It's been a Samuel Johnson Year

An Omar Khayaam day in the Bahamas a few years ago

Samuel Johnson said, “A man who would go to sea for pleasure would go to Hell for a pastime.” Then there's Omar Khayaam: “The Good Lord does not subtract from a man's allotted time those hours spent sailing.”

Being a lifelong boater, I've heard variations of those ideas for as long as I can remember. For some reason, I had never juxtaposed them before. I've enjoyed them both, depending on my mood of the moment, but I just stumbled across the irony in pairing them. If both are correct, then considering the percentage of my life spent afloat, I'll be living in hell long after my contemporaries have moved on.

I don't always find Samuel Johnson's sentiment to be accurate. Obviously, unless I were a masochist, I wouldn't chose to live as I do if I found going to sea as bad as he thought it was. Neither do I cling to the hope that Omar Khayaam was right. On the good days, I find his idea attractive, but there are those days when I think Samuel Johnson might not be wrong. Fortunately, those days are few, although sometimes they come in bunches, like bananas in the tropics.

Lately, we've been forced to spend more of our time working on the boat than we would like. Boats, like most things, are a complex web of compromises. Small boats provide cramped living space, but they're relatively easy to handle and maintain. Big boats are roomier, but they're more demanding to handle and geometrically more expensive to keep.

Being traditionalists, we find older boats more appealing aesthetically than newer ones, and in general more comfortable and seaworthy in rough weather. Their design and construction have stood the tests of time and use. Older boats are also more maintenance intensive, and they don't offer as much open living space as newer designs. There are many more dimensions for comparison, and traditional versus modern is a popular topic for debate among sailors everywhere. The 'best' boat is the one that makes your heart race; there's no right answer to the question of which boat is best.

Living with your choice for an extended period does make you conscious of the trade offs, though. Our boat is 35 years old this year, and we've owned her for 26 if those years. We're intimately acquainted with her good points and her shortcomings, and there aren't many things about her that we'd change. She's been a dependable and mostly trouble-free vessel, but every so often, a lot of things seem to wear out at once.

This season has been one of those times when Play Actor has been a demanding mistress instead of an uplifting, exciting paramour. We knew we were going to have to buy her a new mainsail this year, but we had not expected to have to build her a new bowsprit. We had planned on reupholstering her interior, but we hadn't reckoned on spending days getting rid of an infestation of termites. We knew it was time to preemptively re-caulk a lot of the hardware mounted on deck, but we had not expected that some of it had already leaked over a long enough period to rot parts of the deck.

For most of this winter, we've been in a Samuel Johnson frame of mind, so we're grateful for Omar Khayaam's encouraging view. Thanks to him, we know that we're going to have plenty of time in the future to enjoy the fruits of this year's labor.

A Sailing Vacation

Anguilla
February 20, 2014

Work in progress?  Or not...

Today we did something that we haven't done in years. We went sailing for the pure joy of feeling the warm salt spray tickle our cheeks as we sliced through the clear indigo water of the Caribbean. Sailing just for the fun of it, as opposed to sailing to get somewhere, has become a novelty for us after having made our home aboard a sailing vessel for the last 14 years. When we lived ashore and had jobs, sailing was our recreation. We looked forward to the weekends during the warm part of the year so that we could get out on the water and escape the routines of our lives.

When we began cruising full time, the magic of escaping to our private world afloat became commonplace. The early days were grand, but some time during the last 14 years, we lost sight of that magic. Today, we found it again.

We've been anchored on the Dutch side of St. Martin for the last three months. For the first two months of our stay, we were busy with long-delayed maintenance projects on the boat. We also measured for and ordered a new mainsail – something that we had put off for too long. Most sailors replace their sails every few years, but ours was 35 years old. It was never convenient to replace it, so we kept having it patched, and it continued to move us from place to place. Finally, at the end of last winter, we were caught in a storm off Antigua and the sail blew out. We could probably have repaired it one more time, but we decided to treat ourselves to a new one to celebrate the success of my Bluewater Thrillers. I let Dani and Liz buy a million dollar yacht in Bluewater Vengeance – surely they could pay for a new sail for the man who made them up out of thin air.

We ordered the new sail, and it arrived in the midst of our major refit, somewhere between the new bowsprit and the new interior cushions and upholstery. We gave the old sail to a friend and bent the new one on to get it out of our way, almost forgetting about it. After spending all that money on the boat, I owed Dani and Liz and my faithful readers a new Bluewater Thriller, so we settled back into our favorite winter anchorage in the lagoon in St. Martin and I started writing.

