March 7, 2019

We had not grown tired of Long Island in the least.  Quite the opposite; it was one of those places that you could easily find yourself continually making excuses as to why you needed to stay.

Like Cat Island, it had come to represent a slice of the Bahamas we had been searching for… a place that felt like something more than simply Florida’s backyard playground.  Not the imagery of resorts, marinas, and attractions catering to passing tourists.  Real people stuck in living real lives.  Fiercely proud people who had, for generations, been been carving out an existence on these islands which occupy the very edge of development and “mainstream” travel.  The same people who had been helping those around them carve out that same existence at the same time.

Both qualities, capable independence and magnanimous hospitality, seemed to be a common thread woven into the fiber that makes up these tiny communities.

Still, we were both in agreement that it was time to move on.  

When you are enjoying yourself, the difficult decision of moving on seems counterproductive.  You travel to seek out enjoyable places, so why leave once you reach one of those places?

Sometimes, you have to remind yourself that the only reason you arrived at the location you are currently enjoying so much, is because you made the decision to move on from the previous location.  

However, our general intention to continue pushing east as the opportunity arose was meeting resistance.  Loosely, the plan was to work as far east as possible utilizing erratic wind patterns early in the year before the prevailing south-easterlies set in, which would force us to start heading south with the intent of getting below a Latitude of 5ºN for hurricane season. 

It was becoming more and more apparent that the prediction of Chris Parker (SSB radio’s weather guru for boaters), that the prevailing SE Bahamas winds seemed to be setting in early this year, was coming true with a vengeance. 

This didn’t leave a lot of options for us from southern Long Island.

Motoring, which is always at the end of our list of options…

Push northeast; but we would likely be putting ourselves in a corner, trapped by southeast winds with only southeast to go…  

Forego any further attempts to get any closer to the Caribbean, and make for Cuba, Puerto Rico, or Jamaica…

Make for a tiny chain of largely uninhabited islands less than a day away called the Jamentos and the Ragged Islands, ultimately still leaving all the options on the table…

As we continue to move further and further away from the safety net of marinas, supply stores, and easily obtained resources, we find a necessity to become more and more completely self-sufficient.  We are constantly forced to second-guess and re-evaluate… what is the weakest link at any given time?  

Though we feel confident that, even in remote locations, people will offer whatever help they can, we also feel adamant that traveling into more remote areas depending on other people, because you are poorly equipped or ill prepared, is foolhardy.

Fortunately, we have not found ourselves in an area so remote we have been unable to secure fuel or basic provisions if needed.  Largely, it’s about having the foresight not to get close enough to running out of something that creates an emergency by topping up when the opportunity arrises.

With full fuel tanks (diesel, petrol, and propane), full water tanks, and recent provisioning, we should be able to go at least a month or more before needing to replenish something (with the obvious exception of fresh produce).  

And yet, time and time again, we find ourselves most concerned about fresh water.

The two hundred gallon capacity of our tanks sounds endless.  

At one gallon per person per day, that would last three months… Spartan.  Basically, minimal drinking/cooking water and cleaning everything with salt water.  We know people who do it but it amounts to survival living.  

At the average dirt dweller’s consumption rate of one hundred gallons per day per person, we’d run out of water every day… silly.

Five or six gallons per day for both of us, our current average fresh water consumption rate living aboard Exit, affords us some luxuries within frugal constraints, and also makes water a monthly concern.

Not a problem in places like the United States, where free potable water can be obtained from a spigot on every dock.  

Our travels through the Bahamas became our first initiation into the reality of having to buy the drinking water we were filling our tanks with.  

Without city-plumbed drinking water, fresh water wells or reverse osmosis watermakers are a very limited commodity.  We found that, when available, marinas would charge anywhere from twenty to fifty cents per gallon. Not cheap… but still available.  

And understandable, when you have multi-million dollar pleasure boats wasting hundreds of gallons of fresh water to clean the salt off their decks.

However, as we explore areas with less and less development, even obtaining drinking water becomes a bigger and bigger issue. 

The water from a tap is simply not potable, and drinking water is bought only by the bottle.

We thought rain catch would be the answer.

In theory… a no brainer.

In practice… at best, we’ve not been able to collect even half of our consumption over the course of a month.  More like ten to fifteen percent has been the average over a year’s time.  With different geographical rain patterns or better rain catch methods that might change; but for now… it is what it is.

Which leaves us:

1. Carrying free water as far as needed when available
2. Buying water when necessary
3. Scrambling to catch never enough rain when it falls from the sky
4. Living with self-imposed militant water restrictions
5. Potentially dying of thirst in the middle of the ocean
6. Considering the alternatives…

When we purchased Exit, there was already an installed watermaker aboard.  It was a French made Aquaset… twenty five years old… looked almost unused… rated at twenty gallons of fresh water production per hour (seriously high capacity for its size)… listed as needing service by the previous owner.

Turns out water makers don’t like to sit unused for long periods and we eventually learned this one hadn’t been turned on in over fifteen years.

Still, we didn’t give up. 

Optimistically, we left the rather massive contraption in place, undisturbed in the engine compartment and under the floor, where it had resided for a quarter century, largely sight unseen.

Numerous people who know far more about electrical, mechanics, and watermakers in particular, said this is a serious watermaker, but it’s not gonna be worth trying to revive… shit.

Apparently, the watermaker was rated to run on 350V (which the original generator on Exit must have been)…maird.  Those crazy French.

It would cost at least a thousand dollars in parts, filters, and membranes (not including any labor) to find out if the Aquaset would ever make water again.  At that point, it could cost another two or three times that to get it fully functional… shit. 

Or it could be pronounced dead on arrival… shit.

*****

Salinity in ocean water is measured as TDS (total dissolved solids) in parts per million (ppm).  Though it takes salinity levels of about 1000ppm to actually taste the salt, anything above 750ppm is unhealthy for drinking.  The World Health Organization considers water to be potable, if total TDS do not exceed 750ppm. 

Desalination of water on a scale compatible with daily use requires specialized pumps and filters, adequate power, adequate space, religious maintenance, and a healthy bank account (this intentionally excludes hand held survival watermaker products here – if you are afloat on a life raft, pumping by hand for hours to make water is considered survival; if you are trying to wash dishes, it is a ridiculous life style choice…).  

Replacement options were daunting… $5-10k were numbers that were bouncing around… the appeal of 12-volt systems seemed obvious – our solar panels would recover the battery draw; but 12V water makers either generate much less fresh water or have much higher energy consumption… 230V would give us maximum volume of production without the battery concerns but would force us to use the very generator we were trying to minimize feeding more diesel to… at least 12V could rely on the solar when available but fall back on the generator to charge batteries if needed… unless the power drain was too much… or the output so low the watermaker had to be run for hours every day… watermakers ranging from three to thirty amps of electrical draw… watermakers ranging from two to twenty gallons of hourly production… arrrrrrgh!

Lots of info… no clear choices… everything is a compromise… easier to not make a decision and keep your money in your pocket for now… 

… and deal with monthly fresh water concerns…

… still on Long Island… time to move on…

… but the Jumentos and Ragged Islands have no water available… sigh.

Enter the mysterious stranger… the unforeseen variable… the wild card… circumstance… the hand of Fate…

A passing comment from Jay over a week earlier regarding a used watermaker having recently been sold at Salt Pond’s local hardware and marine equipment store prompted us to inquire about used watermakers when we stopped by to ask about fishing spears.

After being introduced to Craig Fox, a Salt Pond local resident as well as owner and manager of Seafarer Marine Supply, we learned that, yes indeed, he did happen to have a used watermaker that had just become available.

The 2015 Spectra Newport 400 MKII, a 12-volt system well beyond anything we would have remotely considered new, had been installed aboard a boat that was the unlucky recipient of a lightning strike in Florida.  After an insurance settlement that replaced the entire system, the previous owner (a good friend of Craig Fox) gave the system to Craig hoping that he could sell it and maybe make a little money.  Craig refurbished the fried system with an entire new electrical board, DC motor, and membrane.  Though $12,000 new, this particular used 2015 model was priced lower than a lesser performing model we might have considered.

Spectra has a reputation for manufacturing some of the quietest operating watermakers in production.  Furthermore, at about one amp of energy consumption for every gallon of fresh water produced, Spectra watermakers are among the most energy efficient on the market.

Around fifteen gallons of fresh water produced per hour; enough to not be making water for hours and hours every day… perfect.

And, to top it all off, the Newport incorporates an automated fresh water flushing system.  After a session of making water, it back flushes approximately seven gallons of the fresh water it has just produced through the filters and membrane, cleaning out all of the salt water.  This procedure extends the life of a $500 membrane from one year to as much as a decade or even more. 

Normally, a watermaker that isn’t run for three days has to be “pickled” (a process involving chemicals which has to be followed religiously to prevent the membrane and filters from going bad).  Fresh water flushing the system every five days prevents the need to use or “pickle” the system every three days, making it more foolproof, simple and less prone to membrane deterioration.

It had the potential to nearly pay for itself in saved membrane replacement costs alone… sweet.

Realizing the necessity for having a watermaker aboard was more of process to reach that realizing the necessity for solar power.  Still, in the end, a year’s experience delivered us to that conclusion. 

We knew it was going to happen… it was just a matter of when.

Now, once again, circumstances seem to have landed us on the doorstep of our dear old friend Opportunity.

And so, after what could more accurately be described as a year long process rather than an isolated discussion, we decided to bite the bullet.

While Tami and Jay sailed for the Jumentos and Ragged Islands, we spent the following week installing a watermaker.

