Not So Skookum: A Sailing Adventure (Part Two)

Georgetown, Grand Exuma, is known in the yatchie world as "chicken harbor". Heading south towards the Caribbean the passages become longer, the seas bigger, the islands more remote, the services fewer. Many boats elect to turn around and head back to Nassau or Florida. The intrepid are rewarded with deserted tropical islands rich with maritime history, crystal blue waters, and gorgeous beaches.We had lots of cockroaches aboard Skookum, but no chickens.

This stretch turned out to be the best of the trip. We made our way from Georgetown to the northern tip of Long Island, then hopped to Conception Island, Rum Cay and Mayaguana. After Rum Cay we began the night runs with each of us taking a turn at the watch while the other two slept. This was a chance to curl up in the cockpit with a good book, check that the auto-pilot was doing its job, and every so often scan the horizon for lights that would indicate the presence of another ship. Since a ship might not pick us up on radar it was imperative that we stayed out of their way, or risk Skookum being sliced in half. Most of time  the only lights were a  beautiful dome of stars above and maybe some phosphorescent phytoplankton lighting up the water peeling off of Skookum's bow. I especially liked the pre-dawn shift, as the stars faded and the eastern sky began to light up again. There was always a slight nervousness that accompanied a night watch. Even nestled safely in the cockpit, I still had a persistent mild fear of falling overboard. At night of course, there would be no heroic rescue. With first light that unease would fade and thoughts would turn towards that standard Skookum breakfast— organic Guatemalan coffee grinded by hand and quinoa with dried cranberries and maple syrup.

Approaching Mayaguana just before dawn some small low islands appeared just off of starboard. This must be the Plana Cays, small deserted islands that have been suggested as Columbus' first landing point. The islands are apparently overrun with an endemic population of rabbit sized rodents called hutia. As we cruised by I pictured thousands of furry creatures returning to their dens after a night of foraging.

At Mayaguana we arrived at a beautiful anchorage between the island and a ring of coral reef. The natural harbor is about 20 feet deep, with lots of queen conch crawling along the unbroken white sand. We dropped anchor and headed out with spears to get dinner. A narrow passage through the ring of barrier reef brought us out on the ocean side and into a magical aquarium. The deeper water was a much more brilliant shade of blue and beautiful heads of coral were loaded with reef fish. We found a very old, very large anchor in the classic hook shape, and daydreamed about the story it held. Maybe an old Spanish galleon, lured to the deadly reef by pirates, wrecked and looted. A young sea turtle allowed a very close approach, finally gliding away with little effort. Big grouper cautiously peeked out of holes 20 feet below, a spear-fishing challenge heightened by the nearly constant presence of nurse sharks and reef sharks. We didn't relish the thought of wrestling a shark for our dinner, so we crossed back to the shallow side and bagged some small snapper and grouper.

On the way "home" to Skookum we visited the neighbors—a young family from Colorado on a beautiful catamaran. Their main cabin was carpeted and decked out in leather furniture and track lighting. A big Macbook was open to some high tech weather and navigation software on the massive chart table. The setting couldn't be much different than our floating camping trip on Skookum. But the sea is the great equalizer. These folks were dealing with the same questions we were. When was the best window to make the run to Turks and Caicos? Would it be better to cross the Caicos banks towards the Dominican Republic? How much rum should be kept on hand? We were amazed by their array of electronics; they couldn't believe how many fish we caught. Thanking them for the weather info and cocktails, we motored back to Skookum and cooked the grouper and snapper by headlight before we pushed off for the overnight run to Turks and Caicos.

These lovely islands are a geographic continuation of the Bahamas but due to some post-colonial machinations they exist as a separate county. Many of the 30,000 residents are descended from a single group of slaves, freed by luck after the illegal slave ship Truvadore wrecked on a nearby reef  in 1841. These days, diving and tax evasion are the big draws, and with good reason. The waters are impossibly clear and blue and the financial regulations are loose.

To the south lie the Caicos banks, a 40 mile wide shallow shelf studded with coral heads. The crossing is treacherous but the tiny islands on the east side are rumored to be amazing, and from there it's only another 70 miles or so to the Dominican Republic, our next goal. We decided to give it a shot.
Avoiding the coral heads was manageable, as long as someone stood up on the bow and tried to discern the subtle color variations between the dark patches of turtle grass and the dark patches of coral. The fishing  was excellent and soon the boat was restocked with barracuda and snapper. Unfortunately we were bucking straight into the wind, and it became clear by early afternoon that we'd end up well short of our day's goal. Dropping anchor out on the banks was not an option, so we turned around and headed back to West Caicos and tied Skookum up to a mooring buoy at a dive site.

