Engine woes

Hi! Y’all:

Fair warning to those whose eyes glaze over during technical talk. That’s what this post is all about.

Two engine problems have occurred this year: fuel system and cooling system.

A fuel leak developed between the high pressure fuel pump and the flange for the return (to fuel filter) line. The neoprene gasket had lost its resiliency and needed to be replaced. While I dithered for several days, first making one, then deciding to use a $1.50 factory replacement, the fuel system was open to the atmosphere. Once I’d installed the gasket, I started the engine to test for leaks (there were none), let it run for 30 minutes, then shut it down. I didn’t use the engine for several more days. Before departing Vero Beach, I checked the engine oil level and discovered it was very high on the dipstick. I pumped out nine quarts of fluid (c.f. five quarts), a combination of engine oil and diesel fuel; thankfully, no water. I replaced the engine oil and we continued our journey.

Over the next several weeks, Mister P (P for Perkins) performed flawlessly. The unintentional engine flush with diesel-thinned oil had “cleared out the sinuses” and removed the long-standing clatter from the general direction of the engine compartment. Mister P was at his peak.

A week ago, I noticed the oil level was again high on the dipstick, although only slightly so this time. I had added a pint of oil only the night before, so I couldn’t be sure that I hadn’t overfilled the engine. I resolved simply to observe. I also sought advice on the cruisers’ net here in Abaco. Two people assured me that the fuel pump diaphragm had ruptured. One offered me his spare, if I needed it. That was extremely kind. Due to (Raven’s previous owner) Clyde’s forethought, there was a spare fuel pump on Raven. I fitted it, made sure that the engine would run, then opened up the old pump. The diaphragm was good. So, now I must again wait and watch.

The cooling system problem has been building slowly. Basically, the running temperature has been rising. During long periods at fast idle, charging batteries, the temperature remained at its normal 180°F. Underway, depending on load, it had been as high as 195°F, but sometimes it would run at normal. I checked the intake, the strainer, the impeller, and the hoses. All were OK. That left the thermostat and heat exchanger to inspect. I didn’t want to do this job, dragged my feet, looked for other causes, and denied there was any problem at all. On our way from Hope Town to Lynyard Cay, a 20 mile motor-sail before the wind, the water temperature rose to 200°F. This was beyond my comfort level. We were heading to more remote areas of the Bahamas and this problem was getting worse. I knew I’d have to solve it. Reluctantly, we returned to Marsh Harbour, backtracking 22 miles. It was worth it to have access to marine supplies and a FedEx office, in case I needed special Perkins parts flown in.

The NAPA store had a new thermostat but no gasket. I made one. I also dug out the special Perkins/Bowman heat exchanger rubber end caps I’d bought in Seabrook two years ago, also from NAPA. To gain clearance to lift the thermostat housing off the long studs, I had to remove the hose that carries antifreeze to the header tank. Ah ha! Lodged in the 90° elbow was a red worm, about 2’ long and ¼” diameter. Bits of rust and other debris had collected around it, cutting flow to about 5% of normal. The red worm turned out to be flexible gasket material that someone had been far too generous with during a previous repair. After reaming out the elbow and associated 2” pipe, I changed the thermostat, and exposed the heat exchanger core. It wouldn’t come out for cleaning but I easily passed a 1/8^th inch wooden dowel through every tube, so the raw water flow was clearly unimpaired. During reassembly, I replaced the end caps, one other rubber elbow, and one almost-broken-through worm drive clamp. I’ve learned that not all stainless steel clamps are made equal. Take a ceramic magnet with you to the store when you buy one. The best stainless steel is non-magnetic. Also, the clamps with pressed threads, rather than stamped-out threads, are usually of better quality.

Once all the clamps were tight, I topped up the antifreeze and then let everything sit overnight. I wanted to give the hoses and clamps time to settle in. Next morning, before starting the engine I checked all clamps for tightness. The engine started first crank, as usual, and came up to temperature – just below 180°F. I let it run for 30 minutes but never under load. (We are anchored out.) The temperature didn’t budge.

And so, the present crisis is over. Now, we are waiting for our mail from Texas and enjoying a little down time. Even allowing for unexpected problems, Raven’s maintenance list is slowly shrinking. If you think it’s tough to keep a car running, try a boat. Wear and tear takes its toll, as can be expected, but the environment is relentless in its attacks on the boat and everything on board, particularly the mechanical and electrical systems. It’s as well that cruising’s payback exceeds the work involved in staying afloat and underway.

