(or how to move onto a sailboat)
With the advent of our 50th birthdays came the usual sorts of life evaluations that one goes through. At what have I succeeded? What contributions have I made? What do I have left that I want to do before I die? Living on the water was high on both our lists.
For any who share the dream, and for our family members who might not understand, this is our story. We don't know where it will take us, but welcome along for the ride!
The Mantus cleared the sand at Rodriguez Key this morning at exactly 7:00 am. Not a breath of wind was to be found but we raised the main anyway to help to dampen the rolls we would surely experience later in the day from monster sport fishing boats. At that particular moment there were no boats to be seen underway, only our two anchored neighbors, and the water was flat. The Westerbeast yawned and growled to life and Kintala was off on the second of two 45 mile days down the Hawk Channel headed to Marathon.
Henrietta the autopilot was brought online, this being the day of her majesty's preference - flat water and no wind. The sun made a very brief appearance through a slit in the clouds, the only time we would see it through the entire day which settled into an odd, hazy combination of blues, greens, grays and purples all blended together in a fuzzy combination that defied both my old camera and my even older photographic skills. The various keys and long bridges rolled by a mile or two to starboard, and the crab pots sprinkled the landscape just enough to justify a careful watch and an occasional degree or two of change in heading.
We rounded the bend to the west side of Boot Key where we tucked in as far as we could go for protection and laid the Mantus to rest. It's impossible to capture on film the magical feeling of losing the horizon in this place. The green of the water blends seamlessly into the blue-green of the sky as the sun fades and the conch horns blow. As the boat traffic dies, the only sounds remaining are the dive-bomb splashes of the brown pelicans as they search for dinner and the occasional rhythmic splashes of the flying fish as they attempt to escape their predators. A few birds unfamiliar to me call in a sing-song chatter as the first starlight eases through the darkening fuzz. The last of the wakes smooth out and I want to sit here for a long while, just looking, but the bugs are claiming their territory so I'm chased below. It will be nice to see this beautiful water in sunshine tomorrow, but I'm completely happy to have enjoyed the day of the lost horizon.
(Ed note: This is a long post and may bore those of you who are accomplished, experienced cruisers.)
I've avoided posts on anchoring because, let's face it, there is an over-abundance of information on it out there as well as an abundance of MIS-information. In addition, we've only been cruising for a little over two years and it seemed there were many more experienced people out there to offer advice. Then there's the fact that NO topic yields more ridiculous hot-headed argument in sailing and cruising forums than anchoring. But, after having shared with a good friend our method of anchoring, I was asked to do a post to share it with others, so share it I will. Use it or discard it as you see fit.
When getting ready to leave for full-time cruising, we did due diligence on the whole anchoring issue. We read all the chapters in the most well-known cruising how-to books, we read the advertising promo on all of the anchor manufacturer websites, we scoured the vendor aisles of boat shows and we talked to tons of people. We had an oversized CQR (39# on a 27' boat) on our first boat, Nomad, which seemed to do well on the lake in the muddy bottom. Kintala came with a not-oversized CQR, which also seemed to do OK on the lake, although we did drag once while we had a half dozen boats rafted up to us. Knowing we were going to be in much rougher waters and many different bottom types, we began the search for a good cruising anchor to replace it.
I'm not exactly sure how we found out about the Mantus anchor initially, but after researching the details, it seemed like a good choice. It was robust, it had great reviews and, most importantly, it was affordable which allowed us to purchase a size larger than the recommended size.
The Mantus after installation with Kintala still on the hard.
I remember the day the Mantus 65 was delivered to Tradewinds Marina where we had the boat on the hard getting her ready for the truck voyage to Oak Harbor. I believe the words out of Tim's mouth when he saw the box were, "Are you kidding me?" He grumbled through the whole assembly. He grumbled through the mounting. He still grumbles through every morning of pulling it up, but not because it's a bad anchor or because he doesn't want it, only because he doesn't have a shiny electric windlass to pull it up with. The Mantus anchor was one of the few major purchasing decisions that I got right. And so very right it is.
