Puff the Magic Dragon, Lived by the Sea...

Jim's preface: We're in Guadeloupe now. We've been here for about a month. More later on how we got here and where we've been. But first, Rick has some thoughts to share.

Puff the Magic Dragon, Lived by the Sea...

After cruising south along the western coast of Guadeloupe, Jim and I turned our rudder to port (left to you land-lubbers) and headed north, up the eastern shore of Basse Terre, the largest of the Guadeloupian Islands. We were sailing to La Marina Bas du Fort in the cosmopolitan town of Pointe-a-Pitre.

Fishing is a major source of income for the locals and one of the ways they make their catch is with the use of a fish trap. They start with branches about 1-1 ¼ inch in diameter and form a box that measures 6x4x3 feet. They cover that with chicken wire and, at either end, form the wire into a cone extending one foot into the trap. Coconut is popular bait and a hunk is secured with a piece of string dangling inside kind of like the way we hang a neon sign flashing “Eat Here” outside a diner They attach a buoy to a line tied to the trap and toss the whole thing in the drink. The fish can easily swim through the wide end of the cone, down the tunnel and then through the small end but then, sadly, it’s fish sticks for dinner.

Normally, fisherman set their traps at a depth of 30-40 feet. The Guadeloupians being much more adventurous will set their traps in water up to 150 feet deep and…they set them everywhere. Some are marked with nice, store-bought yellow or orange buoys and some are marked with bright white empty Clorox jugs. However, and I guess this is for the stealth fishermen, some are marked with clear, empty 2 liter soda bottles (Mother Nature has long since removed the labels) and as if that isn’t hard enough to see, there are a few that are marked with black floats. The clear ones are a challenge, but the back ones sneak up on you like no-see-ums. The problem this causes for boaters is simple. Props suck up line like fish traps catch fish. Once you’re “caught” you’re done for. The lines also get stuck between the boat’s rudder and the hull and when that happens, steering the boat becomes impossible. Either way, someone has to get into the water with a good scuba knife and cut the tangled mess free. If you’re lucky, the line will not have pulled your prop off. If you’re not, then someone is going scuba diving.

To pick our way through the mine field of fish traps, I stood at the bow of the boat and directed Jim with hand signals. He successfully steered us, while under full sail and without the use of our engines, to the marina in Point-a-Pitre where we were sure our fish related problems would end. Not so.

When we were about 2 miles away, we called the marina on the VHF and were told they’d send a guy out in a dingy to guide us to our slip. We made it to the entrance to the channel leading to the docks, dropped the sails and waited. Then we motored through the channel to the marina entrance and waited some more. We called again (after making sure our VHF antennae was in place – remember Simpson Bay?) and waited for a response. Nothing. There was a guy on the dock waiving, and we being the friendly Americans we are, waived back. After 30 seconds or so, he waived again and again we waived back. After another 30 seconds he waived one more time and then the light went on. Just so you don’t think we’re dense, he was waving not beckoning. When you’re on a boat, people wave at you all the time. You wave back and smile. A lot of boaters will wave and wave and wave until you wave back. It’s a boating thing.

Jim was behind the helm and steered us up to the empty space on the dock. The space the dock guy was motioning for us to parallel park our 41 foot boat into looked to be about 40 feet long. Guadeloupe is a French island; but unlike Paris, most people here don’t speak any English. My French is passable for ordering dinner, saying hello and asking the simplest of questions provided I have time to rehearse them in my head before putting my American foot in my mouth. Even though we’ve been sailing for 10 years or so, pulling up to a dock is still a little nerve racking. A 16 thousand pound boat, even moving at modest 1 to 1.5 knots, still has a lot of momentum.

Jim turned to me and said, “Tell him I’m not pulling this boat into that space. Tell him to find us another slip. Tell him, TELL him, TELL HIM….” I tried to form the phase in my head but nothing was there. All the while, the dock guy was waiving our 41 foot boat into a 40 foot space that had a 46 foot catamaran behind it and a 30 foot speed boat in front of it. Docking a boat is not like parallel parking a car in DC, where Jim often says, “They call them bumpers for a reason you know.”
I jumped behind the helm, prayed for a gigantic shoe horn to materialize in the sky and gave it my best shot. As it turned out, with the dock guy and Jim's help, I managed to squeeze in with inches to spare on each end. Don’t ask me how and I don’t think I could do it again, but we were docked.

Two of the great things about being in a marina are electricity and water; both made by someone else. Eyes of the World is all set up to make her own electricity and purify salt water into the best drinking water, but both require turning on the generator, checking filters, monitoring gauges and generally paying attention to what you’re doing. When you’re in a marina, you can hook your boat up to both water and power, take as many hot showers as you want, run the AC all you want and never turn on your generator. With the greatest of anticipation (we’d been fending for ourselves for about a week) we grabbed our hose and our extension cord and made for the hook up station. I have to explain that the extension cord isn’t like the one every keeps at home but can never find when you need it. It’s a 40 foot long, 1 1/4 inch thick, 45 pound monstrosity that carries enough juice to light up the Vegas Strip. The hose is a hose in every respect which means no matter what you hook it to and no matter how new the washer is, it leaks a little from each end. Well, neither fit the Guadeloupian hook ups. Drat. We searched the boat for the correct adaptors, the dock guys searched their workroom for the correct adaptors but we all came up empty handed. Of course it was late Saturday night which meant all the Chandleries (boating hardware stores) were closed until Monday so getting the parts we needed wasn’t going to happen until Monday and even then, whether or not we could find them was questionable. The odd thing is our boat was built in France. Guadeloupe is a French island. You’d think that those two factors would make for a perfect match. You’d think.

When you’re at anchor or tied to a mooring ball, the aerodynamics of the boat cause it to naturally point into the wind. All of the hatches open in way that directs the wind into the boat, providing you with a wonderful cooling breeze. That doesn’t work when you’re on a dock. If you’re not pointing into the wind, then there is no great cooling breeze, just an occasional puff of warm air usually carrying with it, 150 mosquitoes. We were not happy sailors.

Generally, we turn on our generator when we need to charge our house batteries, run the compressor, the water maker or the washing machine. We limit that time to an hour and a half twice a day. In addition to the fuel tanks for the motors, Eyes of the World is fitted with two additional 25 gallon fuel tanks, both of which were at least three quarters full. We decided it would be ok to run the generator overnight so that we could use the AC…for the sake of the dogs. We started her up and turned on the air and were happy sailors once again. Sleeping conditions that night were great however, shortly after sunrise, the generator turned itself off.

