Quick Update

After Dan, Genevieve and Maia left us, we had a few days to rest and recover. Then WW's son Jordy flew in for a lovely visit. He was with us long enough for a very pleasant cruise up to Barbuda, then back to St. John's and Jolly Harbour. We were sorry to see him go. (Details at a later time...I hope.)

With his departure, we were free to spend the next month or so cruising. We spent a couple of days in English Harbour, then set off back to Barbuda. After a couple of days there, we made the crossing to St. Barts. We are now in St. Martin and will be leaving this afternoon after a very pleasant couple of days shopping for Important Stuff for Django.

Next stop: Anguilla. Then it's Saba, Stacia and back to St. Kitts before we return to Antigua, tuck Django into the mangroves, and head back to Canada.

I hope I'll get organized to give more details when we are in an Internet-friendly spot (i.e., not a cafe).

The Horde Descends

On Friday, February 19, we moved Django into a berth at Nelson's Dockyard, making for easy entry by persons not entirely at home on boats: Dan (my son), Genevieve (aka GG, his lady) and Maia (their friend). This would be our first experience of having five aboard, with Maia crowbarred into the berth that usually serves as my pantry. She was extremely congenial about it, permitting me to crawl over her mattress to access important supplies like, say, tuna.

Dan and GG on Django's foredeck.

I am not going to go into gory details. You can get those from GG's blog:

genevievesadventure.blogspot.com

She swears the posts will go up as soon as Maia sends her the photos. I need to warn you...they took over 600 photos and shot 18 video clips.

I will restrict myself to a brief summary and just a very few of all those photos.

Day One: installed on Django, tot in the evening and dinner aboard (butter chicken)

Day Two: roaming and exploring, the ladies having a dip and a sun at Galleon Beach (one would not wish to swim off Nelson's Dockyard...ew). The Royal Ocean Racing Club (RORC) held a party in the evening to launch the RORC Caribbean 600, a 600-mile race from Antigua as far north as St. Martin and south around Guadeloupe, over to Redonda and back to Antigua. Over the course of the evening, Dan looked increasingly unwell. From 8 p.m. to 8 a.m., he visited the loo about every 45 minutes. Poor guy.

The ladies' first Antigua swim at Galleon Beach.

Day Three: Dan in recovery, sipping flat soft drinks and overly sweet smoothies. In the early afternoon, we moved out into the harbour. Maia and GG immediately donned swimsuits and split their time between sunscreen applications, swimming and sunning.

Day Four: the start of the RORC race and a long, hot, sunburn-y hike up to Shirley Heights for lunch. A cooler hike down the Jones Valley Trail after lunch.

Maia and GG at the RORC Caribbean 600 start.

Maia, Dan adn GG on the hot, dusty trail to Shirley Heights.

Day Five: car rental and island tour. Devil's Bridge, Betty's Hope, St. John's, Jolly Harbour.

Day Six: someone's birthday. The boats in our part of the harbour started threatening to bonk into each other due to wacky airs. It was touch and go whether we'd make it ashore for the gala birthday dinner at Trappas. We managed it in the end. The birthday girl was a good sport about everything, including not being able to bring her hair into correct alignment for the event.

A boat too close...WW copes.

A newly minted 26-year-old appears to approve of Trappas fare.

Day Seven: a total day of lolling broken only by the arrival of the winner of a trans-Atlantic rowing race. He'd done it in under 60 days.

Day Eight: cruise to Green Island. Dinner of lamb biryani and curried eggplant. Not bad, if I say so myself.

Day Nine: back to English Harbour. Farewell dinner at Johnny Coconat's. Pizza was judged "as good as or better than Pizzaiolle's." High praise.

Day Ten: tearful farewells.

Rum Stewards

In the midst of the watermaker crisis (remember, we had guests arriving and Antigua was in the midst of a drought—the Slipway was selling water for $1 EC/gallon, up from $0.25 EC in January), we went to a dog’s birthday party, enjoyed ourselves a little too much, and offered to be part of the Tot on Tour for 2010.

The Tot is held at a couple of different locations and, occasionally and by invitation, at special locations. Such a one, for instance, was the U.S. naval base on Super Bowl Sunday. Also on boats. When all else fails, we stand around the flagpole at Nelson’s Dockyard. On Monday, February 15, the tot would be on Django.

Members had been told it would be at the flagpole, so they’d be in the area anyway. By the time 4 p.m. rolled around, I was feeling reasonably comfortable. I’d laid in snacks and drinks were in the cooler. Ann and Mike would bring the rum and water, Connie was bringing cups. Usually there’s very light turnout around the flagpole. Several people were away cruising. I figured we might have six, eight, maybe even 10 people.

I hadn’t reckoned on Bernie.

Bernie, ex RN, was on tot four or five for his initiation into the Tot Club. He was crewing for a friend and would be in English Harbour just long enough to complete the various requirements (7 tots in 14 days etc.). He thought, reasonably, that having his friends come to see the tot in action at the flagpole would be the least intrusive way possible. So he showed up with about six friends. I think the final tally aboard Django was close to 20. Photos are kindness of Bernie’s skipper Peter Castellas (sp?).