One of the things that few people realize about anchoring is the fact that only half of it is technique. The other half is the anchor itself. While I firmly believe that every single boat out there should have a new generation anchor of some sort (Mantus, Rocna, or similar), many of the other anchors will do just fine if they are sufficiently oversized. And this we found out our first trip over to the Bahamas. So point one:
Buy the absolute biggest anchor that your bow roller / windlass / back / biceps / budget can handle.
Learning to sail on a rural lake in Illinois never afforded us the opportunity to actually see our anchor on the bottom, in spite of the fact that the water in Carlyle Lake was rarely more than 8' deep. The lake was a runoff of local farm land and, as a result, was filled with sediment and the byproduct of our modern chemical fertilization methods, not to mention the somewhat less offensive byproduct of the cattle. It wasn't until we reached Elliott Key in Biscayne Bay that we even saw the anchor at all, and that was just barely. When we crossed to the Bahamas early in 2014 and began our trek across the Abacos, it was an epiphany. We had an anchor! We could actually see it on the bottom through clear water!
A well set anchor in sandy bottom
After traveling across the northern Abacos and anchoring in the anchorage just outside Green Turtle Cay, my curiosity got the best of me. I had been listening to anchoring gurus tell me that I needed to back down on the anchor to set it, and I began to wonder how many RPMs it really takes to stretch 75 or 80 feet of chain out fully extended. I wanted to be sure that I had been applying sufficient power. In this anchorage we had laid out 75 feet of chain, backing slowly as we released it so we didn't pile up the chain, then backing on it to set it. After completing this, our standard procedure, I talked Tim into donning his snorkle equipment and swimming out to a position directly over the anchor to do a small test.
We had agreed on some hand signals, him telling me to back down until he could see that the chain was fully extended, and then I would apply power to set it. He motioned me to back and I did. After a few moments his hand signal to back became more vigorous. I backed harder. Another moment and his head popped up out of the water and he shouted, "Are you backing?? Because nothing is happening. The chain is not moving." I had been using nearly 2000 RPM and was unable to even move the accumulate length of chain from its position in the sand where we had dropped it. I revved the Westerbeast to 2500 RPM. Still no movement in the chain by the anchor. We were quite surprised, to say the least. It led us to the conclusion that a 50hp motor and a typical bow roller setup are not strong enough to drag 75 feet of chain taut, let alone pull on it hard enough to set a 65-pound anchor.
Over the next few weeks, we traveled around the Bahamas and began to take notice of our chain more closely. When we anchored off Rose Island northeast of Nassau, we saw our chain form a perfectly round spiral as the wild current there continued to swing us 180° every 12 hours. The winds were sometimes 18-25 knots and Kintala would travel back and forth as the current changed, the chain continuing to add to the spiral, but never straightening out. We began to rethink our anchoring strategy.
Over the next few months we gradually began to refine a new technique for us. A side note - over this time, as well, we have moved from having headsets to not having headsets (they succumbed to the harsh marine environment), to using whistles. And this brings me to point two:
When anchoring, be sure that whatever communication you choose is easy and of limited stress. Spend whatever money you have to in order to assure this. It will be the best money you spend. If you choose to use hand or whistle signals, be sure they are clearly defined beforehand.
After quite a few months, we've settle on the following technique and it's working well. So well, in fact, that when we withstood a 56 knot gust and subsequent high-40s for 5 hours at Foxtown, the anchor held well enough that the bow chock broke in spite of using a doubled snubber. Boats around us dragged, but Kintala stood her ground in the face of 5 foot waves and green water over the bow. Here is the procedure, and I'm going to use a depth of 8 feet as an example because it's the most common depth we anchor in while in the Bahamas.
First, we talk. Tim gets the anchor ready to deploy then comes back to the cockpit (since we have no more headsets) and we talk about where we might want to anchor. We drive around and look at possible spaces. We make a decision, figure the scope we need and how much rode we'll end up with, and he goes forward. From this point on we use the whistle signals we've devised. In our example, we have the 8-foot depth plus 4 feet to the bow plus 2 feet of tide = 14 feet, so our 5:1 scope (no storms predicted otherwise it would be 7:1) will be 70 feet minimum.
