“Done Fishinin”
Our stay in Santa Barbara ended when the “weather-light” turned green. Time to move on to our Eastern Caribbean destination of St. Marten, 350 miles away. The wind was mellow in the morning, allowing us to motor out, clearing the reef-spattered islands at the entrance to the bay, then through the buoyed channel. It would be our last chance to spot those elusive whales, up close and personal.
A few nights earlier at “the shacks,” eight of us were sitting around a table, testing the local beer, talking about the whale watching industry in Santa Barbara, which was pretty impressive. Each day we saw a dozen or more boats head out, loaded down with eager customers. Through years of sailing we’ve had our own whale encounters. One time in Mexico we sailed close to two playful gray whales, until we realized they were mating. That was the fastest reciprocal course change ever made with Woodwind! Years later, upon our arrival home to the Straits of Juan de Fuca in Washington State, we anchored in 12 feet of water off the roadstead of Sekiu, a tiny fishing town. We were in the cockpit eating dinner when a 30-foot whale rolled out from under our boat, one eye focused on us. Now that was a welcome home!
The second day out of the Dominican Republic found us 40 miles off the north coast of Puerto Rico, motor sailing in winds so calm they were almost non-existent. It was a gift and it was my birthday, the first I’d ever spent at sea. An “un-birthday” really, unless something exciting came our way. I was expecting to see the U.S. Coast Guard … hoping for them to come by, actually. Based out of San Juan, they do a thorough job of checking passing yachts.
Years ago, on our first non-stop crossing from Panama to St. Marten, we were sailing along the southern coast of Puerto Rico when we saw in the distance a Coast Guard cutter growing larger the closer it got. We were 18 days out of Panama’s San Blas Islands, tired and weary from the long beat, hungry for something fresh, lonely for some company. After approaching us from the stern, the cutter contacted us over the radio. We gave them our last port and explained our intentions. Some minutes passed as the three of us – me, Bruce and Kess, who was two at the time -- sat waiting in the cockpit. The radio came to life, a voice saying, “Thank you, skipper. Is there anything you need?”
After pausing briefly, Bruce answered, “Yes, fresh fruit. We have a two-year-old on board and we’ve been out of fresh food for a while.”
“We’ll see what we can do.” After a few minutes, several men came on deck, bearing a coiled rope and a large half-full garbage bag. One man tossed us a monkey’s fist and Bruce pulled in the line attached to it, which held the bag. We waved and yelled a hearty, “Thank you!” Bruce brought the heavy bag into the cockpit and opened it. Crisp, cold apples and juicy big oranges tumbled out. We cut open several, feeding pieces to Kess. The cutter slowly turned away then put it into high gear. After eating a belly full of fruit, Bruce looked at me and said, “Shoulda’ asked for some chicken.”
No chicken on my birthday. No apples, oranges or visitors. And none the next day, either. The dying wind, a rarity in the Eastern Caribbean, had allowed the seas to calm. St. Thomas appeared on the horizon and by mid-afternoon we were passing it on the south side. Around 5 p.m., Bruce hooked a small mackerel, just in time for dinner. I cut some garlic and he went to work, turning it into a delicious meal.
After dinner, the sky was growing dark, the wind picking up. St. John came and went, then Tortola, Peter Island and Virgin Gorda. I crawled into the bunk to bank some sleep, knowing I’d be “on” at midnight. The water between the Virgin Islands and St. Marten is called the Anegada Passage. Local sailors call it the “Oh-my-godda Passage,” for good reasons. Before I fell asleep, Bruce, now very excited to be so close to St. Marten, said, “This will be the easiest crossing of the Anegada we’ve ever made.” I thought, but didn’t say, “Careful. It’s not over yet.”
Around 8 that night I began to feel ill. By midnight, whatever was ailing me hit the “violent” zone on the sick-o-meter. Each time I tried to get up, I’d nearly pass out. I had symptoms of shock, numbness and my lungs weren’t doing their job at full power. I laid on a mattress on the sole, worthless for the crossing and worried Bruce would be next.
