A Sail of Two Idiots (17 page)

I'd be gone for about three weeks. When I came back, we'd be official residents of the Caribbean Sea. Was I sad to be leaving the boat? The Bahamas? Not really. Was Michael scared to be left alone? Maybe a little, but I had faith in him.

B
oy, was it strange being back in the States. All those cars, concrete, and people, although it didn't take me long to jump right back into the melee.

I flew into Miami, where I picked up our Mini Cooper (we had paid for parking in a Miami garage before we left) and drove straight through to Arizona. I left at 4 p.m., got in at 7 a.m. two days later, and immediately headed to bed. Not long after my head hit the pillow, I heard someone walking on my roof. Who dares disturb my slumber? It better be a belated Santa Claus. I dragged my stinky, bed-headed, bloodshot-eyed self outside to find a man (no red suit) clomping around up there. In answer to my rather miffed inquiry, he informed me he was performing a roof inspection for the buyer and hadn't realized anyone was home. Yeah, I guess my invisible car out there threw him off.

Now I was too wired to go back to sleep, and in my exhaustion I looked around the house. Our house. The one we had spent so much time and money on. The house with the dishwasher, flushing toilets, electricity, washer/dryer, and perfect refrigerator/freezer. The house with our bed, silverware, rugs, full-length mirrors, artwork. I lost it. I cried out loud. Bawled my head off. Couldn't believe I was giving all this up. All together now—“What was I thinking?” and “Whose idea was this?”

I cried myself to sleep. When I woke up the next morning with a clearer head, I had no problem remembering what I had been thinking. It didn't take long for the other side of home ownership to rear its ugly head. We had a lot of windows and they were filthy (an out-of-season dust storm had just passed through); the irrigation system had shut off to some of the flowerpots, so the plants were dead; it had been so cold at night that all the live plants were frost-burned; the new rear picture window had lost its seal (again); and the cover around the air-conditioning unit had come loose and was banging against the bedroom wall. House for sale!

The house closed and I moved in with a friend while I finished my work obligations. Lucky for me that my friend and I happened to wear the same-size clothing because I had to borrow some winter gear. Not only were there two nights with 20-degree temperatures, it even had the nerve to snow while I was there. In Phoenix! Would I ever know warmth again? Okay, I remember! I'm ready to go back!

My work done, I took a final weekend road trip by myself to Las Vegas (no gambling; it was all about the drive) and then sold the Mini Cooper back to the dealership. Yes, I cried during this car sale too.

Just like that, the only thing we had to call our own was a boat (technically speaking the bank owned it, but you know what I mean). We were true live-aboards. Now we just had to become sailors.

M
y plane landed in Marsh Harbour on Great Abaco Island, Bahamas, in 40 mph winds. It was pouring. Michael had bragged about the great weather the whole time I was gone, and I was coming back to
this
?

The taxi driver let me get on her VHF so I could radio Michael to meet me at the dock. There, he handed me my trusty yellow rain gear and then we stuffed the last of the few belongings I had taken from the house into garbage bags and zoomed back to the boat.

Earlier in the day, Michael said it had been so windy that two boats dragged (not us this time!), which was almost impossible in that harbor. Some boats, including
Mothra
, Brad's catamaran, were caught in a squall on the way to safe harbor and were damaged. Yuck. Some welcome.

Enough was enough. We really wanted to get farther south and find the warmth that had been eluding us so far. But we had a lot of boat work to do first. Now that we had money, we had to order, receive, and install all the things that had been accumulating on our list for the past four months (among them a heavier anchor, a new propeller, a larger chartplotter, and blankets).

We lucked out when Stephen and Estelle, our teachers and fellow Island Spirit owners, asked Michael to crew for them on a quick trip back to the States. Michael could go with them to Miami; pick up more sailing tips; buy what we needed; have it delivered to
Siyaya,
Stephen and Estelle's boat, slipped in the marina; and fly back. Our pals would bring our stuff when they sailed back to Marsh Harbour about two weeks later. No shipping fees. No duty. Perfect.

