When Can We Go?

Back in George Town after a week in Quebec, we began the series of tasks that will see us set sail for parts south and east. Provisions, water, fuel, charts…all ready. Now we wait for the weather. We had hoped to leave today (Wednesday, February 27), but it is supposed to blow like stink, although in the ideal direction. We have no idea when the next window will pop up.

I have received a series of promotions:

• from galley slave to galley freeperson, possibly because of the three-burner meal. It was exceedingly good, but three-burner meals are not a good idea when you’re this close to the tropics

The three-burner meal is not recommended in southern climes.

• from last mate to second to last mate, for managing the lines and anchor with something approaching grace (if not skill), and for swabbing the decks almost as well as Whit
• Naviguesser, only because Whit left
• whipping girl, in charge of splices and whipping
• and chief steward for conspicuous bravery in the performance of rum punches.

The regular sundown Rum Punch Appreciation Panel.

In other words…Where is Whit?????

Get back here and get scrubbing, Swabby!

WW remains:

• Captain
• Anchor watcher
• Worrier, first class
• Guitar guy.

A practice session in the cockpit.

We have been struggling with the satellite phone and no luck so far. WW has taken extreme measures. He suspects that during an early sploosh of water that drenched Frisha and various oddments, the gizmo might have taken on seawater.

A picture of Frisha eating fresh bar jack sashimi. She is not splooshed in this photo,
I just wanted to put one of her in. She's got low representation in the photo so far.

In case I haven’t mentioned it before, sea water is bad for just about everything except what lives in it. It corrodes metal, makes cloth stay damp for days so it rots, and is not nice for human skin. After a swim, before entering the boat, it is necessary to hose off thoroughly. If you sit on the salon cushions in a sea-water-wet bathing suit, the cushion is doomed to a life of dampness. Sea water is good for swabbing decks or washing dishes, but you want to rinse well. Don’t cook with it…you’ll have sodium toxicity with the first bite.

If the sat phone ate seawater, we can assume it hasn’t enjoyed the meal. There is only one cure for sea water: fresh water. WW has plunged our $1,000 satellite phone into repeat rinses of fresh water. It now spends its days sunning and drying out, very very slowly. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, n’est-ce pas?

WW is practising guitar on the deck in a 21 knot zephyr. I am catching up on the blog. I have no idea when I will be able to post again. When we shove off, we are heading into sparsely inhabited areas (Rum Cay, Conception), then a long run down to Providenciales (Provo) on Turks and Caicos. The availability of wifi between here and there can be expected to be nil to zero. So, till then…

Special hellos today to the Siblings and Their Families: Ginny, Derek, David and Charles; Susie; Ken, Jen, Arlo, Natasha, Tanis, Jackson, Mary Lou and Adrianna; and Frisha, Whit, Kathleen, AD and Margaret. Good Lord, there are a lot of you!

Special apologetic hellos to Simone and Mia who didn't make it in the original list.

Overdue Post

Apologies for the long gap in communication. We actually headed back to Montreal on February 17 for a week. I’ll summarize what occurred before and since.

After Boffo’s attempt at freedom, we spent the rest of the day pottering about. WW worked on the propane “canary” (an alarm that goes off if the propane is leaking) and got that fixed. So clever. It required, of course, that he hang head down in a cramped little compartment. I am beginning to suspect him of Odd Obsessions.

The following day, the Cruise Net Squadron was having a race, smallest boats starting first, catamarans last. Having never sailed Django without some power assistance, we didn’t want to race, but we did want to observe. So we made our way to the back of the pack and, as the last boat crossed the start line, we took up position behind her (without, naturally, crossing the starting line ourselves). It was pretty thrilling when we switched off the engines and she danced along behind the fleet. It wasn’t much of a wind and we didn’t have a really good reach, but she fared well enough.

...over the bounding main...

Following the Cruise Net Racing Squadron

It being Saturday, we kept our promise and headed over to Fish Fry for the Junkanoo. Apparently Junkanoo has been traditional on Christmas and New Year’s. It’s expansion to other dates is, I assume, a response to tourist interest. The first we attended was also the first for George Town outside the standard dates. This time, the turnout was far less impressive, though the spectacle was still quite wonderful.

Junkanoo cowbells, drums and dancing.

The float in all its glory.

The float with, second from left, Rastafarian Priest Marvin, one of the builders.
Sadly, the other builder, Oliver Mafy, was not around.

After watching for a bit, we met WW’s pal of the week before, Pat, at one of the little bar/snack stands. We ate some conch, chatted, and then I was allowed to go into the kitchen where I met the delightful Kayla, Bahamian cook supreme, who told me all about how she cooked and what. I had a great time.

In the kitchen with Kayla

Out at the bar, WW was meeting one Elizabeth “Lovey” Darcy who knew his cousin Freddie and used to cut his (Freddie's) hair.

WW, Pat and Lovey

The next day, we headed back to Montreal, having arranged to share a taxi to the George Town airport with another cruiser. Our rendezvous was at 5:45 a.m. There was a slight drama with the alarm and WW’s watch (which was hours off), but we made it. Thunderstorms over Atlanta forced us to circle for ages…until, in fact, we hadn’t enough fuel to carry on. So we (and half the Delta fleet) went to Augusta for refuelling. We arrived at 162 Main Road, Hudson, at midnight…sans bag. Lost en route. Returned two days later, hot sauces and rum cake intact.

Drama at Dawn

I should preface this by describing our usual wake-up routine. WW gets up, does his ablutions, puts on the kettle and, eventually, leans into our berth to ask if I want tea. I always smile. I always say “yes”. I always bury my head under my pillow and am out cold again within seconds. I actually surface on his return visit when he announces that my tea is ready.

Well, all the rules were broken on Friday. His head appeared, I donned my smile, but he said nothing about tea.

“Kathy,” he said. “The dinghy is gone.”

All I could think was, “Bad, Boffo. Bad.”

I stumbled into clothes and onto deck. Boffo had snapped her ancient painter (the one we knew we should replace…had actually bought line to replace) and gone AWOL in the night. Perhaps she was cranky over being anchored on the beach while we partied. Whatever. She was not there.

We hauled out the kayaks (Lady and the Tramp…the Tramp lives, obviously, on the trampoline, while Lady is stashed at the stern). Then we raised anchor (with remarkable ease and fluidity, probably due to my not being awake enough to screw it up) and set off for Goat Cay, where the wind and waves were headed.

It was horrifyingly early.