We were making good progress until 2 a.m., when the engine started cycling and threatened to cut out. Motor-sailing was our only hope of getting to St. Marten the next day, and without it we might be out another night. Bruce diagnosed the engine’s symptoms as a jammed fuel filter, but after putting in a new one the engine ran smoothly for a short while before resuming the noise. Around 4 a.m., sleepy and totally fatigued, he announced we had a rope wrapped around the propeller shaft and he’d have to go overboard at daylight to clear it, a risky but necessary maneuver at sea. At 6:30, after a fresh cup of coffee, Bruce took the sails down, grabbed a knife and mask and jumped in to clear what turned out to be a piece of poly-propylene netting that came off with a few pulls. Good news just when we needed it.
I slept off and on for hours, until Bruce called, “Honey, we’re just going by Simpson Bay. Do you want to come see it?” I was so out of it, I thought we were still 20 miles from reaching St. Marten, but here it was, passing by. I crawled into the cockpit and looked out at the island. St. Marten ... we had thought about it and talked about it for so long. It meant the end of the long hard sail; the triumphant finish to a grand challenge. We were there.
Before I went below again I told Bruce the symptoms I’d had in the night and still felt. “Sounds like ciguatera,” he said. Fish poisoning. I crawled back onto the sole while Bruce brought Woodwind into Great Bay, home to Phillipsburg, where his Caribbean connection began over 30 years before. He anchored us a half-block off the white beach, lined with lounge chairs for the cruise ship tourists, then rowed ashore, headed to the pharmacy for advice and information on ciguatera poisoning and a half gallon of Pedialyte.
An hour later, after setting me up with everything I needed, Bruce went back in to take a walk down memory lane. Somehow he managed to find several people, now in their 70s, who remembered him as “De yung fella paintin’ signs at night, workin’ on dat bote all day.” Bruce had learned to build boats on the very beach before us, while launching his career as an artist.
It was in St. Marten that Bruce once drew a T-shirt design for his older brother, John. The drawing was of John’s island boat, Mermaid of Carriacou, sailing off the wind, a giant dorado leaping out of the water behind it, hooked on a line towed from the boat. Around it was written, “GONE FISHININ.” We decided it might be time to freshen up that design and give it some new life, this time it would say, “DONE FISHININ!”
A few nights earlier at “the shacks,” eight of us were sitting around a table, testing the local beer, talking about the whale watching industry in Santa Barbara, which was pretty impressive. Each day we saw a dozen or more boats head out, loaded down with eager customers. Through years of sailing we’ve had our own whale encounters. One time in Mexico we sailed close to two playful gray whales, until we realized they were mating. That was the fastest reciprocal course change ever made with Woodwind! Years later, upon our arrival home to the Straits of Juan de Fuca in Washington State, we anchored in 12 feet of water off the roadstead of Sekiu, a tiny fishing town. We were in the cockpit eating dinner when a 30-foot whale rolled out from under our boat, one eye focused on us. Now that was a welcome home!
The second day out of the Dominican Republic found us 40 miles off the north coast of Puerto Rico, motor sailing in winds so calm they were almost non-existent. It was a gift and it was my birthday, the first I’d ever spent at sea. An “un-birthday” really, unless something exciting came our way. I was expecting to see the U.S. Coast Guard … hoping for them to come by, actually. Based out of San Juan, they do a thorough job of checking passing yachts.
Years ago, on our first non-stop crossing from Panama to St. Marten, we were sailing along the southern coast of Puerto Rico when we saw in the distance a Coast Guard cutter growing larger the closer it got. We were 18 days out of Panama’s San Blas Islands, tired and weary from the long beat, hungry for something fresh, lonely for some company. After approaching us from the stern, the cutter contacted us over the radio. We gave them our last port and explained our intentions. Some minutes passed as the three of us – me, Bruce and Kess, who was two at the time -- sat waiting in the cockpit. The radio came to life, a voice saying, “Thank you, skipper. Is there anything you need?”
After pausing briefly, Bruce answered, “Yes, fresh fruit. We have a two-year-old on board and we’ve been out of fresh food for a while.”