Best regards,
Captain Dave

St. George and the Dragon(s)

[Hilde’s log]

It’s much easier to describe the places we go than it is to give any idea of what it’s like to live on a boat from day to day or to describe how living on a boat affects my psyche. As I’ve mentioned before, we are our own little floating universe, Planet Raven. Most of the time that’s good, but periodically I am subject to loneliness, homesickness, and fear, just as I was on land. Whatever I am feeling, there’s not a lot to block it out, not much in the way of distraction. There is certainly nowhere else to go.

The good days are wonderful. The scenery is different and mostly beautiful, the people are friendly and often fascinating. Sailing is fun, now, but still plenty challenging enough to be interesting. David and I get along well, for the most part. The jobs we do are repetitive, but probably not any more onerous than jobs on land (I do fantasize about a dishwasher). Some days are more interesting than others. Sometimes we’re bored. On the good days, that’s all okay. The bad days are awful. I find myself subject to all sorts of fears and my imagination runs riot. I know when things aren’t going well for me because I read nonstop, pulling myself as far away from the boat as I can get. This is not a new behavior – I did it when things were going badly on land, too. I stock up on books the way other people lay in medicine.

As we left Hope Town last Thursday morning, one of our new friends expressed surprise when I told her we were always nervous going out. “You mean it doesn’t go away?” she wailed. And for me, the answer is “No.” Usually, the fear I feel when leaving port is just garden variety dock dread, which goes away almost the moment we get underway. This last week, it was a different beast altogether.

We’d been in Hope Town harbor, on a mooring ball, for four nights. Practically the entire time we were in Hope Town I’d been suffering from a higher than usual level of anxiety, waking every morning with every disaster imaginable stomping across my waking consciousness. When we last left Marsh Harbour, our plan was to leave the Abacos, stopping in Man O’War Cay first, then Hope Town, then Lynyard Cay, then across to Royal Island at the northern tip of Eleuthera. The trip to Royal Island is a long one, about 60 miles, which for Raven probably means leaving in the afternoon and sailing overnight to arrive in the early morning. None of this is anything we haven’t done before. But for some reason I just got more and more anxious. I told myself it was bad dock dread and it would go away.

After we left Hope Town, imagine my chagrin when it got even worse! And to top it off, it wasn’t just me. David was having quite a case of his own. By the time we got to Lynyard Cay and had anchored in the lee of the island, we were both in a state, dredging up everything we hate about cruising, from the space issues to the constant maintenance to our inability to just relax and be in the moment and have fun. I was ready to chuck it all in and go home, and I mean the next flight out of Marsh Harbour. If we’d have had internet at that anchorage, I might well have booked the ticket. The emotional tornado just kept swirling and reached a peak the morning after we arrived at Lynyard Cay. David had finally decided that we simply had to go back to Marsh Harbour to take care of two engine issues (the heat exchanger and the fuel pump) which have been hanging over our heads for weeks. I was in an awful funk, scared spitless by the ocean, the boat, and life in general. I was determined to go home, as in Texas, period. I focused that fear on being afraid to get in the water and go snorkeling. Snorkeling is one of the reasons for this trip for me, so the fact that I couldn’t make myself get in the water was huge. I just sat in the cockpit and cried and felt afraid until I got furious enough at being a wimp to jam myself into my wetsuit and jump over the side. To his credit, David didn’t push me.

Once in the water, plowing along toward the beach, all the emotional turmoil of the past five days was carried away in the gentle current. Anyone watching from the boat probably saw a gaseous green cloud lift off my head and float away. I paddled along past fish and grass and sand dollars and suddenly started having a great time. I picked up pieces of all sorts of shells, alternately floating and paddling. By the time David picked me up in the dinghy, maybe 45 minutes later, I was back in the present, centered, and happy as could be, as in cheerful. I had faced down my fear of getting in the water and was feeling victorious. Somehow that small action cleared the rest of the storm. I was ready to head off to Tahiti.

This is a pattern that tends to repeat itself with me and it’s bloody exhausting. I wish I didn’t get scared or feel insecure or get angry. I wish I didn’t have to face down whatever negative thing pops up. I’m glad that when I finally do, it leaves me for a while and I can be present. I’m glad that so far I have managed to stick it out and have not turned tail and run. Sometimes it’s close!