We pootled across into steadily shallower and shallower water. At 0.8 meters we were feeling a little tense. Django draws slightly less than one meter…say, about 0.8. We saw Boffo, bouncing cheerfully up and down on the rocky face of Goat Cay. We dropped anchor in ridiculously little water. WW wanted to know whether I wanted to trust the anchor or use the engines to keep her in place. To my everlasting gratitude, a large starfish was hugely visible on the bottom astern of us. I said I’d trust the anchor but, if Mr. Starfish started going below me, I’d ease forward with the engines. With that, WW leapt into faithful Lady (at least she hadn’t broken her painter) and made his way over to our runaway. Meantime, I put on the kettle and talked to the starfish, trying to convince it to stay right where it was, and eyeing the idling engines’ controls warily.

WW was soon back with the wayward dinghy. She didn’t look one bit ashamed, even though she’d scratched her nice outboard. I told her she was a bad, bad Boffo, and gave her a new painter. I thanked my lucky starfish as we pulled out. Boffo bounced along behind us as we made our way back to the anchorage, revelling in her new bit of line.

Boffo and her lovely new painter.

Back at Volleyball Beach, we got in a few rounds of anchoring practice…once it didn’t hold well, once we were poorly placed relative to other boats, finally we were just dandy.

It was most definitely time for my first cup of tea.

Valentine’s Day II

After a cooling shower and shortly after rum punch o’clock (duly marked), we drew Boffo up to the swimming ladder, boarded her and headed in to Volleyball Beach to join one of the Valentine’s Day parties. This one was, in fact, the wedding anniversary of one of the cruising couples. They were handing out shiny bead necklaces to all who showed up wearing red. Having dressed as port, I qualified, but WW had dressed as starboard, so didn’t make the cut.

The party was at the Chat ‘n’ Chill whence beer, rum, and food were flowing in a steady stream. Rockin’ Ron or Rob or something (the anniversary man) had hooked up his boombox and was playing wonderful hits from the 50s and 60s. Inside, the bar was surrounded by cruisers, two and three deep, yelling food and drink orders. Behind the bar was the formidable Arlene and her able but newer assistant (still smiling) Tina. Arlene has been ruling Chat ‘n’ Chill for many years. I was told that one woman who had the temerity to approach the plywood bar and ask for the wine list was not spoken to again for a month.

When food orders are given, you give your name or your boat’s if it is easier. We settled on Django. The food arrives and the name is yelled. You snooze, you lose. Cruisers watch, ears pricked, as dishes emerge from the kitchen. The menu is simple: ribs, chicken, hamburger. They had run out of ribs and hamburger by the time we placed our order. Unfortunately, we didn’t realize there was conch on the beach or we would have headed there.

I was sitting next to Bill and Jane from Galena, a Westsail 32 Bill had soloed down from Virginia. Jane had joined him here for a week. The boat has no refrigeration and no hot water. I felt less like I was camping out. I don’t know how I’d manage without refrigeration since leftovers are an important part of our diet.

WW was sitting next to Mary who moved here 20 years ago and is an established part of the community. With her were Elvis, Adriana, and Ted, all local. Elvis is harbour master and teased us that we had not contacted him on arrival. Everything was very jolly. We met lots of nice people and had a great time.

At last we toddled off, back to Boffo, on whom we returned to Django where we tied our tender astern, bobbing with the kayaks. We clambered aboard and off to sleep.

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.

Beach Volleyball on Volleyball Beach

Wednesday, February 13, dawned sunny with airs of just 10 to 15 nm/h. We decided it was time to leave the harbour and head out to an anchorage. We chose Volleyball Beach, about a mile across Elizabeth Harbour from George Town.

Elizabeth Harbour is a long narrow stretch of sea lying between Great Exuma and a string of cays, by far the largest of which is Stocking Island, directly opposite George Town. Stocking Island features Volleyball Beach and the Chat ‘n’ Chill bar and snack house; Hamburger Beach, up on its northern tip; and a number of coves and anchorages. Provided we stay out of the shipping channels, cruisers are more than welcome.

We arranged the lines such that I could loose them from the boat, thus removing the necessity of my performing the gazelle-like leaps Whit favours. It all went very well. WW is learning not to tell me how to do something, then see me having difficulty, then do it for me. He is learning this because I snarl at him. As a result, I have learned a few things. Mind you, there is always the temptation to look helpless. It would be so much easier if I could just sign on as figurehead or bowsprit or something.

We motored across the harbour and found a spot off Volleyball Beach. Then we laid the anchor. Really, it went very well despite a bit of wind. I’m not quite ready to solo the bow section, but I’ll get the hang of it. Let’s not think about getting it up again.

After lunch, we decided to go in and see what was going on on the beach. Well, what a surprise! People were playing volleyball! There were also crafters weaving baskets, children playing in trees, readers reading, and the talk was all boats. WW ventured onto the volleyball court and did rather well as a rank amateur. There are regular clinics for beginners. He thinks he might attend one. I opted to be a rapt spectator since volleyball always results in huge painful bruises running the length of my arms. I’ll stick with splicing. Maybe I’ll learn to basket weave. Other regular activities are pilates and yoga; there’s a flipflop repair spot; and various special events, all announced between 8 and 9 a.m. on the Cruisers’ Net, channel 72 on your single side band (SSB) radio.

Aside from a few young couples with their children, the majority of cruisers at this particular destination are “of a certain age”. WW described Volleyball Beach as summer camp for the rapidly greying.

Back on Django, I made a delicious (if rather chewy) mutton curry with spicy dhal. I am trying to learn to cook using local produce. So far we’ve had fried plantain, peas and rice (cooked with ham, lots of fresh thyme, and coconut milk), curried pumpkin (a green-skinned winter squash), mutton and bowling fowl (curries again…and no complaints), fresh mango and papaya, tomatillo as a yummy addition to coleslaw, and chayote (aka christophene aka chocho) steamed and with pasta. My captain is either very easy to please or it’s all delicious. I choose to believe the latter. My goal is to make a collection of recipes that work for tropical cruising. This means any recipe beginning with “Preheat oven…” is immediately suspect. I’ve also determined that chayote, tomatillo and cabbage are veggies that keep a long time without refrigeration. With a fridge the size of a small bedside table, that’s important.

The Wind She Blow

In the small hours of the morning, the wind arrived. Blowing at 15 to 25 nm/h, it moaned over us. Django echoed with the slap of waves. Fortunately, we were being pushed away from, not toward the dock. WW got up and checked our lines.

In the morning, we tuned into the cruisers’ net which gives weather, business news, regatta news, general news and, as another Canadian termed it “Treasures From the Bilge”. All the cruisers had survived the night but, the day before, a diver had drowned going to a place that exceeded his experience. It was sobering to hear about it.