Next, Tim signals me that we are at the desired location. If I've done my job at the helm well, I will have coasted there and won't have to reverse much to stop the boat. He starts by laying out 25 feet of chain as I leave the boat in reverse with no power. If there's any wind at all, the bow will swing out to one side as he lets the chain out slowly. When we're in the islands I'm usually in my bare feet and, as we back slowly, I can feel the instant the Mantus point digs in. There is a subtle change in my balance and the bow swings. We allow the idle speed to stretch the chain a bit, but not so much as to dislodge the tip. As soon as the point digs in, Tim lets out the next 25 feet, again with me slowly backing. The bow again swings out to one side, and then swings back as the chain is stretched out. At this point we do a hard set. I slowly bring the engine up to about 1800 RPM. The bow dips slightly, the chain stretches fully, and the anchor is set.
Next, Tim lets out the remaining chain of our scope, at this point about 20 feet, and again as I slowly back. The boat goes into neutral and as it rebounds slightly on the chain Tim sets the snubber. (More on our snubber below.) Boat goes back into reverse but no power and I slowly back on the snubber. Once the snubber is fully extended, I set the anchor a final time, bringing the engine slowly up to 1800 RPM again until the bow swings back forward and dips slightly.
That's the basic technique that we developed, the main difference from everything else we have read and heard being the fact that we pause at 25 feet and set the anchor twice once at 50 feet and once at the full length. We set it once in the middle of the layout because it became evident that the motor had insufficient power to fully stretch out the weight of the chain and set the anchor, leaving the anchor un-set in most instances. There are several things worth noting, though, about other anchoring scenarios in less than perfect conditions.
One, is how the procedure changes in soft mud bottoms. We see countless people come into anchorages with soft mud bottoms, drop the anchor and immediately begin to back on them at something akin to 1800 RPM. The anchor skips across the bottom and after a half dozen tries they give up saying that the anchorage sucks. We've learned that when anchoring in soft mud bottoms, we set the anchor on the bottom with about 25 feet of chain (again 8 foot depth) and then I hold our position with the engine so that no pull is on the chain. Then we sit there and look at each other and the beautiful scenery for at least five minutes. We let the weight of the anchor settle slowly through the soft mud to the harder mud below it. Then we go ahead with the technique above.
Let the anchor settle through soft muddy or silted bottoms to the harder substrate below, then set it.
The other issue is when dealing with higher winds. The higher the wind, the longer the scope, so make sure there is adequate swing room for the longer scope. We usually try to pick a spot with enough room for 7:1, anchor with 5:1, and then have room to let out more rode if needed, should a storm pop up. During the storm at Foxtown, we had 110 feet of chain deployed which was 8:1. We now have a new length of chain that's 200 ft and we would have let even more out in that blow with this chain. In harder winds, also, the wind may back us too quickly so I sometimes have to use some forward power to slow us down. If I don't do this then the anchor can skip.
A word about the snubber. We constructed a custom snubber for our boat. We used 25 feet of three strand, stretchy nylon. Tim threaded the line through a Mantus chain hook, folded the line in half, threaded the lines through a piece of fire hose chafe guard and spliced loops on each end sufficiently large to go over our bow cleat. This one doubled snubber goes through one bow chock and over one bow cleat. Some boats do better with each end of the snubber going to two different bow chocks and cleats, but we have found that Kintala rides at anchor better with a snubber arrangement going only through one chock and onto one cleat. Every boat is different, so what works on Kintala may not be the best arrangement for your boat. What arrangement you use is not as important as the fact that you use a snubber.
Use a snubber to take the load off of the bow roller and windlass. Make it from stretchy nylon.
The last point worth mentioning from our experience is that of making sure that you have the right chain. Our chain had been replaced at one point and the owner at that time, attempting to save money, bought proof coil chain. It is the only chain that does not work in our windlass, so every time Tim tried to use the gypsy to advance the chain, it would skip. Now that we have the correct chain on there it moves swiftly and quietly. So....last point -
Don't skimp on your ground tackle. It is the single most important thing on your boat.
See the Mantus? No? That's the way it should be!
As a final note, we are not paid by Mantus and receive no compensation for our positive reviews, other than many peaceful night's sleep and some of the best customer service in the marine industry.
