Sea of Dreams on X-T-Sea

It’s been over a month since we left Colorado and set out on our great adventure. What a whirlwind of emotions we have gone though in this short time. Funny, how things always seem to turn out a bit different than expected. Of course, whatever life brings us can only be a direct result of the energy we have put out there. Obviously, we’ve been going pretty hard and fast for many years now, and the Universe isn’t yet ready to release us from our prolonged intense focus on ‘getting things done’ and ‘going hard’. The past 40 days, though exciting and extremely educational, have been anything but relaxing. Before our departure from the Colorado on Aug. 19, we pictured ourselves lounging around the swimming pool, sipping rum drinks, reading all of those books we could never get to while we were working, playing games and taking long, romantic sunset strolls along the beach while the Bahama breeze gently whisped through our hair causing it to lap at our backs in harmony with the calm roll of the ocean waves on the sand (yes, I‘m being sarcastic…sort of). But, that’s not exactly how things have been going. Most of the time we drip with sweat, fight off mosquitoes, prepare for the worst from those imminent hurricanes, and have chunks of our skin torn off by those nasty little sand flies.
When we left X-T-Sea last year, we figured she was in good hands. Mr. K from the boat yard across the way from the Sunrise Resort and Marina assured us that he would, at the very least, fix the battery problem she was having and make sure that she was in one piece when we returned. Well, at least we’ve found her in one piece (though parts of her name have rubbed off) ! As for the battery issues--that’s a story for later.

We’re starting to notice that we can stop waiting for the fixing and cleaning to be over, because it never will be. They all say it’ll slow down a bit, but that it will never, ever end. It’s one of those guaranteed things in life, they say, like death and taxes. So, we’re learning to come to terms with the fact that much of our time will be spent cleaning and fixing. But that’s ok, at least we’ll be doing it together.

Diego didn’t start out with all too many projects in mind. Actually, he was looking forward to returning to the Bahamas KNOWING that X-T-Sea had been repaired and looked after by a professional (we really do enjoy Mr. K as a fellow human being). The tightening of the bolts holding the davits in place (the metal arms which hold the dinghy up out of the water when the boat is underway) is unavoidable though, and it’s supposed to be nothing more than a five minute maintenance job anyway. We are still learning that there is nothing on a boat--regular maintenance or not--that will only take five minutes. In tightening the bolts, Diego discovers that the balsa wood core below the fiberglass through which they were screwed has rotted away. He is forced to take the 40 lb. (each) davits off completely. While he repairs and sands the rotting wood, an odor wafts up from the depths below. Somehow, water had settled in the hull compartments beneath the davits--a place where water should never go. As if this weren’t enough, the walls of these spaces are covered in mold and mildew (just like the whole boat had been before we got here). They need to be bleached immediately. It all wouldn’t be so bad if these compartments weren’t directly connected to our bedrooms (otherwise known as berths--I haven’t gotten used to the boating terminology yet) by way of a simple detachable fiberglass bookshelf. Poor Diego has to crawl into the tiny, muggy hull spaces just below the cockpit to pump out all of the slimy, brown water, hose the area down, spray it all with bleach, rinse it and pump it out again. Two hulls he cleans this way, repeating the process three times on each side. When he’s all done, he tapes the holes left by the davits (we don’t have the proper bolts needed to finish the job) with plastic and duct tape so that if it rains, he won’t have to worry about the hulls filling with water again. Well, as you can imagine--it rains, and the compartments are wet--again. All was well until Skipper, the neighborhood dog, stepped in one of the plastic overlays while we humans all peacefully sat inside around the salon table talking, eating, drinking and obliviously enjoying the tapping of the raindrops on our deck. Of course, Diego has to go through the whole ordeal once more. Wasn’t it Plato who said, “ Necessity is the mother of invention”? Now, Diego has devised an automatic bilge pump system which combines three different pumps on the same control lever and he installs one in each hull compartment. My husband is a brilliant man.

While Diego is occupied with this and other projects (again, I won’t go into the Mr. K story here), a couple of storms threaten to make their way toward us. Tropical Storm Hanna takes her time in deciding the direction she will take, so the entire island prepares for the worst. Freeport has been attacked by hurricanes before. In 2004 Hurricane Frances sat over the center of the island for 3 days. Grand Bahama’s power had been cut off for 3 months. Yes, 3 months. People had to live on generator power and by candlelight the entire time, so they all know what to expect. Locals bring out sheets of plywood and aluminum in all different shapes and sizes. Doors and windows are boarded up all over the island. The Sunrise Resort and Marina looks like a ghost town.

It’s amazing how close we all become through the storm preparations. There are seven of us (eight if you count Liz who is always part of our conversations anyway): Rick (Liz’s husband is the epitome of what you would consider a sailor), CD (Captain Don, 75) and his wife Lois (a jolly couple always there to lend a helping hand), Neil (the soft-spoken Englishman) and the three of us. You don’t board boats up, you tie them up--to everything and anything you can possibly think of tying them up to. By the time the guys are through stretching lines from one end of the marina to the other, we have a whole spider web effect going on through the middle. Luckily, no other boats come in to find shelter at the Sunrise, especially during the night. That could cause us more insurance claims than a hurricane.

Sails are dismantled and stored in the marina’s boat house, and any loose ropes are bungee chorded to the booms and masts. The men work for 3 days straight, tying up even those boats whose owners are away so that they won’t come loose if worse comes to worst. They are exhausted by the end of each day. Even the “hurricane parties” no longer excite them and fizz out quickly. Hanna comes closer to Freeport than we expect, bringing with her a wind intensity I have never experienced before. And still I am told that this was nothing compared to a full-fledged hurricane. I’m not frightened, though once in a while startled, as a quick wind gust jolts the boat while I watch the palm trees double over and the men fight the wind and pelting rain as they make some final adjustments to the lines.

Bahamians live on ‘island time’. Some would argue that this is just an expression. It’s not. Diego and I swear by it, and we’re even beginning to live by it. It takes about a week for the locals to take down the boards from their windows (some still have them up) and we follow suit by undoing the spider web in the marina and getting the sails back up on all of our boats. Once we do, it’s time to stretch X-T-Sea’s legs a bit out on the open ocean. Everyone but Lois boards her for a sunset cruise. It’s good knowing we have so many experienced captains around--some even with mechanical/electrical engineering backgrounds. Five o’clock drinks accompanied by a plate of cheese and crackers are in order once the sails are lifted. She looks so majestic, so proud. But then she begins to stink--like rotten eggs. The battery issue has not been resolved! MR. K!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I just really want to clarify that we adore Mr. K, and it’s not his fault his employees haven’t a clue as to what they are doing. But for shit’s sake!

Needless to say, the next couple of days are spent hunting Mr. K down and leading him, hand in hand, to X-T-Sea’s battery compartments--literally (he is quite busy dropping boats back into the water after the hurricane scare and since we had paid him the week before, we weren‘t on his priority list). Ultimately, with the help and expertise of Diego, Rick and Neil, Mr. K is able to fix the problem for good and we are all able to get on with our lives--without the rotten egg smell.

Just as quickly as we all met and embraced one another, we part ways.
CD and Lois move to their own private dock on the canal of a piece of private property at the other end of the island. One evening we sit crunched together, the seven of us in their 37 foot Prout catamaran, checking out CD‘s diving photos on his computer, and the next morning they are gone--off on their own adventure--a new life.

Diego, Corazon and I race Rick (in his 55 ft. wooden motor-sailer. Yes, she’s much faster than ours) to Ft. Lauderdale, where we meet up at a mooring for an evening meal of Dolphin (code name for Mahi Mahi/also known as Dorado) and drinks. Oh, and yes the Mahi is as fresh as fresh could be. Rick caught two of them on the way over. He says the colorful male must have been about 3 ft long.

Neil is the only one to stay behind at the marina. He must miss us. While we were there, we had dinner together every night. We can only hope that he hasn’t gone back to his previous, routine menu of cereal for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

It’s funny, in Estes Park we lived like hermits, but out here we have morphed into 3 social boating butterflies. Corazon especially loves all of the interaction with so many people. He’s learning many new things about boating, fishing, the weather, and the water. It’s as if he’s known this life forever. Whenever I ask him if he likes his new life, he answers with an enthusiastic “YES!”. (I don’t dare ask him today though--the air-conditioner is switched off, there is a cloud covering us above and no air movement whatsoever. He’s dripping with sweat, and not too happy about any of it. Ah well, we all have our days.)

So far, we really do love this life (even though it‘s hot and sticky). We could do without having to give Diego up day after day to all of the “projects” on the boat though. I haven’t yet accepted giving him up to ‘the other woman’ (X-T-Sea). There is even a name for someone like me around here--I’m considered a boating widow. Don’t know if I like that all too much. But I do like the new electric flush toilette Diego installed last night! So, all of these projects will pay off in the end, I’m sure. Just a bit more patience is needed on my part before we get him back for good.

We spent about a month and a half in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, outlaying lots and lots of money. The time and energy gathering supplies, making repairs, and running around really stressed us out. Here are some highlights:

Meeting Rick's sister, Diane, and brother-in-law, Dan. They were so gracious in allowing us to have our Ebay and Amazon purchases (mountains of them) sent to their place. We shared some lovely Thai dinners with them and even turned them onto our newest cocktail concoction (rum with ginger-ale and lemon juice...yum). We had lots of laughs, and even a few tears (when gushing "me" said goodbye).
We spent a weekend with Liz (Rick's wife) and Rick anchored out in Dania Beach where Corazon had loads of fun kayaking for the first time in his life. For his birthday (which was celebrated that weekend--"thank you, Liz"), Rick and Liz gave him walkie-talkies so that he could kayak worry-free within the anchoring area all on his own. He's become even more independent...if that's at all possible.
Shopping, shopping, shopping. This is what we did most of the time. We shopped. We shopped so much that the bow (front) of X-T-Sea (where Diego has built shelving, etc. in the v-berth to create a walk-in pantry) now sits beneath the water-line, and the stern (back) has actually lifted out of the water completely. This is NOT good! At all!

We met Malcom and Kerry, an Australian couple from the northeastern part of OZ. Besides enjoying swapping stories with them (and especially hearing Mal's entertaining boating tales), we scored huge with them! They sold their 13 ft. dinghy with a 40 hsp. motor to us for $400.00. Shhh, don't anyone tell them that they could have charged us four times as much.

X-T-Sea has had a complete overhaul. We're ALMOST done. Diego made a pantry out of the v-berth (like I mentioned above), he fixed the davits (which broke again in a different area a bit down the track...a story for later), we had all of the salon cushions re-upholstered with a beautiful dark brown fabric to contrast the otherwise light interior (this took way too long, but it turned out lovely), steps/storage boxes have been built and installed in both bedrooms (I mean berths), the entire canvas canopy which covers the cockpit has been re-zippered (is that a word?), and the water maker has been (mostly) installed...we're waiting on one last part to be delivered before it can be finished completely.

We paid an excruciatingly painful amount of money to hire a car and had squabbles left and right with the rental car company. IT WAS THRIFTY...in case anyone is interested.

And now some highlights from our trip back to the Bahamas:

As I said earlier, the bow of X-T-Sea was in the water...deep into the water, while the stern stuck up over the surface. No, this is not normal--nor is it safe. Somehow we managed to make it--alive.

The weather to cross over the Gulf Stream was not perfect by any means, but it was our only possible chance. We were so ready to get out of Ft. Lauderdale. So ready...for so long. And so we did it. We were to have south/southeast winds of about 10-15 knots with seas of 2-4ft. We are sure though, as it ended up, that the wind speed must truly have been 20-30 knots (we clocked it at 29 knots on our instruments), and we are almost positive that the waves were between 5-7 ft..
So, the waves crashed onto our deck. Three inches of water covered the surface of the area in front of our salon windows. Being completely inexperienced, we (I) forgot to batten down the hatches (they were closed but not locked). Salt water splashed in. Not once. Not twice. Three times, it forced its way through our deck windows. Our newly upholstered salon cushions were soaked (it's OK...the fabric is Sunbrella). It snuck into the front section of our pantry and caused our fully stocked compartments to fill with 4 inches of water (we lost a few packets of pasta). It made its way through Diego's pride and joy, the new solar fan he had just recently installed in the left (port) bathroom (head) ceiling. Somehow, the seal just didn’t cut it, and the water poured in and flooded the toilette holding tank compartment. While the waves rocked and bounced our 39 ft. craft, Corazon and Diego grabbed a hand-held pump and worked quickly to relieve the boat of this
unwanted, foreign guest.

Shortly thereafter, as we all settled ourselves into the cockpit once again, we heard a loud crash come from directly behind us. Crashes, as you can probably imagine, are highly unusual on the water in broad daylight with every one's eyes scoping the area. Well, we looked back in the direction from where the noise came, and saw our new dinghy floating off into the distance. Oh, the newly installed davits were fine, but the wire rope from which the dinghy was suspended just couldn't bare the weight. It was Munchy's job to keep an eye on the dinghy, mine to steer the boat back towards it, and Diego's to grab it with the mooring hook and tie it to the stern to be towed. Somehow, it all worked out.

And now for the fish story...Diego caught a Mahi. A two foot Mahi. He caught it. He reeled it in. He stuffed it in a couple of plastic bags, and then he stored it in the refrigerator. A few moments passed, and Diego said, "Do you think we should gut it?".
"I think it'll be fine in there for a while," I answered.

“Papa, no cortar lo ahora. Las olas eran muy grande. Vas a cortar tus dedos" Corazon added. (The basic translation here would be: "Papa, you'd be crazy to cut the darn thing now. The waves are too big, you'll cut your fingers off.")

“I just don't want it to go bad like the yellow-tailed snapper last year," Diego continued as he went inside to get the fish.

He brought it into the cockpit, removed it from the plastic storage bags, carried it over to the boat's miniature fish-gutting station next to the BBQ on the stern rails, and sliced it open. Blood gushed (the Mahi is a very bloody, meaty fish) out of it's open stomach all over Diego's hands and onto the newly varnished wooden handle of his brand new filleting knife. Slippery handle and all, he was able to fillet the fish just fine, but then he decided that this wouldn't suffice. He needed to cut the head off and discard it then and there. With his right hand forced against the slimy head of the Mahi, he plunged the blade into its neck (do fish have necks?) just behind the gills and at the same time, right through the skin and flesh of his right middle finger. Diego wouldn't show me his hand. He quietly (under whispered mumbles of "shit, shit, shit") asked me to grab the bandages from the first aide kit. Dripping splotches of blood along the way, he walked down into the galley (kitchen) and washed the fishy smelling, blood-soaked wound under the faucet. His finger wouldn't move. He tried with all his might to bend it, but it just wouldn't do what he asked it to do. He was sure that he'd cut a tendon. Unfortunately, we were about three hours away from the coast of Grand Bahama. Quite a long time when you're freaking out about the possible mobility loss of a much needed finger. Upon arrival at the Sunrise Marina, without clearing customs, Diego had Rick drive him to the local hospital. It was a Saturday night, and the place was full of bruised, battered, bloody drunks. Diego was unwilling to wait around, and ensured (through constant pestering) his quick entry into the examining room. Once inside though, he refused to let Dr. Singsong remove his bandages to examine the finger in question. He was scared out of his mind. The place was in shambles. The laminate flooring was peeling up in the corners of the room. Holes replaced missing ceramic tiles on the walls, urine samples lined the counter tops for all to see, and best of all, a recently used razor blade lay covered in hair and blood right there on the examination table. When you're used to the 'look' of a US hospital, I suppose the sight of all this would make you worry about hygienics a bit. In the end, Diego gave in and allowed Dr. Singsong a peek at his finger. A pain shot was plunged in his buttock, an x-ray was taken, and four stitches were made. No tendons were cut, and with the proper stress-ball finger workouts, he should have full use and movement again in a few months. (I believe that he has recently decided not to gut a fish in turbulent water ever again.)

Since we've been back in Freeport, Diego has slowed down a little--partially due to his disability and partially because he is running out of major projects to do on the boat. I think there are only three final jobs to get done before we set off into the heart of the Bahamian and Caribbean Islands where our real adventure begins. For a while, we thought we'd spend this sailing season floating around Bahamian waters alone, and then heading up the east coast of the States via the intercoastal waterway next spring and summer. That would be beautiful too, but we just can't let the thought and the thrill of exotic Puerto Rico go that easily. It was our dream and intention to sail in that direction while still in Estes Park, and every time we come up with a new idea or plan, it just never feels quite as right as that first one.
We'll be leaving Freeport this weekend some time--sailing to the Berry Islands first, and then on to Nassau. Mal and Kerry (the Aussies from Ft. Lauderdale) have found their way to the Sunrise Marina too and plan to head off around the same time we do. It should be fun having some neighbors on the water, if only for a few days or so.

Our internet access will be limited to none, at least until we get to Nassau. But, even then, we plan on anchoring out and saving our pennies, which means no constant service as the case is here.

We’ve left the safety and security of Freeport, Bahamas and the Sunrise Resort and Marina. Toward the end of our stay there, we started to feel more like residents than guests. It was a beautiful thing having passionate, political conversations with Rashad, our Rastafarian friend. And sharing stories of past love, anger, hate, and forgiveness with Andrew, maintenance supervisor/confidante. Then, of course, there is our favorite waitress/hostess, Oveta; strong, determined, motivated Oveta with her heart of gold. Even the elegant Mrs. Cucurrullu, always the professional, started loosening up before we left by changing her e-mail signature from “Ta‘Shar Cucurrullu, Manager/Supervisor, Sunrise Resort and Marina“ to “Mrs. C, Bronze Princess”. Ahh, Mrs. C. Never did we see her wear the same outfit twice. Her make-up and hair were always in tact, not a smudge nor a strand out of place. We almost fainted the day she quickly stopped by the office on her way to aerobics class with a skin-tight track-suit hugging her every beautiful curve. Even in work-out clothes, she looks immaculate.

Those days of comfort and ease are behind us now. We’re out in the big, wide open. Officially citizens of the World. The Berry Island chain, which is about 60 miles or so from Grand Bahama, is absolutely gorgeous in its relatively uninhabited state. We anchor off of Great Stirrup Cay for two nights, and Little Harbour Cay, owned and inhabited by one Chester Darville, for another two nights, before moving on to our first “city” destination, the big island of Nassau.

