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.