We were adamant that we wanted to install the new system outside of the hot environment of the engine compartment, where the previous one had been located.

Generating precious extra space in the engine compartment by removing the old watermaker, as well as some leftover bits and bobs from the original engine driven refrigeration compressor, was a bonus in and of itself, but it was a trade-off in giving up some storage space in the starboard aft berth, where we ultimately decided to locate the new system.

The task of determining where to locate the various watermaker components, relocating the contents of already full lockers now earmarked for said watermaker, running some new hoses and electrical, not to mention actually installing the new system proved much less problematic and troublesome than we anticipated.

No doubt, having the through hulls already installed and a reference from the layout of the previous watermaker made things much easier.

No doubt, having Craig’s expertise and skills proved invaluable in keeping things as painless as they turned out.

In addition, his decades of experience as a local fisherman and contractor, as well as the fact that he showed up at our boat every day in his own twenty foot skiff, meant that he had no problems doing work aboard Exit while she sat at anchor.

No docks or marinas necessary… nice.

In the end, the system integrated perfectly into what looked like part of the original boat design.  The process of switching out watermakers, all within the confined and very limited space belowdecks of a sailboat at anchor, proved daunting but achievable.

Above and beyond all of the other considerations, resides the peace of mind factor.  Creating a situation where water is no longer a monthly concern is priceless.

Not unlike the situation we found regarding installing solar on the boat: a painfully difficult upfront investment sets the stage for achieving a significant increase in self-sufficiency, while simultaneously contributing to achieving a significant decrease in stress levels.  

With the solar charging system, it was a decision that has been absolutely without regret since day one.  Hopefully the watermaker will follow in the same footsteps.

Living aboard a sailboat…

…harnessing the wind’s energy to travel…

…harvesting power from the sun…

…drinking water from the ocean…

…on the move, off the grid…

…modern primitive…

…life is good.

Heading for Thompson Bay, Long Island, Bahamas

February 28, 2019

Tomorrow is already March.

It has been exactly two years since we finished our tenure with Scuba Junkie.  Those last two years have put us on an entirely different trajectory from anything we ever could have anticipated.  We were already on an obscure orbit taking us well off the beaten path; suddenly it became an even more obscure orbit on an even less travelled path.

We’ve now been on Long Island for going on six weeks.  It’s nice for that to have been a voluntary decision.

 

After arriving at Long Island on January 17, we decided to anchor overnight at Hog Cay.

Jay and Tami, cruising friends aboard S/V Avighna whom we met last year in the Exumas, had raved about Long Island.  In fact, they were already here in one of their favorite anchorages, Joes Sound, within view of Hog Cay.

Furthermore, their good friend Ashley, who we had met last year at Georgetown, was  scheduled to arrive at Long Island in less than a week.

After the parts fiasco we had in Marsh Harbour, which resulted in our coughing up an extra US$600 to FedEx for duty fees we shouldn’t have been charged for and likely would never see returned to us, we had decided to take a different approach… smuggle the parts in via a mule.

Okay… that’s a bit of an exaggerated overstatement.

However, the reality is that any non-essential, non-engine parts shipped to the Bahamas ARE subject to 40% duty in addition to the 12% VAT tax.

That being the case, tourists traveling to the Bahamas by plane can carry virtually unlimited parts, electronics, equipment, you name it – without causing even the raising of an eyebrow.

Fortunately, since Ashley was already coming, we just had to get the highest priority items to her doorstep before she boarded the plane.  Our priority items making the list which had to be both available and portable, were:  a replacement heat exchanger tube stack (a three foot long bronze cylinder that goes in the Perkins engine cooling system), a new digital battery monitor, and another SD card for our PredictWind system (screw you Nassau Customs, where our first SD card is probably still sitting on a shelf somewhere).

We joked that Ashley would certainly be questioned by authorities… the bronze tube stack, digital display battery monitor, and SD card – looking remarkably like a metal pipe bomb, detonator, and transmitter code…

…nobody batted an eye in the end.

Go figure.

And while we can joke that Ashley was our smuggling mule, the fact is we can’t say enough about how much we appreciate her effort.  Without her assistance, a number of issues either never would have been resolved, would have cost a ridiculous amount of money to sort out, and/or would have taken stupid amounts of time to wade through.

But that is jumping well ahead.

Ashley wasn’t due to arrive for nearly a week.

We decided to take advantage of the north wind to get us the twenty or so miles south by sail to Thompson Bay and the Salt Pond community so we could explore that area of Long Island.  In a few days, when the wind shifted back to the south-east, we could return to Joes Sound to see Tami and Jay, prior to Ashley’s arrival.

Just before we left Hog Cay, Tami and Jay appeared in their dinghy, offering a welcome bottle of wine and a delicious boudin sausage.  Absolutely amazing!!!

After a brief visit, we made for Millers Bay, towards the southern side of Long Island, where we enjoyed a wide open anchorage all to ourselves.

As an added bonus, we were literally at the back door of Chez Pierre – a tiny resort and restaurant run entirely by a lovably feisty and very French-Canadian elderly gentleman with a magic touch in the kitchen.

 

The use of a rental car for a day allowed better exploration of other parts of the island and its dramatic coastline.

After a few days, we decided to head back north.

ANCIENT MARITIME EQUATION…?

On February 6th, sailing from Thompson Bay back to to Hog Cay, we stumbled upon what we could only assume was an ancient maritime equation.  It appeared that adding our current boat speed to our current depth revealed the true wind speed… hmmmm… I assume I am not the first person to have noticed this…

It doesn’t seem to always be the case… I’ll have to gather further data on this…

Coincidence…?  Ha! I think not…

Looking on the charts, the channel into Joes Sound looked scary as Hell.  The charts indicated a narrow and shallow channel with fast current, hard bottom, and less than three and a half foot low tide depth, unsuitable for boats wider than fifteen feet… certainly not for the faint of heart.

The fact that it was high tide, and we knew that S/V Avighna (a cat with far more beam than our fourteen feet two inches ) had gotten through repeatedly with no trouble, seemed of small consequence as we approached the channel, which looked tiny.

Eeek!

We had already been advised:  don’t go in at low tide; best not to go when the current is ripping either in or out; favor the rock wall on the right side which is deeper; the left looks more forgiving but is much more shallow; hug the floating marker at the end of the entrance to avoid the sandy shoal that cuts across the whole channel; once past the shoal turn quickly, it shallows up quickly on the other side.

The actual experience:  nerve-racking though uneventful… commit, then trust your instincts and what you see, and refer to the Navionics display continually.  It certainly helped that we had Tami and Jay in their dinghy just ahead of us to pilot us in our first time navigating through the channel.

Having successfully passed through the channel unscathed, we were rewarded with one of the most picturesque locations we have ever anchored in.

In short order we were also introduced to three of the key players (and really cool people) in Joes Sound:

Earl Wilson – A Joes Sound local and one of the friendliest and most kind-hearted people we’ve ever met.  Governor General, Fish & Game Warden, as well as full time caretaker of Hog Cay (privately owned by the Graham family who owns a large chunk of northern Long Island)

On a “Jeopardy Final Question” side note:

Earl was once the keyboard player for the one-hit-wonder “Baha Men”.  He accidentally cut off one of his fingers, resulting in his departure from the band, just before they landed this huge hit…  

[Sound of buzzer]… Alec… What is “Who Let The Dogs Out?” … ouch!

Pat Harris – Honorary Mayor of Joes Sound.  A New York/Long Island native who has been sailing most of his life, coming to the Bahamas for decades, and living on a pontoon houseboat in Joes Sound for a number of years in the winter.  During the summer he runs the historic sailing yacht ‘Ventura‘ in New York Harbor.

Mitch Hale – Earl’s best friend. An American farmer/rancher/hunting guide from Oklahoma who has also been coming to Long Island for decades.

Hog Cay, just south of Joes Sound, is a private island.  Earl maintains everything on the island, including a very rare flock of around four thousand nearly extinct West Indian Whistling Ducks which they protect and feed.  He has also, without a college education, installed electricity as well as an amazing reverse osmosis water system (which he kindly let us use to fill our tanks with fresh water!).

Luckily, one day Peter Graham (grandson of Mr. Graham) and Earl took us (Jay, Tami and Ashley along with another cruising boat) on a private tour of the beautifully kept up island.

On another day, we were ecstatic to hear word that a young manatee that frequented the area was in the small private harbor on Hog Cay.  Earl invited us to come over for a swim.  It was amazing!  The first manatee we have ever seen, much less swam with.  Kris named him ‘George’.  Apparently it comes by regularly to drink fresh water from the hose they have run to the edge of the dock.

Unbelievable!!!

*****

Another car rental offered the opportunity to explore areas on the northern end of Long Island.

However, when four boats made a simultaneous amphibious assault into Joes Sound on January 30th, all with the intention, it appeared, of anchoring together, the area instantly become stupidly overcrowded.  We decided it was time to pick up anchor and head south again, back to Thompson Bay for a while.

There was always dinghy access to Tiny’s Bar, which we visited on several occasions…

Tiny’s Bar!  In fact, the first time we arrived at Thompson Bay, we only had $15 in cash.  The only ATM on the entire island is thirty minutes away by car and most businesses accept only cash.

Tiny’s had $4 beers, which meant we had enough for one round.  Inevitably, after we finished those beers, the bartender/owner Jason asked if we wanted another round, prompting us to explain our cash situation.  Jason thought for a second and then walked around the corner, producing a five dollar bill he explained someone had dropped earlier and not picked up after it had been caught by a breeze.

