West End, Grand Bahama Island

photo #1: flying the quarantine flag
photo #2: West End, Grand Bahama Island
photo #3: dockside paperwork
photo #4: official! Flying the Bahamian courtesy flag

[Hilde’s log]

Good morning from the Bahamas! It’s about 8 a.m. and I’m waiting for the tea to steep. We’re at the dock at the Old Bahama Bay Resort at West End, having finally arrived yesterday afternoon at 5 p.m. after almost two years with this in mind (we left Seabrook, Texas on April 14, 2006). The waters here at the dock are the cloudy turquoise I remember from our stop in the Florida keys. Coming in yesterday, close to the island, it was clear enough to see the dolphins playing on the bow wake.

Raven left Hillsboro Inlet about 7 a.m. yesterday, at first light. The inlet is a tricky affair, mostly because of the strong current that can run around three knots when it really gets going. It’s not a straight exit, as you have to dodge some shoaling, so it’s not an exit you want to use in high winds or strong current. David maneuvered Raven through on a weak current and no wind. As much as we like southern Florida, we were both thrilled to watch it recede into the distance.

The Gulf Stream behaved itself after 12 hours of a light east wind and although it was a bit lumpy we made great time, most of it 8 knots or greater. Our GPS log last night showed a top speed of 8.9 knots, which is quite something for this old girl (Raven, not me!). Once across the stream, we unfurled the sails, hooked up George, the Monitor the wind vane, and enjoyed a fantastic three-hour sail toward our landfall at West End. Along the way, we passed a number of Portugese Man O’War jellyfish, the sun glistening on their clear, pink-tinged “sails”. I was amused, thinking of this tiny armada advancing on the unsuspecting Florida coast.

The deep ocean waters were as beautiful as I remembered, and changed color all day. The blues ranged from india ink dark to turquoise, not to mention what David called “Plato blue” (being the blue of perfection). The little medallions of golden seaweed drifted by and I felt like I was seeing old friends from the Gulf crossing two years ago.

Later in the afternoon we sailed through flights of flying fish. Shooting up about an inch above the waves, these little fighter jets of the sea scoot at high speed for about 100 feet, wings in a flurry of motion, before exploding back into the water like so much buckshot. From the deck, you can’t tell much about them – they look silver and fast. But I remember the one we saw in Beaufort, NC, floating near the top of the water. It was all colors, mostly purple and gold, about 10 inches long. I knew it was a flying fish from the shape of its “wings”, but I never expected the beautiful, shimmering colors.

I had a great crossing, but poor David suffered miserably from a tension headache and tender stomach most of the day. We both fared much better than we did when we first pushed off from Galveston two years ago. That trip started off with three solid days of seasickness for both of us. I was very, very grateful we didn’t have a replay of that experience. I think it helped that neither of us used those darn patches. I think they made us sick! It also helped me that I wasn’t terrified, like I was two years ago. My heart was light as a feather and I couldn’t help squealing “Isn’t this great? Isn’t this a beautiful day? What a great day! Look at the sea!”, etc., until I am quite sure my not-so-happy husband was ready to push me overboard. Fortunately he wasn’t feeling well enough to do that.

The last hour of the day was the most challenging. We furled the sails and motored toward Grand Bahama Island (West End being, appropriately, on the western tip of the island). The sea was simply churning, with three and four foot rollers heaving Raven side to side as we approached the jetties. I have taken a number of lopsided photos of our approach, holding the camera over the gunwhales as I wedged my foot in the hatchway to keep from sliding to the other side of the boat. David took her in, me relieving him at the helm for a bit so he could fix the yellow quarantine flag to the pennant jack (de rigeur for entering a foreign port – this was our first foreign port!).

I did donuts in the small turning basin right outside the marina while David attached our docklines and then David slid us into the marina and into our slip. We were met by a friendly Bahamian dockhand who helped us tie up, we filled out a sheaf of paperwork, David took that to the powers that be, they stamped us in and relieved us of our cruising fee, and we were in. David put up the Bahamian flag on the pennant jack and we clambered up on the docks and joined our friends, Luisa and Jay from Airborne (we last saw them at our anchorage on Prince’s Creek, off the Waccamaw River, SC, in December), for that long desired pina colada at the bar on the beach – as the sky opened and a torrent of rain fell for about an hour.

