NEW SMYRNA TO BAHAMAS
Location: Florida to Bahamas Banks
We spent 2009-10 Holiday season docked in New Smyrna Beach. Becky’s step dad passed on Thanksgiving morning, keeping us stateside for longer than expected. Our friends the Alonso’s generously allowed us to dock our boat at their beautiful Intercoastal home in New Smyrna Beach for two long months while we arranged affairs for Becky’s mom. Finally a short hop to Palm Beach for Christmas and New Year with friends and family had us on track for our cruise South. We reached the Grand Bahamas Bank on January 13th after a bash across the Gulf Stream in 25 to 30 knot Northerlies accompanied by enormous steep, breaking waves. For you sailors; you know that these conditions are a BIG no-no but Windarra stood up like a champ while 200 foot freighters passed us by with decks completely awash. We made amazing time with speeds of 8 knots over the ground and a mostly dry cockpit. We were on the banks in no time.
BAHAMAS QUICKIE
Location: Bahamas Chain
Having “done the Bahamas” last season we sailed a series of quick hops down the Exumas chain; Nassau, Alans Cay, Stainel Cay, Galliot Cay, Georgetown, never spending more than 3 or 4 days at each stop. The Bahamas is a great social scene, unlike anywhere else we have cruised so far. We met some great families along the way. Sofia and Blake had fun with kids their own age for a while. We also met the Royal Bahamian Defense Force who boarded us with Uzies (and big smiles) enquiring where our customs and immigration paperwork was. After a very professional and courteous look around they were off. From Georgetown we took on Fuel and water and headed for Rum Cay where weather kept us for almost a week. As usual the spear-fishing was great along the way supplying us with daily feasts of grouper, snapper and lobster. All in all it was a quick but enjoyable trip. We knew the waters well this time, which really added to the relaxation quotient.
MRS. MOBY DICK
Location: Rum Cay to Mayaguana
From Rum Cay we sailed directly for Mayaguana. The evening portion of the sail proved a little lumpy amid 25 knot trades and wild seas. Earlier that day I read Rebecca an article on migrating humpback whales that frequented the area during that time of year. Immediately she tuned into Mrs. Moby Dick. Feverishly she scanned the horizon for sign of a breach. “Where are all the damn whales?” She kept saying. YOU said that it was mating season and that they are all supposed to be . . . right . . . HERE!!! I was beginning to wish I hadn’t read her the article. As the passage progressed into a bright moonlit night her excitement about a whale sighting turned to anxiety as she began to feel especially concerned that we might ram into a sleeping whale as sail boats occasionally do. “I once read somewhere that whale encounters are one of the top 3 reasons for yachts sinking in the open ocean,” she said. Her off-watch hours were spent restlessly shifting in her bunk, unable to shake he premonition of a now imminent and ultimately catastrophic whale encounter. I assured her that hitting a whale was like hitting the lottery, an event that neither of us would likely ever experience. Around midnight I broke off our course to round the North East side of Samana Cay and began the reach down the Mayaguana Passage. The wind and waves had increased quite a bit but the new tack proved more comfortable. I sat on the leeward side of the boat staring into the moonlit sea gliding by our hull at almost 8 knots. The seas were on our beam and Windarra would rise to each crest then slide down the back of each roller that passed under our hull. Then the unthinkable happened. The proverbial needle in a haystack and the $50 million dollar lottery all wrapped into one. As we began to settle into the trough of an especially large wave I found myself staring off the leeward side of the boat at the back of an enormous humpback whale. I could, quite literally, count the barnacles on the 15 or so feet of his back that was protruding from the water, the tip of the “whale-berg.” We began to settle into the wave and down on top of the whale, a mere 5 feet from his massive body. I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes bracing for the inevitable impact of our hull on this massive beast. Then . . . he simply disappeared beneath our hull, like a phantom. With barley a ripple, just like that, he was gone. “Holy Shit,” I exclaimed. Rebecca, already awake in the pilot berth enquired immediately. “What was that?” But she already knew the answer. Enough said for women’s intuition.
I can say unequivocally, to date, that moment was the one and only time aboard Windarra, even amidst truly heavy seas and storm force winds, that I have been absolutely terrified. The emotion lasted only a split but my heart was already in my throat. At least we finally got to see a f@%$king whale.