All day the wind howled, with gusts up to 30 nm/h and “scattered showers”, which felt more to me like “unrelenting torrential downpours”. WW and I went in to mail some postcards, and to buy beer and ice. We grabbed hamburgers to go at Sam’s Place (right by the pier). The second we stepped out from under cover, we were completely drenched.

The remainder of the day was spent quietly, observing the weather, until evening when John came by looking for helpers…a Bayliner was smashing herself badly on one of the wharves; her owners had been forced to leave for a funeral and weren’t expected back for another six or seven hours. We offered to help, but the wind and tide were pushing at Django so forcefully that we couldn’t get ashore. John found Brian, and he and Brian helped us pull Django closer. About eight of us stood in the dark with an assortment of flashlights (WW and I had on our headlamps) and fought to keep the big boat from doing herself serious damage. As John said, “They’d do it for us.” We finally rigged a 2x4 board fender with four bumpers between it and the boat. We learned later that, when the owner finally returned, the board had snapped in two and the boat had taken substantial damage. However, he was deeply grateful and felt the damage could have been far worse.

A big Boston Whaler, sporting a long beard of algae all around its waterline and an 85 hp engine off its stern, had been tied up by the shoreline since before our arrival. She was capsized during the blow. No one seemed to care. But then, the algae indicated that.

That night, the winds continued and we heard Django’s lines creak and protest with every gust and wave. She had lines from her starboard forward, aft and midship cleats…just three points including bow and stern springs, bow line and stern line. Not really enough, and her lines seemed to look smaller and smaller as they fought the pressure. Next morning, we bought new, thicker lines. The big blow had yet to arrive.

That afternoon, I learned to splice, putting back splices and eye splices in some of our new lines. For those who don’t know, splicing is a way to have a line make a sturdy connection to itself or to another line. An eye splice results in a loop at one end of the line, a back splice results in a thickened end which is easier to grab and hold onto. WW ran lines from her forward centre and port cleats, and from her aft port cleat. Six points; much better. Then he winched us closer to the dock.

Splices by Moi

The cruisers’ weather god Chris Parker said it was going to be the strongest front in two years. It came through in the middle of Tuesday night, blowing 25 to 30 nm/h with gusts to 35 nm/h. Django danced a merry dance, but the dreadful noises from the lines were gone. Fortunately, it didn’t last as long as the other blows. In the morning, Django was fine.

Crew Out, Weather In

Sunday, February was a sad day. Our able crew were jumping ship and heading back to Connecticut.

The main event of the morning was moving Django to a more sheltered dockside spot, since a front was descending on the Bahamas. Our new neighbours from the 67-foot gin palace Hanco, Sandy and John, assisted and invited us for drinks “whenever”. WW spent a lovely time fussing over the starboard engine with the local mechanic Alvin. The engine has shown a tendency to not start. We’d like that fixed.

Whit, Frisha and I took a walk around Victoria Pond, laid in a few more provisions and did more laundry. After lunch, we walked up the pier and said goodbye to our wonderful crew outside the Exuma Docking Services office. I was particularly sad to see them go since they’d done the lion’s share of the sailorly work while I just kept them fed. I think I’ll be expected to cleat a line or let go the jib halyard or something now they are gone.

We returned, sad and lonely without our messmates. I was at my desk (read: salon table) working on blog business when WW popped his head in to say Sandy and John had hailed him and invited us over. We had a very pleasant drink with them on their floating hotel…marble kitchen with dishwasher, washer and dryer, shower and full bathtub, air-conditioned master berth, two tenders, two kayaks, wide screen TV, sewing room, potted plants, short-haired Persian cat (shaved), etc. Gorgeous. But not really sailing.

We joined them and another couple, Brian and BJ, at the Peace and Plenty Inn for dinner. A good time was had by all. Then we went back to our boats to cast another concerned eye over our mooring arrangements. The blow was to start soon. We crept nervously to our berth to await whatever Nature had in store for us.

Junkanoo

We arrived at a cluster of brightly painted shacks at the edge of Elizabeth Harbour. More than one contained a bar or place to buy snacks and meals. On the road, groups of people were gathering and a magnificent structure could be seen. It appeared to be on wheels…a sort of miniature float…about three metres high and almost as wide. It was decorated with bright paper, shiny studs of various sizes and shapes, brilliant feathers, pro-black slogans, brilliant papier maché figures, and, dead centre, the grinning face of a black man. It beggars description.

It was just standing there. We walked over to it, observed it, wondered about it, then went to get Kevin his drink. I wandered off, exploring the shacks and their contents. I finally asked two young men what this place is. “Fish fry,” one said, his accent at first making me think he’d said “first rite”. We sorted that out. It seems there is a fish fry there every night but, this being Saturday, there was something special happening. Junkanoo.

I continued my explorations and, up by the road, I found a troupe of drummers, mostly young boys, preparing themselves and their instruments. I asked one who had made the magnificent float. He pointed at two men across the road. The older man wore a huge Rasta hat, the younger sported trousers covered with layers of yellow, red, and green paper fringes. I asked them if they had indeed made the float.

“Yes!” said the younger. “You want to take a picture?”

Alas, I didn’t have my camera with me, but I promised to return the following Saturday. I asked them about how they had built the float and how long it had taken them. “Oh, a little while,” said the older man. The black face grinning from the middle is Marcus Garvey (whom Rastafarians declare to be a prophet) . He said the disparate groups of musicians forming up along the road would get together and perform as an ensemble in the Junkanoo. It would start soon. They had to get ready.

Well, how to describe the indescribable. The drums are of oil drums covered with goat skin, which means they are heavy. Wide straps covered with inches of padding are used to protect the shoulder and back of the drummer. Cow bells are rung at such a rate they appear not to be solid. There was a brass section, an old man with a whistle, and the float rolling gloriously ahead of it all. Most players were young men and boys, there were just a few girls and I saw no women. The rhythm was infectious, driving, unrelenting. Some of the players seemed almost to be having mystical experiences. Gobsmacked tourists mingled congenially with resident onlookers. The raggletaggle marching band proceeded along the road, down through the shacks to the waterside, the float was left to one side and the writhing line continued. Then it just trickled to a stop. A few people tried to drum for a bit longer, but it was over.

I thanked the man in the Rasta hat and promised, once more, to return next week, with my camera. Our lift was waiting, so we headed back to Django.

Dinner at Eddie’s

We arrived in George Town at the Exuma Docking Services in Kidd Cove (where Captain Kidd, it’s said, never was) about 5 p.m.

