A Post With No Name

Note from 2009: I’m not usually a complainer. If there’s a situation I don’t like, I change it. If I can’t change it, I make the best of it. However, sometimes you just have to vent. Venting is healthy, as long as you don’t make it a life style, but I’d rather not vent to Wayne. When I do, he not only takes on my emotion—anger, disappointment, depression—he takes it on tenfold. I guess it’s an i-got-your-back guy kind of thing. It’s sweet, but it doesn’t help. I always end up trying to calm him down.

I’m talking about this because the day we motored to Warderick Wells turned out to be one of the low points of our cruise and I do some healthy venting in the following post. Last night I sat on my deck with a glass of wine trying to think of a name for this post. How about: Down in the Warderick Well? Warderick Wails, Bruised Cruisers, Exema in Exuma? (Refill wine glass.) Bahama Drama, Paradise Lost, Tropical Depression? This Ain’t No Fun No More? Pity Party in Paradise? This is Not Your Mother’s Cruise, Sinking in Self-pity? How about: Is Cruising Better Than a Sharp Stick in the Eye? I just couldn’t decide. Leave a comment and let me know which name you like best. Or maybe you have a better suggestion.

Here’s the story:

Tuesday, May 6, 2003

Late this morning, we left for Warderick Wells. The Exuma chain is made up of hundreds of islands strung together in a southeasterly direction for nearly a hundred miles. On the east side of the island chain is the Exuma Sound. This wide expanse of water is thousands of feet deep. And because there is no shallow water and no landmasses to break the wind and surf, its seas can be quite rough. On the west side is the shallow and generally much calmer Exuma Bank. Our choice for today. Within four miles of the islands, the bank is ridden with rocks and sand bores. Sand bores make me think of some crawly creature tunneling under my skin, but they are really just sandbars. There are many of them reaching out from the islands like long fingers. To travel down the island chain, we must motor out past the sandbores, move south until we are even with the cay we want to visit, then work our way to our destination following the underwater hollow between the appropriate sand bores. Warderick Wells is only ten miles away as the crow flies, but we have to travel over twenty miles to get there.

The wind was blowing twenty knots from the southeast, and on the first leg of the trip, we were hit broadside by five-foot seas, pushing the boat from side to side like a demented nanny rocking a cradle. This is calm? I’d hate to be on the rough side. Wayne stood at the helm and squeezed his eyes into the wind, his gray hair flying straight back. His legs were spread wide apart and his triceps contracted as he clenched the wheel fighting to stay on course. He angled our heading in an effort to slide up one side and down the other of each wave. A few degrees to the left or right, and the big swells would collide with the bow and send water sloshing over the rails. I tried to move about the boat, but each time I took a step, the floor would drop un-expectantly from under my foot or rise to meet it, and I would stumble one way or the other. So, I sat, moving my torso like I was riding a mechanical bull. A half an hour into the trip, we realized we’d left the portholes and front hatch open. Our bed, pillows, walls, and books were sprayed with salty water.

We continued out past the sand bores, then turned directly into the wind and water. No more to and fro, just up and down, up and down, up and down for nine miles. We had not expected this much water in the bank, and neither of us had remembered to tie our secretary to the wall. (That’s a wooden upright desk, not an employee.) Wayne worked his way down the ladder to find that the secretary had fallen over and crashed into our very-expensive-because-it-was-made-for-a-boat table. Papers and books were strewn about the salon. A splintered three by three chunk of the coffee table was hanging precariously by a sliver of wood.

We reached the Warderick Wells waypoint that I’d copied from the cruising guide. Up until now, when the guide indicated a waypoint, we’d travel to that point, then sound our way to the anchorage, watching the water, watching the little boat move across the chart on the PC, and reading the directions in the guide like, “You’ll see two rocks, one flat, the other shaped like an upside-down salad bowl. Put the salad bowl to your port side and head toward the golf ball-shaped water tower watching the sandbar on your starboard side.”

Rock Shaped Like a Salad Bowl

Routinely, I read the directions to Wayne a mile or so before we got there, then read them again in real time. But today, the directions seemed to make no sense, and the chart on the laptop was difficult to read. In order to see where we were in relation to the island and its sand bores, we had to zoom out so far, we couldn’t see enough detail to navigate.

“Which way should I go?” Wayne growled.

My heart raced. “Uh, uh, uh,” was all I managed to mutter as I frantically paged through guides, then clicked buttons on the computer screen, then looked out at the water, hoping that something I saw would suddenly make sense.

“God damn it!” Wayne snarled. “Get the paper charts!”

