B.O.A.T. = Bust Out Another Thousand

Our big Saturday morning (January 5^th) plans for Nate to pick up the new dinghy motor battery and for me to attend a free rooftop yoga class were befuddled by the rain. We reluctantly thanked Mother Nature for the free fresh water boat wash and altered our plans. I enjoyed a solo yoga session and Nate cooked up another pound of butcher’s block bacon. We are slowly becoming bacon snobs, as we’re continually astounded by the ability of a 16oz off-brand pre-packaged purchase to mysteriously reduce to the size of a few fatty, tasteless morsels. Shockingly, the same weight purchase from the butcher’s counter yields nearly double the edible output and tripled deliciousness. But, I digest… erm, digress 🙂

With the generator overheating every 5-10 minutes throughout the morning, frustration mounted, and we headed ashore to stretch our legs and walk off the building stress of yet another boat problem. Two round trip water-taxi runs, errands, windlass and alternator updates, homemade hummus, and another butcher’s block bacon purchase later, we were on the water taxi, headed back to the boat for the night. Our water taxi captain had taken us on a little high-speed cruise out the channel and back on our earlier run, and as we were the only passengers, he took the liberty of another thrill-seeking (clock-killing) cruise. We blasted across Biscayne Bay to meander in and out of insanely expensive yachts, party boats littered with trust-fund yuppies and their wannabe friends, the boat from a Kenny Chesney music video (we think), and some classic cocaine-filled (assumption) fantail dance parties. The mansions along the shore were breathtaking, as well as the humility of being in the presence of such excessive, disposable wealth at play on a Saturday night. We couldn’t hide our grocery bags, laundry, nor the innate tackiness of puttering around on a water taxi. It left no doubt we were just as entertaining to the others as they to us. We were returned to our boat to find our fridge and freezer rapidly increasing in temperature… again. After a poor night sleep of generator and now renewed fridge/freezer stress, we started tinkering and researching our options for back-ups and expensive Band-Aids to remedy our bleeding hearts and budget. Being Sunday, our options for calling manufacturers or professionals was limited and our best options for back-up fridge/freezers would be delivered Wednesday – which would cause us to miss our weather window to Jamaica. Frustrated with little progress, Nate dropped me off ashore to walk some additional errands and reduce my stress and he returned to the boat with 50lb of ice for a temporary fix. The least we could do at that point was save the food we’d purchased not 24 hours previous. We shifted from our mooring ball to the nearby anchorage and settled in to watch NFL playoffs for the afternoon and evening.

Monday morning brought hopes to find a back-up fridge/freezer, as I’d discovered that the West Marine in Fort Lauderdale carried a reputable brand of electric cooler (in stock!). At hopes of saving a painfully expensive Uber ride to and from Fort Lauderdale, I called the three “local” dealers of Dometic electric coolers. First dealer call: phone number no longer in service. Second call: painfully struggled through a bit of a language barrier to find out they had ONE electric cooler of appropriate size in stock. Third call: only small portables available. Excited for the luck of a local find, I re-measured the space we had available. I’d made a horrible error the previous morning – I did not account for the 1in lip of threshold along the wall… leaving our intended space ¾” too small. Back to the drawing board! But wait, maybe, just maybe, the handles were included in the overall length and perhaps, oh please, be removable. Devouring the manufacturer specifications sheets, voila! Victory! The handles accounted for 2” of the length overall. Oh, wait, removing both handles doesn’t account for 1” lip. Dangit! But wait, there’s more! We brainstormed our way through a fictitious infomercial of the cooler, imagining all the potentials for storage, lid directions, and compressor ventilation needs. Entirely too many stretches of a tape measure later, we determined we could either raise the cooler 1” to render the threshold lip negligible or orient the cooler 90 degrees from our original intent and hope not to hit our legs as we walked by. All this sounded grand, but we weren’t ignorant enough to believe the specs sheet, nor the sales lady on the phone. We decided we needed to see the cooler and remove the possible size discrepancies. What’s the worst that could happen? At least that store was kind of on the way to Fort Lauderdale… we’d at least take a chunk out of the trip or negate the need altogether. Not only were the actual measurements in our favor, but also due to some cosmetic damage on a bottom corner, the price was a steal! I wasn’t the slightest bit mad at the very cramped back seat of our Uber ride back to the marina, my arm happily squished by the new electric cooler (Dometic CFX95, if anyone cares to look it up!) Feeling victorious, we walked to buy beer and artisan cheese and returned to the marina to dinghy back to our anchorage. Fortuitously, we chose not to bring the massive cooler in the dinghy with us, a decision we would have certainly regretted in the choppy, wet ride to the boat. We hauled anchor, swung by the water dock to top off and load the cooler, then hit the channel to cross Biscayne Bay with high spirits.

