Waiting for Weather

This morning

Next Tuesday morning

If you hang around with cruising sailors, you'll hear that phrase, "waiting for weather," often.  Here's why we've been waiting for weather to go from St. Martin to Antigua for the last week.

The little things that look like hockey sticks scattered across the weather maps show the wind direction.  The number of 'barbs' in the hook show the relative wind strength.  These winds are all in the 10 to 15 knot range, and that's a pleasant sailing breeze. The blue areas are rain -- the darker, the heavier.

If you look at the red dotted line on this morning's weather map, you'll see the route that we would have to follow to reach Antigua if we were sailing today.  Having the wind in our face doesn't mean we couldn't get there, but it would take us almost twice as it will take on next Tuesday morning, when we can sail right along the black dotted line.  That's about a 14 hour trip to cover the 90-odd miles, instead of the 20-plus hours that it would take if we were doing it today.  Of course, these forecasts are every bit as accurate as the ones that you get for your local weather.

The other option, if we were on a tight schedule, would be to use our engine to drive straight into the wind, but that makes for an unpleasant ride.  Aside from the noise and vibration, we would be plowing directly into the wind-driven waves.  The ride would be rough and the spray would be flying, and we would miss the stabilizing effect of the sails. That means we would also be rolling a good bit with the ocean swell.  So, we're waiting for weather, even though it's a beautiful day in St. Martin -- 80 degrees, partly cloudy, with a nice breeze, blowing straight from where we want to go. It's "Nassaba, mon. Jus' wait. Soon come." (Nassaba means not so bad, in the local patois.) as they say down here. We hope that you have nice weather wherever you are.

The Squirrel's Tale (Apologies to Geoffrey Chaucer)

This little story is an excerpt from Dungda de Islan’.  Almost everyone I know who has read the book mentioned how much they enjoyed the Squirrel's Tale.  I hope that you do, as well.

October, 2004

Leaving the Chesapeake Bay, Caribbean bound

We had just turned into the Patuxent River after motoring down from Annapolis on a calm, crisp fall day.  Leslie took a stroll on the foredeck to escape the droning of the diesel, and came back to the cockpit to report that there was a squirrel on the bowsprit.  Hallucinations are not unusual among sailors, so at first, I just played along with her, figuring it would subside in time.  As her irritation with me increased, I decided that I should go forward and see for myself, just to keep peace.  Surely enough, when I got to the bow, I was greeted by a squirrel.  He was sitting up on the anchor platform looking back at me, and he appeared to be quite pleased with the accommodations we provided aboard Play Actor.

My first reaction was pleasure at the idea of a mascot, but then I recalled how much damage squirrels did in the attic of the house where I grew up.  As cute as they can be, they are still rodents, with a penchant for chewing holes in wood (lots of that on Play Actor) and making nests in all sorts of places where you'd rather they didn't.  The bagged sails came to mind.

We puzzled over how he had gotten aboard.  We had been at anchor for the whole summer.  The boat had not touched shore for months, so we could only conclude that he swam out on a calm night and climbed the anchor chain.  So, after a few minutes of reflection, we decided the squirrel had to go.  I went back up to the foredeck and unlimbered the high pressure washdown hose, taking careful aim at the varmint.  He was still poised in the same spot on the anchor platform.  He sidestepped the blast as gracefully as a prizefighter might slip an opponent's punch, and smiled at me, clearly enjoying this game.  After a few minutes, the foredeck, the sail bags, and I were drenched, and the squirrel was still sitting up on the anchor platform, watching calmly to see what I would do next.

I went back aft and rummaged in a locker until I found a two-foot long piece of 1 inch aluminum tubing, left over from some forgotten project.  Armed with the tube, I went forward again and confronted our unwelcome guest.  After a couple of swipes, he scurried aft along the port gunwale, all the way back to the cockpit, where Leslie stood at the helm, calmly steering the boat while offering helpful advice along the lines of, "Hit him with the tube!  He's coming this way."  I guess he figured she represented a safe haven of some sort, because he ran up her left arm and perched on her shoulder, waiting for me, grinning at me as if he knew I couldn't take a swing at him without braining Leslie.

I poked him with the end of the tube, and he ran across the back of her neck to her right shoulder, down her right arm, jumped to the starboard gunwale, and ran back to the bowsprit with me in hot pursuit.  He sat up there panting, awaiting my arrival, still grinning at me.  When I got there, he decided on another lap, back to the cockpit, across the imperturbable Leslie, and forward again.  After several rounds, I realized that all my years of long-distance running were paying off, finally.  The squirrel was a sprinter.  He was winded, slowing down perceptibly.  A few minutes later, he gave up, let me tap him on the head with my trusty tube, and dropped into the water.