I was at near panic as I searched for the right place in the big awkward chart book. The pages flapped in the wind like the wings of a sea bird. I tried to hold the page down with one hand and swipe the hair that was blowing in my face with the other. My reading glasses teetered on the end of my nose. The paper charts were no help. I tried to hold back tears, but they pressed against my solar plexus just waiting to erupt.

I don’t know at what moment I finally gained control of my emotions or what prompted the pieces to suddenly fall into place. I finally realized that the waypoint marked the spot where the cruiser decides whether to go to the northern or the southern anchorage, not the spot where we would work our way toward shore. We’d headed between the first and second sand bores when we should have headed between the second and third. A u-turn took us back out past the obstructions. We motored further south, then back in between the next two.

Tiny dot on left is the Ella McQuaid

We anchored the boat in a pristine harbor, but I couldn’t enjoy it because of Wayne’s long face. It had taken us five hours to go twenty miles. Wayne was now mad at himself for not being “on the ball.” I, always the keeper of the peace and solver of problems, decided we should make a checklist to ensure that everything was in order prior to embarkation. The list had more line entries than the page of the yellow legal pad, and we agreed that the captain should always verify the navigator’s route.

“There,” I said in a lively, self-satisfied voice, “All we have to do is go down this checklist each time we are leaving and no more disasters.”

Wayne grunted.

I said, “What’s wrong, honey?”

I thought, Jesus Christ! Some people are never happy.

Wayne finally spoke up. “Everywhere I look I see something dirty, wet, or broken. And I never seem to get ahead. And, I am sick of fixing the same things over and over again.” He waved his arm around the boat then dropped it to his side in pure frustration.

“OK,” I sighed. “We’ll make another list.”

And so, I wrote down everything that needed to be repaired or cleaned, as if putting each word to paper would somehow lift the burden of the task from Wayne’s slumping shoulders. And it did, at least temporarily.

While reading about my navigational mishap and Wayne’s snarling and whining, some of you might think that Wayne acted like a jackass or that I was foolish not be furious with him for his bad behavior, for turning me into a sniveling, incompetent first mate. Alright. I was incompetent because I screwed up the waypoint, not because he growled at me. Oh, Alright. Wayne didn’t make me cry. I did that to myself. I let him get to me. Yes, he talked to me in an unpleasant voice. Big Whoop! We both could benefit from keeping our emotions at bay and our heads on. But I can’t over-emphasize the gravity of the captain’s responsibilities. Wayne’s charge is to first keep the woman he loves—that’s me—out of harm’s way. Second, he must protect the boat. When Wayne says he’d never forgive himself if anything happened to me, I believe him. I know him well enough to affirm that the guilt would follow him to his grave. As for the boat—it is our house, after all—if anything happens to it, we will basically have to rebuild our lives from scratch. He takes his role as captain very seriously and is under tremendous pressure. When he seems to be angry with me, he is sometimes frightened, but more often than not angry with himself. Later, he apologizes, and I accept.

Have you figured out by now that cruising is not a vacation? Here are some other things you probably don’t think about when you think about our adventure, some of which I have already hinted at.

Venting commences…

Trash

People who live on islands don’t have room for their own trash, let alone that being shipped in by the dinghy load. The infrastructure for disposal is inadequate or non-existent. If they accept trash, cruisers often have to pay anywhere from 5 to 50 dollars. Furthermore, trash needs to be separated into food that can be thrown in the ocean when offshore, bottles and cans, and plastic and paper. We had three large bags of un-separated trash. Yesterday, when Wayne took them out of the dinghy, the bottom of the bags tore, and I found him on his knees on the swim platform sorting through two-week-old cans, slimy rotten food, soggy paper, and cigarette butts.

Water

We misjudged when we purchased our water maker. It only makes one and a half gallons an hour, It uses so much electricity that we can only run it when the engines or generator are running. As reported earlier, we can’t always produce water when we are moving, and as for running the noisy generator, until Wayne gets some new spark plugs, plug maintenance is required every time we want to start it.
In the states, you can fill your water tank whenever you purchase fuel, but in the Bahamas you might pay 50 cents a gallon or more for water, and you have no control over the quality. We are down to twenty gallons of water and can’t seem to get caught up. Reluctantly, I’m doing all of my dishes in saltwater, sitting on the swim platform. My flatware is getting rusty and the whole dinner ordeal is now at least forty minutes longer. We shave with saltwater on the swim platform, too. We can’t take a shower every day, and when we do, we can’t waste water waiting for it to get hot before stepping under the spray. I just take a deep breath, turn it on, get wet, turn it off, soap up, turn it on and rinse as quickly as possible--no leisurely muscle-relaxing pounding of hot water on the back. Wayne is washing his hair in salt water, but this is one of the places where Princess Leah is drawing the line.

