Monday, May 20, 2003
After an impressive sunrise and with good spirits, we found our way out of Clarentown’s rocky harbor. Planning a sixty-three mile run to Attwood Bay on Acklin’s Island, we were back out in the deep waters of the Atlantic Ocean by 8 a.m. The waves hit us from the port side, but were only three to four high—wide and evenly spaced. The big boat rolled easily over each hump, making an almost unprecedented 9 knots at 2000 RPMs.
I read from one of our cruising guides about Provo, our destination in the Caicos Islands. We were scheduled to meet family there on June 2nd.
Taking a break to visit the head, I sat, cat at my feet. Suddenly Chris’ ears pivoted like microwave dishes, and he bolted from the head to the salon. Then I heard it---zing…zing…zing. There was a fish on one of the lines, and he was running fast.
“Fish on! Fish on! Fish on!” I shouted, running up the steps on to the deck. I climbed the ladder as quickly as any out-of-shape, middle-aged woman could while trying to pull up her trousers.
Wayne cut the throttle back half way, spryly descended the ladder, and grabbed the trolling rod. I could see the rainbow colors of the big dolphin as Wayne dragged him sideways through the water. I slowed the boat more, and Wayne started reeling. Suddenly, the line went slack. The fish had escaped.
“Shit!” Wayne said, “Maybe 9 knots is too fast for trolling.”
Back on the bridge, each of us in our places, I began reading, this time about Myaguana, our destination for the next day, and our last stop before Provo. I read these words out loud from On and Off the Beaten Path:
A hundred yards further up the road to the right is Reggie’s Villas and Satelllite Lounge…..Reggie Charlton has a reputation for serving some downright strong drinks. Reggie also sells cigarettes, and can arrange for any parts you need to have flown in via the Bahamasair flights on Monday and Fridays. If you need fuel...
I stopped and read to myself, then reread, then checked my other cruising guide, then the charts. These were the words:
If you need fuel, you can ask Reggie for assistance, but be advised that you will have to jerry jug it back to the dock.
What? I thought, a knot forming in the pit of my stomach. All of the guides indicated that Clarencetown, where we had not refueled because I’d talked Wayne out of it, was the last place to buy gas before Myaguana. For heavens sake, there was a fuel dock on the chart. How could this be?
Wayne finally missed the steady drone of my voice.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Trying to figure out if we have enough gas to get to Provo,” I replied without looking him in the eye.
All I can say is that it was a good thing Wayne took his St. John’s Wort. He was really a good sport about it, and for the most part tried not to make me feel too bad. After much discussion and pages of first year algebraic equations to compute remaining gasoline and miles, Wayne accepted the fact that we would be, or he would be (I should say), carrying cans of gas over land. And over water via unreliable dinghy. And that in order to maintain our preferred safety margin as far as how much gas we wanted, several trips would be required.
At times like this, I wonder what the hell we’re doing driving this big tub with two engines guzzling gasoline faster than a fraternity brother can down a cold Bud. Who else but Wayne Benner, and me following along like a sheep, would opt to go thousands of miles on their first off-shore cruise? Baaa! What are we doing heading south in the summer directly into the prevailing winds?
Other cruisers have sailboats or trawlers with small efficient diesel engines. At anchorages, we are always the only gasoline-powered boat. When we tell the fuel attendant, we need gasoline, he raises his eyebrows in surprise, then asks us if we are sure we want gas. Once confirmed, he shake his heads in pity. Like we just told him we burned down our house smoking in bed. Novice cruisers might venture a few hundred miles to Bimini or the Abacos on their first cruise, until they had more experience, but not us. And, the vast majority of cruisers, as a matter of fact, everyone we have met on this trip, head south in the winter when prevailing winds are pushing them from the north, then head back north in the summer to avoid hurricanes. I feel like I am living in the “Opposite” realm. What were we thinking?