Great Stirrup Cay boasts an International Airport, complete with arrival and departure terminals (see picture). Surrounded by run down buildings which used to serve as the caretakers’ quarters is the lighthouse which stands strong and tall just off of the only road in sight. We see no other forms of life as we walk the deserted pathway clear to the opposite side of the island where white tipped waves crash on jagged cliffs. Sea spray dampens our skin as we explore the razor sharp tide pools above the tri-colored ocean below. As he does everywhere we go, Corazon collects sea snails, and once his little hand is full, he releases them all together in a larger pool where they will forever live as neighbors, or until another kid comes along, anyway, and decides it’s moving day for them once again.
The winds are high, making the air temperature much cooler than what we had anticipated and would most definitely prefer. Snorkeling, though a thought this morning, is now out of the question, so we spend the evening hours reading, playing board games and cooking up an elaborate meal of sushi with the Blue Fin Tuna Diego caught on the sail over here from Grand Bahama.

Little Harbour Cay, which is much more lush and green than any other place we’ve seen in the Bahamas so far, is a wonderland of underwater sights. The moment we set anchor, two sharks swim by to greet us, a Hammerhead and a Black-Tipped Reef Shark. We figure they must be attracted by the bloody fish parts Diego throws overboard while he guts the Silk Snapper he caught as we trolled the 30 miles from Great Stirrup Cay to here.(for those of you who are as fishing illiterate as I am, trolling is when you fish by letting the line trail in the water behind you as you sail or motor to your destination--otherwise known as lazy fishing).

The winds continue and seemed to strengthen as we anchor for two nights off of Little Harbour Cay, but we can’t resist a bit of island exploration coupled with some coral reef viewing. Corazon made an underwater viewer with an empty tin coffee can, some saran wrap and a couple of rubber bands. I must say, it works well. The main attraction today; a bright orange sea star, its skin bumpy, soft and slippery under our fingertips. We have a rule around here: wild life may be observed and even touched (if you know for sure what it is you are touching), but never removed, and once it becomes apparent that you are an unwelcome guest, it’s time to leave--we are in their world. The sea star lifts one of its legs and starts inching away, showing us that our presence is, indeed, unwanted.

But what about us? Is there no sacred space for us? Wouldn’t our belongings be considered our territory--the space where we rule? The marine life around the island doesn’t seem to think so. In the dark, we set off in our dinghy to Mal and Kerry’s catamaran to discuss the next day’s sail to Nassau, and wouldn’t you know it--a needle (gar) fish flies right into the vessel and lands at Corazon’s feet. Well, he freaks out, grabs the slimy sucker, and throws him straight back into the water where he belongs. Lucky fish.

In the morning, we set off for the island of Nassau. The winds have died down to an un-sailable speed. If only we could have enjoyed Little Harbour Cay in this peaceful weather. Oh well, we’re off again--motoring the 40 or so miles to our next destination.

Ouch. Fuel consumption. The ride is a bit bumpy and uncomfortable, but we make it just fine nonetheless. Our anchor is set just opposite the magnificent Atlantis Hotel in one of the busiest spots in the harbor. Patrol speed boats, occasionally with blaring sirens, zoom through and around us and our anchored neighbors, small fishing boats loaded with live conch race past us to their buyers’ snack shacks for their daily dealings, large shipping container vessels enter and exit the harbor from directly in front of us; all of them causing major wakes (waves). Every time the boat tosses and rolls this way, I have to think of the scenes in Mary Poppins where the entire mansion staff rush to their respective “stations” to hold on to precious objects while the navy captain living a few doors down tolls the time on the hour and in effect, shakes the entire neighborhood. I feel like yelling out, “MAN YOUR STATIONS,” every time I hear the roar of an outboard motor in the distance, or sense the rumble of a larger craft leaving its dock. Though nothing ever really brakes, the motion is sometimes strong enough to roll our crayons and markers off the salon table, or make us stumble over ourselves on the way to the toilette (head).

Nassau’s not bad. We spend a few hours one day touring the grounds of the Atlantis Hotel and its saltwater aquariums complete with hammerhead and other sharks, rays of all kinds, and of course, the must-have varied array of colorful, tropical fish. Another day is used up walking the shop-lined streets amongst the cruise ship tourists out for a day on the town, and buying fresh produce at the City Market not far from our anchorage. The third day we explore Nassau, we do it in ‘the water car‘, our 13 foot dinghy. We rock up, cool, calm and collected, to the two-way street which runs under the Paradise Island Bridge, throw Michael (our second Rastafarian friend from the Bahamas) our line to tie up, and de-board our vehicle. A few feet away, Markus stands proud and content to tenderize the conch catch of the day, just recently de-shelled and skinned by Norman. It’s like a production line, each step as important as the next, and equally as mechanic. Norman provides Corazon the task of pulling the animal from its shell by tugging its long, brown, pointy claw until its meaty body plops out and dangles in mid-air from the tips of his fingers.

His next step would be to drop it onto the stainless steal work station in front of him, but letting go isn’t always so easy--especially not when you’re eight, and as curious as ‘Curious George’. As is in his nature, he inspects the naked creature’s every feature, holding it up at eye level to get a better view. He twists and turns it, stretches and pulls it, and then swings it back and forth as if putting himself in a trance. In the process, he makes a new discovery; a treasure hidden deep within the conch‘s body, visible only to those who KNOW the anatomy of a conch. The Bahamian people--and Munch. It’s the “pistol”. Wait! Before your thoughts start shooting off in a million directions--it is Bahamian custom for human males to ingest the conch appendage to enhance their own sperm count. But, for Munch, it’s nothing more than being an inquisitive, young child. So, our little scientist/daredevil, determined as always, pulls the clear, pliable, plastic-y, 2.5 inch tube out of its tract, holds his head up to the thatched roof above, opens his mouth, and drops it right in. Nobody seems to mind him going for seconds, thirds, or even fourths. At five I have to draw the line. Trying the pistol is one thing, but making a meal out of them?--no, no, no. I must say, the name Andrew Zimmerman comes to mind.

The entertainment under the bridge only begins with Corazon and the conch pistols. A few minutes into watching the boy suck down the slimy tubes like slippery strands of spaghetti, Diego approaches me.

“Baby, do you have the dinghy keys?”, he asks, whispering in my ear.

“No, I gave them to you.” I say.

“Could you check your bag anyway?”, he questions, grabbing at his swim trunk pocket and jiggling it around furiously.
We both check--everywhere. We search in the dinghy and on the street. In our clothing and our bags. Under the counters and around the grills. Michael searches. Markus searches. Norman searches. We all search. This goes on for about ten minutes. Then finally we hear an enthusiastic:

“I found ‘em. Here they are. I’ve got ‘em here. They were tucked into the elastic waist band of my swim pants. I forgot, my pockets have holes in them. Phew. OK. There we go. I‘ve got ‘em.”

Everyone breathes a sigh of relief in unison. The search stops. But, leave it to us to continue embarrassing ourselves upon departure. We say our goodbyes to the conch stand clan--the kind of goodbyes in which waves and words of farewell go on forever.

“Yeah, if we ever come by here again, we’ll stop in to say hello.” Diego promises.

“Sounds good, mon.” Michael says.

“And thanks for the extra conch you threw in the bag, mate.” Diego says.

“No problem, mon.” Michael replies. “Have a good trip.”

“All the best to you, and thanks for everything.” I say.

Then, Diego turns the key. Sputter, sputter, silence. Another turn of the key. Sputter, silence. Once again he tries the key. Sputter, sputter--nothing. Shit. So, here we sit. The three of us all lined up, one behind the other as if riding an oversized motorcycle. A non-functioning, oversized motorcycle. A floating, non-functioning, oversized motorcycle which, by now, is drifting away from the conch stands and getting sucked into an opening under the causeway--its passengers still waving and saying their goodbyes, pretending that all is well and normal--that none of this is really happening. The Bahamians on land call out to us, directing us, instructing us, and throwing us lines to pull us out of the predicament we find ourselves in, until finally, Diego gets the motor started. Stupid thing. It’s been doing this since we filled it up with some bad fuel in Ft. Lauderdale. We should know better by now. Another simultaneous sigh of relief.

Our stay in Nassau ends the day after our water maker motor arrives. We paid almost $400.00 for the thing, and then had to pay another $120.00 just to get it out of customs. But when Diego is quoted $75.00 for delivery from the airport to the boat, he quietly loads his bicycle onto the dinghy, transports it to land, and rides the 15 miles there to pick it up himself. He then stuffs the 76 lb., 2 ft. unit into his red backpack, throws the loaded thing onto his back (falling over in the process), and rides the 15 miles back ‘home’, with only one gear functioning properly--the other 20 had rusted on our ‘very wet’ crossing from Ft. Lauderdale to Freeport. The lesson here: never buy new bikes when you know that you’ll be storing them on the deck of a boat--they will rust. The other lesson here: remember to always, always, always make absolutely sure that you have acquired ALL of the things you’ll be needing before leaving Florida for the Bahamas.
On Thanksgiving Day, we set sail for the Exuma Islands, starting with Allan‘s Cay--home of the Iguana, Iguana (believe it or not, that is the reptile’s true scientific name).

Apparently, the Bahamas used to be full of these creatures, but people got hungry. So now, they can only be found here on Allan’s Cay. Since they have the island all to themselves, they’re quite inquisitive when strangers come to visit. Territorial too. At times we feel as if we’re being encircled, and that attack may be imminent. There is rustling in the high grasses all around us. Shadows move along the lower rim of the rock cliffs to our right. We’re being watched--we just know it. Slowly, they saunter out of their hiding spots. One stops to poop right in front of us. Diarrhea. Disgusting. We find a few more terds along the water’s edge. Surprisingly, they look a lot like human waste. With all of the boats anchored here, one has to wonder. We study them for quite a while--the iguanas, not the terds--and take picture after picture. There is no glass wall separating them from us. We’re on their turf. We’re the minority here. This is what we’re out here for. This is why we’re traveling the world. Well, this and ten thousand other reasons.

It’s a good thing I’m such an avid family photographer/videographer. My clips of Norman de-shelling and gutting the conch come in handy as evening sets in. Diego and Corazon have caught (caught might be an exaggeration since conch move as snails do) five conch, but aren’t sure of how to gut them. The process is long and tedious, and by the time they have studied the video enough to know what steps to take, it’s time for bed. They decide to de-shell at least one to prove what they have learned. It seems to me that the 2x3 inch morsel of meat they hand me upon completion is only a fraction of the size Norman ended up with. Surely, they’ll get the hang of it with practice.

In the morning, we need to head out early which leaves no time for dealing with the other four captured conch (they spent the night together in a net tied to the stern of the boat), so they are set free. Now, what am I supposed to do with one tiny little conch? He’ll have to hang out in the freezer till the boys ‘catch’ some more.

So, the plan (although you should never really make plans when you live on a boat) is to follow the Exuma Island Chain down to Georgetown, along the coast of the Dominican Republic and later, on to Puerto Rico. Before departing the States, we discussed hanging around in the Exumas for about a year so that we could get used to the boating life, sailing, etc. But thanks to Mal and Kerry, (seasoned sailors/mentors--in other words, we‘re sticking to them like flies to sh##), as well as our own desire for lush, green, volcanic scenery (which the Exumas don‘t seem to offer), we’ve screamed through these barren islands and are already bopping off of Gaviota Bay, Georgetown, preparing ourselves for our first long stint from here to the Dominican Republic whenever the wind and weather decide to turn in our favor.
Weather. What a piss-off that is. Ruth, our dearest friend from Colorado was supposed to fly into Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic on the 22nd of December. We were going to spend Christmas and New Years there with her, but the wind has changed and now it seems that we’ll be stuck here in Georgetown for the holidays. Don’t get me wrong--it’s a great place to be stuck. Corazon has developed quite the group of little friends, we have a prime anchoring location (the beach is only 100 feet away), internet connection (when the Bahamian phone company decides to work), the convenience of the mainland Georgetown markets, and lots of daily entertainment.

It’s almost as if we are living in an RV park. Every morning we are awakened by the VHF radio with an enthusiastic “Goooood morning boaters!!!” from Sue on ‘Nice’n’ Easy’, followed by the weather report given by Bill on ‘Rocinante’ in his high pitched, nasally tone of voice. After these, we are all able to speak up with community announcements and boater’s general information. We find out about boat parts for sale, Bob on the ‘Dahlin’ needing help with his water maker, Bill on ‘Levity’ requiring mechanical assistance for his dinghy motor, Larry on ‘Nexus’, who’s searching for a buyer for his 11 foot dinghy with 15 hp. motor. Then, of course there are reminders of daily volleyball games at 2:30 for ages 15 and up on Volleyball Beach, poker games on Monday and Thursday nights at the St. Francis Resort, Sunday pig roasts at the ‘Chat n’ Chill Bar and Grill’, and information on Eddie’s propane tank refill service, as well as why ‘Mom’ of ‘Mom’s Bakery’ hasn’t been selling her baked goods at the usual place and time this year (apparently her van has been in the body repair shop for over 5 months now, but she should be getting it back any time, and then “we will all be in for a treat again, not to mention one of those famous, friendly, ’Mom’ hugs”).

Boaters call this place “Chicken Harbor”, which makes a whole lot of sense to us now that we are here. You see, Georgetown is the last ‘Americanized’ Bahamian island in the Exuma chain. From here on, the comforts of home diminish. No more cruiser’s net on VHF channel 68. No more information on shop hours and locations. No more 2:30 volleyball games on the beach. No more organized Sunday morning non-denominational church services at the picnic tables under the trees near the Chat n’ Chill. Once you leave here, you’re on your own. The weather reports must be deciphered through the eerily distorted radio waves of the SSB (Single Side Band Radio). The seas get rougher. You’re out in open waters--alone (or, if you’re lucky, with Mal and Kerry). Most cruisers get to Georgetown and go no further. Why would they with all of the comforts and amenities of home right here at their fingertips? Well, while they wouldn’t, we will.

But first, we’re taking a little detour with our new group of boating friends.
We’ve been in Gaviota Bay, Georgetown for almost a month now which has allowed us to form a few interesting relationships with an unlikely group of characters. You see, out here on the water, we’re all in the same boat (sorry, I just couldn’t pass up throwing in that little pun). If we were landlubbers, we probably never would have met Bill and Rosemary from New Zealand, or Larry and DeeDee from the States, simply because we come from completely different walks of life. But here, we all have one major thing in common--namely, the very real possibility of death. Yes, this sounds harsh, I’m sure, but ultimately, it is reality. So, what you do and where you come from don’t matter at all around here. It’s purely about helping each other out, knowing full well that at any given time you may need help yourself. Of course, you might click more with one boater that the next, but you’ll find that no one will ever turn down a chance to help you in any way they can.

Though Diego and I are perfectly wonderful people all on our own, Corazon, of course, enhances our every situation. Through him, we have had the honor of meeting a variety of beautiful people.

Larry and DeeDee own a Nordhafen 52 Troller (a power boat). It’s a 2004 model, and it represents heavenly luxury to most of us sailors. But more beautiful than the granite counter top kitchen and stainless steel appliances, more elegant than the silver-rimmed wine glasses, and more entertaining than the Wii game the kids love playing when afternoon snack is hosted on their boat, are the people who own it. Larry and DeeDee have a little girl named Isabella. She is seven, beautiful , and an important friend to Corazon.

Charles, Nancy and their two children Xavier and Victor are the French Canadians in the group. They are a hip, young couple who have decided, not unlike us, that time on the water and the togetherness of their family are things worth going for. They are trying out this new life for one year before, they too, sell it all and move out here completely. Meeting them has been a sort of slap in the face for me. Nancy, on more than one occasion, has unknowingly reminded me of how I started out wanting to parent Corazon--with an open mind, peacefully, calmly, quietly, sternly. I do all of these things, I know--but I also know that I can do them better. Thank you Nancy.

Bill and Rosemary, nice people, and also Nordhafen owners, are taking a bit more time to get to know. We are so often invited to the same parties and social functions as they are, but for some reason, I think we must be a bit different than the people they normally meet. Diego? Different? Hmmm.

Bob and Suzy took an immediate liking to him though. Bob is a retired builder as well. Bob the builder, isn’t that great? Poor Bob and Suzy. They’ve been out of fresh water for weeks now, and since Diego built our water maker (which isn’t quite finished yet), he was able to temporarily get theirs to work again. They were so grateful to him. Finally, they are able to take showers.

So, like I said earlier, we’re taking a detour. We were going to keep moving south toward the Dominican Republic and beyond with our cruising buddies, Mal and Kerry, but it seems that our time with them has come to an end. We’ve decided to backtrack, while they’ve chosen to carry on with their original plans. Why? Why would we go back, you ask? Well, we heard about the pigs. That’s why. (I’ll elaborate on the pigs a little later--when I know a bit more myself). That’s not the only reason why. Corazon has grown rather attached to Xavier, Victor and, most of all, Isabella. This voyage across the earth is not only our adventure, but also his. It’s our duty to make sure that he has a say in all of this. It’s his life too. Oh, and of course, there’s also the added bonus of some more sailing experience before we start heading into open ocean (yes, we will be relatively near shore, but it’s still the Atlantic Ocean). Besides, we really don’t have much of a plan, nor a timeframe for any of this--we’re just going where the wind takes us, that’s all. And to be honest, at the moment, the wind is taking us north--literally.

We’re off to Staniel Cay in the morning. It’s about a ten hour sail. We’re having a race. From what we’ve heard, Charles and Bob have already made their way to an anchorage further up and closer to the mouth of the Georgetown harbor--to get a head start, of course. We’ve already decided to pull up anchor an hour before what we told every one else our departure time would be. That’ll fool them. In all honesty though, we could only really be competition for one of them, and that is Charles on ‘Charleaux’. All the others are power boats--we could never keep up with them.

We pull anchor at 5:30 a.m., a half hour before everyone else, in hopes that we’ll get even luckier by having them all sleep through their alarms. And all of this to no avail. Though we’re in the lead for the first half hour, at six, Nexus zooms by us with Levity right on her heels. Behind Levity, come Bob and Suzy in The Dahlin, and though we manage to stay inches ahead of her for another half hour or so, at around 6:30 Charleau sails past us in all her glory (mind you, we have our sails up too--and we‘re motoring).

Though we are the last to arrive at Staniel Cay, we do so at around four in the afternoon, tired, but in one piece. All of the others are already sitting at a table near the bar in the yacht club, though The Dahlin and Levity have retired early. It’s only us young couples with kids. The conversations get more and more open and honest as the night goes on and the drinks go down.

