Throwback Thursday - Favorite Places Series - Old Bahama Bay

It should be noted that Old Bahama Bay in West End, Bahamas is not the same now as it was when we posted this post. A couple of hurricanes trashed the town and a good part of the marina. A fight between brothers (co-owners of the marina) closed most of the docks to travelers by boat. I guess even Paradise isn't immune to that sort of thing. All this being said, it's still one of our favorite places. It's classified as a resort in the Bahamas, but it doesn't have that resort feel that the marinas in Lucaya and Freeport and Nassau have. It still has the charm of the Bahamian people, it's low-key and authentic, not so put on for tourists. Hopefully the brothers will sort things out soon because we will definitely head there next time we head out.

Water spouts in paradise.

Posted by TJ

February 25, 2014

Not too long before we pulled Kintala from Lake Carlyle, and when our plan was still to get to the Keys this year, the Islands maybe next year, I ran across an experienced cruiser who agreed that was a good idea. Not because jumping across the Gulf Stream was too big a task for a neophyte. In fact, he seemed of the opinion that almost every new East Coast cruiser pretty much headed to the Islands right away: it's why they became cruisers in the first place. He also kind of scoffed at the idea that we didn't have enough experience to try such a thing.

"You already did it twice" he said, "how much practice do you need to make a 90 mile sail? Just ask around a bit, and don't go when no one else seems to be going."

No, he felt that going to the Keys first was a good idea simply because, once people get to the Islands, they don't really think much of going anywhere else. In fact, according to him, people get to the Islands, never get any further, never go back, and live a long and happy life.

Just one full day here living on my own boat and I am beginning to understand. And that on a day that saw two thunderstorms roll overhead, each laying down a waterspout within sight of the marina. I didn't see either one, being down in the boat working on a project. Deb saw both, and even managed to get a picture as the second one was starting to peter out. Yet in spite of that introduction this place has me completely charmed.

Part of it is just being here. It is almost like everything that has gone before, all the years in Carlyle, the broken boat challenges, logistics, the endless slog down the ICW, cold front after cold front hammering us at piers and on anchor, the endless effort of living day to day on a sailboat; all of it just melted into the cool, indigo waters of the deep ocean that lay between this place and the States. John (who crossed when we did) and I spent most of the day just smiling, kind of stunned (in the best possible way) that we are no longer working on making the dream come true. The dream is true, we made it happen. That is some pretty strong stuff.

Part of it is that "here" is already feeling different from the States, even if just 90 miles away. The officials in the Customs / Immigration office were dressed in white shirts, boards on their shoulders speaking of some kind of rank (like an airline pilot), and there wasn't a gun in sight. The ambiance of the office was that there was some official papers that had to be completed, but no big deal. Sign here, sign there, you are more than welcome to visit our country.

Compare that to the Office Of Homeland Security. Every single official in that office was dressed in Ninja Black from Hat to Combat Boots. Each was sporting a side arm and hand cuffs. There was no doubt you were in a military area and that, somehow, the ENEMY was close at hand. Indeed, we were there for the sole purpose of proving that we are not, in fact, one of them. In the back of your mind you just knew that if something flagged on their computer screen you would be in some very, very deep kimchi, with little hope of extracting yourself before the turn of the next century.

A country that is not perpetually at war with itself and everyone else on the planet. Novel idea, that. Could it really be true?

The pace of things here is clearly slower. Where I come from 12 hours of work is expected from 8 hours worth of effort, with 4 hours of pay offered in exchange (and grudgingly, at that). So far, I haven't gotten the impression that is the way things work here.


I admit this is only our second day, with yesterday kind of floating by in
a sleep deprived fog. Tomorrow we hope to start moving further east, with a stop planned at a place called Mangrove Key. It should be a few days before Kintala is near a marina again as we start exploring this place where the dream became our life. I'm sure it will turn out to be less than a perfect dream, but so far I don't have any complaints.

