My Sailing Life

ISIS becomes ASIS and cuts it short

The entire project was never intended to rewrite history. Having “cheated death” on the first attempt at ocean cruising, here was an opportunity to have a “do-over” some forty years later…

S/V MAYA, a Bristol 24’ circa 1975

While living and working in Washington, DC during the Nixon years, I was recruited by a friend (BM) to join him in the quixotic endeavor of sailing around the world. Our team of three lacked funds and experience but was long on energy and youthful enthusiasm. We plunged headlong into the project. A suitably affordable 24’ vessel, MAYA, was purchased and painstakingly reinforced and rebuilt. We learned the craft of sailing plying the waters of Chesapeake Bay when not mixing fiberglass resin and varnishing the brightwork. Seamanship and celestial navigation skills were acquired via textbooks and through community college classes.

The first leg of our intended journey involved a thousand mile blue water passage from Chesapeake Bay to the Virgin Islands. Lacking an engine for the vessel and undeterred by the reputation of the “Graveyard of the Atlantic”, we would proceed offshore from Norfolk, VA; tackling the Atlantic waters off Cape Hatteras and the Outer Banks directly rather than succumb to the ease of journeying along the Intracoastal waterway. We embarked in May 1976. In retrospect, I don’t recall being concerned
about our utter lack of electronics, money, communication devices and ocean sailing experience.

The ensuing ten days would prove to be the most formative of my life. The Atlantic storm season extended well into May that year and we experienced three major storms in the first week. Our primary means of navigation, an inexpensive sextant, was broken and rendered useless within days. No radio meant zero weather forecasts. MAYA, lacking radar, was invisible to the numerous commercial vessels whose paths we intersected while blindly crossing the major shipping lanes of the Northeastern Seaboard. Maintaining a course was impossible. Despite five hundred feet of line deployed as a sea drogue, we were propelled by the SW winds on a heading 180 degrees opposite our destination at twice hull speed. We quickly adapted to the wind and seas. It was the crossing of shipping lanes in pea soup fog that had us thinking we’d likely not survive to see land again.

The decision to activate our EPIRB, the sole piece of electronics we possessed, was unanimous. We spent a long night huddled together in the cockpit passing around a container of peanut butter while coming to terms with our mortality. As dawn broke, a pair of Coast Guard surveillance planes flew overhead and ultimately determined it was our vessel transmitting the emergency “SOS” signal.

We learned later that our position was some 450 miles off the coast of Long Island, NY. In what was at the time the longest “offshore” rescue by the US Coast Guard, the cutter Resolute with its crew of 80 and a helicopter were dispatched to our aid. Several days and significant taxpayer dollars later, the sailboat and her weary but intact crew were safely deposited at Cape May, NJ.

The three of us quickly surrendered all desire for the sailing life. The power of the second chance, of being reborn, propelled each of to define our life’s work with indefatigable intensity. The boat was promptly sold. Each crew member followed individual paths through education, family and career. Two chose medical careers with strong humanitarian emphases while the third chose cyber security.

Fast-forward thirty-five years and I’m pondering activities and lifestyles for the golden years. Long distance sailboat cruising appealed on many levels. The biggest pull was the breadth of inter-related systems and skill sets necessary for success. Offshore, you are the medic, plumber, navigator and cook 24/7. You are squared off against assembled forces of nature separated from your terrestrial niche while engaged in a constant struggle to stay afloat.

My sailing resume was thin entering the new millennium…. bareboat charters in the Grenadines and Kingdom of Tonga along with scattered day sails on San Francisco Bay, Lake Texoma and the like. Service as crew for a 450-mile crossing from Cayman Islands to Mexico’s Yucatan coast in 1999 stirred contemplation of boat ownership and the cruising lifestyle.

An exceedingly leisurely contemplation it appears in reflecting back. Things didn’t start rolling until 2010, a full decade later. Remaining convinced of the power of formal training, I enrolled for two weeks of on board instruction with San Juan Sailing’s “Learn and Sail” program. SJS follows the American Sailing Association’s (ASA) stepwise curriculum and certification process. After successfully completing both weeks, I was prepared to tackle a bareboat charter as captain. Gaining a basic understanding of the
intricate system of maritime night time lighting patterns and configurations bolstered confidence. Solving complicated multi-variable navigational problems using charts and centuries old plotting techniques further empowered the neophyte captain. The power and ubiquity of marine technological advances such as AIS and multi-function chart plotter devices over the intervening six years make these efforts seem quaint.

The “to buy or to rent” dilemma presents in multiple contexts over one’s lifetime. As applied to my decision regarding boats, it meant determining exactly what I wanted the boat for. Did I want an endless list of maintenance chores, worries over weather and expensive projects to complete or did I want to be in the bikini zones of the world where spirits flow freely and the fish, colorful? The next decision involves the type of sailboat: an ocean cruiser, charter boat or multihull? For safety offshore, a cruiser typically has difficult entry into the water for swimming, etc. Its stern area is tightly packed with wind-vane self-steering systems, generators, solar panels and the like. With charter boats, one finds swim platforms off the stern, transom showers, snorkel gear and a BBQ grill. Since you are essentially buying two boats, the roomy multihulls are quite expensive and were deemed out of my price range.

Cruising is a lifestyle; a motor home approach to the seas. Chartering is like a vacation; you fly home at the end. Having spent many months on the oceans of the world aboard ships, I knew I did not fancy crossing oceans in my own sailboat. The powerful allure of a circumnavigation under sail had passed. This passing was noted nostalgically as is often the case with the aging process, but not mourned. I still craved adventure, just a mellower variety. My decision: a charter boat.

