Puerto Rico, You Breakin’ My Heart

One set of trade-offs we are constantly having to weigh is the desire to explore our destinations deeply vs. the risk of being in the Caribbean hurricane zone during the summer months. We worked out a deal with Gratitude’s insurer in which they pay for any hurricane damage as long as we keep the boat below a certain latitude (12° 40’, by August 18, to be exact). Now, in order to hold up our end of the deal, we have to make some tough choices. We can’t spend weeks at every island! Oh, this is heartbreaking, I tell you.

I had really looked forward to savoring Puerto Rico. We visited for the first time about 4 years ago, just to San Juan and a day trip to El Yunque Rain Forest. That was enough to whet my appetite – and I choose that phrase deliberately, because the food here is – ahhhhh, scrumptious! So when we started our planning for this venture, I envisioned exploring all kinds of little towns and islets – Ponce, Salinas, Fajardo, Culebra, Vieques. There are colonial squares! Bioluminescent bays! Golden beaches! Reefs to dive!

Alas, we experienced only a smattering of the above. Our time in Puerto Rico was mostly utilitarian: provisioning (Costco!), tracking down engine parts (West Marine!), locating technicians, and getting sail and rigging repairs done. We were warned, a while back, that the cruising life consisted of “Repairing your boat in exotic locations.” So far that’s been accurate. Plus, there are only so many weeks left before August 18, and so many islands left to discover. We haven’t even reached the US or British Virgin Islands yet! And those have been high on my bucket list.

That said, there were a few highlights to our limited shore time in Puerto Rico. One pleasant surprise occurred when we anchored at Puerto Patillas, on the southeastern shore. We’d read about it on Active Captain, which is kind of like Trip Advisor for sailors, with reviews of anchorages and ports. Other sailors reported that there were restaurants within walking distance of the shore, if you can find a place to leave your dinghy. That’s no small thing, as many of the docks and boardwalks on the southern coast were destroyed by Irma and have yet to be replaced. So we decided to try it with full knowledge that we might just have to return to the boat and throw together a quick dinner instead.

We could make out one obvious dock at a distance, but we couldn’t tell whether it belonged to a restaurant or a residence. As we got closer, we saw a porch and some people sitting on it, but then it was suddenly clear – this was someone’s home, not a public place. So we kept going. But then we heard a guy calling from that dock, and waving, so we turned back – maybe he could tell us where we could find a place to tie up.

Turned out the guy (and his friends/family on the porch) was a fellow cruiser, house sitting for friends! They kindly offered to let us use their dock, and invited us to sit and visit a while. We had a delightful time trading sailing stories and getting advice; our hosts were 13 years into their live-aboard adventure, and full of wisdom! We felt like we’d stumbled into a gold mine. After our visit, we left them to their dinner while we walked into town to find our own. But we traded contact info, and I made a new Facebook friend. We hope to link back up with these nice folks when we’re all down in Grenada later this year.

Just down the road from the friendly fellow cruisers we found a bar-n-grill with good cheap eats.
Recycled tires on the side of the road by the bar. Beauty shows up in unexpected places!

The other really nice thing that happened in P.R. was that Andy found us one of the BEST RESTAURANTS EVER. Seriously. We’d been in Fajardo several days, eating on the boat or at the marina restaurant, when he took it upon himself to look up some other dining options. So the last night we had our rental car, he didn’t tell me where we were going.

We ended up at an old gas station off the side of a winding road, with nothing else around it. It looked, at first, like the rain forest had overtaken it. But as we walked up, we realized that this was going to be an ultra-cool place. La Estacion is a barbecue joint of sorts with a multilevel outdoor deck, tropical plants scattered around, and the menu scrawled on a giant moveable blackboard. Our server was one of the owners, and he described (with passion!) all of the menu options – how long they were smoked, how they were spiced, how big the portions. This was a man who cared about food! He steered us toward some custom cocktails and then we ordered a big sampler platter of chicken, beef brisket, ribs, and pork belly. OH. MY. GOODNESS. If I lived in Puerto Rico I would eat there every day and grow as big as a house. But I would be very happy.

