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noisykate · 6 years ago

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Catching up with the blog...

Thunderball Grotto, Pigs on the beach…

10 March 2019

The delights of the Bahamas were slow to reveal themselves, but the last few days have been quite special.

We are now further south, in the Exumas. The waters are, as advertised, crystal clear and the most extraordinary colours, from inky blue-black (bottomless, open atlantic), to navy blue (deep) to a pale, iridescent, luminous emerald green (very shallow), through peacock turquoise and every shade of blue. In the sun, the pale emerald green reflects back to the underside of the clouds, changing the sky.

We found the swimming pigs on Pig Beach, and found them slightly bolshie, clearly used to fleecing food from (the many) visitors, and stalking off immediately once the food has gone. We donated two carrots, cut up small and placed in their feed troughs, as advised, and left them to it. They keep pestering you until you show them your empty hands, then they just walk off. Hiding food in your pockets is not advised.

Thunderball Grotto was an unexpected delight – it was high tide when we arrived, and the current through the cave is strong, so the guide-led tourist hordes of non-swimmers stay away until the slightly more benign conditions which apply at low tide. We had this special place entirely to ourselves for nearly an hour. It is just an outcropping of rock, worn away from all sides into an open honeycomb of tunnels and caves, so that there is now a large cave – perhaps 10m diameter- in the middle of the rock, with holes through to the water from each side, and to the sky above. In the sunlight, these transform the place into the most amazing light theatre, the sun shafting down from above, and up through the underwater holes to the outside. Swimming in is slightly daunting, with strong currents outside pushing you against the rock walls, and once inside you get swirled around a little, but – it is magical. Full of fish, although the coral has suffered from too many visitors.

And I saw a shark. I dropped off the dinghy for a little swim on the way back to the boat after the grotto, and there it was, about 7’ long, its nose wedged under a rock so it could sleep. It swam away. Slightly disconcerting how close you can get to them before you spot them. Thankfully, it was a nurse shark, one of the more benign varieties.

The wind has (of course) been from the wrong direction for ages, and we are now against the clock to make distance south and east. Making progress in the right direction means either (a) risking a grounding against the shallow sand banks of the ‘inside’ or (b) braving the wilder conditions and much bigger waves of the ‘outside’, the open atlantic. We took the inside route for a bit yesterday, and -of course- went aground, stuck solid, bouncing of the hard sand bottom until the tide floated us off. Impossible to judge the depth by eye – you can see pebbles on the bottom in 10m of water.

Later…

13 March 2019

Now in Georgetown, in the company of an anchored fleet of perhaps 300 boats, some of whom of course we know. Lots of americans, on the southern end of their excursion south for the winter. We are meeting up with Chris and CC later – we first meet them on the ICW, in the Dismal Swamp – they rescued us from the appalling NY cop who was in favour of the police being able to shoot anyone without having to account for it. They are down here on a friend’s boat – looking forward to catching up.

Also bumped into John and Sue off Dandelion, last met in Marsh Harbour – they are on the way back to the UK for a flying visit, after an exciting year around Brazil, getting as far as the Beagle Channel around Cape Horn, and the Falklands, which they loved. They plan to go straight back there as soon as they’ve dealt with some business at home, including fitting a diesel heater. Sounds amazing, and very tempting, but the logistics of it put it out of our reach.

It is raining at the moment; still plenty warm enough, but the winds strong enough to keep all but the resolute and time-pressed to stay in the harbour. There is better weather on Friday for heading slightly north of east, which is where we need to go.

Georgetown is a decent little place, much livelier and more interesting than Marsh Harbour, although that could easily be taken as damning with faint praise.

Snorkelling, then a drink at a lovely beach bar. Later, we went out for the evening with Chris and Helen off Tyee, to a bar with live music – great vibe, lots of noise, good music. Even got Mike dancing a bit. Various musicians, hot-seating through a wide range of instruments, from the ubiquitous oil-can drum, to a timber saw, played with a screwdriver.

Mike is off the boat visiting somebody, I’m here making bread. Movie night later with Chris and Helen.

Internet here is pants, so no idea when this will get posted. I have been trying to ring family on Whatsapp but it is hopelessly broken and delayed, just a frustration.