We had a wonderful night’s sleep at a favorably protected anchorage and were up with the sun, excited to FINALLY leave the States. We cruised over to the fuel dock, topped off our tanks, and headed east. Given our embarrassing shallow anchorage story from a previous blog, we’ve no reason to not to share this next embarrassing tale: We were awfully excited to be on our journey to Jamaica, we passed by Stiltsville and were almost out of the final US channel we’d see for years. Nate was nose deep in plotting our next course and I, knowing we’d only have cell phone service for a couple of hours, was double-checking all my accounts, emails, Instagram, etc. I look up from my phone to see the final daymark, bright green and massive, barreling towards us at 6 knots… DEAD ahead, maybe five feet away. “HUNNY, HUNNY, HUNNY!” I exclaim. “OH, SH*T” Nate responds, while somehow, miraculously (and simultaneously) hitting “standby” on our autopilot and turning the helm hard to starboard. “Missed it by a hair” is about the most appropriate jargon available. We glided SO incredibly close to it, neither of us can believe we managed to escape, completely unscathed. The adrenaline rushes that didn’t have time to process flooded our bodies as we reveled in the safety of the open ocean ahead of us. We legitimately almost ended our trip around the world by running head on into the LAST American channel marker. Seriously, the LAST ONE. How insanely embarrassing. We decided 11am was not too early for a drink and we both attempted to calm our nerves and shaking hands with the last round of Bailey’s aboard and constantly relived the situation with a barrage of “I can’t believe that just almost happened” and “seriously, how did we let that almost happen” cheerful banter. We did not hit it, so it makes for an entertaining story… true? Needless to say, I woke up several times that night with visions of the bright green sign about to hit me in the face.

We cleaned, read, and relaxed our way across the Gulf Stream at a screaming 3 knots. Maybe we won’t make it to Jamaica in 7 days, after all… whoops! Day two of our crossing was set to be boring until King Neptune offered some entertainment. Nate excitedly reeled in a 70” swordfish and proceeded to gaff and fillet the beauty. After grilled swordfish for lunch, we advanced to my firearms training exercises, as I’d not actually shot the weapon I brandished in Charleston. Fifty Kimber 45 rounds and thirty Taurus 38 rounds later, our ears and hands were done for the day. While prepping for dinner, I fortunately discovered a bombardment of uninvited stowaway ants in a bag of rice in our pantry cabinets, which led to the frantic emptying and cleaning of all our food shelves. Luckily, the little pests were almost completely contained to the one bag. Another backwards victory for the day. We delighted in our first outdoor showers of the trip and settled in to watch Lincoln before another intermittent night of decent sleep.

One such interruption of sleep around 0400 granted us the magnificent moment to see the Southern Cross for the first time – cue the music! Day three of passage brought a relaxing morning and dolphins frolicking along our bow. We eventually exercised and tackled projects and chores, reading and relaxing in the late afternoon. We’d spent the day outrunning the dark clouds, catching bits of radio chatter regarding water spouts, but remained dry all day.