Moorings appeared on the scene at the advent of mass jet travel. They were the first mega bareboat charter operation and had a decidedly French flavor, along the lines of Club Med. They enshrined the Caribbean basin as the epicenter of the charter industry, displacing and redirecting many independent owner/operators. They partnered with Beneteau, the French boat building operation to supply an affordable line of boats designed not for the open seas but for island hopping in the tropics. Being good businessmen, they chose not to own outright their fleet of charter boats but rather lease them from owners with whom they cut sweetheart deals for charter boat time.

Buoyed by positive reports from former Moorings owners, I made the move in December 2010. I purchased a sloop rigged, mono hull 40’ Beneteau Oceanis. In the deal, I was granted up to sixteen weeks of charter privileges annually at any Moorings base worldwide at cost (fuel & cleaning fee) on a similar boat. Moorings would handle all maintenance and repairs on my boat. They would cover the expense of insurance and moorage fees. They would provide me a monthly stipend. At the end of the five- year lease, these payments would total 50% of the original cost of the boat. My boat would be based in Tortola, British Virgin Islands, a newbie charter captain’s ideal starting ground.

The glow of buyer’s excitement was still on my cheeks when I learned via telephone two days after closing that my vessel had been involved in a collision at sea. “No one was hurt” they reassured me. However, the boat sustained over $24,000 in damage, all above waterline, thankfully. The delivery captain had apparently fallen asleep and broadsided an unsuspecting tanker. The necessary repairs kept the boat out of charter use for several months. Then on its first charter, the boat was steered into a docking mishap and sustained thousands of dollars in hull damage.
If there were any lingering doubts as to whether the boat carried a powerful jinx, they were dispelled as the story of my boat’s name evolved. A family member had strong amateur archeologist leanings and a number of us had performed fieldwork in obscure locales. Ever a fan of things Egyptian, I selected the name ISIS for the boat. At the time, this seemed an entirely appropriate choice. A short name smoothes VHF radio transmissions unlike say Hot Ruddered Bum. The mythological Egyptian ISIS is after all, goddess of nature and wisdom, not to mention the ideal wife. A few similarly influenced friends had chosen the name for their daughters.

So too it seems did the media savvy jihadists. I waited patiently while their various monikers fell into and out of favor…ISIL, IS, Da’esh. The US media persisted with its use of ISIS and most Americans eventually favored the name. I vowed to “not give in” to the terrorists and stuck with ISIS.

I was anxious to sail and wasted no time in claiming owner’s time. Our first charter was out of Placencia, Belize in January 2011 in celebration of my sixtieth birthday. After running hard aground the first day, I realized that maybe I hadn’t learned everything necessary through my ASA curriculum. I promptly hired a skipper and absorbed valuable lessons on the subtleties of reading tropical water depth for the remainder of the now enjoyable cruise.

Anxious to be aboard “my” boat, I booked a charter aboard ISIS three months later. The collision damage had been expertly repaired. Essential charter skills such as securing the last mooring ball in the field and maintaining affordable Internet bandwidth were mastered. As my sole crew lacked sailing skills, I was pleased to pull things off without mishap. Well, in truth, an adjacent catamaran dragged its anchor early one morning, colliding noisily with our hull. Not our fault at least!

2011 closed with me enjoying a third charter outing, this time in the Sea of Cortez off La Paz, Mexico. Two valuable lessons learned on this one. With a serious fisherman aboard, I saw how large fish could be caught using simple hand-lines, slaughtered “humanely” with alcohol to the gills and expertly filleted and cooked. Secondly, with my wife Rose’s absence, I surmised that her enthusiasm for “la vida nautica” didn’t match mine.

The next three years brought pleasant charters in exotic locales…the Grenadines, French Polynesia, Turkey. The charms of Grenada warranted several trips. I remained enthralled with the Sea of Cortez and returned there. Several brief groundings occurred and there was a significant reef strike but without visible damage. Overall, no major mishaps and no notable gear failures or breakdowns arose. These outings were brief enough that the darker psychological sides of crew management, which later marred entire events, never rose to the surface.

By year’s end, 2014 I had amassed twelve weeks experience as captain of a sailing yacht covering hundreds of nautical miles, bedding down in dozens of picturesque anchorages. I felt prepared for longer overnight passages and was anxious to break free of the redline restrictions of the charter areas. My lease with Moorings was running out.

The plan was always to sell ISIS shortly after “phase out”. Originally I had my eye on a clockwise loop of the Caribbean basin and eastern coast of Central America ending at a yacht brokerage in Florida: a journey of 4-6 months and 4,000 miles. This plan was front and center as I assembled crew for my final charter, the all-important pre-phase out cruise aboard ISIS.

I had long wanted to close the forty-year loop on the Maya sailboat adventure and was heartened when my old buddy, BM agreed to join. The purpose of the pre-phase out cruise is to determine what aboard needs repair or replacement prior to handover. A lengthy sea trial is the definitive examination. With stupendous luck, I enlisted MW, a marine surveyor in his encore career, as crew.

The charter was a stunning success with memorable skin diving excursions to top sites, a raucous night of stellar partying on Jost van Dyke at Foxy’s* and a thrilling passage to Anegada. MW’s contribution was a complete professional survey of the vessel with a prioritized punch list for the Moorings base manager and crew. BM suggested I consider enlisting his unfocused 24-year-old son as crew believing time at sea would put his life in perspective, as it had for us.