Headed for the suburbs, Road Bay, Anguilla

One morning a few weeks ago, the Dutch coastguard came calling to check our ship's papers. They reminded us that our visas were only good through February 23, and that we couldn't renew them without leaving the island and checking into another country. In St. Martin, we could move the boat a few hundred yards and check in on the French side. We could even anchor for free on the French side of the lagoon, and we've spent many pleasant months there over the years. Lately, though, we've come to like the anchorage on the Dutch side. It's more convenient for most of the places we go, and because it costs a few dollars a week to anchor on the Dutch side, it's much less crowded than the French anchorage.

We asked the Dutch authorities if we could move to the French side for a day and then come back to the Dutch side for another three months. The response was a masterful piece of bureaucratic nonsense. In theory, we could, since the French side is indeed part of France, which the Dutch recognize as a separate country. As a practical matter, though, the way the Dutch immigration people check these things is by looking for an entrance stamp in your passport. They told us, “The French, they are too disorganized to stamp the passports. You can go there, but you can't clear back into the Dutch side until you go somewhere that stamps passports.”

“How about St. Barths?” I asked, thinking that it was only 15 miles, and we could try out the new mainsail.

“They're French,” the lady said, shaking her head in pity for them. “You could go to Anguilla. Anguilla will stamp your passport; they're British. The British are proper in these things.”

Downtown Road Bay, Anguilla, on a busy afternoon.

I immediately flashed on a scene from the movie A Fish Called Wanda, where a family returns to their apartment unexpectedly and finds John Cleese stark naked in their living room. As they all make small talk, pretending that he's not naked and has every right to be in their living room even though they don't know him, he says in an aside to the camera, “It's very hard being British, always saying and doing the proper thing.”

We considered just moving over to the French side, where they're too disorganized to even care how long we stay, but then we started thinking that it might be fun to go for a short sail, even though we didn't have to. We'd never been to Anguilla, and we always thought we would go someday. It's a very short sail from St. Martin – just right for checking out the new mainsail and taking a break from my writing regimen. So tonight we're at anchor in Road Bay, Anguilla, where they've already done the proper thing and stamped our passports to show we were here, unlike those French people just a few miles away who couldn't care less about propriety.

The Sail to Anguilla

We had a higher than normal level of pre-departure anxiety as we prepared to leave St. Martin this morning. We hadn't been sailing since November, and we had a new, untried mainsail and a new bowsprit, as well. We've learned over the years that this angst is normal, and that once we're under way, we'll settle down. We sat in the cockpit drinking a last cup of coffee and watching the clock, waiting until 8:10 a.m to start the engine and raise the anchor. The drawbridge through which we would have to pass to get to sea didn't open until 8:30.

When we finished the coffee, we started the engine and I began retrieving the anchor chain. When about half of the chain was aboard, the windlass began to labor. After a few seconds, it ground to a stop, the safety clutch slipping. The momentum of the 30,000 pound boat carried us forward, and the chain began slipping back out. Our anchor chain was fouled, wrapped around a submerged rock or a wreck of some sort. This happens, but not usually St. Martin's lagoon, where the bottom is relatively clear. Worried that we would miss the scheduled opening of the drawbridge, I let out a bit of chain and jockeyed the boat around in several different directions until the chain came clear of the obstruction. I went forward to the windlass and finished retrieving the anchor. We made it through the bridge with a minute or two to spare, our anxiety forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Out in Simpson Bay, we raised the new sail and admired it for a moment. We had not been able to examine it fully deployed since we bent it on back in January. We made a few minor adjustments, shut down the diesel, trimmed the main, and set out on the first leg of our 16-mile course.

After three miles running downwind under just the new mainsail, we cleared the west corner of St. Martin and turned north, putting the wind on our beam. We studied how the main behaved on this point of sail. Satisfied after a moment, we raised the staysail and crossed the Anguilla Channel at better than six knots. We considered raising the Yankee jib just to see how fast we could go, but we decided to concentrate on the behavior of the new mainsail. Although it was essentially identical to the old one it replaced, the old one had long since lost its shape and therefore was quite inefficient. Had we been using it under these conditions, we would have had to take a reef to keep the boat from putting her rail under, and we would have probably lost about a knot of boat speed. We realized that we would need to learn a new regimen for sailing our old boat.