I had the sensation of being watched, at this point.  I looked over my shoulder to see a large trawler yacht about 100 feet off our starboard side with two women on the foredeck, pointing at me and convulsed with laughter.  One was holding a camera with a telephoto lens, so I may hear from the SPCA, or the Game Warden.  Who knows?

"Bequia Sweet!"

"Welcome to Bequia. Bequia sweet!"  The customs agent greeted us as he stamped our paperwork upon our first entry into Bequia.

Every year when Easter comes around, we remember Regatta in Bequia.  For  those unfamiliar with the place, Bequia is a small island, part of St. Vincent and the Grenadines in the Eastern Caribbean.  It's a special place to us, and to most cruising sailors who have spent time there. 

Bequia is an old whaling port, with the remains of try works used for rendering whale oil on one of the tiny adjacent islands.  It's only a few miles off the southwestern tip of the big island of St. Vincent, but more than miles separate the two.  Agricultural exports are big business on St. Vincent, but there was never much agriculture on Bequia.  Fishing is still a major activity, but it's small scale, one or two men-against-the-sea fishing.  Bequia's fishing fleet is made up of small, outboard-powered boats, and they venture far in search of Tuna and Dorado.  Given the strength of the prevailing tradewinds, an engine failure often results in what the local fishermen refer to as "Takin' the long ride."  Not very many return.  It's indeed a long "ride" to Central America for a man alone in a open boat with a bottle or two of water to drink and whatever he can catch for sustenance.

Whaling is still an active occupation in Bequia.  Under the international regulations, Bequia is allowed to take up to four whales per year.  They do it the old-fashioned way -- the hard way.  A few men in a small boat, a hand-thrown harpoon -- not a major threat to the population of whales -- they get one every so often.  The four-whale limit is probably seldom reached.  We were there once a few days after a successful hunt.  Everybody shared in buckets of blubber, and whale meat featured prominently on menus in local restaurants.  How long will a humpback whale feed a village of 5,000 people?  Whatever you think about the ecological impact of whaling, you have to admire the courage and seamanship of people who will take boats like this and hunt animals the size of a city bus.

Visiting Bequia is a trip back in time; a visit to a more relaxed era when people had more time to get to know one another.  There aren't a lot of people on the island -- just a few thousand, at most.  They're a wonderful mix of Scottish, Irish, English, French, Carib, African, and East Indian stock, mingled for many generations. There are some truly beautiful people here, and not just in a physical sense.

We were in Bequia once when our bank back in the U.S. was acquired.  We found out about it when our ATM cards quit working.  In a cash economy, that put us in a difficult situation.  A call to the bank resulted in an offer to wire us money until they could get us new cards -- the replacements they had sent a few weeks before were at our mail drop in Florida, but we discovered this on the Friday morning preceding a four-day holiday. 

There was no quick fix -- we went to the local bank before they closed to see about having the money wired, but they couldn't help us since we didn't have an account, and opening one for non-resident foreigners wasn't something that could be done quickly.  We'll never forget what the lady at the  bank told us.

"Don' worry.  Nobody goes hungry in Bequia.  You jus' pick up some coconut, some mango 'long the side of the road, an' we feed you.  Nobody goes hungry here."

We thought that was a nice sentiment, but we went back to the boat and made a careful assessment of our stock of groceries.  We certainly wouldn't starve for four days, but we would be eating "bilge food," as we call concoctions assembled from canned goods and rice.  Later in the day, we were swimming around the boat cleaning the water line when two fishermen came by.

"You like some Tuna?"  One man asked, holding a still-living ten-pounder up for our inspection.

We admired the fish and explained that if he came by next week, we'd buy from him -- that we were short of cash.

"We know that," he said.  "Lady from the bank, she tell we. You need the fish, you take the fish.  You pay us sometime.  Plenty here. Nobody go hungry in Bequia."

Bequia sweet, ver' sweet.

Grenada - a Cruising Sailor's Perspective

As I was working on my most recent novel, I was traveling up and down the islands of the Eastern Caribbean in my mind, remembering the wonderful places, people, and experiences we've enjoyed for the last 8 years.  I also spent some hours going through old snapshots, looking for potential cover art and stills to put into a video trailer for the book.  As I worked, I realized that some of these things should be shared in blog posts.  With the latest book behind me, I have time again, and I decided to post some snapshots and anecdotes.