There is talk of parenting--of how we are all doing it so much differently than our parents did it with us. We speak about our differences and of how unusual it is for us all to have met each other--how, if we were on land, we probably never would have taken the time to form these friendships, let alone allow them to deepen and grow to the extent that they have after these short three weeks together . We discuss our pasts, individually and with our partners--what we were like before we had our children; the places we’ve been, the things we’ve seen, and the stupid things we‘ve done along the way.

By eight o’clock we are all zonked--the grown ups, not the kids who continue to run around and through the restaurant laughing, sweaty and red-faced. They return to our table only to freshen up with a sip of their drinks, before they are off again. Nancy has been chugging the rum and cokes since around 4:00 in the afternoon, loosening up and allowing herself to speak more English than ever before. She moves to a table across the way and strikes up a conversation with complete strangers, while we, oblivious, are all getting a bit worried, thinking that she’s somewhere in a corner throwing up, or worse yet, passed out. Quite on the contrary, she returns and grabs DeeDee for a dance.

New Year’s Eve is full of adventure. Larry has the whole day planned for the entire clan. We all take part--all except for Nancy, who spent most of the night vomiting and needs the morning hours to recuperate from her lingering headache. We’ve all been there--poor thing. Thirteen of us pile into the two most powerful dinghies and navigate the shallow, crystal clear waters in varying shades of blue at full speed.
What a ride!!! We realize very quickly what a great idea it was to backtrack to Staniel Cay and surrounds. The pigs are reason enough. We still haven’t had a chance to meet them personally, but we’re anchored across the way from their private beach--I don’t think I’ll be swimming anywhere around there considering the amount of pig poop in the water!

Mal and Kerry are on a mission. They’ve come to the States to buy their catamaran so that they can make their way down to the Caribbean as quickly as possible.

Though the Bahamian scenery is not what we expected, nor what we would prefer, we are coming to grips with the idea that we are here not to zoom from one place to the next, but rather to immerse ourselves in whatever situation and area we are in. There is always something new to discover no matter where you are, and even in the most unlikely of places, treasures can be found. We miss our traveling buddies, but realize that our decision to go our own way is the best choice for us at this time. It’s a small world, and surely our paths will cross again in the near future.
After a relaxing day of sightseeing, Nurse Shark and stingray viewing, and lounging around on the sandbars at low tide across the way from a million dollar marina housing multi-million dollar boats, we head back to our respective, more modest ‘water homes’ for a bite to eat before we race off again to the famous Thunder ball Cave. If you are familiar with the James Bond movies, you’re sure to have gotten a glimpse of it on the big screen as ‘Thunder ball’ was filmed here on location.
Nancy joins us now that she’s had a bit of time to rest. There is no way she’s missing out on this part of the excursion. Those of us who have never snorkeled the cave before are a bit nervous to do so, and hold off for a while watching the braver ones go in before us. When we are ready, we enter the cave through its narrow opening, and as we look up, we are in awe of what we see. A magnificent light streams through two openings in the massive hollowed-out boulder we are swimming in, while below us gobs of Sergeant Major, Parrot and other fish swarm the crumbs of bread DeeDee releases into the water.

I’ve brought along a throw-away underwater camera, but the pictures (once I have them developed) can never do this place justice. I take my time in the cave, checking out various passageways and swimming in and out of backlit openings. For the first time since we‘ve started our trip, I feel completely consumed by my surroundings. Nothing is familiar, comforting, or cozy. Everything is foreign--otherworldly. This unfamiliarity is what I live for--it’s why we’ve chosen to live the way we do. Some people have a need for that which is common or known to them. I, personally, haven’t reached this state of mind in my life as of yet and I’m not sure when or if I ever will. The familiar doesn’t interest me now. I want to immerse myself in the unknown.

There isn’t much time to prepare for the festivities this evening. On the way to Staniel Cay from Georgetown, Diego caught yet another Blue Fin Tuna. We decide that tonight will be the perfect night to serve it as a sushi appetizer. Dinner and drinks are on Charleau tonight (Charles and Nancy’s 42 foot monohull). All 14 of us pack onto the boat, and though there is little room to move about, the celebration begins.
Half of us huddle together in the canvas covered cockpit; while the rest dance to the I Pod down in the salon. Again, the wine flows and the spirits rise. The year nears its end.

Bob and Suzy head to the Dahlin at around 11:00 p.m. and by 11:30, the rest of us have landed our dinghies at the Staniel Cay Yacht Club dock to join the much larger and louder celebration in and around the marina restaurant. Champagne glasses line the bar top in preparation for the midnight hour, while brave girls (later these include that crazy Nancy of ours) shake their booties around them in short skirts and heels (Nancy’s wearing pants). The venue sells champagne, but we’ve brought our own bottle, which Diego tucks under his arm as we watch the unexpected fireworks display explode above us. The kids, now tired of running like mad, plop down in the plastic chairs just in front of us, where they stay and protest their being there for the rest of the night.

On any other given day, we have to drag them to their beds, but on this first day of the new year, they surrender to their fatigue and attempt to spoil our fun. Maybe it is the embarrassment we cause them? We feel like we’re back in our clubbing days. The music is pumping. The parents are dancing. Oh, the shame of it all. Suck it up kids, we’ve all been there.

While we finally give up and dinghy home with Corazon, Nancy and Charles stay behind until about 3:00 a.m.. Always the life of the party, Nancy introduces herself to the crew of one of the mega yachts tied up in the marina.

“My friend say she give me $1000.00 if I go up on top of your boat and wave to her,” she says in her beautiful French accent.
After making sure that the boat’s owner doesn’t mind, she’s welcomed aboard and led through the luxurious rooms of the yacht all the way up to the fly bridge where she shouts down to all of the party goers below, “Happy New Year--Bonne Annee!!!”

Though we’re back on X-T-Sea by 1:00 a.m., our night doesn’t end. Once Corazon is soundly sleeping, Diego and I hop into the dinghy for a starlit ride around the anchorage. We go so far as to turn the motor off and allow the gentle roll of the water push us to Pig Beach shore where we sit for a while and enjoy each other and the stars above. What a way to start 2009!

I chuckled when Nancy suffered from her hangover, but now I’m plagued by my own. I can’t sleep. My head pounds. My stomach turns. For the thousandth time in my life, I swear that if this just passes quickly, I’ll never, ever drink again. I guess I don’t fool anyone or anything at this point--my promises are empty. And therefore, the physical agony doesn’t subside until I pop an Excedrin Migraine in the morning and lounge around for most of the day. Needless to say, the others in our party have caught the same bug. It turns out to be a slow, lazy day for us all.

The kids, though, are as active as ever. They zip around in Victor’s little dinghy, visiting the pigs and meeting new friends. Thank God for Victor and his 6 foot dinghy. ‘Mama and Papa’ are no match for the independence and freedom Corazon gains from his time hopping into the tiny vehicle like a teenager every morning with his buddy, and zooming from one boat to the next with “good morning” greetings. This is an experience Corazon will forever remember.

Again, it’s time for us to leave our new friends and head south--back to Georgetown for some sketchy internet and a bit of produce before moving any further. The goodbyes are difficult, especially for Corazon whose heart aches for Isabella. The minute we tie the dinghy up to X-T-Sea, after our visit with ‘Nexus’, he begins to cry. How difficult it is to let go of someone or something which, in some way, completes you. Isabella and Corazon are so alike, and yet so different. A perfect match in many ways. Surely, she will be etched in his memory forever as his first ‘girlfriend’.

At 7:30 a.m. we pull anchor and head out of the Staniel Cay anchorage. The feeling is bittersweet as we watch Nexus, Levity, The Dahlin and Charleau fade out of sight.

Who would have thought that after only three weeks, we would develop such strong ties with these beings whose ‘normal’ lives couldn’t be more different than our own? Connections can be made anywhere and with anyone. I see this as a reality more and more as time goes by.

We are supposed to have great weather on our return trip--waves of only 2-4 feet with a wind speed of about 20 knots--perfect. But, as is quite often the case, things change. Corazon and I are feeling quite sick to our stomachs as the boat rocks and rolls in waves of at least 6-8 feet. We beg Diego to tuck in behind the islands again so that we can rest for the night and continue on the next day when the wind and waves have calmed down.

Something in him gets triggered.

“There you go again, protecting Munch. Every time he says something, you jump right in and defend him….”

“What? I’m sick too. And even if I weren’t, one of your crew needs to stop. It’s your job to do that…it’s your job to take care of your crew, baby.”
After a bit of bickering back and forth and the waves steadily holding their ferocity, we make our way through a cut to the west between a couple of islands to a protected body of water called the Exuma Sound. There, we continue to sail--with great wind and calm water--until sometime in the afternoon when we decide to anchor for the night in a tiny bay in the Darby Islands.
In the morning, we snake our way back out from behind and between the rock cliffs to the open ocean where we are pleasantly surprised with the weather. A rainbow presents itself in full strength, color and presence as we cross through the heads--it’ll be a good day.

It’s quiet on the boat, until “zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz”. That’s the sound the fishing line makes as it flies out of the reel when we catch something. Diego runs, grabs the pole and cranks the handle to pull the sucker in. He turns and turns it, but then he must rest. “I think this is the biggest thing we’ve ever caught. This is big,” he says. Slowly, slowly he continues to crank, but then he decides that he’ll just let it tire out by having it trail behind us as we continue to motor along. A half hour later, he tries again and discovers that it’s much easier now. Whatever it is, is no longer fighting, but it is still on the line. Finally, he brings it aboard and into the cockpit. It’s a Spanish Mackerel--a half eaten Spanish Mackerel. Some massive ocean creature must have been terribly hungry since it bit off about 2 feet of our catch with one very visible chomp.

Just as we head into Georgetown, we hear someone calling us on the VHF.

“X-T-Sea, X-T-Sea, this is Isla Bonita.”

“Go ahead, Isla Bonita.”

“Hey, we hear you are a kid boat. We have kids too, but there’s no one here their age to play with, so we were going back up to Staniel Cay to find you and the other kid boats. Some of the regulars at the Chat n’ Chill told us about you and where to find you.”

“Well, why don’t you just stay here then? Charleau and Nexus will both be heading north shortly. We’ve come here to provision and then continue south. In the meantime, at least the kids can hang out.”

“Sounds good to us. Hey, do either of you dive?”

Diego, always ready to spear some lobster, lets Mark know that he’ll be ready to go out to the coral heads within the hour.

And with that, we have made some new friends. French Canadians again. My God, they’re everywhere. The Bahamian waters are crawling with them. Good people. We have yet to meet one we don’t like.

For the next two days, we spend quite a bit of time with Isabelle, Mark and their two children Mael (7) and Luanda (5). While Diego goes spear fishing with Mark, and the mothers get acquainted, frying in the sun on the beach, the kids play as if they’ve known each other forever. It’s amazing how quickly and easily they adapt, mold, morph. When they bore of jumping off of the dinghy dock, they raid the rotting leaves beneath the Cassowary Trees for hermit crabs, emerging what seems to be hours later, with hundreds of the little creatures in an old, discarded plastic container. They build a castle for them with walls of sand a foot high so that they are sure not to escape. They fill the castle with rotting leaves and a puddle of salt water and then they dig secret passageways so that its inhabitants are able to play hide and seek in their new domain. Corazon chooses one of them, the biggest one, names him/her/it Hermie and brings the little finger-pincher home with him. Alas, we have a new family member.

The Georgetown RV park on water is glad to welcome us back, but Diego (as most of the younger boaters) isn’t as enthusiastic to be here. I, personally, think it’s great hearing those cheerleader-type voices every morning announcing all of the activities for the day. I get a laugh out of their quirky sound effects--the daily rooster calls--and corny jokes. We won’t be spending much time here this time around. We’re anxious to move on to uncharted territory--well, uncharted by us anyway, but having internet access is a necessity at times, and here in Georgetown we at least know that it is available--sketchy or not--so we stay a few days.
ZZZZZZZzzzzzzzoooooooooooooommmmmm--‘X-T-Sea’ rocks from side to side. What was that? We look out of our windows and see ‘Charleau’s’ dinghy fly past, four heads facing us, all of them laughing. They’ve changed their minds and are heading south after all. How nice it is to meet up again with what seem like old friends by now.
Both ‘Isla Bonita’ and ‘Charleau’ are leaving for Long Island tomorrow, and though we’d love to join them, we need to stay behind for another day--hopefully the internet will be up so that we can get some work done. We can’t wait to cut all ties with society--to live freely, to owe no one and be owed nothing, to live off the land (or water as the case may be).

Since we have one evening to spend with our friends, we invite them over to our boat for cocktails and appetizers. Five children, ours included, make themselves comfortable in the salon for the movie of Balto, the amazing Alaskan sled dog (popcorn included), while we grownups sit in the cockpit and get a bit more acquainted with one another. It’s as if we’ve known Charles and Nancy forever now, with a past to reference and laugh about. We’re only starting to get to know Mark and Isabelle, but time will prove the necessity and importance of our meeting.

The children, so calm and quiet as they watched the movie, ask for a sip of ginger ale to wash down their popcorn. Oh boy, what a mistake it is to oblige their wishes. Soon, they bounce off the walls playing hide and seek, running through our outstretched legs in the cockpit to chase each other around the perimeter of the boat.

Though we’ve made it clear that Diego and my bedroom is off limits, we forget to mention that the pantry should remain a kid-free zone as well. Once the party ends and the clean-up begins, I find that one of the little people, no doubt a ‘hider’ in a desperate attempt to remain unseen by the ‘seeker‘, knocked over a carton of Ghirardelli Chocolate Powder. I stand before the site in question, half laughing/half crying, at the job before me. The carpet, the water bottles, the storage boxes, the tea, the coffee, the canned foods, the noodle packages, the pasta cartons, the spices, the toilette paper and the paper towels--all covered in a dusting of the sweet, brown powder. This is a project for tomorrow. Tonight we say our farewells to ‘Charleau’ and ‘Isla Bonita’ and go to bed.

The internet is down again. We’ve stayed behind for nothing. A whole day wasted trying to get online. What a piss-off. Charleau and Isla Bonita are well on their way to Long Island. We’re the only dummies left in Georgetown. But not for long--we pull anchor tomorrow, bright and early.

We listen to the final RV park announcement in the morning just for nostalgia’s sake. Lucky we do. Remember how Diego sliced his finger a few months ago, and got it stitched up at the government emergency room in Freeport? Well, he swears that it’s just not healing properly. He wants to have it checked out by someone else, and this morning he gets his chance. ‘Hairball’, a 38 foot Leopard catamaran, chimes in during the boater’s general portion of the RV park rundown to let the whole community know that he is a retired orthopedic surgeon who will be leading a question and answer session in the reception hall at the St. Francis Resort tomorrow. Anyone with ailments or questions thereof is welcome to attend, free of charge. We are anxious to get out of here and meet up with our friends in Long Island, so when the boater’s net is clear, Diego calls ‘Hairball’ and pleads his case to the doctor, who tells him to come right over and he’ll have a look at his hand immediately.
X-T-Sea was loaded up and secured last night in preparation for our trip. This means that the dinghy is no longer in the water, rather it is hanging up and strapped tight to the davits. The doctor’s dinghy is also incapacitated. It had a few leaks (as dinghies do) and it’s patched holes are now drying. Of course, we could take down our big, yellow ocean kayak (we scored this from Mal and Kerry in exchange for our portion of one of Diego’s South American shifties--if you know Diego, you’ll know what I mean), but that would be too much work too. So, Diego visited the doctor as any creative boater would--he swam.

Fortunately, Dr. ‘Hairball’ had some good news for us. It seems that Diego isn’t doing the proper exercises with his finger. He’s working it too hard. Diego? Overdoing something? Hmm.

After this little detour, we follow the waypoints entered in our Garmin GPS to Joe’s Sound, Long Island, but when we arrive at the destination shown on the instrument panel, we are sure that we’ve been lead to the wrong place. This can’t be right. This can’t be the entrance to the sound. We won’t fit through this narrow opening with our 19 foot wide boat.

“Isla Bonita. Isla Bonita. This is X-T-Sea.”

“X-T-Sea. This is Isla Bonita. Do you want to go up one?” (this is VHF talk for,
“switch the channel to 17 where we can have a conversation without disturbing others who are on the hailing channel 16“)

“Up one.”

“Hey, Mark? Are you sure this is where we’re supposed to come in?”

“Ahh. Yes, I see you. Yes, that is the entrance, Diego. Do you want me to dinghy over and guide you in?”

“Yeah mate. The channel’s just so narrow. It’s just freaking me out a bit. Would you mind?”

“I’ll be right there. Isla Bonita back to 16.”

“X-T-Sea back to 16.”

It’s coming on low tide and the current is forcing its way out of the channel through which we are to enter. Mark shows up and points out the jagged rock cliffs which protrude from each side of the tiny water way. We really don’t have much room to maneuver the boat. Diego is at the helm (the wheel) where he has to take into consideration the direction and strength of the wind as well as the force of the water current coming out of the channel while he motors our 19 foot wide floating home in through a 25 foot section of usable water. Just as we think we’ve made it through in one piece, Mark yells, “O.K., now make a hard turn to starboard (right). Right now!” What? What’s going on? Phew. We’ve just avoided a sandbar at the end of the channel--one which could have stopped us and then easily pushed us into the rocks just a few feet away.

When we anchor, we finally take a moment to look around. It’s quiet here. Peaceful. Sandbars stretch out for miles. The water, protected by land on all sides, is calm and clear. Perfect for our little ones to play safely and independently.
Our first project then, is to take down our kayak so that Corazon has his own transportation around here. We unhook the big, plastic, yellow banana from its ropes, carry it over to the rails on the port (left) side of the bow (front), lift it up and rest the 40 lb. contraption on the top of the two, thin, stainless steel rails. Diego says, “Hold the tie line. Just hold it, and I’ll push it into the water.” So, I do. I hold the tie line while Diego pushes the kayak with all his might, using the rail as a slippery guide. The 14 foot long, hard piece of plastic goes flying past me with an incredible force into the water below. I’m under strict orders, remember, from my captain to hold on to the tie line, and I do my job without question or regard for my own life. The line (one end tied to the kayak and the other grasped firmly by both of my hands) stretches, becomes completely taught and pulls me with it. Luckily, the rail catches me and somehow I manage to stay aboard, but not without consequence. My life flashes before my eyes. I see everything within the next 30 seconds of real-time happen in slow motion. The enormous yellow banana hangs in mid-air in front of me, the clear, blue water below and the sky above. The line is stretched to the max. My body, bent at the waist, doubles over the railing. My toes curl under the lip of the deck and dig into the fiberglass. My balance is off, and only a thin metal line holds my weight which tips slightly toward the boat, thank God. Shins are not all too forgiving, so I cringe as mine bashes against the railing’s hardware, puncturing my skin and leaving two small holes along with some other dings and scratches--the entire shin bruises within hours. It will throb for days.