Five hundred pennies from Heaven… sweet.

It all ended up being a moot point a short time later when Jason offered to open a tab for us so we could get dinner as well.  Hmmm… fifty dollars in credit for a couple of deadbeats at anchor in the bay who could leave more easily than get to an ATM… go figure.

A perfect example of Long Island’s hospitality.

Needless to say, we left the five dollar bill for the next thirsty cash-poor sailor… gotta pay that forward.

Other Salt Pond hospitality?

Basil Fox, has a private dock which he allows boaters unlimited access to use as a dinghy dock as well as a nearby cement structure at which cruisers can dispose of bagged rubbish absolutely free of charge… righteous.

Or, when we visited the Salt Pond liquor store, the owner left her store, and brought us back two big bowls loaded with chicken and grits from a wedding celebration BBQ across the street.

Everywhere we went on Long Island, like Cat Island, were locals who went out of their way to greet you, offer pleasantries, or provide help when possible.

And, above and beyond all that, we got a lotta shit sorted out over the past six weeks:

• Finally figured out our PredictWind weather software along with our Iridium satellite connection which will allow us to receive weather updates offshore once we’ve lost cell signal.  And what of the PredictWind SIM card we had given up on in Marsh Harbour?  A new one smuggled into the Bahamas duty- and bullshit-free by our parts mule Ashley.

• Our blog, which had been relegated to a mere laptop journal while a million other things took priority every day for two years, is finally up and running, and even nearly current.
• Replaced our engine heat exchanger tube stack (diagnosed as needing replacement in Marsh Harbour by Basil) thanks to Ashley’s hand delivery of parts to avert another engine parts duty crisis and Jay’s mechanical assistance.  Jay also helped to re-align our alternator pulley which was creating excessive amounts of belt dust.  Jay is amazing!!!
• Substantial repair of our genoa thanks to Tami and Jay’s sail repair skills and Tami’s expertise on their onboard vintage Pfaff 130 sewing machine.  The UV protective cover (which Kris had already re-sewn a year before in Port Canaveral) was coming apart again.

 

• Installed a new Victron Energy digital battery monitor (again, thanks to Ashley for the delivery and Jay for the installation guidance) which helped solve battery charging mysteries we had been experiencing ever since replacing our house battery bank.  Our old monitor continued to tell us that our new batteries weren’t taking a full charge.  Thankfully, the Victron proved that the discrepancy resided in the old monitor… not the system.  Very important considering this rather simple looking device (in actuality a quite sophisticated calculator) is our only link to monitoring our battery system.  Without close monitoring of electrical use  and current state of charge, we risk both a shortfall of electricity and reduced lifespan of very expensive batteries.

• Kris re-lashed the bimini cover after we discovered it wasn’t attached properly to the frame.

• A thorough scrubbing of the outer hull below the waterline (much easier than it was in Charleston).
• Got our visas renewed at the Long Island airstrip.  Our deadline was down to one week left on our three month visa.

Ultimately, we owe Jay and Tami a huge thanks for helping us to sort through all of our questions, insecurities, and shortfalls.  They provided not only endless advice and assistance, but also materials, tools, and hands-on demonstrations, even sailing a day out of their way to come back and perform in-the-field triage on our genoa, with the sewing machine they have aboard.  Not to mention the fact that it was a blast simply hanging out with them.

And again, a big thanks to Ashley for dealing with the hassle of bringing stuff to us.  It was great to see her again as well.

After all that, hopefully our Bahamas courtesy flag is the only thing we will need to replace in the immediate future.

I realize I probably just hexed us with that last comment…

Oh… and what to do with an old underwater camera housing chronically leaking water through the control button o-rings…?

Obviously… retire the housing…

The solution…?  Add a GoPro to the pile of things you have Ashley bringing with her from Florida… woohoo!

And, what does one do immediately after acquiring a GoPro?  Why… go up the mast, of course!

*****

Though the volume and diversity of marine life in the Bahamas would certainly not be described as abundant, the water color, clarity, and temperature still make for some worthwhile snorkeling.

One day, after being rewarded with a large crab for my spearfishing efforts following a long dinghy ride to some of the more distant reefs and bommies, Pat (who, after decades of spearfishing here, votes crab as the best tasting seafood in the Bahamas) led us up one of the mangrove creeks to explore an area worthy of a National Geographic photo spread.

And, while lacking in some marine species, the Bahamas clearly has some mahoosive sharks that seem to know exactly where the fish cleaning is done.

*****

As January turned to February, and February prepared to give way to March, we went back and forth along the Long Island coast.  Down to Salt Pond (Thompson Bay), back up to Hog, Cay, into Joes Sound, back to Salt Pond, up to Millers Bay, back to Joes Sound, back to Thompson Bay…

After spending over a month at Long Island, we found Long Island locals to have the very same endearing and unique charm we had only found just recently on Cat Island.  It was funny when we mentioned that to an American expat who stopped by the boat, we were told, “Ya, but they’re weird.  They’re into that voodoo stuff on Cat.”

Everyone’s got their own interesting take on things…

How would we sum up Long Island?

A Thompson Bay sunset…

… and an official Joes Sound toast offered by three best friends Earl, Pat, and Mitch on Valentines Day 2019…

Joes Sound Toast:

(Repeat after me)
Here’s to us!
Who’s better than us?!
Damned few!
And they’re all dead!

… and maybe a movie…

 

 

January 17, 2019

Though our shakedown cruise to the Bahamas last year was unbelievably eye-opening, inspiring, and educational for us, we were left with very mixed opinions regarding the Bahamas itself as a destination.

Thankfully, Cat Island had afforded us the opportunity in 2019 to rethink those perspectives.

After nearly two weeks, I don’t think there was a single local we crossed paths with who didn’t say hello, wave, or honk as they passed by.  Certainly among the friendliest islanders we’ve ever come across, in all our travels.

Now, we were headed to Long Island…with a tiny detour.

Just south of Cat Island the ocean depths plummet to three thousand feet less than a mile off the coastline.  Though the rest of the Atlantic Ocean in that immediate area quickly drops off to six thousand feet as you continue heading away from Cat Island, one small pinnacle climbs to within forty feet of the surface.  It is called Tartar Bank.  With the tip of this underwater mountain no more than about a half mile long and quarter mile wide, on the charts it looked mighty intriguing.

 

It reminded us of Sipadan Island, the Pinnacle of Life, in Borneo, Malaysia.

Now someday… maybe… we may reach a point that we can go scuba diving from the transom of Exit while she is underway…

That point has not arrived yet.

Too many things in the what if category that have dire consequences immediately following.

We settled for drifting over the top of the pinnacle while I snorkeled on the surface with a line nearby.

We had heard that the fishermen came out here all the time.  We had heard that researchers came here every spring to gather data on the elusive Oceanic Whitetip sharks (one of only three shark species that Jacques Cousteau admitted being nervous to dive with).

Possibly a cleaning station (like the thresher shark Mecca of Malapascua, Philippines)?  Or a feeding area?  Or a mating area?

We looked.

We saw…

…nothing.

Another time of year… maybe a big party.

Right now…?

…a whole lotta empty space.

Oh well.  We tried.

January 15, 2019

Our return to the Bahamas had begun to seem less a triumphant march and more a quiet limp.  Since leaving Annapolis, we found ourselves plagued by minor mechanical issues which, in turn, had become the source of continuous delays and frustrations.

First the alternator in Norfolk, VA… then the water pump immediately after that, once we reached the Abacos, Bahamas.  The problems have not been exceptionally severe.   However, the solutions seem to be either elusive, painfully slow, or slippery and difficult to get to the bottom of.

Add to that a lukewarm feeling about our previous Bahamas experience.

Part of that shortfall certainly resides in our previous travels which have left us with some big shoes to fill when it comes to amazing experiences.  That may leave unrealistic expectations on our part at times.

Admittedly, we have had some incredible experiences in the Bahamas.  On occasion, we have met some unbelievably friendly, hospitable, and helpful individuals.

The range of water color here certainly is unlike anything we have seen in all our travels.  However, despite the color and clarity of the water, we have largely been flabbergasted by the relative lack of marine life in most places.

Sadly, all of the mega-twats (mega-yachts), charter boats, cruise ships, not to mention the overall elusiveness of finding any kind of a unique Bahamas culture, have again and again led us to the conclusion that much of the Bahamas seemed like a giant sandbox in Florida’s backyard rather than a separate country (and I have previous expressed my affections towards everything Floridian, or Flacidian, as I prefer to say).

Like so many other places on the planet, the original inhabitants of the Bahamas (the Lucayans) paid the ultimate price for European exploration.  “The Lucayan dividend from their first contact with European man was extinction within a quarter of a century… through mass abduction into slavery, ‘white man’s’ diseases, and starvation” (Waterway Guide – The Bahamas, 2016).  Not surprising when you have aristocrats who convey the message, “with 50 men, you could subject everyone and make them do what you wished…” (Christopher Columbus, in the Bahamas, 1492).

The Bahamas family names present today are largely those descendants of either slave holders or slaves.

*****

By the time we finally worked through our water pump issues in Abacos, we were already looking to move on, utilizing the Bahamas merely as a stepping stone to get somewhere else rather than a destination in and of itself.

We had been intrigued about getting to Cat Island and Long Island last year, though they had remained just outside of our grasp.  Now they both fell within our current trajectory, so it made sense to give them a shot.

Looking back, we are so happy we made that decision.  It would not be an exaggeration to say that, for us, both Cat Island and Long Island proved to be redemption for the Bahamas.

