The Sailor’s Code

How many times have you passed a stranded motorist on the highway?  Turned a blind eye to the neighbor who’s basement flooded?  Watched in stillness as the elevator door closed on a very winded, very pregnant woman at the airport as she ran to catch her connection and yelled "Pleeeease hooooolllld" (yes, over one year later this still irks me.  I mean, really people!?)  Most of us have done one or all of these things.  Life is a little different than it was in the days when Lassie roamed free; we don’t know our neighbors, kids bring guns to school with the intention of using them, and highways are the (real or imagined) prowling ground of serial killers and psychopaths.  Between all the crazies and our love of litigation, we’re all a little more guarded these days.

I’ve touched on it many times before, but life afloat is different in this regard.  Out here, it’s a cardinal sin to ignore a fellow boater in need.  No matter how inconvenient/risky/annoying it might be, when another cruiser is in trouble, it’s usually up to other cruisers to come together and help them out.  There are countless examples of this – and every single sailor you will ever meet will have their own stories to share.  There are so many inspiring tales of heroism at sea; one of the best – no doubt – is detailed in the incredible book Close to the Wind which is the harrowing account of a rescue at sea during the 1996 Vendee Globe Race in which one solo sailor, Pete Goss, risked his own life by turning his boat into hurricane-force headwinds to rescue fellow single hander Raphael Dinelli.  Of course not all instances of help on the high seas are of the life and death variety; sometimes it's just catching a line at the dock, a spare part gifted, a radio relay, or elbow grease.  Regardless, every single day there are examples, large and small, of boaters helping boaters – oftentimes strangers – because we all know that one day, it will be us that needs that hand.  And this, my friends, is the sailor's code:  if you can help, you do.

The other night as we came back dinner and we saw a boat in a bit of a pickle and seemingly tangled witha another boat.  There were a few dinghies around clearly trying to help, but whatever problem was occurring was not under control.  Scott dropped Isla and I off on the boat and headed over to see if he could lend a hand.  Turns out, the boat had gone aground and then drifted back on to another boat's mooring line which, in turn, tangled around the keel and prop putting these two boats in a Chinese fingercuffs type of situation.  Considering the wind was gusting up to 30 knots and these boats were making contact, this was not a good place to be.  Scott and some other boaters worked for the next hour to free the two boats and after a little leverage and some strategic fender placement - the boats were free and Scott was enjoying a nice bottle of Tuscan wine with the Italian couple on board.

Of course there are many examples of good samaritanship on land but, unfortunately, I believe it's the exception and not the rule these days.  People are a little bit lazy, a little bit leery and AAA exists for a reason.   On a boat, however, we all know we're a mere ring-ding away from disaster and it's nice to know that there is still a place in this world where a helping hand will almost always be extended when needed.  At sea it is most certainly prudent to be self-reliant but the fact remains that none of us would be afloat if not for a little help from our friends.

Easy Like Sunday Morning

Mornings around here are pretty great.  Isla starts squawking between 6 and 6:30am and one of us sleep-walks up to the vee-berth, opens the door with an anticipatory  "I hear a baaabbbbyyy..." and are greeted by a very well-rested, bouncing little monkey with the biggest smile you ever did see (I have mentioned that her smile lights up a room, right?  Because I swear, it does). We then lay down, unzip her from her little tent/bed at which point she pounces on us with all of her twenty-something poundage and smothers us with open-mouthed kisses (we're working on the 'open mouth' bit).  Once convinced we're adequately loved-up, she heads over to her little toy hammock where there are about three stuffed animals and sixty books.  Then the real action begins - she starts flinging books out of that hammock with such determination and vigor that any residual sleepiness left lingering in us is immediately knocked out by the very hard corner of a board book.  We hang out like this, dodging flying books and what not, for about an hour: reading, working on the ABC's, naming animals and boat parts while listening to Isla "talk" incessantly in her secret baby language as if she is having legit conversation (what the heck is going on in that little brain?).  It's a pretty awesome ritual, not gonna lie, and I feel incredibly blessed that this is how 99% of our days begin.

This morning - being fathers day and all - I was the one to get up with her and we made daddy breakfast in bed.  Scones, fresh fruit and extra strong coffee were on the menu and Isla even got Scott a super-cool Quiksilver button-down shirt which he loves.  She has such good taste, that baby.  She even wrote him a note.

Anyway - it's going to be a nice, lazy Sunday around here.  We're having a Father's Day lunch with our friends and then tonight, we're having Father's Day Dinner, again with our friends.  (What can I say?  We're creatures of habit).  It looks like we'll be leaving St. Maarten on Wednesday (you guessed it, with our friends) for points south.  The next two days will be busy with little chores like stocking up on fresh provisions and doing laundry to prepare for our southbound island-hop.  Very excited to get moving again.  Our itinerary is loose as in non existent which is exciting and refreshing.  We'll check the weather and sail as best we can wherever the wind will carry us.

In the meantime, Happy Father's Day to all the great dad's out there.  Particularly my husband and my papa.  I am lucky to love and be loved by you both.