The very glorious BBQ sampler. Clockwise from top: Cole slaw, chicken, some kind of fried bread, beef brisket, pork belly (with a fried pork rind), ribs, corn bread, and potato salad.

It was nice to have a special last evening, because the following day was all work! The sail riggers returned “first thing in the morning” (translation – “lunchtime”) to put up our restitched jib and Code Zero and to rig the reefing lines on our mainsail. The factory engine tech (for whom we’d been waiting almost a week) finally was able to squeeze us in to take a look at our starboard engine. (You may have noticed by now that we keep blowing out impellers; he helped us figure out some of the problem, but we still have more issues to resolve.)

Daniel and Jose, our sail riggers, with our restitched jib

Finally, about 2:30 p.m., the work was complete and we could get underway. We knew we did not have time to get all the way to St. Thomas, where we had friends flying in the next day. So we used our remaining hours of daylight to shoot east to an anchorage off the coast of Culebra, a part of Puerto Rico also known as one of the “Spanish Virgin Islands.” I had really hoped we could linger on Culebra a few days and check out the quiet beaches and awesome snorkeling. But we resolved that we’d hit it on the way back in a few months. Not too disappointing, especially when you consider we’d be spending the next two weeks, with friends and then family, in the US and British Virgin Islands.

Sunset over Culebra. Next time we WILL visit the bioluminescent bay at night!

The Thorny Path, Part 4: The Mona Passage

As a refresher, the big picture of what we are doing is sailing from Florida to the Caribbean. There is more than one way to do this, but the one we’ve chosen is known as “The Thorny Path to Windward”. It’s essentially 1,200+ miles of beating directly into the wind, which is not fun to do in a sailboat. It requires lots of planning, lots of waiting, and some tenacity. We had finally arrived at the most notorious stretch of the Thorny Path: The Mona Passage.

The Mona Passage stretches between the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico, and there has been a lot written about it. We were glued to the weather for several days. Bruce Van Sant, the author of the go-to book on this passage says that the weather patterns periodically switch back and forth like a cat’s tail. You wait for that slack moment where the wind is shifting and is below 15 knots. Then you make the crossing. It looked like our weather window was opening Sunday night and Monday, which was just what we needed to shoot across to Puerto Rico.

We notified the Puerto Bahia harbormaster that we would be leaving Sunday at 6:00 p.m. He assured us that this was ”no problema.” Customs and Immigration and the Commandante from the Dominican Navy would come to give us “un despacho” (a dispatch). You have to have one of these for every port in the DR that you enter and exit, and the DR is very serious about it. They also inspect your boat to make sure you don’t have any stowaways or contraband. I reminded him again early Sunday of our impending departure, and the harbormaster assured me they would all be there around 5:00 or 5:30 to check us out. For fun, I asked him “¿Que pasa si alguien no viene?” (What happens if someone is a no show?). His answer was immediate and serious – “Todos estaran aqui.” (Everyone will be here). Well, the lady from immigration did show up as promised and stamped our passports, but then we figured out that no one could get the Navy Commandante to answer his phone. I asked what we should do, and the universal answer was, “You’ll just have to wait.” So we did… until everyone agreed that the Commandante was not coming Sunday night. The harbormaster went home. The immigration official went home. It looked like we were stranded…

Negative, Star Command. We’ve been planning and waiting for over a week for this, and our weather window is here! We have absolutely no idea when the next window will be open. It’s time to be moving on. One person, whom I shall not identify, told me “Es muy ilegal, pero si el Comandante no está aquí después de las seis, ¡vayan con Dios!” (“It’s quite illegal, but if the Commandante isn’t here after six o’clock, Godspeed to you.”). At six-fifteen, we left.