Later still…

19 March 2019

Now in Clarence Town, on the southern end of Long Island. Another gorgeous emerald green bay, another tiny settlement pretending it is a ‘town’, still no internet.

Chris and Helen have left, heading east to go North around Haiti and the DR, as their insurer does not allow them to visit either place, or Cuba. We hope to meet up with them again on the south coast of Puerto Rico.

There is a posh marina here, catering to the large “sports fishing” boats, which means there is no swimming in the bay, because they clean their catch off the dock there, attracting sharks. We parked the dinghy there to go ashore. The splash from the stern anchor attracted them, half a dozen or so 4-8ft long, all circling the dinghy. Also saw a 5ft tarpon and a 4ft barracuda circling round.

The marina is very small – space for perhaps 10 boats – but with the shore-based infrastructure (showers, toilets, restaurant, laundry, shop) for many more. Far too expensive for us and most other cruisers at $2.70 or so per foot per night, all visiting boats anchor out. The well-stocked shop offers a large range of comically overpriced good, such as baseball caps at $30, packet of biscuits (“cookies”) at $8. The US-registered “sports fishers” are ubiquitous in the Bahamas; some are based here, but many come over from Florida for the season, spend vast amounts in tightly limited hot-spots, with little of their money making its way into the local economy. Under way, they burn fuel at 200-1000 litres per hour, depending on their size and speed. That’s a metric tonne of fuel, per hour. Clearly not a poor-man’s hobby. They don’t seem to have received the memo about global warming.

Ashore, we had to find the immigration office, to ‘fess up that we had inadvertently overstayed our visas by a month. We were expecting a fine, and a wrist-slapping, but no, we were just calmly given a form to extend our visa, and told to backdate it. Bureaucracy at its shining best.

From there, we walked around a bit looking for the bakery. It is too hot for walking for pleasure, so we were pleased to find it at the top of a little hill overlooking the bay, nearer the boat. We chatted for a while with the owner – a lovely black Bahamian, who talked of the difficulties living on such a small island. Her daughter, who clearly had a serious medical problem, perhaps cerebral palsy, lay on a mattress on the floor with a view over the bay – she could have been anywhere from 6 to 20 years old, her limbs twisted and wasted.

The owner said that the illegal immigrants from Haiti and the DR get free health care in the Bahamas, while she has to pay for it. The issue of health care, and who pays for it and how, is a truly universal problem, and it seems nowhere has it fully ‘cracked’. It is difficult to imagine the day-to-day problems dealing with such a disability, and what opportunities there might be – precious little. Mum is vastly overweight, which clearly brings its own problems. Living with that alone in this heat must be difficult.

We are -again- waiting for weather. There is a spell of ‘northers’ coming through, which will help us heading south. We have – reluctantly- given up on visiting Cuba. The delays in Marsh Harbour, and our slow progress since, have left us with no time. I may have said that already. Very disappointing, but – maybe next time!

One useful outcome – the dinghy chaps (cover) was falling to bits, so we took it off and patched it. As usual, this tedious job was worse in the contemplation than the event, and the cover is now re-fitted with an orange stripe around the bump strip, made from a piece of tan sailcloth donated by Sarah when we set off. Took most of the day, both of us pulling and pushing at various bits of fabric and the machine, and much swearing. My little domestic sewing machine is not really man enough for these heavy fabrics, and kept breaking threads and skipping stiches. May donate it to someone in Haiti or the DR, and save up for a Sailrite.

26 March 2019

We waited for the promised weather to head south, and eventually did so in company with Dandelion. We stopped for a night in Little Harbour, just to the south. As with so many of these gorgeous little bays, the beach was littered with rubbish, and although inviting from afar, felt quite squalid close up. The entrance, on the way in, was ‘ok’: fairly flat, and a clear path through. When the time came to leave, it looked horrendous, huge waves breaking 5’ high all the way across. At high tide, these drop to a more manageable size, and we threaded our way out without difficulty. Dandelion’s radio message afterwards summed it up: “Changed your trousers yet?”. Once past the narrow entrance, the sea state was fine.

