This posting is
dedicated to Greg, Barb, Bobby, and Joanna, who will be wide-eyed with
disbelief and relief that they didn’t come with us.
In my previous posting I mentioned some goods and bads of
our excursion to the Exumas. In the last 48 hours, we’ve upped the ante in both
directions, with some REALLY goods and REALLY bads.
Really good: Dave from the sailboat
Romana gave me a lift in his dinghy to snorkel at the Sea Aquarium off
Cambridge Cay, boasting colorful fish, including some 3 or 4 feet long.
Really bad: Dave
helped me out because our dinghy outboard was disabled. While I swam with the
fishes, Dave’s passenger, Al, helped Pope find the problem—a broken and jammed
shear pin.
Really good: Saw
a stingray chased by a fish.
Really bad: The
fish caught the stingray and latched onto its back. Parasite?
Really good: Dental floss for sewing up the jib.
Really bad:
Having to sew up the jib.
Really good: Drinks and conversation over happy hour with Bill and Alicia on the sailboat Destiny. They toiled for months to restore a vintage boat, older than ours.
Really bad: We
ran out of beer, rum, and ice (as well as milk, butter, and mayonnaise) nine
miles from the nearest market, and had nothing to contribute to happy hour! Needless
to say, we are on our way to market now, even though it is out of our way, in
the opposite direction of home.
Really good: Vic
and Gigi from the trawler Salty Turtle, whom we met earlier in Nassau, took
Pope and me in their dinghy to snorkel in the Coral Garden on the southern tip
of Cambridge Cay.
Really bad: Although
Salty Turtle is anchored in a peaceful, beautiful, but narrow anchorage surrounded
by sandbars (Pipe Creek), we were unable to summon the courage to go there
because the night before, when we anchored in another peaceful, beautiful, but
narrow anchorage surrounded by sandbars (Compass Cay), we washed up on a
sandbar in a powerful current. For those interested in the whole sad sailors’
story, see the long version below.
For those already bored, disinterested, or suspicious of my continuing saga of
misadventures, skip right on down to the next “Really good.” (But not those of
you who want to feel “really good” about not coming on this trip.)
* * * *
Long version:
After dropping our “hook” (a state-of-the-art Rocna anchor, with an excellent
record of holding in most sea bottoms) in a narrow anchorage surrounded by
sandbars, between Compass Cay and Pipe Cay, we “set” the anchor firmly by
backing up the boat against the anchor line. One other boat was anchored just
ahead of us. About 8 p.m., high tide, we heard and felt a rumble, possibly
similar to a mild earthquake tremor. It only lasted a few seconds. We ran to
the deck to see what was the matter, when what to our horrified eyes should
appear, but the other boat – a quarter mile away! On the far side, we were perilously
close to a channel into Exuma Sound, i.e., the ocean. The current was trying to
sweep us that way. The anchor line was wrapped around the boat and firmly stuck
under the keel, which in turn was embedded on a very shallow sandbar; in other
words, we were hard aground. Thus began an all-night vigil and a ton of hard
work--including Pope rowing out in the dinghy in wind, current, and dark to
drop our spare Danforth anchor in deeper water--to prevent the boat from
slipping farther onto the sandbar, get the line untangled, and keep the boat
from getting pounded to pieces. At low tide, 2 a.m., the sandbar surfaced, only
a shallow film of water washing over it. At high tide, 8 a.m., our keel bumped heavily along the bottom and off the
bar—minus a few quarts of paint. The current reversed, the current carried us
away from the ocean, and the Danforth held. Whew! Pope slipped out again in the dinghy, this
time in growing light, to retrieve and re-drop the Rocna from the stern, just
to make darn sure the boat couldn’t slip back onto the sandbar. At last, the
problem became clear: a whopping big conch shell stuck in the middle of our
Rocna! Rubbing its tough cheeks against the cool stainless steel, and
preventing the anchor from digging in. You see, every 6 hours or so, the
powerful currents flowing in and out of the cuts between the Exuma islands
(cays) switch directions, from incoming tide to outgoing tide (flood and ebb).
Anchors have to turn around 180 degrees and reset before the current sweeps the
boat away. Until that night, our Rocna performed superbly. This time, that darn
shell probably prevented the reset. Nature always wins! Anyway, the end of the
story: after a couple of hours of sleep, we began the hard work of retrieving
two anchors set in opposite directions, bow and stern. For an explanation of
why that is difficult, ask any sailor. Pope had to lift the 40-pound Danforth
into the dinghy. Meanwhile, his confidence in his trusty Rocna was badly
shaken.
* * * *
Really good:
Sunrise over Pipe Cay while waiting for high tide to bump us off the bar.
Really bad: Smashed
index finger, adding to multiple cuts, sprains, and bruises from anchoring in strong
wind and currents. The Exumas are not surrounded by placid seas as I
envisioned; we had calm weather only 2 days out of 20 (one of the 2 is pictured below). Right now, it is blowing
15 mph and the boat is rocking and swinging wildly.
Really good: Hammock on the beach.
Really bad: Getting up from hammock.
Finally, the really ugly:
There isn’t much! Everything is visually stunning--variety of blue water colors, beaches, rocks, boats, marine life--even when conditions are rough.
But! There IS
the “chicken stance,” the ugly grimace and defiant posture exhibited by
skippers, usually on large, expensive boats, when smaller boats such as Echo II
anchor at a distance they deem too close and at risk of running into their
shining fiberglass investment (or possibly just deflating their ego?). The m.o.
is to stand on the forward deck during the lesser boat’s anchoring operation,
with hands on hips and elbows extended, crowing like a rooster. The message is
clear: go away, intruder—this is my patch of sea!
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