We spend our summers in Grenada, and our winters in St. Martin.  We spend the perfect sailing time in the fall and spring working our way north and south respectively, spending time in favorite spots and looking for new places.  Even after 8 years, we haven't scratched the surface.

 I'll start at the southern end of our annual migratory path.  Let's take a look at Grenada.  Grenada is about 75 miles north northwest of Trinidad, which is on the northeast corner of the South American continent.

Grenada's flag

On our first visit, in June of 2005, we arrived just a couple of weeks ahead of Hurricane Emily.  Grenada was just beginning to recover from the ravages of Hurricane Ivan, which hit the island about 9 months before we arrived.  Ivan was the first storm to hit the island in 50 years; when Emily came along, 30 percent of the people still didn't have roofs over their heads, and they were busily digging themselves out of the wreckage.  Nevertheless, they still had time to make us welcome, they still had time to enjoy Carnival, and the island, despite the storm damage, was still beautiful.

Play Actor in the Lagoon

When we first started visiting, it was still possible to anchor in the lagoon at St. Georges.  Now, a big marina has pretty well taken over the lagoon, so we anchor outside, off the beach.

Grand Anse Beach, viewed from our cockpit

We were anchored in the lagoon at St. Georges, the capital city, when a young man paddled up in his kayak to introduce himself. 

Joel in his kayak

"Good morning, captain, ma'am.  I'm Joel.  I just wanted to welcome you to Grenada.  Will you stay for Carnival?"

"Good morning, Joel.  We're Charles and Leslie, and we'll most likely be here for Carnival."

"I hope you enjoy, and I'll see you again.  Good morning to you."

We saw Joel often and met several of his younger siblings over the next few weeks.  He was 12 at the time, the second oldest in a family of five children.  He would often appear with several other boys his age, paddling makeshift boats, or sometimes swimming.  He always introduced the others politely, and they would visit for a few minutes before splashing away to amuse themselves.

When school started, Joel came by to show us his new uniform -- he was quite proud to have been chosen on the basis of scholastic achievement to attend a particularly good secondary school. For the rest of our stay, he would come by to show us his homework and get an occasional bit of help. He was studying French and Spanish along with the more typical subjects for a student his age. We found him typical of the people of Grenada: friendly, bright, cheerful, and industrious. He shared with us his career aspirations once. "I want to build a marina, right here in the lagoon. I could hire all of my family and my friends, and we could take care of yachts like yours." We wished him well with that. Unfortunately, a developer from the U. K. beat him to it, and there's not much room in the lagoon for anchoring anymore.

Ripe nutmeg with red mace

We spent a good bit of time exploring Grenada during our first season there, taking in the natural beauty and learning about the people. Grenada produces a large share of the world's supply of nutmeg, as well as bananas, chocolate, sugarcane, and a myriad of spices. It's known as the Isle of Spice, and for good reason. A walk through any of the open air markets is an olfactory treat that defies description.

Ripe cocoa pod - future chocolate bar

Sugarcane

Banana blossom

The island itself has a signature aroma. After a day in the open ocean breathing fresh, clean air, when we sail into the lee of the island, the distinctive smell welcomes us. We're downwind of the island as we sail the 20-odd miles from its northern tip down to the capital city of St. Georges, and we first notice the lush, rich aroma of the cultivated earth, picking up the overtones of fruit and the distinctive aroma of fires fed by cuttings from all sorts of exotic trees and shrubs and the shells of nutmeg. The smell of caramelized sugar from the cane mills and distilleries weaves through it all to produce a smell that is unique to this island.

Natural Beauty

7 Sisters Falls

Wildflowers

Carnival

Grenada! 

It's Great to be Green.

If your spouse woke up one morning and greeted you by saying, "It's nice to wake up with full batteries," what would you think?

Living on an anchored sailboat is living about as far off the grid as you can get.  There are no public utilities at sea.  In recent years, innovations in cellular and satellite telephony, computers, and the plethora of online services have changed things a bit, but not at a basic level.  At a basic level, we are on our own as far as water and electricity are concerned.  Fresh water is precious where we live, but with care and ingenuity, collecting rain meets our needs.  As for electricity, we've tried an number of different ways to cope.

As with water, our first step is to minimize use.  We use almost no energy to heat or cool our living space; we depend on shade awnings, breeze, and choosing a location with a benign climate for those things.  We cook with bottled gas, and it's surprising how long a 20 pound tank of propane lasts.  We normally use one tank for about four months.  Our water for bathing is heated by the sun.  Our lighting is almost all from highly efficient LEDs; we got rid of incandescent lights years ago.  Even when LEDs were expensive, it didn't take long to recoup the investment.