“We’ll see what we can do.” After a few minutes, several men came on deck, bearing a coiled rope and a large half-full garbage bag. One man tossed us a monkey’s fist and Bruce pulled in the line attached to it, which held the bag. We waved and yelled a hearty, “Thank you!” Bruce brought the heavy bag into the cockpit and opened it. Crisp, cold apples and juicy big oranges tumbled out. We cut open several, feeding pieces to Kess. The cutter slowly turned away then put it into high gear. After eating a belly full of fruit, Bruce looked at me and said, “Shoulda’ asked for some chicken.”
No chicken on my birthday. No apples, oranges or visitors. And none the next day, either. The dying wind, a rarity in the Eastern Caribbean, had allowed the seas to calm. St. Thomas appeared on the horizon and by mid-afternoon we were passing it on the south side. Around 5 p.m., Bruce hooked a small mackerel, just in time for dinner. I cut some garlic and he went to work, turning it into a delicious meal.
After dinner, the sky was growing dark, the wind picking up. St. John came and went, then Tortola, Peter Island and Virgin Gorda. I crawled into the bunk to bank some sleep, knowing I’d be “on” at midnight. The water between the Virgin Islands and St. Marten is called the Anegada Passage. Local sailors call it the “Oh-my-godda Passage,” for good reasons. Before I fell asleep, Bruce, now very excited to be so close to St. Marten, said, “This will be the easiest crossing of the Anegada we’ve ever made.” I thought, but didn’t say, “Careful. It’s not over yet.”
Around 8 that night I began to feel ill. By midnight, whatever was ailing me hit the “violent” zone on the sick-o-meter. Each time I tried to get up, I’d nearly pass out. I had symptoms of shock, numbness and my lungs weren’t doing their job at full power. I laid on a mattress on the sole, worthless for the crossing and worried Bruce would be next.
We were making good progress until 2 a.m., when the engine started cycling and threatened to cut out. Motor-sailing was our only hope of getting to St. Marten the next day, and without it we might be out another night. Bruce diagnosed the engine’s symptoms as a jammed fuel filter, but after putting in a new one the engine ran smoothly for a short while before resuming the noise. Around 4 a.m., sleepy and totally fatigued, he announced we had a rope wrapped around the propeller shaft and he’d have to go overboard at daylight to clear it, a risky but necessary maneuver at sea. At 6:30, after a fresh cup of coffee, Bruce took the sails down, grabbed a knife and mask and jumped in to clear what turned out to be a piece of poly-propylene netting that came off with a few pulls. Good news just when we needed it.
I slept off and on for hours, until Bruce called, “Honey, we’re just going by Simpson Bay. Do you want to come see it?” I was so out of it, I thought we were still 20 miles from reaching St. Marten, but here it was, passing by. I crawled into the cockpit and looked out at the island. St. Marten ... we had thought about it and talked about it for so long. It meant the end of the long hard sail; the triumphant finish to a grand challenge. We were there.
Before I went below again I told Bruce the symptoms I’d had in the night and still felt. “Sounds like ciguatera,” he said. Fish poisoning. I crawled back onto the sole while Bruce brought Woodwind into Great Bay, home to Phillipsburg, where his Caribbean connection began over 30 years before. He anchored us a half-block off the white beach, lined with lounge chairs for the cruise ship tourists, then rowed ashore, headed to the pharmacy for advice and information on ciguatera poisoning and a half gallon of Pedialyte.
An hour later, after setting me up with everything I needed, Bruce went back in to take a walk down memory lane. Somehow he managed to find several people, now in their 70s, who remembered him as “De yung fella paintin’ signs at night, workin’ on dat bote all day.” Bruce had learned to build boats on the very beach before us, while launching his career as an artist.
It was in St. Marten that Bruce once drew a T-shirt design for his older brother, John. The drawing was of John’s island boat, Mermaid of Carriacou, sailing off the wind, a giant dorado leaping out of the water behind it, hooked on a line towed from the boat. Around it was written, “GONE FISHININ.” We decided it might be time to freshen up that design and give it some new life, this time it would say, “DONE FISHININ!”
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]