The resort here is really beautiful and tasteful, with all the amenities. There are beach chairs and umbrellas lined up on the crescent shaped beach, there’s an open air bar, and a beautiful heated swimming pool in the lushly landscaped interior courtyard. I wouldn’t mind staying for a few days. But we’re on a mission, so we’ll fill up with water this morning and take showers, and then we are headed off to Mangrove Cay, up the Indian Key Channel, to anchor out tonight. Tomorrow we’ll head to Great Sale Cay where we will stay at anchor for a few days til the coming norther comes and goes, and then we will head for the Abacos Islands. No wi-fi for awhile, so no posts or email replies until we find another place with amenities.

Always something new

[Hilde’s log, March 11, 2008]

One of the things I really love about the boating life is that I never know what’s going to happen from one day to the next. For the last week, mostly what has happened is a big nothing. We left our sloppy anchorage at Hillsboro Inlet in 20 knot winds Friday morning and came south about four miles to Lake Santa Barbara, a small lake off the ICW ringed with homes and private docks. The water is blessedly calm and the boats that come in and out are very polite, cruising at idle speed and making no wake for the most part. We’re waiting for the elusive weather window (moderate winds blowing from the south) so we can cross the Gulf Stream in relative comfort and safety, and are hoping to cross Friday. I’ve been to this altar before, so I’m not holding my breath. The forecast has held for a couple of days now and I’m allowing myself to feel hopeful. We will have to move tomorrow, as this place, like so many in Florida, has a 24 hour anchoring limit. We’ve been here three nights, but the sheriff just found us. So we will move across the ICW tomorrow morning and anchor at Lettuce Lake (I am not making up the name), and then Thursday head back to Hillsboro Inlet in the hopes of going offshore on Friday.

As we’ve waited at anchor, we’ve done some long neglected chores. I holy-stoned the galley, the stove, and the head, David repaired a faulty valve on the stove and polished the isenglas on the dodger. He installed a lock on the head to keep the Coast Guard happy. I knit, and then un-knit, about 15 rows on my current project. We read. I found computer chess on the computer and wrestled my way to a couple of draws. I made pineapple upside down cake again and we ate most of it. We read some more. David cleaned out the oil sump. I thought about attempting laundry on deck. You get the picture.

Then, as it so often does, up popped the unexpected. I was sitting on deck growling at my un-knitting late in the morning, when a small power boat came up close to us. We’ve been passed by umpteen boats while anchored here, so I didn’t pay it any attention. The skipper yelled across “Where are you from?” I replied “Texas.” “We’re from California,” he called and pulled the boat closer. The boat held two couples, out for an afternoon on the water. They invited us to join them for lunch, and although we declined, we suggested they drop by on their way home for a chat. Off they went and I went back to my un-knitting. They returned in an hour or so and rafted up alongside. Bill and Astrid, newlyweds, are from California. Kermit and Jeanie are from Minnesota. Both come to Florida in the winter and all were taking advantage of a perfect day to take a spin in Bill’s boat. They came aboard to see Raven and the next thing we knew, they had invited us to go with them down the ICW a few miles, just to see the sights and enjoy the day. We didn’t hesitate long!

The trip was such fun. We alternated between a sedate pace in the “idle speed only” zones and then zoomed along like a big jet ski in the open zones. Bill’s boat makes next to no wake at high speed, so it was guilt free flying. The wind whipped our faces and we whooshed over calm water and thudded into wake at what seemed like 100 miles an hour. We dipped under the umpteen bridges David and I have negotiated coming south and covered in a couple of hours the same ground it takes us all day to accomplish. I admit, I had engine lust. Kermit and I took turns at the helm while Bill and Astrid waltzed around the deck to loud music from the cd player. We even saw wildlife – huge, torpid iguanas sunning themselves on the lumber of a bridge fender and an exotic fish-like fellow that Bill thinks may be a black angel. This creature, about the size of a man’s shoe, swam a bit like a manta ray, by raising and lowering two flowing “wings”. It looked like a black silk handkerchief as it languidly moved through the water.

About sunset, Bill docked the boat at a canal-side restaurant. That was a bit of an adventure in itself, as the dock was a good six feet above the deck of the boat. The others clambered up, helped by a couple of men who caught our lines. I just stood there looking up, thinking, “Oh, right,” and imagining them passing me a sandwich from the dock, when the two guys told me to come on, they’d lift me up. I’m not exactly a bantam weight, so I had huge reservations about the whole thing, but by golly if they didn’t just take hold of my upper arms (I’m standing on the boat railing at this point) and lift me right up onto the dock, like a two-man human elevator! It turns out these fellows didn’t even work for the restaurant, they were just fellow diners. I guess I will have to re-evaluate my opinion that Floridians aren’t very friendly.