Since it would be another month before the U.S. trip and, therefore, a month before we could repair anything, we decided to use the time to practice … everything.

First up was anchoring. We were still getting a lot of “expert” input (LESSON 38), but we hadn't yet figured out what would work best for
our
boat. When we lined up our boat with the stern of another one before dropping anchor, there was
a different perspective depending on where each of us was standing: at the bow of the boat (where the anchor was) or in the cockpit (by the wheel). This led to arguments and confusion. We practiced lining up with other boats, letting out varying amounts of chain, and watching where we ended up. We practiced stopping the boat and letting it fall back and learned that it was important for the bow to face into the wind during that process. We practiced setting a target for the anchor to hit and kept dropping the anchor until it fell where we wanted it to.

During these exercises, we also discovered that Michael was confused with the labeling system delineating the anchor chain length. Had he let out 25 feet? 30? He wasn't sure. Wasn't that red tie for 100 feet? After some analysis, we realized that Michael had been letting out too little scope most of the time. Hmm, so maybe the issue hadn't been just the size of the anchor. No judging; just learning. We practiced until we felt confident that we had finally learned the nuances of our own boat and had become experts on the art of anchoring
Jacumba
.

Now it was time to practice sailing. For a couple of months, we sailed between the same four anchorages: Delia's Bay, Great Guana Cay; Old Scopley's Rocks, Man-O-War Cay; Hope Town, Elbow Cay; and Marsh Harbour, Great Abaco Island. We spent a lot of time going back and forth between Hope Town and Marsh Harbour (about 5 miles and an hour apart from each other).

Between these two islands was a large, obvious rock (called Point Set Rock) that we had to go around. Despite the fact that the charts showed deep water right up to the rock, I initially went waaaaay around it. By the umpteenth time around, we were close enough to throw birdseed to the seagulls perched there. It was satisfying to look at the chartplotter tracking history and see this progression of assurance.

Of course, it wouldn't be sailing without tacking, so we started practicing that. Assuming that your eyes didn't glaze over during the previous chapter, you know the basics about tacking (turning so the bow of the boat passes through the eye of the wind and the sails fill on the opposite side). Here's a refresher. Since no boat can sail directly into the wind, you have to sail at an angle to the wind (somewhere between 45 and 55 degrees, depending on your boat). If the wind is blowing
from
your destination, you have to zigzag (tack back and forth) to get there.

On
Jacumba
, tacking was a challenge. The boat's almost 23-foot width (also known as beam) and two-person crew made it a rather stimulating experience. We could have rerouted the jibsheets (the control lines for the most-forward sail), bringing all the sheets directly to the captain's wheel, to make things easier on ourselves, but we inexplicably didn't. (An electric winch for the jibsheets would have made things easier too.) During the tack, we didn't have to do anything to the mainsail. We would move it into the middle of the boat and leave it there. Then we'd concentrate on the genny (aka large jib). This was the sail we would have to swap from side to side by releasing the jibsheet on one side as we turned, and trimming the jibsheet on the opposite side of the boat. Changing from port tack (where
the wind is blowing over the left side of the boat and the sails are on the right side) to starboard tack was easy since both the wheel and the sheet that needed to be released were on the same side of the boat. I'd have to hold on to the wheel (which was on the starboard side) with one hand, and the jibsheet with the other hand. I'd yank the wheel around 90 degrees, putting us into the tack, while releasing the line with my other hand. Michael would winch in the sail on his side while I calmly straightened us back out. No problem. We looked like pros.

Tacking from starboard to port, on the other hand, was like participating in a Chinese fire drill. I'd turn the wheel to put us into the tack and then lock the wheel in place so we would continue tacking. This would allow me to then grab the jibsheet with two hands and start winching in the sail on my side. Michael would drop the line he just released on the port side and come running across the width of the boat to winch in the rest of the sail I had started on. This would then free me up to unlock the wheel and straighten us back out. No more tacks until we'd both caught our breath. The autopilot had a feature that was supposed to assist with this, but it didn't work very well.