Friday was our first day of bordem, but I did motivate to type this real-time:

We’ve been admiring Cuba from a small distance for the past 10 hours. At first, we debated whether or not we were seeing weather or mountains. After a little deliberation and consultation of our trusty Goode’s Atlas of Physical Geography, our eyes did not deceive us – mountains were in our sights! Our trackline pushed us through the 3-7 foot range of confused swell and waves all day, intermittent rain, but ultimately, Mother Nature smiled favorably at us near sundown. We are keenly rejoicing in the absolute breathtaking beauty of the cliffs of northeastern Cuba. Even from five nautical miles offshore, they are mesmerizing. Ironically, I compare them to the highlands of Scotland and assume this is what much of the British Isles bask to sailors offshore. Misty, mesmerizing, hopeful. A fitting analogy from “Anglos” like us… a choice term of our Cuban friends in the Grove. I never fathomed Cuba would look this way. We vow to return. These cliffs need exploring; the sea meets the land aggressively and majestically instantaneously; Alaskan by Aluet definition, but warm and welcoming words whisper on the trade winds. We look to our stern, the storm is chasing us and slowly enveloping the mountains we gazed upon earlier today. Oh my, what a feeling it must have been to discover this incredible island, rich in beauty and hope, countless moons ago.

I’m so glad I wrote about that day while in the moment, because opening the computer to finish off the blog is painfully daunting and I would have never been able to capture that beauty in hindsight. We may have outrun the actual storm, but we descended into our own personal crumbling bubble of Hell over the next two days. Our anemometer failed at some point after dusk, so we were reduced to our tell tales (which are not easy to see at night!) and our instincts. Not the end of the world to have to sail without a wind instrument. Seas grew and wind shifted to our backs as we rounded the east tip of Cuba. Nate donned his lifejacket and harness and attempted to mount the whisker pole for the first time. We decided it was too dangerous to try something so new at night, so we hunkered down and took what we could from the wind we had until daylight. We had two horrendous accidental jibes during the night, which we stupidly could have prevented, and learned what damage it caused later in the day when our boom detached from the vessel, swinging wildly. Saturday morning we tackled attaching the whisker pole to the Genoa sheet, although we weren’t thrilled with the set-up, as the pole is designed for the spinnaker and much too long for the Genoa. The jury-rigged contraption seemed to work well enough – our Genoa filled with wind and steadied the boat from the 8-10ft following swells. Within a few minutes, BAM! The whisker pole bends out of the stainless steel seat and crashes onto the deck, then unceremoniously continues to thrash around like a dying fish, gouging one hole and cracking multiple spots on the fiberglass gel-coated deck. We were able to wrestle the pole onto the deck and release it from the Genoa, which is was still flapping horrendously. Wow, yikes, that was bad… but could have been much worse, we told ourselves over and over again. It could have put an actual hole in the hull, it could have gone overboard, ripping the Genoa out with it, it could have knocked one of us overboard. All in all, we felt lucky… exhausted and scared, but lucky. We continue to ride the 8-10 footers with a little jib out, trying to steady some of the rolls. Another loud crashing sound drops our hearts… and then we lose all our instruments. I grabbed the helm and attempted to hold our course, despite the sea’s intention to turn us broadside to the waves. Nate scampers below to determine what the hell happened. In the engine room, he discovers that the old, broken alternator (that we are keeping to have rebuilt eventually) fell from it’s seemingly secure location onto the functional, new alternator, landing precisely on the fuse which sends the power out. Happy to have discovered the culprit quickly, Nate brings the instruments back online and autopilot takes over steering. Again, we make a desperate effort to improve our mood by theorizing just how much worse it could have been… we could have needed to hand steer for the next 12 hours, an exhaustive task in large seas. At this point, we are feeling the complete opposite of positive. We are slipping, and it’s hurting. An hour or so later, we lose all power and instruments, again… and we’re broken. We believe the battery management system was unable to regulate the incoming voltage, resulting in overcharged batteries, and subsequent system failure. We are emotionally wounded and exhausted. We crack two cold Miller Lites and cry a little as we completely second-guess our planned voyage. We talk through our many options and decide to give it at least 24 hours before we make any decisions, obviously needing to get to land. Fortuitously, the seas calm significantly into the evening and we are able to limp into the East Bay of Port Antonio, Jamaica with only our chart, GPS, and autopilot to anchor for the night. We sleep well, despite the ridiculously loud party ashore. The morning brings us improved spirits and we enjoy Jamaica’s beauty over breakfast while we wait for the marina to open. We call and confirm we have a slip and weigh anchor to head to the West Bay. I test the bow thruster while weighing anchor, as we like to assist the windlass in positioning the boat to haul easier… and the few operational electronic systems we have go dark. At least we still have an engine, rudder, chart, and two pair of eyes. I couldn’t help but laugh as we navigated without position, speed, depth, etc. and remembered so many times in my NOAA mariner training when the instructor would say “well, what will you do if you lose all your instruments?” we students would roll our eyes, give the textbook answer, then carry on with our happy GPS and computer-driven vessels, doubting any potential to actually navigate with just a chart and compass… The good news: we didn’t run aground and were able to dock not once, but twice – kudos to Nate for gracefully backing Lady Sun Dream into the slip without bow thrusters!