Soon, we rounded the western end of Anguilla and turned onto the next leg of our course. We would be following the shoreline for about seven miles, straight into the wind, to Road Bay, where we would anchor and check in with the authorities.

We sheeted in the main and the staysail as tightly as we could, expecting to have to reduce sail by reefing the main to beat into the wind, but we were pleasantly surprised. We were able to sail at a 45 degree angle to the true wind in 20 knots without a reef in the main, something that Play Actor had never done in the 25 years we've owned her. Of course, that old mainsail was 10 years old when we bought the boat. We're so excited and surprised that we're planning to replace the Yankee and the staysail next year.

An hour and a half and a few tacks later, we dropped the anchor in Road
Bay at the back of the pack of anchored boats. There's really not much here but clear water and a beautiful white sand beach. We put the outboard on the dinghy and went ashore to check in.

Limin'
February 21, 2014

Limin'. That's what they call it in the islands. We idled away our day in Anguilla, jus' limin', mon. We had no internet access, so the time that I would normally have spent keeping up with my book business was spent over coffee and breakfast with Leslie. I spent the rest of the morning making a few notes, and we read for a couple of hours after lunch.

We went ashore mid-afternoon to go to customs to clear out and to walk around a bit. Thursday, when we arrived, we spent ten minutes walking up and down the one road in Sandy Ground village. We spotted a couple of traditional island houses that I wanted to photograph, as well as a particularly attractive goat, so we had an agenda.

We took care of our outbound clearance first, because the office is right at the foot of the dinghy dock. The officials were a pleasure to deal with, both inbound and outbound. They were welcoming and helpful, even offering to provide concierge-type service. “If you want an island tour or a taxi, or to rent a car, just let us know. We want you to enjoy your stay; we'll help you any way we can,” was the comment from the customs officer when we checked in yesterday. Today, she said, “I hope that you enjoyed your visit and that you'll come back to see us soon.”

One of the houses that we had admired

Home of the former Chief Minister

 when we first stepped ashore yesterday was right behind the Customs and Immigration office, so that was our next stop. As I was snapping pictures, a man came up to tell us that the house was the home of Sir Emile Gumbs, who was the first Chief Minister of Anguilla, which is a British Overseas Territory. He said that Sir Emile, long retired, was a charming man, 83 years old and still active. The man wanted to know where we we from. He wasn't the least bit surprised to hear that we were seaborne wanderers, at home wherever we dropped our anchor.

A short walk up the road we found the goat that we saw yesterday. It was tethered to a gatepost, and someone had tied a bundle of leafy green branches to the post at about head-height for the goat. It had been snacking away when we saw it the first time, but today, it was resting.






A hundred yards or so in the other direction, near the other edge of the village, were the Methodist Church and another house that we thought worth a photograph.

And that's the village of Sandy Ground.








Back in St. Martin 
Saturday, February 22, 2014

We found Road Bay an attractive spot to escape the hustle and bustle of St. Martin. There is an abundance of restaurants along the clean, uncrowded white sand beach, and there's a convenience store in the village. Based on the map we found in the Customs and Immigration office, there are two grocery stores, each a little over a mile from Sandy Ground. Anguilla has a population of around 13,000 people and an economy based on tourism and international banking. Taxes are almost nonexistent, but the island has the reputation among the yachting community of being an expensive place to visit. We didn't find it to be so; our stay cost us exactly nothing. There are no fees for vessels under 20 tons to anchor in Road Bay. A cruising permit to visit the other bays along the coast is relatively expensive, at $100 E.C. per day, but we were content to stay in Road Bay.

We had a quick sail back to St. Martin, and tomorrow we'll settle back into our routine. I have to finish that next book so that Dani and Liz can fund two more new sails.

A Damp, Drizzly November in My Soul

"Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can." From Moby-Dick by Herman Melville.

It was a damp, drizzly November in California's central valley as well as in my soul by the time we boarded the first of several flights that would eventually take us to Antigua, where our boat was waiting. We had been landlocked for almost six months, and while I had not knocked any people's hats off, I knew how Ishmael felt. It was high time to get to sea, where the air is fresh and the water is clear and deep blue.

After traveling for 15 hours, we arrived in Antigua at about 3 p.m. local time. We claimed our duffel bags, realizing as we did that we had less luggage than the people who were arriving for a week's holiday. We had been traveling for six months and had almost all the clothes we own in two small bags. Living on a small boat helps to reduce your wardrobe to the essentials.