So, what's our biggest consumer of electricity?  Would you believe the refrigerator?  Right on the heels of the refrigerator comes…the computer and all of those related gizmos.  Our total electrical consumption is about 50 kilowatt-hours (kWh) per month. In 2010, the average annual electricity consumption for a U.S. residential utility customer was 958 kWh per month.  The corresponding average monthly electric bill was $110.55.

We aboard Play Actor already look pretty green; we use about 5% as much electrical energy as an average U. S. household uses.  But what does it cost us for our 50 kWh per month?  All of our electrical energy is stored in a battery bank, and the bank holds enough electrical energy to last us for a day and a half, so in a typical month, we have to recharge those batteries about 20 times. 

If we used the most basic approach and ran our auxilliary engine to charge our batteries, we would have to run the engine for 133 hours per month.    That's $150 per month in diesel fuel, at $5 per gallon, not to mention the wear and tear on the engine, maintenance, etc, which will easily double that cost over the life of the engine, so we're looking at about $300 per month, and that only buys us 5% as much energy as the average residential user consumes.  That average U.S. household would pay about $6 for the amount of electrical energy that we use.

There are a number of ways to make burning fossil fuel to recharge our batteries more efficient, including bigger alternators, highly efficient generators, etc.  Those options require a sizable capital outlay, but none even comes close to getting our cost down to what the average U.S. residential customer would pay for our paltry 50 kWh.

We could turn off the refrigerator and unplug the computer, and some do.  Or, we could invest in alternative sources of energy.  Most long-term cruising boats choose this approach.  Aboard Play Actor, we have a wind turbine, which works well enough in the tradewind belt where we spend most of our time, but it still only provides part of our requirement.  We also have solar panels.  For most of the years we've cruised, we've had a small photovoltaic array.  The wind turbine and the solar panels met about 90% of our requirements, but still required us to run that diesel for a few hours a couple of times a month.

When we replaced the engine last year, our high-output alternator wouldn't fit the new engine, and our engine run time to charge the batteries doubled.  We looked into a new high-output alternator that would fit, and realized that for less money, we could double the size of our solar panel array.  That's what we did.  We don't run the engine to charge the batteries, ever, now.  We rarely run it to move the boat, except in close quarters where it's just not practical to sail, and Leslie wakes up happy because we have full batteries.

It's great to be green!

Lost in a Storm!

And the last post was all about the joys of a calm anchorage! 

Shortly before the last hurricane season began, we stored Play Actor in Grenada and flew back to the States for a couple of months to visit family.  As we were packing for our first visit ashore in over three years, I (Bud) discovered that I didn't have any shoes.  We're warm weather sailors, and we don't normally wear shoes on the boat.  We each keep a pair of heavy-duty flip flops in the dinghy, to wear when we go ashore.  Our real shoes are stored in a locker below the hanging locker where we keep our clothes, and my good boat shoes came out of there rotten.  They were only 15 years old, but the marine environment is harsh.  It was late in the day before our early morning departure, so I was in a bit of a bind.

It's not easy to find a good, inexpensive pair of shoes in the islands.  People down here either wear dress shoes or flip flops  The dress shoes are only for office wear, and then only sometimes, so they tend to look all right, but they aren't very good shoes, and like most things, they're expensive.  Boat shoes are sometimes available in limited sizes and styles from the marine supply stores, but they are even more expensive.  There was no time to go shopping, anyway.  

On top of this problem, one of our planned activities in the States was our nephew's graduation from the Air Force Academy, which was going to require that I cover my feet in something that went with a suit.  The suit, I could borrow from a family member, but I already know (done this before) that his shoes won't fit. I've been planning to buy a decent pair of everyday shoes in the States anyway, but I don't want to fly in my flip flops.  After all these years in the tropics, my blood is thin, and my bare feet get really cold in air-conditioned places.

Well, after digging around in several lockers, I found an old, disreputable pair of boat shoes that were still intact, although the soles were worn out.  I flew in those, and just didn't walk any more than necessary.  When we got settled in California, I found a nice looking, serviceable pair of casual shoes with a Vibram sole, good for wear ashore and afloat.  I bought them, thinking I had solved my problem, and I could even use them for boat shoes, too.

Leslie and her step-father, in their role as fashion police, didn't think they were dressy enough to wear with a suit.  After some debate, they presented me with a pair of nice, almost-new black dress shoes that they found on the half-price table at the Salvation Army store when they dropped off a donation.  I've never had a finer pair of shoes for $2.50.  That's only a quarter a toe!  I left those at her folk's place in California for future use.