While we could find unoccupied and isolated anchorages in other places, these were the first places we arrived at that felt truly off the beaten path.  

No mega-twats at all… in fact very few boats in general.

Remarkably friendly people… warm, welcoming, hospitable, and willing to go well out of their way to help out.

*****

CAT ISLAND

Our overnight passage from Abacos to Cat Island, which had us sailing atop 15,000 foot North Atlantic depths through squalls producing 25 knot winds and buckets of rain, seemed like a bit of a gauntlet to run… a cover charge for Cat Island, if you will.  A continual line of cruise ships on the horizon re-enforced that perspective.

Nevertheless, we made it unscathed and no worse for the wear.

The next morning, as we headed for the southern end of Cat Island, a pod of exceptionally curious and playful dolphins hung around for a very long visit, riding Exit’s bow wake and darting back and forth all around us.

Instead of stopping at the more popular (and populated) bay of New Bight, we continued another few miles to Old Bight, and anchored a thousand or so feet off the beach.  We made a conscious effort to place ourselves so we weren’t blocking the sunset view of the guests of Rollezz, the only resort on the beach for miles, which we had heard was very friendly towards cruisers.

Over the course of the following week, we learned just how much of an understatement that really was.

The entire time, we were the only boat at anchor in the bay.  In fact, the nearest boat was four miles away in New Bight.

Carl and Yvonne, the proprietors of Rollezzz, have taken a secluded slice of Cat Island and created a perfect resort retreat – a small operation run by dedicated locals with the sole intent of providing a perfect holiday experience for Cat Island’s visitors.

Thought we were not guests at the resort, we were invited on three separate occasions to stay for dinner, free of charge.  They allowed us to simply hang out at the resort; they engaged us in extended conversations; they offered rides; they helped sort out a rental car; they were absolutely amazing.

The rental car allowed us to wander freely about the island…

…as well as visit the Hermitage.  Ordained by the Church of England in the early 20th century, with a background in both theology and architecture, Father Jerome came to the Bahamas and, with bare hands and faith, set about repairing storm-devastated churches.  The Hermitage, built by Father Jerome, was where he spent the last seventeen years of his life.

There was a guest book inside.  Oddly enough, it was signed by a family from Spokane, WA, who had been there less than one month prior… small world.

Dinghy explorations to the beach or the mangroves…

Local fisherman Raynold and boat captain/police officer Kenneth helped us to pay back some of the good will offered by Rollezzz with lobsters Raynold caught free-diving to donate for the group dinner on our final night at anchor in the bay.

More than likely, we would have stayed longer, but shifting winds had now made the beach a lee shore, and swell coming from the west had nothing but open ocean to build upon.  At dinner that night in the Rollezzz restaurant area, the guests looking out at Exit joked that our mast looked like an antique pendulum-style metronome going tick-tock-tick-tock… back and forth.

We have been told on more than one occasion that our tolerance for rolling at anchor is quite high.   Yet, in this instance, one night was more than enough for us to decide to relocate to New Bight, which offered better protection.

New Bight also offered the opportunity to haul hundreds of pounds of water hundreds of yards from a filling station to our dinghy on the beach in a rather ambitious water tank top-up project…

Enjoy the local food, drink, and celebrations…

Exploration…

Sunsets…

Finally, after ten days, though we could have easily stayed much longer, we decided it was time to pick up anchor and head for French Bay, about three and a half hours away at the south end of Cat Island.  From here we could stage our departure, leaving the remaining seven and a half hours to Long Island possible to be done during daylight hours, which were still limited between 7am and 4pm.

Picking up anchor was a relatively simple task.  We were literally sitting on top of it, as though it had just been dropped off he bow roller…

Along the way we did a quick dinghy deployment to try to get a couple of shots of Exit underway… any deployment while under sail will have to be an endeavor for future consideration.

Three and a half hours later we were at anchor in French Bay.  Not another boat in sight. Private bay… private anchorage… sweet.

 

January 5, 2019 

     If I were a devoutly religious person, I might begin to brandish the notion that I am obviously being tested by a higher power… tested in my faith… tested in my resolve… tested in my something.

     But I’m not…

     If I were the President of the United States, I would decree that the Democrats and CNN are to blame for it all.

     But I’m not (thankfully)…  so I’m just gonna call it bullshit and bad luck.

     Our return to the Bahamas seemed like a triumphant victory.  We had spent the hurricane season exploring the Northeast coast, got shit done on the boat that needed doing, and managed to break free of the clutches of the U.S. once again, despite its’ best efforts to distract, delay and discourage us while simultaneously separating us from all of our money.

     After our alternator delay in Norfolk and our subsequent decision to press on rather than spend the time to sort out additional spare parts, it was certainly ironic to arrive at the Bahamas realizing that one of the first orders of business would be to sort out parts.

     The issue with leaking coolant was not an immediate emergency but it obviously needed to be dealt with more sooner than later.  Complete failure of the cooling system would make the engine inoperable and could instantly create an emergency situation.

     Living aboard a sailboat, we are continually reminded that, while a particular situation may not be that significant nor its’ resolution that painful, on a boat the process of getting from a particular situation to its’ resolution can often be significantly painful… inevitably it will, at the least, be more complicated.

     Such was the case here… baby steps… progress… delays… setbacks… frustration… baby steps… progress… delays… setbacks… frustration…

     Oftentimes I find it quite difficult to convey the essence of some of these logistical minefields.  The following is a blow by blow account of the whole process as it unfolded.  This is how a rather minor problem with our engine morphed and evolved, eventually turning into a nearly six week ordeal to resolve:

11/21:

• • Arrive at Powell Cay from Norfolk, VA just as the sun is setting

11/22:

• • Chill out recovering from five day offshore passage & wait for milder wind conditions to move

11/23 – 11/25:

• • Move 14 nautical miles to Green Turtle Cay as it has the easiest access to Customs/Immigration which must be cleared before doing anything

• Have to brave 20-30kt winds in dinghy to clear Customs/Immigration on Friday so we wouldn’t have to wait through the weekend for them to re-open… EEEK!  (Side note: got hit with unanticipated charge of $300 for new cruising permit because we hadn’t returned within 90 days of leaving Bahamas… ouch!)
• Start diagnosing engine coolant leak (a much slower process when trying to avoid completely disabling engine allowing for a potential emergency move if needed)
• Awaiting calmer winds to get to Marsh Harbour which will have better overall facilities available
• Side note: Kris has managed to access an ESPN Internet feed allowing us to stream today’s WSU Cougar football game through our stereo… Go Cougs!

11/26:

• • Move 23 nautical miles to Marsh Harbour
  • Further diagnostics today and the following day convinces me that the freshwater coolant circulating pump is ultimately the source of the problem (again, this is a slow process based upon a reluctance to completely disassemble everything leaving us unable to run the engine in an emergency).  The realization that replacing the water pump would require removal of the timing belt and numerous pulleys put this beyond my scope of comfort.  Part of our learning evolution is realizing when you are in too deep to go it alone… time to bring in outside help.

11/28:

• • We contact a Bahamian named Basil based upon multiple recommendations that he is the best diesel mechanic in Marsh Harbour.  He is available to come to the boat on the 30th.

11/30:

• • Basil comes out via our dinghy and confirms the water pump is, in fact, the problem.

12/1:

• • Parts are ordered from Trans Atlantic Diesel in the U.S.   They estimate 3 day delivery to Marsh Harbour.

12/4 – 12/11:

• • Parts arrive in Nassau – this is the start of an excruciatingly slow Customs/Duty clearance
  • Multiple calls made to FedEx over the next week by Kris to arrange required paperwork (which, incidentally,  was already attached to the outside of the box), and sort out endless bullshit that prevented Customs from releasing the package.  No amount of jumping ahead of potential problems by providing documentation in advance or chasing down issues with multiple phone calls seemed to accelerate this brain-numbing process.
  • Multiple weather fronts roll through Marsh Harbour.  Over the course of the following week, we clock more than 720 degrees at anchor due to wind changes
  • Side note:  During this time Kris ordered an SD card for a satellite connection allowing us to get weather updates offshore.  The card is shipped from Europe and is mistakenly shipped to Turks and Caicos.  After Kris receives a call from the accidental recipient, the card is put back on a plane to Nassau.  It appears that, despite the mis-ship, the SD card may reach us before the engine parts.

12/12:

• • FedEx tracking indicates engine parts to arrive Marsh Harbour by 6pm today

12/13:

• • Three mile walk to FedEx office (they don’t deliver to a boat at anchor).  Turns out parts didn’t get on the plane in Nassau… come back tomorrow.
  • The silver lining:  ridiculously tasty ribs and a fully loaded baked potato from a local food shack.

12/14:

• • Parts are actually in our hands after our second three mile walk to FedEx in 24 hours.  This includes some additional spare parts we opted to acquire while available (see… we’re learning).  Parts cost is approximately US$900…
  • PLUS an additional $700 duty on the FedEx bill… holy shit!  The official FedEx line is there was no clear indication this was a necessary part for our engine despite all the documentation and explanations to the contrary (a part necessary for our engine to run is exempt from all duty and should only be charged the 12% VAT tax).  Kris would initiate a refund claim that still had not been resolved three weeks later.

12/15:

• • Basil came on Saturday and partially finished repair.  At Basil’s request, we have moved Exit into a slip at one of the marinas.  Understandably, the risk of bringing out tools on a dinghy as well as a more readily available access to getting on and off the boat for potential trips to the hardware store or other possible scenarios makes this request seem most reasonable.