My favorite theory is that out here there is nothing between me and all the emotional crud I have stuffed over the course of my lifetime and with the lid off it just bubbles up apropos of nothing. I read once about an American woman who decided to become a Buddhist nun. The interviewer asked her what that had been like for her. She said, surprisingly, “Well, for the first two years all I did was cry.” She was spending time in a monastery, isolated from all distractions and meditating. The lid was off and all her grief floated to the top. After two years, the emotional storm cleared and at the time of the interview she was serenely happy. I live in hope.

It is possible, since this time both of us went through such a storm, is that it really wasn’t safe for us to go out with these engine issues going on and our subconscious selves knew that and raised a ruckus.

Who knows? That’s just the way it is sometimes. Maybe it doesn’t happen to people on vacation, because they’re on vacation. But we live here. Wherever you go, and all that.

The sail from Lynyard Cay to Marsh Harbour was lovely, just fantastic, and I enjoyed every minute of it. I sailed a lot of it at the helm and did a darn good job. Those of you who know what a total waste of space I was on the boat just two short years ago know what a feeling of accomplishment I have. It was fun to come back in here, where it is so familiar. This morning we got up and watched the Sunfish and Optimist regatta, with about 30 Sunfish and 20 Optimist Prams flitting over the water like so many butterflies. We had a ring side seat from the cockpit. Who needs tickets to the Olympics? The stereo is happily pumping out oldies (the soundtrack from Empire Records, so we aren’t completely lame and out of date). We had pancakes for breakfast, our old friend Jeff on Moonstruck is due in harbor in a couple of hours, David is fixing the engine, and life is good. And, oh, by the way, I have a great tan.

Views of Hope Town, Abacos, Bahamas

Photo #1: Hope Town

Photo #2: resort garden

Photo #3: cemetery overlooking the Atlantic

Photo #4: private backyard w/ golf cart

Photo #5: part of the harbor

Sea Hunt

Photo: This is the little cove where we snorkeled.

[Hilde’s log]

We finally went snorkeling today. There’s a little cove on the Sea of Abaco side of Elbow Cay (Hope Town), right under the lighthouse, that looked just right to us beginners. It is shallow and is ringed with a nice sandy beach. That meant that I could stand up in the water in the shallows and get myself back into the dinghy, not something I can do in deep water. I don’t fancy being towed back into the marina like a sack of rocks, so I was happy to find this place. We dinghied out into the bay in our wetsuits, wearing our Joe Cool sunglasses, looking like we knew what we were doing.

The depth in the cove varies from a few inches near the shore to about 10-12 feet near the entrance. The bottom is covered with rough grass, about 6-8” long, with sandy patches scattered throughout. We anchored the dinghy in the shallows, donned our flippers and masks and snorkels, and hopped over the side. I abandoned my flippers almost immediately. They felt so weird on the ends of my legs, heavy and awkward, and I was panicking enough about breathing through the tube of my snorkel. After I took off the flippers, I felt much better about the whole thing. I discovered I could float along, propelling myself forward with my arms at a leisurely pace, and not run out of air.

I’m nearsighted as can be, but I could see everything very clearly through my mask.

The first creatures I discovered were cream colored, spongy, and puffy-round with scalloped edges. They had ruffled slits in their sides, like pita bread, and were rhythmically sucking water in and blowing it out as the water flowed past them. There were a lot of these little beasties scattered over the sandy areas. Some were small, 3-4” across, and others were more like 6-8”.

There were schools of teeny little striped fish, about 2-3” long, that darted this way and that in the grass. They were clear with brown stripes and blended in completely with the light glinting off the waving grass.

There were schools of really tiny little clear blue fish, maybe an inch long, zig-zagging through the water near shore.

Close to the entrance, in about 8 feet of water, I saw a really big fish, maybe 25-30 pounds, floating along sticking its head in the grass every once in a while. It was a non-descript grayish color with big yellow eyes. I paralleled it, moving slowly and trying not to look hungry. It kept a big yellow eye on me, but wasn’t overly alarmed. It moved off toward the bay and I was too chicken to follow it.

We saw a big, squishy cylindrical fellow with loose, rippling skin, yellow with purple markings. It wasn’t a fish or a jellyfish and no discernable parts – a sea slug, maybe?

There was also a very large sand dollar, the puffed up kind, not the flat kind.

The fish with the most personality was about 4” long, yellow and purple. It was hovering above a rock with some craters in it. When I came upon it, the fish was pecking at the craters, eating something invisible to me. It stayed right there on its rock, even when I moved away and came back with David.

The biggest and brightest find of the day was a huge sea star, about 15” across, light orange with dark red markings. Sea stars look like they would be so soft to touch, but it’s like petting rough concrete. I know that from touching one in the aquarium in Seattle a few years ago.

