On the first of May, the crews of Windsong, Sea Star, and
Tregoning climbed aboard our rented minivan and headed for the Blue
Mountains of Jamaica. Despite being the main road to Kingston, the road was very
windy and filled with potholes. Dan was going a great job of driving on the left
until he swerved to miss a dead dog and hit a rock that had fallen from road cut
onto the road. The van jumped over the rock with a huge bang followed by the
wop-wop-wop of a flat tire. We found a wide spot in the road and pulled over. As
cruisers, we are used to things breaking so we instantly sprang into action. Dan
and Randall jacked up the van while I lowered down the spare tire, only to
discover that it was flat too. We were still staring at our two flats, trying to
figure out what to do next, when Kevin stopped and offered us a ride to the
local tire store. Randall and I hopped into Kevin’s car with our two flat tires
and sped off. Kevin was a very friendly guy who chattered away to us in Patios
while we struggled to make out that he lived in a house across the valley with
his parents, wife, and kids. We arrived at the tire hut in Castleton to find the
place locked up tight. Kevin went to the tire guy’s house and dragged him out of
bed. He unlocked the door, pulled out a clothes iron, stripped down to the base
plate with two wires sticking out of it, and plugged it in. Against everything I
know about electricity, the frightening contraption did not burst into a ball of
sparks and flames. This was going to be a different kind of tire repair! The
tire guy quickly decided that not even his iron could repair the blown out
sidewall of our tire and instead fitted us out with a new to us tire with some
treads left on it, that while not the same size as the original, would fit onto
the rim. Our faithless spare just needed a new valve. We completed the
transaction with the Jamaican finger clasping thumb rubbing "Peace, Love, and
Respect" handshake and a parting "One Love." Then Kevin drove us back to the van
and we were back on the road faster than CAA would have arrive back home.
Alison took over driving
since Dan was feeling a bit deflated over the tire incident. None of us blamed
him. Given the choice, I think we all would have hit the rock rather than the
dead dog. Alison grew up driving in the Lake District of England on the left
side of equally narrow and twisty roads, but I’m not sure that England has quite
as many potholes. We stopped in Kingston at a strip mall in one of the nicer
parts of town to grab a few treats and a Jamaican bird book for Dan. Back on the
road, we were soon directed into one of the less nice parts of Kingston by a
detour sign. For those who couldn’t read the sign, there was a policeman
standing by with an M16 machine gun to clarify. While passing homes with barred
windows framed by tin shacks, Randall commented that we had just entered the
triangle the car rental guy had marked on the map and said, "For God’s sake,
what ever you do, don’t go here!"
The rental guy’s
warnings aside, we made it through and began winding our way up into the
mountains. The road narrowed to one lane and the potholes started to be replaced
by full fledged washouts. The slopes were so steep that it seemed impossible for
the deep rich soil and lush vegetation to remain in place. In fact it often
didn’t, resulting in the washouts in the road. So long as just enough road
remained in place for a car to squeeze past, repairs were not given priority.
Some of the 100 foot sheer drops in the road were marked with police tape lying
on the ground. We weren’t sure if this was to warn motorists or left over from
the last accident investigation. The latter seemed more probable! When we met an
on coming vehicle, the downbound car was forced to backup until the road was
wide enough for us to pass.
Thanks to Alison’s
excellent driving, we avoided tumbling over the cliffs and arrive at the funky
little Mount Edge Guest house, perched on the edge of a ravine, 3500 feet above
sea level. We climbed down the stairs and found the quaint little main house,
with local tobacco growing in the window. We met our host, Michael Fox and were
assigned our rooms. Randall and Alison were given a room downstairs in the main
house, while Dan, Kathy, and I had our own private little buildings. The theme
to my tiny bunk house was "The Revolution" and it was decorated with photographs
of Che Guevara and Fidel Castro. The bathroom was at the end of a short
sidewalk. It consisted of a toilet, sink, and shower all supplied with gravity
fed water plumbed in with an eclectic combination of PVC plumbing parts. No two
valves matched! The shower was a pipe coming out of the wall overtop of a small
shipping pallet. Now that’s what I call rustic! Randall and Alison’s room was
decorated with a newspaper story about the time our host was thrown in jail for
tax evasion!
After dropping off our bags we continued on to the Gap restaurant for a
gourmet lunch high up in the clouds. While there we enjoyed the show being put
on at the hummingbird feeder which included the Jamaican National Bird, the
doctor bird or red billed streamertail. It was at this point that I realized
that I had made an error in my packing. As the sweat dripped off of me on my 30oC
boat I had calculated that since the temperature drops 6oC for every
kilometre of elevation it would be a pleasant 24oC up at our guest
house in the mountains. I had forgotten that the temperature drops in the
evenings and my body was pretty acclimatised to 30oC. Before lunch
was over, I was shivering and I hadn’t packed a long sleeved shirt or a sweater.
We spent the
afternoon birdwatching along a small private road that had been recommended by
our host and were able to see more doctor birds, this time in their natural
habitat. Back at Mount Edge we were treated to a delicious meal of candy-like
plantain, melt in your mouth potatoes, rice, and calalloo. After dinner we met
Michael’s Belgian girlfriend Karla with her waist length blonde dread locks, and
their two boys Jonathan and Nicholas, looking for all the world like miniature
Rasta men with dark dread locks as long as their mothers. There were two French
back packer girls staying there as well. I tried to have a conversation with
them and discovered that the Quebecois French I learned 17 years ago in high
school is only useful for creating some good laughs when talking to girls from
France. I’m sure the local tobacco they were smoking added substantially to the
humour.
In the wee hours of the morning we drove up to Newcastle to climb Catherine’s
peak that we had seen towering over Mount Edge. At Newcastle is an army camp
that was built by the British to provide their soldiers with some relief from
the heat down in Port Royal. Port Royal was long ago destroyed by an earthquake,
but the encampment at Newcastle survives and is still used by the Jamaican army.
To get to the peak we had to explain to the soldier at the gate that we would
like to go up and do some birdwatching. He happily opened the gate and let us
though never taking his hand off of his M16, apparently a popular side arm in
Jamaica. We drove until the road became too rough then set off on foot, climbing
through the clouds until we reached the radio towers at the top of the 5060 foot
peak. Through breaks in the clouds we could see all the way down to the ships
floating in Kingston Harbour.