Here, at the edge of the coral wall, the ocean depth drops from 60 feet to 5000 in a very short distance. The water is a wonderful shade of blue and visibility seems unlimited. It was a great place to test free-diving skills and marvel at the wonders of the ocean. Big schools of jack circled below us and a huge manta ray cruised by, flapping its wings slowly like a monstrous underwater bird. Back at the boat the crew dined on fried barracuda and made plans for the crux move of the journey- a 135 mile swing to the south and east that would skirt the Caicos banks and bring us to Hispaniola, the large island shared by Haiti and the Dominican Republic.
The alarms chimed at 4 AM and groggily we started the engine and tossed the lines from the mooring. Swinging Skookum around to the south, we set the throttle at 1500 RPM, turned on the auto-pilot and settled in for what was looking to be a 32 hour trip. With luck we would catch the leading edge of a storm front, make the sails, and enjoy a nice push all the way.
All day we cruised in open ocean, out of sight of any land or other boats. In late afternoon we throttled down just long enough for the crew to cool off with a quick dive into the crystal blue abyss. Under way again, we dried  off in the late afternoon sun. A dozen dolphins joined us, taking turns surfing the bow wake in groups of four or five. We stuck our heads over the bow and watched in amazement from a few feet above, making eye contact as they turned on their sides. It was  one of those sweet moments where you forget all problems. In our case that meant forgetting our minimal fuel reserves, the boat's increasing structural problems, and the huge stretch of ocean between us and the Dominican Republic, never mind St. Thomas.

We'd burned a lot of fuel on our failed attempt to cross the Caicos banks the day before. With no easy way to refuel, we checked the tank and ran the numbers and estimated that we had just enough to make it. A more serious problem was a rotten bowsprit which was getting worse by the day. A huge block of wood that extends from the front of the boat and anchors all of the rigging, the bowsprit is an essential part of any sailboat. It's always under tremendous strain, from the sails while the boat is underway and from the anchor chain while moored. Skookum's was cracking and shifting and Ben was increasingly fearful that it would totally crack apart, possibly de-masting the boat in the process.

But all this was forgotten for the moment as we gathered on the bow to toast another beautiful sunset. Just as the sun dipped and the full moon rose in the east, the fishing line began to sing its merry song.  Soon  there was a gorgeous mahi-mahi onboard, sparkling golden in the fading light. As darkness fell and moonlight twinkled on a sea still glassy calm ahead of the front, we tucked in to another seafood feast. I imagined Skookum from above, a tiny warm glow surrounded by miles and miles of ocean.

 Ben and Kavour turned in while I gathered supplies for my night watch —blanket, pillow, water, snacks, herbal smoking blend, plus Shackleton's account of his misadventure in Antartica. The lights of a distant vessel twinkled on the horizon off our bow, the only boat we'd seen all day. No problem, it would pass well in front of us. I curled up and began to read about men stronger than we fighting off starvation, frostbite, and insanity. And then the engine sputtered, and died.  Our fuel had run out.  It was 11 PM on March 26, 2013. We were floating 65 miles from the nearest land, which just happened to be Haiti.

Not So Skookum: A Sailing Adventure (Part One)

     Sometimes crisis requires fast action, a nearly unconscious response. Other times a situation offers the luxury and curse of a long period of reflection. I've often imagined falling off a boat out at sea, the initial shock and fear quickly giving way to resignation as the boat fades into the distance. Recently in the Bahamas this terrible vision became reality. So there I was, two days into a sailing trip, calmly watching my boat fade slowly into the distance. The boat wasn't moving, but I was, caught in a rip current and pushed farther away minute by minute.  I was swimming hard and making no headway, just losing more ground. There was plenty of time for reflection. First, the things in my favor: the boat was at anchor, with my two friends  on it. Also there was land nearby. A small island sat just a few hundred yards off to my side. I wasn't going to drown. Then the cons- I had jumped in the water to relieve myself, and as such was buck naked, ill prepared to traverse this island far enough to get up-current of the boat. The islands of the Bahamas feature a topography straight from Dante's Inferno- an eroded limestone known as iron shore that resembles the surface of a fossilized English muffin. Crawling naked across it would have reduced me to a bloody, howling, sun burnt husk of a man. I had to get back to that boat!
     The trip was not going smoothly. When Ben, an old friend from Alaska, had called and said he'd like help moving a sailboat for a friend of his, from Florida to St. Thomas, I jumped at the chance. Just pay for food he said. We'll catch fish and snorkel and sail and drink rum. When a work obligation during that time period had been cancelled, the choice was easy. I tossed mask and fins and plenty of sunblock into my bag and headed to Nassau.
    Unfortunately, I also packed bedbugs from a dodgy hostel in Guatemala, and spent my first day in town putting everything I had into a commercial dryer and turning the knob to the "grilled cheese" setting to try to smite the beasts before I brought them aboard. As it was, the weather was terrible, so we weren't going anywhere anytime soon. The trip from Florida aboard S/V Skookum had been a tough one for the original crew, and morale was pretty low. Also, one crew member also joining in Nassau had recently become pregnant. She and her husband had made the trip to the Bahamas, but were questioning the wisdom of  a trip that would  entail amplified morning sickness and lack of access to definitive care.
     Skookum— named after classic native Alaskan word meaning "strong"— is a 36' Hans Christian,  a legend in its day but now a project boat with a bunch of problems large and small. We were a week behind by the time our trimmed down crew of three finally pulled anchor and headed for the Exumas. Now, just a day later, I was watching my floating home slowly fading into the distance.
   The stereo was cranked when I left, and my two compañeros, Captain Ben and his college friend Kavour, were just settling down for a siesta. A naked torture scramble was looking more likely by the minute. I yelled anyway. I hollered, and shouted and yelled again. I swam, harder this time and yelled again. Treading water to rise as high as possible, I looked at the hateful island and screamed with all I had. A few seconds later Ben popped out on the deck and jumped in the dinghy to fetch my sorry bare ass. By luck, he'd turned off the tunes just moments prior in preparation for nap time.