Now, sneaking out of the country was not as trivial as one might think. For starters, the dock hands had secured our boat with a whopping nine dock lines when we arrived (four is a typical number). These spidered out in every conceivable direction, and no one was around to help release them, so we had to untie a line, keep the boat in position, untie another line, maneuver the boat just a bit to relieve the tension, etc for several minutes. We couldn’t reach some of them without a long boat hook. We high-fived each other when we were finally free.

We got underway and started the long trip to Puerto Rico, planning for 30 straight hours of sailing. The first ten hours or so you hug the north and west coast of the DR so that the night lees (cooling winds coming from shore) help you. The next 20 hours would be crossing open ocean. On long passages, we generally take three or four hour shifts where one takes the helm while one sleeps or rests. But about an hour into our trip, we were both at the helm when we saw a power boat speeding toward us on our port flank.

Then it changed its angle to intercept us.

Oh boy.

The pilot stepped out to the side and motioned for us to stop. It looked like it was time for a reckoning for our misdeeds. We were both very tense.

But it wasn’t the Navy! Two friends we had made in the marina, Nelson and Ramon, saw us leaving and wanted to wish us goodbye and a good trip. Ramon had taken to coming over in the mornings to have coffee with me. It was a good chance to practice Dominican Spanish, which can sometimes seem like its own language.

It took some time for my adrenaline level to come down. I was certain the Navy was after us for skipping town. (We’d heard stories – they will straight-up run you down for trying to leave without a dispatch and will make you turn back, earning you a hefty fine and the ringing of the shame bell).

We made it to Punta Macao, still on the coast of the DR, just before 5:00 a.m. That is where sailors traversing the Mona Passage traditionally make their “go/no go” decision for the crossing. If the weather or the seas are too rough, you simply hole up here or sail a bit further south to Punta Cana to hang out and wait for better conditions. We decided everything looked good (not great) to continue to Puerto Rico. Besides, we were eager to put some distance between us and the Dominican Navy, so we turned east-southeast and headed across 100 nautical miles of open water for the western edge of Puerto Rico.

The wind was blowing strong from the direction we were headed, but it gave us just enough of an angle to use the sails. We raised the main and unfurled the jib, and Gratitude sat up and took notice! She took off, making better than eight knots most of the trip. This put us comfortably ahead of our planned schedule. As first light broke, I ran fishing lines out port and starboard, and just after sunrise, we paralleled a long weed line and saw birds flying excitedly over the water. That is a good sign that there might be a big fish nearby, and just like that, I heard an excited lure strike on the port side, and line started spooling out… fast! I ran over and adjusted the drag to start tiring him out. I had a fight on my hands. Then the fish burst straight up out of the water and shook its tail. This was no barracuda; it was a big mahi mahi!

He was right there… .

My adrenaline was going once again. By now, Karen and I have a whole coordinated routine when we hook a fish:
• Put engines in neutral (to slow the boat and so the line doesn’t get tangled in the propellor)
• Adjust the drag on the reel to begin tiring the fish out
• Get the gaff hook and fish billy close by
• Get the pliers handy to dehook the fish
• Disconnect the lifelines that prevent you from falling in the water so you can properly do battle
• Get the fillet knife and cutting board ready
• Ice the cooler in anticipation
• Fight the fish

This mahi shot under the boat and did its best to remain there, but I stayed with it and tired it out and maneuvered it back where I could see it. I brought it up to the sugar scoop (the back step of the boat), and just when I reached to grab the leader, his fin nicked the line, and everything was over as suddenly as it started. This mahi escaped to fight another day and took a very good lure with it.

I should have used the gaff.

I will admit I was very unpleasant company for the next hour, but I licked my wounds, rigged both lines again, and ran them out. The only fish I caught the rest of the day was a small tuna a little bigger than my hand, which I promptly released.

Shortly after that, something got wrapped around the starboard propeller. I stopped the boat and dove in to see what was going on, but the waves were just too rough to do anything useful. It looked like fishing line, and I was able to cut some of it off, but I had to get back aboard before I could get most of it.

