The Season Begins

The Flame of Renewal

Sparks fled upwards into the darkening night, reaching towards the brilliant pinpricks of uncountable stars above.  The fire fed greedily on the driftwood haphazardly piled onto the fine powdery sand of the beach. A northeast wind blew long and cool, driving the flames to even greater acrobatics. The smell of smoke mingled with the tang of the salt air and hot dogs on the grill. The chill forced the odd collection of barefoot wanderers to shift just a little closer to the warmth. Despite the unseasonal chill, they were thankful to be where they were – nestled together around a campfire on the white sands of Norman’s Cay while crystalline aquamarine waters lapped nearby. They had finally arrived. Another season in the Exumas!

Sometimes, as we work our way over this watery world, we stumble into magical moments that just seem so perfect they belie description. This was such a moment. An idyllic welcome to our long journey from the Chesapeake and our escape from the cold. 

Departure

After leaving Miami on Friday at 4AM, here we were on Sunday at 6PM, already in the Exumas, some 200 miles south and east of where we began. Now, 200 miles might not seem like a lot if you’re zipping along on a highway at 70, but it’s a little different when you’re going roughly 10 times slower than that. Imagine how long it might take you to run 200 miles, that’s probably closer to the speed at which we typically travel.

Bahamas

This trip has been a downhill ride. The crossing of the dreaded Gulf Stream was of no consequence. We sailed most of it and only had the motor on briefly. The seas were only a little disturbed by the northwest wind blowing across the Gulf Stream. We arrived at Alice Town in Bimini around 1PM, anchored, then I went in to handle customs and immigration. By 5:30PM, we were pulling up our anchor to catch the favorable winds still blowing. As darkness descended, we navigated out of the tricky Bimini entrance and headed south and east across Grand Bahama Bank towards Chub Cay.

Dream Catcher arrives in Bimini

Our plan was to arrive at the Northwest Channel at daybreak. This channel is supposed to be marked by two pilings about 500 yards apart. The only problem is that both pilings are in disrepair and you can’t see them unless you hit them. You simply have to trust your chartplotter and assume that your guardian angel is on duty in the wee hours of the morning.

As we nervously passed through the channel and onto the Tongue of the Ocean (an 8,000’ deep area that separates Chub Cay from New Providencia) we realized that we could probably just keep going onto New Providencia (where Nassau is located). This would put us a lot closer to the Exumas. Since we had already reefed our main, we were prepared for the wind to increase into the 20s, which it did. The seas grew larger and rougher, but we were scooting along at 7-8 knots and the seas were behind us, not in front of us. They eventually grew to about six feet, but this is less than what they were a year ago, so we figured we were doing pretty well. We sailed into the calm of West Bay and dropped anchor. It wasn’t long after that we were fast asleep as the lingering effects of the swell rocked us to sleep.

Exuma Bound

Sunday was supposed to be stormy, and we had prepared to sit out the front in West Bay, but morning dawned bright and clear, with only a gentle 10 knots blowing. It was too good to pass up! We headed out of the bay and pointed our bows (we are a catamaran, after all) towards Norman’s Cay, about 50 miles away. Sun poured out of a powder-blue sky as we set our course and our sails. Before long, we were once again romping along at 7-8 knots in perfectly flat seas in the lee of New Providencia. Gin-clear water showed every rock and coral embedded in the white sands only 8-12 feet below us. We flashed above them, too quick to make sense of any of it. Just before we reach our destination, we are hailed by Kathleen from Wonderful Life who gives us a head’s up that they, and several other “kid boats,” have already arrived – great news for us!  Finally, we pulled into Norman’s Cay lagoon and dropped our anchor. The clarity of the water makes it easy to see the anchor and its long dark-grey stretch across the vivid whiteness of the sand bar beneath us. It holds us fast, secure in our latest watery destination.

We look up and find they we are right next to Wonderful Life!  Wait, there’s Makana! And look, there’s Cool Cat across the lagoon! Doug from Wonderful Life zooms over in his dinghy to invite us to the season’s first beach barbeque. Moments later, a dinghy full of kids pulls up to gather Jeanette and they are soon speeding off towards the beach.  We collect our things, make dinner preparations, and an hour later, we are on a white-sand beach, catching up and meeting new members of the lost tribe of wandering sailors.  Food is enjoyed, conversations flow, and friendships warm while falling stars mingle with sparks streaming skyward. It’s great to be back!

