A Sail of Two Idiots (29 page)

You're not allowed to go onto the island, but we did row our dinghy closer (yes, row; we wanted to sneak up on them). The little primates were in the trees and on the beach, leaping from branches. Every once in a while we'd hear something clanging on the island, and our imaginations would run wild. Very Jurassic Park.

Getting to Isla Palominos, 22 miles on a northerly heading for a change, would take us around the easternmost end of Puerto Rico and give us a new view. The anchorage
was about 3 miles directly east and across from Fajardo on the mainland. Once we sailed slightly past the big island's easternmost edge and could look north, we got a nice breeze. Ah, to feel the wind in our sails again! Upon arriving we picked up a free mooring on the northeast side of Isla Palominas, snorkeled, and were visited by a couple of dolphins. A pretty good day in all.

You know? Nothing broke during our Puerto Rico stay. Hip, hip, hooray! But we bought lots of spares and lots of parts to fix all the things that were already broken. And we also added some anchor chain.

Your eyes may cross here, but you just might find this interesting. The subject is certain to come up should you decide to buy a boat. If you're in this just for the story, skip forward!

We started out with 70 feet of chain and 140 feet of rope spliced (connected) together. We liked the chain, so we bought another 50 feet while we were on Puerto Rico. About a year later we added to the chain, so now we had a total of 150 feet. We consistently put out 100 to 150 feet of rode. Attaching the bridle (a hook) to the chain was soooo much easier than attaching it to rope (requiring a knot), hence the 150 feet of chain. That, added to the 140 feet of rope we already had, would be more than enough for wherever we'd be going.

Just as there are deeply ingrained opinions on monohulls vs. catamarans, there are strong inclinations about anchor rode. Should it be all chain? All rope? A combination?

The argument for all chain is that it is heavy in its own right, adding to the anchor weight; it won't fray or be cut on coral; and it's easy to attach other things to it (such as the bridle, sentinel, or a second anchor). All true.

Arguments against are that it weighs down your boat when not in use and there is no play or elasticity, allowing for a good wind to just yank everything up. Also true.

The pros of all rope are that it's light, elastic, and less expensive than high-test chain. It can also fray and cut and is a pain to attach to a catamaran bridle. Yep.

We ended up going for both. There was a negative to that choice; there always is.

The splice (where the chain and rope meet) can come apart (and did, but you'll have to keep reading for that one).

Our second anchor, rarely used on its own, was made up of about 10 feet of chain nearest the anchor, the most likely place to chafe. The rest was rope, to cut down on the weight in the anchor locker. Configurations could always be switched.

Y
ou may know about the U.S. and British Virgin Islands, but did you know that there's a group called the Spanish Virgin Islands as well? If not, I'll bet you've heard of one of the two largest islands that make up that chain: Vieques (used for U.S. bombing exercises until 2003); the other is Culebra, and that's where we were headed.

Culebra had a hurricane hole, and Tropical Storm Noel was headed our way.

We got lucky. The winds were behind us for a change and we had a great 17-mile, two-hour sail east at 8 knots all the way to Culebra. Everything was hunky-dory until we noticed torrential rains right at the entrance to the harbor. We were heading to the Ensenada Honda anchorage, which consisted of a tight entrance between two reefs, a wider inner harbor too far away from anything to make you want to anchor there, and then an even wider harbor, closer to the town dinghy docks. I stopped the boat and we sat and watched it awhile, waiting for the weather to clear. The charts showed reefs on both sides of the entrance, and we wanted to be able to see the buoys (and the reefs, since buoys move and go missing).

We tried to wait it out, but looking at the radar we could see the storm continue to redevelop in the same spot over and over. It just wouldn't stop! After almost two hours of just sitting there, we finally decided to go through it. Although the buoys were hard to see, we did get through them (they even matched up with where the chartplotter said they should be). But then, incredibly, the rain started coming down even harder. We couldn't see a thing. I finally just stopped the boat; we floated in the center of the middle harbor and collected the water for our water tanks. Hey, you never know when you'll get rain again!

Ten minutes and 40 gallons of water later, I decided to move us farther into the harbor—very slowly. After a couple of minutes it was as though we had passed through a curtain. A sheet of rain behind us, clear skies in front. That strange rain curtain blocked the harbor entrance for another
four
days. Sure glad we didn't wait!

Once we got settled in, we wandered around the town of Dewey for a while and thought the island had a lot of character. The harbor itself wasn't as spectacular, with its very lit up stadium, an airport, and very loud roosters (we'd been listening to those since the Dominican Republic). With its deep-rooted mangroves, a few inlets to tuck in to, and protection from prevailing winds, Ensenada Honda should keep us safe from the storm headed our way, and for now that's all that mattered.

Tropical Storm Noel came in with a vengeance at about midnight (LESSON 13: Be afraid). Winds came in at a steady 40 knots, gusting higher for five hours. Rain came down in sheets, and the waves inside the harbor were impressive. We were stupidly anchored directly north of the harbor entrance, which was almost two miles away (that's how big this anchorage was). That allowed the wind and waves coming from the southeast to funnel right down onto us. Hurricanes usually come from the southeast in the Caribbean, so we should have seen this coming. The tail end of a hurricane often causes the winds to swing around to the other direction, so it pays to be prepared for anything.

We later learned from other boaters that there were some highly recommended, well-maintained moorings behind the reef that we had been so concerned about at the Culebra harbor entrance. The reef acted as a barrier, breaking up the waves and leading to much calmer conditions than those we experienced anchored farther down the long, wide-open harbor.