A friend goes East…a friend goes West

It could be argued that our first year of cruising was our best year so far. An amazing confluence of coincidences gathered several people from Carlyle Lake, 800 miles to the west, in Oak Harbor Marina near the tip of the Chesapeake Bay. They became our first “cruiser clan,” helping us in uncountable ways as we struggled to get Kintala cruise-worthy and us launched into this new lifestyle. John was in that group, a solo sailor and new cruiser himself, working his way down the ICW for the first time in Ellida; his Hallberg Rassy 31. His wife, Mari, was completely supportive of his adventuring but open water sailing in a small boat was not her cup of tea.

John, Deb, Tim, Nancy, David  (The Tradewinds East Gang)
before we all took off from Oak Harbor Marina in Pasadena, MD

John leaving Oak Harbor in October 2013

John managed to drop his Oak Harbor dock lines several weeks ahead of us. We kept in touch and he became a kind of emotional scout, breaking the trail as we bumbled our way south that first time. Kintala caught up with Ellida in Biscayne Bay where we shared tales of mistakes made and near disasters avoided, feeling pretty good about making it all the way to Florida still in one piece. John was determined to continue on to the Bahamas but Deb and I were less sure of ourselves. Managing our Tartan 42 had proven more of a challenge than we had anticipated, even along the protected waters of the ICW. Our first open water / overnight jump from Charleston to Fernandina Beach had been both exhilarating and magical. It had also underlined just how steep a learning curve we had yet to climb to being a competent short-handed crew sailing a 42 foot boat far out of sight of land, and at night. We had decided a more modest approach to cruising would be prudent. Biscayne Bay, the Florida Keys, and maybe the “Just Like the Bahamas” waters of Florida’s Great Bend would be our first year’s cruising grounds.

John was determined to make it to the Islands but, being a new cruiser himself, wanted company. Our company. Particularly our company on what would be his first overnight, open water jump from Biscayne Bay to West End. He began a subtle campaign to lure us east. His argument, like his approach to nearly everything, was easy going and quiet. The Islands were far closer than the West coast of Florida and a much easier sail. (He couldn’t possibly have known that to be a fact but the years have proven him completely correct.) We would spend less money living and sailing in the Islands for a few months than we would living and sailing in the States. (The cruising kitty had already taken a beating from delays and broken boat bits on the trip south.) And, well, we were cruisers and real cruisers went to the Islands for the winter. (It turns out that real cruisers do whatever they want, can afford, or can get away with; but we had not learned that lesson yet.)

John as we headed out of the channel from No Name Harbor in Biscayne Bay, FL

Waiting out water spouts off West End Bahamas

In the end he won us over and on Feb 21st Kintala and Ellida weighed anchors, headed out the channel south of No Name Harbor, and set sail for West End, Bahama. Ellida made much better time, John blasting through the storms that we elected to sail around. He was waiting at the dock at old Bahama Bay, greeting us with a huge smile. We had sailed to the Islands, how about them apples? We waited out some ugly weather then headed off to explore the Abaco Islands. Getting there meant our first passage through Indian Rock Passage north of West End. Kintala led the way right up to the entrance of the pass, where I chickened out in the face of breaking water to both port and starboard in the narrow, shallow cut. I had visions of us ending our cruising life right there.

John and Ellida heading to Mangrove Cay after going through Indian Cut in the Bahamas

John figured if everyone else could do it, we could do it too. Though Ellida was smaller than Kintala, she drew a bit more water. So long as she didn’t hit anything Kintala should be okay. John happily took the lead and I followed him through so tense I could barely breathe.

We passed with no problem at all.

Later that day John took the picture of Kintala that is at the top of the blog; sailing alongside us in the waters north of Grand Bahama Island. It was one of those magical sails, and one of the best we have ever had. The two boats stood nearly upright yet hard on the wind, ghosting over placid water so clear we could watch the bottom pass under the keels.

We traveled together for many weeks after that, anchoring together in various Cays, waiting out weather, and exploring our first Bahamian towns. It was every bit the adventure that we had hoped cruising would be. That trip set the tone and the goals, established the life style that we have been working to keep up with ever since. John left Ellida in the Islands after that trip, putting her on the hard for the hurricane season and returning home to Mari until autumn. We sailed back to the States, living aboard and sailing Kintala, working to match the joy and adventure of that first trip abroad.