After a late breakfast at Mount Edge, I decided to check out the river trail
that Alison had scouted out earlier.
"Just a short walk down to the river. After that I didn’t see anything
passable."
Karla heard me talking and sent one of her boys to talk to me.
He looked up at me with huge brown eyes framed with waist length dread locks
and said, "Would you like me to show you my river?"
How could I resist? Michael had sent them down in the morning to mark the
trail with a can of white spray paint. They told him that one section required a
ladder. He gave me his camera to take some pictures so that he could advertise
the trail to his customers and issued the boys a tape measure for their ladder.
Alison decided to join us as well.
As we descended the trail toward the river, we stopped to take some pictures.
The boys looked at us and said that we shouldn’t be carrying cameras or wearing
clothes because at some points we would be required to swim. The boys themselves
were barefoot and wearing nothing but boxer shorts. We decided to take our
chances in our hiking boots. After all, their father had given us his camera!
When we reached the river I thoroughly agreed with Alison’s analysis of
impassable. Little however, is considered to be impassable by 9 and 10 year old
boys. They had faithfully painted white dots on the rocks as they had jumped
from rock to rock up the stream. They began hopping from stone to stone up their
"trial" like a couple of frogs, or perhaps monkeys which they quickly began
imitating. We lunged and stumbled after them avoiding soaking our boots through
minor miracles. Soon there was no choice but to wade. We took our boots off and
slung them over our shoulders. After one particularly spectacular leap onto the
face of an enormous boulder my boots swung right off and went floating down the
river. Fortunately, Alison was just downstream and was able to grab them before
they filled with water and sank. The boulders got bigger, the water got deeper,
and the boys became more and more amazed at how slowly we could progress through
the terrain. At one point it became a chimney climb between the cliff on the
side of the ravine and truck sized boulder. Next, I was on the face of a similar
sized and perfectly smooth boulder being taught how to find a friction hold. I’d
learned that years ago climbing on the Niagara Escarpment. I had just never
imagined climbing using only friction holds with no rope! I declared that little
Rasta men must have suction cups on their feet. They each showed me both feet to
prove that there were no suction cups!
Then we reached the pool. Surrounded on all sides by jungle, there seemed to
be no option but to swim across. I joined the boys for a swim and they showed me
their natural waterslides. Nicholas demonstrated that he could swim across
without getting our cameras and clothes wet, by swimming to the other side and
back with a stone and returning it dry. Alison decided instead to take the
cameras and shoes and bash her way through the jungle while the boys and I swam
across.
After climbing through some sections that I would have rated at 5.8 (5.10 was
once thought to be the most difficult climb humanly possible. 5.14D is the
current record.) I was really starting to wonder what these boys thought would
require a ladder. The crux turned out to be climbing the road embankment and
crawling through the culvert to get up onto the road. We had to walk past the
waterfall coming out of the culvert, place our hands in a drainage hole in the
stone wall, and execute a beautiful layback move that the boys had worked out.
With our master rock climber guides to show the way, that final climb was
actually pretty easy. When we got up to the road a group of locals was there
filling water jugs from the stream. They had been taking our pictures as we
climbed up the embankment. Even the locals had never seen anyone do anything
that crazy!
One the way down the road back to Mount Edge the boys gave us some lessons in
mountain survival. We were shown how to pick cherries, a type of mountain
raspberry, without getting spiked by the many thorns. Next was a demonstration
on picking rose apples. They threw rocks at them high up in the trees until they
fell onto the road. Watching the rocks hurtling over the side of the road into
the fields far, far below, I asked what would happen if someone was down there
working in the field. I was told that they would hear the rocks falling and know
someone was trying to get rose apples. Massive cranial trauma is not something
that pre-teen boys think about! The rose apple itself was rose pink, smelled
like roses, and tasted delicious. Guava harvesting followed. The rock throwing
method failed so they broke out their secret weapon, a long stick they had
hidden at the side of the driveway. Survival in the mountains also requires
protein. The boys explained that this could be obtained by waiting for birds to
come feed on the fruit trees and shooting them with a slingshot. Our guides
finished the tour by bringing us back to the guesthouse and serving us juice
that Karla had made with the fruits they had gathered yesterday.
The afternoon’s activity was a drive up to the Hollywell Forest Reserve. The
park was definitely on the conservation side of the conservation/preservation
debate. In other words, it was maximized for human use with large cleared areas
with planted grass, benches, picnic tables, and labels on the few trees that
were left standing. There was a series of cabins that could be rented on the top
of the hill and one of the occupants directed us to the Waterfall Trail which
was much more on the preservation side. Everyone slowly sauntered down the trail
looking for birds while I charged ahead and saw the actual waterfall.
Our final morning up at Mount Edge was Nicolas’ 11th birthday. His
birthday present was a spy kit. I helped him assemble it then showed him how to
use the various coding and decoding techniques included in the kit. I had
learned many of the techniques at the Spy Museum in Washington!
We sadly took our leave of Michael, Karla, and the boys at Mount Edge and
headed to Mavis Bank hoping to tour the coffee factory and a plantation. The
coffee factory was closed. That didn’t prevent the adventure of having to drive
the van over a bridge made out of an old tractor trailer so that we could turn
around. In the process a local picked up on my Canadian accent. It turns out
that he works six months a year in a vegetable processing plant in Strathroy,
Ontario. The plantation tour was a bit more successful. At Forest Park Lodge we
got a one hour birdwatching tour through the coffee plantation.
Next it was back to Kingston to visit a big grocery store to pick up all of
the supplies that would fit in the van and were unavailable in Port Antonio. A
big item was dairy products, which just aren’t consumed in Port Antonio. The
fact that we had to pass an armed guard to enter the gated shopping plaza once
again woke us up to the fact the Kingston is a pretty rough place.