As Deb has mentioned, Kintala's Deck Monkey is operating at far less than 100%. A full day's rest in Styron Creek helped, but impending weather made getting a move-on imperative. A second day's rest was not to be. The anchor was weighed and Kintala set forth, but the weight of said weighing did me in. For the rest of the day just moving brought a gasp and a wince, though by day's end I could stand at the helm to help un-weigh the anchor just north of the Alligator River Swing Bridge, at a place called "Sandy Point".
The holding at Sandy Point is pretty good, the only good thing about the place. It is completely exposed in every direction, a deficiency exacerbated by it being nearly completely choked off with crab pots. We had followed a power cruiser in. Both boats spent much time sniffing around for a spot free enough to swing. We each found one, which pretty much used up all the space left by the crabbers. (We also found pots strewn haphazardly across the ICW in the Albermarle, black ones nearly impossible to see – I would like to meet the idiot who thinks that is a good idea. Indeed, crabbers are falling way down my list of watermen to be respected. I'm not asking that the whole ocean be a crab-pot free zone, just enough of it so the rest of us can still find it useful, and find a place to stop for the night.)
Come this morning we really needed to make our escape. Forecasts had the impending weather really, well, impending. The choice was to go back to a marina several miles in the wrong direction, or on to Coinjock, thirty miles in the direction we needed to go. Our take on the weather had going to Coinjock as the better option.
Coinjock lay on the other side of the Albermarle Sound from Sandy Point. The Albermarle has a bit of a reputation among those who sail the ICW. Compared to places like The Dismal Swamp, the Albermarle is a big body of water nearly open to the Atlantic, shallow, and prone to throwing steep and closely-spaced pounding waves at the incautious or unlucky. It was pond quiet and sunny when we motored across it back in 2013, with several people telling us how lucky we had been. There was little hope that it would be the same today.
The first task to going was that whole “weighing the anchor” thing, something well beyond my poorly functioning self. The best I could do was stand at the helm and hope Deb wouldn't get hurt trying to get the Mantus on board. Silly me. First the chain came aboard an easy armful at a time as she had me move the boat this way and that to stay over the rode. She got the anchor off the bottom and to the surface, but couldn't get it lifted onto the roller. I feared that would be the case. It is often all I can do to get it there myself. I was sure we would have to drift among the crab pots so I could go forward and add my manly efforts to help the Lady make the lift.
Silly me.
Deb shushed me back behind the helm where I could actually be of some use. Going to the mast she freed the spinnaker halyard, moved forward, clipped it to the anchor chain. Back at the mast a wrap or two went around the winch and, with the aid of the small winch handle, she cranked the anchor up onto the roller without a strain. Anchor secure, deck cleared, everything stowed, we went about crossing the Albermarle.
Somewhat chagrined at my obvious status of being redundant equipment, I insisted on staying at the wheel. Actually, the nature of my hurt is such that standing slightly hunched over, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, is one of the more comfortable positions I can find. If one is familiar with Kintala's cockpit layout, one knows that it is also the exact position someone who stands about six feet tall must assume when standing behind the helm.
Winds in the Albermarle, forecast to be five knots or less out of the west, were 15 to 18 due out of the east. The waves were lumped up and close together, the Beast laboring to keep five knots of SOG. Kintala shook a bit, giving me a look that said, “Well, could we get ON with it please?”
We spun out the little head sail, pushing the speed closer to six knots and giving the boat the muscle needed to ignore the waves. I got another look of, “PLEASE would you GET WITH IT?” We added the big jib, cranked both sails in tight. Kintala leaned over, SOG went to 7+ in the higher gusts, spray flew and children all over the world smiled. (Okay, I made that last bit up.)
Flying both head sails without the main is a strange combination. It only works when the Beast is in the mix with the apparent wind well forward of the beam. But when it works, it works really, really well. (For those who might wonder we set both the running back stays when we load the rig this way.) A cold, wet, gray, lumpy Albermarle was just a dance floor for a salt stained Kintala. Hours ahead of plan we were tied up to the dock in Coinjock, taking on fuel, making use of the pump-out, and topping off the water. Later I stood in the very nice, very hot shower long after the motion activated, timed lights went out. I'm still far short of 100%, but we are within a day's reach of mile Zero of the ICW, living on our boat, doing what we need to do when we need to do it to get to the things we need to get to.