From there, we headed south together, to the ‘Windward Passage’, the route through between Haiti and Cuba. Dandelion then headed right for Cuba, while we turned left to head along the south coast of Haiti and the DR, hoping that the more benign conditions here would allow us to motor-sail against the easterly trades. Shortly after turning the corner, our engine stopped. The lift pump, we think. So we are now plodding at 2-3kts along the entire southern coast of Hispaniola. 400 miles. That’s about 130 hours at 3 kts. 10 and a half days. Except we are tacking, so that makes the distance getting on for 800 miles. 21 days. That’s far longer than it took us to cross the Atlantic. Bored. Really, quite bored.

The only upside is a renewed appreciation of the epic voyagers of old, who explored these coasts making their own charts as they went, and boats unable to go to windward.

1 April 2019

We are in Barahona, a town on the south coast of the DR.

We rounded the point on the south of the island, and were gamely slogging north east in hopelessly light winds, making 1-2 knots, when another sailing boat hove into sight – first we have seen in days. Thankfully, “Mischief”, a Brazilian registered Moody 425, took pity on us and took us in tow and we made the last 40 miles in a mere 12 hours. It would have taken us 2-3 days on our own.

In the belief that our problem was the lift pump, we removed and cleaned said item, and refitted it, to find no improvement. Engine still wont start.

We spent a day hiking around Barahona trying to find a shop which stocked electric lift pumps. Eventually, we gave up and enlisted the help of a random stranger in the Ajuntament office, who in turn recruited a girl from upstairs who spoke “some English”. In fact, she has been to evening classes for 3 months, so her English is about as good as our Spanish. But we stuck with it, and the two of them drove us around town several times trying to locate the right part. A false dawn when they rocked up to a shop selling domestic generators, so our translation was clearly ‘off’, but we got there in the end. Sadly, though, the new lift pump was no more successful than the old one at getting the engine started.

The lovely Chester, a beautiful Honduran fisherman sharing a ride with an Aussie on another ‘project’ boat, spent the day in the engine bay, curled up in an implausibly small space which I cannot fit into, bleeding various pipes trying to sort out our problem. With some long-distance help from Mike’s mate Dave in the UK, we loosened and tightened various connections, trying to eliminate trapped air. We failed. The latest working hypothesis is that we may have stripped the drive on the pump, so we are now well outside the scope of our competence.

So, we are now in the little harbour awaiting Roberto, a local engineer, who allegedly knows about boat diesels. The word “manyana” (cant find the squiggly ‘n’ sign) has cropped up several times. Hope it really does mean ‘tomorrow’.

We are safe here, the harbour is good, there are shops and banks nearby, and we have company in Steve and Chester, so it could be a lot worse. It could also be quite a lot better, as we are both deeply sick of breaking down, and both not at all keen on repeating our Marsh Harbour experience, an open-ended delay with no control over our own destiny.

1 April 2019

Perhaps not an auspicious day to go shopping for a new sim card so we can be in touch with the world without relying on the café, but we gave it a shot. After a 2-hour wait in the ‘Claro’ shop, with a huge crowd of patient locals, we ended up speaking to somebody who said, basically – yes its easy, but you have to come back tomorrow with your passport.

Now waiting for Roberto, and another man who took the washing away, promising its return at 2pm. Didn’t count the dirty pants before letting it all go, but I hope we get most of it back; our stash of clothes is looking thinner than it was.

The dinghy access to town is perhaps worth a mention – we can get out at the “marina”, but it is then a mile-long slog into town, and it is really too hot for that to be any fun. The only alternative is to tie up outside the port office, and scramble up the 6’ high dock over a tractor tyre. A bit of a game with a swell running, the dinghy dancing up and down by 2’. Getting better with practice, though. At least the water is nice and warm.

The books describe this place as a ‘busy port’, but we have been here several days now, and have yet to see a ship, other than the three permanently moored here, apparently abandoned.

6pm – in the bar again. I know, life is hard. Waiting for somebody to do something, not quite sure what. The engineer who diagnosed the injector pump problem is playing dominoes on the next table. No sign that he is intending to take the pump off tonight. Might be waiting for ‘Los Hondura’ to get back, because he is younger and thinner, and more bendy, and can perhaps get the thing out without dismantling the boat around it.

I managed to talk to some of the family via Whatsapp- miraculous, being able to talk from a beach café in a country like this, via the internet. Not perfect - quite a delay on the line, and it drops out every now and again - but fantastic even so.

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