We took the coast road back to Port Antonio rather than retrace our steps
across the island. The rental car guy had given us estimates of how long various
routes would take. His estimates were based on local driving techniques which
involve phenomenal speeds and perfect recollection of the location of each
pothole so you know exactly when to slam on the brakes. We started to fall
behind schedule and were not going to make it back before the rental place
closed. Alison was still doing all the driving and began to demonstrate that she
had been holding back on us. She whipped around potholes like she was driving in
a road rally and even passed a few locals! We arrived with smoking tires just
before closing time.
I spent three days back in Port Antonio preparing for my next adventure: a
trip to Florida for my cousin Heather’s wedding. During that time, two women who
had been hanging around the marina tried to convince me to sail them to Cuba.
This was nothing new. Several people in town had already tried to talk me into
sailing them to The States. Everybody in Port Antonio seemed to have an angle
they were working. Another incident was a visit by the police boat. I seemed to
get a lot of those. Dan, the ex-long hair hippy, blamed it on my hair. This is
Jamaica, everyone has long hair! I think it was because I was the nearest boat
to the police dock. One visit had been to ask me for all the same information
that I had given to customs and immigration, another was to check for fuel leak
because their was and oil slick in the harbour. This time, I was informed that
my Canadian flag was flying above the Jamaican flag and that was poor flag
etiquette. It took them three weeks to notice that! I pretended that I had never
heard of such a convention and politely lowered the Maple Leaf to the same level
as my Jamaican Courtesy flag. Any lower and it would have been shredded by the
split in the backstay, the clamp for the SSB antenna, and the backstay adjuster.
They did not notice that the Jamaican Flag was on the same hoist as the South
Port Burgee, another serious infraction. All flags should have their own hoist.
I guess they hadn’t got to that page in the flag etiquette book!
On May 6, I hired Bobby, one of the local divers to drive me to the airport
in Kingston. We flew across the mountains dodging potholes like we were in a
Grand Prix race. Soon I was strapped into an aeroplane seat repeating the same
journey in the opposite direction. While the plane seemed to be going a whole
lot slower than Bobby’s car, we covered the two hour drive across the island in
20 minutes. A half hour later we had done the full 24 hour sail to Cuba. It took
only two hours to get to Miami, a distance I had sailed in five months
The opulent wealth, swarming traffic, and bone chilling airconditioning of
Miami was quite a shock to the system. The airport shuttle took me through a
traffic jam that contained more cars than the entire country of Jamaica. He
dropped me off at the hotel in Fort Lauderdale right behind my parents, my
sister, and my enormous 5 month old niece Ireland, whom I had never met. After
warm greetings we settled in and went next door for another shock: fast food.
What I wouldn’t have done to eat at Mr. Dixon’s instead!
In the morning we rented another rental van and headed to Key Largo for the
wedding. Two days of catching up with relatives around the pool was culminated
in a beautiful sunset wedding ceremony on the beach, interrupted once by drunken
sailors, and a second time by a roaring powerboat. At the reception, over piles
of delicious food, most everyone agreed that they preferred the drunken sailors.
The Sunday after the wedding was mother’s day. I gave my mother the dress I
bought her in Jamaica then we went next door for a fantastic brunch. We said
goodbye to our relatives, wished the newly wed couple well, and discovered that
the van had a flat. I was now two for two with rented minivans. The hotel staff
was great and refilled the tire allowing us to get back to Lauderdale to
exchange the van for one with working tires.
Back in Lauderdale, Dad and I headed for West Marine and all of the
surrounding stores to get parts for my poor, worn, faded, rusty boat. As a sweet
water sailor I never could have imagined what salt can do to a boat. If you had
told me that I was going to soak my boat in battery acid for 11 months I might
have envisioned something like the impact of seawater. To make matters worse,
marine parts are virtually unavailable in the Bahamas and Jamaica. Dad had
already brought me a bag full of parts from Sea and Ski. Now I needed all the
accessories to install them and replacement parts for everything that had broken
since I placed my order. I had also decided to set up pressurized water for my
galley sink with a combination showerhead faucet that would double as a cockpit
shower, since Windsong was really lacking in any proper way to bathe.
Tregoning and Sea Star were also suffering from overexposure to salt
and underexposure to chandleries so I had parts to pick up for them as well.
We spent the afternoon on the beach as a family enjoying each other’s company
for one last little slice of time before, all to soon, Dana and I were both
leaving on a jetplane. Dana headed back to the just recently thawed north, while
returned to the heat of Jamaica. Mom and Dad were staying in Florida for another
week in Key West with Aunt Jane and Uncle Jim the parent’s of the bride.
I arrived in Jamaica exhausted but happy with a huge duffle bag full of boat
parts in one hand, and my DRS (Drifter Reacher Spinnaker (really big cool sail))
in the other. Dad had generously installed my DRS into his spinnaker sock so
that I could launch and douse it single handed, and brought it to Florida for
me. I had a choice of two customs lines: "$500 or Less/Nothing to Declare" or
"Declaration". As a yacht in transit I had been assured that there would be no
duty on my parts so I marched up to "$500 or Less/Nothing to Declare" and
plopped down my bags.
"What’s in there?"
"$500 dollars worth of parts for my boat." (Yah right! Have you ever bought
only $500 worth of boat parts? $500 would get you a handful of split rings!)
"Only Jamaicans are allowed to bring in $500 worth of goods. You need to go
in that line and make a declaration."
OK, I guess I have to go to the other line and declare that I am a yacht in
transit.
At the next counter I was informed that I was supposed to have made
prearrangements with a customs inspector from Port Antonio to meet me at the
airport and escort me to my boat in Port Antonio. This would ensure that I
didn’t sell any items on my way to the boat. This was absolutely ludicrous. Even
if some customs inspector watched me load the parts into my dinghy and patiently
waited on the end of the dock to see that I in fact unloaded the parts onto
Windsong, there would nothing stopping me from loading the stuff back into
the dinghy the moment he left, returning to shore and setting up Sea and Ski
Jamaica! For the sake of making it through the customs inspection, I suspended
reality, accepted this preposterous scheme, apologized for being unaware and
asked what my options were. I could pay duty or they would confiscate all of my
parts and I could return tomorrow with a custom’s inspector from Port Antonio.
Given that the real value was more like $1500, duty wasn’t a real option. I
wondered if there was an amount of cash that would make this problem go away. I
concluded that even if there was, all the time I had spent at West Marine meant
that it was no longer in my wallet.