12/16:

• • Sunday – no work day

12/17:

• • Basil finishes pump replacement but we have to wait 24 hrs for sealant to set before starting engine

12/18:

• • Start engine and everything seems good
  • Celebration pizza at Snappa’s Grill

12/19 – 12/22:

• • Big wind blows though with 25+kt winds over next couple of days
  • We make the mistake of sitting through this tied up in the marina.   Taking it up the ass with our stern to the waves made for a very uncomfortable few days.  The idea that being tied to a dock in a marina provides extra security is largely a myth.  The boat is trapped in a slip, secured with multiple lines that prevent it from banging around like a pinball.  Swinging freely at anchor, bow to the wind, is almost always going to be a better situation as long as you have adequate chain out and room to swing (lesson learned).
  • Sometimes you just have to go with the flow…

12/23:

• • Move 20 nautical miles to Spencers Bight anticipating heading offshore for Christmas

• After setting anchor, it becomes apparent that we still have an engine problem.  A quick inspection reveals that the timing belt has shifted so that it is hanging a quarter inch over the edge of the gears it runs on and is now melting a track through the timing case cover.  Big problem… shit!

12/24:

• • A call goes out to Basil.  He offers to drive to Little Harbour, which is five miles away from our current location but the closest point at which we can pick him up by dinghy.  Trying to be courteous of the holidays, we tell him to wait until after Christmas.  As it turns out, Basil is unavailable to come the day after Christmas, and an increase in winds means we can’t get to Little Harbour until the 29th.  Consequently, we sit out a wind storm that reaches 35 knot wind speeds (the biggest we’ve ever seen at anchor) in completely exposed conditions with a largely disabled engine.  More than a bit daunting; nevertheless, Exit performs brilliantly and keeps us perfectly safe.  Ironically, it was probably more stressful in the Marsh Harbour marina with lesser winds. The only casualty – our snubber (which acts as a shock absorber between the anchor chain and boat) took quite a beating and ended up barely making it through the storm.

• The pleasant distraction from it all with Christmas celebration: fondue (and steak for Steve), eggnog with Kraken rum (yum!) and cinnamon rolls with rum frosting (yum-yum!) topped off with a laptop showing of the classic The Grinch That Stole Christmas (the original, of course) and holiday greetings from family and our old Scuba Junkie friends Ewan and Lydia (who just got engaged!!!) in SE Asia… nice.

---

12/29:

• • To Little Harbour mid-day

12/30:

• • Sunday, no work done

12/31:

• • Basil comes out but can’t sort things out entirely o the boat.  The crankshaft gear is not aligning properly on the crankshaft causing the timing belt issues.  He brings crank pulley and gear back to his shop to try to better determine the cause of the misalignment.

1/1:

• • Basil unavailable today. We decide to get the hell off the boat for a New Years celebration and go for a dinghy excursion/picnic into the mangroves for the day.

1/2:

• • Basil successfully reassembles everything.  After some wrestling and adjusting, the engine starts and runs perfectly.  He doesn’t want to charge us for the extra two days but we insist on giving him $100 for each of the two days he came to Little Harbour.  Despite the crankshaft misalignment issue, we feel that Basil has been very accommodating in his schedule to help us out, very capable in his work, very friendly to deal with, and very fair in what he has charged us.

1/3:

• • Engine is officially sorted out.  Hallelujah!!!!  We move 2.5 miles to Lynyard Cay to reduce the swell we are feeling from a shift in the wind

1/4:

• • Move another 2.5 nautical miles back to Spencers Bight to stage for our offshore jump to get the hell out of the Abacos… finally.

1/5:

• • Heading offshore for overnight passage to get to Cat Island, which we were unable to reach last year.
  • Side note:  As for the SD card that we thought would arrive before our engine parts – it’s still sitting in Nassau Customs.  Kris’ many phone calls have all been frustratingly unsuccessful at getting the card released.  In the end… fuck it.  We left it behind.  Maybe we can get this sorted out from elsewhere but our recent experiences with Customs leaves us with little optimism and a rather cynical aftertaste on our tongues.

*****

     Overall, a rather benign engine issue that resulted in six weeks of wading through bad luck and bullshit to finally resolve.  December 2018 will certainly go down in the books as Livin’ the Dream…

The big bonus of all this…?  Lots of stuff checked off the to-do list during all the down time – gearbox and engine oil change, fuel and oil filter changes, re-varnishing in the salon, expansion of Kris’ multi-planter garden, baking bread, and a plethora of other bits and bobs… there’s always a positive in there somewhere, even if you have to dig a bit to find it.

 

December 9, 2018

A week at anchor in Norfolk, VA sorting out engine charging issues ultimately led to us replacing our alternator.  In light of that, we considered securing a spare fresh water coolant pump, starter motor, and fuel lifting pump before leaving the States again.

Instead we seized a less than optimal weather window and made an offshore break straight for the Bahamas.  Light and erratic winds made for a lot more diesel consumption than we would have liked; but better than crazy wind and storms which we seem to have just missed.

The thirty-plus knot winds that hit the day after our arrival at Powell Cay, Abaco confirmed that we had just threaded the needle.

Unfortunately, during our five day passage en route to the Bahamas, coolant leaking into the bilge heralded the last gasps of our fresh water pump… of course.

On the upside, while underway we had the privilege of seeing humpback whales, green turtles, pods of Atlantic Bottlenose and a pod of Spinner dolphins riding our bow wake, as well as a Mola Mola (Sunfish) hanging out at the surface… amazing!

Unique firsts?  Pausing for a quick bath while adrift in 15,000 feet of water… our own private three mile deep bath tub.

Not to mention a mysterious floating balloon ball we happened across.  We never determined exactly what this strange thing was doing hovering just above the surface, but we dubbed it the “CF is awesome” space debris after a message someone had scribbled on the underside of the balloon.

Two weeks at anchor in Marsh Harbour to sort out parts and repair our water pump is not ideal.  However, we have friends who weren’t able to get out at the same time we did, and they’re still waiting for a favorable forecast to make the jump.

It is said that live aboard cruising is a synonymous with repairing your boat in exotic locations.  Not sure Marsh Harbour qualifies as an exotic location but, hey… it’s not Norfolk!

November 12, 2018 

     One year ago today we made the bold statement, as we were setting out from Back Creek bundled in layers of clothing covered by our brand new and yet untested West Marine foul weather gear, that we would never be caught sailing so late in the Chesapeake again.  

     We only got out four days earlier this year… never say never.

     After successfully launching Exit concluding our first haul out, we took the painful step of making a left hand turn instead of a right as we departed the channel leading away from Herrington Harbour North.  

     Which meant we were going north, not south.

     Though the facilities at HHN were impeccable, its’ remote location made provisioning runs without a car impossible, and it seemed we had begun to wear out our welcome regarding courtesy rides from the office staff. 

     Back Creek was only a day away and made a lot more sense for final provisioning.

     Finally, on November 8, with fuel and water tanks full, food lockers re-stocked, and a sexy new bottom (on Exit, that is) which we did not plan on seeing again until we reached warmer water, we set out from Back Creek and didn’t drop our anchor again until we reached Norfolk, VA. nearly twenty four hours later.

     Sailing non-stop to Norfolk meant we got there in a day instead of the week we spent nonchalantly meandering there last year.

     Taking into consideration that we were in the Chesapeake Bay rather than the open ocean and we had not seen winds greater than twelve knots since we weighed anchor at Back Creek, we decided to forego our own rule of putting a reef in the mainsail for the night.

     Our typical philosophy was that, though the reefed main generally cost us about one knot of speed, a situation in which building winds during the night required us to put in a reef would force the off-watch person out of bed to help out (overnight we don’t leave the cockpit go on deck while underway in anything but the most benign conditions if the off-watch person is sleeping).  The resulting ten or so miles lost overnight with the main reefed was worth the peace of mind and better rest.

     As the winds that night kicked up to twenty knots and the seas became exceptionally sloppy, I found myself noting a reminder in the log book… Reef at night, damn it!

     As we cleared the Norfolk inlet channel into Hampton Roads Harbor the following morning, we found ourselves once again approaching Willoughby Bay (or The Hornets’ Nest as we had dubbed it last year) and the narrow channel leading into it that Kris had repeatedly vowed never to pass through again after our previous encounter with the wonky-placed marker and the muddy bottom.  Except this time, we had a twenty knot wind on our beam that would be trying to push us sideways.  

     We agreed that, with such a tiny margin for error at the shoaling spot, it was foolish to try to navigate the channel given the conditions.  Even if we followed our previous track exactly, and the shoaling hadn’t shifted in the past year, the wind on our beam would make it virtually impossible to hold a course at the slow speed we’d be traveling. 

     Without another anchorage option and little chance of the wind diminishing anytime soon, we’d have to find an alternative route into Willoughby Bay.

     Our Navionics chart indicated a small channel existed on the west side of the bay, paralleling the shore alongside the Navy Base, though as we approached it, we were hard pressed to identify any markers.  We decided a blind entrance into the wind was preferable to the side winds we’d encounter in the other channel.

    So, with rain pelting down in twenty knot winds, Exit bucked and bounced through the chop as we creeped slowly along the channel, straining to see the next marker in front of us.

     Tense… but uneventful.

     Thirty minutes later, we were swinging on our anchor in almost the exact same spot we were nearly a year ago.

     During our last running of the engine, we had realized that we weren’t getting any charge to our house batteries.  The solar panels and generator seemed to be working fine; it was just the engine charging that seemed to be lacking.  Further diagnostics ruled out possible suspects until I was left with the conclusion that it had to be the alternator.