In just a few minutes, we cleared customs and immigration. We stepped out into the clean, fresh air. I took a deep breath, savoring it. After months in the foul air of California's central valley, I could breathe again.

We hailed a taxi to take us to the guest house where we had a reservation. We arranged for the driver to pick us up the next morning to take us to the marina where Play Actor would be launched.

When we got to the guest house, we had to wait a few minutes for the manager to return from the airport, where she had gone to meet our flight and give us a ride.

''I'm so sorry," Leslie said. "We didn't know."

"No problem. It's only a few minutes. I always meet the guests to save them the taxi fare."

''But how did you know our flight?"

"Only one flight from the States in the afternoon."

Life is simpler in the islands.

We had noticed that a restaurant was part of the complex and we had not eaten for 12 hours.

"What time does the restaurant open for dinner?" I asked.

''We don't have opening hours just now, but if you are hungry, we can cook for you. When would you like to eat?"

"5:30," Leslie said.

''Okay. You can eat in your room. We only have fish and some vegetables. Will that be all right?"

"That would be perfect," Leslie said.

And it was. Life is much simpler in the islands, and it's good to be back.

The Season's End

“The wind howled in the rigging like a chorus from hell until her head went underwater.  There was a hollow silence as Dani held her breath and braced her feet against the bulwark; she maintained a death-like grip on the handrail as she waited for the wave to recede.  When it did, she snatched another breath and resumed her crablike progress along the windward side deck toward the bow, taking care not to tangle her feet in the tether to her harness.  She timed her movements to the rhythmic rise and fall of Vengeance as the overpowered yacht crashed through the storm-tossed seas.

As she paused again to wait for the deck to shed the knee-deep water from the next breaking wave, she spared a glance back at the cockpit to check on Liz.  Satisfied that her partner had the helm under control, she inched her way forward again.  It was a rule of nature that sail changes always happened at the worst times, usually in the wee hours of the morning, but this predicament was the result of her own impatience.  She knew better than to trust a weather forecast this time of year, particularly when heading north from the tropics, and she had known there was a problem with the headsail furling system before they set out.”

These are the first two paragraphs of my latest novel.  Most of us who have sailed much in open water have had the experience of reducing sail in stormy weather.  That’s also when we discover weaknesses in our equipment and our technique.  I just wrote those paragraphs a few months ago, sitting aboard Play Actor as she rode placidly at anchor in the calm water of Simpson Bay Lagoon in St. Martin.

We left St. Martin on May 25, prepared to beat into a 15 knot east wind to St. Barths, 15 miles away.  It took us four hours to reach Anse Columbier in St. Barths, thanks to the usual foul current, but the trip was uneventful.  We spent a relaxing afternoon and evening, resting for the long day from St. Barths to Antigua.  It’s a little over 70 nautical miles, and we have made the trip in as little as 12 hours when conditions were just right.  More typically, we take about 14 hours, given that there’s often a foul current holding us back for about half of the trip.  If we leave at dawn, we usually arrive at Jolly Harbour, Antigua, a little after dark.  The wind was forecast to back to the northeast over night, which would make for almost ideal conditions.  Optimistic about tomorrow’s sail, we went to bed early, noting that the wind was already backing around as we dropped off to sleep.

When we got clear of the wind shadow of the island of St. Barths on the morning of the 26^th, we discovered that the wind had indeed backed to slightly north of east, but it had also weakened to the point where we would have a slow trip.  Eager to get to Antigua and begin the process of laying Play Actor up for the hurricane season, we decided to motor-sail with the main and staysail.  There was enough wind to help counteract the effects of the westerly setting current, and the sails contributed stability in the somewhat confused seas.  We were having a pleasant trip, passing through occasional rain showers that lasted for a few minutes but had no effect on the wind.

Late in the afternoon, we passed into another shower which did have some 40 to 50 knot winds.  We had the first reef in the main already, as that’s our normal motor-sailing configuration.  Based on the previous showers, we decided to ride the wind shift for a few minutes in the hope that the wind would abate.  If it didn’t, then we would reduce sail.  We were both tired at that point, so taking another reef in the main for what we expected to be a few minutes of squally wind wasn’t attractive.  The wind continued to build in gusts, blowing the tops from the already confused waves.  Play Actor is what’s called a ‘wet’ boat in heavy seas.  She sits low in the water and provides a smooth, stable ride, but under conditions like these, windblown seas wash over the deck.  We decided to take that second reef.  Leslie was wearing a foul weather coat from the last shower, but I had been below decks since then and left my coat there.  Since I was already soaked, I opted to go forward to the mast and reduce sail.