The health inspector came within an hour, so we were able to leave the quarantine of our boat (not the marina compound), but not after we granted him the gratuity of cash and beer, oh what a corrupt system… Could you imagine arriving from an international vacation back to America and having the airport customs agent ask you for $50 because it was Sunday?… Oi. (Don’t worry, we didn’t give him $50.)

We opened what was intended to be our celebratory “we made it to Jamaica!” champagne, but drank with heavy hearts and minds. On the bright side, we met some great cruiser neighbors and spent the day working on the boat, popping around the dock sharing our war stories, and sucking down the booze… our desperate attempt to face the facts with a buzz and not the sobering reality they present. Customs and Immigration took their merry time, arriving at 1600 and 1700, respectively. Just when we thought we were free, the cops show up. Oh dear, what now?! We still have no idea why they came, but they did enjoy sitting with us, drinking our beer, and chatting for over an hour. Weird… very weird. Once they eventually departed, we attempted to watch the playoff game, but were unable to find a bar with it on, nor could we stream from the marina wifi.

So here we are, Monday morning, after a stressful night sleep, trying to decide what to do with our lives. Do we give up, fly home, and beg our bosses for forgiveness? Do we limp to Panama in hopes of a good boatyard for major repairs? Do we forgo the global trip and try to enjoy the Caribbean until we run out of money? Do we go back to America for a month and repair everything and try again? We have no answers, yet. We know we need some expensive Band-Aids before we can safely leave Jamaica, but we’re also in the countryside, so parts are a premium, if they are even available. Who knew something as simple as a dryer vent pipe would be non-existent? Oh yeah, that broke too, I forgot to mention it because it doesn’t even matter compared to everything else. We took a long walk around town to try to clear our heads, but it just added to the depression of our current state.

Sorry for the major downer ending, but I can’t muster the energy to fake enthusiasm. At least Jamaica is gorgeous… oh look, a pina colada!

I’ll leave you with a blip I wrote during our Gulf Stream crossing, with Lone Wolf vodka’s assistance: The halcyon atmosphere of basking in Mother Nature’s warm rays of setting sun while delighting in delectable wafts of baking bread from perches on the fantail remain uncontested from any land experience we could fathom.

And finally, a quote from an actual writer: “There is nothing — absolutely nothing — half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. In or out of ’em, it doesn’t matter. Nothing seems really to matter, that’s the charm of it. Whether you get away, or whether you don’t; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you’re always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and when you’ve done it there’s always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you’d much better not.” –Wind in the Willows