Our Onan generator is equipped with several safety switches that automatically shut the system down before a malfunction can cause it any damage. When any system that uses sea water as a coolant shuts down, the first thing we do is check the water flow into the cooling system of the unit. I opened up the bilge, closed the through-hull valve (you only have to forget that step once) and unscrewed the top to the strainer. To my surprise, sometime during the night, our generator strainer had become home to two juvenile puffer fish. I lifted the mesh cylinder out of the strainer and deposited the two squatters into a bowl of sea water. Jim and I took a few pictures of the little cuties and then tossed them back into the sea. We put everything back together, opened up the through-hull valve (another step you only have to forget once – keep your eyes open for a blog about impellers) and turned the generator back on. Vroom, vroom, she worked like a charm.

Our boat was back in order, it was a bright, clear day, the AC was cranking away and things were looking up. I started breakfast while Jim headed down to the…hmm…shall we say…lounge? A little while later, I hear the familiar sound of the hand pump from the head (lounge for you land lubbers) being used, and used, and used. “Hey,” Jim called up from the bathroom. “Something’s the matter with the head.” That is Jim’s boat speak for “Rick, can you come down here and fix this?” As far as maintenance jobs go, fixing the head is pretty much at the bottom of the list. I called back, “I can’t come down right now, I’m making you breakfast.” Which is my boat speak for, “Are you out of your %$#^ mind?”

There were two things in Jim’s favor. The first was that the clogged line was the salt water intake line (I’ll give you a minute to think that benefit through). The second was that he hadn’t had his morning coffee yet (take another minute on that one as well). Jim took the pump apart, checked the gasket, checked the hoses, primed the line and tried again. Nothing. He then removed the hoses, check the toggle switch that controls the pump’s direction from intake to outlet and put everything back together again. Nothing. “Hey. I’m not that hungry right now,” he called. Translation…”please come help me!”

I went down to the head and basically did everything he did but in addition, removed all of the hoses leading to the head and blew air through them to make sure they were clear. Now I want you all to remember that these were hoses that took nice clean water from outside the boat and directed it toward the head. Even so, I had to psych myself up to bring them to my lips. We put everything back together and….nothing. There was one small 6” hose that connects the through-hull to another valve but because of its position, it’s a real pain to take off. It was the only thing we hadn’t check so I bit the bullet, loosened the four ring clamps and wrestled the hose from its confines. Because of where it was, it had a pretty dramatic curve in it that made it impossible to see directly through but there wasn’t any light reflecting on the inside of the tube so I knew it was clogged. I took it up to the deck, inhaled a big breath of air and blew on one end as hard as I could. Pop. Another puffer fish shot out of the tube like a dart from a blow gun. He sailed a good 15 feet, hit the water and swam away. Jeeze, these things are worse than the mosquitoes. We put everything back together and Ta-Da!, the head was working again.

You’d think our puffer fish problems would be over. Think again. The generator shut off the next morning at sunrise. This time, I knew exactly what to do. I opened the strainer to the generator, lifted out the mesh cylinder, walked upstairs to the deck and dumped a single puffer fish (not nearly so cute as the first two) back into the water, this time, foregoing transporting him in a nice bowl full of salt water. I started to reassemble the strainer...hmm. Yesterday we had two in the strainer and one in a hose, so before I put the strainer back together, I slowly opened the through-hull and allowed water to flow through the tubes, into the strainer casing and then into the bilge. HA, there was another puffer fish in the tubes! I’m so smart! As I was congratulating myself on my ingenuity, I glanced at the mesh cylinder still in my hand. Drat. How am I going to get that puffer fish out of the strainer? The strainer looks like a jar with a narrowed opening at the top that’s just a bit larger than the mesh cylinder. Water comes into the top and is strained through the mesh before it goes into the heat exchanger for the generator. The strainer is made of clear acrylic so I could see the fish swimming around inside. I ran up to the galley and grabbed two wooden spoons thinking that I could gently sandwich the little guy between the spoons and lift him out to safety.

The wooden spoons were about ten inches long and the strainer was about nine inches deep so the math all seemed to be working in my favor; I had one inch of usable handle and was certain I could make this work. Have you ever been to a carnival and watched the “Carney” use that ring attached by a string to a pole take a Coke bottle lying on its side and sit it upright? Seems pretty easy. Oh if life were that simple. As soon as I put a spoon into the water, the puffer fish darted to the bottom of the strainer. I needed at least two inches of handle to dexterously maneuver both spoons at the same time. I could use one spoon to scoop him to the top but then only had a split second to slide the second spoon into place. He had the same amount of time to dart back to his perceived safe zone. Keep in mind that in the wild, what fish do most of the day is eat and dart away from larger fish. Puffy had a lot more practice at this than I did. After a good 30 attempts and as many thoughts about just getting the big fork we use for grilling, I finally got the little sucker. Well, I don’t know if you’ve put two and two together, but the name of the fish is a….wait for it…here is comes…PUFFER fish, and that is exactly what that little shit did. He puffed himself up to the size of a tennis ball. Oh that grilling fork was looking better and better.

I finally managed to use one wooden spoon and a set of tongs to free the little guy and release him, I’m sure, back into someone else’s strainer. We got our generator running and Jim has since barricaded all of our intake holes with chicken wire so we don’t have any more run ins with “Puff the swimming dragon, lived in the sea, clogging up our intake valves so we couldn't peeeee…”

I'm on the top of the world, looking down on creation and the only explanation ....you can hum the rest.

This blog goes back in time a bit. Sometimes I have to let them bake in the oven for a while...

It’s now been almost four weeks since we first dropped anchor in St. Maarten. The original plan was to stay there for three to five days and then head east to St. Barts and then south west to St. Kitts. In an ordered world, we wouldn’t still be in St. Martin (different spelling, we’re now on the French side). In the sailing world, a plan is something you continually adjust until the result has almost no similarities with its beginning.