A couple of hours later, we were making great time into the wind when I heard a very loud “bang!” from somewhere above me. When I looked up, I saw that the main sail had gone noticeably slack, and we quickly worked to determine what had happened. As it turns out, one of the knots we had tied when we put the sailbag back on had come loose. This one is the outhaul line, which connects the back foot of the sail, known as the clew, to the boom. It keeps proper vertical tension on the sail, which is necessary for the sail to work, and when the sail is up, this line comes under a lot of strain. We both climbed on top of the cockpit and did our best to retie while we were underway (no small feat), and the boat picked up speed and was happy once again.

About 4:00 p.m., we were approaching the western edge of Puerto Rico, but there was one more challenge to face. The last big difficulty sailors deal with in the Mona Passage is the thunderstorms that roll off of the western coast and into the Mona Passage every afternoon and evening. They spit off in rapid succession, and some of them get quite nasty. This is a daily occurrence, and it presents a real hazard to mariners. In Van Sant’s aforementioned book, he says that the worst weather he has encountered anywhere in the world has been right there, including the Mediterranean and the notorious North Sea. We had read about this, but it’s really something to experience. It reminded me of the last level of a video game where everything gets super-intense. We powered up our radar (what a really cool piece of equipment, BTW), which located and displayed the dimensions of each of the storm cells, and we did our best to determine which way they were moving and to thread our way through and around them. We made it through the gauntlet with only a slight bit of rain.

Gratitude is the + in the center, and each ring is two nautical miles. All of the colored areas are active storm cells.

We anchored at Puerto Real around 8:00 p.m. It’s already dark at that hour at this latitude.

Ultimately, we made the Mona Passage in 26 hours, which is great time. The first 13 hours of the passage were pretty bouncy and rough, but the next 13 were more comfortable. (Thank you, weather window!) We anchored at Puerto Real and it was as calm and serene an anchorage as you could hope for. A quick call to US Customs Border Protection using their app, and we were properly back in the USA.

Sunrise at anchor at Puerto Real. The calm water was a welcome relief.
Back in the USA – no despacho required!

Although we were tired, and Puerto Rico is beautiful, on Tuesday and Wednesday, we continued east. Each day got up stinkin’ early and sailed/motored about ten hours. We had to tack (zig zag) with the wind to get the right angle to sail, but by Wednesday, we were almost to the east coast of Puerto Rico – about 80 miles. This was very good progress. Thursday, we turned and headed north along the coast to the marina at Puerto del Rey in Fajardo, getting caught in a series of storms (squalls) that lasted for hours and played havoc with the wind. It made this leg of the trip a real challenge. But now we have great positioning to make the short hop east to the US Virgin Islands, with a few days to spare for some provisioning (Costco!), boat maintenance, and rest, Puerto-Rico-style.

Costco! How we have missed you! While we like the little islands grocery stores, Karen is still a Costco girl. She did a little happy dance as we walked in. We won’t be back this way again for several months, so of course we stocked up.

And one final note, from Karen: WE DID IT! The Thorny Path is a tough route. Many sailors in the U.S. never go farther south than the Bahamas. We were intimidated by the distance and the stories we’d heard… but we decided it was worth a try, and now we’re so glad we did. Virgin Islands, here we come!

Family Time

My dad, and our son, Kyle, joined us for eight days aboard Gratitude. We had to remain at the marina for the first few days while modifications and repairs were being made, but we were able to get in several solid days of sailing too. It gave them a taste for boat life. We made some provisioning runs, sailed, motored, and took the dinghy around. Dad and I made some of our own repairs, and the two of them experienced some basics about how boats operate. Kyle keenly observed, “If sailing were a TV show, it would have pacing issues.”

He is right. Cruising life contrasts being immersed in tranquility, beauty, and fun, punctuated by periods of intense action and stress. The stress may be situational (e.g. something intense is happening, and you have to deal with it immediately) or it may be self-induced. Most often, the locus of my stress involves safely stopping the boat. Hovering in place on a river in front of a drawbridge, maneuvering into a dock slip, or trying to get the anchor to grab and hold can get my heart racing. The reason is that there are usually currents, winds, and other boats or structures to contend with.