Besides us and Isla Bonita, there is only one other boat anchored in the sound. It’s a houseboat whose owner’s name is Patrick. A new little community is formed immediately, and when ‘Out of Africa’ (a 46 foot Leopard Catamaran of the most luxurious kind) joins us the following day, our network grows to include them. ‘Out of Africa’ is captained by Mark (50), another French Canadian, and his girlfriend, Geneve (25). Though their English is not so good, Mark grills a mean Mahi dinner, and out here, food speaks louder than words anyway. ‘Charleau’ has already left. Charles, who has taken a year off of work to go cruising with Nancy and the boys, desperately wants to get down to the Dominican Republic before heading back up to Canada by August 2009. We were looking forward to seeing them again, and were even hoping to travel alongside them for a while. Oh well.

Always on a quest for self-discovery, self-awareness, and personal growth, I’ve found a new way to figure out who I am in relation to who I was and who I will become. With each new acquaintance we make, it seems that I am confronted with some aspect of myself; past, present or future. Of course, we are all individuals, and there will never be ONE person who can show me ALL of myself (that would be ridiculous), but it is undeniable that EVERYONE has something to teach, something to give to the world, some contribution to make to the lives of us all--mirrors to the self. This concept fascinates me with every initial encounter, and consumes my thoughts whenever I have the luxury of focusing on them--I still have that talkative little eight year old, remember, filling my head with HIS very important thoughts most of the time.

While Nancy showed me how to chill out as a mother; to just let things happen, let things flow, let things be, Isabelle brings me back to my natural side. She teaches me how to make yogurt and how to sprout my own seeds for some much needed greens when fresh produce isn’t readily available. How refreshing it is to awaken to this part of myself once again. How sad I am, only briefly, to discover that I ever even let this side of me fade. But, now I’m back and going strong. I’ve even been baking my own bread lately, stuffing it with flax seeds, ground almonds and oats--crunchy on the outside, fluffy on the inside. YUMM.

We don’t plan on spending much time on Long Island. We’re anxious to get to the Dominican Republic for a change of scenery and a break on the pocket book. Unfortunately, or possibly fortunately (depending on which perception of reality we choose to see things from), the weather doesn’t allow for us to leave. As a matter of fact, Long Island becomes our home and Isla Bonita our neighbor, for the next three weeks.

We have work to do, and as much as we love to avoid dealing with ‘life on the other side’, we must. Corazon is in good hands with Isabelle and Mark, so we take off to Stella Maris, one of the three larger towns on the island, for internet access and a day’s adventure--without our little chatterbox.

There are a two things my mother told me I should never, ever do--drugs and hitchhiking. Now is not the time to discuss the first of these, but on this day in Stella Maris, at the age of 35, I disobey the latter for the first time in my life. As a matter of fact, it is the elderly German owner of the Stella Maris Marina, Monika, who suggests to Diego and I that we stick our thumbs out to get where we need to go.

“Oh ya, se people here are so nice. Anyone will take you wis sem. You will have no problems,” she says in a thick German accent.

So, we make our way to the one main road which runs along the coast of the entire island, propane tanks in tow (we need to refill two of them), and sit and wait. It doesn’t take long for Alan to come by and pick us up. We hop into the back of his truck till it starts pouring rain and he invites us into the cabin with him. We are grateful, and accept his offer, but when he snorts and hacks up a bit of extra thick and slimy flem, Diego and I discreetly glance at each other and reconsider our decision. Great, we’re stuck in the germ-mobile from hell.

The hitchhiking continues throughout the day. We meet some interesting characters this way. There is Garry, who is heading to the bar before going home to his girlfriend.

“She don’t need to know that I got off work early today,” he reassures himself out loud.

And, the two old, scruffy-looking Bahamian men with the rattling SUV. They don’t say a word, but the car speaks enough for us all.

An English couple picks us up at the bottom of the hill which leads to the Stella Maris Hotel where we are directed to go for internet. They’ve only been here for 6 weeks they tell us.

“Just come back from a shopping trip on the other end of the island. We needed towels and drapes and household bits and pieces,” Darren says as he clears the back seat for us.

And, we’ll never forget the 13 month old twins, Steven and Stephan (yes, these are really the names of the two frizzy-haired, chubby-cheeked brothers), who pounce all over Mom in the front seat--no car seats, no seat belts; we are definitely in the Bahamas.
We don’t get much accomplished on our outing (believe it or not, the paperwork we have desperately been waiting on for a month now, is being held up because of a freak fire which broke out in Boulder, Colorado yesterday), but we sure do have lots of fun together, Diego and I. The whole day we laugh and talk and play-- like we used to all the time. Things between us have been different lately--a bit tough, actually. Transitioning to this new life has been incredible in many ways, but painful and difficult in many others. As much as we would choose to believe that we were not effected by society and its expectations, there is no denying that we are no longer the people we were years ago when this sailing idea was in its infancy. It’s amazing how life changes you over the years and through situational circumstances--without the conscious realization of any of it, you come out scarred, bruised and battered. It’s almost as if we have to re-invent ourselves, remove ourselves from the roles we’ve been playing for the past nine years. I am not just a stay-at-home mother and wife who cooks and cleans and schools her child. Diego is not just a work-horse, a weekend father and husband. We are so much more. But, what has happened to us over the years? Just as it’s taken time to arrive at who we are after a life of separation and constant work, it’ll take time to find our place--our niche--in this new life together. Being together and being fully aware of that time--being fully focused on each other--that’s what all of this is supposed to be about. We have so many things to get used to at the moment--the main one being each other.

Since we are fruitless in our attempts at getting some work done on this day, we must make the trip to Stella Maris again the following day. We’ve done the hitchhiking thing, and now it’s time for the scooters to come out and get us where we need to go. We zip around Stella Maris on these tiny machines, bicycle helmets on, child in tow, Bahamians staring at us and our tiny, rumbling vehicles in awe.
Today, we are victorious--our paperwork is sent and signed online (you’ve gotta love technology), we’ve stocked up on fresh produce (the mail truck brought in a whole new shipment between yesterday and today), and we’re set to move further on down the island chain as soon as the weather turns in our favor.

As Diego loads the scooters back onto X-T-Sea, we hear some familiar voices coming from behind us. Do our eyes deceive us? It’s Charles, Nancy and the kids--yet again. They’ve returned to Long Island to get their visas extended. They’d made it all the way to Atwood Harbor (a few islands further south), but decided to turn around and slowly start heading back up north when their weather window shut down on them.

“Se waves were rolling and--Boom, Boom, Boom (she slaps her hand to her thigh with each ‘boom‘). Oh, it was terrible. So uncomfortable. Se kids have a hard time too. Sey were in se cockpit se whole time with Charles and me--no t.v., no game boy. I don’t like it. We stay in se Bahamas. I don’t go in sose waves. No, no, no,” Nancy says full of emotion.

Diego tries to convince her to change her mind over the next hour or so, but to no avail. Charles truly had his heart set on traveling further south, exploring new lands, but a captain can only push the limits to the extent that the crew allows, and unfortunately, Nancy and the boys’ uncomfortable experience has stopped the entire team from continuing on. Of course, those of you who know Diego will understand me when I say that his attempts at convincing (or pestering…however you want to look at it, really) her don’t stop there. As a matter of fact, we run into Charles and Nancy unexpectedly again a few days later and Diego starts in on the whole topic once more. Admiral Nancy though, has made up her mind and is sticking to her guns.

“No, no, no,” she says. “It was tooooo uncomfortable--the wind and the waves. Ugh.”

Coming into Joe’s Sound, we quickly realized that the wind direction, tide height, and water currents all have to be aligned and in perfect order so that a boat our size can pass in and out of the narrow cut safely. Each day that we spend here, we think we will be leaving the next day only to find out that the wind is blowing from the wrong direction or that the next high tide isn’t till after dark (a time in which you never want to enter or leave any port). Finally, we catch on and start listening to our weather guru, Chris Parker’s, predictions on the Single-Side Band Radio each morning at 6:30. According to him, we’re stuck here for another week, stretching our stay on Long Island to about three weeks in total.

We decide to use our time in this calm, sandy-bottomed anchorage wisely, and work out a time schedule to beach ‘X-T-Sea’. Hauling her out of the water to clean and re-paint her underside is way overdo. We’ve been putting it off and putting it off (in part due to the cost of a haul out--approximately $700.00 and an additional $200.00 for the special antifouling paint), but now, it’s time. At high tide, we maneuver her closer and closer to one of the nearby sandbanks until she gently hits bottom. As she jolts, our hearts race. The last thing you want to feel on a boat is any sort of encounter with the earth, so even when said encounter is predetermined and accounted for, it’s still quite uncomfortable. Diego sets the anchor so that we don’t just drift away during the next high tide, but now it’s time to wait for low tide, so that we can get to work.

There’s much to do in a short amount of time, so we get on it right away by destroying one of our oversized chip-clips and using each half as a barnacle scraper (money is getting tight these days…we have to save wherever we can). For the next two days the work continues as the tides move in and out. We scrape and scour the hulls and then begin the painting process with a toxic, blue, chalky liquid meant to help keep any future growth off. As much as it is work, Diego uses this quiet time with our exposed X-T-Sea to bond and get to know her intimately--caressing her every curve, gently stroking her underside. Wow, that’s starting to sound a bit pornographic. Sorry. You get the idea, though?

We spend one whole night without generator power. Basically, this means a candlelight dinner and no movie. We turn the CD player on instead--Yanni’s Greatest Hits is the choice selection for the evening. Diego and I are loving the change of nighttime atmosphere, but Corazon instantly turns into a teenager, “I hate this. Why can’t we just watch one movie? I never want to beach the boat again,” he cries. In response, we tell him that we’ve decided to make this a monthly family tradition. Ha.

One morning a few days later, there’s a knock on the hull of the boat. It’s Patrick.
“Hey, looks like a good time to get through the cut. You all up for sail to Rum Cay? I thought I’d head that way for a bit of surfing. We could keep each other company,” he says.

“Are you kidding? Baby, get the boat ready, quick! We’re off on another adventure. Woo Hoo!” Diego yelps.

And with that we say our goodbyes to Mark, Isabelle and the kids, fire a few remaining water balloons at them with our giant slingshot (a gift to the kids from Patrick), and make our way through the narrow cut for the last time.
It’s always nice to have company just a radio call away while you’re traveling, so en route to Rum Cay, we communicate with Patrick now and again just for fun to pass the time. Once we arrive at the island though, we loose contact with him. There isn’t anyone familiar around anymore. Time to meet some new people. And, soon enough we do.

Once we anchor, we lower our water car and race off to land. We need to get rid of the trash that’s been piling up in the back of the dinghy and causing us to gag whenever we get a whiff of it. There weren’t any trash receptacles on Long Island, but here on Rum Cay, the government dock is nearby and equipped with all a boater needs. As we approach the shore, we watch as a couple of other cruisers run out from under the Cassowary Trees flailing their arms about, kicking their feet up into the air, punching, swatting, flicking their hair round and round like heavy metal band performers. We shrug them off as nutty boaters, anchor the dinghy and hop out onto the beach.

Corazon has brought the hermit crabs with him to shore. We’ve told him that we’ll be entering new territory--that these are Bahamian hermit crabs and that the Turks and Caicos customs and border patrol won’t let them enter their country without passports or some other proof of identity. Honestly, since their escape attempt (all three of them actually made it out of their container about a week ago) and the idea that one of these little creatures could easily have made their way into our bed, we’ve been looking forward to saying goodbye to them. Reluctantly, Corazon performs a small farewell ceremony and dumps them onto the sand before him.
It is at this very moment that Diego comes running out from under the Cassowary Trees flailing his arms about, kicking his feet up into the air, punching, swatting, flicking his hair round and round just like those crazy boaters we watched not too long ago. As he approaches us, screaming out something or other about vicious, man-eating mosquitoes, we see them--a whole swarm of them--chasing him.
Thank God for our 40 horses. We flit out of there--accelerator revved to the max. The mosquitoes are no match for us--they can’t possibly keep up against the wind we create. Unfortunately, our haste will cause a bit of an issue shortly.

Anchored not too far from X-T-Sea, we notice the cutest little popey-looking boat with a dreadlocked happy hippy guy sitting on its deck checking out his surroundings--mesmerized. True to a stoner’s nature, he doesn’t say much, but he smiles and nods a lot when we tell him we’d love to see the inside of his tiny home sometime. Discovering that he too will be traveling south, we realize that there will be time down the track for some more interaction with him and his cute, naturalist girlfriend--right now we need to get some rest in preparation for our long slug to Atwood Harbor tomorrow--a twelve hour trip.

Diego puts the dinghy in gear and shoots off toward X-T-Sea. She’s coming up--fast--in front of us, but for some reason Diego doesn’t decelerate. Is he playing some sort of game? Is he just being Diego again, messing with us? Playing his usual jokes? He circles the boat at this insane speed and does a few laps around the anchorage before he pulls the key out and tugs at the kill switch to pop it off. The dinghy stops immediately. Finally, I can breath again--I thought we were going to die. The entire scenario had played out in my mind within seconds and with such incredible detail. I saw us crashing head-on at full speed, right into the hull of our X-T-Sea. Luckily, it‘s only a busted accelerator cable. It will be a couple of weeks before we can replace it, so for now Diego pulls another one of his McGuiver moves, attaching a random rigid cable to the motor which he pushes and pulls to make it go or slow. Another disaster avoided.

At 3:00 a.m. Corazon wakes me to wake Diego. We have to get going if we want to get into the Atwood Harbor cut before dark. Twelve hours it takes us to get there. Twelve long, boring, uneventful hours. I lie. Diego caught a Mahi. It was 4 feet. Yes, I meant to say ‘was’. Diego was able to reel him in (it was a male--gorgeous green coloring) all the way to the boat, but that was as far as he got. Our two-month fish supply wriggled itself free from the hook just after he jumped out of the water. He obviously wanted us to get a good look at what we would NOT be eating for dinner that night.

Twelve hours in a confined area is not good for a person--especially not me--and especially not when I‘m PMSing. I need to get some exercise. So does Corazon. The dinghy is secured on the davits and Diego is sleeping already at 4:00 p.m. (sailing is hard work, believe it or not)--so he’ll be ready to captain us to Mayaguana tomorrow morning, bright and early. With no other alternative, Corazon and I time each other jogging in place in the cockpit. No, this doesn’t completely relieve me of my sedentary frustrations, but it helps--especially with the Ipod blaring some wild dance music into my ears--the remake of ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe’ is the favorite for the day.

The constant traveling is starting to get to us. Ok, right now, while I’m PMSing, everything is getting to me anyway. But, it surely doesn’t help that we are waking up every morning while it’s still dark outside and arriving at our destination in the evening-- exhausted, from doing nothing all day but sitting around in the cockpit, bouncing up and down, crashing into waves.

Today, I have a massive migraine. This obviously doesn’t help the situation, but Corazon does. He pampers me and massages me. He brings me crackers and juice. He rubs my back and keeps me company. All the while, he’s speaking English.
“Deutsch, Corazon,” is all I say.

Instantly, he turns into a rebellious teenager.

“Why do I have to speak German all the time--or Spanish. They are harder to speak than English. English is easy. It sounds better in English. Everything sounds better in English,” he retaliates.
I went through the same thing when I was younger. English really is easier. I see that now as I watch my mom in conversation with others. She’s an immigrant to the U.S.A. She came here when she was 29, having spent all of her years prior in German speaking countries. Ten years ago, not one English word would slip from her lips. Lately though, she has been speaking what I call Germish; a perfect mixture of German and English--something that happens to the best of us Krauts, as we get older.

Anyway, we don’t let him get away with it--no matter how sweetly he takes care of me when I feel ill. It’s too important to us that he continues to speak three languages. We’ve worked too hard and sacrificed too much to get to this point. We aren’t going to let all of this time and effort go to waste now. Needless to say, we don’t see much of him for the rest of this trip as he hides himself away in the salon, though, even he cannot contain his enthusiasm each of the three times the fishing lines zoom out and Diego reels them in.

Finally, three Blue Fin Tuna and another long day of motoring into the wind later, we arrive at our destination--Mayaguana. Though we are exhausted upon arrival, there is an air of excitement as we decide what we will do with all of the tuna we caught. We can only eat so much sushi, and decide to call the other two boats in the anchorage to see if someone will make a food trade with us. We luck out. Philip, an incredibly gifted and intelligent 16 year old ‘fisherman’ scored some lobster earlier today, and after careful examination of our tuna catch, decides to trade us one of his for one of ours.

Our interaction with Philip, inevitably leads to our meeting his mom, Sue, and dad, Mike, as well as Tom and Doris, the couple from the other monohull, Footloose. Everyone piles into our cockpit for cocktail hour and again, the drinks flow, as does the conversation. What interesting discoveries we make--Mike’s family is originally from Germany… Koeln…Nippes--the very same place my family is from--the very same place I visited for two months at a time every summer as I was growing up. And, Tom owned a custom home construction company, just like Diego. Small world.

Over the next two weeks we, once again, form the beginnings of some meaningful relationships. We don’t plan to stay here this long, but these people are worth getting to know, and the knowledge they have to share is worth sticking around for.
On our second night at the anchorage, we hear Footloose and Adamo (the name of Mike and Sue’s boat) over the VHF.

Sue to Doris: “You know, I think Tom might be here for a while. Do you want to come over? Philip’s been holding onto this shark for two hours now. He’s only got it on a ten pound line, and the thing doesn’t seem to be letting up on the fight. I don’t know how much longer this will take. Your lobster bisque must be getting cold by now. Come on over, Doris. Join the fun. We’ll get a margarita happening for you.”

Diego to Sue: “What’s going on? Philip has a shark on a ten pound line?” How did he manage that? What kind of shark is it? What’s going on? Give us a play by play.”

Sue to Diego: “It’s a nurse shark. Probably about 4 or 5 feet long. I don’t know. I can’t really tell from up here. They have a light in the water, but, you know. Philip’s just trying to hold onto the pole and tire him out. He sits at the bottom for a while, and then he starts to get feisty and tugs and pulls, but Philip’s just holding on with all of the patience in the world.”