Isla's lair.  It's a pretty cool place for a baby.

Okay, so I might have helped her with this note...

She even serenaded Scott with an original Father's Day tune on the ukelele! (Okay, that's a joke - but what is not a joke is that finger placement!  I mean, pretty good, right?)

When Cockroaches Happen to Clean People

“Britt, how many roaches would you say we kill a day?” I heard Scott call casually over his shoulder from the front seat of the rental minivan we were sharing with our new friends.  We had just gone grocery shopping and he was talking to the husband, Luuck (pronounced Luke).  Apparently the mention of “cardboard" and the common knowledge amongst boaters that it's a vehicle for roach eggs gave Scott the go-ahead to tell our compadres about our little, er... situation. “I mean, like, two or three at least, right?” he continued with a shrug.  Like it was no big deal.  Like we were discussing flooring options: hardwood or wall-to-wall? Hmmmm....

What the HELL!?!?

I wanted to die right there.  I mean, what was he thinking making our cockroach issue (it is NOT a problem!) public?  I thought we had an understanding! It was supposed to remain our dirty little secret until we got rid of them, at which point we'd talk about our former pests much like people reminisce about the Depression Era and shudder as we recalled "the time we lived with roaches".  I mean, we are clean people.  Cockroaches aren't supposed to thrive amongst people like us.  This should not be happening.

I sat silent while I turned a lovely shade of crimson and slowly looked over to my friend Darcy in defeat, knowing full well that she would never ever come over to our veritable roach motel for a another happy hour again.  Dinner? Ha! Forget about it.  Bring her baby over to play with my baby?  No way, Jose.  It was over (not true, but still, I thought that at the time).  I felt like Hester Prynne with the scarlet letter on my chest, only my "letter" was a cardboard cutout of a German cockroach, antennae and all. "Hi! I'm Brittany...oh, the cockroach on my chest?  It's nothing, really.  Just ignore him...hey, where are you going?"  Gross.

To add insult to injury, Scott prattled on...

“They’re small though, really tiny...” he said matter-of-factly, "... I mean – the biggest we’ve killed is no longer than three-quarters of an inch, wouldn't you agree, Britt?”  I swear to God if I had "go-go Gadget" arms I would have strangled him right then and there.  But being that we were in the company of our new friends and respective children. I chuckled uncomfortably and said, “Um, honey…you do realize our friends are never going to come over again, right?”  If looks could kill.

There is no one, no one who doesn't find cockroaches in a living space completely and utterly appalling.  And rightfully so.  They are synonymous with filth and squalor.  Our roach problem issue has been documented before on the blog - but since we've been cruising, I wanted to keep hush hush about it because, frankly, I wanted to stick my head in the sand.  We've tried the boric acid cookies, we sprinkled Borax powder liberally in nooks and crannies, we tried the motels, hotels and traps and we fogged the boat on six - yes six - occasions.  Useless.  Each time, the little monsters prevailed.  I could almost hear their shrill, high-pitched roachy-laughter echoing from the woodwork every time a new battle tactic was attempted. "Good luck suckers!" I imagined them saying, "You know the Armageddon-style explosion that killed the dinosaurs and all life on earth as we knew it? Yeah.  We survived that! Bwa-hahahaha!" they'd say.  It was - is - maddening.  It's even worse because I am of the OCD variety when it comes to cleanliness and I have begun to take their presence on our boat as a personal affront.  I mean, if there was a holster that could contain a roll of paper towel and a solid cleaning agent, I would wear that bad boy with pride.  I clean a lot.  I repeat, WE ARE NOT DIRTY PEOPLE.

And that's not all!  I'm also compulsive about how we store our food.  Everything is in airtight containers, double or triple bagged and after meals there is nary a crumb for them to munch on.  Unfortunately, I have learned they don't need actual food to survive.  They can happily make a meal of book-binding glue, soap, nylon stockings, grease and dried skin flakes (we will be exfoliating, family-style, on the aft deck nightly now).  To make matters worse, they will even eat their own feces and dead brethren in a pickle.  It is clear we will not be starving them off our boat.

I was at a loss, so I hit the world wide web.  Waving the white flag and accepting the possibility that we might be living with them for a while longer, I wanted to know just how bad roaches were.  Are they really as gross as everyone says?  Did they really spread ebola?  Was my boat indeed a cesspool?  Turns out - none of these things were true.  Cockroaches are actually the cats of the insect world and clean themselves fastidiously - even obsessively so.  According to this article they are not as dirty as people think and the only filth they spread is the filth that they are actually living in and walk across.  Therefore, if you keep a clean house (as we do), you have clean roaches (semi-happy dance).  A human hand carries far more germs and bacteria than a cockroach.  And your cell phone?  Dirtier than a toilet seat.  This news made me breathe a small sigh of relief, however temporary.  They were not, in fact, going to infect my family with a flesh-eating disease.  This did not make living with them any better, of course,  but it was nice to know all my cleaning was not going to waste.  I was actually cleaning our roaches too.