She allowed me to remove my clothes from the bag then confiscated all of my
parts. When she tried to take the DRS that had been in the family for about 25
years, it was all I could do to not bite her head off. Poor Bobby was waiting
outside and had to great me with flames coming out of my ears. Smoke continued
to rise from my head for the entire trip back to Port Antonio.
First thing in the morning, I contacted the Errol Flynn Marina staff to
determine whether I was being scammed. No, this was the legitimate system for
bring parts in for a yacht in transit. If I had informed them before I left for
Florida, they would have arranged for a customs officer to meet me at the
airport. The concept seemed to be to make it such a hassle that it would be
preferable to pay duty. They contacted customs for me and an inspector came and
made arrangements for someone to accompany me to the airport the next morning.
Instead of duty, all I would have to pay was the inspectors meal allowance for
the day and $86 in cab fare.
The rest of the flotilla was ready to sail so I had to be prepared to leave
as soon as I had my parts. I hired Bobby to scrub the six inches of growth off
of the hull from the supernaturally fertile Port Antonio water. While Randall
and Alison fuelled her up, and I ran ashore for a last load of groceries and
fantastically fresh Jamaican produce. Cleaned, fuelled, and victualled I brought
Windsong into the dock to fill up with fresh water. Presley arrived at
the dock with Paul, the flamboyant new painter to finish Johnny Black’s work. He
hung upside down on a moving launch while flawlessly hand painting touch ups on
my moving boat. Then he charged me less than I was planning to tip Johnny Black
when he finished the job.
Bobby met me in the morning with an absolutely dead pan expression, though he
had to be loving the extra cab fare he was making off of my misfortunes with
customs. We picked up the customs inspector at home, brought him into the office
to get the paper work, and rocketed back toward Kingston. The heat was
incredible and we made a very welcome stop outside the airport to buy drinking
coconuts. At the airport we first visited the passenger terminal where it was
determined that my receipt for my confiscated goods was legitimate and we were
directed to the cargo terminal to do the paperwork. We bounced back in forth
between two offices and countless desks getting stamps, and signatures, more
forms, more stamps, more signatures, and more forms. In the meantime, my
inspector paid out stamping fees, signing fees, stapling fees, etc. while I
tried desperately to keep track of it all in my head knowing that I would get a
slightly inflated bill at the end of it all. My inspector was quite a ladies man
and used to work in Kingston so he knew every woman in the whole customs
complex. One woman asked about the skinny little white boy he had brought her.
He apologised that I already have two wives and it is against my religion to
have three!
Once everything was appropriately signed, stamped, and collated we were sent
back to the passenger terminal to collect my bag of parts. On the way in we have
to walk through a metal detector and empty our pockets and pass the contents
through an x-ray machine. My inspector even had to take off his badge to pass
through. I drew my razor sharp Swiss Army knife out of my pocket and placed it
into the bin thinking sadly of how my last one, a gift from my sister purchased
in Switzerland, had been confiscated in an Airport in Washington. I guess I was
going to lose another. It went through the x-ray. The guy stared right at the
screen as it passed through and didn’t blink. No problem, Mon! It soon became
apparent why knives were acceptable in the airport. The guy in line in front of
me was picking up his shotgun from customs. I wondered what was not allowed
through the security check.
My bag of parts was finally released and the inspector even helped me carry
it to Bobby’s car for another long ride back to Port Antonio. Back at the
marina, I was presented with a hand written itemized bill for $50. Most of the
fees looked to be about what the inspector paid in Kingston. His meal allowance
could have fed him for a week at Jamaican prices. With $1500 worth of parts next
to him, there was nothing worth arguing about. I forked out the dough and he
left me standing at the curb with my bag of parts free to set up the Jamaican
branch of Sea and Ski without even making a pretense of bringing the stuff to my
boat. I had no intention of doing any such thing but I had just spent $136 and
an entire day of my time jumping through incredibly elaborate hoops that were
supposedly designed to prevent me from doing just that!
At 04:00, on May 14, Windsong, Tregoning, and Sea Star
slipped our moorings and steamed out of Port Antonio. (OK, Windsong
slipped her moorings at 04:15 because I slept through my alarm.) I was happy to
finally be underway again, and a bit saddened that a good time in a great
country had to end with such a sour experience with customs. I wanted to leave
Jamaica feeling love, not anger.
The wind was dead calm, but the seas were not. We rolled madly, Spot started
to turn green after so long in the calm harbour, and the captain wasn’t feeling
so great either. When we cleared the island, the waves smoothed out and the wind
filled in, giving us a lovely broad reach for the rest of the day. As evening
fell, a few squalls began to appear. They were little bursts of wind with a
touch of rain. Nothing serious to worry about. Through the clouds I glimpsed a
constellation to the south that could have been Crux, the Southern Cross. At
2am, I was awakened by the heavy CHUNNGGG! of the genny sheet snapping tight as
the collapsed genny refilled. I listened while it happened twice more to prove
it wasn’t a fluke then crawled out into the cockpit to assess the situation. The
wind had shifted to a dead run causing the genoa to collapse. I jibed it to try
going wing on wing. The speed surged to seven knots and Windsong began to
death roll. Clearly I was overpowered. I furled the genny then altered course
ten degrees to avoid an accidental gybe. The boom was prevented but there was no
point in taking chances. I could see a squall behind me on the RADAR and
visually. Why stay out here and get wet? I crawled back into bed. Twenty minutes
later, the boat suddenly heeled to windward, followed by a loud bang, and a rig
shaking crash. That was clearly a crash gybe. I scrambled onto deck to find that
the mainsheet had caught the bimini, torn it clean off of the deck, and
deposited it in fantastically bent heap on top of the dodger. As the squall hit,
the wind had shifted 60 degrees and increased to about 30 knots. I was now
roaring along on the other tack and it had started to pour. I looked forward
expecting to see that a fitting in the boom vang/preventer had broken. Instead I
saw the vague shape of the boom extending three feet past the mast to windward.
I pointed the flashlight at it and through the streaks of rain had my fears
confirmed. I had broken the boom. Engine failures I expect, the things are
designed to give the owner years of fascinating repairs to complete, but my
spars are something I have always relied on. I think boom failure ranks just
below loss of rudder, dismasting, and hull breach.