The view from our boat in Normans Cay

The Long Slog South

Running the Gauntlet

My first sail on a big boat was the sea trial for the old Cal 30 my parents bought when I was 10 years old.  It was a blustery day and a boisterous sail that, at one point, had me in ankle-deep water as I stood on the backrest of the cockpit bench while water poured in from over the side.  An anxious look at my father’s smiling face assured me that this was normal – an experience that was to seriously skew my concept of sailing for years to come.   In fact, when we were teenagers, my brothers and I loved to take the boat out and skirt along the squall lines to ride the bigger winds and seas.   It wasn’t until later – after riding out gale-force winds off Gun Cay and sailing in 20’ seas back to Fort Lauderdale where we were told that the Coast Guard had been out rescuing people all day  – that I began to realize that my father, a former merchant mariner, wasn’t much afraid of anything that could happen on the water.  This turned out to be good preparation for sailing in the Bay Area and ocean racing with Ken in all kinds of conditions.  Nonetheless, something has happened to me along the way and I’m slowly but surely warming up to the idea of being a fair-weather sailor.   Looking at the all-male crews around us as we travel south, I’m thinking that those wives who fly in to the destination and skip the long slog south are onto something! 

Autumn colors on the Alligator River, NC

Last month, I was chatting with some cruisers in the marina’s laundry room in Charleston, SC, commiserating about the weather, which was just about to go south.  Literally.  In fact, the wind was picking up as we spoke and the warm, humid air that was pushing before it had everything on the boat dripping with moisture.  It was mid-November and the weather patterns were quickly transitioning from warm summer highs to the autumn lows that bring unstable, cold air, north winds, and rough seas.  This particular group of cruisers was the experienced-sailors-but-first-time-cruisers variety.  They were new to planning their entire lives around weather windows, estimated distance that could be covered, and potential access to groceries and marine supplies; and I had little helpful advice for them there that Active Captain couldn't provide.  Although I understand the insurance companies’ policy of not allowing boaters to go south of Cape Hatteras before November, they do increase our risk by forcing us to travel at a time when cold fronts are marching down the coast one after the other.   Sailing south becomes about best guesses, taking chances, and cutting your losses.  There was much grumbling about the wind and the cold but, as burdens go, I’m not averse to bearing it knowing that warmer climes are just ahead. 

 

Looking forward to 80 degrees!

The Art of Forecasting

Even in the best of times, weather is always a little bit unpredictable.  Heading out of Beaufort Inlet, NC, weather reports told us to expect 20kt winds that would gradually abate over our expected 36-hour trip to Charleston, SC.  While the wind was indeed 20kts when we started and it did lessen over 24 hours, for the last 10 or so hours, it strengthened again.  Instead of the anticipated 5kts of wind, we had 25-30kts, with a following sea that was quickly building.  It wasn’t anything we couldn’t manage, but it did catch us by surprise and made for some fairly unnerving maneuvering (clipped into a harness and the boat) trying to wrestle our big, unreefed mainsail under control.  Needless to say, our last 8 hours into Charleston Harbor were faster than they would otherwise have been.  But that’s just the thing…. even when you’ve checked out the local weather reports, NOAA’s marine forecast, grib files, and weather models, and touched base with your favorite weather guru (e.g., Chris Parker), the actual weather is prone to change.  At best, you have to run the engine because the wind has died or you’re uncomfortable because the seas are a disorganized 6-8’ instead of a 3-5’ swell.  At worst, you’re in way over your head and you and your crew or your boat is in danger.  We prefer sailing on the outside (i.e., the ocean) rather than going down the intracoastal waterway (ICW).  For one thing, we can sail; for another, it’s faster.  It’s not necessarily easier, but it is faster; and when crazy stuff happens, I’m grateful for the experiences of our San Francisco sailing days when 30+ kts of wind was just another walk in the park.  

Red Sky at night....