Unfortunately, they left before we did, so I had to trust to Bill, David, and gravity to board again. Clutching the frame of the console awning (David clamping his hand over my arm and Bill ready to catch my hair if I missed the side), I dropped down onto the side and then to the deck of the boat. As usual, not graceful but effective.

On our return, we boarded Raven, windblown, full of fish sandwiches, and warm with good feelings for our newfound friends. You just never know what’s going to happen next. Thanks, guys!

Oh well

[Hilde’s log]

Well, God does not appear to be willing. I woke this morning to the slapping of a halyard about 4:30 a.m., 30 minutes before our official wake up call, to find the wind blowing like 60 and Raven tossing at anchor in the dark. David looked up the forecast and sure enough, it was for south winds (good direction) at 20-25 knots (just at the top of our acceptable tolerance – for us, not for Raven; nothing bothers her) and seas to 11 feet. Not so great. If we absolutely had to go today, we could make it just fine, but we’d be whipped by the time we arrived in West End after 10-11 hours of roughish weather and it wouldn’t be fun. This is supposed to be fun! The remaining forecast for the next four days shows strong northerly winds. We decided, after much teeth gnashing, to go on to Ft. Lauderdale later this morning and hole up for the next window.

The good news is that after our practice run at getting ready (and finding so many things that weren’t) we are now really ready, and when that next window appears we can go for it. We also learned about windows – they really are short and unpredictable. Monday it looked as though we had a four day window, but that turned into two days and then one day pretty quickly. We have been told to go on the first day of a window and now see the wisdom in that. Had we been able to leave Wednesday, the first day of the window, we’d have made it with no problems. Thursday and Friday and on into the weekend, the forecast deteriorated rapidly, day by day. Sometimes the weather holds and sometimes it doesn’t, so go on the first day and let the rest of the window take care of itself.

It’s interesting from a psychological aspect, how I get so wound about going, creating artificial deadlines for myself and then stressing when I miss them. At least now I see myself doing it. Somehow I have decided that we are “late” that we are “missing the opportunity”, that we will have to rush the trip – the voices in my head are loud and urgent and ridiculous. I have not yet managed to relax into a long horizon, but I am getting a lot of practice at going with the flow, with letting everything be all right, regardless of what we do or don’t do, whether we go here or there or stay put, and regardless of what other boaters are doing.

Waiting

[Hilde's log]

Raven is still bobbing at anchor at Lighthouse Point, Florida (Hillsboro Inlet). Sigh. Today would have been a great day to cross, but we found ourselves snafued by a few important details we had forgotten -- copies of ship's papers, for example, that you have to present to the Bahamian government when checking in. It's just as well, I guess. We have a new Lifesling on the rails (the cover to the original finally rotted, after 20 years), a new anchor snubber to replace the old, frayed one, some new chafing gear. But heavens above, it was hard to watch this window close. The forecast tonight is not favorable, even though the forecast this morning said Thursday would be great. So we'll see what the forecast is later tonight and hope for a turnaround.

Waiting takes its toll. I passed the day cleaning the deck. David did the necessary errands. Boats went in and out of the inlet, including a sailboat that was taking on water and was shepherded under the bridge by two Tow Boat U.S. runabouts and a Coast Guard boat with nothing better to do. Later the bridge went up for a huge black Coast Guard cutter that looked too big for the bridge opening, but steamed through, massive outboard enginges churning up stiff white boiling wake that set us lopping.

David and I made Raven ready, clearing the decks and bringing the dinghy on board. On passages, we flip the dinghy upside down on the foredeck and secure it with lines. We spent a slimy hour scrubbing the dinghy bottom, scraping and brushing off algae, barnacles, white wormy things (eeew), and flat round brown things (eeew) with old tupperware scrapers. They work great, by the way. We read from the Bahamas cruising guides as we ate dinner. We watched the ocean disappear into the dark of evening and watched the lights pop out all around the anchorage and out at sea (markers and distant ships' lights).