I looked in vain for the turtle we saw yesterday from the dinghy when we first discovered the cove. The turtle was after minnows and it zipped this way and that, scooting along just under the surface of the water at a high rate of speed. I really want to see one of those fellows close up in the water. No luck today.

We weren’t out that long. Even in the bright sunshine and the shallow water, we felt chilled. I bought bottled water and some snack crackers with us and we munched those and stripped off the wetsuits. Once we were dry and the gooseflesh had gone down a bit, we motored back to the anchorage. I sat astride the bow of the dinghy with my feet dangling into the water, laughing, as we bumped over the swells. The water is so clear, it’s like a gigantic swimming pool. I could get used to this place.

Internet at last: photos from the last 3 blogs

Photo #1: island home and teeny road leading to the beach, Man O'War Cay

Photo #2: Atlantic Beach, Man O'War Cay

Photo #3: our dinghy tied up at low tide next to the ladders I keep having to scale, Man O'War Cay

Photo #4: Meander, leaving Marsh Harbour the other morning

Photo #5: "Yellow Submarine" and captain, bobbing in Settlement Harbour, Great Guana Cay

Photo #6: interior of island ferry, heading from Marsh Harbour to Great Guana Cay

Man O'War Cay

[Hilde’s log]

April 18, 2008

What a picture perfect day we have had! After a brief stop at the fuel dock to replenish her diesel supply, Raven set off for Man O’War Cay about 9 a.m. It’s only 6.5 miles from Marsh Harbour, so even though we had to motor into what little wind there was, we got here about 10:45 or so. The channel is quite narrow, with rocks and sand jutting out either side, so we eased our way in, glad for the high tide. We are in the eastern anchorage, and it is crammed with boats. Most of them look unoccupied; I think most of the cruisers anchor out in front of the main town dock and marina to the west. It’s pretty shallow in here. As in so many other places (everywhere but Marsh Harbour so far) the water is like glass, completely clear.

David dropped the anchor in about 8 feet of water, over a sandy patch. He decided this was the perfect place to “dive on the anchor” for the first time. Diving on the anchor is exactly what it sounds like. You dive down to see if your anchor is set right, and if not, you set it by hand. Well. First of all, the water is still quite chilly. David donned his wetsuit and went over the side. When his bottom hit the waterline, he climbed right back out with a few choice remarks about the temperature. He’s such a cat, he really doesn’t like to be in the water in the first place, and he really doesn’t like to be in it when it’s cold.

I’m a fish, so I said I’d do it. I donned my wetsuit and dropped down in the clear water. Then I bobbed to the surface with quite a few choice words of my own about the temperature. Wo! It was glacial. Of course, I think anything less than 78 is glacial, but still. By the time I swam to the anchor, following the chain by looking through my snorkel mask, I was plenty warm enough. The chain snaked all over the place, but I finally found the anchor. It’s our CQR and it appeared to be lying on its side, with one of the flukes buried and the other visable. Upon that report, David backed Raven down and the CQR buried itself deeper, but still a bit on one side. It was fascinating to watch it dig itself in, like a large iron sea creature. David wanted to see for himself, so he dinghied over and leaned over the side, wearing his snorkel mask. Finally he decided he wanted to dive down and see if he could set it more firmly. He dropped into the water, fins and snorkel in place, which prevented me from hearing all the bad words that steamed up his mask. He flippered down a couple of times, but couldn’t get a purchase on the dratted thing. But there is always more than one way to skin a cat. He put the Danforth in the dinghy and motored out in front of Raven and set that anchor too.

Once we warmed up again with lunch and tea, we took the dinghy into the town dock. I climbed yet another ladder (I’m getting really good at that) and we spent the afternoon walking all over this lovely cay. Friends fussed to us that there isn’t much to do here, but golly I don’t know what else you’d want. Perhaps it’s just that Man O’War Cay doesn’t cater to tourists – there aren’t lots of places to shop, or eat, and no bars. The island is very pretty, covered with beautiful Easter egg colored houses, graced with a long Atlantic beach on one side and lots of boats and boat-related businesses on the other (also two gift shops, a shop that makes canvas bags and hats, two bakeries, a grocery, an ice-cream/snack/light dinner place, and a lunch place). It is criss-crossed with tiny one-lane roads, and the locals zip around, up and down, back and forth, in golf carts. We found real ice cream and each enjoyed a cone. We beach combed, took lots of photos, stopped in at the local grocery for (bountiful heavens!!!) a cold Dr. Pepper for me and a cold Diet Coke for David, and then ate dinner at outdoor picnic tables for a very reasonable price. We both had fried fish fingers made from actual fish (as opposed to the frozen square variety you find at home); David had enough French fries to satisfy even him and I had Bahamian peas and rice, which is exactly what it sound like. It’s a bit like fried rice with peas and crisp bacon mixed in, and is one of the national dishes.

