad is geographically and ecologically part of South America. While I was here, I saw flocks of green parrots and bats with wingspans longer than a foot. I would love to stay and explore, but I need to get to someplace where I can swim right off the boat.


As I motor along the coast, I am glad to see a Trinidad Coast Guard boat (CG14) patrolling back and forth along about a two mile stretch north of the Boca. It's equipped with a large caliber automatic gun turret-mounted on the bow. Since I can look over to the west and see the lawless Paria coast of Venezuela, this is very reassuring. At one point I am glassing them with my binoculars and they make a run straight at me, probably wanting to see if I scurry below or start dumping something overboard.

Soon enough, the wind picks up enough to motor sail, and I bear off to the north and unfurl the genoa. After about half an hour, the wind fills in, and I am sailing again. The freedom of the seas! Even though I am sailing into head seas, they are only about four to five feet, and the going is very smooth. The only time during the whole passage that my boat pounds is when I'm crossing some sort of rip current a few hundred yards wide that is obviously visible from a distance, with steep, choppy waves and whitecaps. I have the goal of passing above (east of) both platforms in the natural gas fields about forty miles north of Trinidad, and to do so before dark, since there is a lot of boat and ship traffic associated with them. I barely make it on both counts, leaving "Poinsettia" about two miles to my west just before dusk.

Poinsettia from about two miles away

Soon enough it is dark, but I know that I will only have about two hours of it before the still-almost-full moon rises. I have to radio one ship bound for Brazil to make sure he sees me on his radar crossing his bow about one mile off. Then, I see another ship on my path, but it appears to be just drifting - it is facing north but moving west at 1.5 knots. After a few tries, he finally answers the radio - it makes it pretty hard not to when I am hailing him by name. Man, I love having AIS! He confirms that he is drifting and intends to maintain present course and speed, and I inform him that I will be passing about one half mile to his east in approximately forty minutes. Why is a 380 foot cargo ship bound for Guyana just drifting offshore in the middle of the night? I don't want to know.

I see what at first looks like the glow of another ship to my east about 8:30PM, but quickly realize that it is the rising moon peeking between the clouds. I am now to the east of Grenada and out of the shipping lanes, and I have the whole ocean to myself. I lie in the cockpit with the bimini open and enjoy the stars and the night sky. The visibility with the moon is great. I can see the lights of Grenada 20 miles to my west, and all is well. What a feeling! I finally get tired enough to sleep, and I take one hour cat naps, between which I pop up into the cockpit (after harnessing in), check the wind, scan 360, take a look at the radar, and check the AIS. On one of those checks, I look up just in time to see a beautiful shooting star.

I have sailed as high as possible, eventually getting about ten miles east of the course line, since the forecast called for winds starting to head me from the north east after midnight. Sure enough, I need to alter course to port about five degrees each time I check during the last half of the night, in order to keep wind in the sails. Dawn finds me in a perfect position to sail between Carriacou and Petite Martinique, around Mopion reef, and into Clifton harbor. Perfect timing, since I drop anchor before the "boat boys" are out there to distract me while I am trying to concentrate on anchoring. Twenty one hours from dry in Trinidad to anchored in the Grenadines! To top it all off, I am greeted with a rainbow:

Welcome to Union Island

The View from my Boat

 

 

 

 

 

Old Friends

One of the best parts of cruising is seeing old friends again! One of the worst parts of cruising is saying goodbye to old friends!

Farewell Conny! Safe passages to you and Mai.

 

Life in The Yard

One of the less glorious aspects of cruising is the time spent "on the hard". Periodically, all boats must be hauled, to repaint the bottom at a minimum, but also to take care of other projects which are best done, or can only be done out of the water. The yard I am currently at in Trinidad has at least 100 sail boats chocked up, and a surprising number of those have cruisers living aboard, sometimes for extended periods (picture a "fixer upper"). The scene in a yard reminds me very much of a prison - you are living inside a razor wire fenced compound, the conditions are harsh, the bathrooms and showers are communal, and when someone asks "When are you splashing?", it sounds to me just like "When do you come before the parole board?" This time I have wimped out and splurged on an air conditioned room for my short one week stay. I justify the expense by thinking of all those nights I got out of bed to spend the night searching in the dark during a blizzard or a driving rainstorm. Yes, I deserve a comfortable place to sleep tonight!

While painting the bottom: some very temporary artwork to salute to my Swedish friends!