FIRST WORLD FARE . . . THIRD WORLD PLATE
Location: Luperon Dominican Republic to Boqueron, Puerto Rico
We paused a day in Mayaquana then sailed for Luperon, Dominican Republic the evening of the March 2nd. After an uneventful passage we made Puerto Blanco (Luperon) DRc on March 4th at dawn. The harbor was pretty much wall-to-wall yachts. Most of which were either stored, abandoned or soon-to-be-abandoned. Before we were even anchored we were hailed on the VHF and informed that “everyone” monitored VHF 72 in Luperon. Uh, Thanks? Soon to find out, everyone monitors channel 72 because that is where the broke ex-pats of Luperon advertise various products and services to the gullible passing yachties. Really useful items like 3 foot strands of “lightly used” dock line, the best nautical charts that money could buy, in 1978 (photo copied of course), boat parts (install new part sell old defective one) and of course the latest selection of rusty shit-from-the-back-of-the-boat locker. Actually there was a bonified store for the latter items with prices that would make a West Marine salesman blush.
You can get anything you want in the DR. If you get it from the locals you are almost assured of getting a good product at a good price and friendly smile. Get it from an ex-pat and you might be re-selling it on VHF 72 before the week is out.
Luperon is what I call first world fare, on a third world plate. You can get what ever you want and it is usually first rate. It just might not have the first world services to go with it. Lets take the local dentists office as an example. A Sattelite TV sits in the clean well furnished lobby and when the power is on it works nicely. Modern dental equipment complemented by a brand new tooth whitening machine surround you. Everything is very nice and very dental-like. BUT, you can’t use the bathroom because there is none. Actually there is one but it is an outhouse behind the dental clinic. But there is no running water, that’s in a 50 gallon drum behind the outhouse. You dip it out to flush and wash. But you can’t wipe because there is no toilet paper. Service with a smile, you just better not have to take a shit because there is no toilet seat either. Tooth cleaning $11, Filling $17, complete braces $250 (w/x-rays). . . toilet paper and a place to sit while you are using it, priceless.
Dominicans are masters of concrete. Everything is built in concrete. I coined the phrase “architecture that defies gravity,” because despite great strides (even leaps and pole vaults) in concrete engineering, everything is still standing through hurricanes, earthquakes and floods. If you want it built fast, cheap and well and in concrete hire a Dominican. Head Mason $25 per day, Junior masons $12 per day, enough Presidente Beer to keep them all happy . . . you guessed it, priceless.
Every Sunday, all the yachties gather at Puerto Blanco Marina for an awesome Dominican style Barbeque and a big swap meet. If you decide you just can’t live without another dock line that looks like it was fresh off the “Primrose” then this is the place for you. The yachties also gather here to pay homage to Bruce VanSandt, author of “A Gentleman’s Guide to Passages South.” He lives here in Luperon. As if his book isn’t clear enough, the fawning yachties press him with even more insipid questions. He seems to like it though, not much exciting happens here in Luperon. His book is very good, but I’m not the fawning type so we never did meet Bruce. I think life will go on.
At the end of two weeks we had busted our budget on eating out three meals a day, giant bottles of beer and paying off the local authorities. We were tired of the 8:00AM VHF net with “Karaoke Dave” screaming out “Wakie, Wakie, Eggs and Backie” into his hand piece. Good grief! It was time to shove off. We left Luperon mid February for Boqueron, Puerto Rico passing giant fish traps wondering how three, fifty gallon drums and a shipping palette would feel hitting our hull at 2 o’clock in the morning. We decided, “not good” and kept an extra vigilant watch the entire way, which led to more whale sighting that we could count. As we rounded Cape Engano the combination of a passing frontal system combined with the normal trades and a nice cape effect whacked us with some pretty stiff seas and winds. We were well offshore sailing “by the book, Van Sandt style.” I remember asking Rebecca, who is normally a bit timid in the face of impending marine disasters, what she would like to do. She was very adamant about NOT turning around and going back to the DR. Apparently she valued running water and a toilet seat more than life itself. So off we sailed into the melee, eventually making the coast of Puerto Rico early the next morning. Passing Isla Deseco early the next morning I was surprised right out of my underwear to see a 40 foot humpback whale, directly in front of our boat, performing a gravity defying breach, clearing the water completely and horizontally, before crashing back to the sea. I actually spit out my coffee when I saw it.