We've been back aboard Play Actor for several months now, and my feet are back to normal -- brown, callused, sporting a few cuts and a sprained or broken toe or two.  So what's this about a storm?

Oh, yeah.  I got distracted, thinking about my feet, and shoes.  When we're settled in a place, as we are in St. Martin, we usually hoist the dinghy along the side of Play Actor at night.  That keeps barnacles and other assorted critters from growing on the bottom.  Last night, just as we were going to bed, a squall blew through our calm anchorage, with some gusty winds in excess of 40 knots.  We were feeling snug and cozy when there was a loud smack on the side of the hull.  Leslie went up on deck to see what happened and discovered that the dinghy had gone airborne, flying up on its tether and landing on edge alongside the big boat.  The smack was the top of the outboard hitting the hull.  That's about 300 pounds of dinghy flying around.

I climbed in the dinghy and managed to get it flying right-side up, using my weight for ballast.  We dropped it in the water and moved it to trail off the stern of Play Actor for the night.  After a good night's sleep, under covers, even, (a rare treat, in the tropics) we took a look at the dinghy in daylight.  Everything is fine, except…

There were only three flip flops in there!  Between us, we have four feet, so we knew right away that we lost one.  Of course, since I'm the one with limited footwear options, it was one of mine.  Now I've got to hop to the dive shop and see if I can buy a new Reef sandal.  With my luck, I'll probably have to spring for a pair.

The Joy of a Calm Anchorage



Simpson Bay Lagoon

As we work our way through our winter project list here in St. Martin, we give daily thanks for our calm anchorage.  Flat water to float your boat is a rare thing in the Eastern Caribbean.  Most of the popular anchorages are on the leeward side of the islands, offering some protection from the prevailing wind and wind-driven waves.  They are open to the west, though, so that considerable ocean swells are often present.   Long period swells, with a period of ten or more seconds between waves and wave heights of 3 to 5 feet are not unusual.  A heavy boat like ours with a slow roll period is reasonably comfortable at anchor in those conditions, as long as the direction is not off the beam, or side of the boat.

Even though the motion is gentle and we're accustomed to it, it is always there.  Our dining table and the galley counters have raised edges, called fiddles, to keep dishes from sliding off, and we've unconsciously learned to time our pouring of beverages so that they don't go astray.  When the swell comes off the beam and grows large, perhaps as a result of a storm hundreds of miles away, the adjustments that we make are less automatic, and life becomes more challenging.  Leslie has often joked about the fact that we don't have to do any special exercises for our abdominal muscles -- routine activities like sitting, standing, and walking around our constantly moving boat keep us well-toned.

There are a couple of places where we spend time that offer all-around protection.  One of these is Port Egmont, on the south coast of Grenada.  It is a relatively small bay, completely surrounded by tall hills, with a winding, fjord-like entrance.  We've ridden out hurricanes there in safety and reasonable comfort, so in normal weather, the water is as flat as a mill pond.  Port Egmont also offers solitude, as there isn't much there to attract cruising boats.  There are houses, and people living there, but not too many, and there are no businesses.  Shore access requires getting your feet wet.  We like it, but it's not for everyone.

Our other favorite spot for all-around protection and flat water is Simpson Bay Lagoon in St. Martin.  It's quite a contrast to Port Egmont.  It's larger, and there are hundreds of boats sharing it with us.  They range from small cruising boats like Play Actor to huge megayachts sporting helicopters on deck.  One had a 40 foot sloop, as big as our boat, hanging from davits, ready in case their charter guests wanted to go for an afternoon sail.  They're generally available for charter, if you're interested in spending a couple of hundred thousand dollars for a brief respite from winter weather.

Simpson Bay Lagoon also features two large marine supply stores and innumerable specialty shops to cater to a boater's every need.  The island is completely duty-free, and prices on most marine supplies are lower than in the U.S.  We normally spend our time away from St. Martin compiling a project list, to be undertaken on our next visit.  This year was no exception, and we're steadily working our way through the list as we enjoy the calm water and ready access to all sorts of shore-side attractions, including several gourmet grocery stores.

We are also able to get high speed Internet access in the anchorage.  We subscribe to a service that uses fixed cellular technology to provide access all over the island -- even on an anchored boat.  What a luxury, and we get a good night's sleep every night in the bargain, because of the wonderful protection afforded by the high ground all around us.

Hope everyone had a Merry Christmas, and the crew of Play Actor wishes you all a Happy New Year.