Yesterday, seas were supposed to be eight feet, so we stayed one more day at Mayaguana. Today, seas were supposed to be two to four, but when we checked the weather this morning, it had changed to four to six. No problem! We were ready to leave this island and get to civilization.
We pulled up anchor, took one last look at Mayaguana's shores, and motored slowly towards the narrow cut. Water broke on the shallow reef that surrounded the bay. I stood on the bow pulpit, guiding Wayne away from brown and black spots. As we entered the cut, huge rollers took the bow of the boat high in the air, then dipped it down into the sea. I held on to the railing, knees flexing in grand plies. When we were clear, I inched back around the boat and up the ladder to the bridge.
We were not en route more than twenty minutes before we knew that these seas were not 4 to 6 feet, but more than we’d ever experienced. Our boat, that seemed so huge when we were pulling into a slip, suddenly felt very small. We crossed water like choppy mountains, some 8 to 10 feet tall. On the top of the larger ones, we had to steer to the left or right to surf along the crest, then slide into the trough. If we didn’t ride the wave just right, the bow crashed down, jolted our bodies, rattled the boat, and sent a spray of salt and water onto the wind shield—that was the windshield on the flying bridge, not the one below. Moving about the boat was impossible, and sitting was unbearable. I tried, tightened muscles to stay on the seat, held on with both hands.
“Mind if I drive?” I asked.
The miles moved by slowly. And we had fifty-two to go. After an hour, I dreaded the thought that I’d have to endure this discomfort for seven more.
I looked down…49.5 miles to go, I noted. I am not going to look at that GPS until we have gone at least another mile, I vowed to myself. I drove and drove, then looked down..49.3 miles to go.
OK, we’re not the Kon Tiki, nor were we rounding Cape Horn, but in spite of the fact that we’d abided by our checklist, our boat was ill-prepared for this kind of water. A sailing vessel is close to the water, made to roll and right itself, and has built-in furniture. We’re sitting high atop the water in a boat that looks like its head is too big. We have a sofa, secretary, chair, and coffee table, rather than built in furniture.
Wayne went below, then came back and said, “Don’t go downstairs.”
“Why?”
"Because everything that could fall over, did.”
The day dragged on. And we were out of cigarettes. The boredom and stress increased my longing for nicotine, and as the withdrawal came in surges and then ebbed, then came again, so our conversation went from moody short-tempered sentences to laughter at our ridiculous behavior, back to growling.
"You’re speaking in Venetian,” Wayne half-joked.
I sneered at him. Fuck you, I thought.
“I’m hungry,” Wayne said.
“Well, fix something,” I shot back.
Wayne went below and retrieved peanuts and crackers.
Yum! I thought, this looks like a satisfying lunch.
“When I was down there” Wayne said, as he cracked open a peanut, “I kept thinking of the song, ‘The Edmond Fitzgerald.’”
“How’s that go?”
“It’s about a steel hauler on the Great Lakes. In the song, the cook came up and said, ‘Sorry boys, its too rough to feed ya’, then the hatches caved in and it sank.”
“Great! I half laughed. “What’s Chris doing?”
“I didn’t see him. Must be hiding”.
“He didn’t even come out when you got the food,” I munched on a dry Stoned Wheat Thin.
“No. He must be terrorized. I wonder if it’s fair to subject him to this.”
“Poor kitty,” I agreed.
Moody hours crawled by. The muscles in my neck and shoulders felt as if someone had pulled them all up together, and then wrung them like a wash rag, leaving them that way. Wayne's injured and surgically repaired knees ached from the lateral motion.
In the afternoon, the water finally subsided a little. Wayne lay down on the bench, holding on with his hands and feet, and actually took a nap. Squinting at the horizon for over an hour, I finally saw two gray humps.
"Condo Ho!" I shouted.
We were still two hours away, but our mood improved as we drew near. Like Mayaguana's southern shore, the northern shore of Provo is bordered by a barrier reef. Once we were within two miles of land, we followed the long white line of breaking surf for six miles until we reached Stellar Cut, our point of entry into Grace Bay. We were finally there.