Sailing on “the outside” as it were, we miss much of the inland beauty that can be enjoyed on a leisurely trip down the ICW.  Nonetheless, with temperatures dipping more frequently into the 30’s, we were motivated to move – and move fast.  In hindsight, our long hops from Morehead City, NC to Charleston, SC, and from Charleston to St. Augustine, FL were fairly benign.  Leaving St. Augustine the day after Thanksgiving, however, we were subjected to a sloppy following sea, making for a miserable washing machine effect that plagued us all the way to Port Canaveral.  A steady strong breeze allowed us to sail – a definite bonus – but neither Ken nor I got much sleep off watch as we were tossed and turned about in our bunk.  It was a quiet night, as shipping traffic goes, and there wasn’t much to see except for the bioluminescence frothing in our wake.  After spending a few days in Cocoa Village seeing family and re-stocking, we took a break from the ocean and meandered down the ICW to Lake Worth.  Another family/provisioning frenzy in N. Palm Beach and then we were riding long swells down to Fort Lauderdale yesterday, just ahead of a cold front.  Today, there are distress calls up and down the S. Florida coast due to the huge surf that developed overnight.  For once, we’ve timed things just right.

 

A different kind of explorer, entering Port Canaveral

Feeding frenzy off St. Augustine

Traveling Companions

It’s always fun to pull into the harbor and see a familiar boat.  In Charleston, we docked right across from our friends on Song One and, just a few days later, they pulled up beside us in St. Augustine.   Other cruiser friends touch base with e-mails and texts and are either just ahead, or just behind, us.  Glass Slipper was getting hauled out in the boatyard in Green Cove Springs (Jacksonville) just before we made it to Florida.   Rollick pulled into St. Augustine right after we left and Ally Cat was hoping to catch up to us before we cross.   While underway, boaters are required to monitor channel 16 on the VHF.  Listening to boat chatter all day, some names start to sound familiar; and, once in a while, you hear someone that you know.  While sailing from Charleston, we were hailed at night by L’Avenir – an Austrian boat whose crew we met in Washington, DC.  They had heard us speaking with another passing boat and wanted to say hello.  It turned out they had also left from Charleston that day, but were heading straight on to Canaveral while we were stopping in St. Augustine.  And so it goes, leap-frogging down the coast until we reach a destination we don’t want to leave.  Along the way, we intersect with family and friends, old and new, and enjoy the occasional encounter with the wildlife that are also on the move.  Day after day on the open ocean, pods of dolphins (Spotted and Bottlenose) played at our bow while we sat up forward and shared their sense of abandon.  

Daredevil Dolphin

Pair of Spotted Dolphins off our bow

One afternoon, a solitary Bottlenose Dolphin showed up to play.  She would surf the bow wave for a while, then dash up ahead, diving deep and waiting for the boat to catch up to her before speeding in from the side for another ride.  After 15 minutes or so, she leaped into the air three times and then swam away.  I imagine that the same shenanigans take place at night, but I can’t say for sure.  On one moonless night I got a whiff of a strong, fishy smell that I can only assume was a whale.  We were, after all, in the Right Whale critical habitat, but saw none in daylight hours.  And that’s the way it is with our fellow travelers – we know they’re out there, but we don’t always see them.  As we spend the next couple of days in Fort Lauderdale waiting for our next weather window, we are anticipating the camaraderie of this loose collection of nomads who sail in and out of our lives, connected by a shared love of living on the water. 

Full moon rising over Lake Worth

Watery Woes

Houston, We Have a Problem

Thurrrup, thurrrup, thurrrup. Damn. It's 2AM and the fresh water pump is cycling. Again. What the heck is that all about? The good news is that it's only a short pulse. The bad news is that it's enough to wake me up. I've tried ignoring it (my first reaction to problems), but it hasn't gone away. Since we are currently moored in a beautiful spot for a week, I can now ignore that beauty and get sweaty trying to fix this problem. Yay!

The beautiful city of St. Augustine at twilight

Once again, it's me against the beast. The beast is any problem that defies a simple explanation. I've had a few of these smile their evil, toothy grins at me - just daring me to come near. While I'm likely to vanquish the beast, it's rarely done without evidence left on my body somewhere. Those are sharp teeth!

This occasion wouldn't be any different as it happens.

Step 1: Get Help

Now, it used to be that I'd just jump in and figure everything out myself. Unfortunately, that usually turned out to be the most expensive option. This time, I documented the problem as much as I could and put it up on the Yahoo group forum for boats just like mine. This inevitably leads to many sympathetic voices suggesting every conceivable problem and solution, so you have to pick and choose which voices to listen to. They're the one place I'm likely to find sympathy and a shoulder to cry on. My wife and daughter have only the vaguest notions of the miracles I perform to keep this boat floating.