Once back on board, we had a sundowner and relaxed, watching the sun set in the west and the full moon rise in the east, and listening to the cheerful song of birds. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed birdsong. We saw sparrows and woodpeckers and a big heron and I’m sure we heard wrens as well.

I found shells on the beach, we watched schools of fish swim by in the clear water, we had two dinghy rides, we walked all the way down the beach (which nearly killed me in the deep sand) and looked in all the tide pools, we watched the breakers smash against the rocks, throwing a fan of salty lace four feet in the air, we looked out over an ocean from the last land between here and Africa, and marveled yet again at the neon colors of the sea and the rushing line of breakers that stretched all the way along the island. May there never be anything else to do on Man O’War Cay.

Anchor Watch

[Hilde’s log] April 16, 2008

There are days on board that are just plain tedious, and most have to do with bad weather when I am safe enough not to be scared, but am required to keep watch to make sure things don’t get interesting. They can get interesting in a split second.

A few days ago, I was knitting in the cockpit. The wind had kicked up a bit and I knew I needed to put the knitting down and take a look around, but I was within 10 stitches of the end of my row and wanted to finish. I have a tendency to make weird mistakes if I stop before the end of a row and weird mistakes usually cost me hours of frustration. The next thing I knew, our air horn went off by my head with a deafening blast and David was flying out of the cockpit as though he had been launched. “Boat dragging!” he yelled, and that got my mind of my knitting, which I thrust to the side as I leaped up. Sure enough, there was a 35 foot sailboat about 6 feet from our starboard side, its crew frantically trying to start the motor. “Get me a fender!” David hollered at me, so I scrambled to the stern, unhooked the closest fender and hurried forward toward the bow, where David was standing. He was leaning over the lifelines, pushing the standing rigging on the dragging boat, which was now about 2 feet from us, fending her away from Raven’s starboard side. There was no time to attach a fender. The dragging boat’s dinghy and big outboard motor were hanging from davits from its stern, which was even with our beam. I scooted amidships and leaned over the lines myself and pushed with all my might against the pontoons of the inflatable dinghy and then against the motor. It is amazing to me that the average puny human can cause a 20,000 pound boat to move just by pushing on it. The captain got the motor going in no time (although it seemed like hours) and they moved away, barely missing catching their rudder on our anchor chain. Later in the afternoon, he came over to apologize. He said he’d been in his engine room and noticed that another boat was dragging. Then he realized the other boat was dragging forward…then he knew his boat was dragging! It’s such a scary feeling. We were totally sympathetic, and as I told him, “If you haven’t ever dragged, you’ve spent all your time at the dock.”

All of which is to say, when the wind is high and you’re anchored out with other boats, you keep an anchor watch (1) to make sure you’re not dragging and (2) to make sure no one else is headed your way. I was so grateful the incident above happened in daylight. In Taylor’s Creek, Beaufort, NC two summers ago, I watched two boats fend off from each other in a raging thunderstorm in the middle of the night for a couple of hours. The creek was too crowded and the boats anchored too close together and when the wind came from a certain direction they “kissed”. Those two crews had a long night. In this last blow, we had friends on a mooring ball in Fisher’s Bay, and the mooring ball tether broke in the wind. They escaped without incident, but I’m sure it raised their blood pressure. You have such a (false) feeling of security on a ball.

Yesterday morning about 3:30 a.m. the strong winds that were forecast arrived in a huff, increasing from about 5 knots to about 20 knots in a matter of minutes. David and I got up and went above to check on our holding. We had moved Raven down the harbor almost to the farthest end in search of a viable wi-fi connection (no luck) and we hadn’t been in any sort of wind since we moved. We sat up and watched our bearing lines, drank hot tea, and muttered about the way weather systems always seem to arrive in the wee hours of the morning. I went back to bed about 5 and got up about 8, feeling as though I’d been kicked in the head. The wind blew like stink all day, without letup, between 20 and 25 knots. It blew right down the channel of the harbor, instead of over the land, as forecast, churning up two foot waves in the harbor that slapped this way and that. Boats streamed back from their anchors like ribbons pinned to surface of the water, some pulling straight along their anchor chains and others dancing side to side with the gusts, a field of water-bound kites in the strong wind.