I clipped a tether to my harness and started forward along the windward deck.  Once I reached the mast, I locked my legs around it, holding myself in position against the wild motion of the boat as the wind drove her leeward rail under.  We had released the main sheet, so the sail was fluttering in the wind, making a deafening racket as the waves washed over me periodically.  I thought about Dani taking down her big Yankee jib as I tied in the reef with the speed and skill born of long practice.

Wet and cold by now, I made my way back to the cockpit and sheeted in our now much smaller main.  As Leslie began to come up on our course line, I first saw and then heard the rip of canvas as the main tore near the reef cringle at the juncture of the mast and boom.  I eased the sheet and Leslie fell off the wind, reducing the load on the main as I went forward to drop it before it was damaged beyond repair.   I repeated my crablike scramble up to the mast and dropped the sail.  The wind continued to howl and fight my efforts to get the unruly, wet sail bundled up along the boom.  Without the wind resistance of the main, the motion of the boat became ever more erratic.  My focus narrowed accordingly.  Hands, feet, arms, legs, the boom, and the next handful of slippery, wet canvas.  Those things became my entire world for what seemed like hours.  I finally had the sail roughly folded along the boom, and the boom centered and lashed down in its gallows.

I crawled back to the cockpit and got in position to trim the staysail as Leslie revved up the diesel and brought us back to a course hard on the wind.  The wind had subsided to about 20 knots, but it had also clocked.  It was blowing directly from our destination.  We were 20 miles from Antigua; we resigned ourselves to several more hours of beating directly into the wind with the engine and the staysail – something we’ve done before, but not one of our favorite points of sail.

“How long did that take?” I asked.

“About three minutes,” Leslie said.

“It seemed longer…”  I was experiencing mild hypothermia by now, clumsy and disoriented.  Leslie sent me below to dry off and warm up.

I recovered in 30 minutes or so and put on my foul weather coat, returning to the cockpit to discuss our situation with Leslie.  Our main is old – 34 years old – which to most sailors is ancient beyond belief.   We would need to fix it to get us to a good place to buy a replacement when we came back to the boat after hurricane season.  It’s been patched many times.  It started as the very highest quality sail that money could buy, but it’s finally reaching the end of its life.  We had already decided to replace it the next time it gave us a problem.  That would be now.

We’re safely in Antigua, beginning to ready Play Actor for her summer vacation.  We patched the main one more time yesterday; we’ll use it next fall to get us back to St. Martin, where we’ll  take advantage of the duty free port to order a new main from Lee Sails in Hong Kong , the makers of our current, battle-scarred but still functional sails.

No Zombie needed; the new swing bridge will open tomorrow.

Delivery of the swing span for the
 new bridge in our neighborhood

We were surprised to realize just the other day that the end of May is approaching; it’s time for us to leave St. Martin and sail to Antigua, where we’ll store Play Actor for the hurricane season once again.  For several years, we had a routine of spending summer in Grenada and winter in St. Martin.   During March through May and October through November, we would visit the other islands of the eastern Caribbean as we made our way north or south.

For the last two summers, we have made  visits to the states during hurricane season, spending time with Leslie’s family on the west coast and visiting our children and grandchildren.   The issue of a safe and affordable place to store the boat during those visits, and the ease of airline connections, has changed our migratory pattern.   This past winter, my book business had a serious impact on our sailing, as well.  I published three new titles during our stay in St. Martin, and I have felt constrained to stay here where I can get good high speed internet access on the boat.  That’s not an easy thing to find in the islands if you want to do more than check your email and do a little browsing on the web from time to time.

We dropped the anchor here in the lagoon in St. Martin last November, and we haven’t lifted it since.  All of our cruising friends and acquaintances have come and gone, but we have provided a stable base for marine growth below the waterline.  Other than a few necessary repairs and periodic dives to keep the propeller clear of barnacles in case we had to move in an emergency, we might as well have been working somewhere.

I’m not complaining; writing is fun, and it’s nice to be selling some books.  Besides, the commute is short for this job, and the location is great.  While not as naturally beautiful as some of the other islands, St. Martin has a charm of its own, and it’s nice because it’s so cosmopolitan, at least by Caribbean standards.  We can find most of the things we need without difficulty here, and because it’s a true free port, with no customs duties, prices are attractive.  We do miss the local produce that we find on the other islands.  Most of the fresh food here comes in from the states.