(* The partying had consequences. I lay besotted on my bunk while my poorly tied cleat hitch knot securing ISIS to our mooring ball failed completely. We then drifted toward a lee shore, miraculously dodging several local fishing boats and a derelict steel ferry before coming gently to rest in soft sand. Mirabili dictu indeed! Even better, MW & BM with deft nocturnal maneuvers, had re-secured us to the same mooring ball before any neighbors noticed the embarrassing spectacle.)

A final chore in Tortola involved the purchase of a dinghy and outboard. Here, the pros and cons of two versus four stroke engines, dinghy length and engine size were evaluated. Few used options presented themselves in the BVIs. Great excitement ensued following the purchase and launch of a spanking new Limin’ dinghy with a crisp 9.8hp Nissan engine.

Dockside, our findings were reviewed and the necessary repairs approved by the Moorings base manager. He requested three months to complete the refurbishing. Handover was set for September 11th, the heart of hurricane season in the Caribbean and South Atlantic. I soon learned that marine insurance companies determine when and where you can sail. To satisfy the underwriters, a hurricane plan was drafted; it stipulated that ISIS be parked “on the hard” until December ASAP following handover. Calls in Haiti and Cuba were excluded from any itinerary and specific riders were necessary to maintain coverage while sailing the waters of Venezuela and Belize due to crime and piracy.

All who travel have tales of excruciating journeys aboard the regional Caribbean airlines. Inexorable delays make any connection a daunting quest. The legacy carriers fly to San Juan, Puerto Rico cheaply and frequently. The (self-proclaimed) largest marina in the entire Caribbean Basin is Puerto del Rey near Fajardo, PR. Initially it seemed as if the US territory would provide cheaper provisioning options compared with the nearby islands, especially Tortola. With these factors in mind, I chose Puerto del Rey marina for the three months of land storage. Only 75 miles from the Moorings base in Road Harbor, the journey would provide a worthy shake down cruise. The underwriters accepted the hurricane plan. Haul-out and dry storage for the season were secured.

Now home, I set about recruiting crew and properly outfitting for a 4,000-mile journey. Innumerable lists were penned: spare engine parts, proper line, medical supplies for a MASH unit, tools, reference books, EPIRBs and PLBs, electronic & paper charts, flags and cruising guides.

An itinerary of the extended cruise took shape attempting to attach dates to specific places. MW advised bringing the boat to the West Coast where sale values were 30% higher. The idea of keeping the boat in La Paz, Mexico for several years, enjoying extended passages to and from the Mexican mainland took hold. I researched Panama Canal transits as well as trucking options across Guatemala, the Isthmus of Mexico and the Southwestern US. A slip was reserved the marina La Paz for spring, 2016.

I journeyed back to Tortola in early September and was joined by a sailing couple from home along with BM and his son. The handover occurred unceremoniously on the 11th as promised. The rollicking ride of yacht ownership and the cruising life had begun. I managed to remain on the ride for seven exhausting and nest egg depleting months.

The base manager advised several sea trials over the weekend. We set out the following morning intending to escape the hubbub of Road Harbor by crossing the Drake Channel for Cooper Island. The merry quintet made a smooth exit from the dock. The boat was perfectly trimmed with a single reefed main & full headsail, skimming along at seven knots. Just as I reached to turn off the engine an alarm sounded. Snappy diagnostics by the team indicated the problem to be a broken fan belt. In an instant, the engine was rendered useless. We would need an engine to reenter our slip. The fact that so much depended on a single $10 rubber item was sobering. Of course, there was no spare on board. Our sailing team responded crisply. Moorings base was contacted for an assist. Deft sailing in the now 25 knot winds, able radio communication and strong “tug” work by the Moorings launch allowed us to catch an emergency mooring ball at harbor’s entrance. The shredded fan belt was quickly replaced and a spare provided. Another lesson…always have a backup.

As the weather played out, that day was the only one with good wind the entire week. We returned to Moorings base after the weekend to await the final tweaks and finalize shopping. Two additional days were required to obtain a properly inspected life raft. Then, one midweek afternoon we were ready. Dock lines were ceremoniously cast off. We were on our way. Ties between ISIS and Moorings had been severed. As captain, I was on my own now but at least in good company.

The trade winds are pretty much spent by September and in their place, the looming possibility of a tropical storm forming from a depression in the South Atlantic. We felt lucky to make our short passage without a major front. Dealing with the frequent fast- forming squalls abundant opportunities for the crew to master hasty sail trim changes.

The following day we re-entered the US in Charlotte Amalie, St Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands. The Customs & Border Patrol agent was speechless when I informed him of the boat’s name. We cleared quickly considering. Our itinerary called for an extended stop in the “Spanish Virgin Islands”: Culebra & Culebrita. Only recently freed from service as bombing ranges and war game sites for the US Navy, the Spanish Virgins were rapidly becoming the “buzz” destination in the eastern end of the Greater Antilles. The islands did not disappoint.
I was able to clear Puerto Rican immigration via mobile phone. As I meekly mumbled our boat’s name, the CBP agent chuckled and replied that Isis was his wife’s name as well.

Culebra town

Hector Protector by Thomas Dambo

Ceramic tiles at Zaco Taco in Culebra town

Alas we had only three days to enjoy. A visit to Flamingo Beach, drift snorkels off the western shore of Culebra and a secluded, tranquil anchorage insured a memorable stay. Yet there was strife aboard. Hostilities began to bubble up whenever food or money was discussed. Personality conflicts, tight spaces and financial worries all conspired to make for a tense salon. Thankfully, the team remained functional. We had a date to keep for our haul out in Fajardo. We made for Puerto del Rey marina straightaway.