It isn't always comfortable, but it isn't a bad way to live either.
(Ed note: sorry no pictures. When it wasn't raining I was too busy to take them and then it rained.)
We launched the Dink this morning with the thought of getting off the boat and visiting Fox Town. Fox Town is a place we skipped last year, and it looks like an interesting little burg. Also, it has been several weeks since the Merc was run, which usually leads to some starting reluctance on its part. Depending on how much reluctance, it could make for a long day of coaxing it back into service for yours truly. With the Dink in the water and the Merc hanging on its transom, I took a deep breath and pulled. Zoom-zoom on the second pull, and it even settled into a reasonable excuse for an idle. I may have to change my mind about the Merc.
And so there we were, going-ashore stuff loaded, both on board, Merc putting away, and bouncing hard against the Big Boat with water slopping over the bow tube. Hmmm, exactly what is so imperative that we are thinking of doing this? Its a long Dink ride in, we don't know where the dock is yet, and it will be an even longer ride back into the building winds and seas. We expected a little weather this weekend, but this? Perhaps we should wait and see what is going on here?
The forecast for today called for winds 10 to 15 out of the north east. The forecast on the GRIB file for this very instant, as I type, is for 13 knots of wind out of 031 degrees. They got the direction correct, but there is 26 knots of wind out there, gusting to just shy of 30. That may not sound like much to those who live in brick homes resting on Mother Earth, but for those of us who live floating, tethered by a length of chain to keep us away from rocks and shallow bits, it makes for a completely different take on the day. In our case, one where we watch the Dink tug and thrash at the end of its double painter, keep an eye on the ground tackle, and find things to do on the boat. Tomorrow's winds were supposed to be higher than today's. Did the higher winds get here a day early? Even if, they were never forecast for near 30. Maybe this whole system is honking and puffing with more enthusiasm than the weather gurus figured? We are going to find out, and Fox Town may have to wait until Monday.
The Mantus took its usual good set yesterday when we got here, and we are resting on 80 feet of chain in seven feet of water – so we are not too concerned about dragging. Still, if I was on shore looking out at Kintala, sitting alone in the whitecaps and straining against her snubbing lines, that would not be the case. I have to admit that it never occurred to me cruising would mean spending as many days as we do thinking about our house taking off without us. Back in St. Louis that only happened when a big tornado was in the area. Then we were mostly concerned about NOT being around, quite content to let the house take off without us.
On a completely different note: Tomorrow is Deb's and my 40th wedding anniversary. (I'm not sure why she has put up with me this long. I wouldn't have put up with me this long if I wasn't attached, but I am glad she has!) Some really wealthy people would celebrate by taking a trip to the Bahamas on a PRIVATE YACHT, noodling around pristine beaches washed by a stunning turquoise sea, and exploring interesting places. We are on a yacht, a little one, but a yacht none the less. It is private. And we are noodling around pristine beaches washed by a stunning turquoise sea. When the wind finally lies down a little, we will go back to exploring interesting places. So, while we can't make the claim of being wealthy people, we are certainly doing okay.
By shear happenstance Kintala checked into Bimini exactly one year after she had first checked in at the West End. We actually got to Bahamian waters the day before. We had a plan for an overnight run from Miami to Bimini, but a last check of the weather showed waves of 3 to 4, occasional 5, on a four second period; all being pushed by a 10 to 15 knot wind directly on the bow. Not dangerous, but not fun either. We elected to wait until daybreak, though upon exiting the Stiltsville Channel into the Atlantic we found those 3 to 4 foot waves, occasional 5, on that four second period. With the wind directly on the bow Kintala was a power boat with a tall antenna. The call was to push on for a bit to see if deeper water would bring better conditions. If not, it would be a quick downwind sail back into Biscayne Bay. Things slowly improved and by late morning we had enough angle on the wind to fly the main sail very, very close hauled. It gave us an extra knot which pushed the average speed just above five. We were happy to motor sail through the day, still crunching through 3 and 4 foot waves, and watching Miami slowly fade below the horizon. By afternoon the ocean had settled to 2 foot gentle bumps and all was well with our sailing world, though there was one minor flaw in the going.