Diego to Sue: “Now what’s happening? Have you ever eaten shark before? What’s it taste like? Any good? What’s he doing now? What’s going on?”

A few hours later, Philip gets his massive catch up onto Adamo. Success. Now the real work begins; gutting, cleaning, cutting and bagging it up to distribute amongst the islanders the next day. We too get a zip lock bag filled with chunks of shark meat. It definitely has an interesting and unusual taste. Chewy, fleshy, mild. Not at all what one would expect shark to taste like. We are lucky though. We’ve heard that shark often tastes like urine. This one doesn’t.

We spend many a night in Adamo’s salon chowing down on some of the most exquisite, gourmet cuisine. Tom, a general contractor by trade, has taken to cooking in his retirement. His love of the art shines through every bite of the lobster bisque he makes one evening and in the loaded homemade pizzas he bakes another night. Munchy’s rum cake (a Gail May recipe) is a hit as well. Soft and moist inside, with a crunchy almond topping (we have to make do with what we have available in the pantry--usually it‘s made with pecans). Yum.

Most of our days in Mayaguana are spent in the water, snorkeling. Though Diego’s been on a few lobstering excursions throughout the Bahamas, this is where he (we) really start(s) to get into it. I’m a lover of puzzles, and for some reason, I find it quite easy to pick these crustaceans out of their rocky hiding places from a mile away--OK, maybe not quite that far, but you get the idea. Unfortunately, or fortunately for the lobsters, my enthusiasm for spotting them quickly turns into guilt. I have to stop ratting them out--or at least slow down on seeking them out. I have to learn to balance out my love for the taste of lobster with my complete disgust with myself in taking an active role in the killing of another living, breathing, feeling creature. It truly hurts me to know that I have chosen to take part in ending their lives. On the other hand, I realize the need and desire to eat. Is it time for me to dive into full vegetarianism? Or do I remain on the outer rim of it, still keeping my current diet of fish? I’m torn.

I do slow down in deliberately diving for lobster, and instead, turn my attention to the beauty of the life beneath the water. I see now where the creators of Nemo and Shark’s Tale developed their views of the underwater world. Coral heads stretch out as far as the eye can see, providing residences for gazillions of ocean creatures. Homes are made in every rocky crevice and cave, and under every ledge. There is colorful coral of every kind; sharp, brownish-red volcanic rock provides a base for the growth of others such as Brain Coral, Fire Coral, Purple Fan Coral, Elkhorn Coral, Staghorn Coral, tiny, feathery, flowery corals. There are Sea Anemones, Conch of various species, Sea Urchins, Spotted Trunkfish, Honeycomb Cowfish, prickly Porcupine Fish all puffed up. I see Blue Tang and their yellow offspring, Doctor Fish and Peacock Flounder, various Snappers, Blue Runners, and tons and tons of Squirrelfish. Adult Blueheads (like Oscar of Shark Tale) follow me and nip at my legs while their bright yellow children dance and sway in unison with my every slight movement. I play with them until, out of the corner of my eye, I spy a barracuda, three feet long--at least. He lurks around quietly, inconspicuously, waiting, watching, ready to attack. Of course, barracuda aren’t known to tear and mangle human bodies, but the unwavering glare of his eye freaks me out, so I let out a muffled underwater scream and pump my generic brand flippers as fast and as hard as I possibly can. When I reach Diego, I stop, look around to make sure nothing followed me and then calmly continue my snorkeling expedition. There are Sergeant Major, Parrotfish, Butterflyfish, both Queen and French Angelfish, Oval Squid pumping by, traveling in groups of threes, Yellow Chubs and Bluestiped Grunts, and schools upon schools of Damselfish. Some of them are curious, like the ever-so-brave Blueheads, and some of them are chicken, like the giant Pocupinefish, but all of them are interesting to observe. And this I do, until my lips turn blue (the Bahamian waters are chilly this time of year). I’ve been in the water for hours. Corazon and Diego are already back in the dinghy--shivering, yet waiting patiently for me to finish my exploration.

Two weeks ago, we arrived here in Mayaguana. We didn’t plan to stay for so long, but the peace and tranquility of this place has sucked us in, just as it did ‘Adamo’ and ‘Footloose‘. The company is great, the food is spectacular, the snorkeling is amazing, the town is sleepy, and the people are friendly. We spend our last days working on the mechanics of the boat. Tom and Doris teach us the basics of the single side band radio we have yet to learn how to use, and Mike helps us out with various electrical wiring issues. Our last night of fun and food (and many, many drinks of course) is spent at our place. Goodbyes are said--and in the morning we are off. That’s it. We made it through the Bahamian islands. Will we ever return? Who knows. At this point, we do feel like we may have missed out on something here. What that something is, we’re not so sure of yet. For now, we continue on to new lands. Turks and Caicos--here we come.

It takes us ten hours to get from Mayaguana to Provodencial in the Turks and Caicos Island (UK), but it’s probably the best ten hours of sailing time we’ve ever had together. We play Yatzee and Mensch Aerger Dich Nicht (a German version of Sorry) and we watch Nemo and Ice Ag 2. We giggle and laugh, and roll around in the salon’s king sized bed. We read and I take some time to update the blog. This is what it should be like all the time when we are underway.

We arrive in Sapadillo Bay in the dark. The entrance to the anchorage is wide and calm and there is plenty of room to drop the hook once we get further into the bay. While Diego and I pop the cork on a bottle of champagne, Corazon plays a few games on PBSkids.com. We should check into the country upon arrival, but since it is after hours, we would be charged extra, so we decide to wait until tomorrow and relax on the deck, under the stars instead.

The morning starts with yet another cruiser’s net where Simon, South Side Marina’s star manager, performs a daily roll call of all the boats on ‘his’ side of the island. His English accent rings through the VHF clearly and professionally as he directs us to the unfinished, deserted construction site of the Cooper Jack Marina, where X-T-Sea will be protected from any high winds, and we will find it easier to get to the shops we’ll need to visit while we are here. Also, Cooper Jack, otherwise called the Annex, is closer to the South Side Marina where we are promised truck rides to the IGA for food provisioning, and weekly boater barbeques. As a matter of fact tonight we’ll attend the first of these, but not until we check into the country, so Diego lowers the dinghy into the water, grabs all of the relevant paperwork, passports, etc. and zooms off to the South Side Marina where the customs and immigration officials will meet him. He leaves us with a healthy, pumped up dinghy, but he returns--half of it under water. The starboard (right) tube is completely deflated. I’m not even sure how he made it home this way. Ok, so the first order of business now is to fix this.

We turn to our trusty motor scooters. Both of them come off the boat and we make our way up the long, dusty, dirt road to the paved streets at the top of the hill and then out onto the main highways of Provo. The traffic is relentless. Have we come during rush hour? I don’t feel safe, and there are a few times while we are walking the scooters across busy roads where I get confused and accidentally rev the small but powerful engine making the back tire grab and the front kick up and back. On one such occasion, the exhaust pipe hits me, burning and shriveling the skin on the back of my right calve. Small scooters have small parts though, so the wound is only the size of a dime. The scooter‘s rear break light smashes into the asphalt and breaks into a million pieces. I’m just not thinking straight. Where is my focus? Where is my concentration? Cars rush past. Corazon is with us. We’re responsible for another life. My head spins. I’m confused. It’s not safe for me to be out here on these busy roads with a little boy trying to dodge traffic. This, people, is what PMS can do to a woman. Needless to say, I don’t ever join Diego on his scooter trips through Provo after that. I’ve freaked myself out and it will take some time for me to gather the courage to get back on them again.

By the time we make it to the South Side Marina, down a steep, windy driveway, I’m really ready for a drink. And this represents yet another defining moment in our lives. This is when we meet Chris, Trish and Megan of ‘Errante Brisa’. Agitated, in need of a drink, tired, annoyed at the world and my ridiculous scooter driving skills, the last thing I want to do is mingle. But, thanks to Trish’s quick and chirpy introduction, me-time wasn’t going to come along any time soon. A sweet woman, with so much energy and enthusiasm, I don’t have the heart to tell her that all I truly want to do is crawl away and snuggle up with Corazon who is on Simon and Charlynn’s boat watching Ratatouille. So, I stay. But, it’s OK. I don’t have to talk all too much. I just listen as Chris, Trish and Megan load us up on all kinds of homeschooling information. Megan has been homeschooled all her life. At 15, she’ll be entering a land-based high school as a senior this coming fall. Her brother Josh did the same thing. He now holds a leadership position in the naval academy. My exhausted body fills with pride, hope and a feeling of knowing that we are, even if just for a few years, making the right decision in living the uncommon lifestyle. Corazon will be fine.

Small world. Hippy guy and his girlfriend from the tiny popeye-looking boat are here too. Francis desperately desired a proper shower, and Clay was happy to oblige her. On a cruiser’s budget, they’ll only be at the South Side Marina for one night. They, and ‘Errante Brisa’ plan on moving their boats over to the annex tomorrow. We will have neighbors in our barren, unfinished construction site of a marina.

It’s dark and late. We’re drunk and tired. There will be no scootering home tonight. Bob, owner of the South Side Marina, drives us to the top of the hill leading to the Annex, where we walk, or rather, stumble, down the dirt road all the way back to X-T-Sea and crash into bed.

Since we’ve left the scooters at the marina, Diego’s first job of the day is to pick one of them up so that he can get to the hardware and marine stores. Our four house batteries are shot. They just won’t hold a charge anymore, so we have the generator running constantly, and this is hurting the pocketbook--fuel isn’t cheap these days--nor is it good for poor Mother Earth. So, donning his bright red hiking backpack, he begins the long walk to the South Side Marina. Up the hill to the paved road, through residential areas, and then a refreshing swim, one arm holding the backpack over his head, across the 50 ft. wide river. He tells me later that by the time he got to the opposite side, his arm had gotten so heavy that the backpack rested almost on the surface of the water. With all his might he held it up. Strenuous work to say the least.

A productive day. Four new batteries are paid for and transported one by one to the boat from the marine store. He buys a new weight for the down-rigger (deep sea fishing device), and an accelerator cable and tube patch kit for the sadly neglected dinghy. Every day spent in Provo from now on will be consumed by putting some much needed love into the dinghy and, generally, getting the boat ready for the long trip to the Dominican Republic.

It’s my mom’s birthday, and after Diego repairs the hole in the dinghy tube, we zoom off around the corner to the South Side Marina with the laptop so that we can Skype with her. Of course, she’s happy to hear from us, but we can’t talk long since Simon is keeping watch over us in his office, and he and Charlynn are heading out to the movie theater soon. Diego has gone back to the dinghy to check on it--to make sure the hole hasn’t reopened. But, it has. Shit. Now what? We collaborate once I’m off of Skype, and come to the conclusion that we’ll have to ask Simon if he’ll give us a ride back to the Annex. He’s not at all happy about this turn of events. He and Charlynn are already late for their date since they had to hang around waiting for me to finish up my phone call. The movie theater is in the opposite direction of the Annex. I feel Simon’s energy. It isn’t pretty. Oh well. What can you do? Sometimes you have to just do what’s right, even if that’s not exactly what you’d choose to be doing at the time--even if it interferes with your immediate personal life. By the time we arrive at the Annex, Charlynn has calmed poor Simon down. We say our goodbyes and apologize for the inconvenience we’ve caused them.

Work on the boat continues. The alternator is in the shop, the wooden floors are being painted, the batteries are charged, the dinghy undergoes another hole repair. This time, we have to wait for three whole days before we drive it again--boredom sets in at the Vilar household.

Francis, next door, on the other hand, is keeping busy baking, cooking, experimenting, crafting. She’s in the process of creating, from scratch, a courtesy flag for the Turks and Caicos, and she comes over to borrow some of Corazon’s markers, bringing with her the most beautiful pumpernickel bread loaf I have ever seen or tasted in my life. She has some crackers baking in the tiny oven on ‘Divided Sky’ now, and later she‘ll be whipping up an Asian sea weed dish for the weekly boater’s BBQ at the South Side Marina. This girl never stops.

Soon, we will all be on our way. Some of the cruisers here in Provo are heading north, but most of us will be going south. We’ve all been waiting for the wind and weather to change, and in the next day or two, this is exactly what will happen. ‘Errante Brisa’ and ‘Divided Sky’ have teamed up and will be heading out tomorrow. The seas will still be a bit rough, so we’ve decided to stick around for another day to give the ocean time to calm, but our new friends are more anxious than we are. We will all meet up again shortly--in Luperon, DR.

We’re ready to take off for the Dominican Republic at 4:00 p.m. on this 16th day of February. The skies are clear, the water is calm, there is no wind, the trip is smoother than we could ever have hoped for or expected. This leg was supposed to be the most treacherous thus far, but our experience is quite the opposite, leaving us with our mouths dropped in awe at the, sometimes, dead-still ocean surrounding us. But, our amazement at the glassy, reflective surface of the water, is nothing compared to the shock our exhausted senses experience as we get our first whiff of the island’s rich soil and lush vegetation many miles off shore, long before we even get a glimpse of this new land.

It’s early--7:00 a.m.. We haven’t slept much in the past fifteen hours, and our grogginess entrances and comforts us as we follow the GPS, along with our noses, south and east to get a closer view of the towering, green mountainous terrain of the DR. We enter Luperon Bay, just as the morning fog begins to lift and the local fishermen return from their morning‘s expeditions. We pass Errante Brisa and Divided Sky before we settle on anchoring in the innermost section of the bay, right near the entrance to the town of Luperon. Our boating friends waste no time in welcoming us and quickly giving us the low-down on Dominican check-in procedures.

In recent years, the country’s government has been cracking down on its officials and their bribery tactics. Trish tells us that the whole procedure should cost us a total of exactly $113.00.

‘…and, if they want to charge you any more than that, then they might be trying to trick you, so be careful,’ she says in her usual, sweet, motherly way.

Diego’s Spanish comes in handy, and he hits it off immediately with the ‘undercover’ drug inspection official who, along with his uniformed entourage, visits our boat first. They all make themselves comfortable around our salon table asking questions about the boat, where we have come from, how long we plan on staying, and where we plan to go from here. Diego answers as best he can considering we never make plans any farther than a few hours ahead, and all the while the drug inspector scribbles notes on a worn, blank, yellow legal pad.

After the ‘getting to know you’ portion of the visit, everyone rises from the table and they all follow me around the boat from room to room where I am asked to open each and every cabinet for drug inspection. They find nothing of interest (?), and reseat themselves at the salon table. This confuses Diego and I a bit. Why aren’t they leaving? They’ve finished their work here. Don’t they have other things to do? Other boats to inspect? Fran, who, along with Clay, has been sitting in the cockpit entertaining a sleepy yet hyped-up Corazon, suggests that we offer them a coke or a coffee. She says that this is the custom here, and that though bribery laws are being enforced nowadays, officials still expect some sort of offering for their visit.

“Quieren café?” I ask them.

“Si, por favor,” they respond in unison.

I honestly don’t think they’ll ever come back for a second cup. The DR produces some of the best coffee in the world, and I have nothing in the pantry but American generic brand instant with dry powdered milk. I should not be serving them this bitter, medium-brown colored, hot water. After the initial sip, the drug inspector, and leader of the group, requests that I hand over the entire sugar container along with some extra spoons. Each one of them (even those who declined my offer of the sweetener at first) add a few heaped spoons to their cups. All of them respectfully drink every last drop. I don’t know how they are able to force the liquid down their throats--just the smell of it turns my stomach. These poor guys will be scarred for life. With mock smiles and an occasional shivering shake of the head, they leave X-T-Sea thanking us for the ‘bibidas’ and again, welcoming us into their country.

Once they are out of sight, we join Clay, Fran and Corazon (who, with Fran’s help, has made a project out of catching the rain water streaming down from the canopy) in the cockpit where we serve our famous rum concoction. Mind you, we have not slept yet and it is only 9:00 a.m.. A whole day still lies ahead of us--a day filled with new sights, sounds and smells, but most importantly, new acquaintances.

Enter, the restaurant clans.

Annie, to us, represents the whole of the Dominican Republic. She’s Josh and Stephanie’s mom, Captain Steve’s wife and, basically, the be-all and end-all of ‘Steve’s Place’, boater’s haven for everything from yummy, inexpensive food and drink, to internet access, pool usage, shower usage, and all around fun and games. Amenities aside, Annie is the real reason we frequent ‘Steve’s Place’ over and over again throughout our stay in the DR. It takes us no time at all to connect with her; her inviting smile, her feisty attitude, her distinctive laugh, and her guts, as she walks through the restaurant with nothing but a towel wrapped around her plump body because she’s been requested on the ‘floor’ just as she wants to enter the shower. No shame. No insecurities. Only heartfelt greetings and laughter whenever she’s around.

Shaggy is Steve and Annie’s competition. Just one street over from ‘Steve‘s Place‘, he’s opened his newly remodeled grass-roof covered bar and (semi) restaurant. The establishment has only been operating for a couple of months now and he’s still trying to work out the internet bugs--a must if he wants to cater to the boating community. Shaggy’s mom, Lynn, does the cooking and serving, along with Camila, his Dominican girlfriend. We don’t visit Shaggy’s all too often because of the internet situation, but when we do, it’s for the music. Jam sessions are held at Shaggy’s fairly regularly, of which Camila, her voice, and her guitar are always a major part.

Wednesday and Sunday mornings in the DR begin with a cruiser’s net on the VHF. It is through one of these that I learn about Chuck and his Tai Chi classes. I’ve never practiced Tai Chi before, and I really know nothing more about it than that it has some sort of connection with the ancient Chinese text, the I Ching. I’m guessing it’ll be relaxing and peaceful--an hour of ‘me time’ three days a week. Corazon joins me for the first session, but it’s not his cup of tea. I, on the other hand, continue the class for the duration of our stay in the DR. I’m not one to brag, but I must say that every time Chuck (our ‘older‘, yet sexy, bald instructor) says that I’m a “natural”, my stomach flutters with excitement and I start having visions of running my own classes somewhere in the world, someday. Hmm. Time will tell. For now, I settle for being the class star.