While in Simpson Bay, we discovered that our boat had made and offering to Poseidon in the form of our VHF antenna. We’ve had an ongoing issue with the antennae which sits precariously at the very top of the mast. The antenna was a three foot long fiberglass whip attached to a three inch long stainless steel threaded pipe. The pipe sits in a small aluminum fork bracket and then two hex nuts are screwed from the bottom to tighten the whole thing up against the bracket; all at a height of 70 feet. We were having a problem keeping the antennae tight in its bracket. Funny thing is, while making our crossing to St. Maarten, we both heard something clattering across the deck in the middle of the night. We searched for the source of the noise but couldn’t see anything amiss. It wasn’t until we were through the Dutch side drawbridge and trying to use our VHF that we discovered the gift Eyes had made to the Sea God. Apparently we could transmit just fine but were totally deaf to the marina’s responses. After a good dozen transmissions from us of, “Can you hear me now? Can you hear me now?”...which we now know they don’t like so much, they were surely saying back, “Yes, yes, for the love of Christ, yes WE CAN HEAR YOU NOW!” Eventually, for the sake of their own sanity, they sent someone out in a dingy to let us know that they we’re quite aware of our approach. I guess they don’t have the same commercials we do.

We successfully docked the boat in a slip and started our countless trips to and from Budget Marine, a boater’s version of Home Depot. The main similarity between the two is that as soon as you get there, you realize you forgot to bring whatever piece you were trying to match and as soon as you get back, you realize what you forgot to buy. Needless to say, we were not only on a first name basis with our personal customer service agent, Telluthia Cotton, (who weighed as much as a passing thought) we knew the rest of the sales staff and about a half dozen boaters who happened to be caught in the same Budget Marine forgetting cycle we were caught in.

With the new VHF antenna in hand, I strapped myself into our Boson’s chair, clipped myself to the shackle attached to the main halyard and waited for Jim to hoist me up the mast. A Boson’s chair is basically a cloth chair, kind of like a hammock you sit in. Ours was a gift from the Colorado Little’s and is a deluxe version. A deluxe Boson’s chair is one that will hold you in even if you’re turned upside down. I don’t think I’ll try that out. I’m weighing in at around 170 pounds these days so with the aid of a few pulleys and a winch, Jim started cranking me up our 70 foot mast. One of the tasks at hand was to retie the bowline knot at the top of the mast that secures the main halyard. Those of you paying attention will notices that a few sentences ago, I told you I was clipping my Boson’s chair to the shackle attached to the main halyard. Dicey. Jim cranked me up the mast, all the while I was yelling back down, “Come on you wimp, faster, faster.” In retrospect, antagonizing the person in charge of keeping you from falling 70 feet isn’t the smartest idea. My excuse is that I was giddy with the anxiety caused by attaching myself to a line that had a potentially faulty knot. A pint of sweat later, Jim had me to the top of the mast and I began my chores. I immediately secured myself with three separate lines, untied and retied the bowline knot.

We knew that the main halyard had some wear because, like the good sailors we are, we had the foresight to have our rigging inspected before we left Tortola. One of the faults the inspector, Mr. Thomas, found in the rigging while he was at the top of our mast was a worn main halyard cause by chaffing against the topping lift. He was kind enough to move the halyard in order to stop the chaffing. Interestingly enough, while he was in his own Boson’s chair, at the top of our 70 foot mast, you’d have thought he’d remove the chaffed part of the line and tie a new knot…not.

After taking care of the halyard, I installed the new VHF antennae, inspected all of the other lines and electrical equipment and then stopped working and looked at where I was. I was suspended from a 5/8th inch line 70 feet above the deck of our boat. The 360 degree view of the harbor was incredible. From that vantage point, I could appreciate not only the size of the dock in the marina around me but also the size of Simpson Bay. Half of the bay is French and the other half is Dutch. Both sides have their own drawbridge and those two entryways are the only water passage into the lagoon. The eastern shore is met by a sheer slope of the towering mountain ridge. To the south, I could clearly see the whole town and the road leading up the mountain toward Phillipsburg. My western view showed me bay outside of the Dutch drawbridge and to the north I could see the French town of Marigot. It was a beautifully humbling view that once again illustrated for me the true size of the boat we are on. We’re a pretty large boat in the marina, just a spot in the lagoon and I imagine, as you pan out, not even a speck in the ocean.

Row, row, row your boat.

First, I'd like to thank those of you who leave comments on the blog. We love the feedback and also love hearing how everyone is doing back home - so keep the emails coming!

Here we are at the beginning of September, just over two months into our travels. We're currently sitting in Jolly Harbour Marina on Antigua's west coast and have been enjoying this island for a little over a week. The last you heard from us, we were in St. Martin, about to start heading south. Well, we've made it about 120 miles so far.

To give you a timeline, we left St. Martin on August 18 and headed south to St. Barts. It was a great day for sailing with clear blue skies, a nice breeze and just enough big puffy clouds to give us something to look at. The trip was only about 18 miles from where we were in Anse du Marcel. Our destination was Gustavia which is the main port in St. Barts. For those of you who haven't visited St. Barts - its atmosphere is quite a bit different from where we've been so far.

Not only is Gustavia's main harbor right out of a picture book, but all the store fronts in the town look like they'd been plucked right from Madison Avenue in New York City!

While in Gustavia, we had to get fuel for the dinghy. We were nearly out and when I say nearly, I'm kind of stretching the truth. The only place to get fuel for a boat was the commercial dock, which was about 1/2 mile from our boat. When I got up in the morning, I decided to zip over to the fuel dock and get that chore out of the way. I jumped in the dinghy and headed to the commercial dock. I ran out of gas 10 feet from the dock. Luckily, I had oars so I could row myself the remaining 10 feet.

I found myself on a commercial dock with lots of containers and machinery. I was in a little 9 foot inflatable boat wanting about 6 gallons of the island's best unleaded. Oh, and I've not mentioned that "Mon Français est très mauvais" or for those that don't "parlez", my French is very bad. I manage to find the main office and between my trying to pronounce "gasoline" with a French accent and wildly gesticulating my arms, the very nice and patient French guy understood my goal. He said in broken English, "you want gas." "Yes! Yes!", I respond. Then I saw it coming, I knew what he was going to say next. "No gas." I looked from him to the pumps and then back to him, pretending not to understand such a simple phase in my native tongue, raise an eyebrow and waited. I don't know what I expected him to say, whether it was, "Just joking...unleaded OK?", or..."I have a little stash of gas here behind the counter, for you, I can spare a few liters." What he did say was, "Pumps no work."

Yes, it's true. I'd used all the remaining gas we had in the tank to get the dinghy to a dock that had pumps and had fuel, but couldn't get the fuel where I wanted it. I managed to ask in very poor French where the nearest gas station was. "Airport!" was the kind Frenchman's response.