We could not help being overwhelmed by the scale of the PdR operation, with its one thousand wet slips and hundreds of powerboats stacked on four-story dry docks. Only aerial photography would glimpse the scope of the place.

The designated haul out time arrived. With regrettable haste, I cast off without good control of our stern. As the wind caught our beam, we were propelled into a low speed collision with another boat, striking its bow-mounted anchor. ISIS sustained a crimped stern pulpit and stress fractures of the fiberglass near the bases of several stanchions. The other vessel reported no damage. Relieved and embarrassed, we assuaged the owner with a bottle of Scotch whiskey. The haul out itself was exciting to watch and expertly handled by the marina staff. We released a drenching sweat while securing the hurricane tie down straps in the blazing heat. The heat and the frayed nerves from the collision led to the final meltdown in crew dynamics: a cup of cool water to a screaming red face. In an instant a friendship was lost, as was a potential long-term crew member.

The cocoon of the marina provided a fine base to attend to outfitting and logistics. Outings to El Yunque rain forest (the only US National Park containing a tropical rain forest), the funky beach town Luquillo and historic old San Juan filled the leisure hours. Flying home days later, I found myself anxious to return to the island.

The splash date was set for December 4th. I had ninety days to scramble crew and supplies. Rigging improvements were researched and prioritized. Two projects were chosen: a second halyard for the foredeck and a “preventer/whisker pole” system to optimize glorious downwind tacks running “wing & wing”. An upgrade to an AIS system was scrapped as too costly. Paper charts proved impossible to obtain so several electronic marine chart platforms were evaluated. The Navionics’ system was selected. A spiffy iPad with high-resolution screen purchased. The choice of electronic charts would prove vital for success; the “wing & wing” hardware, less so.

A power source for electricity onboard is a critical determination. Wind generators and solar panels have many workable applications. On a charter boat, running the inboard engine for four hours/day typically charges the house batteries. As with water usage, electricity consumption must be closely monitored. Major structural modifications would be necessary for feasible wind or solar systems aboard ISIS. I elected to go with a small, portable gasoline powered generator.

The memory of an EPIRB-triggered rescue forty years prior made this an essential purchase. I marveled at the improvements in precise location identification and distress call response enabled by technological advances with my new generation device.

Shipping most items to Puerto Rico involved exorbitant costs. The allowable amount of lithium ion in an EPIRB’s batteries aboard a commercial airliner became relevant. I needed to determine whether the generator’s crankcase oil had been drained, without opening the original packaging. Expenses were starting to mount. I was appreciating the steady toll that the ongoing expense of insurance and moorage was extracting on the budget.

Building a competent and compatible crew then dealing with the vagaries of individual schedules proved my greatest challenge. An itinerary was finalized following perusal of cruising guides and sailing accounts: Puerto Rico-Dominican Republic-Jamaica-Cuba- Mexico- (land transport across Central America)-Mexico’s Pacific Coast -Sea of Cortez -La Paz. I canvassed friends for potential crew mates, checked in with the local sailing community in Hood River and even resorted to social media via Find-A-Crew. Eventually firm commitments were obtained from sufficient people to get us to the Yucatan peninsula. Or so it seemed.

My return flight to San Juan, PR in early December seemed a proper start to the great adventure. Our group of three young adults and me assembled in Fajardo. The “splash” proceeded flawlessly. Soon we were living aboard and enjoying marina life. There was much to do. Provisioning allowed us to visit overcrowded big box stores over a weekend in the heart of Puerto Rico’s Christmas season. More fun was had tracking down the odd marine items and shopping for used scuba gear.

Departure day finally arrived. I checked out of the marina. One crew resigned hours before casting off, citing a personality conflict and vague misgivings about the sailing community. No worries; sufficient manpower was still on board. A short shakedown cruise to the nearby island of Vieques was planned. Another of the “Spanish Virgins”, Vieques had also seen duty as an artillery range for the US Navy. The Navy had pulled out several years ago yet development lagged on the island due to the Territory’s ongoing financial crisis.

ISIS and team made a smooth exit from the dock then assumed an easterly heading in moderate winds. Once more, engine alarms sounded as we transitioned to sail power. Crew rallied nicely. We came about and made for the marina. While executing snappy tacks, troubleshooting and radio/telephone communication were smoothly managed. A sea tow for the final quarter mile to our slip at PdR marina was required. Our crew remained in full control of the vessel until we reached the marina’s seawall. A stout bridle for a towing line was fashioned. The Sea Tow launch appeared. As we were guided into the slip, spirits remained high.

The breakdown served as our introduction to the world of fuel purity and polishing. We had determined that fuel was not reaching the engine but were unsure as to why. The services of a fuel specialist were secured with bribes of fresh cookies. We marveled as the fuel was pumped from our tank, run through a complex series of filters and hoses then replaced. A biofilm forms in the layer of water that condenses in fuel stored long term. Significant impurities exist in marine diesel supplied by shoddy vendors. The gelatinous blobs removed by Ariel’s filters resembled large blood clots. The process was remarkably similar to kidney dialysis.

Luquillo Christmas Festival

Workdays at the marina were followed by nights of revelry at Luquillo’s three-day Christmas festival. Original plans had two friends coming aboard in the Dominican Republic but I was running more than a week late already. Flights were changed. Another late night trip to the San Juan airport was required to bring them into the fold. Then, on the eve of departure, another crew resigned citing girlfriend concerns. The challenges of crew management were being revealed.