A few of the vast numbers who arrived aboard Django for the Feb. 15, 2010, tot.

We had the tot on the foredeck, with the more courageous (including Ann and me) standing on the trampoline.

The tot, God bless it.

That evening, I made the mistake of asking Ann what was involved in being rum stewards. She smile happily and said, “Great! You can start tomorrow! It’s easy!”

For the next week, WW collected the tot fees, one of us yelled “Book’s closed!” and “Up spirits!” I was responsible for getting the glasses filled with water, measuring tots for guests, getting the empty glasses out for the members’ tots, and making sure the rum was on the table. In the circle, I asked for guest introductions and any announcements, read the RN history for that date and started the toast. We were on duty till Friday.

Coincident with our last day as rum bo’suns, the horde descended.

Water Water Everywhere

When we first came aboard Django, we found a watermaker. It was a watermaker that did not work and, given we were often in ports where we could fill our two 40-gallon water tanks, it wasn’t really critical to our survival. That said, WW has issues with things that don’t work. For our first couple of years, however, things that didn’t work weren’t hard to come by and their repair was essential. Now he’s fixed a lot of stuff and is starting to look at less critical nonfunctioning items.

As I described in an earlier post, he had purchased a new membrane over Christmas and installed it. With a few tweaks and the odd expletive, the watermaker was induced to…make water. Then came the day, a few weeks later, when its 1.5 gallons/hour (it is a very small watermaker) were reduced to approximately no gallons/hour.

The watermaker is housed in several different areas. The first is under the sole in the galley, where the filter resides. Here, sea water is run through a simple filter to remove icky stuff.

The filter section of the event, under the galley sole.

That done, it passes up a tube to the membrane, housed (at that time) in the compartment beneath the starboard arm of the saloon bench, between the starboard water tank and the compartment wall. A ridiculously narrow space. Here, the filtered water is passed through the membrane which is responsible for desalination. The purified water is then stored in the starboard water tank. (There is no connection to the port tank.)

First WW checked the filters. Not the problem. So he turned his suspicions to the membrane, an unprepossessing cylindrical object.

The membrane is very important. It has a life of about four or five years. This is not its working life, this is its life. Total. If, by chance, you purchase a membrane that has been on the shelf for four years, you can expect it to stop working fairly soon. So, WW’s first thought was that he’d bought an elderly membrane. The nice people at the watermaker place told him the membrane was fine. Which was good, because it would have taken a very long time to replace it, but it also put us under a real time constraint. If the membrane weren’t back in action soon, it would dry out and become useless. (When not in use, when we come home for weeks or months, the membrane must be “pickled” if it is to continue working.) It also meant WW would have to dismantle the entire watermaker. He bought a patented Watermaker Repair Kit that had lots of bits and pieces and goo and O-rings and seals and such.

The first challenge was to remove the main part of the watermaker (membrane etc.) from its tight fit between water tank and compartment wall. WW strove, I read. Finally, after removing the membrane and its mounting from the wall: “I can’t get it out.”

I peered in. “You can if you take it off that piece of plywood it’s mounted on.”

“Oh.”

Several minutes later: “I can’t get the second screw out.”

I peered in. “You can if you pull it over this way. You get a full nanometer clearance. Give me a screwdriver.”

It took about 15 minutes to remove a two-inch screw, but the deed was done, the membrane was out.

“It’s never going back in that space,” WW swore, and set off to find the ideal new spot for it.

“It’ll have to go back. It won’t fit,” he said. (He was being uncharacteristically negative that day).
I peered in. “Won’t it fit there? In front of the water pump?”

Well, actually yes and no. The space was just a hair short, so he’d have to drill a hole through the compartment wall, but this was better than putting it back into its inaccessible original location. Watermakers need quite a lot of maintenance. Getting to them is a good first step.

Over the next three days we cleaned, resealed, and rebuilt the watermaker. Just to add spice to WW's joy, he managed to cause the water pressure system to explode. I did one of my patented gazelle-like leaps over to the electrical panel and found the switch for the water pump...not quite quickly enough. The compartment and WW were awash. Once wrung out, he got to sort that before returning to the watermaker.

During the refurbishing process, at intervals, WW (wearing a mask against the vile fumes of hot, resisting fiberglass) worked on making a three-inch hole in the compartment’s wall. This took ages because the two rechargeable drills kept losing their charge and refusing to recharge because they were too hot. WW had an interesting system of Ziploc bags and ice cubes going. It was still a job done in fits and starts all dictated by the needs of batteries on the rocks.

Today, the watermaker is installed in its new (slightly more) accessible home. And, glory of glories, it works!

Oh, and in the midst of all this, the new windlass arrived. Also installed with only a small glitch to do with the switch. (There must always be a glitch.)

We were ready for the horde.

While you’re sleeping…

…your boat is breaking. This fact of cruising life is very good at keeping WW entertained. There is always something for him to fix. It keeps me entertained, too—keeping out of his way, usually on the bench in the saloon (unless he needs to hang head down under it) with a good book.