Other than keeping a wary eye on things, there was nothing to do but read and listen to the wind. David fought with the computer, hoping to pin down a viable wi-fi signal, to no avail. I made bread. We snacked and let the dirty dishes pile up. We wandered the 20 feet from the hatch to the v-berth and back again. I flopped on the settee for awhile, then crawled up the companionway and sat in the wind awhile. Raven bobbed and sloshed and danced around on her chain, “sailing at anchor”. The boat in front of us, which looked awfully close, turned this way and that on her chain, bucking like a frightened horse. Even had you wanted to slosh your way to land in the dinghy over the rough water, you’d have been too worried about the boat to have any fun. So we stayed on board and daydreamed about rv-ing, and how when the weather is bad you just go to the laundry or to the movies or to a coffee shop. On a boat, you stay on the boat.

After blowing steadily all day, the wind got down to business about 9 p.m. and howled along at well over 25 knots. Quite a number of long gusts were in the low to mid 30s. I took the first watch and played endless games of mahjong and free cell on the computer, popping up regularly to check my bearing lines and the magnetic track on our Garmin to make sure we were still holding firm. About 12:30 a.m. the wind dropped off to “only” 20 knots, so I crawled into bed and died, telling David he didn’t need to get up. Of course, never one to let you actually get any rest, the wind came back about 2 a.m., and David got up to watch. I felt him leave the v-berth and then crashed back to sleep. I roused from time to time and feebly asked if everything was all right. About dawn, David came back to bed and he’s in there now, dead to the world at 8 a.m. It’s blowing about 15, and I really, really, need a cup of tea.

Boats and More Boats

[Hilde’s log] April 14, 2008

Can’t get a good wi-fi signal on a bet, so I’m posting this via email. I can’t post photos this way, but maybe I can update the posts later if we ever find a good signal.

Just when I think I’m getting pretty good at this, along comes another cruiser to put me in my place. Not on purpose – they’re just amazingly good. We were sitting in the cockpit yesterday watching all sorts of boats come into Marsh Harbour, when a little ketch floated by under sail. She was about 30 feet, with red sails, a couple of white haired folk on the lines and under sail, not motor (she didn’t look as though she even had a motor). She floated through the anchorage, red sails taut, jibing this way and that on a dime, as her crew looked for a likely spot. When they found it, they dropped anchor and calmly went forward to strike the sails. She is Meander, from Devon, England, and her crew is amazing.

On our trip to the birthday party at Guana day before yesterday David and I took the ferry. Ferries here are all called “Donnie” plus a number. We were on Donnie XI. They are ungainly looking craft, basically floating buses with enormous engines. We puttered out of the harbor and then VRRRRRRROOOOOM, off we took churning white water behind us as we thumped our way across the Sea of Abaco. I was reminded of our ferry trip to Seattle several years ago. I was enthralled by the view and the sunset and the whole experience, but around me tired commuters were balancing checkbooks, reading novels, and napping. It was the same on this ferry, with tired shoppers hanging on to their groceries and cranky children fussing. No one was into the view but us, the touristas. It was great to do the crossing in 20 minutes, rather than 2 ½ hours, but the noise and the shaking were tremendous. On the return trip, the ferry beat all the way across the Sea and somehow the diesel smoke got trapped in the open cabin with us. That pretty much cured me of riding the ferry.

While waiting for the return ferry at Guana, we saw what appeared to be a cartoon submarine off the pier. Just big enough for one person, this little yellow submarine (yes, we sang a chorus of that at the top of our voices – we had a great time at the party and it was still showing) had rounded wings and tail and nose, and was shaped just like a ballooned cartoon of a real airplane. A man was inside – we could see him wiping steam from his breath from the inside windshield – and he steered toward the pier and away, alternately submerging and floating up for air, water spurting rhythmically from holes in the cabin. He evidently knew the ferry pilots, because once they’d docked and the passengers had loaded, he came up right at the stern, slipped out of the sub through a door in the bottom, and crawled up to sprawl on the nose and chat. He drew a crowd of Bahamian workers, plus the passengers on the ferry, all of whom gawked and cracked jokes about his little craft. As the ferry pulled away, we watched him floating off through the mooring field, a little yellow airplane submerged in the clear blue water.