PdR at Christmas

Sufficient crew remained. Yet our level of experience was suitable only for day cruising. The first planned offshore crossing was the Mona Passage. Only 75 miles in distance, the crossing can present a significant maritime challenge. The depth of the Channel approaches 25,000 feet over the Puerto Rico Trench then shoals abruptly to just 200 feet off the eastern coast of Dominican Republic creating powerful and erratic currents. The towering mountain ranges of both islands create turbulent weather.

Many of the decisions over the course of the trip were made in the early am hours as I lay awake pondering options, unable to reclaim sleep. The lack of distractions while bunk-bound permitted startling clarity. These decisions never seemed rushed or desperate. Typically, the choices brought profound relief with surprisingly little second- guessing. That night I decided to reboot the entire project. The remaining crew and I would enjoy a weeklong cruise of the Spanish Virgins. Afterwards, we would all head home for Christmas with family. I would return to Fajardo in January with new crew and a more seasoned outlook.

We pulled off a very pleasant week. The team weathered several gear mishaps. Within an hour of casting off, the shackle at the headsail’s tack failed. An emergency repair accomplished smoothly while under way. The mainsail reefing lines had been restrung incorrectly and jammed as we first reefed the sail. Freeing the jam critically damaged the line. Another chore was added for a rigger to accomplish over the holidays.

AsIs anchored off Culebrita

Culebra with Puerto Rico in the distance

Lighthouse ruins on Culebrita

Images of Vieques

Vieques’ Stonehenge aka Hombre de Puerto Ferro

It was a joy to revisit Culebra. Two nights at anchor off tiny Culebrita with several hikes and skin diving adventures proved the trip’s highlight. Winds were stout allowing for exciting sailing. A nice dorado was hooked but lost off the transom at the last moment. Vieques was explored while anchored in a remote bay off the southeastern coast, then with several days spent prowling the charming town of Esperanza. Highlights here included a moonlit kayak tour of a “bioluminescent bay” and an island tour from an informed local. Esperanza’s evening haunts offered quality music and powerful rum drinks. At week’s end, all went their respective ways. ISIS was bedded down for a fortnight’s holiday rest within the safe confines of the Puerto del Rey marina.

Puerto del Rey marina

With no name change in sight for the jihadists, the boat’s name was becoming an issue. I needed to make a change. Circumstances demanded a simple solution. Several clever monikers were proposed. AsIs was selected being easy to effect and also for injecting needed irony.

I enjoyed a two-week respite back in Oregon. The ski year was off to a great start, some work was available in the ER and the family was assembled for the holidays. Energized and refreshed, I returned to Fajardo and life aboard in early January. A new crew had been assembled. A good friend and experienced sailor from the Gorge and a salty elderly couple from British Columbia, Canada with a wealth of offshore experience had been enlisted. We set about finalizing supplies and last minute provisioning. A rigger was hired for a quick tune of the standing rigging and tweaks of the running rigging. Soon, all was ready for departure. A month later than hoped, AsIs was heading offshore, downwind and westbound.

Resident manatee at Puerto del Rey marina

Eve of departure…final rigging tweaks

The final tasks ticked off nicely. Returning the last of innumerable rental cars was a highlight and surprisingly liberating. Buying ice, paying the marina bill, bidding adieu to dock mates proceeded as if in a dream. In the mid-afternoon, lines were cast. We passed along the sea wall in mild conditions under patchy cloud cover. A sense of smug satisfaction had barely registered when the engine alarm sounded once more. We’d forgotten to reopen the seacock after cleaning the water intake pump impeller. Details, details. The problem quickly identified and corrected, we turned off the engine and were sailing.

Keen for a night offshore, we planned to sail the 100-mile length of Puerto Rico’s southern coast and enter the Mona Channel early the following day, then arriving in eastern Dominican Republic later that evening. Unfortunately, I hadn’t fully researched the requirements involved in leaving Puerto Rico. We could sail directly to the US, but without clearance papers; we would be denied entry into the DR or any other country. To obtain the papers, a stopover in Boquerón in western Puerto Rico was necessary.

We passed a majestic evening. Nightfall introduced the challenges of “seeing” in the dark. Red light headlamps are used for onboard tasks, as all ambient light must be minimized to discern other vessels and shore features. Pattern recognition becomes critical.

Believing it important to have two crew awake and in the cockpit at night, we instituted six-hour watches. One of the final repairs in Fajardo involved the bilge pump, which had begun to run continuously, despite a dry bilge. The mechanic discovered that the pump had been installed backwards. He had modified the mounting and corrected the problem the morning of our departure. Perhaps around three am, I noticed that the bilge pump had been activated and was running continuously once more. Assuming that the original problem had not been corrected, I simply disconnected the pump. Shortly, we observed that the bilge was indeed filling with water, albeit slowly. The amount of water taken on corresponded to the engine’s rpm. Fortunately, dawn was approaching. We lay just off Ponce, a major port along the central southern coast. Several hours were consumed performing slow laps in Ponce’s entry channel. With first light we headed into port and secured temporary moorage at the Ponce Yacht Club’s fuel dock.
It being the weekend, any repair would have to wait until Monday. With the engine off, no water was taken on. We motored to an available slip, plugged into shore power and began the hunt for the source of the leak. Several hours of investigation pointed to the cutlass bearing, the fitting where the drive chain pierces the hull. We reconnected the bilge pump and removed all water, then were jubilant as no more appeared.