As an example, on Wednesday night we were asleep at anchor with the hatches open when it started to sprinkle, around 2:30 a.m. Karen secured the hatches, and I decided that while I was awake, I would check to see how our anchor was holding. When I stepped outside, I noticed the winds and tides had shifted considerably, and the monohull sailboat closest to us was now swinging frenetically on his anchor. After about ten minutes of watching him dart and undulate wildly, his stern came all the way over toward ours. His was a lighter boat than Gratitude, so I was, with some effort, able to physically shove him away when he was close enough to hit us, but he swung back again and again. So, I woke Karen, and we spent hours watching him make Spirograph-like patterns before unpredictably careening right back into us. We used our fenders (basically giant, inflated rubber balls) to keep his boat from crunching ours.

Karen took this whole event quite calmly, but I was full of adrenaline. It felt like being in a fight where your opponent kept getting up and coming back, over and over. (Terminator 2 would be too dramatic a comparison, but you get the idea). We debated trying to wake the owner of the other yacht, but ultimately we just accepted our fate and kept watch to prevent any damage. The next morning, we left that anchorage, bright and early, with his yacht still channeling Linda Blair in The Exorcist.

In order to get back out to sea, we needed to pass under the Las Olas drawbridge. Gratitude is too tall to do that without having the bridge up, so you get the pleasure of being “that guy” and stopping all traffic on Las Olas Boulevard and making everyone wait while the bridge raises for you to pass through. This time, however, the bridge only opened one of its two spans. I radioed him to ask if there was a malfunction, and he informed me that he was only opening halfway for me, and I would need to squeeze through. Again – you transition abruptly from a leisurely journey to a quick jolt of stress. And all of this happened pre-coffee!

The Las Olas Bridge when the operator isn’t trying to play chicken with me

But yesterday, we sailed south to Key Biscayne, and we have never coaxed such great performance out of the boat. We regularly made over 9 kts on that trip with only our sails in about 18 kts of wind. The boat was happy, and so was I. We had a great sail and an easy time anchoring. We dinghied over to a restaurant a mile or so away and enjoyed a wonderful, relaxing meal and some sangria.

Gratitude making great time sailing southward

Today, as I write this, we have made it back to the Bahamas. We spent the day “beating” (traveling into the wind), and crossing the rolling Gulf Stream. Once we were at tonight’s destination, we deployed our anchor and went through all the right steps, but when I dove off the boat to have a look, it was laying sideways on the ocean floor instead of digging in. We had to start over to get it to set, but all’s well now.

Not the way an anchor should look.

Tomorrow looks calm for us. We’re sailing south to explore Gun Cay and North Cat Cay. Then we will start making our way to shelter to ride out some approaching bad weather predicted for next week.

Overnight to Bimini

We had the notion to make the 95-mile trip from Chub Cay to Bimini on Wednesday, but we knew we would need every minute of daylight and then some. We tried to tried to weigh (raise) anchor well before sunrise so that we could arrive at our destination and make a docking or anchoring decision during daylight, but the winds were very strong, and we ended up scrubbing the entire idea and going back to bed. We decided it was easier to weigh the anchor around 5:00 pm and travel Wednesday night. We made good time, taking shifts at the helm, and arrived at Bimini as dawn was breaking Thursday morning. We dropped our anchor in Honeymoon Harbor, which is a beautiful and uncrowded anchorage, and we immediately had a visitor come swim to greet us!

A sea turtle – just like the one in our logo

The wind has been quite strong, and because we are close to numerous rocks, I swam our anchor (once at high tide and then again at low tide). Our Rocna anchor had dug in to the sea bed perfectly and had not budged an inch. I will sleep better tonight knowing that.