We loves us some Mantus. Our anchor buried deeply.
Much of Bahamian water is pretty skinny; that in the Bimini channel is downright anorexic. The reason for making an overnight run was to approach the channel entrance at high tide. Pushing the departure to early morning had the buoys coming into view at exactly low tide. After some debate and a chat with the harbor Master the decision was to not press our luck on the first day in the Islands. A few miles away lay a partly protected anchorage. Kintala was the only boat taking up residence, flying the yellow "Q"to let anyone interested know that we had yet to process into the country. The anchor fell into clear water and we set it hard due to a report that the holding wasn't all that great. Later we checked the set just by looking down, as Kintala had drifted over her hook. The Mantus was buried half deep in the sand, the winds were gentle all night, and except for some surge rocking the boat now and then, our first night in the Islands this year was a fine night indeed.
A bull shark visits the marina for a meal. Glad it wasn't me!
Come morning we puttered around a bit as high tide wasn't until just after 1200. Once under way, at about the second buoy inbound, there was one spot that showed just barely a foot under our keel. There is a three foot tide in these parts. While other people made it in, I think it an even bet at best that we could have gotten in without a problem. We felt pretty good about deciding to wait. Later we talked to a crew we had first seen in No Name. They made the overnight passage that we had passed. The winds had actually picked up a bit after sundown, so they ended up bashing their way eastward though a dark and bumpy night. Hearing of their ride we felt pretty good about that decision as well. We heard the tale while at an impromptu pot luck Bimini here at the Blue Water Marina, where we will be for a day or so getting phones squared away, finding some LP gas, and stocking up the rum locker.
South Bimini - The Bimini Beach Club
There are several boats here that we first saw in No Name, and one that crossed today hooked a 35 pound Mahi-mahi along the way. They offered it up as the main course as it was way more than their family of 5 could eat. Welcome to the Islands! It was actually their son who hooked the thing, and I believe it weighed more than he did. That will be a family story for many a year.
Kintala on the dock at Bimini Blue Water Marina
There was only one downer on the day. Last year I remember loving the fact that there was no military presence here, no guns, and few cops. But as we approached the Island an American war ship shadowed us for the last few miles. Come morning the easy sound of a working harbor coming to life was shattered by a pair of US military helicopters thundering over the Island from East to West, flying directly above the marina. Then, this evening, another US military helicopter made a circle around marina row, down low with the gun door open. Did the lunatics in DC declare war on the entire planet in the weeks since I quit checking the news? Imagine the outcry if the Canadian, Mexican, or Cuban military started running similar ops over Buffalo, Brownsville, or Miami. The US would start tossing nukes around.
Maybe they don't hate us because of our freedom. Maybe they hate us because we aim great big guns at them all the time.
Kintala has always been a skittish boat at anchor. A tall mast and soft turn at the bilge makes for a top heavy, funny shaped bowl sloshing around in the water. With our staysail now set on a furler there is even more stuff up high for the wind to get hold of. We have been rocking and rolling since yesterday afternoon.
Since this is the only place our Mantus anchor has ever failed to hold, last night was a kind of unofficial anchor watch. We have been set for more than 3 weeks and haven't moved, but with the wind gauge occasionally registering gusts near 30 knots, neither one of us slept much. Add the unaccustomed motion to the lack of sleep, and by this morning I was feeling decidedly sketchy.
One of the great things about this life is, when one is feeling decidedly sketchy in the morning, one need not get up and go to work. There is no need to stuff one's self full of medications and shuffle off to the office. There is no need to sit miserable through a day hacking away at some task barely in focus, willing the clock numbers toward quitting time. I took my bare-footed and sketchy self out to the cockpit, settled in with a warm mug, and watched thick clouds hurry across the sky. I was a happy man, not having to report to an office on this particular morning.
All of the boats in Middle River were scalloping around, dancing in the wind and the current. More than one crew could be seen going forward to check that they were still firmly holding onto the river bottom. But outside, with a cool breeze blowing and a solid horizon just a couple of hundred feet away, all that motion wasn't bothering me much. I was pretty content though feeling a bit detached and not completely "with it".