The experience of taking on water the first night offshore stoked my inchoate belief that perhaps there was indeed some sort of jinx attached to AsIs. Over the weekend, I pondered options. It was now evident that the intended itinerary was going to involve much more time than I’d anticipated. What with the various repairs, towing charges and mooring fees it also became apparent that the monetary costs would be substantial.

The issue of crossing the landmass of Central America loomed. The vessel was too wide for truck transport across Guatemala. Truck transport across the isthmus of Mexico looked to cost over $10,000. This option would also involve the challenges of re-stepping the mast in a low resource setting, then commencing a 1,000-mile “uphill” sail to La Paz in the dreaded Golfo de Tehuantepec. A stopover in Cuba was looking questionable, as the easing of travel restrictions for US citizens was months away, thus obviating marine insurance coverage. Truck transport across the Southwest US from Texas to Southern California seemed feasible. However, this route involved a 750-mile crossing of the western Gulf of Mexico. These waters are littered with poorly illuminated, abandoned oil drilling platforms making for an extremely hazardous crossing without radar, which AsIs lacked.

The solution arrived not surprisingly, during a spell of pre-dawn insomnia two nights hence. I resolved to cut my losses. Rather than heading due west to Jamaica after crossing the Mona Channel, we would proceed north to Florida, exploring the northern coast of the DR, Turks & Caicos and the Bahamas en route. It was now mid-January and I hoped to reach Florida before March. Once there, AsIs would be listed with a broker.

All aboard quietly accepted the news of yet another itinerary change. We set about outlining a new route. Monday arrived and we contacted a local boat mechanic to deal with the leak. The culprit: a broken hose clamp, easily repaired without a haul-out. This was seen as a potential marker of a change in the boat’s fortunes. Yet, I couldn’t escape the feeling that something else would soon fail. The “cut it short & sell” option remained the most appealing.

We cast off later that day bound for the northern coast of Dominican Republic. Conditions appeared favorable as we entered the Mona Channel. Northeasterly winds piped up significantly as sunrise arrived. We sized up conditions for a brief landing at Mona Island. Motor sailing along the outer reef we hooked and landed a nice sized wahoo. Two-meter breaking waves and twenty-knot winds precluded a safe shore landing. A protected anchorage in soft sand was found. The fish was cleaned, cooked and served up. Everyone enjoyed a rejuvenating nap.

Mona Island

Wahoo!

The winds continued to accelerate reaching 24-26 knots. We encountered three- meter seas quartering our starboard bow. In an effort to trim miles, we cut the corner rounding the NE Dp of the DR and entered the notorious Hourglass Shoal waters. Here local weather disturbances generated by the island’s 3,000-meter peaks combine with the sudden change of ocean depth to create powerful and eccentric currents over choppy seas. It was a exceedingly bumpy night with little sleep.

Throughout the following day, we enjoyed the stunning vistas of eastern DR from about five miles offshore. Watches had become routine, as had the pattern of short bursts of “sleep”.

With experience, I’d become less anxious about night sailing. Identification of the various lights on land and at sea was becoming easier. Those on watch remained vigilant about striking floating debris. Avoiding fishing nets and traps was essential. It is hard to describe the terror of being at the helm the first few occasions of close encounters with other vessels at sea. A three am encounter with a slow moving, poorly lit sailboat released enough adrenaline to obviate any need for caffeine.

Our itinerary necessitated a stop along the north coast of the DR. We planned to clear customs & immigration, refuel, re-provision and rest. AB felt comfortable taking us into the marina at night. We made an unnerving but mishap-free entry into Cofresi as the marina’s casino was closing. A sleepy, uniformed agent from the DR Navy came aboard with forms to complete at three am. He performed a most cursory inspection.

Ocean World marina, Dominican Republic

AsIs and crew had covered three hundred miles in a few short days of sailing. No calamities had befallen us. However, tension was rising onboard. Relations were fraying between EA and me. We practiced mutual avoidance during our two days at dock, taking meals separately.

An uneasy truce was called and we set off once more. Haiti was only twenty miles to the west. However, it was time to head north. We were leaving the Caribbean and entering the southern Atlantic. We selected South Caicos, Turks & Caicos for our next landfall, just shy of 100 miles and 16 hours motor sailing distant. Conditions were mellow and the crossing was smooth. These were secluded waters; we encountered only two commercial vessels, both tiny blips on the horizon.

The sudden change in itinerary had left us without proper local cruising guides for Turks & Caicos and the Bahamas. We had borrowed several tomes from friendly neighbors at the Ocean World marina and photographed what we hoped were the proper pages. The guides led us to expect a full service marina in South Caicos. As we pulled alongside a nearly derelict concrete pier with nary another sailboat in sight, we wondered when the cruising information was last updated.

A band of locals materialized on the dock. They caught our dock lines and welcomed us to their island. Captain Jack, Gucci Man, Washeen and Rasta George, among others. It was Sunday. These lads were among the tiny minority of inhabitants not in church. Each member of our welcome wagon hired themselves for various aspects of our needs. Initially hesitant, we quickly learned to enjoy their company and services. Meanwhile, relations had soured between EA and me. Overly zealous thriftiness involving purchase of bananas proved the final straw. The couple chose to jump ship under the cover of darkness shortly before dawn the next day.

The mood lightened significantly on board. Another cruising boat docked adjacent to us and we suddenly had more fun companions. We spent five lovely days relaxing, walking and snorkeling the nearby reefs. Nights were spent playing dominos, shooting pool and drinking beer at the local hot spots. As the sole tourists around, guided by our band of locals, we enjoyed “red carpet” treatment. Every meal had fresh lobster on the menu.