We crossed paths with John several times over the years, as cruisers are wont to do. But we never sailed together after that. The last time we saw him was over lunch, he and Mari, Deb and I, at a restaurant near the Dinner Key mooring field.

Our friend John passed away a couple of days ago. His struggle with failing lungs had been evident from the first day we met, but he never talked of it much, made an issue of it, or let it stop him from realizing the dream of sailing his boat over the horizon. His quiet dedication to living life on his terms had a deep influence on our path, Our adventure would have taken a much different turn had John not lured us to the Islands that first year. Given some of the set-backs we have endured since, it isn’t beyond the realm of possibly that we would never have made it at all. And yet the impact of John’s quiet but unshakable determination, his indomitable heart and courage, went mostly unnoticed - right up until I sat down to write this post.

Unassuming and dedicated to minding his own business, he would have taken quite a bit of pleasure in that.

Fair winds John, and thank you.

Ellida at Sunset, Great Sale Cay Bahamas

Sunrise off Great Sale Cay

John blowing his water bottle horn in the shortest St. Patrick's Day parade, Green Turtle Cay Bahamas 3-17-14

Wandering on

As I peck out these words, Kintala is anchored at Manjack Cay. It was three days of sailing to get here. The first, from West End to Great Sale, was a straight up motor. The main went aloft mostly for show. The little zephyrs were just enough to keep some shape in the sail, maybe shaving 10 minutes off the total transit time. We anchored an hour after dark (not Deb's favorite thing, that), south of a small gaggle of boats that had departed West End while we waited on a higher tide to get through Indian Cut.

The next day it was on to Fox Town. The zephyrs had grown into solid winds in the 10 to 18 knot range to start the day. Sailing off the anchor was easy and fun with the breeze aft of our north bound heading to get around the end of Great Sail. Turning the corner toward Fox Town, however, had the winds directly out of the direction we needed to go. So we tacked hard and sailed close. It was a good day of work, though we put in 41.5 nm to cover the 17 or so as-the-crow-flies miles. Still, my guess was it was nearly as fast a way to go as asking the Beast to pound directly into the wind and the waves. We would have barely made 4 knots, as opposed to the near 7 Kintala managed with her sails up. For the record, we flew the jib and staysail to get up as tight on the wind as we could, while the main was held to two reefs, since the wind over the deck was in the high 20s for much of the day. Hard on the wind and bashing away...Yee-Haw!

The original plan was to purchase phone sim cards once in Fox Town. But it was Sunday, and the weather forecast suggested that Fox Town was not the place to be in the next couple of days. Instead of heading into town to knock on the closed BTC office door, it seemed a good idea to take advantage of the now west winds and make sail to Manjack. We knew there was rain on the way, riding the edge of a small cold front but, having taken the worst beating of our cruising life in Fox Town, getting someplace better protected was a siren call that could not be ignored.

After clearing the anchorage, we flew just the jib, and really flew. The GPS had us at near eight knots, Kintala hissing happily along in the quartering seas, the wind vane working well. The wind, however, kept building. After a couple of hours the wind vane just couldn't react fast enough to hold our point of sail. Taking the helm was a bit of a workout until we made the bend that masked some of the wind behind Abaco Island. By that time the small cold front was closing in, and didn't look so small. When the thunder started to roll we traded speed for expediency, pulling in the jib, flying the staysail, and still making 5 knots. Even though we were off the wind, wind over the deck was still in the mid 30s. Yee-Haw!

With the thunder close and the rain curtain gaining rapidly, we woke the Beast and rolled in everything. Real sailors sail through storms, but I keep getting caught with my pants down and too much sail up. This time the caution was unnecessary. The front rolled over us with little ado and a bit of heavy rain. Things settled a little and we tossed the jib back out, once again doing close to 7 knots in the following seas. Yee-Haw!