     Of course, with the weekend upon us, we were in limbo until Monday.  On a boat, it’s almost always about the waiting.

     After gaining permission from a nearby marina to tie up our dinghy Monday morning, an Uber ride placed us at the front door of an electrical shop.  Their bench test of the alternator revealed that just about everything inside was fried.

     Time for a new alternator.  Fortunately, they had one on the shelf.

     Unfortunately, they didn’t have a starter for us to get as a spare as well.  We have been struggling with the notion of just how many spare parts we should be carrying.  Exit already had shitloads of spares aboard when we purchased her, and we feel like we are better equipped with spare parts than most.  Yet, still, there is always the sense that we should have an extra one of these, or a spare one of those… just in case.  

     Ironically, this feeling seems to intensify after a breakdown… especially a breakdown for which we didn’t already have a spare, which inevitably takes at least a week to sort out.

     On the other end of that tug of war rope is the difficulty of arranging deliveries. We don’t anticipate a week long delay so we don’t start the process early.  By the time a week has passed and we realize we could have arranged a delivery, it’s too late to start.  Hence, we tend to snatch up what’s available at a given time, and always have a long list to refer to when the opportunity arises. 

     The never ending circle… limited space and money for spare parts… having a spare part aboard seems to dictate that part will never break… the part that breaks inevitably will be one you don’t have a spare for… every breakdown prompts a review of the list of spares present/needed… every delay caused by a breakdown reminds you how much you want to be moving again… every time you get moving you have to make do with what you have onboard… rinse and repeat.

     We got pretty lucky with the alternator.  The parts were in stock locally, reasonably priced, and we were able to complete all the diagnostics and repairs without the expense of bringing in a mechanic.  Even so, the process took about a week to sort out, from start to finish.

     Instead of sitting around for another week waiting on additional spare parts, the decision to get moving again once the alternator was switched out was fairly easy to reach.  Especially here in the Hornets’ Nest, which is a central hub for activity if you’re a naval helicopter doing exercises, but not remotely near anything a visiting person on foot could possibly need or want.   

     Waiting out crap weather for a couple of days gave us time to finally narrow down the endless choices we faced  until we were left with two immediate options to choose between.

    Ultimately, our goal of accessing the Pacific Ocean via the Panama Canal seemed premature to shoot for in the short term.  Crossing the Canal is a February to May prospect, and this seemed like too soon a commitment to enter the vastness of the Pacific Ocean for our experience level.  Maybe next season…

     Heading back through the Bahamas towards the Caribbean, getting as far east as the prevailing winds would allow, with the intent of working our way back towards Central America to get south of the hurricane belt by July seemed appealing.  It also left Puerto Rico, Cuba, Haiti, and Jamaica as options to explore if the winds simply would not cooperate with a southeastern trajectory to the Caribbean islands.  

     Minimize the limits and maximize the options… perfect.

     So… Option One was to inch south down the ICW, debating the perfect location, wind and weather conditions to jump across the Gulf Stream back to the Bahamas.  We could continue to utilize opportunities to restock provisions and acquire spare parts… essentially keep spending money.

     Option Two was to take advantage of the small space between schizophrenic storm fronts which seem to be prevalent right now, jumping straight off from Cape Hatteras to make a break for the Bahamas from the north instead of eventually from the west.  The winds were forecasted as light and erratic which would probably mean more motoring than we’d like.  On the other hand, big winds and fierce conditions around Cape Hatteras and Cape Fear were much more concerning to us than no wind at all, so it looked like our chances of getting pummeled were minimal.

With the risk for high winds off Hatteras being minimal, one of the biggest challenges would be deciding where to cross the Gulf Stream, which widened considerably and became much more erratic just off Cape Hatteras.  If we were really lucky, it looked as though we could even possibly catch the advantage of a favorable minor countercurrent pushing south towards the Bahamas once we crossed 33ºN.

     The relentless storm fronts and inconsistent winds we’d been experiencing already made Option One seem like an arduous undertaking; it would take forever to work our way south.  Option Two was the obviously appealing choice; quick and direct.  But once we cleared Cape Hatteras, there was a lot of empty space to cover.  We’d be two to three hundred miles offshore in an ocean two to three miles deep… daunting.  Five to six days estimated.  There would be no where to duck into if the weather turned surly.

     Not a perfect weather window for sailing but as close to a guarantee as we could hope for in the weather forecasts that no major front would be passing between the Chesapeake Bay and the Bahamas for the next seven days. 

     Small window… big commitment…  

     Option Two it is.

 

October 13 – November 3, 2018 

     Herrington Harbour North.  

     Never say never.

     We said we’d learned our lesson about being in Maryland in November last year.

     We certainly didn’t envision being back on the hard at Herrington Harbour North.

     Now, fourteen months after first splashing Exit, things have come around full circle again.  Once again, Exit sits awkwardly atop stands with a ladder tied to her transom in the same gravel parking lot, less than one hundred feet from the exact spot she occupied when we lived aboard her for six weeks last July and August.

     We are learning that the real challenge to a successful haul out does not necessarily depend upon blindly ticking off a pre-determined list of tasks.  That would be the approach of boat owners with either deep pockets, or an end goal of working on their boat rather than sailing it.

     The real challenge is getting in and out quickly, as money begins to hemorrhage from everywhere the moment you arrive at the marina.

     Inevitably, closer inspections will turn up some surprises.  It becomes very easy to spiral into a cycle of pouring more and more money at something or getting bogged down with a list that continues to grow.  So, priorities have to be determined and evolve along the way with constant re-evaluations.

     For us, the top priority was checking for any signs of corrosion below the waterline on the aluminum hull, and getting any suspicious areas sanded down to bare metal.  Mild surface corrosion could then be covered with epoxy barrier coats before applying the final coats of anti-fouling paint.  More serious areas of corrosion would have to be discussed.

     With Exit now out of the water, we could get a better look at things.  Looking out from behind a mask underwater doesn’t tend to offer the best perspective of clarity.  On stands however, after a serious power spray, a much clearer picture begins to emerge.

    As we inspected the hull, we were surprised to find more spots of surface corrosion than we had addressed last year, but relieved that, overall, everything appeared very mild.  

     We found ourselves temporarily being sucked towards the black hole of financial implosion as we considered our options.  

     Option one: pay someone $4000 to soda blast the entire hull, $4000 to apply one coat of epoxy and anti-foul paint, and another couple thousand to have the stripes repainted… undeniably sexy… grand total over $10,000 right there… yowsa!

     Option two: do it ourselves.  Live with the condition of the painted stripes above the waterline for now.  Mostly cosmetic… they could be dealt with later.  Sand down all corrosion spots below the waterline by hand and scuff the rest of the paint.  Four barrier coats of epoxy and four coats of anti-fouling paint instead of one… grand total $2000 in paint with another $1000 in incidentals… sold.

     As we resisted the gravitational pull of the financial vacuum, we had to resist the expensively easy way out and re-prioritize our list to address structural corrosion while ignoring the more cosmetic aspects.  

     Repeatedly, strength and safety became our threshold for maintenance and preventative expenses.  If it added to Exit’s strength and reliability, we were more flexible in our budget restrictions.  Anything that simply looked pretty was heavily scrutinized, and rarely made the cut.

     Getting zincs attached to the hull was also at the top of the priority list.  But, with my aluminum welding experience being equal to my experience performing brain surgery, bringing in an outside expert was the only option we considered.  We were lucky enough to have Quentin of Quentin Fabrications available on short notice who made quick work of the fabricating and welding tasks, as well as touched up the single corrosion point deemed suspicious enough to warrant a quick fill with his welder.

     Having Quentin ponder how a twenty six year old boat with no zincs on the hull could have so little corrosion was entertaining.  Having him tell us – if the spot he just finished touching up was the most severe corrosion on the hull we had nothing to worry about – now that was most reassuring.  In fact, he said most of the corrosion points I asked him to look at had only about a third of the pitting that would cause the Coast Guard to demand repairs on a commercial passenger vessel.  Well done Garcia…

     A couple of hours and a couple of hundred dollars later, we had the aluminum tabs for a large zinc on either side of the skeg and two additional smaller zincs on the upper forward edge of the centerboard.  

     Future peace of mind.

     Tim and Paula, whom we met here the previous year, stopped by regularly, pointing out things on Exit that either needed immediate attention or generally questioning the wisdom of performing various tasks given the day’s temperature, or humidity, or wind.  Tim and Paula were just about to wrap up their seventh year working on their boat which sat on stands on the hard at Herrington Harbour North, before heading back to Alaska for the winter… launch date still to be solidified.

     Our spirits were dogged.  Our determination was steadfast. 

     Get in and out quickly.

     Most of the things on the to-do list could be dealt with while the boat was in the water, and we had learned quickly that the list never really shortens.

     Our only brief distraction came in the form of a mandatory hiatus to celebrate Kris’ fiftieth birthday.  With our lifelong friends Shannan and Vicki Schulhauser flying over from Washington State to spend an extended weekend with us in Annapolis, we decided to delay the timing of our launch.

     Instead of sailing to Annapolis to meet them, allowing us time to get only one coat of anti-fouling paint applied, we left Exit on the hard and took a boat-break for the weekend.  Sadly, this meant that, for the second time in as many visits, we would be unable to get Shannan and Vicki out for a sail on Exit.  It will happen… someday.

     Nevertheless, thanks to Shannan and Vicki for the epic land-based party… though my gut and my liver always seem to come out severely desecrated!

     Returning to Exit after a long needed weekend away from the boatyard, we set out to complete the task at hand… get the final coats of paint applied to the underside, get launched, and get moving south again. 