The real problem with roaches is, from what I can gather, is their excrement.  Apparently people are all sorts of allergic to their - er- deposits and this is their true claim to pesty fame.  Luckily, the Meyers family shows no signs of being allergic and I have yet to see any roach poop in our living area (I look, trust me).  The other down side of having roaches (and the bigger one, in my opinion) is psychological.  I now see imagined roaches EVERYWHERE I look.  The errant piece of fuzz that blows across the counter?  A roach.  That tiny crumb that fell off my toast?  Roach.  That little shadow I see across the galley?  Roach.  The coffe ground stuck to the side of the sink? Roach.  The random drill hole in the wall?  Roach.  The stray hair caressing my back? Gah!! ROACH!  I feel like I'm living in the Twilight Zone whereby I see things that are not really there.  I'm pretty sure I'm scarred for life in this regard and I will forever see roaches in every tiny dark shadow and little black speck that crosses my peripheral from here on out.  It could be worse, I guess.

That said, we have not conceded to live peacefully amongst our persistent pests.  Despite the fact that they might share my OCD nature, they still gross us out and we want them gone.  We have a full-blown, real-deal exterminator coming today.  He is going to spread some industrial strength cockroach-killing gel around the boat and we're buying an extra tube of it from him for good measure.  He, and several others we've talked to, swear this will work.  We're being cautiously optimistic.  In the meantime, we'll just keep reminding ourselves that we're the owners of clean cockroaches because - I would like to stress - we are clean people.  And yes, cockroaches can happen to clean people.

Don’t Live on the Edge…Live on the Margin

When I saw an email in my in mailbox from “Patrick Schulte” my stomach dropped.  “Uh oh” I thought, “He’s going to unleash on me his irreverent wit and I will be left in a pulpy, tongue-tied mess”.  After all, we had broken several of his cardinal rules for successful boat blogging and I was pretty certain he hated us.

For those of you who have been living under a rock and do not know Patrick Schulte, he is the (hilariously and sometimes bitingly contemptuous) voice of Bumfuzzle which is, without a doubt, the most successful “sailing blog” on the internet today.  Pat and Ali are just a couple years older than we are, and yet they have lived approximately four lives: one in which they sailed around the world with pretty much zero sailing experience, another in which they drove across the parts of the world they missed on their sailing adventure in a VW bus, another in which they raced across country in a vintage Porsche and yet another when they had a couple of (adorable) babies, bought another boat (a monohull! Egad!) and moved to Mexico.  When they started blogging there were probably no more than three other sailing blogs and Pat has no one but himself to blame for the fact that there are exactly one million, eight hundred and twenty-two thousand more today.  Bumfuzzle opened the floodgates.

Anyway, I opened the email and it was not the verbal tongue lashing I expected, but a friendly response to a post I wrote about common questions we get in which one shrew super-charged on bitterness and (pregnancy?) hormones wrote me a comment peppered with words like “spoiled” “holier than thou” “nothing more than a stay at home mom” who "relies on her husband for income" among other things (after a little chuckle I hit "delete").  Never one to shy from controversy (actually I think they are fueled by their haters) Pat wrote that perhaps next time people inquire about how to finance a dream like this, we turn them on to his new book Live on the Margin.

Which is, no joke, exactly what I do now.  (He’s so smart, that Pat).

The book is not a travel narrative or a pithy account of a life at sea, but rather a how-to book aimed at showing people that it is truly possible to think outside the box and live your dream life (be it living out of a camper van in Baja, a surf shack in Costa Rica, or a thatch hut in Bali) by adjusting your spending habits, evaluating risk, and taking that exhilarating leap into the unknown while playing the stock market with realistic sums of money to pay your way.

Making that dream happen—stepping into an unknowable future for a life of adventure takes courage, decisiveness, an unwavering belief in yourself, and the willingness to take 100% responsibility for the outcome. Those happen to be the very same traits that define the successful trader. The skills you learn in pursuing the dream might just remove money from the list of reasons you can’t go. -From the LOTM Facebook Page.

Pat co-wrote the book with Nick O'Kelly, a fellow intrepid traveler and on-the-margin-liver and, despite the fact that I am famously terrible with numbers and math, the book is written in laymen's terms with real-life examples and the signature Schulte wit peppered throughout.  While it's still a book about online trading (not exactly a gripping page-turner) - it is not the total yawn fest that most other books in it's genre offer up.  It's could also have been named: Trading for Dummies, but that book probably already exists.

Anywho... if you are sitting there in your cubicle dreaming of backpacking across Southeast Asia, living on a sailboat in the Caribbean or volunteering on an eco-farm in South America - Live on the Margin might just open your eyes and show you that yes, there is a way.

Patrick Shulte is also the author of Bumfuzzle - Just Out Looking For Pirates which is a refreshingly hilarious account of their travels around the world by sailboat. At 2.99 for the Kindle addition, I promise you it'll be worth every penny.

Full disclosure:  I received a free copy of Live on the Margin.

A Family Love Affair

When we travel together, it's like boat baby gang.  "Look out! We've got dirty diapers and we're not afraid to use 'em!"