Ah, but this little front was more like two fronts, neither one all that little. A second rampart of clouds started to build and, sure enough, I got caught with my pants down and too much sail up. Not near the disaster as the jammed roller in Biscayne Bay, but the jib flogged itself into some kind of overwrap part way up the stay and jammed, no more in, no more out. It looked ugly, but it was good enough. There wasn't anything I could do about it anyway, not on the pitching and rolling deck. Later, new friends we have been tag boating with since West End pulled in to anchor near-by. He asked what had happened to our jib. (It really did look ugly.) He is a retired pilot as well, so I answered that our Deck Monkey needs some recurrent training.

We hope to hang out here for a couple of days. Since we have been in the Islands the weather has been iffy, at best. Several of the boats coming into West End while we were there really took a beating getting across the Gulf Stream. One had its Bimini shredded in a storm. Others came in with seriously rattled crews, all glad to be in one piece and on a dock. One boat left West End heading for the States and was literally driven back by the waves and winds, making a night run through the narrow and breaker filled inlet to find the safety of the harbor. Not something I would have cared to do. Nearly all of us sat in West End until last Friday, waiting for some kind of reasonable weather to keep going.  (The exception was a 100+ foot mega yacht that headed out through the breakers without a care in the world. Even then, an even bigger yacht stayed put, leaving with the rest of us a day later.)

Forecasts now suggest Wednesday as the day to be tucked in someplace, and we hope to be in Green Turtle then. The timing will work for us. There is a BTC office that we might find open, we can top the water tanks, and pick up a little food.

Life in the Islands.

West End Bahamas

West End Bahamas

West End Bahamas

West End Bahamas

West End Bahamas

West End Bahamas

West End Bahamas

Much better view out the galley port!

Miss Mabel

Kintala is settled into a West End slip for a few days. Normally, we would be shy about paying to stay in West End for a few days. We like it here, but they are normally priced to the higher end of our cruiser budget, which makes hanging out in these parts a bit of an indulgence. Right now it is half of an indulgence. They took a pretty good hit from a hurricane a few months ago, and it shows. The beach is torn up, all of the hobie-cats and play boats were lost, buildings were damaged and the electric infrastructure was devastated. Power to most of the buildings has been restored but there is no laundry, limited hot water, and no power on the docks. They are offering slips at $1/ foot to make up for the inconvenience which, for a cruiser boat equipped for laying to an anchor and making its own power anyway, isn't an inconvenience at all.

Yesterday we borrowed a couple of bicycles and headed toward town. The bikes are always free here, but one needs to check the brakes before getting too far. I found a good one but it needed a bolt to hold the seat at the right height. No problem as we have lots of extra bolts on board. With my knees no longer bumping my chin, we peddled off. We got looks from passing drivers until we remembered they drive on the other side of the road here. It is a good thing we didn't rent a car, not that there is one available.

The Star Hotel cir 2017 after hurricane Matthew

As we got closer to the town, it was clear it had taken a real beating in the storm. Roofs were gone, walls caved in, and entire houses had been blown off their foundations. An old hotel/bar/rooming house, once famous in these parts when known at the Star Hotel, leaned precariously on crumbling pilings, its back broken. It looked like all it would take to knock it completely over was a heavy pelican misjudging a landing and giving it a solid thump. There were piles of trees ripped from the earth, bare branches covered with shredded insulation and plastic. It was disheartening to see. And yet...

Watercolor painting of the Star Hotel by Phil Brinkman 1962

Nearly everyone we passed waved an called out a greeting, including two gentlemen sitting along the sea wall, so we stopped to chat. Both had lost their homes in the storm, along with pretty much everything else they owned. Both talked of their love for this place, their respect for the sea, and neither offered a single complaint about the turn their lives had taken. Across the street a team of younger men were working on rebuilding a foundation, up the shore a backhoe worked, but the overall effort seemed small for the amount of damage done.

We rode on for a couple more miles, then turned back toward the marina. A man sitting in what was left of his shattered house waved and encouraged us to enjoy “this beautiful day of sunshine”. Another, sitting on the front stoop of a house with part of its roof missing and no windows, wanted to make sure we appreciated just how fabulous was the view out over the water. And then we happened across Miss Mabel.