I'm sure you all know what happened next because of the title of this blog. I had to "Row, row, row my boat" back the 1/2 mile to our big boat. For those of you who didn't crew in college, or don't enjoy a skiff out on the river - rowing is a LOT of work. Plus, you can't see where you're going. Frequently I would find myself rowing to a destination that I had no intention of visiting

Now this is Rick adding a side note: I've seen Jim at the gym, sitting on a rowing machine, happy as a clam in sand. He gets no sympathy from me.

Well, after about an hour I made it back. The rest of that day...and I'm not kidding, was us on a quest for gas. St. Barts only has two gas stations. One is near the airport and I have no idea where the other one is. Our first order of business was to either take a cab or rent a car and drive to the airport. I have to confess, that part of me was excited about visiting another airport. I have an obsession with airplanes, so any excuse will do - and after all, this wasn't an excuse.

We boarded the dinghy and "row, row, rowed" ourselves to the dock. Fortunately, it's not far... only about a 5 minute row max. We then inquired about the cost of a cab. As it turned out, we could rent a car for less money - only about $40/day. So we chose that option. By this time, it was about lunch time. We quickly learned a very important fact about French island culture. Nearly all non-restaurant businesses close at noon and some reopen later in the afternoon (remember, it's off-season). Since we had to wait until 2pm for the car rental place to open, we decided to grab a bit at a restaurant that had a great view of the harbour. I love the way the French can teach us how to enjoy one another more by taking time to have lunch.

Anyway, I digress (the American returns). After lunch we rented a car. As a side note, cars in St. Barths for $40/day aren't nearly as nice as cars in St. Martin for $25/day. But that's another story. We were happy to be in a car and drove the 10 minutes to the airport. We got to the gas station and as it turns out, closed between 12:00 and 2:30pm. What time was it? Only 2:15! Good lord man - what are we to do for the next 15 minutes! (again, the American - or maybe it's just my OCD).

Long story short (I know, it's already long). We got the gas and were "liquid" again with dinghy fuel. We drove back to the boat and hooked up the tank and happily polluted the air while motoring 2 minutes back to the boat :)

Are you wondering how long this is going to continue? I started by saying that I would tell you about how we got to Antigua and I've just most of this blog telling you about getting gas.

We left Gustavia a few days later and headed north to Anse du Colombier, a beautiful little cove with a long white-sand beach that isn't accessible by any road. We were there with 2-3 other boats and had a great time.

We snorkeled! We've not had much of a chance to be in the water since we left Tortola, and we were in heaven. The sunset set in the west (as always) and we had a clear view.

On our last day before leaving for Antigua, we took a hike from Anse du Colombier to Anse des Flamandes. Our goal was to find a nice place for breakfast and/or coffee. For those that don't speak French, an "Anse" literally translates as "hanger." I take that to mean cove.

This hike wasn't for the feeble hearted. Cooper and Coco went with us - and at times even they seemed a bit taken aback by the sheer drop. Our effort was totally rewarded when we stumbled across a small hotel with a restaurant that served a very good French-style continental breakfast. They even had a bowl of water for the dogs. I love the French.

Once we'd hiked back, we packed everything up and headed back to Gustavia. We needed to make sure we were full on water - and after the incident with the fuel, we thought it a good idea to get an early start. There were no troubles getting the water and around 3:30 in the afternoon, we departed the lovely island of St. Barthelamy for Antigua. During the journey, we'd pass Saba, St. Eustatis, St. Kitts, Nevis and then arrive on Antigua.

For those that are wondering why we're passing all these islands, I have two words for you: "Hurricane season." We are only taking extended stays at islands that have good hurricane holes - and those that we were passing, while beautiful, aren't known for helping sailboats weather a storm.

We leave St. Barths around 4pm in the afternoon bound for Antigua. I'd been up since about 6am, so we decided that Rick would take the first watch and I would do the graveyard shift. If you're not familiar with how to sail at night, someone always needs to be awake to keep watch. Basically, the guy on duty ensures that we don't run into any passing cruise ships or freighters. After all, we're only a 41 foot catamaran and don't always register with those on the "watch" of these other ships.

I headed down to the stateroom with the nubbins around 8pm. We keep the dogs locked in the stateroom when we're at sea at night. If they were to go overboard in the dark there would be no hope finding them. I had been in bed about 5 minutes when Rick called me to come back to the cockpit...we'd hit a squall. Now, we are both very diligent about checking the weather several times before leaving on a passage. This time was no different. While in Gustavia earlier that day we both had checked the 4-5 different sources of weather that we have. We knew the squalls might happen, but this was a first for us.



I'm back on deck in my shorts wondering what on earth was going on. Rick told me the winds had risen to around 25 knots sustained with gusts up to 35. When I'd gone to bed, 10 minutes before, we were seeing winds between 10-12 knots. We immediately took action to decide how to best weather this storm. However, the dogs weren't locked in the stateroom anymore...I had neglected to close the door when I sprinted back to deck.

The moment seemed to last forever. Rick asked about the dogs and I told him they were inside. He went below to find them and told me that he couldn't find Cooper, but had located Coco. Of the two, Coco would be the one to worry more about because if it were possible, she would attach herself to Rick. Rick continued to look while I became more and more frantic at the helm. I had just about accepted the fact that the little black cocker spaniel was not going to be found on board when Rick said he had her. She had wedged herself under the desk in the office. The fact that it was night time and Cooper is black....enough said.


We managed to get through the squall and decided that it would be better to have less main sail out in case it happened again. With only one of us on watch, it would be easier to tolerate any upcoming squalls if we didn't have as much exposed sail area. Just like when you take an umbrella with you, by putting two reefs we managed to weather any other passing squalls.

We arrived in Jolly Harbor, Antigua the next morning around 8am - and jolly it was!! We'd made it to the end of this leg of our journey. We've had a great time while on Antigua - and also had quite a few more experiences worthy of blogs. We'll try to get some of them down in the next week.

We plan to leave on Sunday, Sep 9th for either Martinique or Guadeloupe. We're on the fence. Martinique gets us south faster, yet the hurricanes have been in the south. Additionally, Guadeloupe is only about 10-11 hours away which we can do by the light of day. Martinique is over 24 hours away which would mean over night sailing. We'll let you know what we decide.