We are headed back to Fort Lauderdale to have one of the ship’s antennas relocated, which is a definite kink in our plans. About that… the one significant modification we made to Gratitude was installing more solar panels. A. Lot. More. Solar. That just fit the vibe we were going for. We have a water maker which desalinates sea water and makes fresh water, and having a lot of solar capacity seemed like we were closer to being off the grid and self-sufficient.

The trouble is, we were not in Florida when they did the work, and the contractor relocated the large KVH TracPhone satellite antenna directly into the path of the sheets (ropes) that adjust the main sail. These sheets come under a jaw-dropping load at times, and if they get accidentally wrapped around that antenna, it will happily deposit the whole system into the ocean in about a quarter-second, and that would be a very costly mistake.

The Antenna Problem

After a short time of sailing on our own, Karen and I decided that disaster was only a matter of time, and we scheduled an appointment to return and have the antenna moved. Right now, we are about ¾ of the way back to Florida from where we started, with only the notorious Gulf Stream left to cross tomorrow morning, and forecast conditions appear favorable for that.

One more note – I caught my first (edible) fish!

First mahi-mahi caught aboard Gratitude. I didn’t have time to get properly dressed.

Just before we set sail, my friend, Dan, gave me three beautiful salt water fishing rods and reels as a bon voyage gift (and an epic one at that), and he and I went shopping to stock up on the necessary tackle and lures. I rigged everything the best I could (I’m not going to be nominated for any knot-tying awards just yet), and after having my confidence shaken by pulling up three consecutive barracuda (non-edible monsters with ridiculously long, sharp teeth), I caught a beautiful mahi-mahi. It was a thrill! I cleaned it on the back of the boat, and Karen marinaded it in salt, mirin, and sherry (we didn’t have sake), and we grilled it for dinner that night. We enjoyed four large, delicious servings.

Same mahi-mahi. The best tasting fish is the one you catch. Right?

One fisherman commenting about trolling a lure through the Gulf Stream in the days and nights surrounding a full moon wrote “the fun is, you never know what you might bring up.” That’s the conditions we are headed for tomorrow morning when we sail to Fort Lauderdale. I’ll have my lines out. I’m hooked!

Dinghy Drama (A Joint Post)

Andy: Karen and I have both been surprised as to the way we have had to problem solve together. For example, the other evening after shore excursion and a nice dinner out, we lowered the dinghy into the water and inadvertently spooled the line all of the way off of the winch. No big deal, right?

Wrong! The dinghy is rigged to a heavy-duty rack called the davits, and this is connected with a system of pulleys and cables that all came undone when the line spooled off. Now we had a dinghy in the water that was far too heavy for us to lift by hand (I estimate at least 600lbs with the engine, but it could be much more), and the davits more or less collapsed on top of it. To add to the fun, waves were pounding the boat, causing the davits to bang violently against the dinghy steering wheel and console. Due to the collapse, the carbon fiber line that attached everything would no longer reach the winch.

We were up against the proverbial wall and had to problem-solve, and we had to do so quickly. We cut a piece of spare nylon line we had bought a few days earlier for emergencies and tied a sheet bend knot to the carbon fiber line to create an extension. We rigged up the davits again through the eyes and pulleys, and we were finally able to use the winch to hoist the dinghy up out of the water.

Karen: I want to interject that the time it took for all of this to occur was probably about 45 minutes to an hour, up to this point. We were tired, wet from riding the dinghy back to the boat, and eager to get inside and dried off. And, it was getting dark. Instead, we kept fighting the dinghy, the davits, the waves, and then the cables. Then running from locker to locker searching for the right tools and gear and lights to rig a solution. If all this sounds like chaos, trust me – it was!

Andy: Things were looking much better until everything just stopped. The winch breaker had blown. I figured that too much water had splashed into the dinghy, making everything too heavy. After all, water weighs 8lbs/gallon, so I leaned in to remove the dinghy’s drain plug to let the water drain in order to ease the load on the winch. Hilarity ensued when one of the steel connection points attaching the dinghy to the davits snapped clean, and the entire system fell suddenly into the sea – with me tumbling right in with it.