After an exemplary docking—springs, lines, and bumpers set with military precision—I headed for the showers. I wore my flipflops. WW had warned me footwear would be a good idea in many of the showers we would meet. This was my first experience of such a shower. I got the key from the office and went round the back to an unmarked but locked door. The key fit the lock. Inside there were three rooms, each featuring a toilet, sink, and shower. Selection of which to use seems to depend on current need. One has toilet paper. One has two shower settings: dribble or scald. One has a functional shower, but no light. The shower tiles in all are chipped or gone and sport a lively growth of…growing things. I had a scalding shower. It was wonderful.

The Rough Guide told us Eddie’s would be a good place to dine, so we headed over there after our obligatory SRP. George Town is wrapped around a small body of salt water called Victoria Pond, reachable by dinghy through a narrow channel. From Exuma Docking Services, we turned left and followed the road around the pond until we reached Eddie’s. A very friendly, very drunk man came to slur useful information at us as we entered the little blue-and-white building. An attractive woman behind the bar took drinks orders. Frisha and I retreated to the outside, carrying chairs to make a table for four. Frisha had dressed up…nice dress, fancy necklace, pimp shoes…this wasn’t that kind of place. In fact, I don’t think George Town has that kind of place anywhere. WW and Whit joined us outside with drinks and we gave our dinner orders. The increasingly incoherent but friendly local drunk came by again. WW agreed with everything he said and he wandered off. He was eventually adopted by another cruising pair. Turns out he was looking for someone to buy him dinner.

Dinner was very good. Three of us had turtle, one had conch. Turtle was disappointing in that you might as well be eating very tender, rather bland chicken. Tasting the conch after the turtle was a flavour treat.

Our gentlemen told us they’d been advised to go to the “fish fry, down the road, outside town”. After dinner, we asked the waiter/bartender how far it was and she reckoned it was well over a mile. Did she know someone who could take us?

“Kevin!” she barked.

A tall young man appeared instantly and agreed to drive us. His price? A drink when we got there. We got into his rather spiffy SUV and headed off. She was right, it was well over a mile.

Birdwatching

Lee Stocking Island is privately owned and is home to the Caribbean Marine Research Center. Our readings told us that visitors are welcome provided they request permission to come ashore and treat the island with respect. What you pack in, you pack out. There are also several moorings available on a first-come, first-served basis. The approach is by a narrow channel between the rocky shoreline and shallow sandbars. We went very slowly. None of the moorings were available, so we anchored and were all shipshape in time for our SRP.

I had read that the island was a good place to see a number of birds, so early the next morning, I radioed for permission to go ashore. No joy. We did receive a response from a boat moored near us, wanting to know if we’d heard the weather. We knew a front was on its way, but precise details evaded us as the radio seems to prefer giving us white noise at the moments the critical information is being transmitted. The chap on the other boat said he’d taken his dinghy in and seen a huge NO TRESPASSING sign, so he’d headed back out, but some other people had gone about a mile along shore and found a beautiful beach with paths. Whit and I set off in the kayaks. I brought binoculars, bird book, camera, etc. It was a pretty good slog into the wind and waves, and was every bit of a mile, probably more. We walked along the beach and followed a trail into the dense scrubby growth. We saw why “visitors welcome” had become “no trespassing”, with piles of rubbish in the undergrowth and a liquor bottle lodged in a tree. Whit ploughed ahead and had the only bird sighting of the day. Later, he identified it from my book as either a yellow-crowned night heron (common) or the black-crowned night heron (uncommon). I saw some butterflies. Whit suggested I take up botany.

We were back at Django by 11 a.m. when we pulled up anchor, headed out the Wide Deep Fast Not-Scary Cut and into Exuma Sound for our run down to George Town on Great Exuma Island.

Leaving Lee Stocking Island, passing some of the small cays
and "rocks" on our way to the Adderly Cut.

More Pictures

WW with Django at her Fort Lauderdale mooring, sweating over installation of the new liferaft.




This is WW (Whit is almost completely obscured by him) steering us out of Fort Lauderdale.




Whit at the helm. Frisha behind him either cleaning or making useful suggestions, her favourite nonstop activities. Also, not liking being called Last Mate.



Arriving in Nassau.

A Picture!

I finally figured out how to add pictures! The one above is of (from left to right) Potential Purchaser WW, Mike (the broker), Jeff (the surveyor), and Mike (the captain) immediately after Django (then La Dolce Vita) had returned to her dock after the sea trial.

I promise more up-to-date photos in the near future.

Party Central

The Staniel Cay Yacht Club seems to be a great cruisers' destination, with many boats moored, anchored, or docked around it. Tourists also arrive by plane at an little airport about a mile away. We were able to fuel up, buy water and ice, and book a table for dinner. We had to choose our meals and report our choices when we made the reservation.

On a little table perched on the edge of the water, two men were busily cleaning fish and conch for the evening dinner. I was watching with interest when I noticed turmoil in the water below, into which they were flicking guts, fins, and such. There were at least eight nurse sharks and two stingrays grabbing up the goodies in what can’t have been more than two feet of water. It was quite a remarkable sight.

We finally applied the decals to Django’s transom: DJANGO on the port side, MONTREAL on the starboard. Timely, since WW was able to pick up her registration on his email next morning.

The bar was lively, to say the least. A small shop off one corner offered touristy clothes, sunscreen, and a wide selection of rums. Dinner was served at 7 p.m. and was announced by a bell. Then we queued and were told which was our assigned table. The soup was delicious, the rest was not bad. I’m afraid The Poop Deck has spoiled me for cracked conch.

We headed back to our little haven, where Whit and Frisha tried to teach us a card game called Pitch or Setback. Unfortunately, I was unable to keep my eyes open. I gather it is better with four than three, because the others lasted only one hand more, then the crew retired. WW claims it’s because he won.

In the morning, Frisha, Whit and I borrowed bicycles, offered free to guests of the Club, and went to do a bit of shopping at one of the small groceries. We bought a cut-up chicken and Frisha was delighted that the price was comparable to back home, until I pointed out that it is probably what we’d call a “boiling fowl”. I intend to make a curry with it…a very slowly cooked curry.

We left dock and motored a short distance to Thunderball Cave, where the underwater scenes for the James Bond move Thunderball were filmed. You can swim in through an underwater channel and come up in a coral- and fish-filled cavern. Sunlight pours down through openings overhead. We moored and snorkelled around the outside, but weren’t quite courageous enough to try the channel without a guide. Frisha and Whit went a little way in and said it looked fabulous. Outside there were dozens of brilliant fish of all colours. Whit and I saw an actual Nassau grouper (a baby). It’s a protected zone, which is perhaps why all the fish seemed relatively fearless.