Of course, the other factor was deciding
when
to tack back. We never did figure this out. Reading about tacking did nothing for me; I just seemed to have an instinct for it, and usually got us where we were going without too many tacks or going too far out of our way. Practice, practice, practice.

We could only hope that no one was watching us do these exercises (I can't tell you how often I had this thought). We avoided tacking if we could; we hated it. Next boat—powercat.

We practiced sailing in all kinds of conditions (all safe), so we could get a feel for what we were willing to put ourselves and
Jacumba
through. All on one engine (remember the missing prop?).

Our final lesson, albeit done involuntarily, was learning how to dislodge our anchor after finding ourselves hooked on a telecommunications submarine cable.

It was time for Michael to crew on Stephen and Estelle's boat,
Siyaya
, to Miami and pick up our stuff! That meant that we were anchored back in Great Abaco Island's Marsh Harbour, the most protected anchorage in the area. Was I scared to be by myself? Nah. Not really.

Their jaunt across the Gulf Stream, which had taken us 13 hours, took them 31. Ouch! That was 31 hours of motoring because of nonexistent winds and strong currents. Needless to say, they were glad to pull into the Miami marina.

While Michael was gone, I repainted the entire interior. Jeez, the boat was big. Of course I couldn't just use white paint like normal people. I had to do cut-ins of tan and blue, but it was worth it. The boat looked much cleaner and had more of our personality. It was starting to feel like home.

I also found out that some nearby solo male boaters had taken it upon themselves to adopt me while Michael was gone. I didn't really need that, but it came in handy when I couldn't get a twist-off lid removed.

Before I knew it, Michael was on a flight back. This time, he brought the cruddy weather back with
him
. Winds were back up to 40 knots, gusting as high as 60, with end-of-the-world type of rains. The waves were so high in the harbor that we couldn't even put down our dinghy. Can you say barf? We could.

It was now the middle of February and we'd had maybe ten nonconsecutive days of sunny, warmish weather since we first arrived back in November. I will never understand the draw of the northern Bahamas in winter. Thank goodness Michael brought back some quilts. We had given back the blankets we borrowed, as most of our good samaritans had sailed on by now.

Next up? Lightning and thunder. The good news was that with all that rain, we had no problem filling our water tanks. In fact, they were overflowing. Cleaning the boat was a cinch too. No, rainwater does not work all by itself—scrub, scrub.

By now, one of the hatches that had been blown open during The Whale debacle was leaking, as was a side window in the salon that we'd had replaced before we left. Things were moist inside too. The cushions and our clothes were starting to mold. Was that hair under Michael's arm or … never mind. Could we leave now?

Well, no. By early March we finally had all the boat parts we had ordered. We decided to haul out the boat to make things easier on us and figured we'd get the bottom painted while we were at it. Antifouling paint keeps critters from hitchhiking on your boat bottom and saves a lot of bottom scrubbing.

I about had a heart attack when we motored just a little farther southeast of our Marsh Harbour anchorage, pulled into the boatyard entrance, and saw the narrow canal I had to motor into. A narrow canal surrounded by unforgiving concrete, and we were on one engine! Before I could start hyperventilating, some guys onshore helped pull us in via lines. Oh. That wasn't so bad.

Once the boat was in the yard and up on stands, we discovered that it was nice having access to shore power and endless water for a while. Nice, but pricey. Time to get to work.

The bottom and particularly the saildrives (connecting the propellers to the inboard engines) were covered with muck. Bad weather and sea conditions (rough and cold) hadn't allowed us to dive into the water to clean the boat bottom, so the remaining propeller was also encrusted in growth. It was a wonder that the boat responded at all.

We had all the boatyard work done for us, as we were clueless, but we watched so we could do it ourselves the next time. After spending one more day than planned in the yard thanks to rain, and going over budget, we waxed the boat ourselves and then dropped her back into the water. Wow,
Jacumba
looked fantastic! Even better than when we had bought her. Nothing like a nice clean bottom!