In the meantime, we hope all is well with all of you. Be well and stay safe.

Someone’s knocking at the door; somebody’s ringing the bell…

Jim and I are anchored in Carlisle Bay, a small bay off the south, southwestern side of Antigua. There’s a tropical depression blowing westward just to our south and because of that, the winds have stirred up the water in the bay so the visibility underwater is only about 10-15 feet.

We jumped off the back of the boat for a little swim and headed toward the south side of the bay to check out the fish in the gloom.

Jim was swimming about ten feet in front of me when I noticed a small school of Sergeant Majors, some Goat Fish and a few Wrasses bobbing in the currents caused by the small waves lapping the rocks. I was only in about 8 feet of water so I was able to see the bottom of sand, rocks and grass pretty clearly. Among the rocks, I spied a cluster of white shells starkly standing out against the background of brownish sand. With poor visibility making it difficult to see far, anything slightly unusual was good cause for closer inspection.

The shells were arranged along the opening of a very old empty Queen Conch shell, long since inhabited by its maker and clearly showing all the signs of the circle of life in the sea. Growing on its top was a coating of algae and sea moss that made it look like it was wearing a sweater. A few barnacles and small sponges were using the shell as their base, adding to the transformation of this once colorful and elegantly curved shell from clean, purposeful beauty to a new kind of opportunistic, utilitarian usefulness.

As I pulled a small scallop shell from the opening, an interesting thing happened. Something pulled the shell back toward the old conch. Because I found the shell on its back, I guessed it was not the new home of a hermit crab, and knew, again from its position and also from its condition, that there wasn’t a conch inside. I snatched a few more shells from their resting place and exposed a single eye looking back at me. I waited and within 60 seconds, a small tentacle snaked out, grabbed one of the shells I had removed and gently put it back in its place. I’d found my favorite of all sea creatures. I’d found an Octopus.

The Caribbean Octopus is a timid little creature with some absolutely amazing qualities. It can change, not only the color of its skin, but also its skin’s texture. It is almost completely made of soft tissue except for a parrot-like beak which it uses to open its primary souse of food, mollusks and crustaceans. An Octopus can squeeze its body through any hole that is larger than the size of its beak and when in danger, can produce an ink cloud that acts as a diversion.

I lifted the Conch shell and move it to a rock ledge about 2 feet under the water’s surface. Keep in mind that this Octopus had stuffed his little self up into the spiral of the shell and absolutely no amount of tugging was going to get him out. I also didn’t want to scare the little fella, however, in retrospect, I suspect I failed at that goal when I removed the first piece of his shell armor.

I lifted the shell so the Octopus was just above the water. Now before you go thinking I’m an Octopus torturer, let me explain. The National Zoo has an invertebrate exhibit that contains a few Octopi. While on a visit there, the Octopus lady told us that if the lids to the little Octopus condominiums are not weighted down with bricks, the crafty little creatures will make a mad dash for the drains in the floors! Little do they know that all they’d get would be a trip into the DC sewer system which, as I’m sure most of you know occasionally explodes. Before they'd know it, they could be shot through a manhole cover in Georgetown and right onto the plate of a tourist having lunch at a sidewalk café. Calamari al la Adrian Fente.

Anyway, there I was, trying to coax Pi (I’ve now named him) out of his hidey hole buy denying him oxygen. Unfortunately for all concerned (me and Pi), I was wearing a mask and snorkel at the time. Nobody and I mean nobody, not even Brad Pitt, looks remotely flattering with a mask and snorkel on. But Pi, bless his little heart, gingerly snaked out one of his many arms in a show of trust and friendship; then he felt flesh (mine) and BAM, back in the shell he went. Now I admit, it had been a few days since I’d seen the inside of a shower, but jeeze, I do swim every day. I couldn’t have tasted that bad. Well I just couldn’t bring myself to hold him out of the water for more than ten seconds so the only thing left to do was wait him out.

Let’s go over some of the pertinent details of the waiting game. I took a year off work (thanks Kurt) and am living on a sailboat. Obviously I don’t really care how long it takes me to get anywhere. If I did, I’d be living on a power boat or in a Winnebago. I had just eaten a nice lunch so was good for another 6 hours as far as needing food goes. The water temperature at the edge of the bay was a balmy 92 degrees so getting cold wasn’t a concern. The only real deterrent to staying in the water for a long time was the mental image I had of that crazy guy from England who locked himself in a ball of water for a week in front of Lincoln Center in NYC. He turned into a prune in about an hour, however, it wasn’t until his doctors told him that his liver and kidneys might shut down that he relented and came out of the ball. By that time, his flesh was so wrinkled that he didn’t look human. What’s the matter with people? That look isn't for me.

Back to the story at hand. Little by little I inched my index finger closer to Pi and little by little he managed to cram himself deeper into that shell until I guess there was just no other place to go. After about ten minutes, Pi extended a tentacle and lightly laid it down on the tip of my finger. All I could think of at the time was “Remain calm, he’s making a move.” What did I do? I yanked my finger back like a big girl and let out a little scream through my snorkel. He, in turn, yanked his tentacle back and this time shut his little eye. About 30 seconds later, he opened it up again, saw the strange man in the snorkel and mask and slammed it back shut. I actually think he was “willing” me away. I’ve tried to do that a bunch of times; it doesn’t work. You open your eyes and the person with bad breath monopolizing your time at a party with tales of economic brawn or work related importance is still right in front of your face. Hell, they might as well have a mask and snorkel on.

Pi’s next attempt at détente came much more quickly. Apparently, the shell was a little cramped and he had had just about enough. This time, his little arm came out and overlapped my finger by about 2 inches. All this time, he was an uninviting shade of brown with little white streaks. Well, let me tell you, right after we made contact, he instantly turned bright white whith blood red streaks, stayed that way for 15 seconds and then gradually went back to the brown. Now that he was back to his old self, he let a few more arms extend out and reached around to the back of the shell. In one fluid movement, he slid his whole body around to the back of the shell and in an instant matched his color to the color of the algae/sea moss and to my amazement, changed the texture of his skin to match the shell’s coating as well. This all happened in less than two seconds. He never made any attempt to swim away from the shell, he just clung to the back and even though I knew he was there, I had to really concentrate on where the shell ended and Pi began.