Then we headed for Big Rock Cut (Whit says its real name is Small Narrow Scary Cut), which would take us through the cays to Exuma Sound. The cuts are passages between the cays that allow boats to travel between the Great Bahama Bank and Exuma Sound. They can be quite tricky when the ebb tide is running, with powerful currents and strong rips. Suffice it to say, we made it through safely.

I write this as we motor down toward Lee Stocking Island, our next anchorage. We must be in George Town on Great Exuma tomorrow. Alas, Whit and Frisha will be taking their leave of us there. And I still don’t know how to sail.

Exuma Land and Sea Park

From Allen Cays, we headed south to Warderick Wells Cay and the headquarters of the Exuma Land and Sea Park. A.W. White, in his A Birder’s Guide to the Bahama Islands (1998), says, “This park was established in 1958 and is the world’s oldest land-and-sea park. It extends from Wax Cay Cut in the north to Conch Cut in the south, and covers 176 square miles. In 1986 the park was declared a no-take zone, and hunting, fishing, spear fishing, and removal of living creatures and natural objects were made illegal. Since then, the park has served as a replenishment center for conch, lobster, grouper, and other heavily fished species.”

Moorings are available. We radioed from a few miles out and were assigned mooring E14, off Emerald Rock, which we found with little difficulty. At least a dozen boats were moored near us, with more in the quiet waters beyond the HQ buildings. We didn’t quite make the SRP deadline as we had lines and clutter not quite stowed, but we forgave ourselves and had a pleasant pre-dinner drink, then dined aboard.

In the morning, WW and I took the dinghy (he calls her Tender to Django or TT Django, which is proper; I call her Boffo) to the headquarters and I bought Birds of the West Indies, by H. Raffaele et al. (2003). Then we joined Whit and Frisha, who had kayaked over. On the beach by the HQ buildings was what I at first thought was a dinosaur skeleton. Sadly, it was the skeleton of a sperm whale which had been killed from ingesting plastic bags. Apparently, large fish and whales may mistake them for man o’ wars, which are a normal part of their diet. The bags are absolutely deadly. We are pretty neurotic about keeping all plastic away from the sea.

We walked up BooBoo Hill, named for the ghosts which are said to haunt it since a shipwreck in the 1700s when all aboard were lost. Atop the little hill is a pile of driftwood with boats’ names and visit dates, going back many years. Only driftwood is allowed, everything else is removed by the Park caretakers. I took a little twisted piece of wood and scratched DJANGO Montreal Feb 08 in red pen. Then Django’s token joined the heap. Some of these mementoes are quite elaborate and beautiful…carved or painted or both.

On the way to BooBoo Hill, we crossed calcareous rock which makes lovely musical tones when tapped. We meandered through mangrove swamps which are nurseries for young fish and sea creatures.

Back at HQ we discovered a bit of a fuel spill in Boffo, but the park people happily supplied us with special rags for mopping it up. Fortunately, none had got outside the boat. We bought a few bits and pieces and watched gorgeous little bananquits demand food (and get it). A Bahama mockingbird tried to get some of the goodies, but seemed overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the smaller birds.

Whit kayaked back to Django and Frisha tried, but there was a pretty strong current, so WW and I gave her a tow part way back. Then it was time to leave our mooring and head south. Next stop: Staniel Cay.

Here Be Dragons

There was much discussion of where we should head in the Exumas…a string of cays (pronounced “keys”) running from just southwest of Eleuthera, between the Toe of the Ocean and Exuma Sound. I voted for Allen Cays, but it seemed that might be difficult to get to. I had my reasons. I might have pouted.

In the end, it didn’t seem any better or worse a place to go, so off we set, sails up, for another longish haul.

The Allen Cays are three little islands, Allen Cay, SW Allen Cay, and Leaf Cay, as well as many smaller cays and “rocks”. The books said it was a cruisers delight. After a long day of sailing, we arrived in a little rain shower (the first, I believe, of our trip). It washed our decks clear of salt and graced us with a rainbow or two. Then we had our first experience of dropping anchor. There were several other boats nestled in among the cays. Much calculation of tide and such went on. We wanted not end up high and dry at low tide, and to have to wait six hours to refloat our little home.

Our timing could not have been better. The drama of anchoring (done with brilliant efficiency by the captain and our gallant crew), clean up, storage, and tidying was all done just as the sun did its daily plop below the horizon. We enjoyed a lovely SRP, a delicious dinner, listened to a Django Reinhart CD, and toddled off to our berths.

In the morning, at about 8 a.m., we launched both kayaks and the dinghy. Such excitement. Frisha and I took the kayaks to the nearby sandy beach on Leaf Cay, while Whit came by snorkel. WW opted to stay on Django and play his guitar.

There, arriving slowly to warm in the sun, were the reason I’d wanted to come. The magnificent, rare rock iguanas. I kept my kayak just offshore and watched them blinking lazily. One huge one must have measured at least a metre from stem to stern.

Later, Frisha and I went onto the beach where lovely lizard trails made fascinating patterns in the sand. More iguanas kept appearing. One came and stared pointedly at us. It was gorgeous, with a white throat, its skin like a particularly adept artist had thrown on camouflage colours in a perfect pattern.

We found a path through to the other side of the cay and spent a pleasant half hour snorkelling. We found wrasse and sea worms and a baby grouper. Frisha touched its tail and it was gone like a shot.

Later, as we prepared to leave, a tour boat from Nassau arrived and unloaded about 30 people on “our” beach. The iguanas may be slow, but they’re not stupid. An army of them were waiting to pose for photos and receive treats. And we’d been wondering what in heck they ate…

On our way to the Allen Cays, we caught this little fellow.
Our first one was bigger. Honest. As we approached the cays,
I asked if we should reel in the fishing line. I was told we had plenty of time.
So, of course, we didn't and WW spent a lovely half hour
unfouling the starboard propeller.

Customs and Duff

We’d established that Customs might not appear until the morrow. We’d also been informed that leaving the boat would be naughty until we had received Customs. So we stared wistfully down the pier toward The Poop Deck, where we hoped to dine.

Whit, as he had done from the moment of our arrival, continued to scrub the deck vigorously. Frisha was starting to look a little demented and kept muttering for him to stop. The ceaseless scrutch scrutch scrutch of the deck brush was becoming rather wearing, but I was in no rush to tell him to stop. By the time he was done, the deck was spotless.