It's often said that friendships in the cruising community blossom fast and furious.  While we have definitely made life-long friends on this journey of ours (you know who you are) - I would have to say that Scott and I have actually struggled a bit in this area.  Turns out this kind of camaraderie does not, as is often alluded, come in spades whence on the water.  People are nice, helpful and friendly and all...but sparks are not flying at every single pot-luck (to which we have only been one this season) with every single cruiser.

Part of this is the fact that Scott and I are always a little "behind the pack" and late to the party.  Right now, for example, most "cruisers" are tucked safely away to wherever they will stay for hurricane season.  It's "low season" in these parts.  The anchorages have thinned out, the happy hours aren't exactly "hopping" and the marina's are more or less empty.  Most people on our route south passed through this area months ago, so we're meeting less folks because we're picking up the rear as it were. We actually kind of like it this way though, so no complaints here.

The big reason for our lack o' buddies, however, is most likely our age.  At thirty-four and thirty-seven, we are approximately thirty years younger than most cruisers.  This is not to say that friendships cannot blossom cross-generationally - because they absolutely can.  Some of the very best friends we have had the pleasure to cruise with are Baby Boomers.  Sometimes, however, it's nice to hang with your peers.  But we've had trouble here... On the rare occasion when we do meet "young" cruisers (the further south we go, the fewer there are), more often than not they are a) sans children b) lack alarm clocks of the "human" variety and c) have livers pickled with cheap rum and Ginger Beer (with the exception of my beloved Bahama mamas). Not that Scott and I are above cheap rum and Ginger Beer, because we're not...we just have a baby who wakes up at 6am and waking up that early with a colossal hangover while still expected to perform parental duties is HELL (trust us, we know).  We like to think we are in the "cool parent" category and we do indulge from time to time - but we cannot party like we used to...and like other young cruisers often do.

But I digress.

We made friends here in St. Maarten (insert happy dance).  Really, really, really, really COOL friends (insert even more exaggerated happy dance). And guess what?  They are young, they live on a boat, and they have a BABY! (somebody get me a scrap of cardboard, because I'm practically break-dancing over here!)  This, my friends, is the ultimate trifecta of togetherness!  Ladies and gentlemen:  we have fallen in love with the "S" family.

Darcy, Luke and baby Stormer live in St. Maarten on their boat.  They'd been reading our blog for some time and Darcy and I emailed back and forth hoping for a meet-up.  I was excited at the prospect, I mean - you never know how people will gel - but I got a good feeling about this family.  "Scott!" I exclaimed after her first email, "There's a family in St. Maarten!  They are sailing to Grenada too... and get this: their son is named 'Stormer'!! Isla could have a playmate with a super cool name and we might have a fun buddy boat - they're going to be in the Caribbean for the next couple years like us!!"  Scott doesn't exactly share my 'insta-excitement' over things unknown, but he smiled and said "Oh really?  Cool," and continued tinkering with whatever he was tinkering with (the man can tinker).

The morning after we arrived, they dinghied over to our boat to say hello.  We invited them and their (absolutely adorable) little boy, Stormer, aboard for coffee and the love was almost instant.  We've been hanging with them ever since.  We even had one night where we all got a little starry-eyed and drank way too much after the babies went to bed.  Needless to say, we all suffered the punishment for it.  But here's the thing: misery loves company.  The fact that we all woke up the next day at the crack of dawn to bouncing babies and had to be functioning parents took a tiny bit of the edge off the pain.  Solidarity people.  We all had a sluggish greasy lunch together complete with dark sunglasses, pounding headaches and Bloody Mary's.  The evening served as a brutal reminder that we cannot drink like that any more.  None of us.  Ever.  Again.  Sangria: 1  Parentals: 0.

Meeting this awesome family has been a total breath of fresh air.  While Scott and I enjoy each other's company most of the time, it has been so nice to hang out with other people that are young and have a baby.  We didn't realize it, but we've been positively starving for this kind of companionship.  Their friendship is legitimate soul food.  The best part?  Seeing Isla and Stormer play.  They giggle and laugh, they kiss and hug.  He pushes her in her stroller and she shares her sippy cup with him when he's thirsty.  It's pretty freaking adorable.  They play so sweet with one another and they keep each other entertained (siiiiiiigh).  The four of us parents get all aflutter trying to catch their kodak moments on film.

So it's official:  Isla is off the market.  Arranged marriage might be considered "old school" and not the norm in our culture, but this match is just too good to be true.  We're having a family-style love affair over here and it's nothing short of awesome.

Haircuttin’ on the High Seas

“Want to do something really fun?” Scott yelled eagerly from the cockpit.  Being someone who loves herself some fun, I perked up and got excited.  Was he planning a cool hike?  Did he book us his and her massages at the resort hotel down the street?  Was the local beach bar having two for one specials?  My interest was piqued.

“Yeah!” I replied, “What are you thinking?” 

Scott’s face emerged in the companionway with an I-love-you-honey-and-I-need-you-to-do something-for-me grin.  He raised a pair of clippers in the air and said excitedly: “Cut my hair!”