Some of his finer repairs were about to happen in the week between Frisha and Whit’s visit and that of Dan, Genevieve and (a late addition) their friend Maïa. First, he collected the drive for our big autopilot and installed it. We tested it as much as we could at anchor. It appeared to work.

The rest of our first couple of days post-visit was spent restocking our food supplies and doing nothing very vigorous. Turning the occasional page, rolling over during a nap. Stuff like that. WW even took over as chef on Monday evening and presented me with a perfectly grilled rack of lamb. Yum.

Day two was cleaning day. I did my standard vacuum, sole scrub and head sanitization. WW wanted to move to Freeman's Bay, across the harbour, where the water is clearer. Tucked in under Fort Charlotte, it wouldn't be too rolly either. So over we went. Our first attempt at anchoring wasn't great. The anchor dragged. I started to raise it when (remember the groaning sounds from the windlass back in Port Louis?) the windlass up and died. The motor made noises, but the gypsy did not turn. I, therefore, bravely took up the slack until I got the anchor rode up and down. This meant I was lifting about 20 feet of heavy chain plus some 45 pounds of anchor. I suggested WW come do the heavy lifting. He did, but it was too late. Something in my back went "sproink".

We hadn't even been sleeping and poor WW was looking at a broken windlass AND a broken first mate. He consoled us by taking us (him and me, not the windlass) out for pizza. Then we came back and the head exploded.

Lucky WW. Lots to do.

For the next few days, I was barely able to walk. Getting in and out of Boffo was an exercise in agony. I couldn't roll over at night. I was still able to cook, which doesn't require much in the way of sudden movement or contorting turn. We had corned beef hash. How the mighty had fallen.

WW came up with a solution for the head. It has worked well, so far. (I write this a month after he set it up.)

He also raced around with bits of the windlass, hoping to be able to have it repaired, then discovered a new one would probably be cheaper. He ordered it. It would arrive from St. Martin. He would need a customs broker. Naturally, this being the Caribbean, it all took a little longer than usual, but hey.

Within about four or five days, I was once again almost fully mobile. I was able to do some light work at Tot Club Keep Fit, again at Fort Charlotte. That was Sunday, February 7, and that evening we joined about a dozen other Tot Club members in a very packed taxi van and travelled across the island to the US Naval Base. Its commander Art is a member. It was also, for those who care, Super Bowl Sunday. And there was a chili cookoff (won by a Tottie).

Over the course of the next week we sewed and installed new straps for the life raft; scraped, sanded and painted Boffo's davits, mucked about and generally prepared for the arrival of D, G and M.

Antigua was, by now, into its second or third week of quite serious drought. Montserrat had had a partial dome collapse, shooting a column of volcanic dust and ash up nine miles in the air. The wind carried the cloud down over Guadeloupe, Les Saintes and the northern part of Dominica. The airport in Guadeloupe was closed for four days. We were coated with ash but there really wasn't enough water about to clean it off properly. Then our watermaker packed it in.

More fun for WW.

A Wild Ride

Our crossing from Guadeloupe back to Antigua was a rollicking rollercoaster of a sail. With both jib and mainsail reefed, we charged into 10-foot seas and 25 knots of wind with gusts to 30. We howled along, making 7 or 8 knots for most of the crossing. It was, however, a bit hard on the inner ear.

Both Frisha and I had had experience with the motion sickness tablets we carry on board. They knock you out for about 14 hours; really not great. So we eschewed them. Although WW does tend to suffer from seasickness, we have been afloat long enough for him not to feel the pitch, roll, shudder and heave. I remain...sensitive. In turn, I, Frisha and Whit felt the need to lie down for a bit. But that was all it took. A half-hour repose and we were back in the cockpit, watching the seas churn down on our stern, our wake scrolling out behind us.

Frisha's comment while taking this picture: "Who says cats don't heel?"

I commented that I find it nerve-wracking to see a wave higher than our transom coming at us. Frisha, always sympathetic, said, “Boats float. It's one of their features.”

It was a beautiful sunny day and we made the 40-mile crossing in about six hours, leaving at 8ish and arriving at 2ish. To add to the splendid sailing, Montserrat was showing off and spewing muck up to a great height.

Montserrat doing its thing.

After we had anchored and tidied up post-sail, we rested a bit from our labours, then set off to the tot where Whit would be our guest. Gentlemen guests must drink the full 2.5 oz tot of the more, um, vigorous of the two rums on offer; ladies get a half tot. Whit downed his easily and claimed he’d enjoyed the whole procedure.

From the tot we proceeded to Johnny Coconat’s for our guests’ farewell pizza dinner. This is becoming something of a tradition. We bring 'em in on pizza, and send them out the same way.

In the morning, we all did our Tot Club keep fit, continuing the work on Fort Charlotte. We had lunch at the Galley Bar, where Donald appeared to drive Frisha and Whit to the airport. We were very sorry to see them go. It had been a great, fun week.