Today is April 14, 2008. Two years ago today, Raven sailed away from Seabrook on the way to Florida. On board were one terrified (me), one resigned (Schnitzel), and one excited (David) sailor, off to see what we could see. Happy anniversary, Raven!

at home in the Abacos

[Hilde’s log]

Raven is back at anchor in Marsh Harbour. We came back to pick up a wi-fi bridge (a kind of antennae) so we can hook back up to the net. Our old antennae croaked abruptly about 10 days ago. Another cold front is due Monday, so we’ll be here until probably Thursday, when we will head on to Man O’War Cay and maybe Little Harbour, the southern end of the Abacos.

While we were waiting for the antennae to come in, we sailed back to Great Guana and picked up a mooring in Settlement Harbour for a few days, then sailed across the Sea of Abaco to Treasure Cay (about 7-8 miles across) to wait out a weak cold front. To our chagrin, we sailed right into the squall line as we made our way across, and got properly drenched for our bad timing. It was an interesting experience, though, as we watched a very well defined line of dark clouds lumber toward us over the water. Several boats were making the trip and we kept an eye on the one about half a mile in front of us. When it suddenly began to heel, we took in the sails. About two minutes later, we were smacked with 30 mile an hour winds (I swear I saw 35 on the wind meter for one gust) and slopping waves. The wind lasted only about five minutes and then everything settled down to a drenching rain as we struggled forward under power. David was at the helm all suited up in his yellow slicker, dripping like a melting icicle, while I sat in front of the companionway, helpfully offering him dry cloths to wipe his streaming face. And yes, the bimini was up. Big help it was! We hadn’t pulled it tight enough, so water pooled in the saggy places and dripped on us, while the rain blew in under it, and the seas sloshed up from the gunwhales. I worried about going into the dock, but by the time we reached Treasure Cay (about 3 miles from the place we met the squall line), it was sunny and calm. Inside the marina, it was flat as a pancake and the wind was about 7 knots.

Once we were tied up at the dock, we took a look around at a genuine resort. The docks there are fixed, so I had to time getting on and off the boat, as the dock rose and fell about three feet over the course of six hours. Our biggest priority was a hot shower, so that came first. Then we stretched out on beach chairs by the pool, watched the palm trees sway, and did absolutely nothing for about thirty minutes. A quick exploration revealed a poolside bar and restaurant, a line of shops (hardware, laundry, grocery, etc.), and a beachside bar and restaurant overlooking a crescent shaped bay. I slept like a dead thing that night, for ten hours. I think as long as we are on the hook, or even on a mooring ball, part of me keeps “one eye open”. At the dock, all systems relax and that is the end of me for hours and hours. Needless to say, the next morning I was so relaxed I could hardly dress.

Our next priority was laundry ($8 to wash and dry one load, again), after which we came back to Raven and lay around in the cockpit reading until about three. We finally forced ourselves out of the cockpit and over to the beach; after all, we were paying through the nose for this experience, so we had to do resort-y things. The water at the beach was cloudy with sand and you couldn’t see like you could at Great Guana. It was also still a bit chilly from the front and the wind was whipping along so wind chill was a factor. After about 20 minutes we decided it was too cold, so we went and lay around on our plastic beach chairs drying off. The walk from the beach had coated us in a thin layer of white sand. Sugar dusted and sticky, we peeled ourselves off the plastic chairs after about half an hour, dried off, and then packed our bags and headed to the pool to wash off the sea water. The pool water was even colder!! I swam about 3 lengths, stayed cold, and got out. David wisely opted for a hot shower. More reading in the cockpit. We wandered back to the beach that night for the advertised beach bonfire (there wasn’t one) and congratulated ourselves on having eaten well on the boat, since the beach fare was $14 barbequed hot dogs (that’s $14 each).

Bottom line: we failed miserably to become resort patrons. The hot showers and laundry were huge draws, but the rest of it couldn’t live up to being on the boat. People there were like people at any hotel, friendly but distant. We couldn’t afford the food and didn’t find any place that was as nice as our own cockpit to enjoy a beer. We cast off the next day (after a farewell shower), and headed back to Settlement Harbour. It was a beautiful, if lumpy sail. In the marina, we couldn’t tell if the wind was strong or not, we were so protected. But once out on the Sea of Abaco, the seas were still churning, so it must have been a pretty good blow. We sailed for about two hours, and then motored up to our old mooring spot at Settlement Harbour, coming in about three. The next morning we dinghied in and went walkabout over much of the island, looking at neighborhoods with pretty pastel houses, peeking in at Grabber’s, the other watering hole on Great Guana, and finally returning to Nipper’s for a quick lunch of boiled shrimp and fried onions rings, and, luxury of luxury, two Cokes. I bought a conch necklace for a souvenir, and then we cast off for another lovely sail to Marsh Harbour. The sailing here is just fantastic. I cannot imagine anything more wonderful than gliding over the clear pastel water with the sun on my shoulders and the soft wind in my face.