Skeeeert. 

Not exactly the definition of "fun" in my book.

Considering I am not a stylist and the last time I sashayed into hair cutting was in 1983 when I butchered my little brother's bangs (the result was not unlike Jim Carrey’s coif a la “Dumb and Dumber”) this was a brave request. 

But I rarely shy away from a challenge and, if nothing else, I figured I could have a good laugh if I completely butchered his ‘do.  After all, he did ask me – a complete and utter novice – to use clippers on his head.  If the results were disastrous, he’d have no one to blame but himself.

Luckily for Scott, he a) has a ton of hair  (it’s insane how thick his mane is) b) he was very good at giving me  instructions (he talked me through the process much like a surgeon would guide a resident through an open-heart procedure) and c) he’s so dang good looking that no matter what I did to his head people would still stop him on the street to let him know he’s a dead ringer for Ben Affleck (it’s true).

All in all, I think it went pretty well.  Aside from the little snafu in the back of his head and the fact that I did cut the front a bit *too* short (what can I say, I loved Dumb and Dumber) – I do not laugh out loud every time I see him and that says something.  Regardless, I’ll not be signing up for beauty school anytime soon and I’ll refrain from asking Scott to return the favor.

Passage from BVI to St. Maarten (or): Getting Reacquainted with Exhaustion of Epic Proportions

If you think you've seen a face like this before, you have.  On a woman who just gave birth.

Well, that passage sucked.  Nothing like estimating a trip will take fourteen to eighteen hours at the very most, and then dropping the hook a completely battered and oh-my-god-someone-get-me-a-pillow exhausted twenty-four hours later.  Yes, it appears we had indeed been spoiled and disillusioned by the calm and lovely waters of the British Virgin Islands - we forgot all about what cruising can really be like.  In all fairness, twenty-four hours is not long at all.  And, to be honest, it wasn't even that bad.  Furthermore, we chose this and sailed directly into the wind (or attempted to at least).  But regardless of these things, when expectations don't match with reality, well, things always seem a little worse.  Or, is that just me?

It was our first overnight sail with just the three of us, and after the forecast: winds 15-20 knots on the nose with waves 6-8 feet, we knew we'd be in for a bit of a ride.  Prior to weighing anchor Scott and I talked about our watch schedule and how we'd manage so that I would be able to get some sleep while still being able to help out with the boat and care for Isla during her "wake times".   Considering she goes to bed around 6pm and wakes up around 6am, we decided I would take the 9p-12a watch, and then 3-6a watch, so that when I came off watch at sunrise, I could feed her, hand her over to Scott and get some shuteye.  This, we learned, was a mistake.

We weighed anchor at 5pm and headed out to sea.  We ate the veggie casserole dinner I pre-made, and I tucked Isla into her bunk in the v-berth which was rising and falling anywhere from ten to twelve feet as our boat charged forth into a building ocean swell.  "Do you think she'll be okay up there?" Scott asked incredulously.  "We'll see," I replied as I gave her a quarter tablet of children's dramamine.  This child and her ability to sleep in the most uncomfortable circumstances never ceases to amaze us.  I kissed her goodnight and she drifted off into a very bouncy and at times, probably weightless, slumber.  I cleaned up from dinner and hit my bunk for the next three hours.

When I awoke, the seas were approximately 10-12 feet, and wind 18-20 knots on the nose.  We were motor sailing with our main and stays'l, chugging along at 6 knots which sounds lovely, except for the little fact that we were going in the wrong direction.  Our velocity made good, or "VMG" as it's known to sailors, was a mere 2 knots.  Meaning the forward momentum to our actual destination - St. Maarten - was a snail's pace.  Literally, a snail's pace.  I kid you not, a one legged man can walk faster than that.  I made myself some coffee, gazed up at the beautiful blanket of stars above me, noting immediately the Southern Cross to starboard, and settled in.  I stared down to the water where the phosphorescence danced in our wake like tiny fireflies before petering out like embers from a fire.  Our boat powered forward into an endless battle line of angry waves, her bow rising up and crashing down again and again with a huge SPLASH! which would not only thoroughly soak the boat (and sometimes the cockpit) but also create a spectacular show of phosphorescence where the individual wave splashes landed in the water.  It was as if a million glow sticks were exploding in our wake before dissipating back into the darkness.  (This here is the silver lining, FYI).

By morning, we were not even half-way there.  Morale was not good.  We were tacking almost perpendicular to St. Maarten and by 6am, our ETA was still twenty agonizing hours away.  Isla had woken up at her predicted time and conditions were rough.  There was no way I could leave Scott to tend to both her and the boat.  Isla, of course, was totally oblivious to anything amiss and was fully charged and eager to play having (incredibly) just slept soundly for twelve hours.  Totally deprived of sleep and burdened with the kind of physical exhaustion usually reserved for the mothers of newborns, I strapped her into her carseat with a few toys and played “footsie” with her in a vain attempt to get myself horizantal while still keeping her entertained.  This worked for all of five minutes.  It was going to be a loooong day.