Since all our sources had indicated that winds would be between 30 and 50 knots, we didn't do much to prepare. Although our guidebooks had warned of a grassy bottom in Ensenada Honda, a dive on the anchor assured us that both anchors (using that two-on-one chain method again) were dug in nicely. There were mangroves nearby if we did have any anchor dragging. We brought in the cockpit cushions and turned off the wind generators until the winds came down a bit. We also put out rain catchers to fill the water tanks.

Several calls of distress came in over the VHF with the U.S. Coast Guard trying to locate everyone. People became trapped outside the harbor while sailing or diving because forecasters had kept changing their minds about when the storm was coming as well as its intensity. Because we knew to tuck ourselves in when that happened (LESSON 57: Be a pessimist), we were happy to be in a safe harbor. We didn't get a lot of sleep because we were worried about the anchors dragging—a normal reaction when the winds are howling—and had to keep mopping up from the leaking windows (we had planned on having them fixed on St. Thomas), but we were safe. The next day was more of the same. Our freshwater tanks were now full.

We were glad to not be experiencing the craziness in slippery, crowded Luperon, and were happy not to still be sitting in the Bahamas, which experienced Noel as a hurricane.

With four days of nonstop rain, we tried to keep our sanity by playing Yahtzee, cards, backgammon, and dominoes, and reading books, but in the end we became
a social experiment gone bad. I'm pretty sure we were experiencing twitching and facial ticks before it was over. I couldn't have imagined being on a smaller boat than the one we were on. Talk about feeling confined.

We woke up abruptly to quiet. No rain. No wind. The silence was broken when a boater started playing his bagpipes. That sound carries across the water and was an eerie way to start the day. Oh,
Danny Boy
…

With the rain stopped, we immediately took all the cushions outside to demold, and we bucketed some laundry. After wiping off the fuzzing fiberglass inside the boat, we decided to repaint the interior with the enamel paint we had bought in the Dominican Republic.

While the boat was torn apart and we were covered in dirt and paint, the U.S. Coast Guard took advantage of the sunny skies and boarded us. Another first. They were polite and noted only some expired flares, so that was relatively painless.

Finished with our chores and able to leave the boat, we headed directly to our favorite bar/restaurant, Mamacita's. Anyone who's been to Culebra knows Mamacita's.

We'd heard good things about Flamenco Beach, on the north side of the island, so we decided to motorsail the 11 miles around the eastern end of the island the following morning. There were a few northerly swells coming in (not what you want on a northern anchorage) but not enough to keep us from anchoring there.

Off in the woods were camping grounds, real bathrooms, freshwater cisterns, and lots of shaded picnic tables. There were reefs not too far from the beach as well; they probably had great snorkeling, but there were too many waves to go find out. A long beach walk was just what the doctor ordered. It felt so good to stretch our legs and soak up some sun!

This was our first “day anchorage.” We'd never gone anywhere and just spent a day where we stopped, walked on the beach, come back to the boat to eat lunch, and then gone on to an overnight anchorage. Kind of like a car trip!

Later in the day, we headed to Isla Culebrita, a national park an hour east (7 miles). This time we were headed directly into the wind, so we went a whole 4 knots the entire way. Zzzzz. At least we were able to pick up a
free
mooring about 100 feet from the beach. The Puerto Rico Natural Resources Department has installed free moorings in many anchorages and beaches of the Spanish Virgin Islands to keep anchors from ruining the seabed. Your cruising guides, updated charts, locals, and other boaters can tell you where they are and whether they're still free when it's your turn. There was no one at the park, so we were able to enjoy the lovely white crescent beach and a lighthouse in glorious solitude.

The first day on Culebrita we wandered to “the Jacuzzis,” natural pools of water fed from the ocean. They looked like … you guessed it. Then we hiked awhile looking for the lighthouse trail. Things were pretty overgrown, so we
never did find it. Other boater pals found it easily, so apparently the problem was just ours. Maybe someone did some trail trimming later. Yeah, that's it.

We liked the view so much that we decided to stay an extra day. We took advantage of the mooring to put on our new anchor chain, which included having to remeasure and mark it all. We also cleaned all the white plastic lifeline covers.

The water was so pretty, calm, and clear that we could see everything in it from above. So we kept stopping mid-measure and saying—turtle! Whachamacallit fish! It was hard to get our work done that way. Why fight it? Time to put the stuff away and jump in! After snorkeling, we tried, once again, to get the brown staining off the bottom of the boat. Nope.

We were at a pretty good angle to go straight to the U.S. Virgin Islands, 20 miles due east, so we decided to skip Vieques. Next up? St. Thomas!

It was now officially one year since we had left Miami (November 8). Wahoo! After some introspection, we decided that the one thing we could say about the whole affair was that we never knew what was going to happen from day to day. Depending on your personality, that could be good or bad. I
can
tell you that we were pleased with ourselves. Shocked maybe, but proud. I'm pretty sure that our friends, family, and blog readers felt the same way. It wasn't the laid-back, mai tai drinking, leisurely sailing from island to island that we had imagined, but that only made it all the more sweet for having reached this milestone.

Now that we were in the Virgins, I remembered that I had an aunt and uncle with a house on Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands (BVIs). I wondered if they'd be there for Thanksgiving. Why, yes, they would be. Now if my mom could just fly down. No problem. We were going to spend Thanksgiving with family on Tortola. Talk about feeling like part of the jet set: “Will you be spending Thanksgiving at your Tortola villa, because we'll be in the area on our yacht around then…” (Did you read that with a
snooty accent
?) We couldn't wait.