Sailing in company with other boats means that you have someone to call if
you run into serious trouble. This seemed to qualify. I made a hail on channel
16 and informed Sea Star and Tregoning that I was in trouble with
a broken boom. They stood by wondering what they could possibly do to assist
while I strapped on my foul weather jacket and harness and went forward to
figure out what to do. I stood on the cabin top in the pitch black with rain
pouring off of me staring at the wreckage. My preventer was a simple, if
slightly risky system. Release the snap shackle attaching the boom vang to the
mast collar and clip it to the rail. This way instead of just pulling the boom
down, it pulled it down and forward. The risk was that I was preventing from the
middle of the boom. This gave the sail a fair bit of leverage on it in the event
of an accidental gybe. It was possible that the boom could simply fold in half
around the preventer. My boom is so overbuilt that C&C used the same
cross-section for the boom on the C&C 35. I couldn’t see how it could possibly
be folded in half. In fact it wasn’t. The boom pivoted around the preventer and
snapped off at the gooseneck. All I could see in the dark and torrential rain
was the jagged end of the gooseneck. I had to be really careful because there
had to be a matching jagged edge on the end of the boom. While swinging past,
the boom had kindly decided not to catch on the shrouds and take down the whole
rig. I couldn’t swing to boat to windward to drop the main because that jagged
end of the boom would go flailing around mercilessly. Not only would it
obliterate the dinghy on the foredeck, it also might take back its kindness
toward the shrouds. Instead, I just released the halyard and started hauling the
main down at times pulling on the leach to pull it out of the shrouds. Once it
was on deck I wrestled the boom around, with a few issues in extracting it from
the main halyard winch and the chimney for my heater, and laid it on the deck.
The boat began to wallow so I opened half of the genny and leapt back to 5.5
knots. I secured the main and what was left of the boom with a few lanyards to
make sure it was going nowhere. I was soaked to the bone despite my foul weather
gear and it seemed like an hour had passed since I had heard the crash. I keyed
the mike to inform Tregoning and Sea Star that the situation was
under control. They told me it had been five minutes since my last transmission.
Perhaps the waves had turned the minutes to hours.
I had to strip completely, towel off, and put on dry clothes before I could
get back into my bunk. Thankfully, I had my mountaineering jacket on board as a
backup so I had something dry to put on for my checks on deck for the rest of
the night.
We had to sail the entire next day before we reach Bajo Nuevo, Columbia. My
155% genoa was big enough to give me plenty of thrust without the main. The
crumpled bimini became the most pressing issue. Without it I was roasting in the
tropical sun. I used a series of lanyards to lash it in place despite having
broken all four straps and losing one of the deck hinges that held the frame to
the deck. Late in the afternoon I spotted a large ship on the horizon. On the
north west end of the reef of Bajo Nuevo the chart noted a conspicuous wreck.
This was an entirely intact ship, but it seemed to be in about the right place.
I radioed ahead to Sea Star and Tregoning who were about an hour
ahead of me. Sure enough, that was the conspicuous wreck.
Bajo Nuevo was no thriving metropolis filled with West Marine stores and
machine shops. In fact it was just a sandy little cay with a light tower on it
surrounded by reefs in the middle of the Carribean. This sort of wilderness was
what we had set sail to see, but it wasn’t the best place to be for serious
repair work. It did at least provide a fairly calm anchorage to properly assess
the problem and make an emergency repair. In the daylight it was clear that I
had not broken the extrusion of the boom like I had originally thought. It was
the gooseneck fitting that had failed inside the front edge of the boom. The
sharp edge I was so worried about was actually a smooth clean end that wasn’t
quite as round as it used to be. Some work with vice grips made it round enough
to extract the broken off portion of the gooseneck’s collar. The other half of
the gooseneck still had enough of a collar remaining that we could drill and tap
new holes then bolt it back onto the boom. I can picture exactly where every
tool required for the job is on my father’s workbench back home. Unfortunately,
I can’t fit every tool that I own into my 30 foot boat. Thankfully, Sea Star
has about twice the hull volume of Windsong so Dan had found room on
board for the tap set and countersink tools I had left at home. Dan and Kathy
came over with the tools and we proceeded to cover Windsong with aluminum
filings. Pretty soon we had the gooseneck reattached to the boom with a weak,
but aesthetically pleasing repair, and the boom remounted.
I wrapped the bimini bows around a winch and bent them back to an imperfect,
but very functional shape. Alison and Randall lent me a deck hinge to reattach
it to the deck and I pulled out the sewing machine to repair a torn seam and
make a new set of straps to hold it up. They say cruising is fixing your boat in
new and exotic locations. This tiny little cay certainly takes the cake for the
most exotic location in which I have ever fixed my boat. We went for a snorkel
and were somewhat disappointed expecting spectacular undamaged corals and huge
schools of fish. Instead, things were pretty dull, grey, and short of fish. The
cay itself provided a little more interest. It appeared that many small tanks
had emerged from the water and dug big holes in the sand. Dan realized that the
tank tracks had actually been made by turtles coming ashore to bury their eggs.
Also on the island was the 22 m light tower which was just begging for me to
climb it.
Looking for more reef life, we departed for the Roncador Bank. I was so
nervous about the strength of the gooseneck repair that it took me until noon to
hoist the main. It held, and soon I was surrounded by dolphins. In the crystal
clear water I could see them surfing Windsong’s bow wave and the
surrounding waves like the were flying through the air. A few of them leapt from
the water and flew through the air for real. They stuck around for about an hour
allowing me to film some great footage that I combined with some other clips I
took at Roncador.
As night fell, the cross in the southern sky rose again. I radioed Alison on
Tregoning and she confirmed that I had indeed seen the Southern Cross.
After I saw the Southern Cross for the first time, my boom had broken, so I
wasn’t really all that sure why I came this way. Now, with leaping and frolicking
dolphins fresh in my memory, I knew for sure.