There is no telling how old Miss Mabel might be. She talked of children and grand children, of how many of them lived in the states as US citizens, since her husband was an American. (That was all the mention he got.) She could have been near our age, but an aura of ancient wisdom graced her smile and sparkled in her dancing eyes. The proprietor of a small restaurant and video game room, I got the impression she took more damage than she would admit. Across the street from her place, along the shore, she had a table set up so people could sit and admire the sea. Though much of her family lived in the US (she had been with them when the storm hit) and she is, herself, a citizen, it was clear that her home is here. She talked, encouraged us to enjoy ourselves, and made sure we knew how welcome we were to sit at her table and enjoy the view.

Miss Mabel, and all of the people we ran across on our little bike ride, were a gift to me. Ever since landing in Snead Island I have been struggling a bit. I didn't take to this life to spend months punching a time clock, nearly a thousand miles away from many of the people I love most in the world. I didn't come this way knowing I would never learn to trust this boat. Months and months of working on the thing over the summer, including getting the alternator overhauled, and the engine doesn't start anchored to a lee shore with 20 knots worth of wind blowing.

Since leaving Snead Island, I have made a series of mistakes, running aground, getting caught in the preventer line, carrying too much sail into the channel and loosing control of the jib, and my constant struggle with just handling the boat in any tight place. The once-capable and self-assured pilot / mechanic surrounded by people he knew and trusted had become a tentative, half-assed sailor. And the people around? Like handling old dynamite.

I didn't come this way to tangle with people who think fascism, racism, greed, and hate are the hallmarks of a great people living in a great country. Make a simple statement of an obvious fact and some “true believer” is likely to go off. Living this life means constantly meeting new people, but “new” now means “unknown”. A Canadian cruising couple, just minutes into introductions, allowed that they were big supporters of the new “Muslim ban”. Fortunately Daughter Eldest called at just that moment, giving me an excuse to bail out of that conversation without having to explain. I used to enjoy the clash of ideas, it is how we winnow out the bad from the good. But figuring out what works and what doesn't isn't the goal anymore. Now it is just an issue of power, making everyone toe the line.

Miss Mabel and the others here have reminded me that this is not the “new normal” for most of the world. Boats break, hurricanes come, and no human being can control either one. Things rarely go as planned. Working months to refill a cruising kitty is a far easier task than working months (or years) to rebuild a shattered community or home. There is no cause to abandon joy in doing either one. Life happens to everyone. Miss Mabel also reminded me that only the wise can make claim to actually living well. Any claims otherwise are fantasy, illusion, or delusion, depending on just how twisted the mind has become.

So, hopefully, the next few weeks here will be a bit of a “re-set”.  News isn't something to bother with much, unless it is weather news. It is an effort to get to an internet connection, as our post log shows, so there are no hourly updates on the latest of powerful idiots doing stupid things. What they do will not affect the state of the seas or the winds today.

Sailing the Abaco Islands is a good way to brush up on basic sailing skills. No offense intended, but there is a reason for big charter companies being located in places like this. Even a klutz of a sailor has to work pretty hard to get in too much trouble out here. And we will spend a lot of time around people who are not “American Normal." Here in the Islands, I am around a whole bunch of people who are, quite simply, better people than me. Some are cruisers from various countries, some are natives, and all are helping me to get my sea legs back again.

Here we are...

What seemed to be a better weather window looked to be opening up for a Sunday overnight, Monday morning arrival to West End in the Bahamas. With another cold front looking to arrive Wednesday / Thursday, and time slowly ticking away until we need to be back in the States, we decided to go.

All in all it went okay, we just finished checking in at West End and are nicely tucked away against the wall. The Dock Master wants us off the wall, but the wind is blowing about 20 knots out of the west and directly across the slips. I am just shy of dog tired and not that great a boat driver, so everyone agreed that we can sit just where we are until the winds fade.