Surely, Tai Chi is a necessity for me in this place. After experiencing the noisy, dusty, busy town of Luperon, I need to cleanse my spirit somehow. Though we spend a day trapesing through the wilderness, hiking up rocky cliffs and exploring the explosive blowholes of the national park, most of our time is spent strolling around the streets of the city, peeking into tiny shops filled with fruits and veggies, honey, vinegar, rice, sugar, and various types of beans--all of the daily Dominican necessities. Cows wander on tarred roads. Donkeys are tied up to trees in front yards. Stray kittens and puppies, full of fleas and ticks and internal worms, are everywhere--just everywhere. And the chickens. My goodness, the amount of wild chickens--with their babies. I’ve never seen so many chickens.

Dominicans on every other street corner, set up ’parilladas’ (bbqs) and cook whole ’pollo’ to sell for lunch or dinner. Some even build simple cookers out of short metal buckets and grills to roast corn on the cob in aluminum foil. For 100 Pesos each (about $3.00) we have sit-down meals at ‘Mamacitas’; plates heaped with ‘habituelas’(beans) in a slightly spicy tomato sauce over rice, perfectly grilled pork (according to Diego who has two servings--mine and his own) and a side of salad. Add a $1.50 more and the whole thing will come with a freezing cold ‘cervesa grande’. I don’t have to cook once--not once--while we visit the DR. It would cost us more to eat at home, believe it or not. We’re actually saving money this way. Sadly, the eating-out doesn’t come without a price. Form of payment--intestinal parasites. But, more on that later.

It’s time for an adjustment to Diego’s braces. He’s found an orthodontist who administers the Darmon System in the big, busy city of Santiago. We’re in for an exciting day of adventure which begins with an interesting ‘gua gua’ ride (a gua gua is a taxi which can only really accommodate 4-5 passengers comfortably, but into which the drivers inevitably find/make room for 7 or 8). Corazon sits on Diego’s lap on the driver’s side in the backseat, I sit next to him and a Dominican man next to me. The front passenger seat is occupied by two grown men, one of which I don’t even notice exists until we drop him off at his house about 3 miles from the gua gua station. He leaves us, making room for the gentleman left sitting there, only 2 miles down the track the poor guy has to shift all his wieght back to the one butt cheek to make room for the hefty Lady who squeezes in. A few miles more, and the guy next to me asks to be released from this germ trap, but once he’s gone I stay right where I am, scrunched up next to Diego. The dude left a blood stain on the seat the size of a tennis ball. Don’t ask. I know nothing.

From gua gua to bus, to taxi, to taxi, to taxi again. Finally, we arrive for Diego’s appointment. I’ve never experienced an orthodontist (or any doctor for that matter) quite like this before. Upon arrival we are served cappuccinos, fruit punch and pastries. The music plays softly in the background. Glamorous women wait patiently in cushy chairs, each having brought along their latest reads to pass the time. Gold bracelets clank as they turn pages. Mouths are kept closed for the most part. No one wants to display the metal behind their ruby red lips. The only thing missing is the caviar and champagne after the tightening of the braces. A little numbing liquid could go a long way. I’d say that for the all-inclusive price of $100.00 we got a bargain here today. I’d come back again. In the states all you get is a wire replacement with a side of pain.

We’ve been searching high and low for an apartment or hotel room for my parents to rent, and finally we’ve found one. Lisa, the assistant Tai Chi instructor has a fully furnished, two bedroom apartment right next door to hers, open and available for the three weeks they’ll be visiting. All of this for only $250.00 in total (have I told you how inexpensive the DR is?). It has the most magnificent views of horse pastures and open ocean on the one side, and flowering gardens on the other. Perfect.

We learn that on Saturdays the whole town gets together for baseball games. Gringos vs. Dominicans. Man, those guys are good! We watch as they practice before the game begins. Not one of the opposing team members drop a ball, and whatever their target, it always hits smack-on. Between practice and the start of the game, Trish and Megan run over to talk to us a bit. Mother and daughter both played last weekend, and according to them, we hadn’t seen anything yet. The force with which these guys throw that ball, could knock an elephant over, or so they say. Apparently, the Dominicans generally go easy on the Gringos, especially miniature Gringos like Corazon. When they play Dominican against Dominican, oooooh, watch out.

Needless to say, DR wins every time. And every Saturday, after the game, El Pichichis, the local corner bar (which literally sits at the vertex of two streets) fills up with gringos and Dominicans alike, for a few after-game beers. The loosing team has to shout them, of course, but at Dominican prices, it doesn’t break the pocketbook, and best of all, it brings everyone together for a dance and a laugh.
Megan meets a boy here, and though Dad gets a little freaked, he gives her space to be herself. We watch from a distance as she dances with him--far apart at first, then a bit closer, then a glance at Dad, and father apart again.

We meet my parents at the airport in Santiago where we spend one night with them at the Hotel Colonial before taking them ’home’ to Luperon. ‘Culture shock’ is an understatement to say the least, though my parents truly are old hands at this traveling business, so it doesn’t take them long to find a groove. They warm up to Annie and Mamacita immediately, and are accepted as part of the boating crowd right from the start. Most of our time in Luperon is spent socializing either at Steve’s Place, Mamacitas or Shaggy’s. My dad especially loves all of the interaction with our cruising friends. I think meeting them has calmed his nerves a bit. He can see first hand that we are surrounded by a genuine, caring group of people, and that wherever anyone can, they will lend a helping hand. For the first time, he sees that we truly aren’t alone.

Though my dad would rather spend his vacation sitting at these locales, conversing, my mom travels to see the world, and in her opinion the world is made up of more than just Luperon. Her greatest wish on this trip is to visit Santo Domingo, the historic capital of the Dominican Republic. So, we book two rooms at the Hotel Duque de Wellington and hop on the cross-country bus for a four night mini vacation in one of the most interesting and educational cities I have ever spent time in.

The five hour bus ride proves to be torturous. Diego, my dad and I have had rumbling tummies for the past few days now. The cramps and gurgling noises are caused by two or three different parasites the lady doctor couldn’t give us the exact names of--or maybe we just couldn’t understand her. Either way, she stocked us up on various pills, one to be taken in the morning with food, another to be swallowed three times a day, and yet another to be flushed down with plenty of water or juice twice a day. Diego has decided to tough it out and let his body rid of the creatures naturally. My dad thinks this is all just a bad dream and gets through it all with little more than denial on his side. I, on the other hand, have no other desire than to kill these little bastards ASAP and become a pill popping machine--so unlike me. You know, I can handle the stomach cramps and the gurglings. I can even take the endless toilette visits with a grain of salt. But what brings me to tears and sends continuous shivers down my spine is the knowledge that these microscopic, living organisms are actually, literally, unremorsefully feeding on my body. Sorry, but this is where I must draw the line. My ‘live and let live’ motto ends here. Die, suckers. Die.

The Dominican landscape is magnificent. Lush vegetation covers the country from one end to the other. Tiny barios sprinkled here and there amidst a mass of banana and coconut trees, fill in the gaps between larger cities. Dominicans, as most latinos, are a social bunch, and so they spend most of their time sitting or standing around talking, laughing, singing and dancing on the streets in front of their homes. Children are looked after by the entire community, and though the poverty plaguing this 3rd world country is visible at every turn, the locals are rich in love and friendship. Their greatest joys lie in their togetherness.

There is nothing serene or quiet about anything in the DR. I’ve been on sensory overload since we arrived here weeks ago; constant noise, constant chatter, constant barking, crying, singing, screaming, ranting, raving, laughing. Music blaring. Buses roaring. Traffic racing. Children running. Pigeons fluttering in massive swarms. We watch Corazon chase the latter all around and through the bench-lined central plaza between where we sit at an outdoor café at the end of the Zona Colonial (the main shopping street), and the Cathedral Santa Maria la Menor (the first cathedral in the New World). In the heart of the square stands the bronze statue of none other than the famous Spanish explorer, Cristobal Colon. What? You don’t know who that is? Have you heard of Christopher Columbus? Believe it or not, his given name proved to difficult to pronounce by Anglicans, so they simply changed it to better suit their own pronunciation abilities. Hmm, go figure.

He’s not the only one who is held in such high regard here, though. Cristobal’s brother, Diego, is the other true hero and martyr in these parts. We visit the Alcazar de Colon, Diego’s family palace, where we are transported in time to the year 1517. The structure still stands strong and proud today. A double story square made of 40 inch-thick coral limestone walls, intricately carved Spanish interior frames and furnishings, and breathtaking views of the surrounding city through massive shuttered windows. Corazon’s favorite piece was, of course, an original, honest to goodness, pirates’ treasure chest. Imagine the gold and jewels it would have contained way back in the day?

We walk the historic cobblestoned Calle del Conde and Calle de las Damas, admiring homes, one clinging onto the next, 500 years old, with oversized hand carved, wooden front doors 4 inches thick, and worn bricks hidden behind walls of lush, green, creeping ivy. When I concentrate hard enough, I’m sure I hear the clodding of horse hoofs, the rumbling of street carriages, the laughter of drunken pirates, the cackling of chickens, the snorting of pigs, the shatter of glass from a deckhand’s brawl at a nearby pub.

Sadly, my turbulent tummy breaks my focus more often than not. I’m taking it all in, but only between frequent bathroom visits. Purell becomes my constant companion.

We hit all of the major tourist sites in this ancient city, each one more amazing and eye-opening than the next. An entire street block dedicated to Cristobal’s memorial stands proud and tall all dressed in concrete outside and in magnificent white marble inside. The first few rooms in the building are filled with documents centuries old. Hundreds and hundreds of pages of text, hand-written on papyrus leaves and yellowing, wilting, dying paper sit propped up on stands behind panes of glass. I’m in heaven surrounded by these ancient documents covered in the ink of fountain pens long gone. While the rest of the family walks ahead and tours rooms showcasing the highlights of various countries of the world, I stay back to examine the stokes, slants, stains and smudges of texts written in languages I know but cannot comprehend. There is no logical understanding of the words I read, only shivers of emotion at what I know lies on these withering sheets behind glass cases.

In the midst of the hustle and bustle, there lies a grotto. An underground lagoon accessible by steep rock staircases leading this way and that. A maze of walkways luring tourists from one aquamarine pool of fresh water to the next. If we didn’t know better, we’d think we were stuck in the Goonies movie complete with seeping, crying, weeping rock walls and flying fruit bats hiding in the innermost caves. Oversized ferns and tropical plants grow out of cracks and crevices to lend an air of romance, and water turtles flap their flippers furiously to escape over-anxious, over-stimulated, over-sugared little kids.

While our days are spent sight-seeing, the nights are left for relaxing and people-watching. Our favorite, after hours hang-out, believe it or not, is an open-air kiosk right across the street from our hotel. We sit here in green, plastic, lawn chairs, disposable cups in hand, sharing a freezing cold Presidente (the national beer) the size of my forearm. Surrounding us in chairs of their own are only locals--no tourists--not one. Everyone smiles and nods at our presence, and no one minds that Corazon is here as well--no one but Corazon, that is. He’s ready for bed. Not really. He just loves the cable T.V. upstairs in the room.

In the morning, after breakfast, we buy ten pounds of coffee from the Hermanos Villar (if you ever get to Santo Domingo, you must stop by here) and head back to Luperon, a bit more informed on the beginnings of the New World and a lot more exhausted from days upon days of walking, reading and learning. The bus is packed full. No choice of seating. Mammi, Corazon and I are packed into the back like sardines while Diego and Pappi sit somewhere up front. They’ve got it good way up there. We, on the other hand, am stuck next to a sniffling, snorting, slobbery Dominican businessman who’s just short of hacking up a lung--all the way home.

My parents are here for another week, so we tour the countryside once more, but this time, we head east, to Sosua, sea-side haven for young partygoers and tourists. We arrive by gua gua, though this time we pay for an extra seat so that we don’t have to share our space with strangers--it’s less squishy this way. Besides, my dad is a big man, and does just fine in the front passenger seat on his own. Of course, even he doesn’t mind sharing when, on the homeward drive, a busty young lady slides in and occupies the center console (which most of the gua gua drivers cover with a thin pillow to ‘add’ additional seating) wearing a low, v-necked frilly blouse.

Sosua reminds us of Venice Beach in California--minus the paved sidewalk, and minus the crazy guitar guy on rollerskates. Oh, and minus the $1.00/slice pizza vendors, and minus all the dogs on leashes, and minus the bicyclists and cops on horses. OK, maybe it isn’t all that much like Venice. It is a hip and happening destination for the younger crowd though, with bars and discos lining the main street which leads to the crescent shaped beach a bit further down the hill.

We sit and drink fizzy water under old growth trees just opposite the souvenir shop vendors lined up one after the other after the other--all carrying the same goods, all calling out to come and buy from them, all with very different opinions on the price of the same item. My dad is in the market for a colorful Dominican beach towel, but while one guy tells him it’ll cost 250 pesos, the next one tells him 350. So, being the frugal shoppers that we are, we question each and every one of them and finally settle on buying one from the little old lady who agrees to sell us her last one for 225.

Corazon has been dying to go swimming in the ocean since we left the Bahamas, and my dad’s been longing for it ever since they got here too. The water in Luperon, where we are anchored, is nowhere near clean. As a matter of fact, the run-off from the entire town finds its way into the Bay of Luperon. Now, you can imagine that this third world country doesn’t exactly have the modern-day sewage systems most of us are used to, so--yeah, that’s enough said on that, right? Finally, the two of them get to play, and they do, but only after lots of reassurance from us that no one will notice that Corazon is wearing boxer shorts instead of board shorts. After some time, he gives in, but he still doesn’t believe us.

Since my parents arrived three weeks ago, Errante Brisa has attempted to sail toward Puerto Rico twice, both times without success. Once because the wind and waves were just too rough, and the second time because their main sail tore. Luckily, this happened right outside of the Luperon cut, so they weren’t too far off before they had to return. Poor Trish’s fingertips are tender and sore from pushing the sail fabric through her sewing machine for days on end, now. Although, they’d like to get moving and progress onward down the caribbean island chain, they are destined to spend a bit more time with us. We will be spending a few more weeks with them, and we are so very grateful for that.

Weather windows don’t come around all too often around these parts, so when you get one, you take it. Lucky for us, the day before my parents fly back to the States, ocean conditions are ideal. We, and many other boaters (Errante Brisa included), take this opportunity to continue south.

It’s been incredible having my parents here with us for this length of time. Corazon has had a blast--we all have. Now, it’s time to say goodbye, and this always proves difficult for me. I wish we could take them to the airport, instead of leaving them to fend for themselves in this Spanish speaking country, but surely they’ll be fine. They always seem to manage to communicate--using hands and feet to make their point when necessary. They’ll be fine. But, will I? As I get older, the time I spend with my parents becomes more and more precious to me. Funny, how things change through the years.

We leave in the dark of night. Some other boat, a monohull, took off not too long ago, but they are already on their way back in again. Their engine went down. They have no sense of direction, so they’ve requested help in finding their way back. Our spotlight acts as their guide, and once we pass too far, three other boats are waiting to take over and escort them into the harbor under sail. We continue on our way, but with a very different outlook. The loss of an engine can happen to anyone. What a scary thought, being out here in this vast blackness all alone. This time there are others there to lend a helping hand, but what happens when there is no one in sight, or worse yet, when there is no one in radio range?

On to Samana where we have to check back into the DR, and repay our entrance fee. The bill isn’t too steep this time since we’ve come from another part of the same country, but it sure is annoying, paying these customs officials every time we move in or out. Ugh. Once again, Diego’s Spanish helps us tremendously. Though they don’t try to rip us off, the officials have come up with a different tactic to make a bit of extra cash--they bring along a translator, and for a fee of $20.00 he’ll guide you through the check-in process. Not a bad deal if you don’t know the language.

We leave Samana the next morning with a whole fleet of boats. There is ‘I Dunno’, ‘Beach House’, ‘Nakita’, ‘Lutra’ and us. We are all a bit chicken about this leg of the trip, and glad to have radio contact with each other for the duration. We thought the Gulf Stream was a tough one to cross, but the Mona Passage has been advertised as treachurous, torturous, and even deadly at times.

On our way out of the Samana channel, I look to our starboard (right) side just as a mama humpback whale does a full body breech and smacks with a massive splash right back into the water, not 50 feet away from us. Her size is astonishing and, might I say, frightening, considering she’s probably 10-15 feet longer than X-T-Sea (which is 39 feet in length already). Had she landed on our boat, there would no longer be an X-T-Sea and maybe not even a Vilar family of 3. She’s not alone. Shortly after she decends back into the depths of the wide, deep channel, her calf jumps out in an arched swoop, just like the dolphins and whales do in their shows at Sea World, back home in California. It seems that while Mom is warning us of their presence, Baby just wants to play. He circles Mom a few times in hopes that she will join him, but she only breeches twice more (this time displaying only half of her body) in communication with us before she quiets down and flips her tail as if to say goodbye as we continue on our way.

We’re in for a long journey, but the company over the VHF, helps us through the night. We leave Samana in the afternoon, and by the time darkness settles in around us, we have a beer bet happening with Nikita (Diego swears we won’t hit any squalls along the way, while Dave says we will), and an order for a fish dinner from Patti on ‘Lutra’. By the end of it all, we win the beer, but the meal of ‘pescado’ must be postponed. The only thing we ‘catch’ this trip is ‘Beach House’. In an attempt to overtake us, they switch from the port to the starboard side at our stern, and get all tangled up in one of our fishing lines. Sadly, Diego’s favorite lure is gobbled up by the sea, or so we think. Though we don’t run into any foul weather, the water is all but calm for most of this 16 hour ride through the Mona Passage. There are times where we feel our stomaches in our throats and vice versa. Space Mountain has nothing on this!

We are the second to last boat to arrive in Bocaron, Puerto Rico, followed a few hours later by ‘Lutra’. All safe and sound, we gather on shore to swap sailing stories with a round of drinks and an olive tapenade appetizer provided by June on ‘I Dunno’. This is where we have our first face to face conversation with Patti who single hands her Pearson 35 yawl (don’t ask me what ‘yawl’ means--surely it has nothing to do with the southern slang term for ‘you all’).

We’ve been conversing with Patti for hours upon hours through our night travels, but we’ve never met in person. Not until now, anyway. Quickly, we discover why she is so loved by everyone she meets. Her enthusiasm equals Diego’s, and if you know Diego then you are aware of just how infectious said enthusiasm can be. We hit it off immediately, and feel as if we’ve known this woman forever--and it doesn’t take long to realize that we will know her forevermore.

