Sailing to Samana

On Saturday, March 3rd, Bruce jumped out of bed at 7 a.m., running straight to the anchor. I heard the windlass come to life; we were heading out now. Getting an early start is crucial along the north coast of Hispaniola. The easterly winds blow hard all day, but kindly lay low at night. The cruising guide -- another one we don’t have -- suggests running along the coast by night, anchoring and sleeping by day. That would be a perfect world we don’t live in!

Once outside Punta de la Granja, the sails joined the engine, moving us east. Our intentions were to pass Luperon. Frank of Raffles Light said the water in that mangrove-lined bay was foul, and the last thing we needed was bottom-growth slowing us down -- it can attach itself in a matter of days. He suggested Samana on the east coast of the Dominican Republic for a beautiful sail and a safe stopping point.

Woodwind was making hay until 10 a.m. when the wind turned on, sending us north-northeast. Waves were crashing off the bow -- an old familiar story that just keeps repeating itself on this trip. I climbed in the bunk, contemplating sea-sickness, while Bruce dealt with the non-stop nuisances bad weather brings.

By 7 p.m. that evening, Bruce announced we were going to anchor at a spot five miles ahead, where two rivers enter the sea. “Oh, great,” I thought. We rarely enter anchorages at night, even ones we’re familiar with. And here we were coming into a strange, dark place for the second time in a week … this time without guidance.

“Look at that moon,” Bruce called. It was a dark, almost brownish color … spooky-looking, like on a Halloween card. “Is it hazed over?” he asked. We stared at it and realized that only the moon was covered with haze; the rest of the sky was clear. A tiny line of bright light began to show near the bottom, like someone peeking through a window shade. “Is it an eclipse?”

“Not again!” I yelled. Years ago, while sailing from Antigua to Nevis, we were minding our own business, sailing with a bright, full moon. As we rounded a very dark Nevis, the moon was rapidly snuffed out, leaving us in the dark and in a tough spot without its navigational help. It took the two of us plus Kess, our son, to figure out what was going on. It was a full lunar eclipse. Several months after that, it happened again on the same sail. At least that time we’d heard it mentioned on the local radio!

Now, the radar and GPS indicated we were two miles from shore. We slowed the engine, staring into the black night. When we got to a point with 25 feet of water under the keel, Bruce dropped the hook. It had been hairy coming in, but a worthwhile escape from the thrashing sea. I whipped up a quick dinner, the first food we’d eaten all day.

Four a.m. came fast. The wind was down and we left Bahia Isabela without ever seeing it. We were able to motor east, two miles off shore. Just past dawn we passed a row of 20-foot cut-out letters yelling, “OCEAN WORLD.” Behind them was a mega yacht marina, surrounded by the homes of the rich and famous and some pretty impressive scenery. We passed Puerto Plata, an industrial town pumping out stinky fuel fumes.

The wind filled in pleasantly at 11, allowing us to short tack along the coast. Our chart indicated the 20-mile stretch ahead, one long beach of white sand and palms, had good water. We enjoyed the scenery on our “Sunday drive,” a half-mile from the beach, tacking out to sea, then back to shore.

At one point, while we were both below, the jib backed, making an annoying rattling sound and bringing the boat to an upright position. Bruce went out to adjust the course and came below again. Within minutes it happened again, and this time we both went on deck. While Bruce handled the tiller, I looked ahead to see breaking waves just minutes away. “Bruce, reef!”

He looked up, studying it for a few seconds before throwing the tiller hard to starboard. Woodwind would have hit for sure, ending our cruise. It was as if she had called to us, saving herself from destruction. Tacking further along the coast we came upon dozens more offshore reefs that weren’t on the circa-1988 chart. Coral doesn’t grow that fast, so someone made a huge mistake!

Around 4 p.m. we arrived at the west side of a huge point, hoping for protection and to spend the night. We sailed into an area near Rio San Juan, checking out the buildings on shore and the anchored local boats. One sailboat, anchored far to the north, was rolling like a pig in mud. We were thinking he’d chosen the worst spot until, again, we saw a reef ahead. We altered course, took down sails and tip-toed ahead. More reefs and course changes, breaking waves beside us.

“Are we trapped?” I asked. We didn’t know, because our detailed chart was missing the very thing we needed from it. Bruce climbed high into the rigging to watch for brown spots, an indication of coral. He pointed, I steered, keeping an eye on the depth sounder. We moved through the area like a steely in a pinball machine and ended up next to the rolling yacht we’d seen earlier. Now we understood. The shore was unlike any we’d ever seen. It was a moonscape of coral. The land was coral, the islets were solid coral and, after our anchor went down and Bruce dove on it, we discovered the bottom was coral, too.

Bruce transferred fuel into the tank while I cooked the last fresh veggies we had: an onion, two yams, garlic and a cabbage salad. Four hours of sleep was our total allotment. We wanted to get going at midnight to maximize the night calm, but once we made it around the point it wasn’t calm … nor pleasant. We motored into hefty seas, some bringing us to our knees. There were no more stopping spots and we had to make 80 miles to get to Samana before dark.

Conditions improved around 10 a.m. Bruce, who’d been up all night, fell asleep, while I sat in the cockpit, staring at the water, hoping to see some strange white seaweed. I’d been looking for it ever since we came upon Djenson, Julie and the wreck … I had been on watch outside as we sailed through a sea full of surface floating seaweed; beneath it, sheets of a white substance eerily floated everywhere, some of it small, some large. Woodwind glided through that mystery area for a long time, and it just went on and on. When Bruce woke up, I described it as looking like human skin. It was the weirdest looking seaweed I’ve ever seen.

Since finding the survivors, I’ve wondered about that substance. Had we sailed through the area of the explosion? I’ll probably never know, but the picture of it haunts me, and as we sailed to Samana the certainty of what I’d seen settled in. We had sailed through the graveyard and I, alone, witnessed it. The difficulty of processing that has been mixed with the joy that we were able to rescue Djenson and Julie.