There wasn't supposed to be 20 knots worth of wind. And there wasn't 20 knots worth of wind, particularly 20 knots worth of west wind, for the first 14 hours of the trip. What wind there was came due out of the east, directly on Kintala's bow. The main went up to catch what we could and to help steady the ride in the small but steady rollers coming from the north. (My guess is they were thrown off the big low up that way.) After a few false starts, the auto pilot decided to play nice, the Beast thumped happily along, and Kintala and crew motored happily into the sunset.

The rolling was enough to make it uncomfortable below, particularly for sea legs grown weak and unsteady by too many months on a dock. Even with the boat helm in auto, we took to spending off watch hours huddled on the floor of the cockpit; just like old times. We had departed No Name a bit early thinking that our planned 5 knot SOG might be optimistic given the lack of breeze and waves. Instead we spent much of the night at near 7 knots, unplanned help from the Gulf Stream. We did slow up once trying to pick our way through the line of cruise ships that parade out of Miami every Sunday night. I like to see at least a mile between me and one of those things going near 20 knots, even if it means going 2 or more miles out of my way.

One weird thing: 30 miles SW of West End, around 2130, we got buzzed by a low flying turbo prop. Not as big as a 'Hurk but bigger than a King Air. It was showing no lights. A few minutes later, a completely blacked out hull moved off of our line. We would never have seen him but he chose to head south to avoid us and was back lit by the recently risen, near-full moon. I managed to get a pair of binoculars on him as he moved away - big thing, but not really military looking. It looked like a shadow sketch of a mega yacht, but it also showed not a single light of any kind. My guess is we stumbled across a lurking security force, though what they expected to find on a direct line between Biscayne Bay and West End Bahama this time of year, other than a cruiser boat heading for the Islands, would be a mystery. It was all a bit menacing which, I suspect, is the intent.

With the early start and boost from the Stream, we raised West End by 0430 in the morning. The unexpected west wind blowing directly against the still outgoing tide made a night entry into the West End turning basin sound like a bad idea. We chose to anchor out instead, even knowing the anchorage is completely exposed to west winds, the holding can be poor, and we would be on a lee shore. The hook went down, as did the bow, with waves just washing over the deck and getting my feet wet as I worked at not falling off the boat. Even with 150 feet of chain out, there was no sleep to be found. Kintala didn't drag which, as it turned out, was a very good thing. At some point during the night the alternator apparently quit charging the batteries. Come morning, there was no juice to wake the Beast so we could move into the marina.

The little Honda proved its worth once again, and here we are.

A little bit the blue water sailor ...

Deb and I have long admitted that we are not blue water sailors. Yet Kintala is back in the States, anchored at Fernandina Beach to be exact, after a 300 nm, 3 day / two night mini-passage. Not really blue water sailing and certainly nothing to boast about in the cruising world. But it is our longest passage so far.

On the one hand such a trip seems an easy thing to do. Exit the West End channel, pick up a heading of 335 degrees true, stay on board for fifty hours or so. When land appears the trip is near over. We are often on board for days at a time, and we like sailing. We had already waited a day for the weather to settle down, and would have gladly waited more. (Is anyone ever in a hurry to leave the West End?) But the weather guessers agreed that the winds would be light though workable, the seas benign, and the window good for several days. Cruising means moving. It was time to move.

The main sail went up after we cleared West End but there was barely enough wind for it to hold a shape. That meant keeping the Beast in the traces. Unfortunate that, since Henry, our Cape Horn Wind Vane Steering System, only works when there is a true wind to work the vane. Wind provided by the Beast pushing the boat doesn't count so, when the Beast is at work, someone has to hand steer the boat.

Cruising boats absolutely need an auto-helm that works with both sails and the motor. It is a critical bit of missing equipment that we simply have to rectify during this summer's work. Don't even think of buying a cruising boat unless it has a fully capable auto-helm proven to work. That, or figure on digging up big bucks to add one.

We soldiered on through the day. Just before sunset we crossed paths with a small catamaran heading west. Her crew had changed their destination to Port Canaveral. They simply didn't carry enough fuel to get further north without wind. Kintala carries 80 gallons, which should be good for nearly 500 miles. We could, in theory, motor all the way to the St. Marys Entrance, though the crew would be toast long before then.