Electricity

The batteries must be monitored throughout the day— how many amps we are using, how many volts remain. At night, we use the minimum of lights, often reading by flashlight or simply going to sleep with the sun. We can’t turn on the stereo whenever we want. Even flushing the toilet or running water spends our valuable storage of energy. Our stove is 110 volt, so we must run the generator (if it starts) to cook, but I can’t use the oven and burners at the same time. The other option is the grill, great for fresh fish or shiskabobs, but it doesn’t work for pasta, one of our staples, as the water never boils. Even if we’re not watching it. On the stove, it takes nearly an hour. A meal that would take twenty minutes to prepare at home can easily take an hour and a half on the boat.

Laundry and Clothes

We have only done one load of laundry since we left Merritt Island in early April. Seasoned cruisers sometimes wash clothes by hand in a series of buckets, then hang them to dry, but lots of water is required. Even if salt water is used to wash, clothes must be rinsed of soap and salt in fresh water. I am actually glad we don’t have enough water for this. I would rather wear pants that stand by themselves in the corner than resort to sloshing about in five-gallon paint buckets. Of course, some boats have ample water and washers and dryers, but not the average cruiser. In the states, the majority of marinas and most towns have laundry facilities--not in the Bahamas, so we just have to wait to wash.

We can’t change the sheets or get a new fluffy towel as often as we’d like. And anything that gets wet never seems to dry. Wayne has two piles of laundry by his side of the bed—“dirty dirty” and “clean dirty” saved for trips to town. We have stopped wearing underwear and pull on the same pair of grimy shorts for days. Fortunately, I have lots of shorts in three sizes, size tens from when I was last at fighting weight, size twelves (the transitional ones) and wide loads. For the seven months prior to our departure I worked in Merritt Island. Here I sat at a desk for ten to twelve hours a day, then, rewarded myself by slumping in front of the TV watching reality shows for hours each night. The result was twenty-five pounds of pure fat, most of which landed somewhere below the waist. I have worn all of my wide loads, and now am working on the transitional pairs. Luckily, cruising is great for the waistline, so perhaps by the time all of the size twelves are dirty, I’ll be able to fit into the tens.

Even if our clothes are clean, they’re always wrinkled. I wore shoes once last week for the first time in six days. I haven’t worn makeup or jewelry in weeks and my hair, normally brown is straw blonde and brassy orange with gray mixed in. I look like the bride of Frankenstein, when I don’t have hat head.

Cat Box

In Merritt Island we began the process of training Chris to “do his business” in the toilet. We are stuck at the point in training where we keep a plastic mixing bowl under the seat with just a few ounces of litter in it. Usually Chris announces to me when he needs to “go,” and I clean the bowl in the ocean immediately thereafter. If I neglect to do so, he won’t use it. Instead he does the “poop dance.” He dashes about the boat and scratches the green chair, which he absolutely knows he shouldn’t do. Once I figure out what’s wrong, he monitors my every move as I clean the bowl, then he immediately dirties it. Who would‘ve thought that I’d ever be so in tune to a cat’s toilet schedule? Often, he decides he needs to “go” when I am using the head, so there’s a line for the bathroom. He meows and brushes his fuzzy whiskers across my bare hips. Only once, so far, have I sat on the john and peed in his litter.

Food

Since many islands are uninhabited or private, markets are far and few between. When you do find one, the selection is extremely limited, and the food is expensive. Some cruisers have the room and an adequate electrical system to handle a freezer, well-stocked with vacuum packaged bags of meat, fish, and veggies purchased in the states. Lots of sailors just have iceboxes, which work well when block ice is available, but are ineffective in the islands where it’s difficult to find even cubed ice. We fall in the middle of the spectrum. Our small twelve-volt refrigerator will keep produce and dairy products fresh for a week or two. It has a tiny freezer big enough for two packages of fish (Wayne doesn’t eat meat). Often, we have to make due with non-perishables. This gets old, but our eating habits have become healthier. We savor fresh fruit and vegetables when we have them. We eat only when hungry and only to nourish. Can you imagine binge eating on canned spinach and rice?

Our biggest luxury appliance is the icemaker. Wayne installed it for a number of reasons. First, because I love ice cubes. Second, the frig is so small, we thought we’d keep cold drinks in a cooler. Lastly, Wayne thought he’d be catching so many fish in the islands that he’d need to store the excess on ice. This has not been a concern. It’s a good thing, too, because to make ice, you need water, and as mentioned before, our water is closely rationed.

Cruising turns out to be a lot like long-term camping with extra work thrown in, but just writing this made me feel better about it. Although it can be inconvenient, it's never boring. Each day offers new adventures, tests of fortitude, and something we’ve never seen before.