A man came down the dock toward us. He was in a blue uniform with patches on the shoulders and a military-style cap. He seemed a promising Customs candidate. He stared at a paper, looked vaguely about, and started ambling off down another part of pier. Our captain hailed him. He turned around, smiled cheerily, and allowed as how he was Customs. We welcomed him aboard.

The sun had done its dive below the horizon, so he opted to come into the salon and enjoy the benefit of light. He opened a chaotic briefcase and found the fishing licence booklet. Then he extracted a wad of crumpled, abused, nearly naked carbon paper. WW and I stared. How long has it been since we’ve seen carbon paper? Then he dug out a pen, opened the booklet, stared at it, and said, with a self-depreciating laugh, “I’ve got to go back to the car, I’ve forgotten my glasses.” WW offered him a pair of non-prescription reading glasses. They did the trick.

For the next few minutes, we watched him wrestle with his various booklets and his crumpled reams of carbonless paper. It was a little like watching the Red King make a memorandum. I used the same strategy I had for Immigration, and Customs accepted a beer “for later”. Eventually, he completed his travails, crammed everything back into his bag, and made his departure. Only to return almost immediately, when he realized he had not given us a receipt. WW suggested we didn’t need one, but that wouldn’t do. Back he came, smiling his lovely smile. Out came the glasses, the receipt was duly issued. Then he set off cheerfully along the dock, WW’s glasses perched jauntily on his nose. I felt badly pointing this out to him, but he returned them happily, tut-tutting at his absent-mindedness.

Finally, we were headed to The Poop Deck. I had cracked conch with peas and rice, and plantain…fabulous. The others all had grouper, another taste treat. We shared a guava duff (house specialty—think figgy duff with guava instead of figs) for dessert. It was superb.

Then it was bedtime. We would make for the Exumas next morning. (Sorry, Madeleine, we never got to Eleuthera.)

Nassau Arrival

We arrived in Nassau at about 4:30 p.m., in plenty of time to beat the deadline for SGT.

Ah, the cruiser’s goal each day, the SGT. Also known to landlubbers as the Sundown Gin and Tonic, the SGT can occur only if the boat is docked or moored, and all gear has been stowed in its right and proper place. We have found, here in the Bahamas, an SRP (Sundown Rum Punch) fits the climate and local booze products admirably. The sun here goes down with a plop. There’s no mucking about. It slides to the edge of the world and vanishes, leaving just a very slight sun spray that dries away quickly. It is at that moment, provided everything is shipshape and Bristol, that the grog is served.

In Nassau, we docked at the Nassau Yacht Haven and watched the city’s water rats doing miracle things at high speed in boats…in narrow channels. Better than TV. We ran up our yellow flag to show we hadn’t cleared customs and immigration. Our captain went ashore to arrange for our clearance, without which, the rest of us could not leave Django. He returned with a sheaf of papers and Whit made his illegal way into The Poop Deck, a bar and restaurant that overlooked our marina. WW filled in form after form. Then we each filled in customs forms. Then we waited. We are getting pretty good at the Bahamian Wait.

At long last, an attractive woman in a green, somewhat military outfit, including natty cap, skirt, stockings and fashionable shoes, arrived at our boat. She boarded. Lifelines are not really designed with skirts in mind, but she managed admirably. She settled down and started separating her sheets from those for the customs man. She was Immigration. We all had our tongues hanging out, but it felt rude to drink in front of company. I finally took the plunge: “I don’t suppose we can offer you a drink while you’re on duty?” I said. She replied promptly, “Only if I take it with me.” We handed her a cold Heineken and felt OK serving ourselves. Our business completed, she pocketed her beer, smiled warmly and, again with surprising grace, cleared the lifelines and marched back up the pier.

Then we did the Bahamian Wait for Customs.


[I'm still way behind. Internet access has proved something of a challenge. We're in the Exumas. I'm determined to catch up. - KMH]

Electrical Sailing

We left bright and early for the roughly 10-hour haul to Nassau. Almost all the sailing we have been and will be doing for the foreseeable future will be into the prevailing easterlies. That means a lot of motoring and banging along against the seas. We can get the sails up sometimes, but we must keep very close to the wind. It can get noisy and tedious, and it makes it hard to work in the galley…but not as difficult, I should think, as if we were in a monohull where everything would be banging and crashing on an angle.

Frisha and Whit have proved invaluable. They get the sails up and down, they cast off and cast on (no, wait…that’s knitting). Frisha taught me to whip. Gentlemen, before you get excited, that means I can bind the end of a line so it won’t fray, nothing more thrilling. They take the helm, they navigate, operate the radio. I keep them fed. I’m afraid galley work will in no way make up for them when they leave us. WW assures me he can handle most tasks solo, while I learn. I’m picking up an understanding of the navigation stuff from Whit. It must be said, the electronic equipment on Django is a far cry from the compass, chart, protractor, and pencils I remember from my youth.

Django’s autopilot allows the helmsman to choose a compass course or to choose a course based on angle to the wind. The nav station has an electronic chart that shows shoals, depth measurements in meters, land features, waypoints (and you can create waypoints), notes, etc. It shows the course you have been on, your course over ground on your current heading, and your speed over ground. Also your longitude and latitude, and the longitude and latitude of waypoints. It has a radar alarm to let you know if there’s anything in the vicinity. You can set the sensitivity in increments of three kilometres. At the helm, you can see the depth, wind speed, wind direction, heading, speed. I am studying to master pressing all the buttons. WW insists it’s just a glorious videogame.

Super Bowl Sunday

Whit had established that there was a place on the beach, Nancy’s, where we could get a drink and some food. We could see it from our berth, but we took a walk through the town. It was just after dark. We saw a closed grocery store featuring an array of canned goods. Farther on, another little shop (in which we found the boy’s godsister) seemed to sell not much of anything except soft and fruit drinks. Its television was on; the Super Bowl had begun.

We continued our walk through town. The few cars that passed us honked and their drivers waved. It was all very congenial. We eventually arrived at Nancy’s, having taken the Great Circle Route. We were about 50 meters along the beach from our pier.

We went into Nancy’s where a number of locals were watching the game. Sadly, many of them left the room when we came in. Whit and I ordered Nancy’s Abaco Smash, fruit juices and rum and delicious, if rather sweet. Nancy was very generous with the rum. We watched the game for long enough to see the Pats take the lead. I was rooting for the Pats when I learned the people in the bar were all Giants fans. I went outside to see how WW was faring. He was chatting with four or five men. The minute I joined them, all but one left. It’s obviously not a colour issue, so I guess it must be sex, or colour + sex. I felt badly that, when we left, all the people who were hanging around outside rushed back in to watch the game. We’d never intended to interfere with their enjoyment of the game.