I reached my hand around to the back of the shell and laid it, palm up, right in front of him. He in turn, immediately shit his pants….no, no, just kidding….he placed two tentacles on my palm and then in less than a minute, he moved off the shell and into my palm. His color changed to a yellowish green and his skin became perfectly smooth again. He was so soft, he felt like velvet. For the next 15 minutes, he just crawled around my hands, from one to the other and then back. He moved about 12 inches up my arm, but then jettisoned himself back to my other hand. All this time, he was changing the color of his skin and the pattern of the color as well.

Eventually, I picked up the conch shell and gently guided him back to the opening. He sat on the edge as I swam him back to his original resting place. As I lowered the shell he slid inside again. I scooped up the white clam and scallop shells and lined them up along the door to the conch condo, took one last look at his little eye and swam back to the boat.

I don’t know why I have this urge to interact with animals. I want so much for them to know that I don’t pose a threat. For some reason, unknown to me, I want them to “know” me and know that I’m a friend. Their complexity is unimaginable. Their consciousness is unquestionable. I am a guest in their home and I guess I want to feel welcome.

I think I’ll have Calamari tonight.

What have we been up to?

I know many of you are asking the question: "Where did they go?? It's been a week, and we've not heard anything." Well, wait no more. Here's the update from me, Jim, so it won't have quite the same level of intelligent wit as Rick's. First, let's step back just a little over a week when I took a quick trip back to the states.

Last Sunday, we were looking for a place Rick could spend the few days I would be gone. We wanted something a bit less hectic than Simpson Bay Marina. Although the people there were fantastic - it has the feel of being in the middle of everything. As an aside, we were able to see the latest Harry Potter movie at the local cinema which was within walking distance of the Simpson Bay Marina. Also, Rick went to the top of the mast to fix our VHF - while he was there, he snapped a few pictures.

Also, not to be forgotten is Maho Beach. Home to the Sunset Beach Bar AND the end of the runway to the Princess Juliana Airport. Those of you who know me, understand my level of excitement about being able to watch jets land close up. To make a good situation even better, the Sunset Beach Bar overlooks the end of the runway. That means I can watch planes land and at the same time, enjoy a freshly blended Mango Daquari at the same time. Heaven.

Here's a pic of me in front of the surf board that indicates when flights will be arriving.

So we headed out to Grande Case which is on the northwest side of the island. That meant changing our flags from the St. Maarten (Dutch) flag to the St. Martin (French) flag (a flag that smells a bit like stinky cheese. I've captured that on film :)

Grande Case has a beautiful beach and the town feels as though you're in a small French village. We had a very good dinner at a local French place and spent the night on the boat. The cove was a bit rolly, so we decided to move around the corner to a small Marina called Port Lonvilliers in Anse Marcel. And this place . . . truly out of a French story book.

Anyway, I flew back to the US from St. Martin to JFK. I won't go into the details of my travel day, but let me just say it started by trying to find a cab at 7am in a rather deserted area without the benifit of speaking much French. Shame on me for not planning better. But in the end, all was well and I made my flight to the US sans problem (maybe I can speak French).

I got off the plane in JFK and immediately wondered who were all these people? I've been used to being around Rick and the two nubbins for 5 weeks. Occasionally, we'll have a neighbor moored close by or another boat near us on a dock, but this was defiantly a culture shock. I have to say, I kind of liked it a bit - it just took a while to get used to. However, I do like the solitude of island living as well.

Three days later, after having some great reunions and meetings while in NYC and DC, I returned to St. Martin . On the cab ride back, the driver and I were talking about life and such. You'll find that you can learn more about the local culture from the cab drivers. They are incredibly friendly and will talk to you about most anything.

So, we originally planned to leave Port Lonvilliers within a few days - but then Dean happened. Rick is writing another blog about Dean, so I won't go into specifics now. But since he was headed our way - we decided to stay put. The marina is VERY protected so it afforded us a good hiding place from the impending wind. There are some good pictures of the boat that Rick took during these days. You can click on any of these pics and you'll be taken to our gallery on Picasa.

So that brings us up to date. We're planning on leaving tomorrow or the next day for Antigua. We may go via St. Kitts, but that kinda depends on the weather. I hope all is well with all of you and look forward to your comments and emails. Stay safe and be well.

The Handyman Can

All those who are old enough, please close your eyes and think of Sammy Davis, Jr.

Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew
Cover it with chocolate and a miracle or two
The Candy Man can, the Candy Man can

Now on a boat…

Who can take a stopped up head, and free it from the pee
Who can fix the radar, helping it to see
The Handyman can….the Handyman can.

I’ll apologize up front for putting that tune into your head. No doubt you’ll be humming it all day.

I’m the kind of guy who likes things to work the way they’re supposed to. I’m not the kind of guy who really cares how they work, just that they do. While I love creative projects, fixing a broken widget was never something that held my interest and I never really considered the creative genius necessary to look at a broken piece of equipment, accurately diagnose the problem and formulate a plan to fix it. My creativity comes in the form of talking the repairman into not going to his mother’s house to fix her air-conditioning in the 110 degree heat, but to come to my house and fix mine first because I’m having 10 people over for dinner that night.

With that said, let’s talk about a boat. A boat, no matter what age, what make or what model, is always broken. Now that’s certainly not to say that it’s unusable or even unsightly (unless, of course, it’s on cinder blocks in your front yard, (unless you live in West Virginia, then it’s considered a status symbol)). There is a direct proportion to the amount you brag about the fancy stuff your boat has to the amount of time you spend fixing all that fancy stuff.

Our boat has a washing machine. Ohhhhh…ahhhhh. It’s located in the starboard haul directly opposite from the head. The “head” is boat speak for the toilet. I don’t have any idea why it’s called a head. I do everything I can to keep my head from getting anywhere near it. While Jim and I were at the dock in Tortola, we were able to take advantage of the two, large, top loading washing machines I once took so much for granted. I did a few loads of laundry every week, figuratively patting myself on the back for being able to take care of this basic household task. Yolanda, our domestic aid back in the States, who, in my mind, has now risen to the status of home economic goddess, used to do all of our laundry for us. Dirty clothes, sheets and towels just vanished, reappearing clean and folded as if by magic. Well, let me tell you; sweat ain’t magic. It’s not enough to round up the dirties and get them into the washing machine. Unless your favorite color is grey, you have to separate them. If you love grey, well then by George, you’re in such luck. If it’s not, then separate you must. You then have to remember that they are in the washing machine. If you don’t, they tend to take on a smell all their own and you need to rewash and then re-remember that they are still wet in the washing machine. I was averaging 2.6 wash cycles per load.