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“Look!,” Wayne said pointing out over the water. “Red and green markers, just like the good ol’ USA.” He steered between them and followed the channel to each subsequent set. They formed a narrow highway through brown patches of rocks and big black coral heads that dotted the bay.
I returned to my position at the bow resisting the temptation to peek inside the cabin, and only once did we stray from the channel. Wayne saw the depth go from six feet to three. We draw three and a half. He slid the motors into neutral and held his breath as we drifted over the shallow water.
Now, where to anchor. We’d headed toward Turtle Cove Marina, because when my family arrived, we planned to park our boat there, but we couldn’t drop the hook just anywhere. Much of Grace Bay is a park and no anchoring is allowed. Finally, we decided to anchor just outside the canal that leads to the marina, hoping we were outside the park boundaries.
The wind and current were strong, and I tried to keep the bow into the wind while Wayne dropped the big claw anchor. It dragged across the bottom, making a visible white line where it plowed through the turtle grass. I felt sick. Wayne put on snorkel and fins, dove into the clear green water, and swam down the anchor line to check the holding. It lay across the bottom holding only because of its weight. He dove down again and tried to set the anchor. Then back on the boat, we tried to set the danforth anchor—the one bent on the rock in Betsy Bay. We were tired and salty and cigarette-less.
“Keep the bow into the wind,” he shouted as I fought the wheel.
“I’m trying,” I screamed in frustration.
“Don’t pull out the other anchor,” he bellowed angrily.
“I’m doing my best,” I shouted into the wind.
Somehow we got anchored. Wayne cut off the engines from the lower steering console, and I just sat at the helm, numb, staring at nothing, letting my muscles relax, and periodically checking the GPS to see if we were holding firm. While Wayne put the outboard on the inflatable, I began to move about the bridge methodically—slow motion, gathering up the day’s accoutrements—laptop, charts, crackers, sun-glasses.
I didn’t want to look downstairs, but the time had come to descend the ladder and face it. I turned the corner to peek inside. The rope meant to hold the secretary in place had broken, and it lay on its face on our fine wood floor, the books stored on top were strewn. The brackets that held the sofa to the wall had broken loose and it was shoved up against the chair and coffee table, all three pushed haphazardly into the middle of the room. The plexiglass dining table cover had slid onto the floor. I cautiously stepped over the books and furniture and descended the steps to the galley. Cabinets were open; a bottle of hot sauce rolled on the floor. Cookbooks had slid off of the shelves. In our stateroom, there was water on the floor, and Chris finally came forward
“Merrroowwww”, he complained. His entire back end was soaked, his gray tail stuck out like a wet, tapered spike.
In our stateroom, three walls are covered with a long bookcase, where we store a few hundred books. Almost all of the books were on the bed and floor, their spines and pages twisted like the broken arms and legs of corpses, covers torn and wet.
I said nothing and went to work putting our home back together. I wanted it to shift from reality to memory as quickly as possible. Wayne motored into the Marina in anticipation of acquiring the papers necessary to clear Customs and Immigration.
I’d almost finished (except for the books) when Wayne returned with a pack of cigarettes, a smile on his face, and said "Wash up! We’re going out to dinner.”
A happier woman was not to be found on Provo that windy evening. We sat on the porch of the Banana Boat Caribbean Grill overlooking an upscale marina, sipped a cocktail, and ate a fine meal. The waitress was friendly and fast. Oh civilization! How I missed you. I’m sorry I wanted to travel off the beaten path! I’m sorry I wanted to visit small villages and eat greasy Bahamian food! I’m glad to be here among the un-tanned bodies of tourists! Oh civilization! I’m glad you’re here when I need you.
Relaxing dockside, I suggested that we move into the Marina the next day, instead of waiting until June 2nd when my mom, daughter, and her boyfriend arrive by plane. I’m tired of “roughing it”. It’s been thirty-seven days since we left Miami. I was afraid Wayne would say no, but he agreed and I am very happy.
