Valentine’s Day I

We began our celebration of Thursday, February 14, 2008 (our first Valentine’s Day together) by attending a Volleyball Beach meeting for those planning to head for the Dominican Republic in the near future. A group of about 20 cruisers gathered at the picnic tables, exactly one of whom had ever done the run before…15 years ago. There was much discussion of routes and weather windows. One group is hoping to leave next week, when we are back in Montreal, but a few others were there who are looking at going about the same time we want to go (after February 24).

Someone remarked that, given roughly 500 boats in the anchorages and marinas, it was surprising more people hadn’t shown up for this meeting. The “old hand” said, “Well, there’s a reason this is called Chicken Harbour.” Apparently, most people arrive here and spend the season hanging on the hook; playing volleyball, bridge and dominoes; attending the numerous parties; and drinking copious amounts of beer and rum. Sort of Club Med afloat. I confess, it doesn’t really appeal to me, but there seem to be any number of cheery souls who think this is the life and are having a great time.

We took Boffo back out to Django and WW almost immediately started hanging head down in the starboard engine compartment, working on the wiring for the bilge pump and blower. Mutterings were constant, perspiration flooded from him. Eventually he surfaced, red-faced, and asked for paper. He drew up a wiring diagram, hopped aboard Boffo, and headed into George Town to get wire and ice. He returned soon after, successful on the wire, but no ice in town. Then it was head down in the engine compartment again.

I heard and anguished, “Kathy!” I rushed to his side where he was desperately holding two wires that simply Could Not Be Dropped, sweat pouring in such quantities of his pate that it washed over the band of his headlamp and left his glasses awash. I mopped him up and he asked that I stand by to minister to his moisture as he worked. My deepest inner thought was, “Ewwww.” I waited, extremely moist rag in hand, observing him and thinking he really needed a kafeeyah [I have been reading Desert Queen by J Wallach, 1996, the life of Gertrude Bell]. The next time he surfaced, we selected a particularly garish orange-and-yellow tea towel with cute chickens, and constructed his kafeeyah. It worked remarkably well.

WW in kaffeeyah. Please note cute chickens.

While he worked, I lounged in the salon, which has great ventilation and is cooler than out under the bimini (for those who don’t know, that’s the awning over the cockpit). I read my book and studied the navigation systems.

Finally, he was done, having completely rewired the sweaty little cubicle. He went to the cockpit and turned on the blower, while I hung through the hatch to see if his work had been successful.

“Anything?” he asked hopefully.

“Nope,” I told him, a little concerned about how he would take this.

“Oh. Wait. Wrong side," he said. He clicked off the port and on the starboard. “Whirrrrr,” went the blower. He knew he was on the right track and, in short order, he had the bilge pump working too. I told him he was terribly clever and should go have a shower. Immediately.