Of course, I know the answer. We don’t know how to sail and don’t like the dungeon-like confinement of a sailboat. Diesels would’ve cost an extra 30,000 dollars. They’re smelly, dirty, and loud, and Wayne doesn’t know how to work on them. Besides, we figured it was unlikely that we we’d ever spend $30,000 dollars in gasoline in our lifetime. Our two 454s purr like kittens, well maybe lions, and we figured if it ain’t broke, don’t mess with it. Regarding our ambitious first cruise, Wayne either knows no fear, or had no idea what he was getting into, in spite of reading numerous articles and books about the perfect storm. I am with him because I avoided reading the books about storms, and I trust him. Regarding the timing of our trip, we left when we were ready which—six months past our intended departure date. So here we are, thousands of miles from home, in need of fuel, always heading into the wind, and hoping for a summer sans hurricanes.
The day dragged on. We passed the shores of Crooked Island and approached Acklin’s. During the nineteenth century, this island group of over 260 square miles was the most populated of all the Bahamas. When steam power replaced sail, shipping routes changed and the economy and as a result the population quickly diminished. Most of what remains are small fishing villages. We chose Attwood Harbor as our next anchorage. Here we might see pink flamingos and snorkel on the harbor’s fringe reefs.
We spotted it by 1 p.m. The water rose from a thousand feet deep to forty in a matter of moments, as we neared the reef that borders the island. We were looking for what was described as an “easy-to-spot, wide cut” that led into the harbor. An intermittent white line of breaking water paralleled the land.
“Is that it?” I asked, pointing towards an area that seemed calmer.
“Maybe, but the way point is that way,” Wayne said, pointing further to the right.
We headed toward the way point, then attempted to follow the directions, looking for the cut, looking for one of the Bahama’s rare beacons and Umbrella Rock. We inched closer, trying to get our bearings.
“This doesn’t feel right,” Wayne said, turning the boat around.
“That one looks kinda like an umbrella,” I said.
We tried again and again. Me, reading the directions for entry from the cruising guide, looking at aerial photos and charts. Both of us peering out over the water. Frustrating.
“We could just keep going?” I suggested.
“Keep going to where?”
“Betsy Bay,” I explained, pointing out Myaguana’s western shore on the chart.
“We’d be lucky to get there by dark,” Wayne said.
“I know, but its only 1:30, and when we get there, we can anchor. See, there are no obstructions.” I pointed to the chart. “The water is pretty calm, and I’ll do some of the driving.”
There must have been some comfort in knowing that we would be much closer to that gasoline, because Wayne agreed, and we headed west, leaving the potential of flamingos and fringe reefs in our wake. I quickly plotted way points to Myaguana. We rocked and rolled for hours.
Late in the afternoon, the southeastern sky went from blue to purple to black. The air thickened, and the temperature dropped. We checked our radar and saw a black smudge that covered half of the screen. There was no way around it. The darkness marched toward us like a horde of angry Huns. The seas built, as I stumbled about the boat, stashing the laptop, books and charts under the dash. Chris made a beeline for the cabin. We zipped up the isenglass and slid into yellow slickers. Visibility was reduced to zero when we hit the moving wall of rain. It angled through the screened sides of the bimini and pelted our faces. We watched the GPS and compass to stay on course.
Why did we keep going? I thought, shivering and cowering at Wayne’s side.
As quickly as it came, it left. Azure skies appeared through thinning clouds that passed overhead like puffs of gray smoke. The sun lowered behind us. I spotted the distant shores of Mayaguana just before the setting sun left us in inky blackness. Blinded by the light of the computer screen, we followed the blue lines of our route, no longer able to bend and flex in anticipation of the unseen waves that did their crazed dance beneath us. Ahead, all we could see was a scattering of misty amber lights that widened as we neared the small settlement of Betsy Bay.
When we estimated we were about two miles from shore, we slowed and lowered the lid to the laptop. Leaning forward, pressing our noses to the isenglass, we squinted into the dark, looking out for a local fisherman who may have ventured offshore in an unlit skiff.
When the depth sounder showed thirty feet, we dropped the hook, not knowing if it was in rocks, sand, or grass, but afraid to look for shallower water. If we broke loose, we would just drift back out to deep water. As long as the wind did not shift and swing the stern closer to shore, we were safe. When we shut down the engines, we could hear breaking of surf on the reef. But we couldn’t see it, and had no idea how close it was. We were too exhausted to even consider using an additional anchor. And, it might be even riskier to try to drop another considering the darkness, the strong current, the wind and our temperamental dinghy.
I sat on the bridge and watched the scratchy black lines on the GPS for a while, then went to bed. My sleep, that night, was restless.
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