The beam from the lighthouse periodically rakes the sky above us and flashes into the top stories of the condos behind us. It's calm and mild tonight. The pelicans and gulls are screeching from their roosts over by the lighthouse and I can faintly hear the surf at the breakwater. Raven is floating easily in the calm water and I hear David in the cockpit shifting a few last minute items for better storage. And we just wait and hope that tomorrow's weather cooperates.

Waiting gives me a lot of room to worry about everything under the sun, from our level of preparedness (you'd think we were headed to darkest Africa) to speculation on what we will find when we arrive. It takes some effort on my part to take the waiting in stride.

God willing, my next post will be from West End.

Florida views

Photo #1: Lake Worth (North Palm Beach)

Photo #2: yet another bridge (our record is 12 in one day)

Photo #3: fixer upper

Photo #4: pretty waterway neighborhood - Venice on the ICW

Photo #5: Cap'n Dave blinds 'em with fashion (those are my favorite suspenders!)

Bahamas Bound

Photo #1: David making lists for tomorrow
Photo #2: Hillsboro lighthouse; view from Raven's deck tonight.
Photo #3: We'll be slipping out the right hand side of this inlet into the Atlantic in the wee hours of Wednesday morning if the weather holds


[Hilde’s log]

We’re within 36 hours of crossing the Gulf Stream and heading to West End, in the Abacos (northern Bahamas). At last. Raven is anchored near Lighthouse Point, Florida, just inside the Hillsboro inlet. We spent three nights anchored right off the ICW at a private dock made available by Bob and Angela from Shining Star. They have a co-op apartment that faces the ICW, and the docks belong to people who own other apartments in the same complex. I’ve been swimming twice in the past three days, in the beautiful private pool that the residents keep at a luxurious 85 degrees. The pool is outdoors and not much used, so I flashed back to the days when David and I had a private pool in our backyard. I was ready to hand over the cash necessary to buy one of the apartments – except that we’d have to go back to work to pay the fees and taxes, etc. Not only that, they don’t take pets and we have two. Oh, but it was a fine dream while it lasted! Many thanks to Bob and Angela, who were great company, ferried us to the grocery, to church, and to various marine spots (for propane, last minute West Marine purchases, and the like) and shared good food and good conversation and good advice on cruising the Bahamas, not to mention Bob’s special scotch and Angela’s melt in your mouth yankee pot roast. What a great send off!

Raven is rolling gently and David is making a list of “must dos” for tomorrow. There are all sorts of things to be stowed for the sea (things that sit quietly in their places on the flat waters of the ICW will tumble all over the cabin once we push off into the Atlantic), the dinghy has to be secured to the deck, everything in the cockpit has to find a home and be lashed down, the weather has to be double checked and the waypoints entered for the first leg of our journey.

David and I have both had a severe attack of nerves today, since this is another new adventure. We kept reminding each other that it’s just like every other trip, taking one day at a time, learning as we go, and gradually gaining confidence in different conditions. This is our first venture out of US waters and we are both chomping at the bit, nerves or no nerves. I’m not sure how easy it will be to post on the internet once we are in the Bahamas – I guess it depends on how settled the islands we visit will be. But we will continue to post when we have the opportunity.

Tonight I am adding photos of the views along the southern Florida ICW, a trip I wasn’t really looking forward to, but that I really enjoyed. The big obstacle to this stretch of the waterway is the bridges, which are numerous and most of which have restricted passage – that is, they open only at certain times, usually on the half hour. For a power boat, that presents few problems, but when you’re in a slow poke like Raven, you spend a lot of time holding station and waiting for the opening. But the views are amazing, even for someone like me who usually doesn’t like the Parade of Homes stretches of the waterway.

Next post will be from the Bahamas – see you then.

Engineering Log - Stuart, FL

[Cap'n Dave's log]

Hi! Everyone,

I'm a little overdue with this post. All of these mechanical “challenges” occurred before we left Stuart, FL: diesel fuel in the oil pan, dead depth meter, and oil pressure gauge reading 80 psi whenever the ignition is on, engine running or not.