Normal precautions for night sailing on Kintala include the mandatory wearing of life vests and the use of tethers. No one goes out on deck unless the other person is up and at the helm, and we always put a reef in the mainsail if it is up at all. Should one reef already be in, we will put in the second. So we set the first reef and hoped for some wind. What we got instead was a large swell. Large, as in the tops were at eye level to the person sitting at the helm. A three foot swell in Forecast speak looks to be near eight feet in Kintala speak. It was enough to set up a throw-things-around-the-boat, gunwale to gunwale thrash that went on for hours. Shelves were emptied and I tried not to think about the load on the Beast, the drive train, and the rudder. This morning secured at anchor, we did a long, careful inspection of the machine spaces. The Beast needed a sip of oil, the steering cables needed a turn or two of tightening, and as a bonus we found the small water leak that has eluded capture for a couple of weeks. Other than that all appears to be ship-shape.

Come morning the seas had eased just a little. Deb worked the hardest through the night and was asleep on the cockpit floor. It is a secure place, like sleeping in a bath tub. Not the most comfortable but one can't fall out. (And you thought cruising was glamorous.) I wanted to let her rest some more, she had certainly earned it. But I was literally falling asleep STANDING at the helm, my toast completely burnt.

Around 1600, back at the helm and a little less burnt, I noticed the true wind had filled in to a constant ten knots on a workable point of sail. I woke Deb. We added the jib to the still reefed main and the sails finally found some purchase. The Beast went to sleep with a sigh. Even better than the silence was Henry taking over the steering duties. Thirty-two hours in and we were finally free to move about the cabin. Having pushed through a bad night it was time to enjoy the magic of passage making. We were feeling pretty good about things, but it was too good to last.

A reefed main and jib are a modest sail combo for less than 20 knots worth of wind, but the swells returned, setting the jib to flogging its little fabric heart to death with each passing trough. We (I) tried to set the pole, but a badly sleep deprived deck monkey and a wildly gyrating deck are a poor match. Abandoning the attempt before anything, or anyone, got broken, we ended up rolling in the jib and setting the main far out to starboard riding a preventer. That is an unusual sail set for Kintala. With the wind well aft of the beam we almost always fly the jib alone. The boat likes it. Henry likes it. And, truth to tell, I like it. All work on the mainsail is done forward standing on the cabin top or hanging onto the boom. It is a big sail, deeply roached and fully battened. Just the thought of it getting out of control is enough to make the skin crawl. But with a gentle breeze filling just part of the sail, a breeze forecast to fade by morning, there should have been nothing exciting creeping up on us.

Remember what I said about putting in a second reef at night if one was already in? Yeah, well, I should have remembered it myself. It was after midnight. Deb was at the helm once again and I was asleep on the cockpit floor. I think Deb and the motion of the boat both woke me up at the same time. The 7 to 11 knots of wind had turned into more than 30 in the space of just a few seconds, clocking to provoke a crash jibe, preventer or no. What happened next was every adventure story teller's dream come true, and every middle aged coastal cruiser's nightmare. Even though I was there, I can't really describe what happened. Included in the melee was a back winded stay sail with a sheet jammed in a block, tangled with a wayward reefing line. In there somewhere the starboard rail was deep under water, Kintala dangerously over powered, with me hanging head down across the cabin top tangled in heap of life vest, tether, and flogging sheets. I was out there trying to free the preventer that was tangled in a rat's nest of its own. Then there is this hazy bit of standing on the dink pulling down a thundering main sail one armful at a time.

Eventually, like coming out of a bad dream, I realized the stay sail was set and pulling, the main was tied in a heap on top of the boom, and the baby stay was secured. Somehow we got it done without broaching, ripping a sail to bits, tossing the deck monkey (that would be me) over board, or breaking any bones. Adrenaline-charged and spray soaked, I crawled back into the cockpit not entirely sure what had just happened. But we were safe and sailing, making a steady five knots toward the St. Marys channel entrance, with an estimated time of arrival some nine hours in the future.