For all of that, St Martin is still a Caribbean island, with the warm, friendly people who make us feel at home.  It’s unusual because the northern half is a department of France.  The people are French citizens, they speak French, and they vote in French elections.  Their currency is the euro, and the people have French passports that give them easy access to most of the world.  They are free to live and work anywhere in the European Union.   The southern half is still a Dutch colony.  The people are Dutch colonial subjects; they only vote in local elections, and they have restricted, colonial passports that make travel outside the region difficult.  Their opportunities for employment outside the Netherlands Antilles are restricted accordingly.

There is no visible border between the French and the Dutch side, and the people pass freely back and forth.  This has been so since the 1600s, when the two European powers decided to share the island.  Mostly, there is little friction, although there are some inequities that must be particularly painful to people who have family on both sides of the border.  The Dutch side has a dollar based economy, although the legal currency is the Netherlands Antilles Florin, commonly called the N.A.F. or the guilder, and the cost of living is lower on the Dutch side.  The French merchants struggle; their goods come mostly from Europe and are priced in euros, while the merchants on the Dutch side take advantage of the buying power of the dollar to bring in goods from all over the world.  Most of the shopping happens on the Dutch side, where prices are lower and the selection broader.

St. Martin’s economy is driven by tourism, and there’s a tremendous traffic problem.  Visitors rent cars and add confusion to the already crowded roads.  In an effort to improve the flow of traffic, particularly in and out of the Dutch airport where most of the international flights land and take off, the Dutch decided to build a bridge across the lagoon to provide easier access from the French side to the airport and alleviate some of the crowding on the roads on the Dutch side.

 We’ve watched the construction this winter as the 700 foot bridge extended across the lagoon.  The most excitement so far was the arrival about ten days ago of the swing span from the Netherlands.  It was delivered on a small freighter, and bringing the freighter into the lagoon was a major event, as it scraped the sides of the draw bridge leading into the lagoon from the Caribbean on the Dutch side.  The authorities dredged the channel across the Dutch part of the lagoon to accommodate the ship, and we watched from our boat as the span was set in place a few hundred yards from us.

Sketch chart showing our dilemma

We didn’t think much more about it until we began to get ready to leave.  We’re anchored on the French side of the lagoon; there’s more room there.  We use the draw bridge on the Dutch side to enter and leave, as it is much larger and has a deeper channel than the drawbridge on the French side.  We realized that the new Causeway Bridge, as it’s called, was closed and that we could no longer get to the Dutch draw bridge to begin our voyage to Antigua.

The channel to the French bridge is mostly unmarked, and it’s quite shallow.  Our 6-foot draft is at the upper limit, and that requires knowing exactly where the shallow spots are.  We spent a couple of hours in the dinghy yesterday with a GPS and a lead-line, sounding our way to the French bridge.  We now have a route, but it will be nerve-wracking, especially the first time.  Besides, it makes the trip to Antigua longer by several miles, so we were less than thrilled.

There has been all sorts of speculation about the new bridge and when it would begin operation, but there isn’t much solid information, and no one seemed to know when it would open again.  We were hoping that it would open before we needed to leave, so that we could anchor on the Dutch side of the lagoon, giving us ready access to the Dutch bridge that we normally use for exit and entry.

On-line searches for information proved fruitless, although we did turn up some interesting snippets from local news over the last few months.  It seems that the question of tolls for the use of the Causeway Bridge has been hotly debated.  There are numerous factions, each with their own agenda.  In general, the French don’t want a toll, and the Dutch, at least the authorities, do want to levy a charge.   To remind us that we are still in the Caribbean, there was a threat that if the Dutch charged a toll, the French would put a Zombie on the bridge to stop the toll collectors from doing their duty.

This morning we learned from the manager at the yacht club that the bridge will open tomorrow, and stay open at least for a few days, so we’ll be able to move to the Dutch side of the lagoon for an unimpeded departure.  When we go to check out with the French authorities tomorrow, I’ll stop in the local Voodoo hounfort and cancel my request for an emergency Zombie to open the bridge.  Life is good.

At Least Nobody Got "Drownded"

“A man who is not afraid of the sea will soon be drowned…for he will be going out on a day he shouldn’t.  But we do be afraid of the sea, and we do only be drownded now and again.”  From The Aran Islands by John Milington Synge.  