A loud "clank" reverberated from the bow. The boat lurched backwards, banged against the anchor chain, and lurched again. Surely we were loose once again on Middle River. Brain still not fully engaged I jumped up and headed forward, slamming a naked toe into the starboard side winch. Pain jolted up my leg and into my brain, but we were loose and the shore was close by. After a moments hesitation to limp and curse, I headed forward once again.
We have this giant "C shaped thing Mantus sold us to hook the anchor snubber onto the chain. It is a solid chunk of kit that, once engaged, there appears no way for it to get forced off the chain. I'm still not sure how that could possibly happen given the load it was under, but it did. And it came free with a bang. Kintala had fallen back against the extra chain played out to keep the snubber taut, fetched up against the anchor windlass, rebounded, and fallen back again. She had moved as far as she was going to. (I always keep the anchor chain on the windless with the locking paw engaged and the clutch set tight. It is a suspenders and belt kind of thing that worked in our favor this morning.)
The snubber went back on just like it should and I laid out a few more feet of chain for good measure. Then I limped back down the deck careful to not put any pressure on, or touch in any way, a badly bruised and stoved in toe. A toe that was promising to make for a pretty miserable day. I went below, stuffed myself with medications, and shuffled out to the cockpit.
Should one be backing 23,000 pounds of sailboat directly into a Force 4 winds ...
and if, in addition to the winds, there is a two knot current surging perpendicular to the port side ...
with, having already made a 90 degree turn out of the slip, the docks now on the starboard side...
one just might over estimate how quickly the boat is moving ...
and discover that the bow will not quite clear the extended end of the "T" dock.
And thus I slapped Kintala upside the head with a pier, resulting in a few bent metal parts, including the shank of our 65 pound Mantus anchor. Rats.
I almost made it out of the Islands without breaking something, almost.
With that bit of embarrassing Bad Monkey Steering safely out of the way (the Dock Master insisted we did only $50 worth of damage, and that's all he would accept) we headed out of the channel and picked up a heading for the good 'ol US of A. We had solid F5 winds, a 5 to 6 foot swell running on an agreeable period, cloudy to overcast skies keeping the sunburn in check, and our friend Bill's Driftwood out ahead of us as a buddy boat. The point of sail was a close reach with Kintala taking the waves just 30 degrees of the port bow. Having Kacey along as an experienced sailing pair of hands, I was willing to fly a little more canvas that has been our wont so far. Even with the apparent wind touching the high 20s at times, we ended up flying a full main and jib. (We started out reefed and snuck up on a full Monte of canvas.)
It was cool. Kintala hissed along showing a boat speed of 6 and 7 knots. The swells were noticeable but nothing scary, so I was a bit surprised when the Coast Guard issued a small craft advisory for where we were. It seemed pretty near a perfect Gulf Stream passage to me. With the Stream though, over the ground spped was in the low 5s and high 4s. We were also giving away some southing since kicking the WesterBeast to life seemed sacrilegious on such a perfect run. Of course we had to wake the Beast near the end of the sail, ending up a few miles north of the Biscayne bay channel markers.
Familiar waters once again, and just after sunset we picked up a mooring ball at Dinner Key. We have a few days of play left before Kacey has to go back to the real world and I need to do some family stuff, having me off the boat for several weeks.
Except for the one little dock incident my take on our first Island season is that it went way, way better than I had any right to expect. Yes we got beat up a little bit, once in a while, but that is part of the game. We handled it when it happened, got over it, and went on. Most importantly we learned a huge amount, met old and new friends along the way (the most amazing part of cruising) lived in a different culture for a couple of months, thoroughly enjoyed every place we visited, and gathered up stories and memories; the things that fill a life full.
Obligations (good ones, but obligations nonetheless) will control Kintala's fate for the next few months. Since the boat is our home we will be taking advantage of mobility, moving to where ever it is that makes getting the things done we need to do, the easiest. Another advantage of living light and quick in the world. The adventure goes on, just in a slightly different guise for a while.
Tim says it's big and ugly, but if it lets me sleep in peace while the wind blows and the tides rise, then I'm a happy camper. Now if I can just talk him into 250 feet of chain...