We carried a bowl of peas and rice (extremely yummy) back to the boat, ate it with our dinner, and retired to sleep. For the first time, we experienced mosquitoes. Oddly, though they whine properly, they don’t seem to bite. Which is nice.

In the morning, a couple of men walked out to the end of the pier and told us the Giants had won. That made me feel better.

Abaco Arrival

At about 4 p.m., we drew close to an unprepossessing bit of land fronted by a long stretch of white sandy beach. A strip of scrubby greenery separated the beach from a row of low houses. Extending from the beach were two piers, one sporting a fuel station. We sailed in and docked at that one—Lightbourn’s Marina according to the sign on the dock, Lightbourne’s Marina according to the one by the beach.

Then we waited.

A car drove by. We were examined. The car drove away.

We walked on the beach and gathered an impressive array of sand fly bites. We made friends with a couple of local dogs. We looked at a conch shell. We walked back to Django. We waited.

A big young man appeared and strolled out along the dock. He hailed us warmly and told us his dad ran the place but he was at the airport. He’d be back in about half an hour. We waited. We swam and snorkelled. We waited. Finally, a slim older man walked down the pier and explained he’d been at the airport, 60 miles away. He provided us with water, fuel and (bless him) ice. He was soft spoken but happy to chat. He pondered where we should moor and said he worried that “that wind might freshen…you want to be over on the lee side of the government dock.”

I asked him about his name. Did he spell it with or without the ‘e’ at the end? “Oh, I don’t use that too much,” he said. “It’s for fancy folk.”

Our commerce ended, thanks, money and pleasantries exchanged, we headed to the other dock where WW attempted a stern docking. A man and boy were fishing jack from the pier. They watched with interest as Django approached and backed, approached and backed. Frisha at the bow and I at the stern stood by with lines, Whit was ready to jump ashore, take our lines, and make her fast. The breeze would push us out of range each time we were almost there. Finally Whit asked for a hand from the two on the dock. Both man and boy said “sure”. Frisha heaved her line. A miss. The boy came back and I got a line to him, then he stood there, unmoving, holding it. We gesticulated wildly while he leaned back on the line, prepared to pull in all 10,000 pounds of Django, against the wind. The man ran back and showed him how to snug it on a bollard. Frisha heaved her line. A miss. Third try lucky, we were docked.

The two went back to fishing. A girl walked onto the pier. The boy turned, saw her and shouted, “Where you was?” She laughed and came out to watch the fishing and examine us. Every so often a car would drive to the end of the pier, take a look, and back off again. Later we gave the boy and man a couple of soft drinks, the girl had gone. I asked if she were the boy’s sister. His godsister, I was told.

Sea Life

In the morning, we realized we would have neither the wind nor the fuel to make Nassau, so we altered course to take us to a place called Sandy Point on the southern end of Great Abaco Island. Our chart said we could get fuel there.

It was a sunny, hot day. Whit devoted himself, as he had done from the start, to an in-depth understanding of the navigation systems. The plan is for him to train WW and me when he’s got it all worked out. Frisha cleaned. Always appreciated. I did my daily tasks as galley slave. Django pressed on through the fascinating emptiness of the sea.

We also started fishing. On Django, this involves a heavy-duty reel carrying 60-pound test, clamped to a stern post. A lovely plastic lure in yellow and orange with lots of long bits like tails was attached to the line, pitched off the stern, and line played out. Thus, we trolled.

We were sprawled at various spots on deck, in the shade or not, below, reading, snoozing, pottering, studying navigation, keeping watch, when the reel gave a screech. “Fish!” We all made our way to the stern where WW reeled in our catch. It was a lovely amberjack which was instantly converted into fillets and thence into sashimi with wasabi and soya sauce for immediate consumption. Very delicious. At lunch we had seviche (thank you, Victoria). A palpable hit!

(Today, one day later, we caught some seaweed, but it got away).

...and I still haven't caught up. We are leaving Nassau in an hour or two and I haven't even got you to Abaco. I promise to do better.

Thanks for all the comments. We love hearing from you!!

Setting Off

We sailed south along the coast of Florida so the northward push of the Gulf Stream as we crossed it would leave us about the latitude of Bimini, the closest of the Bahamas. The wind was 5 to 10 knots and from the east…not what we’d dreamed off, but it would do. However, we had to motor. We set the genoa which gave us a little bit more speed, but we really couldn’t sail anywhere except back to Florida.

As we passed in front of Miami, a couple of dolphins came to play in our wake, and we saw the tip of a sailfish’s fin. It was overcast and cool, with streaks of sunlight piercing the clouds in the distance. The Gulf Stream crossing was, to me, remarkable only in that the temperature of the water went up a couple of degrees. It was completed with absolutely no fuss or bother.

It seems amazing that two-thirds of our world is covered by this water we are on, and so few others are on it with us. Away from land, a boat or ship sighting is an event.

We continued our eastward progress, accompanied by schools of fish that transformed themselves into flocks of fish. My first experience of flying fish. Shimmering silver darts soaring out of our path. We passed north of Bimini and into the night. It has been years since I have seen so many stars. A few boats several miles from us and the lights of Freeport over the horizon on Grand Bahama provided the only light pollution…essentially none. It was spectacular.

We divided our watches…sort of. Someone was always asleep and someone was always awake. At some point, WW decided that the best course lay straight into the wind. This made things a bit…bouncy…in our forward berths. I tried to make filter coffee for the watch before going to snooze. That was a risky and desperate venture, but concluded with only a minor scald, coffee grounds (dry and wet) distributed liberally around the galley, and a happily caffeinated crew in the cockpit. After an hour or two of this brutal treatment, Whit suggested that bearing off a degree or two might be a nice idea. WW agreed. Our comfort increased markedly. I slept.

Catching Up

I have to hurry and catch up. We are approaching Nassau and I’ve left you back in Fort Lauderdale.

On Thursday, WW and I unmoored Django and motored into the channels that would take us to the Bahia Mar Marina, and excellent (if expensive) place from which to take to the seas. It was exciting to finally have her in motion, even if the squeaky complaints of the starboard steering system were a bit unnerving. We arrived at the fuelling station and a nice offshore wind made our approach and final mooring there less than professional in appearance. Thank heavens that guy appeared on the dock. We filled her up and motored to our berth: H813.