     The days when the sun shown were still quite temperate.  But the days grow shorter, and the nights are getting long; seems like we’re running out of time (sounds remarkably like a Triumph song).

     The frigid East Coast winter temperatures were banging loudly at the door.  We just needed to stay focused and make efficient use of our time to get back in the water.

October 12, 2018

     Hurricane Michael, a Category 4 whopper, had already blasted through Florida with recorded winds of up to 155 knots, just 2 knots shy of making it officially a Category 5 hurricane, leaving complete destruction and utter chaos in its wake.  It worked its way inland up the eastern seaboard, slowly losing steam but still wrecking havoc along the way.

     We had moved from the southern anchorage just outside of Annapolis into Back Creek.  Even now, days after the conclusion of the Annapolis Boat Show, there were still boats at anchor everywhere.  

     Our rule had always been to resist anchoring in overcrowded areas, preferring the solitude and security of wide open spaces over the social opportunities and accessibility conveniences of more densely packed anchorages and marinas.

     Over the course of the past fourteen months, our ground tackle had repeatedly proven its worth in reliability; our experiences to date had made us confident in Exit’s ability to handle everything that had been thrown at her.

     Before moving to Back Creek, we had successfully completed the unenviable and expensive, though necessary, task of replacing all six of our house bank batteries.  After nine months of nearly complete solar independence from our generator with regards to battery charging, we had recently found ourselves needing to run the generator again just to keep up with the quickly depleting bank.

     The 12 volt batteries, which were gasping their last breaths, had begun registering minimum voltages of less than 9 volts, barely enough to keep the equipment running. The technical term would be garbage, I believe.  Our windlass, a power hog drawing a staggering 70-100 amps for the brief intervals it is needed to bring up the anchor and chain, started requiring us to run the engine for a bit of time before engaging, or it just groaned, barley moving the chain in a power deficit protest.

     We were fortunate enough to have arranged the four hundred pounds of batteries to be dropped off at a marina very nearby, allowing us to deliver the old batteries and pick up the new ones via our dinghy.  Not easy, but doable.

Now that the batteries had been replaced, everything seemed to be completely functional and all was back to normal.

     Yet, we needed to accomplish a number of other shopping tasks, and Back Creek seemed like a much easier location to work from.

     Plus, there was the residual weather of Hurricane Michael, headed in our direction.  The forecasts predicted 35 knot winds could be rolling through.  Just south of us winds were forecasted to be as high as 40-50 knots, so we hoped the projected trajectory was accurate and we would only be subjected to the outside edge of the storm.

     Our experience had been that the protection Back Creek provided could reduce wind velocities by fifty percent, which was a very appealing prospect.

     So, with some trepidation, we chose to disregard our own rule of avoiding anchoring in tight quarters in favor of an attempt to reduce our exposure to winds in excess of thirty knots (or higher if the storm shifted farther north).

     Admittedly, we were way too close for our own liking to the boat to our port side as well as too close to the boat slips of the marina directly behind us.  

     We were in just over eight feet of water, allowing us a 5:1 scope.  Not ideal, but we had ridden out thirty knot winds on only a 3:1 scope at Block Island when we had to anchor in water forty feet deep.  We trusted our Rocna anchor and oversized half inch chain to keep us in place.  Still, we decided to keep an anchor watch throughout the night, just to be sure.

    By 4:00am, the winds seemed to have topped out at about twenty three knots, and we hadn’t dragged an inch.  It seemed like all was well.

     However, we noticed that the sailboat anchored to our port side seemed even closer than before… uncomfortably close.  They didn’t appear to be dragging at all, so we suspected that they had decided to put out more chain as the winds picked up.

     With only about twenty feet of separation between our bow and their stern as they swung in front of us, I kept climbing into the cockpit every five or ten minutes to take a look… unnerving, but still unchanging.  We weren’t about to try to lift anchor and relocate in the dark with twenty-plus knot winds in tight quarters; and, after more than six hours with no problems, complacency won out over action.

     Just as I was just about to wake Kris to take over the watch, things went to shit in a matter of seconds.

     As near as we could later reconstruct what happened next, it appeared the sailboat on our left swung completely across our bow in a shifting gust of wind.  Because they were only twenty feet in front of us, thirty feet of our anchor chain was now stretched underneath them.  

     They had to have a draft of nearly six feet, which meant that with only eight feet of water depth, there couldn’t have been more than two feet of water beneath them.

     Either their keel or rudder must have tagged our chain as they passed over it, tripping our anchor.  Instantly, we were drifting backwards.

     Immediately, I woke Kris and we started the engine, but things were already moving in a blur.

     Before we could power forward, we were on top of the outer pilings of the boat slips behind us, sideways against three posts.

     Kris was at the stern and I was at midship, desperately trying to push us off the pilings, but the wind kept shoving us back onto them.

     The tip of an anchor, protruding from the bow roller of a boat in one of the slips, was caught on the inside of our lifeline, and our bow was in serious jeopardy of slipping behind another piling which would have trapped us and shoved us straight into the bow of another boat.

     A third boat, whose deck stood about two feet above ours, also had a massive protruding anchor which threatened to either hang up on our stern rail, catch our arch (which the solar panel rack, our radar, and a host of electronics antennas were mounted upon), or tear our rail mounted solar panel clean off.

     Kris moved her hand out of the way only a fraction of a second before it would have been either amputated or crushed between the anchor and our arch.

     As she fought to power Exit forward, I struggled to push us off and keep our bow from slipping behind the outer pilings and into the docked boats just ahead.

    As I repeated a combination of shit..shit…shit, no…no…no, come on…come on…come on, Exit swung out and forward, barely missing the bow roller of the furthest projecting boat in front of us by mere inches.  A crunch emanated from just in front of me as the plastic lens of our navigation light, attached to our bow railing, was torn off by the pulpit railing of the boat in the slip.

     We were finally free of the slip pilings and docked boats, but our anchor and chain were still out, and I battled to pull them up with the windlass before they caught on something, denying us any control. 

     With both of us exhausted and rather terrified, Kris perilously maneuvered in the darkness between the other boats at anchor, mooring balls, and markers while I tried to help direct us and figure out an escape route.  All the while, the twenty-plus knot winds continued to try to push us back into a catastrophic tangle of destruction.

     Eventually, we were able to thread our way through into a small clearing, but still had extremely limited steering ability.

     We angled towards another row of boat slips on the other side of the creek.  This current location was somewhat more protected, so we weren’t fighting the wind nearly as much, but it really didn’t have the space we needed.   At best, if we could get the anchor to set, we’d have a temporary sanctuary we could use to catch our breath and regroup.  

     But we found ourselves slipping backwards, repeatedly having to motor forward as we drifted dangerously close to the yachts on the opposite side of the creek, clearly demonstrating that the anchor wasn’t setting.  The usual rock solid dependability of our Rocna anchor came up short twice.

     As we hauled in the chain again after the second failed attempt, a gruff voice, apparently originating from the window of one of the boats in a slip just in front of us called out in the darkness.  

     Hey, you can’t anchor there.

     More than a bit stressed, I snapped back in a rather perturbed voice, I realize that.  We’re just trying to temporarily hold position so we can regroup to get through to the morning.

      The voice returned.  No… there’s no holding there.  You’ll drag backwards all night long.

     Shit.  OK… thanks.

     We weren’t about to try to thread our way out passed all the boats anchored and moored in Back Creek, which included a big cat that had dragged anchor for the third time just before our anchor chain got tripped, and was still struggling to reset their anchor yet again.

     This left one option… farther back up the creek.

     Unfortunately, the same two boats were still anchored back there when we arrived.

     Literally backed into a corner, we had run out of options.  All we could do was drop the anchor right next to one of the docks and back down as far as possible.  But, with no major wind shift and a person in the cockpit standing watch, we’d be good until noon when we could get the hell out of Back Creek.

     We’d gotten the shit seriously scared out of us, learned some important lessons, and dodged more than one bullet.

     Had we just gone to sleep earlier in the night, it would have been the crunching sounds of us against the dock that we would have awoken to…

     Had we gotten tangled up behind the slip pilings or with the boats that were tied up, the damage would have been catastrophic…

     Had the anchor chain gotten tangled when it tripped… had the windlass remote not worked when it was plugged in (an occasional malady)… had the battery bank (changed only three days ago) still been the old, tired bank which required a few minutes of charging before the windlass would fire up… we would have been fucked.

     Had we not been lucky enough to have lowered the rail mounted solar panels a few hours earlier, or the dinghy was hanging up on the davit at Exit’s stern, the anchor extending from the bow roller we passed so close to would have sheered off the solar panel and ripped into the inflated rubber bow of the suspended dinghy.  Upon later reflection, we were pretty sure the dinghy (which had been tied off on our stern) may very well have helped act as a bumper while we were bouncing around on the marina pilings.  That same anchor still came within a fraction of an inch of taking off Kris’ hand, ripping the solar panel off the railing, and getting hooked up on our stern arch…

     Had the boat that tripped our anchor actually dragged down on top of us, we would have been trapped between that boat and the slips… game over.

     Many things could have happened slightly differently with potentially disastrous and devastating results to both equipment and flesh.  All things considered, we got off pretty easy.  

     The lessons learned were more re-enforcements of what we already knew rather than groundbreaking epiphanies.

     Don’t settle for complacency.  

     The combination of not enough scope and not enough space is a recipe for disaster.  