About 01:30 I received a radio call from Randall. Tregoning and Sea
Star are fitting with AIS, a handy little receiver that picks up
transmissions from all commercial vessels that provide the ship’s name, cargo,
destination, course, speed, who is in command, the Captain’s favourite brand of shirts, the type of underwear he is wearing, etc. Randall’s AIS had picked up
the cargo vessel Oikos. The Captain was wearing Haynes and it looked like he and I were going to have a
close pass. I got a RADAR lock on him and it appeared that he would pass behind
me. Visually it looked like he would cross ahead. I radioed Oikos and
gave my bearing, range, course, and speed. He confirmed that he had me on RADAR
along with the other two vessels. We were running on converging courses, me to
southwest and him to the south. He continued to close on my starboard quarter.
When his range was two miles I radioed again. I once again gave my range and
bearing. He assured me that he saw me and reported Sea Star’s range and
bearing. I told him that he was looking at another boat. He again assured me
that he had me on RADAR and repeated Sea Star’s range and bearing. Dan
chimed in and reiterated that Oikos was looking at him not me. Oikos
suggested that he would alter course to starboard. Dan indicated that would
cause him to hit Sea Star. Oikos said that he would analyse the
situation and went quiet. I figured he was waking the captain up to get
permission to not run me over. His range was now 1.5 miles. I went below to get
my flare gun. Oikos was a mile away, I loaded the flare gun and was
reaching for the radio to tell him that I was going to fire two red flares, when
she altered course hard to port. What a relief to no longer be looking at
growing red and green lights! With all of that adrenaline pumping, it was pretty
hard to get anymore sleep that night.
In the morning the little palm covered island on Roncador Bank came into
sight. Sea Star was about five miles a head. As she approached the island
we heard some chatter on the VHF in Spanish but understood nothing. Then came
the transmission: "Sailing Yacht, Sailing Yacht, This is Roncador Station.
Please respond or we will shoot you down." You can imagine Sea Star
responded immediately. We later learned that the appropriate reply would have
been "No disparen! Somos gueros de los estados unidos y tenemos mucha lana."
(Don't shoot! We're blond haired gringos from the united states and we have lots
of money.)
Dan and Kathy had been here before and had assured us that the boys manning
the military base on the island were quite friendly and would simply require us
to came ashore with our paperwork so that they could note us in their logbook.
Now I wasn’t so sure. In his best Spanish Dan explained that we would come
ashore in our dinghies as soon as we were safely anchored. When our anchors
splashed down, we all set new records for launching our dinghies. I was greeted
on the beach by the 25 year old Columbian Marine Commandante in a black T-shirt
and shorts bearing the logo of the Infantaria Mariana and a 16 year old in swim
trunks. The 16 year old was commanded to take my painter, which he did with a
big smile while Raul, the Commandante politely introduced himself in Spanish.
Sweating at the thought of being shot down, I was lead to the small white
building were I was seated at a table surrounded by beaming teenagers in shorts
and T-shirts. There was no indication of anything that could be used to shoot me
down. The Commandante looked at my paperwork and with the help of John who spoke
excellent English asked me my port of registry, last port of call, amount of
fuel onboard, etc. With big smiles and handshakes all around, I was welcomed to
the island and escorted back to my dinghy.
My sweat was still cooling when I got back to Sea Star and
Tregoning. Everyone else had a similarly pleasant experience with the
Marines. Interestingly, no one else had heard the radio transmission about
shooting us. I was left to wonder if my sleep deprived mind had dreamt the whole
thing up.
We spent almost a week at Roncador, revelling in the spectacular snorkelling.
The array of species was completely different from what we had seen in the
Bahamas. There were large schools of Black Durgon, Doctor Fish, and Blue Tangs
and the occasional Ocean Triggerfish. Randall managed to spear three large
lobsters and big Dog Snapper that made quite a feast for the piscivores amongst
us. I found a simple underwater camera on board (you never know what treasures
are hidden on your boat) so I was able to take some underwater shots.
One our third day at Roncador, we went ashore to visit with the Marines. We
brought our snorkelling gear and Randall’s spear to lend to the boys since they
had no gear of their own and were anxious to try spearing a huge fish that lived
near their beach. Going bug eyed from our prescription masks, the boys splashed
off into the water and began fired the spear repeatedly into the coral.
Apparently, being able to swim is not a requirement for joining the Columbian
Marines. Several of them strapped on life jackets and dog paddled their way out
to join in the fun. With a dozen teenage boys thrashing around madly, the huge
fish seemed pretty safe.
The remainder of the detachment stayed ashore and welcomed us to their
island. They had only one building about the size of a double width trailer home
where all 15 of them lived, dined, and relaxed in front of their television. The
building was surrounded with earthworks made of piled cobblestones. Several gun
positions guarded the perimeter of the island behind cobblestone walls. I can’t
imagine that any self respecting gun wouldn’t knock the walls down with a single
shot. Despite being a Marine detachment in the middle of the Carribean, they had
no boat. All supplies including fresh water were delivered on the monthly supply
ship. We were forbidden from taking pictures, especially of the building. It
seemed to be a fairly high level military secret and we were rushed past it to a
table and chairs that had been prepared for us in the shade of the island’s many
palm trees. They introduced us to their dog, Easy and introductions were done
all around as each Marine told us his name and home town. Kathy brought her
computer and showed them photos of her home and family.
The atmosphere was absolutely jovial. Everybody was beaming, and Commadante
Raul was eagerly studying one of our Spanish-English dictionaries trying to
learn English phrases for welcoming cruisers to his island. Then Kathy began
asking them if they had made a radio transmission about shooting us. She began
pantomiming speaking into a radio mike and firing a rifle. Oh no, just when
things were going so well. The boys quieted down. The Marines standing behind
the Commandante who could not be seen by him distorted their faces in silent
laughter, those on the other side in his plain view struggled to contain their
mirth. John who spoke the best English smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
Clearly he had made the transmission and the Commandante was unaware of what he
had said.
"Well, you know" he replied, "there are Nicaraguan Guerillas out there."
The entire platoon erupted into peals of laughter. I guess I wasn’t hearing
things after all. I wonder how many Nicaraguan Guerillas travel on sailing
yachts?