Now we’re at anchor for a few days. This part of boat life is boat and personal chores – grocery, cutting hair (I cut mine yesterday and it’s about 2” long), baking bread, cleaning up below, and putting on a new coat of teak oil. We have one more day of leisure, though. Later today David and I are taking the ferry out, headed back again to Great Guana to attend a birthday party. It’s a 20 minute ride for $20. The ferries zip past, up and down the Sea of Abaco, like rectangular white water bugs. It will be fun to go so fast.

A day at the beach

These photos are from the Atlantic side of Great Guana.

photo #1: enjoy a rum something at a Nipper's picnic table, overlooking the Atlantic

photo #2: at last, palm trees!

photo #3: looking up from the beach to Nipper's

photo #4: at the edge of a very big ocean

photo #5: we had the beach to ourselves - 5 miles of it

Back at Great Guana, April 4, 2008

photo #1: "Buck a Book" sells you paperbacks for a dollar and donates its profits to benefit the wild horses of Abaco, descended from Columbus' time, and numbering only 8 horses at this time

photo #2: interior of Java, my favorite coffee shop in Marsh Harbour

[Hilde’s log]

Raven is slopping quietly at anchor at Settlement Point, Great Guana Cay. We returned to Great Guana after several days in Marsh Harbour, where we stocked up on groceries, got rid of our trash, and visited with friends. My favorite stop is a little coffee shop called Java, where I enjoyed an iced chai in a lovely non-air conditioned setting. Although the islands are warm (lower 80s most days), the constant sea breeze keeps everything comfortable and only a few places have air conditioning. This makes me very happy, since the air conditioning at home smells stale and is always set at right about freezing. At Java, the front and back doors are always open and the breeze sweeps through, taking the aroma of the coffee right out on the porch. There is art on the walls for sale, a table of books for exchange, tea and coffee for sale, couches and chairs for those who want the shade, and comfortable plastic tables out front for those who want more light.

Although Marsh Harbour is one of the “big” towns (you can get there by plane), it’s pretty easy to walk to what you need. The grocery store, Maxwell’s, has just about everything you’d want. The prices are quite expensive, reflecting the fact that just about everything is shipped in, but when you’ve lived on canned food for awhile where no produce is available, price is insignificant and availability is everything. David and I stuffed our purchases into our little wheeled plastic carts and lugged our booty about four long blocks to the dinghy dock. I felt as though I were some old horse dragging a wooden cart. There are few sidewalks and Bahamians drive on the left, so traffic was also an issue. It took us three separate trips to the store to stock the boat because we could only carry so much at a time. We also resupplied with propane and gasoline. We’ll fill up with water and diesel later in the week when we stop in at a dock (trash pickup, hot showers, dockside laundry…what luxury!).

The promised winds did come through, but much less strongly than anticipated. Marsh Harbour is a great foul weather port, protected on all sides with great holding. Larry and Barbara, on Laura May, told us of one fellow who rode out a hurricane in that harbor – on the boat. No thanks!

Today we made a quick hour and a half trip back to Great Guana Cay. We took a mooring ball at Settlement Point and went ashore to find Nipper’s, one of the two local watering holes. A passing golf cart gave us a ride right up to the gate. Nipper’s has a fresh water swimming pool, an open air bar, a restaurant, and guest lodges and sits on a sand dune overlooking a long stretch of Atlantic beach. What a glorious sight! This was the view I kept seeing on all the brochures – five miles of unspoiled beach trimmed with sandy cliffs and palm trees, white-crested rollers breaking over white sand, deep neon-blue sea to the horizon. There is a reef about 75 yards off the beach where you can snorkel, plenty of places to jump the breakers or body surf or just sit in the sand and roast. Children dug sand, adults alternately played with them or leaped in the breakers, couples strolled down the beach, small dogs played endless games of tag with anyone who showed the least interest. We watched it all from the shaded edge of Nipper’s porch, listening to island music and the surf, a cold beer in hand. Tomorrow we will make our own foray to the sand. David has just ruined Galveston for me by bringing me here. I mean ruined.