People whose lives aren’t regulated daily by the sea have a different set of expectations when it comes to going on a ‘cruise.’

We’ve been struck by the number of articles in the news for the last few days about the cruise ship that was stranded in the Gulf of Mexico after a fire in the engine room.  Living as we do aboard a small sailing yacht in the eastern Caribbean, we see cruise ships every day.  We’ve never taken a cruise nor even been to sea aboard anything much over 40 feet long; we’re in awe of the behemoths that approach 1,000 feet in length and carry 5,000 passengers and crew.  When we encounter one in the open ocean, especially on a lonely, stormy night, we try to imagine what life must be like for the people aboard.

Certainly, most of them are oblivious to the details of seafaring as we know them.  They aren’t dependent on the wind to move them along, and they probably don’t ever get slapped in the face by a confused flying fish.  The people we know who take cruises liken the big ships to floating resorts; almost everything they might want while on holiday is at hand without leaving the ship.  Each morning, they awaken to the opportunity to spend a few hours exploring an exotic new place.  We have often thought of how dramatically different that experience is from our own cruising; people tell us that they are only conscious of being at sea if they choose to be, and we’ve discovered that most of them have only a vague notion of the geography they are traversing.

From the news accounts of passengers’ reactions to the recent ‘disaster,’ it’s clear that the cruise lines have attracted large numbers of customers who have but little interest in seafaring.  This was true of ships’ passengers historically, until air travel became so common during the mid 20^th century.  Then people only went to sea for the experience -- not because they needed to travel across the ocean.  Historically, though, people who traveled on ocean liners were perhaps better acquainted with the risk of going to sea than today’s cruise ship patrons are.  Sea travel is much less a part of the common experience these days, but the cruise ship industry has managed to leverage the romance of the era of ocean liners to attract an entirely different kind of customer.  They’re selling ‘the cruise’ as a safe, all-inclusive holiday at a bargain price.

When my wife and I set sail for a few days out of sight of land, our expectation is that we will be left completely to our own devices to deal with whatever happens.  When you are hundreds of miles from land and something breaks, you either fix it or do without it.  There’s no option of calling someone to fix it.  Abandoning ship in circumstances like that is dangerous, even if another vessel happens to be nearby; it’s an absolute last resort – not something to be undertaken because of discomfort.  That is even more so when you consider the logistics of moving thousands of people from one vessel to another when both vessels are in constant motion relative to one another.  In the absence of a clear, immediate threat to life, the safest option is usually to remain with a disabled vessel until help arrives, even though it may be days in coming.

Typically, the reaction of our society to the ill-fated cruise, at least as reflected in the news media, is that we need to investigate, litigate, find fault, punish, legislate, and regulate to keep this from happening again.  We should be grateful that our lives are so sheltered that five days at sea without modern conveniences is viewed as a disaster.  The passengers had a memorable adventure when they were expecting prepackaged, guaranteed-to-be safe amusement, but at least nobody got ‘drownded.’

About those geckos...

They're thriving, and they make good shipmates.  The little one -- he's the one that poses for pictures -- is more sociable than the other one.  We think there are two of them; at least, there are two different sizes aboard Play Actor.  We rarely see the larger one, but the smaller one visits every day or two, probably to see if he's gotten big enough to eat one of us yet.  He looks at us the same way we've seen him look at bugs just before he snaps them up.

So far, we haven't had to feed them; they're foraging successfully above deck, and we rarely see ants these days.  Nevertheless, I appreciate all of the suggestions as to what we should feed them.  The day may come. Suggested food has run the gamut from insurance policies (underwritten by companies that don't have a gecko in their ads) to bits of hamburger dangling on a fine thread to mimic an insect.  Somebody suggested chocolate covered insects, but Leslie won't share her chocolate.  Not yet, anyway, although we've both become fond of the little ant-eaters, speaking to them when we see them.  They haven't answered yet; that may earn them the chocolate covered insects.

The little one has a literary bent.  He ran across my keyboard several times when I was finishing Life's a Ditch, but he doesn't weigh enough to depress the keys, so I'm not sure what he wanted to add to the manuscript.  Maybe chocolate covered insects would help him to mature as a writer.  Most writers seem to have a fixation on chocolate and coffee.  I'll start him on coffee the next time he visits; I'm off for a refill.  Thanks for visiting.