Now that Jim and I have set sail for ports unfamiliar, that little, front loading washing machine in our head has become quite the gem. Jim had to head back to the States for business so I decided to keep myself occupied by cleaning the inside of the boat from top to bottom, which included doing the wash. It was with such glee that I stripped the beds and gathered up all the laundry, knowing that I was one of the lucky few who didn’t have cart my pile down the dock to the sole public washing machine. I filled our little front loading darling, added the detergent and heading up to the salon for a date with my book and a cup of coffee. Life was good. I got through a couple of chapters of Patrick O’Brian’s Master and Commander and then remembered the wash. I was already getting to be pretty good at this whole washing thing. I went down to the laundry room (bathroom/head), popped open the outer washing machine door and gazed into the fish tank like window of the machine. Hmmm. My little gem didn’t seem to have drained out all the water. Keeping in mind that I was well under my 2.6 cycles per load average and hoping that like I often did, the washing machine forgot that there was laundry not yet finished, I just ran it again.

Back upstairs I went for another cup of coffee and a few more pages of my book. Twenty minutes later, with my coffee and book attended to, I headed back down to the toilet to see if progress had been made. Hmmmm. I really don’t know a lot about laundry but surmised that all the water had to be out of the drum before I opened the door. Actually, that has less to do with understanding laundry and more to do with understanding gravity. What to do, what to do? As much as I wanted to put off the inevitable and not deal with opening the strainer at the bottom of the machine, sending three or so gallons of water into the inside of the boat, where, if you understand anything about boats, is the opposite side you want the water, I acquiesced. Luckily, my first load wasn’t the towels, so, with a bucket positioned to catch most of the water and plenty of dirty towels stuffed around the base of the machine, I opened the flood gates and let the water come. It came with a bit more force than I expected and ended up in my lap. The reason it ending up in my lap was because I was sitting on the toilet at the time (yes, shorts on and lid closed, but still, the image is pretty funny). The economics of space on a boat requires that it be used efficiently and as such, if you wish, you can make toilette and do your laundry at the same time. I can feel that sophisticated image I’ve cultivated for so many years just slipping away, but that’s fodder for another blog.

So there I was, once again with a load of wet clothes needing to be rewashed. Because my pride wouldn’t let this laundry event exceed my 2.6 cycles per load average, I just wrung out the clothes, hung them on the boat’s life lines and got out the old tool box.

The first thing I did was look at the instruction manual. It’s in German. Those Germans sure do love their syllables. Apparently, any single syllable word in English requires at least 15 syllables in German. Being internet savvy, I logged onto Google Language and translated the first sentence in the manual. This is the god’s honest truth. The translation read, “Through print gropes, takes place one waschzeitverkurzung.” Was it time for a cocktail? Understanding that the instruction manual wasn’t going to be any help, I did what any red-blooded American male would do, I just started taking out screws. Eventually, the belly of the beast was exposed and into the abyss I peered. Hmmmm. There wasn’t a button that said, “If your washing machine isn’t draining (or your waschzeitverkurzung kazuent draivingiklerspluggen) push here.”

The long and short of it is that I finally found the pump and took it out. I hotwired 220 volts, yes you read that right, 220 volts, with some old wires I found hanging around (don’t ask) and discovered that the pump was fine. I did some other tests with a voltage meter (which made me feel so butch) and found that the power to the pump was fine. I put the whole mess back together while sitting on the toilet and ran another load. You’d think this would be over; didn’t I say the long and the short of it? The next load ran fine until a clanking noise alerted me to what I already knew. I really didn’t fix anything. I only took it all apart and put it all back together again. However this time, when I opened the door, quite a bit of smoke came out with the laundry; but the drum did drain, or, the water evaporated from the heat that caused the smoke. Not wanting to ruin my 2.6 cycle average, I just hung my clean but smoky smelling clothes out on the life lines to dry, hoping with all my heart that the island air would whisk away the smoky smell and replace it with that beautiful “hung out to dry in the fresh air” smell my Grandmother used to achieve so effortlessly.

Once again, I sat down on the toilet, took the whole mess apart, tested the pump and found nothing amiss. Damn it. With a frustration that lead me to believe that dirty clothes weren’t all that bad, I put it all back together, crossed my fingers and yes, I know it’s hard to believe, I ran another load. Just so you don’t think I’m nuts, this time I sat on the toilet with a fire extinguisher in my lap. I couldn’t hold it in my hands because, in the interest of being time efficient, I read my book while I was waiting for the washing machine to explode. Guess what? It ran like a champ. Four loads and two hours later (the last two loads without the fire extinguisher) all the wash was done, hung out to dry then folded and put away.

I decided to reward myself by eating at the magnificent little French restaurant in the marina. Dressed in some of my newly cleaned clothes, I headed to dinner where I was greeted by a beautiful hostess who said in heavily accented English, “That is a very unusual cologne you have on. If you don’t mind me asking, what it is?”

“It’s called eau du Waschzeitverkurzung, and I made it myself.”