Those nine hours were the only enjoyable part of the 50+ hour sail. I was just too exhausted and beat up to fully appreciate them. Still, even in that fragile state of mind that often comes with a serious thrashing, I was content with the decisions we had made and our ability to deal with the conditions. Every single weather guesser had missed the swell of the first night and the wind gusts of the second night. I was out there and those 30 knot winds blew in from a perfectly clear, moonlit sky. There were no clouds, frontal boundaries, dry lines, or developing lows to portend the burst of energy that washed over the bit of ocean we were in. The barometer was up and stayed up. The air was cool and dry and stayed cool and dry. But something tickled the sky and set it to thrashing. Kintala was just in a bad place when it happened, with the wrong sail set and a very tired crew. (Never again will I fly the main sail, particularly at night, when one of the head sails will get the job done.)

We had hoped that Fernandina would be a nice place to regroup, gather some provisions, get fuel and a pump-out, find time for some sleep, and get back our definition of normal. But it hasn't worked out that way. In the middle of last night we had to up and move the boat. Somehow we were too close to another anchored boat, the competing winds and currents had us stretched out on our rode in one direction, the other boat facing its anchor from a different direction. The cold front forecast to mostly wash out and amount to little has brought with it 30 knot winds and painted the anchorage with white caps. Compared to the Islands this place is dingy, the water murky, and the air smelly and cold. As soon as we get the chance, Kintala will be heading back outside and on the move once again.

So there may be a bit of blue water sailor in us after all.

April Fool's

I've never slept well the night before a major passage. This is mostly because I'm the provisioning guru and I'll lay in bed drifting around in that almost asleep mode while things pop into my head. Did I remember to do such-and-such? Then I have to get out of bed and check. And so it went last night.

We were preparing to leave West End this morning for a 1-3 day passage north depending on the Gulf Stream, the actual vs forecast wind/waves, and how we felt. Yesterday was spent preparing chicken salad and egg salad for sandwiches, making fresh ginger cookies and making a provisioning run on loaner bicycles to the local small store for milk and (hide your eyes, Amber) Captain Crunch. Tim says if he has Captain Crunch and milk he's good to go for a passage of any length. Well, that and ginger cookies. Sail Grib showed a mixed bag of wind directions and speed as the high passed over us and the low filled in to the northwest. Most of today would have been motoring, but the wind promised to steady into an easterly direction and 10-15 knots by Thursday morning, perfect for sailing back to the States. Thursday and Friday would be even better winds and direction but they were pinching the weather window a bit too tight on the far end, leaving us less than a day's cushion before the next cold front would pass through the area over the weekend. So prepare we did, and off to bed we went.

At 6:15 this morning I wafted out of some very odd dream to the singing in the rigging. Wind had been forecast on the gribs for 8 knots out of the WSW by 6:00 am. Instead, it was 18-21 out of the west. Oops. Just kidding. April fools says the weather man. I crawled out of bed just as the motors on the trawler in front of us purred to life. Watching him leave the channel from the marina was enough to convince us that we were staying another day. Five foot waves were crashing in the channel, sending white foam shooting into the air a good six or eight feet. I believe I might have heard the Westerbeast laughing from somewhere below the cockpit...

So while we sit, here are some pics from the last couple days for your enjoyment.

This one's for you Melanie. On our way from Crab Cay to Great Sale, winds 23 apparent.

Whenever we find it necessary to move to another boat, this will be the thing we miss most about Kintala. She will sail all day long with the cutter rig flying at 6 knots and only 30° off the wind. Try to find a boat that will  point like that. I dare you.

Been a while since we've had a hitchhiker. This guy rode a good bit of the way from Great Sale to West End with us.

Here's the beginning of a series of pictures of the sunset at Great Sale Cay

This picture is for my grandson Christopher who has recently taken up chess. They added this outdoor chess set at the Old Bahama Bay marina since we were here last year.

Lots of boats enjoying the calm water in the anchorage north of the marina.

Still the best feature of this marina.

Last night's sunset here at West End. Weirdest shot my Fuji has done yet. No filters.

Old Bahama Bay Marina from the breakwater