Finally, I suggested we stop trying to sail and just motor directly into the wind toward St. Maarten. "I mean, it’s not like it’s going to be any worse than what it is now…” I trailed off deliriously.  Scott shrugged and began furling the stays'l, leaving the main up for stability.  The boat pitched and rolled wildly and, as he pointed our bow much closer to the wind, and therefore more directly towards our destination, we slowly watched our ETA go down…16 hours, 10 hours, 7 hours!! Hooray!  We’d be there by nightfall after all!  Morale was going up, but only slightly so.  Both of us were still completely exhausted and the motion of the ocean was incredibly unpleasant.

We dropped anchor at 5:01pm in Simpson Bay exactly twenty-four hours from the time we raised it.  That is nine hours longer than we calculated, ten hours longer than our last trip from the BVI’s to St. Maarten, and a solid eleven hours of complete and utter exhaustion.  We were grouchy, tired and caked in a veritable crust of salt spray.  We rinsed our salty boat and bodies with blessed fresh water, stuffed our faces with some leftover pasta salad and crashed with a whole new appreciation of exactly why “gentleman don’t sail to windward” and dreamt of the day when we actually follow the world cruising routes and sail downwind.  Sigh...one day.

Sunrise.  Most people are rested at this point, me?  I was exhausted.

Squalls developing off St. Maarten

This is the "footsie" game I was talking about.

She's a good little deck swab, I'll give her that!

 

Kiting in Virgin Gorda

The past couple of days have been play time.  Actually, the past couple of weeks have been play time.  We've throughly enjoyed the good, clean livin' here in the British Virgin Islands, leisurely sailing from anchorage to anchorage as if we have all the time in the world.  We might have been stuck waiting for weather, but we've been doing anything but sitting idle.  To be in a place where we have the luxury to sail just a few hours to yet another breathtaking anchorage without having to really care about weather, wave height and all that jazz has it's perks.  It's effortless cruising in these parts, and we've learned that we like effortless cruising.  We will be back to this neck of the woods, there is no question about that.

As most of you know, Scott took up the sport of kiteboarding about a year ago and he's hooked.  While I can appreciate any sport that has the sense of humor and audacity to name a strategic piece of gear the "donkey dick", I'm not going to lie, I was not entirely thrilled with his almost overnight obsession with what is - no question - an 'extreme sport' (read: one that is dangerous to life and limb).  I mean, new boat, new baby...didn't we have enough going on?  Couldn't he enjoy a leisurely paddle around the anchorage on our iSUP? Maybe a peaceful jaunt to a coral reef in our kayak?  And then there was the issue of storing all that gear: the kites (multiple kites for multiple conditions), the boards (yes, plural, multiple conditions), the harness, helmet, control bars, lines, and pumps (and, yes, the 'donkey dick').  My inner neat freak had a kitten looking at all that stuff piled up.  But Scott's got the adrenaline-junky gene wedged somewhere in his DNA right next to the expert-packer gene and he'd made up his mind and somehow tucked all that stuff away in our boat without sacrificing any "prime" real estate.  After he pinky swore he wouldn't die and stowed all the gear I became (semi) cool with it.

Kiteboarding (or kitesurfing) is definitely not an easy one to learn; it's physically demanding, condition specific and requires a pretty decent amount of coordination and gear.  If you can get past these things, it can actually be a nice complement to cruising.  Typically, we prefer to sail from place to place in winds under twenty knots.  Luckily, winds twenty knots and above happen to be primo for kiteboarding so the two fit nicely in that regard.  The fact that - as one kiteboarding friend told us - "every kiter I know has had some serious injury; blown out knees, broken bones, whiplash...some even died" is a mere afterthought after the rush of the ride.  Or so I am told.  (This friend did not help Scott's case, for the record).

On a positive note, we've met loads of kiteboarders along our travels who seem to be completely in tact (Scott has an inner radar for them, I am certain) and I can honestly say that they are a very cool, very helpful bunch of folks.  We met up with some yesterday and not only did they give Scott some pointers, but helped him launch his kite, and manned the chase vehicle while I chilled on the beach snapping photos and watched Isla nibble on driftwood.  To say Scott was stoked would be an understatement.  Good times had by all.

In other news, it's looking like we have a little weather window to cross over to St. Maarten (aka 'the land that wifi forgot'), so - if all goes as planned - we should be leaving this evening for the fifteen to eighteen hour passage.  Unfortunately you might not hear from us for a couple of days and won't be able to track us because our SPOT tracker up and stopped transmitting during our offshore passage and they have been incredibly unhelpful in getting us up and running again.  Don't be alarmed by the radio silence and keep an eye on our Facebook Page for updates as I will most likely post there first.

A Wooden Boat and a Renaissance Man

I saw the beautiful boat and assumed it was local, like some of the others I'd seen around the marina.  It was a classic Caribbean wooden sloop built in the traditional island way.  The mast was nothing more than a varnished timber, the paint job unique and the lines beautiful.  She stood out like a rose in a field of daisies.  Her name:  Summer Wind.  