Tank Racks

You’d think that getting a couple of tank racks would be a simple thing. First things first: tank racks are racks that support SCUBA tanks on the boat when you’re not diving. The most common ones are called pelican racks which are made from heavy gauge steel wire coated in a soft plastic similar to the coating you’d find on the handle of a wrench. The wire is formed into a triple tiered grid most commonly holding four tanks in a row. The grid is then bolted at its bottom onto two rectangular pieces of wood that run perpendicular to the row of tanks and protect the deck of the boat from scratches. The problem with this type of rack is that invariably, the plastic coating fails to protect the steel from the elements and the rack begins to rust, depositing messy little pieces of grime all over the surface of our nice clean white boat. Can you guess who’s writing this blog? I’ll have none of that.
While Jim and I were tooling around St. Thomas, we happened buy “Chris Sawyer’s Dive Shop”. He had stacks of tank racks made from 8 inch PVC pipe tied together with quarter inch white line. Ingenious! No fuss, no mess and white goes with everything. With my goal insight, I strolled into the shop and asked to buy two of his best PVC masterpieces. How much could four pieces of PVC and 20 feet of quarter inch line possibly cost? One hundred and sixty US dollars, that’s how much. Oh wait…each. Exorbitant! Those of you who know me know that in addition to loving a challenge, I love to save a few bucks. My calculations brought the total cost of these tank racks to about $75.00 for both not including my time which, we all know is right now in abundance and at a very reasonable rate.
I didn’t want to haul eight pieces of eight inch PVC from St. Thomas to Tortola so I decided to wait until I got back to Barecat’s dock to start my project. Jim and I sailed back to Tortola and I began my search for the pipe. When you go into most shops “down island” they’re shelves are somewhat sparse but they always seem to have quite a bit more “somewhere in the back.” It’s like they only want to show it to you if you’ve expressed a genuine interest in making a purchase. You’re never allowed in “the back” and “the back” must me a 4 acre maze with a few coffee shops and TV playing reruns of Gilligan’s Island because, once they head into “the back”, it’s quite a while before you ever see them again. In the States, you’d just leave and go the hardware store across the street. In Tortola, there’s only one street and only one hardware store. So the employee comes back with a smile (ha, I just wrote that to make me smile) only to tell you that they don’t have it. I smile back (because my mother taught me to) and asked if they could recommend another place we could try. Then the game begins. They tell me where, I politely ask them to repeat what they said, they say it again, even more softly, I smile more broadly, make a joke about the heat and how it affects my hearing and ask them to repeat it again. They reply more loudly and with intended frustration at my unreasonableness but with no more clarity. I mumble back something in the same way people sing the lyrics to songs even when they don’t know them, thank them, leave the store and ask the first person I meet on the street where I can go to get PVC. Usually they point to the store I just walked out of and ask me if I’ve tried there.
Eventually we discover that the only place stocking the pipe is the Department of Waste Management. Delightful. I asked Jim if he would mind going to get it. Bless his heart, he says, “Sure.” Four trips to the Waste Depot later, Jim comes back with two, four foot long sections of pipe. It takes four trips because the first time, the guy who cuts the pipe was at lunch. Jim was told he would be back in fifteen minutes; three more trips and three hours later, he was there. Apparently he had lunch “in the back.”
Ok, so now I have the pipe. How to cut really big pieces of PVC at right angles? Mike and Tom, from Barecat charter are more than eager to crack open a few Old Milwaukees and watch me use their “Saws-ALL.“ Much to their entertainment disappointment, I manage to cut the pipe (and just the pipe) by tying it to what was left of a wrought iron and wood slat park bench. Then I used the grinder-from-hell to trim the bottoms flat. The grinder is from hell because as soon as it came out of the box, the West Indians removed and threw away the protective finger guard attached to the back of the grinder. What was left was a grinder with a very bad attitude and Rick with a few bloodied knuckles and one bloody knee. The bloody knee is because while sitting and grinding, I bent over to see if my line was parallel and didn’t pay attention to the grinder…ouch. But now I’m done and covered from head to toe in PVC dust. Do you know what PVC dust sticks to? Sweat. Got the picture?
I have the PVC cut and now need to tie it together. Unfortunately, I didn’t look that closely at the ready made, somewhat over-priced tank racks Chris Sawyer wanted to sell so I have to wing-it from here. I decide to drill them and screw them together. I can drill them from the outside and then counter sink the screws in from the inside so the racks are smooth. First I have to make a template so the screws all line up. No problem, I use an old strip hinge which I screw to the leg of the work bench. I’m impressing myself with each innovation. An hour later, I’ve drilled all the holes in all of the pieces of pipe however, I now find out that the initial “Saws-All” cuts were not square so the holes only line up with the guide and not with the to-be-joined sections of pipe. Out comes that nasty little grinder.
An hour later, the grinding is done. Once again, I’m covered in sweat and PVD dust but elated with being one step closer to being finished. At this point, I’m taking as much joy from each accomplishment as possible. The power of positive thinking. Now I’ll attach the counter-sinking bit to the mini drill and counter sink the 24 holes. I’ll be done in 5 minutes! The drill bit is a quarter if an inch too long. Sigh. I remind myself about the positive thinking. An hour later, all of the holes are counter sunk and my thumb and forefinger are starting to blister because I had to spin the countersinking bit by hand. Still, on the bright side, the holes are ready and the racks are almost done. I screw all of the screws in only to find that counter sinking the holes made the ends of the screw stick out the other side. Drat the luck. So I reluctantly get out the grinder-from-hell, grind down all of the screw tips and a few knuckles and am done. Or so I thought. The heat generated by grinding the screw seems to have weakened the PCV a bit. No worries, a little industrial strength epoxy in each seam will take care of that. The smallest can of epoxy available at the Chandlery (marine talk for super expensive hardware store) is $35.00 each – you have to buy two and mix them together. Before you apply the epoxy you have to wipe all of the surfaces down with acetone. Acetone cleans the plastic and burns the living hell out of your ground-down knuckles and your ground-down knee. How did I get it on my knee? You know the little boy who just has to lick the frozen light post? By now I’m wondering if Chris Sawyer went through all of this when he was making is moderately-prices tank racks.
The next morning I get up, eat my cereal and dash to the work room, or more accurately, the steel shipping container turned into a work room, to find my epoxy hardened like steel. Oh the sweet smell of success. Hey, wait a minute; my epoxy dried an ugly brown. Positive thinking, positive thinking. We just got a new, dark blue sail cover. I could cover the tank racks in blue and white ticking! You can take the boy of out the city, but…
Back to the hunt, or more to the point, back to asking Jim to go and find me white and blue ticking, which, of course, he does gleefully. He found white nylon ticking and Linda from Doyle Sails was kind enough to give him blue cotton ticking. The cotton will stretch but the nylon wont, but if I get a few pieces of teak and cinch them together with some nice black line, that would take care of the stretching. My tank racks are going to put Chris Sawyer’s very reasonably priced tank racks to shame.
The next day, I went to the teak store and asked Junior if I could get eight pieces of teak cut 12x2x1 inch, fully expecting him to say, “Sure, it will take me about ten minutes.” Instead, I got, “When you needem?”
“Today?” I replied sheeplishly.
“What time tomorrow you needum?”
“By noon?”
“They be ready at one.”
Damn, they’re good at that. So the next day at one, Jim went to pick them up. They were ready at 4:30 and only cost $80.00.
So I’ll wrap this up. Two more sessions with screws for the ticking and grinding for the screws (but thankfully, no knuckles involved) and one session with teak, clamps, knots and swear words and the racks are done. The finished appraisal comes in at two tank racks with blue and white ticking and teak accents….$300.00 each. The experience….priceless.