Bocaron, Puerto Rico, USA. Ahh, it’s good to be in the States again. Yes, yes, ok, it’s not ‘The States’, but it is American(ized) nonetheless. It’s like a Spanish speaking America. We love the mix and enjoy our days here walking the streets and spending some much needed time relaxing on the beach with a gazillion other people. Again, I’m able to put my Spanish to use--this time with the knowledge that if I don’t get it right, I can always switch to English. Puerto Ricans seem to prefer that tourists at least make an attempt at approaching them in their own language. If they notice you having any difficulties though, they are more than happy to answer in English.

‘Errante Brisa’ (Chris, Trish and Megan) landed in Bocaron a few days before we did, but they are still here now, and when we hear that they are continuing on their way toward Tortola, BVI, we join them, considering it’s REALLY time for us to get to work and bring in some $$$$$.

We travel at the same speed, stopping in agreed upon anchorages overnight and leaving within hours of each other each morning. Believe it or not, one of these anchorages is called Gilligan’s Island, and though it looks nothing like what we’ve seen on T.V. from where we’ve dropped the hook, we realize just why they’ve decided to call it that as we explore the backwoods area. A dinghy ride to a well kept wooden dock, leads us to a manicured pathway beneath palm and cassowary trees and through ranger patrolled picnicking spots complete with benches and trash cans. It’s hot and humid, so no one protests taking a dip in the waist deep crystal clear water surrounding this little island. It is here, where we all begin to make the connection between this place and what we’ve seen on T.V.. It looks a bit like the bay where Gilligan and the rest of the crew spend most of their time trying to escape the island--fine sand, tall palms, gently lapping water. Peaceful. But, even this small sense of familiarity fades quickly. We decide that it really doesn’t remind us too much of Gilligan’s Island at all, but it was worth the stop anyway.

Onward to Salinas where we spend about a week, enjoying every minute of being tourists in this exotic country. ‘Divided Sky’ meets up with us here, bringing the whole, original gang back together again.

The highlight of this portion of our trip is that we hire a rental car to tour the Puerto Rican rainforest--yes, there is a rainforest!

Of course, we’ve all been deprived of ‘real stores’, so when we pass K-Mart and Walmart and West Marine, our mouths drop in awe and we can’t resist stopping the car and taking a stroll through the aisles. A stroll turns into a couple hours worth of piling needed/wanted items into shopping carts. Corazon really scores today. The rental car came equipt with a T.V. and dvd player, so when we buy him the first season of Gilligan’s Island (he’s never seen this show before), he’s glued to the screen for the remainder of the drive. Ahh, it’s so quiet for a change.

Before we start our trudge through the rainforest, we indulge in some traditional Puerto Rican roadside, highly fried, yummy, greasy, food--and drink, of course. As a matter of fact, Diego (who is not behind the wheel today) stocks up on a dozen or so miniature wine bottles. They keep him going all day--Diego factor x 10 (for all of you Diego factor lovers out there).

The rainforest trek turns out to be a refreshing experience--literally as well as figuratively. It’s been a while since we’ve been surrounded by greenery this old and overgrown. The walkways are steep and damp. Moss grows on rocks and trees, and ferns provide ground cover to fill in all open spaces between high bushes and flowering plants. We make our way along man-made paths to our long awaited destination--a fresh water pool fed by a stunning waterfall. I’m reminded of the ‘Irish Spring’ T.V. commercials from way back when I was a kid, where beautiful Irish women bathed nude in places just like this. I’m tempted to do the same but don’t, considering the mass of tourists gathered here. Instead, we ladies (plus Clay) jump into the freezing cold water wearing our bikinis--we’ve come prepared. A few pictures and a bit of a swim later, we all climb right back out again, our skin burning from the icy water. I slip on a mossy rock and reopen an old wound on my right knee. Blood runs down my leg, but I’m spared the pain that should accompany it. Thankfully, my entire body has gone numb from the water temperature.

Dinner at Sizzler. There really isn’t much else to say on this topic except that when you haven’t been out to eat at an American institution for the past 6 months (at least), it is an effort to keep from salivating while waiting in line to be seated--and this happens to be a very looooonnnnnnggggg line.

The Spanish Virgin Island of Culebrita is our next stop. Thus far, this is our absolute favorite anchoring spot. The island is uninhabited and pristine. The crystal clear water crawls with turtles who pop their heads out to greet us every now and again. The beach is crescent shaped and surrounded by rock and coral at the head, while palms and shrubbery line the length of it. Having such a shallow draft on our boat comes in handy here as we are able to anchor close to shore--close enough to swim to the beach, in fact. Sadly, the snorkeling isn’t worth writing about. Most of the coral reefs are dead in this area, a state which plagues much of the underwater world on the planet nowadays. We do get to do a bit of land exploration though. We hike up to the deserted lighthouse as a group and marvel at the size of this falling structure. It’s not just ‘any old lighthouse’, we come to discover. It’s more like a run-down home from long ago complete with various rooms and a courtyard, topped by a lighthouse. One thing is for sure, the view from up here is spectacular. We look down on ‘Errante Brisa’ and ‘X-T-Sea’ in the bay below and all the way around to the open ocean side. I’ve never seen so many shades of blue and green. Magnificent.

Tortola, BVI is our next stop--and our last in conjunction with ‘Errante Brisa’. It’s time for us to get to work, and Chris, Trish and Megan to start heading back up toward Florida. Goodbyes are difficult enough as it is, but with these three we’re really having a hard time, especially Corazon, who has found a big sister, playmate, fellow Garfield lover and confidant in Megan. We all have our own paths to follow, and as hard as it is to know that we won’t be seeing each other daily anymore, these are all wonderful life lessons for our little guy. True friendships are never lost....

Diego finds a job rather quickly, only it’s a temporary cash job and not exactly all he was hoping for. We are better off going to the USVI where we are told jobs are plentiful and where we have the added bonus of legally being able to work.

So, we backtrack. St. Thomas here we come. We stop off in St. John just long enough for Diego to get into and right back out of a construction job--a field he is sure he no longer wants to be a part of. And, just long enough to run into Patti once again. Social butterfly that she is, she’s the one who gives us the lead to the job Diego now holds. Yes people, Diego’s official title; seamstress. Hard to believe, I know, but this is the case. He’s working for a sailmaker here on the island, repairing sails, making seat cushions, and fixing canvas awnings. The hours are flexible and the pay is good, but the best part is that he has the ability to take a captain’s course while he works there.

Since we need to hang around St. Thomas to work for a while, we do tons of four day weekend trips to St. Croix, Culebra (which is only a ferry ride from Puerto Rico) and Culebrita. All are within a few hours reach and each have a charm of their own.

Corazon has taken off to see my parents in California so, Diego and I have been alone for a couple of months. At first, it’s strange and quiet around the boat. But then, you remind yourself that he’s in the best possible hands. He’s safe. He’s happy. He’s having fun. That’s when you relax and really start to have some fun yourself. It’s always good to have some time to reflect on life and philosophize together--time we don’t take enough of when Corazon is here. We’ve had a roller coaster ride of a year...literally...and figuratively. There’s been a lot to digest and think about--grow from.

We keep bumping into Patti, and we are so glad to have her company. None of the other boaters we traveled down the islands with are near. Almost all of them have continued south to take their boats out of the hurricane zone for insurance reasons. But Patti hangs around so that she can fly out of St. Thomas to the States for work once a month (she’s a marine biologist). It is through Patti that we meet Mark, another single hander, and it doesn’t take long before we too feel like old friends. X-T-Sea transforms into a regular venue for dinner and drinks yet again.

8-7-09
Patti has offered us an experience of a lifetime: to pretend like we are scientists, weighing and measuring baby turtles. Never in my wildest dreams (well, OK, maybe in my wildest dreams), but never in my normal dreams did I ever think I would have this opportunity! Weighing and measuring baby turtles. I’m sad that Corazon isn’t here to experience this, but right now, it’s my turn. He’s off experiencing his own things--and I (Diego and I) get to weigh and measure baby turtles.

8-10-09
The afternoon sun beats down on us as we trudge through the scorching sand back and forth, back and forth, peeking into probable turtle nests. Our job is to scan the nests dug here by giant female Leatherback Sea Turtles a few months ago, for any signs of the tiny black heads of their newly hatched offspring. Patti’s friend, Tomo, and the turtle hatchling research coordinator, Kelly, are genetically sampling and documenting sometimes hundreds of these squirmy little guys every night for a good portion of their hatching period. Turtle scientists, like Tomo and Kelly, are trying to figure out (over the course of many, many years) the mating habits and maternal/paternal relationships of these gorgeous creatures.

Ten of us squish into two cars and drive for about a mile, along a bumpy, mangrove lined, dirt road, through a locked gate, to the turtle nesting grounds--a stretch of beach on the southwest tip of St. Croix. We park and unload various boxes filled with necessary scientific tools and devices. There are syringes and test tubes, tiny cutting boards and biopsy punchers, rubbing alcohol, swabs, head lamps, rubber gloves and an abundance of measuring devices. There are empty boxes which will serve as turtle holding trays after the sample extraction process, and ten or so, sturdy, 100% cotton, Indian-made round bags, of which we are each given one, to collect any early nest escapees.

And so it begins. The walking. The sweating. The bugs. The need for water. Up and down the beach we go, always on the lookout for little black heads emerging from the sand. Amy, one of the assistant research scientists, spots the first hatchlings of the evening, but unfortunately, out of the five oval bodies we find, only one is still slightly wriggling. They have dug their way up from a depth of 40-60 cm, have flapped their flippers through layer upon layer of course sand, and have hit the surface too soon--at 6:00 p.m. it’s still too hot. All but one have dehydrated.

“And the final survivor doesn’t stand much of a chance either,” says Kelly.

Logically, I understand the nature of the animal world--that not all of the hatchlings can survive, but my heart drops as I hold the weak baby turtle in my hands and watch as it struggles to make the slightest movements. I let it rest in the palm of my hand where it ceases to move at all. Out of fear that it too has died, I hold it between my thumb and index finger, and turn it over onto its back, revealing its white underside. It flaps its long, thin front flippers, and ever so slightly, paddles with the two round back ones. At least it’s still alive.

Kelly places the dead bunch of turtles into a turtle bag, labels the bag with the exact location of the nest it came from, and walks, weakling in hand, back down the beach to ‘home base’. There, she has set up a mobile research station constructed of various plastic boxes, where she will sit most of the night, extracting genetic samples from the fragile flippers of each and every captured turtle, dead or alive. She shares the station with Justin, who is finishing up his PHD in marine biology. Justin isn¡’t genetically sampling the turtles. Rather, he is here to test the levels of mercury and selenium in their blood as well as to research the reason why some nests don’t hatch and some embryos don’t form at all. His is a different scientific study all together.

The walking continues. Back and forth along the beach. From ‘home base’ to marker number 165 and back again. It becomes too tiring for Diego, who is happy to rest, taking on the job of turtle sitter as a few stragglers inch their way out through the surface of their warm nest--one which initially erupted last night. This is what the scientists call a ‘second emergence’.

The night continues without all too much hatching action. In total, 168 live hatchlings are recorded. Yesterday there were 258. Some days are more fruitful than others. Kelly hopes to reach the 7000 mark by Thursday (today is Monday). So far, in the 5 weeks she’s been here, she’s collected data on 6400 of them. She’s cautiously optimistic that she’ll reach her goal.

Though our main reason for being here tonight is to walk and scan the beach, I also have the privilege of acting as assistant turtle nurse, swabbing the sampled area of each of the collected babies with rubbing alcohol on a styptic. I may be delusional, or in my own fantasy world, but it seems to me that each of the baby turtles I touch with the saturated styptic almost immediately relaxes and breathes a sigh of relief about the pain and un-comfort of the poking and prodding being over. I’m happy to provide them relief. I’m happy to be the one to soothe them. I enjoy this part of the job the most.

What I enjoy the least, is the release. Before all of this began, while this experience was all still just a dream, I imagined that this would be my favorite part--knowing that I have provided these new borne reptiles with what they have been longing for the most since their hatching--their home, the ocean. But now, as I stand here at the water’s edge in the dark of night, the waves rumbling and crashing, the moon clouded over, the wind eerily rustling the leaves in the background, the thought of what oversized, ferocious, turtle-eating monsters are lurking out there in the black water, I no longer feel like a savior, rather, I am filled with guilt at the thought of what horrors these tiny creatures will have to experience out there all alone. Logically, I know that I’m being a ‘sap’--but, that’s me, I guess.

I help the scientists out for three nights in a row. Diego joins me for the first and the third. He may very well be the reason why we are not invited back for a fourth night. And, that’s all I’ll say about that!

8-15-09
On our time off from turtle work, we explore the island of St. Croix. We are in love. The streets, the buildings, the people--are all, well--clean. There are two major towns on either side of St. Croix--Christiansted and Fredriksted. Fredriksted is the quieter of the two, and it’s where we are anchored for the first few nights since it is closer to Sandy Point, the turtle nesting area. The scientists have rented a car, and we are lucky enough to be asked along for a day’s excursion to the Cruzan Rum Distillery. The actual site is nothing to write home about, especially not after having visited Colorado’s Budweiser and Coors factories, where the stainless steel vats and drums shone spotlessly and one could eat off of the polished hardwood floors. But, the taste testing after the tour is exceptional. We try everything from Single Barrel to Blackstrap shots. There is vanilla rum (great in a drink called a ‘cheesecake’--mix vanilla rum with equal parts of pineapple juice and cranberry juice), mango rum, cherry rum, raspberry rum, pineapple rum, aged rum, and rum cream. Pete, our tour guide and bartender, makes us drink after yummy drink, and he even throws in a rum soaked maraschino cherry for each of us--WOW!!! All of this drinking for $5.00 per person (the tour fee). We are looking into declaring ourselves local residents--they can come and drink for free. Hah. Who knew?

All joking aside, Diego has been calling around for work this morning. We’ve moved the boat to Christiansted, and Diego is beside himself--head over heals in love with this quaint little town. People are friendly (something we’re finding to be sadly unusual in the USVI), the streets are clean, the transportation is cheap, there are playgrounds, the Danish history is alive and visible everywhere. But, when he comes back to his senses, he lets me know that we will be leaving tomorrow after all. Our charter company paperwork should be signed and ready to go shortly. Once an entrepreneur, always an entrepreneur--no more working for someone else, if we can help it--and no more construction, though it’s tempting. Day charters seem to be the way to go. The boat, a big financial investment, needs to ‘work’ for us, and this way, the three of us get to spend our days together--working and schooling--but also, snorkeling and having fun.

Just as soon as we make the decision to pack up and allow our mini, Munch-less, single vacation to come to an end tomorrow and head back to St. Thomas, chartering and sail repair work, we hear the latest weather report. Anna, a tropical storm, is making her way toward the Virgin Islands. Her projected path is illustrated as a hodgepodge of curved lines--all of them shooting directly through these parts. Anna wouldn’t really pose all too much of a problem since she’s not expected to strengthen, but just behind her, Bill, another storm is brewing, and this one looks like it will turn into a hurricane rather quickly. We decide to hang around St. Croix after all, and tie up to the mangroves in Salt River, away from all of the shops and people in the hip and happening boardwalk of old Christiansted--a sad thought, after all of the fun we’ve been having with the locals at the Rumrunner happy hour.

8-16-09
It’s a race to Salt River, the only mangrove protected hurricane hole on the island. While everyone frantically tears down their sails and canopies and straps their boats tighter to the mooring balls within the bay, we head out into open ocean--go figure. Though we are the first boat to leave the security of the reef surrounded Christiansted anchorage, we are not the only ones to head to Salt River on this calm Sunday morning.

Just as soon as we ‘temporarily’ drop the hook to check out our options for tying up in the mangroves, Victor pounces on us. The crazy Russian boater has been working on preparing a spot for his 60 foot monohull all morning, and now he is worried that we will move in on his territory. Patti has been here since yesterday and has gotten to know Victor and the other local boaters. She’s given them all a heads-up, that we would be joining them soon, securing a physical spot for us here in the mangroves, and a soft spot for us in their hearts. Just as soon as we let Victor know that we are, indeed, Patti’s friends, his facial expression softens, and we are welcomed into the community.

Most of the morning hours are spent planning and preparing. It’s too early to move the big boat into the innermost mangrove swamp. The tide is too high, and there is one dangerously shallow area to maneuver through. We barely make it in with the dinghy, to poke around, sounding the bottom with an oar as we go. We need at least 3.3 feet of water below us in order to pass through the narrow channel to the pond, and at this very moment, the depth is just under three.

The sails come down easily, and since Diego has learned how to do it in his work at the sail loft, we quickly flank them and store them in Corazon’s empty berth. The main sail poses the greatest storage problem, but Diego decides to tie it up to the boat’s rails instead of pulling out all of the batons and folding it up for what could end up being a very short storage period.

It’s not just us preparing for the big blow. Big Beard’s Charters has brought two of their boats in and tied them up extensively along the mangroves in the channel. The St. Croix diving club has done the same, making use of their dive gear by physically swimming down and checking their anchors.

By one o’clock, we are anxious to wrap up our preparations and head into the swamp. We pilot through the channel, passing Gordon and his crew on the ‘Adventure’, ‘Snark’, Dan and Kimber’s Island Packet, and the dive boat--all of them secured and ready for the coming storms. We are the first to attempt the passage through the entrance to the swamp--the guinea pigs. Patti has come with us for the ride, knowing that with her draft of 3.9, she’ll be able to get in just behind us. Diego powers up and we make a run for the underwater shoal we know sits in the middle of the channel, in hopes that the water level has risen enough for us not to bottom out. No such luck. We’re stuck in the mud. We sit and wait. We have a few rum drinks, and wait some more. That’s when we meet Doc.

Doc, a gynecologist, specializes in cesarean sections and practices here on the island. He’s tall and handsome with his slightly graying hair and dark skin. He’s intelligent, well-spoken and well-read--philosophical. He’s independent and lives simply, quietly, peacefully. His home is a 16 foot sailing dinghy, without a toilette or running water. There is no ‘inside’ to speak of at all; just a shell, a mast and a sail. He owns very little and we wonder what and where he eats and cooks, since we don’t notice any signs of food or utensils. A man of few words, he comes and goes quickly, leaving us to wait out the tide while he tacks out of the channel, crashing, head-on, into the tangled roots of the mangrove trees only once on his way. Luckily, he’s wearing a bicycle helmet.