I got to talking to some folks and discovered that it was not, in fact, just a local boat. "Have you seen the guy around with the dreadlocks?" I had. "Well, he's sailing that boat to Florida and there's a documentary being filmed about it".  Rad.  I immediately jotted in my brain:  Must. Meet. Mister Dreadlocks. right before I pulled Isla away from the pool's edge, where she was reaching for a floating leaf (what is it with this baby and leaves?).  The documentary, I learned, is called Vanishing Sail (check out the trailer!), and while it's not specifically about s/v Summer Wind, she will most likely make the final cut.

The captain of this beautiful boat is a guy named Denis and if you think we are cool, well - he is infinitely cooler.  He's got a "hippy" mentality and the looks to match.  He's had a long-time love affair with wooden boats and possesses a visceral passion for sailing in it's purest form.  He gives off that elusive "one with the sea" vibe and it is instantly obvious that he is very skilled and competent when it comes to all things boat.  He would probably despise being likened to a Jimmy Buffet song, but this is a guy who probably was born "two hundred years too late".  Fortunately, there is no such thing as "too late" for a guy like Denis, which is why he's launching his "renaissance" aboard a wooden boat that fate aligned him with.

His goal is to "pursue art, music, and consciousness through the ancient art of sailing" and he is calling this mission "Movement Sailing". He sums it up best on his Facebook page:

There are ... some of us that possess that same passion that our sailing ancestors did long ago, slowly nursing the dwindling flames of the sailors arts. There are those of us that see beyond the plastic vessels and price tags of luxury, using the new as a conduit to the old. This is the essence of Movement Sailing; Breathing creativity through the timeless imagery of our dearest mother, the Sea. 

He's an artist, a musician, photographer and (judging from the snippet above) a poet.  As I approached the sloop to take some pictures and talk with him, he was contentedly huddled over a pile of three strand line, most likely splicing, whipping or creating some undoubtedly awesome nautical craft.  He gave me a warm smile and invited me aboard.

There are simple boats, and then there are SIMPLE boats.  This boat is the latter.  When you go below, the sweet, musty smell of wood dances in your nose.  It's incredible, intoxicating and to a boat lover - is like nature's finest perfume.  There is literally no interior;  no berths, no galley, no head, no comfy settee, no book case, no pillows, nada.  In fact, when you go into the belly of this boat it's like being inside a whale; all you see are perfectly constructed ribs, and the sleek, simple construction of a classic Carricacou sloop.  There are a few floor boards to cover the bilge which is full of hunks of lead for ballast.  Actual hunks of lead that look like concrete blocks!  This boat is bad-arse.  While it does have an inboard diesel engine, "it's under pitched so really only useful for parking" he told me.  I liked that, parking.

"You should hear the sound she makes when she charges through the water," he told me, his eyes lighting up, "She rumbles and creates this amazing wave off her bow....I guess 'gnarly' is a good word to describe what it's like sailing her".  Before Denis was commissioned to bring her to Florida, she was - literally - bare bones and had no instruments, not even a compass.  "I watched wave patterns and the southern cross to get myself to St. Maarten" he told me.  This blew my mind.  Wave patterns?! Southern Cross?! Who to the what to the how now!?  "But I didn't want to sail any further like that" he laughed.  Once there, he got to work updating this sturdy girl.

While he prefers the simplicity of this beautiful, traditional sloop - he cannot deny that having a few gadgets aboard is wise.  So begins the love/hate relationship that is so common amongst purists.  He spent a lot of time meticulously designing her electronic suite for her owner and has equipped this basic beauty with a GPS with AIS (integrated with his iPad mini, which acts as a chart plotter), a Fusion stereo (also integrated to the iPad mini!), a compass and a couple DC/USB outlets.  There is also a windlass and some safety gear but, overall, this boat is staying true to her roots.  Denis, while enjoying this modernization, still wants to keep her traditional look so all of these systems are strategically hidden behind panels and out of the way so as to keep her aesthetics pure.  I can appreciate that.  Too many gadgets on a boat like that would be like seeing a satellite dish coming off a Masai hut (which, lets face it, probably exists).  In addition to these upgrades, he is also going to re-vamp the interior by making the living space a little more conducive to offshore sailing.  Right now, creating a quarter berth is top priority.  A place to sleep is kind of a big deal and, as it is, sleeping in the belly of that boat would leave you needing a chiropractor as a co-captain.

When that is complete, Denis will embark on his epic journey to Florida to deliver this proud vessel to her owner where they will go forth as a team.  She is a ship of dreams and this adventure  - this renaissance - has only just begun.

If you are interested, check out Denis's Movement Sailing Facebook Page (the incredible photography alone is worth it) and while you are at it, check out the page for Vanishing Sail as well.  Both are well worth a look and might just inspire the inner purist in you (For the record: I am not a purist.  Far from it.  But I appreciate them nonetheless!).

Adventures in Watermaking

See that missing arm in the upper right hand corner?  That is no bueno.  This is a bad impeller.