Step 2: Isolate the Problem

The freshwater pump takes water out of a large tank and pressurizes it to 44 PSI and sends it through hard plastic lines that worm their way throughout the boat where you can't see them. The pump has a pressure switch, once the lines are pressurized, they shut off. What I was hearing was a short pulse of the pump because the sensor measured a pressure decrease. Simple, right? The first thing to look for is a water leak somewhere in all those lines.

Step3: Clean the Bilges

All boats have bilges. It's where water goes that shouldn't be in the boat. Since time immemorial this has been a problem. I think it was some Carthaginian, out for a Zeusday sail in his trireme, who first accidentally dropped his favorite discus and watched it roll underneath the slave rowers. "Zeus damn!" he exclaimed as he blindly reached underneath the floorboards, franticly searching. He didn't find his discus, but he did find something squishy and disgusting, causing him to retch. It turns out the Carthaginian word for, "blech!" translates into the English, "bilge." Look it up if you don't believe me. 

So, my bilges needed to be cleaned and dried if they were going to help me identify where the leak was. This technique had worked in the past, so I had some hope for it. Turns out it was misplaced...

Step4: Block the Water

After spending a day with the bilges open everywhere on the boat, and crawling around with a paper towel to make sure they were really dry, I determined that the mystery water leak wasn't playing by the rules. Water was not winding up in them. Now I would have to try something more difficult. I had to block off each section of the freshwater system to see if it would stop the pulsing (which had progressed to once every 5 minutes).  

How do you block 44 PSI? I can tell you what not to do. Don't carve a piece of cork and stick it in and tape it. That resulted in the cork whizzing past my face at subsonic velocities - followed by a stream of pressurized water that splashed onto my laptop. Also, don't use a large metal bolt that almost fits the hose. It turns out you can't just put a lot more tape on it to seal it. While it held for one second longer than the first attempt, the net result was the same. At least when the water came gushing out, it only went all over the innards of the air conditioner, which is in the same area.

Once I had a length of tubing with a non-lethal seal on one end, I got to work going around the boat and replacing connections with the blocker. This sounds easy, but this is where most of my scars came to pass. While a few of the connections are easily reachable, many are placed where only garden gnomes could possibly go. Invariably, I could only reach these connections with one hand, with the rest of my body inconveniently leaning on a sharp fiberglass panel. While disconnecting the connection worked one-handed, it was another thing to get the two pieces back together. 

Remember the dry bilges? Well they were rapidly filling with water (mixed in some cases with my precious blood). Every test involved a liberal spray of water released into the nether regions of the boat. You'd hope this was all for a good purpose. As it turned out, it wasn't.

Step5: Try the Spare Pump

All that mucking about with blocking off parts of the water system got me no where. All I could say was that if I had the blocker attached to the output of the pump, the cycling totally stopped. As soon as I added more of the system to the pump, the cycling started and I couldn't see any sign of water leaking anywhere. It had to be the pump!

I put the spare pump in the system and it seems even worse! OK, it can't be the pump, it must be the freakin hoses! I half-heartedly try to go through the entire isolation process with the new pump, with basically the same result as before. Did I mention this is day #2 that I've dedicated to this process? Where are the girls you ask? Oh, they are enjoying cookies and cake over at the relatives, where they've been for the last two days...

Step6: Give Up

I usually try this step sooner, not sure why I waited as long as I did. I was defeated. I figured I'd put everything back the way it was and just live with it. Since the water wasn't showing up in the bilge, it was hard to prove I was actually losing any water. I convinced myself I could learn to enjoy the brief cycling of the water pump hour after hour, day after day. 

Any reasonable person would be frustrated at this point, I was no exception. In trying to get everything back together, I had one balky set of connections that every time I tried to turn on the pump, water would hiss and spray in one direction or another. After several attempts, I yanked at it a little too hard and broke the Zeuss-damn water pump!!

Step7: Smile

Because once I replaced the old water pump with the new water pump, everything worked perfectly and continues to this day. Sometimes finding the silver lining requires a bit of blood, sweat and tears, but if you're persistent, you'll find it!