By 5:00 p.m. the pond is filled with anchors and lines. There are four boats here now. There is Patti on Lutra, and us, of course. Across the way, strapped to the secured, old, deserted wooden barge against the mangroves, is ‘Metamorphosis’, Victor’s ‘pirate ship’. And tied to Metamorphosis, is Doc’s sailing dinghy, with Doc inside, shuffling his few personal items from one end of the tiny space to the other.

The sun begins to set. Victor lights four orange lanterns and places them carefully, two in the center cockpit and two at the stern, onto their hooks. Once the lighting is arranged, he pours himself his first glass of wine, and then, provides us all with the sweet, melodic, sensual sounds of flutes, harps and guitars. A romantic Russian cultural experience commences.

Doc covers his 16 foot sailboat with an old blue tarp, tent-style, and ducks away for the night. In tune with nature, he sleeps when the sun does. A single, red light shines through the fabric of the tarp in the dark of night--but not for long. The music soon lulls him to sleep.

The water is still. Short gusts of wind sweep through my hair and burst into my face making me gasp for air. I catch my breath. Metamorphosis sings a song. Harps flutter, flutes fly. Guitars hum. In the background, the sounds of nature. Birds harmonize. Crickets chirp. A dog barks, and another howls. The wind strengthens, overpowering the voices of insects and instruments. Water drips from the lines securing the boat to the mangroves. Leaves rustle. The harps and flutes chime in again. Each individual part needs the others to complete it, to bring it to life.

I watch the clouds form shapes, and in their negative space I see a bat. I can clearly make out the pointy ears and the elongated shape of its body, suggestions of wings along its sides. The ears droop, lengthen, flatten out. The bat is now an angel. A snow angel. But soon, this changes further. Celestial wings fade away completely, leaving only a body. The angel turns into a ghost.

Everything is cyclic. Everything has patterns. Everything has meaning. Connections can be made at any time, in any place, with anyone.

For the remainder of this night, peace replaces anxiety.

8-18-09
It rained for most of the night. I woke up at seven o’clock, just in time to see Doc packing away the last of his few belongs--rolling them up in his blue tarp and stuffing the wrapped bundle into the crevice at the bow of his tiny sailboat. He’s off to the hospital where he’ll sleep in a real bed for the rest of the week.

Anna went from a tropical depression to a tropical storm and back to a depression again, before fizzing out completely. Bill, declared a category four hurricane, won’t come anywhere near us since he has decided to move east and north of us. We wait out another couple of hot, sticky, windless days in our little hurricane hole, sweating and bored out of our minds.

Patti, Diego and I get anxious. We know that just three miles east of us, happy hour will soon be underway at the Rumrunner Restaurant and Bar. We need some action, and there is no shortage of that once the three of us hop into our dinghy and brave the 6-9 foot waves outside of the Salt River cut--in the open ocean. On X-T-Sea, the ride would be uncomfortable, but in our 13 foot dinghy, it’s insanity. Diego drives cautiously, conscious of the fact that we have an extra guest on board, but Patti isn’t fearful, rather, as Diego decelerates, she and I yell in unison, ¡”No, no, no, go, go, go.” So, he does--right up a 7 footer, and straight back down again at what must have been a 75 degree angle--at least. Silence falls over all three of us, and once we gather our collective courage to continue on, we do--just as hard and as fast as before, until we finally make it to Rumrunners with an hour and a half of happy hour time to spare.

The ride back is quite comfortable since we are now going with the waves. Before we left, Diego made sure to pump up the tubes and check the fuel level, but he didn’t think about weather or not there was enough oil left in the reserve. The sun is setting and we’re about half way between the Christiansted boardwalk and Salt River when an alarm goes off and the dinghy begins to sputter. It doesn’t sound happy. Diego turns the engine off and then on again. Not a minute later it happens again. Sputter, sputter--beeeeeeeeeep. Engine off. Engine on. And the process repeats. We are out here all alone, and though we’ve each brought our handheld VHFs with us, this is little consolation as we’re tossed back an forth and up and down from one six foot wave to another. Engine off. Engine on. And repeat. This is how we finally make it back into the Salt River cut , through the narrow channel into the swamp where the tranquility of X-T-Sea awaits us. We all breathe a sigh of relief, say our goodnights and crawl into our respective beds.

The air is thick and muggy--heavy and windless. The tide rises in the swamp and we watch it creep up inch by inch. Diego unties all but two of the lines running from the boat to the mangroves, and pulls up the large, calcium-encrusted anchor we borrowed from the deserted barge across the way which he mindfully replaces so that others can use it in the future. Only the forward anchor holds us in place now. We are ready to make a run for the channel and cross our fingers and toes in hopes that we make it through without getting stuck in the shallows. 1, 2, 3, go. Woo Hoo! We made it. Patti, with her draft of 3.9 ft. won’t be too far behind.

We’re off to Christiansted, where Mark from ‘Carefree’ has a mooring ball we can hook up to for the night. One more happy hour at the Rumrunner Restaurant and Bar followed by a night of open, honest conversation (accompanied by a few more drinks, of course) with Patti, who has also grabbed a mooring here.

Again, I’m thrown into a state of familiarity. I see pieces of myself in Patti, as I do with everyone I take the time to get to know. But, unlike others, her openness and honesty strike a chord that runs incredibly deep within me. Today, Patti shows no sign of shyness or introversion. She’s a confident, female single-hander. In the boating world, this is a courageous feat--for men and women alike. She wasn’t always this way, she tells us a few drinks into our conversation. Boating has opened her up--has made her confidence in herself and her abilities skyrocket, and her social life soar. A quiet, shy, introverted farm girl from rural Tampa woke up one day and said to herself, “hey, I’m going to do this. I’m going to go sailing--alone”. And she did. And she is. How can confidence grow if it isn’t tested, pushed, challenged? She says that she feels so much less mature than Diego and I, though we are all the same age. I say, maturity comes in many forms. She has far surpassed us in so very many ways.

In the morning we notice that the wind direction is changing quickly. X-T-Sea’s bow is spinning toward the south--great for a smooth trip back to St. Thomas. Well, I suppose it could be even greater. Though the bow has spun, there is really no wind to speak of. Once again, we motor all the way to our destination--40 miles, a seven hour drive. Aren’t we supposed to be sailing wherever we go?

There may be no wind, but the scenery makes up for it. We are surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean, and the water is dead calm. We turn both engines off and enjoy the silence and the stillness around us. The water looks as if it’s been covered with oil--glossy, glassy, slippery and sleek. The sun sets amongst the rain clouds--highlighting their outer edges and creating deep contrasts of blues, grays, oranges and yellows. We follow the decent of the sun into the water and wait for the ever-famous green flash, again to no avail. The engines go back on, frightening the flying fish. They jump out and skim the water, leaving long fluttery paths behind them in the dead calm of the ocean’s smooth surface. Tranquility, serenity--except for the sound of X-T-Sea’s motors, of course, which remind us that we still have a few more hours to push ahead and get to our destination. Diego’s boss was expecting us back two weeks ago. Yikes. Things just kept coming up and we had to extend our vacation. Turtles and hurricanes took precedents. But, now it’s time to get back to work and make some money.

8-31-09
Never again will I recruit Diego in disciplining Corazon about his focus, or lack thereof, in school. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I’m noticing. Not once has Diego made it to “Sea School” on time, and somehow, he’s managed to create a following of fellow classmates who join forces with him in persuading the teacher to end the lessons early every day. How he does this is beyond me. The Diego factor is at work yet again.

On Friday he has his final test. The margin for error is rather small, and though he should know the workbook inside and out by now, every time he’s asked a question in class, he has to refer to the text to find the answer. If he doesn’t pass the test on Friday, he’ll be able to re-take it twice more--for an additional fee of $25.00 each time. He better pass! I never quite realized his true potential for slacking until now. Oh Corazon, you are an angel in comparison.

“Sea School” is the priority at the moment, and though Diego isn’t at all enjoying being a “student”, I must be honest and say that I’m loving every minute of it. Finally, I have a chance to do nothing but write all day long. I’ve been trying to catch up on the blog--to fill in all of those missing months. It’s not easy, but I’m hopeful about reaching my goal before Corazon gets back from California. As per his request, we’ve extended his vacation by another two weeks, making it an extra four in total. Time flies though, so I better get my butt in gear.

Tropical Storm Erika should hit us smack on in a couple of days. Once again, my writing takes a backseat to environmental circumstances. Preparations must be made. We have to fill up with diesel for the boat and fuel for the dinghy. Food shopping is driving me nuts at this point--I don’t know how many more times I can carry the excruciatingly heavy hiking backpack, filled with everything from rum and wine bottles to gallon jugs of Rotella engine oil, from the grocery store to the dinghy and then heave it onto the boat. When I got home earlier today and guzzled a glass of milk, my left arm no longer felt like cooperating--it shook as if afflicted by Parkinson’s Disease--not fun. But, I’ll have to make another trip--better to have all of the supplies we need at hand. Who knows, maybe Erika will turn into a hurricane at the last minute like Omar did in 2004 --then what?

9-6-09
Better to be safe than sorry--that’s what they say, isn’t it? Charlotte Amalie Harbor clears out by late afternoon. Crown Bay Marina is no longer accepting boats into their slips, and Yacht Haven Grande has been ordered by the U.S. Coast Guard to evacuate their facility. We leave for Culebra (downwind, toward Puerto Rico) immediately. Tropical Storm Erika lingers south and east of the islands and is expected to move north and west, ever so slowly over the next few days. Or so we are warned.

Diego regularly checks in with his boss, (who only hours before our departure gave Diego a pay raise with the agreement that we would no longer go on a vacation on such short notice--oops) to keep us updated on the storm’s progress. He also gives MisSea Boatman (yes, this is her real name), his “Sea School” instructor, a call to let her know that he will not be able to make it for the final test the following day. How does he always manage to get himself out of these things? Although, I must say, he really does know his shit. I quizzed him on at least 50 questions, and, out of all of those, he only got three wrong. He’ll be fine. I’m stressing out about this much more than he is, obviously.

Our mini-vacation is cut short. Very short. What a waste of time and resources. We’ve been away from St. Thomas just long enough to miss two days of work, the captain’s test and a rugby party. We figure we should at least have a few days of fun before heading back. It’s the weekend, and a long one at that--Labor Day, so we decide to shoot for St. Croix which lies southeast of Culebra--a 40 mile trip. The ocean should be calm, as it traditionally is just before and again after the passing of a storm. Well, the ocean may be calm, but the sky is not.

We leave Culebra at 2:00 p.m., a bit late for this long passage. The cut to get into the Christiansted harbor is a tricky one with coral heads on either side and a few twists and turns just to make it a little more exciting. This isn’t a cut you want to enter in the dark of night, but why would we ever do anything the conventional way? The sun sets as we reach the halfway mark between Culebra and St. Croix. Ahead, we watch as the darkening sky thickens with heavy clouds. Flashes of light fill the claustrophobic sky; one here, then there, a continuous show of atmospheric electricity. For us, this show is little more than a nightmare. With every bolt, our bodies tense. I clutch Diego’s leg, and dig my fingertips into his flesh, not letting go until the light show ends. The VHF startles us as Adventure of the Seas, a Royal Caribbean cruise ship, announces they’ve been struck. Their radar has gone down and their visibility in next to none. We feel special as we contact them over the radio to let them know that we are nearby. This is a ship 30 times our size, but out here we are all on equal ground, so to speak. They ask us for our exact coordinates, and rather than reassure us about what lies ahead, they warn us of the size and ferocity of the storm cell. It’s ready and waiting to eat us alive and then spit us right back out again at the other end. We decide not to hang around and serve as storm-food. Instead, we turn back and head toward St. Thomas. Our mini vacation comes to an end. Back to work we go...hi-ho, hi-ho.

Diego passes his captain’s tests without issue (yes, even the pee test). Now, all there is left before he’s handed his license is to pay a few more fees (of course), send in for this and that, and then wait. At the end of it all, we’ll run a day charter business out of the USVI. We’ll take people out sailing for 4-6 hours a day (or maybe only 2 hours for a sunset cruise). We’ll feed them, provide an open bar, take them to snorkel a shipwreck and coral surrounded by hoards of adult Yellow-Tailed Snapper (don’t even think about it, it’s a no fishing zone). And then we’ll sail them back to shore.

Sounds easy, right? Well, we’ve heard a few stories, and...the one thing I’m sure of is that we’ll have a few stories of our own to tell after the experience.

10-19-09

Our first visitor has arrived, and her timing couldn’t be more perfect. We’re getting restless hanging around St. Thomas for so long. We need a break, in more ways than one, and Lisa (our Colorado-based accountant and very dear friend) brings tons of fun and much needed laughter into our little boat home.

In preparation for her arrival, Diego has been hard at work fixing our dinghy--it now has a beautiful, new, blue canvas cover (to match the blue of our sail and grill covers) which he made from scratch all by himself. The rusty, old chains have been removed, the accelerator has been adjusted so that it smoothly slides back and forth, and the engine has been fixed with brand new (used) parts totaling about $1000.00. It was out of commission for about two weeks--since the day Corazon returned from his California vacation.

Do you have any idea what it is like not having a dinghy while living on a boat? It’s complete and utter torture (OK, maybe not exactly). It’s like living in a prison (a prison paradise, maybe--ha). Actually, it’s been quite nice, for Corazon and I at least. After school, which runs until about 1:00 pm in our home, we kayak to the beach where we spend the rest of each day. Corazon has a great little group of friends with whom he plays almost every afternoon. Honeymoon Beach kids. Kids just like him, in that they too are home-schooled and get to spend their afternoons swimming, kayaking, fishing, rolling around in the sand and in the dirt and leaves under the old growth trees, climbing them and swinging from one to another on a long rope swing. Total kid freedom on this quiet island so close to the hustle and bustle, crime and chaos of the mainland of St. Thomas.

Lisa has only been with us for two days now, and already she’s been cut, bruised, stung (by a jellyfish), and hustled on the streets of Charlotte Amalie ($2.00 in exchange for a picture of the four of us together). Poor thing suffers from motion sickness--something she’s known and had to deal with all of her life--so she’s been popping the Dramamine one after the other. She swore, years ago, after a bad cruise ship experience, that she would never again step foot on a watercraft, but a much needed island/sailing vacation proved too tempting, so she gave in, and thought she’d try it just one more time. Luckily, she’s only had to endure a couple of minor bouts of queasiness thus far, one of which was quickly remedied by a night-time dinghy ride. Wind in the face helps tremendously.

For some reason, this wonderful woman has brought with her beautiful weather and other special, magical occurrences. Since her arrival, the sun has been shining, the wind and the waves have miraculously calmed and are now perfect for sailing, dolphins have appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the East Gregory Chanel (just outside the busy city of Charlotte Amalie) where we’ve never experienced them before. We watched deer (yes, deer...on a tropical island...go figure!) graze on the side of the road in the middle of St. John while we were on our way to an amazing evening of appetizers and drinks at the Balcony Restaurant (Our gracious, single hander friend, Mark, works here...wink, wink).

We start off the evening piled in our dinghy, but something in the engine doesn’t sound right to Diego, so he thinks it best to get to Cruz Bay by Safari bus (these are open-air vehicles which serve as tourist taxis and take you from one side of the island to the other for a couple of dollars), only hitchhiking at this point is just too tempting. Diego waves down an F-250, which stops, the driver motioning for us to jump into the bed. The gate no longer exists, so we hold on for dear life as the truck flies through the switch-backs, hoping not to slide right off the back, onto the paved road and under the car behind us. By the time we reach our destination, we realize that we never would have made it there and back in the dinghy on one tank of gas anyway. Lucky we didn’t attempt it. We didn’t quite grasp how far our anchorage really is from Cruz Bay.

Now, off for further fun with our new, local St. Johnian comrade, Jonathan, a fellow builder and artist (incredible photographer, to be exact). His self-built home is awe-inspiring. In it, he melds old and new by combining refurbished wooden slabs and rock walls with African slate tiles, concrete counter tops and modern fixtures. He invites us to join him in the courtyard, which connects the main house and the guest house, for a few bottles of Chilean red wine and an assortment of cheeses with crackers. We spend a lovely evening chatting about love and loss, raising honest, caring children and, of course, the art of building and design. As we talk, I realize that somehow, I miss it. I miss watching Diego stare off into space, knowing that his head is filled with pictures of curved staircases and exposed wooden beams, concrete floors and homemade kitchen cabinet doors. I miss seeing how excited he gets when a new design idea pops up in the middle of the building process--an idea which throws the entirety of the original plan completely out of whack, but results in a final product much better than that which was initially envisioned. I miss saying goodbye to the finished creation, knowing that we’ve chosen the perfect homeowner to suit the home--that their love and laughter will fill it’s rooms and halls and that the energy of the house will, in turn, fill their souls. I miss it, but not enough to go back to that life just yet. We still have much to learn from this life--the boating life--the life of freedom.

Jonathan drives us back to our anchorage in his little work jeep, in the dark of night, windows opened wide. The cool air coming off of the trees lining the road, feels good in my face as I hang my dizzy head out of the speeding car’s back window. Again, the switch-backs throw us side to side, only this time, wine infused, we swerve and sway with them--calmly, naturally.

More Dramamine and few speedy rounds in the dinghy, quiet Lisa’s queasiness late at night when we arrive at the boat. Lots of water and a good night’s sleep is what we all need right now. Tomorrow is another day.

Final destination: Water Island. Honeymoon Beach. Home. Lisa came here to relax and lay around lazily on a private beach (at least for a portion of her time here), and after our adventurous trip of island hopping in which this poor lady has acquired various cuts and bruises (the most colorful of which she picked up as she slid off of the slippery back stairs into the thousand foot deep water we dared to jump into), and inhaled copious amounts of salt water due to a leaky (not very well-fitting snorkeling mask), she’s definately deserving of some down time. And so, we spend her last two days here at Honeymoon, soaking up the rays and cooling off in the crystal clear shallow water, watching the kids play, eating cheese and crackers, sipping on cheesecakes (the drink, not the cake) and wine, and very simply, just relaxing.

We couldn’t have wished for a more perfect first guest, and though we really didn’t know all too much about eachother’s personal lives before Lisa’s plane landed here six days ago, we’ve grown awfully close in this short time together in our tiny water home. A tear falls down my cheek as her taxi drives away, my hand still damp from holding hers all the way here on the dinghy ride to drop her off. The boat feels rather empty now. But, that’s how it goes when a special visitor leaves. No need to get too emotional, I guess. She’s already planning her next visit as I write this. HA.

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Tuesday, November 24, 2009

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Wednesday, October 28, 2009