What is that they say?  "If it's too good to be true, it is?"  Sigh.  When will I learn?

We have been using our amazing Cruise RO watermaker for about four months now and many of you have been requesting a follow up post re: do we like it?

The short answer is, we don't like it.  We LOVE it.  So lets just get that out there to clear up any confusion.  Installing our high output watermaker is one of the best decisions we made with this boat, no question about that.  Ample fresh water on a boat floating in a sea of salt is a good thing.

I had a post ready to go about the unadulterated love we have for our 30 gallon per hour watermaker (daily showers! plenty of water for dishes! washing the boat at will! rinsing gear liberally!), when - in an ironic twist of fate - we went to run it and it went on the fritz.  Something didn't sound right.  At all.  (Note: ignoring strange sounds on a boat, particularly strange noises with pumps and engines, is not wise).  Scott immediately shut the system down and got to trouble-shooting.  Within ten minutes he had removed and dissected our Jabsco "boost" pump and found the culprit: a damaged shaft seal and a corroded motor, as well as a broken impeller.  This was Jabsco issue and, luckily, it was under warranty.

We called Rich from Cruise RO.  It's not always you get to talk directly to the CEO of a company - on a Sunday of a holiday weekend no less - and, as usual, he answered his phone immediately.  Our part was under warranty and he assured us he'd be shipping us a new one first thing on Tuesday morning (Monday being a holiday). While we're not exactly going anywhere fast at the moment, I braced myself for what was sure to be a long wait, full of customs hiccups, shipping gliches and red tape.  After all, isn't the bane of every cruiser's existence waiting for parts to arrive in exotic locations?

Through the magic of online tracking, we saw that the pump was indeed shipped Tuesday, arrived in Puerto Rico Wednesday, Tortola on Thursday, and the marina where we waited on Friday.  Incredible!  And we didn't pay a cent for this!  I was so happy I did a little jig, I even took to our Facebook Page to gloat.  I mean, shipping boat parts to foreign places never goes that smoothly! Never, ever!!

Sigh.  No it doesn't.

Scott got to work on the installation and, after about an hour of contortionist work in our watermaker locker to re-install the pump, he came up on deck with a very sweaty, very forlorn face. "Um...I was just about to finalize the installation and I happened to read the fine print on the pump.  It's a 24 volt pump".

(Insert loud sound of record scratching).

Our boat is a 12 volt boat.

This was a big problem and if it were me who had been working on the pump for an hour in a steaming sauna and discovered this little fact, I would have dropped a big old "F" bomb that rang through the mountaintops with fervor.

We were shipped the wrong pump.

We called Rich, and again he answered immediately.  Despite holding out hope that maybe just maybe we were supposed to get a 24 volt pump, he admitted the mistake and apologized.  As often as I'd like to think he is an incredible customer service robot who permanently has a phone attached to his ear, he is actually human.  We could have a new pump in four to five days, he promised, they would un-do this mistake.

But we didn't have four or five days.  We need to move on and our weather window is looking like it will be here on Thursday.  Waiting would be too risky.  So Scott took matters into his own hands and started calling around the island to see if we could source the pump ourselves (a frustrating process in itself, mind you).  While there was not a single Jabsco Water Puppy to be found in all of the British Virgin Islands, there was one in St. Thomas, the U.S. Virgin Islands.  Scott grabbed his passport, hopped a ferry to the good ole U.S of A and five hours later brought back our puppy.  Running out to get a part when you have to go to another country can take a while.

Later that evening, after a celebratory meal and some wine, the pump was installed and our watermaker was back in action.  And what's best?  Rich and the folks at Cruise RO have decided to reimburse us completely for the pump, saying:

"In a situation like this we would typically say something like, 'we can get it to you for a cost of $150 but if you want to source it yourself to save time then we will cover what our cost would have been for us and you can cover the extra.'  That seems fair to us and most cruisers we have done that with have been happy with that compromise......BUT this whole situation was caused by us sending you the wrong pump, so this make it not a typical situation. We will send a refund check in the amount of $361.55 to the address you listed."

They say customer service is a thing of the past.  With Cruise RO Water and Power this could not be further from the truth.  This company has the best customer service I have ever experienced.  It is almost comical how good it is and I still secretly believe that Rich is actually a customer service robot with a phone permanently attached to his ear.  They go above and beyond for their customers and I can honestly say I have never been more impressed working with a company.  Can you imagine if all marine companies held the same standard (I'm talking to you electronics companies!)?  We boaters would free ourselves from a huge amount of stress and frustration and be floating around in a perpetual happy-land where questions are answered, warranties are honored and parts arrive without a hitch.

But that would be too good to be true.

Interested in our watermaker? Here are some more posts:

• Why we chose our watermaker
• The dry fit
• How we installed it
• The first test run of the system

* Full disclosure: We are sponsored by Cruise RO Water and Power.  BUT we do not get 'special treatment' - talk to anyone who has worked with this company and you will hear similar stories of them going above and beyond the call of duty.  They are really this awesome.