Wednesday, May 28, 2003
This morning I read in the cruising guide that it’s illegal to anchor in anything but sand in a park or reserve, and we could not tell from the chart whether we were close enough to shore to be outside the park boundaries. Unlike the Bahamas, the Turks and Caicos are very serious about preserving their natural resources. Much of the land and sea is designated as park or reserve, and it’s heavily patrolled by rangers to enforce the restrictions on use. Restrictions vary from the anchoring rules mentioned above to no fishing, and no spear-fishing. Breaking the law could mean fines, imprisonment, and even the forfeiture of our vessel.
Not sure as to whether we were in violation or not, we hurriedly raised our anchors before the park rangers motored out into the bay and spotted us. Then we wound our way down the narrow canal into Turtle Cove, and parked the now big boat at the fuel dock. The dock master gave Wayne the Custom's and Immigration papers. We filled them out and waited for an hour and a half for the custom's official to arrive. A park ranger pulled up and chatted with the dock master. Wayne sat in the green arm chair, his body stiff like a board.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked.
He just shook his head.
“Are you worried about customs boarding the boat?” He nodded.
“Are you worried about those park rangers?” He nodded.
“Are you worried about the guns?” We had to turn them over to Customs until we left. He nodded.
“Must be your guilty conscious.” I laughed, but I couldn’t get him to smile. He just sat.
Finally, at 9:45 the Custom's official arrived with his big black sensible shoes, his white shirt buttoned close to his neck, and a large worn leather briefcase. He sat on the sofa, read our forms, got out his inkpad and stamped our passports. He was all business and refused the cold drink Wayne offered him. Wayne sat silent in the green chair, the long black Mosberg case and the green army satchel holding the two handguns at his side on the floor in plain site. The stern-faced custom's official gave us a map, and only after I asked him about local eateries (not where the tourists go) did he finally lighten up.
He was about to leave when Wayne asked hesitantly, "Uh, what about the guns?"
The custom's official looked sheepish, and said, "Oh, I forgot to ask."
Before long he was gone with our weapons. He didn’t search our boat, didn’t ask about the cat, and we weren’t arrested by the park service. All was well.
We gassed up, decided on a slip, motored around the cove, and parked our dirty, salty boat next to a huge yacht right in front of the Banana Boat Caribbean Grill. We docked on the harbor walk, a boardwalk that passes bars and restaurants, hotels and apartments on the land side, and mega yachts, charter and dive boats on the cove side.
Tuesday, May 27, 2003
The raising of two anchors, two dockings, one departure from dock, one custom's official—all before noon. No calamities, but so much stress for poor Wayne. He played strategy games on the computer and I served him egg sandwiches, then read and napped until late afternoon.
When the sun was lower in the sky and cooler night air was eminent, we walked the hilly road to the huge (by Caribbean standards), moderate (by American standards) IGA food market. It was probably lessthan two miles, but it was hot and the terrain was rough.
We had the ATM card, but very little cash. The market had a small deli and bakery, took credit cards, but did not give cash back. How would we get groceries back to the boat?
While I waited, Wayne made arrangements with a cabbie. He was waiting for his wife to finish shopping, then would drive us to the bank to access the ATM machine, and then to our boat.
We filled our cart with fresh fruit and vegetables, bread and cheese, then loaded it all into a cab, and headed down the busy Leaward Highway to the big shiny and brand-new Scotia Bank. I stood in line in an air-conditioned vestibule to use the ATM machine. Everyone else was walking away with piles of fifty-dollar bills, but three efforts on my part produced messages that read "We are sorry we cannot process your transaction at this time. Try again later." Why is nothing ever easy, I thought.
I gave up. Roy, the cabbie took us to our boat, and begrudgingly accepted eleven dollars—all the money we had.
Later, we headed the half a block along the harbor walk to the busy Tiki Hut restaurant where we sat at the bar drinking Miller Lite's on ice. This was one of the daily specials—2.50 each, instead of the usual 4.25. In addition, they offered the Wednesday night dinner special—salad, baby back ribs or chicken, bread, garlic mashed potatoes, and mixed vegetables—all for $10.00. We split the special, chatted with another patron, then strolled in the warm air back to our boat.
Wayne held Chris and showed him all around, then placed him gently on the empty dock. He immediately turned around and jumped back onto the boat. Just like us, it may be miserable on this boat at times, but it is still our safe haven.
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