At this point, it was dark, some of our possessions were floating away with the current, and things had basically gone from really bad to worse. (Note: when I hit the water, my first thought was that I was so glad Karen was on deck, and I knew everything would be okay).

Karen: Ok, my first thoughts are a little too salty to repeat here, but they basically ran along the lines of “Are you ok? Are you ok? Let’s get you back onto this boat NOW.” And then I saw one of Andy’s shoes floating away, and thought, well, we’re kissing that pair of shoes goodbye. We gotta get Andy back on this boat!

Andy: I swam back to the boat (after chasing down that shoe), Karen helped me back onboard, and we regrouped. This development was not good, but we did keep our heads and were able to focus on the problem. Before long, we had the dinghy out of the water again and more or less held in place with a system of our own ropes and straps. Which meant we could finally go to bed.

The next morning, we reassessed the situation. Using spare rope, we made new lines and connections to create a greatly improved support system for the dinghy. It had occurred to both of us, overnight, that the last people to work on the boat had rigged the dinghy to the davits incorrectly. They were set too low for us to get the dinghy down to the water, and that was the root cause of our difficulty.

It became evident in the whole process that Karen apparently paid more attention in knot school than I did (we received quite a bit of formal training in sailors’ knots), and she was a rock star at making lines fast and tying knots that would not give or loosen under load. This saved the day!

Karen: Don’t let Andy fool you. He stayed way ahead of me in evaluating and assessing the situation each time it got worse. It was his idea to tie a leader-line onto the cable so that it would reach the winch, and I think THAT is what saved the day. But of course I’ll take his compliment on my knot-tying, all day long.

Andy: Several times in my life I have gone through team-building exercises where I solved problems together with my teammates, but being on a boat has dialed that up to 11 for us. We have had a couple of situations now where we had no choice but to keep our heads and work together. It took both of us to rig our dinghy safely. We are a team.

Karen: My lessons learned: Everything is harder, more complicated, and more time-consuming on a boat. Everything. My hope and belief are that we are on a learning curve, and that maybe things will get easier and quicker and more intuitive over time… and yet I can see that boat life is already very, very different than land life. As we say at CrossFit III: “If it were easy, everyone would be doing it.”

Sails Up!

We had our first successful sail on Saturday (we sailed on Friday, but I would not describe that as a particularly stellar success – more on that another time).

Saturday, we climbed back on the horse (or the Leopard in this case), motored out to sea, and unfurled the jib. The jib is a smaller, but by no means “small”, foresail at the bow of the boat. We trimmed (adjusted) it, and the boat seemed so happy. You can feel when the sails are right, because the boat rides and performs just the way you want her to. Once the jib was fully out, we shut the engines off. That is when things truly felt amazing. She was making 7+ knots (about 8mph) on 13 knots of wind. The solar cells were generating over a kilowatt of electricity, charging the batteries. Everything was quiet, controlled, efficient, and… just perfect. We sailed around the ocean for hours, tacking into the wind to adjust our course.

We also spent our sail time desalinating about 80 gallons of water, doing laundry, cooking, and cleaning the boat inside and out (or as cruisers put it, “keeping things yachty”). It was a fantastic day.

That night, we dropped anchor in a cove on the quiet side of the island where we would be sheltered from the wind, but I didn’t like the way the anchor addressed the seabed. I ended up “diving the anchor” to have a look at it, and I was still not comfortable with it. We tried three times to get it to dig in and set properly, but it simply was not having it with this floor. Consequently, I was up most of the night, checking to ensure we weren’t dragging. The one consolation was that the stars were brilliant. My worries turned out to be unfounded; by morning, we had not budged an inch. I think a lot of new boat owners have similar experiences.

Very limited internet has requiring a bit more adjustment than I expected. That said, I think it’s a good thing that I don’t have it 24/7.