     Trust your gut instincts.  We thought about moving back into the southern anchorage in the afternoon.  The trade off would have been higher exposure to the wind and waves but more space to work with – more space to put out more chain, more space to swing unfettered, more space to drag, more space to react.  We should have trusted our gut instinct.

     Trust your equipment.  If you don’t, replace it.  If the equipment is sound, it will hold you in fifty knot winds with less risk than hard things in close proximity will ever pose.

     It was ultimately our own fault that we found ourselves in the situation we did.  

     A silver lining…?  Potentially in how we reacted during the situation.  Looking beyond a poor initial decision of being there, at least we were pro-active enough to maintain an anchor watch.  In retrospect, I should have started the engine as I was waking Kris to give us an extra few seconds.  But, during the entire nail-biting ordeal, we kept cool heads and things never deteriorated into a yelling match of confusion.

     It sounds very cliche, but over and over again, there seem to be situations which arise that could be potentially very dangerous or catastrophic events.  Given an inner determination that failure is not an option, the only acceptable outcome remaining is to somehow work through the challenges and sort your shit out.

That’s not to say that simply wishing for something will make it happen.  But sometimes success has to be coaxed, tricked, improvised, massaged, or even bitch-slapped into existence, given the alternative.

     Knowledge and experience help out immensely.  Either one can give the background necessary to make informed decisions.  But lacking both doesn’t make the solution any less there… it just makes it a bit more elusive.  Creativity and tenacity don’t substitute for knowledge and experience, but they come in at a close third and fourth place.

     And, though you can’t depend on luck, sometimes you certainly need a bit of it.

October 5 – 8, 2018 

     With two hundred miles ahead of us to reach the C&D Canal, we departed early from NYC… perfect timing to witness the arrival of one of the US Navy’s alien looking stealth warships as we sailed by Staten Island.  We gave it a wide berth as it passed by us in the opposite direction with an entourage of military zodiac escorts to our port side; however, I couldn’t help turning on our radar.  Sure enough, the massive warship appeared on the display as nothing more than a tiny blip, no more distinct than even a small marker buoy.

 

 

     Hugging the coast, we were never more than about three miles offshore.

     The only excitement was another bird, no larger than a small finch, which seemed to be well farther offshore than we would have expected (much like we had seen on our passage from St. Marys, GA to Charleston, SC) that decided we needed another crew member aboard Exit.

     Except this tiny bird obviously had high ambitions.  It flew straight into the cockpit and landed on the wheel, seemingly to proclaim itself our new helmsman.  For about ten minutes, it balanced there; and, as the autopilot made slight adjustments in our course causing the wheel to turn left and right, it appeared comically that the tiny bird was actually steering Exit. 

     After a bit, it flew out of the cockpit, only to return to its perch atop our wheel a few minutes later and resume its hilarious impersonation of a undersized, feathered skipper.  Shortly after that, it stationed itself atop the lifeline, now apparently taking over the watch duties.

Eventually, our little comedian must have realized that flying would be a much more efficient and speedy approach to reaching its destination than sailing, and it flew off into the distance, finally disappearing from view.  It took quite some time before we were able to stop laughing.

     Fifteen to twenty knot winds and favorable currents allowed us to feel like we were flying down the coast for twenty-four hours.  Although, in exchange for the fast pace, we reached the Delaware Bay hours ahead of when we had planned and were met with winds that tapered off and opposing currents, forcing us to motorsail for almost the entire ten hours we spent crossing the bay.

     During this time, we continually debated whether or not we were going to attempt navigating the C&D Canal at night.  Though the canal is rather wide, we were very nervous about what we anticipated would be a mostly unlit and nerve-racking three hours.

     A couple of hours before sunset, we began to see the outline of a massive structure in the distance.  What we first thought was a huge freighter, slowly materialized into the gigantic cooling tower of a nuclear facility, steam ominously pouring out from its top.  There would be no rain collection today, even if the overcast skies decided to make an offering.

 

     By the time we reached the entrance to the canal, the sun had nearly set and we were already having a difficult time seeing where we needed to be going.  This solidified the decision that we would drop anchor and wait until morning, when the canal would be a much more friendly passage.

     Not long after setting anchor and having dinner, a loud roar in the distance prompted Kris to ask if we were hearing a plane passing overhead.  The answer came moments later, when the dull roar was interrupted by a louder noise, followed immediately by what sounded like a boat engine revving at high rpm for a short period.  It sounded unmistakably like a boat had just run aground.

     As we scanned the darkness, at last we saw what looked to be a flashlight twitching back and forth in the distance. After some time, a boat with a flashing blue light appeared from shore and approached the scene.  We were a bit confused when the patrol boat stopped short of coming alongside the flashlight, and then, a few minutes later pulled away and departed as what appeared to be a Coast Guard helicopter circled briefly overhead.  

     Intrigued, we turned on the VHF and were subsequently treated to far more entertainment than most people probably found on the TV that night.

     As the drama unfolded in the form of confusing lights in the distance and radio exchanges between multiple boats with flashing lights and the shore, we slowly learned what had transpired.

     Apparently, a twenty to twenty-five foot jet boat carrying an idiotic captain and three passengers had attempted to enter the C&D Canal at a much higher rate of speed than the darkness would warrant.  Either failing to notice or ignoring the brightly flashing green light of a navigational warning marker, they had slammed into one of the earthen jetties jutting out on both sides of the canal entrance, fully running their boat aground… not too smart.

     Fortunately, only one person was mildly injured with head lacerations. 

     The boat with flashing lights was Fireboat #5, which had arrived on the scene, and transported the entire group to a nearby hospital for further evaluation.

     We felt rather wise in having made the decision to drop anchor for the night, choosing to abort our night voyage through the canal.  Not that we would have run aground on the jetty; but still, we had heard reports that floating debris left over from the aftermath of Hurricane Florence weeks before was still present from the canal all the way down the Chesapeake, and we were grateful that the Coast Guard and marine patrols would not be answering a distress call from us that night.

     The following morning we passed the stranded jet boat, still sitting completely dry on the jetty.  

 

     For over an hour after entering the canal, we were further entertained by the numerous radio calls from what seemed like every boat following behind us, who hailed the Coast Guard on the VHF to report a boat which they had seen aground at the canal’s entrance.

     As we exited the C&D Canal two and a half hours after lifting anchor (awaiting the morning light had also given us the benefit of running with the currents), we found ourselves once again in the Chesapeake Bay.

     Annapolis was another fifty nautical miles away, and we had already begun to see more and more of the floating logs and debris we had heard about, so we made the call to stop mid-afternoon, about ten miles south of the C&D Canal, and make the final push for Annapolis the following day.

     Furthermore, we had just received a text from our friend Benjamin, aboard Crackertale, who we had first met at Block Island all the way back in August.

     We had nearly, but not quite, crossed paths again a number of times since then.  Amazingly, he was currently only a few miles away from our present location, also headed for Annapolis.  We hailed him on the VHF and agreed to meet on the Sassafras River, right next to where we had planned to anchor anyway.

     As it turned out, he decided to continue a bit further on after we had already set anchor, choosing to take advantage of favorable winds and currents that were much more critical for someone sailing single-handed on a small boat with only an outboard engine for supplemental power.  It looked as though we would have to wait for Annapolis for the reunion drinks.

 

     When we awoke the following morning, a heavy fog had completely obliterated any visual references in every direction.

     Our only previous experience with fog had been departing Port Canaveral, Florida, back in February, just days before we set out for the Bahamas, where we had instantly learned just how daunting and intimidating sailing in fog could be.

     With visibility effectively non-existent, we immediately recognized that this was a challenge we had absolutely no intention of undertaking, so we sat back to wait, patiently hoping it would start to burn off.

     Not long before noon, the all-encompassing white blanket of fog had begun to lift, revealing the shadowy outline of the nearby shore.  Visibility was still less than half a mile, but we had become much more familiar with using our radar over the past six months than we were in Port Canaveral, and felt confident that we could set out with the optimism that the fog would continue to lessen.

    Though the radar proved invaluable, it only lessened the degree of intimidation.   With senses on high alert, and eyes constantly shifting focus between the radar display and our surroundings, we carefully creeped along.  It was amazing how, with the radar, we could still identify not only boats, but also navigational markers and even debris in the water.  As long as we didn’t encounter a stealth warship like the one as we left NYC, we should be good to go.

     Slowly, we made forward progress.  We learned from Benjamin over the VHF that he had lifted anchor before we had, but had second thoughts as the fog thickened outside the bay he was in, and had dropped anchor again to await better visibility.  He lamented not having a radar himself at that time.

     Four hours later, we were passing the Baltimore channel intersection on the east side of the Chesapeake.  The fog had slowly, but steadily, receded and we now had three mile visibility and very calm conditions on the water.

     We noted two things: 1) Baltimore was the farthest north we had gotten on the Chesapeake in our preliminary explorations aboard Exit just after purchasing her, before we started heading south, and 2) we had just surpassed five thousand nautical miles in our travels aboard Exit.

     As we passed underneath the Chesapeake Bridge, we felt an overwhelming sense of deja vu.

     Two hours later, we arrived at Annapolis.  The enormous Annapolis Boat Show was on its’ last day, and boats were everywhere.  Back Creek, where we had sat for months while we first tasted the lifestyle of cruising, was chock-full and we ended up having to anchor at the south anchorage in the bay just outside Annapolis.

     We had come full circle, back to our old stomping grounds.  

     An hour or so later, Benjamin sailed up and dropped anchor.  Shortly afterwards, he stopped by with his brother and a friend who had met him upon his arrival.  He had also brought a half-full half gallon of Kraken rum…

     …welcome back.