S. Caicos, Turks & Caicos Islands

It was difficult to leave South Caicos. A weather window opened. AsIs and her two remaining crew set sail for the Bahamas. Exit clearance papers in hand, we headed east and windward briefly then swung north and east, destination Mayaguana, Bahamas. We’d left the “bikini zone”. Every mile of northerly progress brought colder air and water. The wind remained stout changing direction every twelve hours or so. Watch now involved four solitary hours, three times daily. We mustered the 100-mile crossing without incident but craved decent sleep. Whitecaps and shallow water welcomed us to our intended anchorage along Mayaguana’s southern shore. We had not seen another boat in our crossing. None were anchored here. Conditions unfavorable for an overnight stay; we had no choice but to push on. Weather reports suggested a front approaching from the northeast. Course was set for Acklin’s Island, seventy-five miles distant.

NL and I exuded joy and confidence as we anchored in six feet of protected water at Atwood Harbour shortly before dusk. It was the evening before my 65th birthday; extra grog rations were in order. As we bunked down, all was calm. By first light, the northerly winds were piping and the skies darkened a deep purple. The front had arrived. Out of VHF range and lacking Internet access, we had no current weather forecast. Thanks to a nearby BaTelCo (BTC) cell tower, we exchanged texts with friends in Oregon and learned of an imminent gale. A second anchor was set. Not by any means the final time, we offered thanks for the stellar system of the BTC towers.

My birthday was spent at anchor surviving an unrelenting pounding from the gale. It was too rough to eat. Walking about on deck was dangerous; going ashore out of the question. Most of the day and night, we lay awake in our bunks praying for the end of the disturbance. Thirty-six hours hence, we awoke to clear skies and moderate winds. While exhausted and hungry, we couldn’t contain our eagerness to hoist the anchors and escape the place.

The boat’s keel had violently bounced off the sandy bottom of our anchorage innumerable times during the storm. A hasty inspection dive revealed no external damage. Under way, we soon discovered that our primary navigation tool, the Raymarine chart plotter had been irreparably damaged with the repeated impacts. The Navionics electronic chart, an iPad and a hand-held GPS unit now served as our primary navigation aids.

The cruising mecca of Georgetown, Great Exuma was set as our next port of call. We were anxious to encounter other cruisers having seen no other sailboats in our 200 hundred miles offshore. Another night of sailing was required to put us in position for a “first light” approach to Elizabeth Harbour. The entry requires six quick changes of heading and is challenging for a first-timer, especially without use of a chart plotter. Sleep deprived, we struggled to enter waypoints on the GPS unit. AsIs was only 100 meters from a crash landing on the North Channel Rocks when we executed a rapid about face. A grounding was narrowly avoided near Red Shanks Corner. Luck and good light were on our side. The sight of hundreds of sailboats nestled in the many calm anchorages boosted our excitement. We secured a splendid anchorage off Regatta Point. A huge omelet was prepared. The quarantine flag was hoisted. The dinghy was released from the foredeck and the engine mounted. I headed into town for the requisite customs and immigration formalities, aware of the $300 USD fee for a Bahamas cruising permit.

We quickly set about replenishing the water and fuel tanks. The nearby marina presented a challenging docking situation. Instead, we chose to top up by ferrying jerry cans to and from the town’s dinghy dock. NL was facing a deadline to return home. Roughly 350 miles remained to reach Fort Lauderdale. The winter’s “super El Nino” weather pattern was wreaking havoc throughout the Caribbean and Southern Atlantic. Adhering to a strict schedule was impossible. Cruisers spoke of waiting over two weeks for a suitable weather window. On the eve of our planned departure, I experienced another pre-dawn epiphany. I resolved to slow down and enjoy some time in Georgetown and the Exumas. NL made plans to fly home from Georgetown, thus avoiding a potential domestic disaster.

Georgetown, Grand Exuma, Bahamas

Rake ‘n Scrape playing their regular gig at a local burger joint; a saw is the lead instrument.

Life was easy and enjoyable in Georgetown. Cruise ships could not negotiate the narrow harbor entrance. We were readily welcomed into the large cruising community. Daily VHF “cruiser net” discussions enabled a plethora of social activities. The vibe was mellow. Couples spoke of having spent twenty and thirty years wintering in the area. Favorable weather permitted completion of several postponed repairs. I spent considerable time on-line scrambling for crew.

Beauty parlor, Georgetown

Andre demonstrating his skill with my iPhone at the Fish Fry

NL’s departure day arrived. I enjoyed three days of solitude aboard AsIs. Two crew members were enlisted triggering immense relief. RW was a seasoned seafarer and CN, an eager neophyte. Both were able to fly to Georgetown on short notice and join the moveable feast. Tanks bunkered and cupboards stocked, we set off in early February. Having made rapid progress over the previous 500-plus miles, I resolved to set a more leisurely pace in the stretch. A series of day sails spaced over seven to ten days with Bimini as the final Bahamian port of call was planned. Energies gelled aboard, as we became an efficient team. Days assumed an idyllic nature as the mileage ticked off. New experiences beckoned at each island. Rudder Cut Cay offered a sheltered anchorage shared with just three other vessels. Staniel Cay provided the opportunity to explore the Thunderball Grotto, of Bond movie fame. Highbourne Cay served up a full service (and expensive) marina. We topped up on fuel and enjoyed several land-based showers. Local fisherman provided fresh conch and lobster, all expertly prepared by RW. The cruising life was sweet.