As we were weighing anchor for Providencia, a large olive coloured launch
with three huge outboards appeared carrying a full boatload of youth all
equipped with flack jackets and fully automatic weapons. For a moment we were
concerned that these were the Nicaraguan Guerillas, then they smiled and waved
before heading to the island to have a chat with their shore bound colleagues.
It was a very calm crossing to Providencia forcing us to motor the whole way.
When we arrived, we tucked ourselves behind Low Cay, a small sandy island with a
light tower on it much like Bajo Nuevo. We spent two days there snorkelling
among yet another completely different array of fish species. We saw many Masked
Hamlets and the Spotted Drum that Dan has been searching for since he first
reached the Bahamas. There were also rare Pillar Corals and somebody’s research
project that consisted of a half dozen PVC frames covered with what looked like
shag carpeting and anchored about ten feet below the surface. I played around
trying to improve my breath holding ability and managed to extend the one minute
thirty seconds I did in a swimming pool in high school up to two and a half
minutes.
On May 26, we finally headed in to the town of Santa Isabel on the Island on
Providencia itself. With a calm sea and about 10 knots of air on a broad reach,
I thought this would be a good time to try out my DRS. I tied the luff to the
forestay, pre-sheeted the sheet, and hoisted the sock up the mast. I pulled the
line to raise the collar of the sock and open the sail. It poured out in a
gorgeous blaze of blue, white, and gold and filled instantly. Windsong
heeled with the strain and water began gurgling past the hull. I even found a
cleat on the side of the mast that had been strictly decorative for the past ten
years that was now in the perfect position to tie off the control line that held
the collar up above the sail. I was soon doing close to six knots and dying to
know how fast she could go in with the DRS in this light air. I hoisted the main
and surged up to six and half and sometimes over seven knots while Sea Star
and Tregoning fell quickly behind.
Soon Morgan’s Head on Santa Catalina lined up with Morgan’s butt on
Providencia and it was time to douse the chute and make the turn into the
harbour past the cannon of Fort Warwick. Once securely anchored we hailed Senor
Bush, the customs agent, so we could make our official entry into Columbia.
Senor Bush came out to Sea Star and asked us all to come aboard to
complete the formalities. Once I had removed my gooseneck, I was able to bring
it in to Senor Bush’ office and he arranged for Senor Byng the mechanic to have
it welded for me.
Our first trip to the ATM for Columbian Pesos was quite a feeling. With 2000
pesos to the Canadian dollar, we all discovered that we were now millionaires!
We went for a walk down Lover’s Lane, the floating causeway connecting the
islands of Santa Catalina and Providencia. There was a sign posted ordering us
to get ourselves in love and take care of it! Another walk took us to Fort
Warwick
built by Henry Morgan to defend his pirate’s stronghold on the island. There was
not much left besides one crumbling wall and three cannon. Still it was amazing
to think that Captain Morgan himself built this fort. When we got back to
the beach, a school group came down from the fort and laid siege to our dinghies
in a way that would have made ol' Henry proud.
At dinner, Rel, the waitress at the Bamboo Restaurant told me to bring my
jerry cans to the restaurant in the morning and they would give me free water. I
dinghied to their dinghy dock with my jerry cans. Her husband led me to their
cistern then asked if I wanted to drink the water. When I said yes, he took me
to the neighbour’s cistern because he had better water. The neighbour was very
happy to share his water.
"It has a little dirt in the bottom but it is very good water." said he.
I had to dip a one gallon pail down into the cistern then pour it into my
jerry jugs. Once I had filled the first can, the guy from the restaurant showed
me the trick. You let the pail fill part way with water then bounce it up and
down. This makes it plunge right under so you get far fewer dead ants and other
floating debris. Then he helped me carry the jugs back to the dinghy. He
recommended that I boil the water even though it was the good stuff. I had to
filter it through a t-shirt as I poured it into my tanks to filter out to ants
and debris. The t-shirt stopped my self venting spout on my new jug from venting
so I had to pour the old jug with the real vent first, then pour the self
venting jug into the old jug, and finally pour the old jug into the tank a
second time. I increased my one capful of bleach per 30 gallons to one capful
per five gallons.
It seemed to all of us that renting scooters would be a fun way to see the
island. Scooters and small motorcycles are the primary means of transportation
on the island. The 100 CC scooter is an extremely versatile vehicle. The
platform usually used for resting your feet is also an excellent place to load a
case of beer or balance a full propane tank. The scooter is also a great family
vehicle, your toddler can sit on your lap, your three year old can sit behind
you, and there is still plenty of room for your wife to sit on the back.
Traditional safety gear for riding involves a t-shirt, shorts, and thongs or
even bare feet. Bare headed is fine, but it is preferred that you wear a
baseball cap with a little button on the top that will punch a hole through your
skull should you land on your head in an accident. Only police officers are
permitted to wear helmets.
We got our motors running and headed out on the highway, looking for
adventure, and whatever came our way. I’m sure Steppenwolf was imagining
something a little throatier than the whine of 100 CC engines and a road a
little more extensive than the short loop road around Providencia, but in our
minds these little scooters were our hogs and we were bikers for a day!
Adventure caught up with us on our way to Roland’s on Manchaneel Bay. The road
down to the bay was a single lane and it was under construction. Since most
vehicles are motorcycles, the single lane roads are constructed in strips two
feet wide. Once one strip is completed, motorcycle traffic can resume unimpeded
while they continued to pour the other two strips. Riding on a two foot wide
strip that dropped down six inches on either side was a bit of a challenge for
the first time I have rode a motorcycle beyond a couple of spins on a Honda 50
in grade school. Then adventure smacked us right in the face. Randall and Alison
got a flat. I was now three for three for flat tires in rental vehicles. The
first local to pass by went off to get a friend who fixes tires. He returned
with a bike pump and we continued on to Roland’s where we had a drink with our
saviour and bought copies of his CD. When we climbed back on the bikes, the tire
was flat again. It was pumped up once more and Randall headed back to the rental
place for a more permanent solution.