The night before we were due to leave Vero (a.k.a. Velcro) Beach I decided to get ahead of myself and check the engine oil level. The dipstick came up all wet, with no visible demarcation between wet and dry. I wiped it off and tried again. Same! In order to find the level I had to leave about five inches of the dip stick out of the tube. Hey ho! What’s going on? The oil appeared very thin and smelled of diesel fuel. There were no signs of water in the oil. How had diesel fuel gotten into the oil pan, how much was in there, and did I have enough empty containers to get it all out? I sacrificed one of our new six-gallon water jugs and proceeded to fill it with about nine quarts of sump “liquid”. Hmmm! There wasn’t anything to do but put four quarts of fresh engine oil into the engine, run it up to temperature, and check the level in the morning. I’m sure our neighbors weren’t thrilled to hear our motor at 11pm. Oh, well! Next morning the oil level was fine. It has remained OK even after three days of motoring from Vero Beach to Stuart. I still don’t know what went on, but I have three possible scenarios, none of which satisfactorily explain the symptoms. In Vero, I replaced a leaking neoprene gasket between the top of the oil injection pump and the flange for the pipe that returns fuel to the secondary oil filter. About one week passed between my removing the old gasket and my installing the new one. During that time the fuel system was open to the air. Did diesel fuel somehow drain or siphon itself into the sump? (Five quarts of it?) After this repair, I ran the engine to temperature then shut it off. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to reconnect the return spring to the stop lever on the injector pump and it was slightly off the stop for about two weeks. Again, did diesel fuel somehow drain or siphon itself into the sump? (Five quarts of it?) I still don’t know what happened. Ironically, during the thirty minutes I ran Big Blue with very thin engine oil the engine oil galleries were thoroughly flushed clean. It runs sweeter than ever, with none of the clatter that has annoyed me for four thousand miles.

The depth meter has been reading erratically for a long time and since leaving Vero Beach it showed mostly “all segments lit”, the digital equivalent of “full scale deflection”, I suppose. Coming into Stuart, the digits disappeared, leaving only MSD showing down the left side of the display. I think is means “Maximum Sounder Depth”, but that’s only my guess. There seem to be no existing documents for this old Datamarine S200DL unit, not even courtesy of Google. I ordered a Moor Systems depth meter from Hamilton Marine, which I was told should work with the old Datamarine transducers. This was important since the (unused) transducer in the thru hull is epoxied in place, the (unused) transducer lying in the same locker had no receptacle in the hull to slide into, and the suspect transducer in the bubble (containing mineral oil) was glued in place. I paid for UPS to air freight the unit overnight (ouch!), so that I could work on it over the weekend. Normally, the depth meter is a “luxury” instrument, but in the Bahamas and in the ICW it earns its keep and becomes essential information. Our departure to the Bahamas was off until I could get the depth meter working again. Needless to say, none of the old transducers worked with the new display head. I freaked out with visions of hauling Raven to enable me to install the new transducer, which was too short for Raven’s thick hull, etc. And we’d have to find somewhere to live. And we’d have to rent a car. Ka-ching! Ka-ching! Ka-ching! I knew I wasn’t thinking clearly. I took a break and visited our new friends on Anastasia, also ex-Seabrook cruisers. (Lindsay and Judy White) Lindsay suggested (no, insisted) that I connect the new transducer to the old display head and hang the former over the side. Hey! It worked. The old display head was OK. Lindsay also suggested firing the new transducer through the hull. No go, but nor had we immersed it in any liquid. So, I set about removing the old transducers, figuring I’d be able to epoxy the new head directly to the inside of the hull, thereby removing any attenuating air bubbles. As I was coiling the coax wire on the old transducer, about half way along it was as stiff as a pencil, for about 15”. Clearly, it was corroded on the inside. Perhaps the casing had been damaged and water had entered the core. I cut off the suspect wire, soldered on a new RCA connector, plugged it into the display, hung the transducer over the side, and fired it up. Bingo! It worked. All it needed was good wire and good soldered connections. Duh!

The oil pressure gauge has read full scale since somewhere off the Carolinas. I didn’t notice any precipitating event. I just assumed a wire had come off or the sending unit had broken. In Vero Beach I hunted down a sending unit and installed it. No change! In Stuart I ran a test wire directly from the sender to the gauge. No change! I put an Ohm meter directly on the sender: 220kΩ with the engine stopped, 2kΩ with the engine running. Could the gauge itself be bad? It’s unlikely that the needle would move at all if the gauge was broken. I wondered if it was a weird grounding issue in the rat’s nest that is the instrument panel wiring. I tore it all out and rebuilt it (using ABYC color codes and appropriate AWG sizes) but it didn’t fix the oil pressure gauge. So, I still don’t have this one resolved. It’s not a show stopper. The oil low pressure buzzer works OK and that’s much more important than an oil pressure reading.

Best regards,
David