Thunderball Grotto, Staniel Cay, Exumas, Bahamas

Thunderball Grotto

A marine broker in Florida had been located and a sales agreement negotiated. Temporary dockage at Cooley’s Landing, a city-operated marina in the yachting capitol of Ft Lauderdale was arranged.

Local boat traffic increased significantly. We were approaching the population center of Nassau, New Providence Island. Choosing to avoid the clamor of Nassau Harbour, we anchored off nearby Rose Island. Another major front was approaching. We endured 48 hours of now familiar pounding at anchor. Conditions rendered us boat bound, unable to escape and partake of nearby Super Bowl weekend festivities.

Bahamas map

Eventually the front passed, allowing us to make a 40-mile daylight crossing in choppy seas to the well-sheltered docks of Chub Cay marina. We lay little more than 125 miles from our destination. Precise timing of weather and wind conditions was mandatory to enable a safe and comfortable crossing of the Florida Straits. Light winds from a southerly direction were necessary to counter the stiff currents of the Gulf Stream. The BTC system permitted speedy Internet access via a personal hot spot. Various weather reports failed to indicate a decent window for at least one week. The crew was facing tight deadlines to return home. We hunkered down at dock for several days of stiff northerly breezes. Another bout of insomnia allowed me an opportunity to consider options. A solution materialized. I would enlist the services of a professional meteorologist. For $25 and phone charges, the renowned Chris Parker offered a one-time personal consultation. The phone consult was arranged for later that morning. Chris advised us of a narrow window with favorable conditions for the crossing in 36 hours. Chores were rapidly completed, the marina bill settled and dock lines cast. Destination was North Bimini where a predawn hasty anchor and nap were planned. Our route involved crossing the Great Bahama Bank for 80 miles. Then following a brief stop off Bimini, we would begin our final crossing of 40 miles at first light.

Hand-line fishing

Another hand-line success. This time a dorado/mahi-mahi.

Chub Cay, Bahamas

Great clouds over Chub Cay, Bahamas

The expanse of sky and sea across the Banks was captivating. Fish were caught, prepared and immediately served. The four-hour solitary watch routine continued. Waypoints were ticked off: Northwest Shoal, Mackie Shoal, North Rock. Sixteen hours of pleasant motor sailing found us just off the rocky headland of North Bimini. It was two am. A weather check suggested optimal conditions throughout the night. Another fast moving front would strike Florida from the north in 24 hours. We elected to forego sleep and push on. Crew settled in for the final crossing, confident and excited.

I’d experienced encounters with numerous commercial vessels and cruise ships during our cruise up the Exumas. Still, the volume of boat traffic in the Strait was startling. I learned to recognize the light pattern of the humongous cruise ships and steer accordingly. A large container ship crossed the bow at extremely close range, unaware of our presence. Right of way became a theoretical concern. Evasive maneuvers were required. Approaching the coast of Florida, innumerable “head” boats teeming with curious fishers pursued erratic courses, occasionally pulling alongside for a closer look.

With dawn’s light, I awoke to the sights, sounds and smells of Florida. The channel markers of Port Everglades came into view. Coffee was brewed. We entered the busy harbor. Our moorage was several miles upriver along the New River. We slowly motored along the banks of the genteel waterway. No fewer than four drawbridges halted rush hour traffic, raising for a steady stream of marine traffic. The sense of accomplishment was audible as we cast dock lines to the waiting marina staff. My journey of twelve weeks and one thousand miles had ended.

The one emotion I recall was a profound sense of relief. Attention now turned to preparing the boat for sale but not before the tedious task of clearing into the US. Approaching the harbor side CBP facility in Port Everglades earlier that morning brought forth several police vessels with sirens blaring. Bureaucracy prevented clearance at the nearby international airport (FLL) for arrivals by sea. An Uber ride to FLL, a car rental then a white-knuckle journey on Florida’s congested freeways to the regional executive airport was necessary to clear. An unsettling welcome home after months of no driving.

RW and CR helped straighten things up, then headed their separate ways. I enjoyed four days of solitary living on the boat. Days were spent dealing with the broker, cleaning the boat and shipping 300 pounds of gear home. On the crew’s final day, I experienced the 45-foot ride up the mast in a boson’s chair to clear a fouled halyard sheave. All perishables were consumed or distributed. The days passed pleasantly. At night all the bright lights of the nearby Himmarshee district beckoned promising companionship, loud music and raucous times. All was in order by mid-February. My broker promised a quick sale. I returned home to an early spring.

A firm offer was secured within a week. A purchase agreement remarkably close to asking price was executed. Things appeared too good to be true. Indeed they were. The boat survey was delayed on several occasions. A captain was scheduled, and then rescheduled for the mandatory sea trial. At haul-out it was determined that AsIs’ draft was actually 6’6” rather than the 5’3” draft noted in the Beneteau factory specifications. The buyer nearly abandoned the sale. His intended mooring in South Carolina was just barely 6’6” at high tide. A shallow keel was preferable for his plans to cruise the Bahamas. He responded positively to a $7,500 reduction in the sale price. I was consoled knowing that our numerous groundings were now explicable in terms other than incompetence. Another string of delays due to lost emails, improperly completed forms and poor communication ensued. All the while, I was racking up daily moorage fees of $75/day as well as steep insurance costs. Fears of theft or vandalism disturbed many a night’s sleep. Then, two full months after inking the purchase agreement, the transfer of funds was completed. The moment seemed anti-climactic after all the drama. Nonetheless, my second happiest day of boat ownership had arrived.