This left me to double ride Alison back up the two foot wide road. This was
the first time I had ever double rode someone on a motorcycle. It was quite a
challenge as we wiggled and wobbled our way back to the main road. There we
switched drivers and I learned that if riding a motorcycle with someone on the
back is scary, you should try being the person on the back! At lunch time, I
peeled my white knuckles off of the grab rails of the scooter, and went in to
the restaurant where we met Spot’s Columbian cousin. There was a black and white
spotted cat making her rounds rubbing every leg in the restaurant and being sure
to be petted by everyone. We headed back into town to arrange for a guide for
tomorrow’s mountaineering expedition then rode to South West Beach for an
afternoon swim. On the way we encountered an enormous swarm of crabs crawling
over the road. We had a nice swim and saw a couple of stingrays, and two
octopuses hidden in conch shells. When we got back on the road, we found that
the navy had closed the road for the crab migration! Such a sacrifice! We had to
cruise our hogs the long way back to town going the other way around the island.
I met Alison at 06:45 the next morning to embark our mountaineering
expedition up The Peak, the highest point on Providencia. We needed to start
early to avoid the mid day heat, but I firmly agree with Robin Williams that the
O in 06:45 stands for Oh my God it’s early! Bleary eyed and coffee in hand we
met our waiting cab at the dinghy dock and were whisked off to pick up our guide
Stanley. A couple of signs would have sufficed to allow a blind tourist to find
his way up to The Peak, but the local Guides Union had lobbied heavily against
that. In any case, Stanley was worth the price of admission. He showed us a
Cicacia and explained how its thorns are filled with aphids that are tended by
stinging ants. He told us the pirates planted them around the island as a
defence and used to torture people by tying them to the plants so they would be
stung by the ants. I was stung a couple of times near The Peak and I can attest
that they would be a most effective torture. He also told us about someone who
tied his pig to a Cicacia while launching his boat. By the time the boat was
launched the pig was dead. At one point our path was barred by a heard of wild
cows. It seems the owner died years ago and the cows have been fending for
themselves ever since. Stanley shoed the wild cows off of the trail and we
proceded into the woods where the frogs were making an unearthly din that
sounded like an alien invasion. In the woods we got a lesson on how to open a
ripe coconut without a machete. You smash it with a large heavy rock until it
splits. Then you rip off the husk and fibres. With the inner nut in your hand
you wack it with a rock that has a 90 degree edge. Once you have cracked it all
the way around and you can open the top to get a drink. If only Tom Hanks’
character had known that in Castaway!
Eventually, we climbed through the caldera of the extinct volcano that formed
the island and rose up to the 1,200 foot height of The Peak. The day was misty,
but the breeze was cool, and we could see the entire island in one sweeping
vista and our tiny little boats, bobbing like toys in a bathtub, way way down in
the harbour.
All that was left was to get my gooseneck back from Senor Bush. I was very
pleased with Senor Byng’s robust repair. Senor Bush asked for $350,000 Pesos
($175 CDN) for the job. When I nearly fainted he agreed to $300,000. With a bit
of drilling, tapping, and grinding away of excess weld, the gooseneck slid into
place and Windsong was once again ready to sail. We got our Zarpes from
Senor Bush (check out papers) and set sail for San Andres (Ond-race).
We departed at 05:45 which made our 07:45 mountaineering start seem
civilized. We had a beautiful beam reach and rounded the freighter grounded in
the middle of the reef guarding the harbour of San Andres. Sea Star was
already anchored when Tregoning entered the channel and I was another 20
minutes behind. That was when Tregoning’s engine began to overheat. There
were a few tense moments before they got their sails back up and sailed the rest
of the way into the anchorage. Kathy was waiting in Sea Star’s dinghy
along with another cruiser in her dinghy to act as tugs to push Tregoning
into an ideal location for anchoring. I sailed in behind them and tried to find
my spot under sail alone. Just as Dan and Kathy hollered, "Don’t go any
further!" my lofty sailing ship with her crisp white sails proudly flying ran
ignominiously aground in a mud bank. No matter, the mud held her fast while I
furled the sails then motored off to find a good anchorage.
The resort island of San Andres was dazing after the provincial atmosphere of
Providencia. Halfway up the channel I was accosted by two idiots on jet skis who
came within two feet of me while I was under sail. The harbour was ringed with
huge hotels and a fake pirate ship and a huge party boat swung on moorings in
the harbour and rocked the nights with their party tunes. The harbour was a
continual buzz of powerboats. Senor Rene, the customs agent smoothed our
transition by being about as relaxed as Providencia had been.
Randall soon tracked Tregoning’s engine problem down to a thrown
impeller and we all went ashore to sample the restaurants and meet some of the
locals.
Both Providencia and San Andres were colonized by English Puritans in 1629.
Later woodcutters and planters came to the islands bringing their slaves. Until
very recently, the inhabitants of the islands were mainly the English speaking
descendants of those slaves. The islands were awarded to Spain in 1786 but they
largely ignored them. In 1821 they became part of Columbia. Columbia too ignored
the islands until the 1980's. At that point, schools were required to start
teaching in Spanish. Even religious services had to be conducted in Spanish. San
Andres felt the biggest brunt of the transition as it was heavily developed as a
tourist destination and a large Spanish speaking police force was shipped in
from mainland Columbia.
As a result, the older people on the islands speak English, while the younger
people often speak only Spanish. The older people feel that they are English
speaking Caribbean islanders who have been invaded by Columbia. They are none
too pleased to see their culture rapidly slipping away.
San Andres looks to have a lot of facilities for the visiting cruiser, and I
hope to take advantage of some of the resort activities such as kite boarding
lessons while I’m here.
Alison took over driving
since Dan was feeling a bit deflated over the tire incident. None of us blamed
him. Given the choice, I think we all would have hit the rock rather than the
dead dog. Alison grew up driving in the Lake District of England on the left
side of equally narrow and twisty roads, but I’m not sure that England has quite
as many potholes. We stopped in Kingston at a strip mall in one of the nicer
parts of town to grab a few treats and a Jamaican bird book for Dan. Back on the
road, we were soon directed into one of the less nice parts of Kingston by a
detour sign. For those who couldn’t read the sign, there was a policeman
standing by with an M16 machine gun to clarify. While passing homes with barred
windows framed by tin shacks, Randall commented that we had just entered the
triangle the car rental guy had marked on the map and said, "For God’s sake,
what ever you do, don’t go here!"