Then, we poured the contents of our lockers and our berth into one large hockey bag and headed for the laundry. Closely associated with laundry was our first hot shower in almost a week. It felt goooooood.

Mike (the broker) was supposed to drop by, so I attempted a first batch of rum punch…to ensure they were drinkable. Never doubt Lorna. They were delicious. So I made a second batch and…Mike couldn’t make it. So we drank them. Then we examined the bottle and realized that, while delicious, these drinks are a recipe for rapid alcohol toxicity.

Frisha and Whit arrived and we all went out to dinner and to walk along the beach. Then it was early-ish to bed, with our captain insisting we would leave at sunrise—7 a.m.

In the event, we actually departed the marina at 7:30 a.m. for our great adventure.

Cruising Defined

WW says cruising is: “Repairing your boat in exotic locations.” While Fort Lauderdale may not seem exotic, it has palm trees, which is good enough for me. And, heaven knows, the repairing part is continuous and endless.

Since moving aboard, we’ve discovered:

- The traveller was jammed and needed to be replaced. WW has created a functional one, though he’s still not pleased with it…his efforts continue. (Update: done!)

- The stove wouldn’t work. Investigation of the propane storage area revealed much corrosion such that anything that was meant to turn, wouldn’t; and a butane tank that couldn’t be properly disconnected and which started wheezing out its contents when it was improperly disconnected (it currently has a crimp in its hose held in place by two clamps…we call it “the bomb” and try to store it in shady places). (Update: stove functional!)

- Many lines that needed replacing; so far we’ve got the main sheet installed and will be redoing the traveller a bit later today. WW is still trying to understand the main furler.

- The spare dinghy we were given in exchange for a satellite phone that the owner said doesn’t work is not new, as promised, but well past its best-before date.

- The solar panels crank out a ton of electricity, though we still don’t want to run the fridge full time.

- The berths are comfy, the galley spacious, and a lot of good stuff has been left on board.

- We have charts for Turkey, the Great Barrier Reef, Venezuela, and Malta, to name a few. We don’t have charts for Florida or the Bahamas. Maybe we’re going the wrong way?

One of the greatest boons was a gift received from Ginny (for those who don’t know: WW’s older baby sister, the younger being Susie): headlamps. WW uses his constantly for evening barbecues, after-dark repairs, repairs in dark crannies, and…well…repairs in exotic locations. Mine is dead handy in the poorly lit galley as I prepare the evening fodder.

Poor WW has spent many hours in the car, dashing from hardware store to marine centre to boat, only to discover the fittings and whatnots were the wrong size or shape or colour. Last night, he got the propane working and I was able actually to cook a dinner. We’d barbecued and eaten hearty salads on previous nights. We had our first onboard breakfast today: fresh OJ, stovetop toast, coffee for WW and—finally!—a decent cup of tea for moi. (NB: Don’t go to Starbucks for tea. They just don’t get it.)

I think that brings us pretty much up to date (hmmm....wrote those words a few days ago). Now I have to find someplace to get online so I can post these, and to download some Windows XP Service Package that will let me install the software for my Bluetooth dongle (don’t laugh) so my computer can talk to the satellite phone. Then I’ll be Internet enabled and can post from Django.

More boat repairs in exotic locations coming to this blog soon.

Aboard Django

We’ve been in residence since January 25—Burns’ Night, which can only be auspicious—which means this (Jan 29) is our fifth day.

After depositing our belongings and making a brief inventory of boat and galley contents, we headed to Miami to pick up our SAT phone and lifeboat. Navigation was made exciting by extensive construction around the airport. WW, who likes his meals On Time, was ready to crash through the median to find food. Fortunately, I convinced him to press on. We did, eventually, feed the inner wolf.

Then it was back to Fort Lauderdale for basic provisions and a few other bits and pieces.

I was instructed in the use of the head (for those who don’t know: that’s the toilet; it’s very manual).

We went out for dinner and, on the way back, picked up a bottle of wine from the wee corner store. Since we didn’t know if we possessed a corkscrew, we insisted on the finest Château Screw Cap. We poured a libation to the gods of wind and sea from La Dolce Vita’s starboard trampoline (slung between her two bows so water can make its way upwards, rather than slapping the bottom of the boat; also, I am assured by WW, for naked women to lie on). We drank a libation to Rabbie Burns. Then we headed to our berth and slept the sleep of the virtuous.

We still haven’t received official notification of her Canadian registration, so the boat remains La Dolce Vita for now. But from here on in, I’m calling her Django.

Ready…Set…

We returned to Canada and WW immediately went into high competency mode. He made an offer, replied to a counteroffer, set the wheels in motion. He arranged for the boat to be pulled out to have her bottom painted and a couple of minor repairs done. He worked on registering her as a Canadian boat and changing her name to Django, which meant determining there were no liens on her in Denmark and…well, all sorts of paperwork. He filled in forms preliminary to getting us and our boat out of the U.S. and into the Bahamas. He created an itinerary and sail plan. He prepared a detailed crew list, for which he was sent information from Frisha and Whit (for those who don’t know: my sister and brother-in-law, both experienced sailors who will be crewing with us over to Nassau and the Exumas). He toiled over a hot Internet and a hotter fax machine for days.

I shopped for basic over-the-counter medical supplies, and made an appointment with my GP, who had agreed to write prescriptions to meet our cruising needs. Alas, I will not be able to see him until February…of course. I wrote and sent the Epipheration 2008 and started the blog while preparing hearth and home for three weeks of abandonment. I deposited the dog with Lorna.

It was a couple of fairly intense weeks, with our departure set for January 24. On the day before we left, we lunched with WW’s parents and, that evening, Dan and Genevieve (for those who don’t know: my older son and his girlfriend) took us for a bon voyage dinner at a Tibetan restaurant. Both meals were very pleasant.

We flew out from Montreal (our previous flights had been from Burlington, Vermont) the next afternoon. Lorna very kindly drove us from Hudson to Dorval (and vouchsafed to us her rum punch recipe...which is AMAZING). We arrived in Fort Lauderdale at about 10:30 p.m. WW had booked us a hotel room for our first night. Apart from the vomit in the breezeway deposited by the alcoholic midget who was in the process of being evicted from Room 200, it was quite a nice place. In the morning, we took our last hot shower for some days to come, then breakfasted on the patio, looking out at the Atlantic. It was behaving nicely under a gray sky, 12 knot airs, and coolish (for Florida) temperatures. Then we loaded our rental car with a careful selection of our worldly goods and set off to meet Mike (the broker) at his office. Once various papers had been exchanged and compulsory chat completed, we headed to our new home.