Things turned around for the crew after my rescue. We jumped off the boat that afternoon and found scattered coral heads teeming with reef fish. Learning to use the pole spear took some time, but eventually Ben and I headed back to Skookum with several fish, including a prize grouper killed instantly with a perfect head shot. For the next two weeks we enjoyed the freshest, most delicious fish every day, either from spear-fishing or trolling behind Skookum while we were underway. We would jump around like excited kids when the line started peeling out, fight the fish from the port side deck while rolling with the boat, and when we'd dragged one aboard, give thanks to the creature for it's sacrifice. A piece of driftwood Kavour found at Allen's Cay was propped up on stern pulpit as a wonderful makeshift filet station. Soon we had a constant supply of fresh fish in the fridge. The crew gorged on sashimi, ceviche, and all manner of grilled and fried filets. It's an amazing way to live and eat and one of the best parts of travelling the sea.

Skookum poked it's way down the Exuma chain, holding five mph on a good day. Sometimes we ran under power, more often under a combination of power and sail. On blissful occasions we killed the diesel engine and travelled by wind alone, the forces pulling and pushing our 20, 000 pound floating home effortlessly through the crystal waters. With music wafting from the cabin we'd toast our tremendous good fortune.
On Hawksbill Cay a simple hike up a mangrove slough and over to the other side of the island provide escape from the dozens of other boats moored in the bay. Here we found a dazzling white sand beach without a soul, with gentle rolling surf and the most amazing spectrum of blues. We stretched our boat-bound bodies and wandered around on the beach in a psilocybin daydream. Stretched out on a limestone bench worn smooth by many years of surf,  I let the sea foam envelop me with each breaking wave. As the shadows grew long we returned to the boat to watched, as we always did, for the mythical green flash. I've never enjoyed a failed effort as much as my years-long search for this phenomenon.
We checked out the swimming pigs at Staniel Cay, as well as the Thunderball Grotto made famous by James Bond films, then high-tailed it out of there as fast as we could, anxious to trade the country club yachtie atmosphere for more remote environs.
Crossing through the Exuma chain meant the more exposed Exuma Sound on the windward side of the islands. The sailing was wilder and the fishing much improved. Close to Georgetown we battled several mahi-mahi, stocking up food rations for an unexpected layover while we waited for the repaired auto-pilot to arrive via Fed-Ex. I had been filling the machine's role since Nassau and loving it, but Ben pointed out that the auto-pilot holds a straighter course and requires a smaller energy input than I do. Soon I appreciated the ability to run around the boat— catching fish, cooking meals and watching dolphins, all while a small machine held our precise course. We travelled for many days this way, only scanning the horizon from time to time to ensure we weren't on a collision course with a big tanker.
Skookum's problems had not disappeared and Captain Ben was constantly fixing some things and worrying about others throughout the trip. It's amazing how many different systems one relies on during a sailing journey- the boat rigging that keeps the mast and sails in place, the sails and related gear, the anchors and related gear, the engine and propeller and related gear, the electronics, plus all of the things that allow a boat to be a house, e.g. batteries, inverter, refrigerator, water pumps, toilet, plumbing, and on and on. In a best case scenario, constant vigilance and routine maintenance is required. But Skookum was not best case. A very well-made boat built by an acclaimed boatwright in the early 1980's, she had fallen victim to neglect in the 90's. Abandoned in a Florida boatyard for many years, she was mere days from being chopped up when Ben's friend traded an old Harley for her seven years ago.  Like an animal rescued from euthanasia at a shelter, she had been nursed back to health and made a tremendous recovery, but still had some intractable behavior issues. A few weeks past Nassau we were still many hundreds of miles from St. Thomas and the odds seemed stacked against us. Still, all that tended melt away as we served up heaping plates of sushi while slowly bobbing on a secluded anchorage, dripping from a swim in perfectly clear water and watching the sun dip below the horizon. The green flash remains elusive, but life, for the moment, is perfect.