We had been traveling in the company of two other boats on an “unofficial basis,” which means we all just happened to be leaving at the same time and were keeping in contact with one another on the VHF. Upon arrival in Boqueron there was no sign of the other boats. We had lost contact with them in the heavy weather the night before. We were worried a bit but decided to wait a day to see if they showed up before we contacted any authorities. Sure enough the next day on the net a missing boat was announced . . . for US! It turns out that the other boats had turned back to Samana, Dominican Republic due to the bad weather and had feared that we were lost at sea. I think with the kids on board people tend to watch out for us more than the usual cruiser. I should call them our perpetual EPIRB’s. It is nice to know we’re looked after.
GUANICA
Location: Boqueron to Guianica, Puerto Rico
The guide book is right; the wind really whips around the South Coast of PR. Be in by noon or you are beating into 30 knots, washing machine style. As we arrived at Gilligan’s Island near Guanica at 1:00PM I ask myself, “Self. Is it thrilling or just plain stupid to shoot narrow, unfamiliar and unmarked reefs in poor light and murkey water in near gale force conditions doing eight and a half knots?” My “Self” reminded me that happy hour started in less than 30 minutes. Right again!
While anchored in Giuanica we meet Gerd and Toni, a lovely German couple that live in a beautiful house perched on the side of Pta Jacinto overlooking the Ensenada and the Caribbean beyond. With characteristic German precision Gerd patiently gives me free windsurfing lessons for two days. He is great. They also have two beautiful guest apartments for rent, friends of friends only. We wish we had more time to spend at this lovely spot.
"THERE’D BETTER NOT BE A DOG IN THAT TOWEL! "
Location: Culebrita, Spanish Virgin Islands.
My daughter (normally fearless in the face of all but the most death defying scenes) scrambles screaming to the front of the dingy where she sits whimpering, perched at the precipice where Hypalon meets water. I think she is seriously considering jumping, as she furtively casts sidelong glances at the humongous lobster I have thrown in the bottom of the inflatable. As I prepare to investigate the remaining feelers protruding from under a coral head forty feet below us, I catch a glimpse of "Godzilla," as we later dub the lobster, rearing up and attacking the gas tank in my dingy.
Upon further inspection, Godzilla's remaining family members they seem comparatively small so I resurface to see if he has decided to eat MY eldest offspring. Godzilla has successfully won his assault on the gas tank and IS advancing on Sofia. I wrap him in a towel and shove him under the seat, which, as it turns out, is much harder than it sounds.
Upon returning to our sailboat I pull the towel-shrouded Godzilla from under the seat and muscle him onto the deck. "Surprise Honey," I say as my wife pokes her head out of the forward hatch. "Look what I got!" "There’d better not be a dog in that towel." She exclaims. "It is NOT a dog, it's dinner," I say as I pitch Godzilla into the cockpit where he immediately frees himself from the towel and begins to assault the helm station. "HOLY CRAP, how the HELL am I supposed to cook that thing?" she blurts. I don't offer any solutions. My work was done here. It is up to the chef to take it from here. As I jump back into the dingy to investigate the hissing sound coming from my rapidly decompressing air floor (compliments of Godzilla's barbed exoskeleton) I notice that my wife is wearing what appears to be a make shift beekeepers outfit. "You won't believe what has happened while you were gone," she says. No, I probably won't. But that is a whole different story.
"WHAT THEY WANT, IS TO HELP YOU CLEAN THE KITCHEN."
Location: Culebrita, Spanish Virgin Islands.
"Tthere are bees everywhere. They have been attacking me and your son since you left." My wife exclaims, flailing wildly about with a fly swatter. "What did you say to them?" I enquire. "I've been hitting them with a fly swatter and they keep coming after me and stinging me", she replies defensively. "Your son is locked in his stateroom for PROTECTION." "From who?" I begin to reply, but think better of it. "Perhaps we should try to negotiate," I say instead. She is not amused.
Our conversation is taking place the full sun and it is about 85 degrees. My wife's makeshift beekeepers outfit consisting of Capri length sweat pants, scarf, long sleeve green oxford over a t-shirt, straw hat, sunglasses and fly swatter. Her demeanor and get-up give the people anchored near us the impression that I am conversing with Dr Mureau. I'm am also beginning to have my doubts as to her sanity. "They keep stinging me on my feet," she says. “Perhaps we should add some rubber boots to the beekeeper uniform,” I suggest. Once again she is not amused.
She IS right however; we are absolutely inundated by bees. The entire boat, inside and out, is swarming with bees; the main attraction being the pile of leftover breakfast dishes in the sink creating a veritable amusement park for the bees.. Six Flags over "Windarra" I think to myself. "DO SOMETHING!!" she pleads. "I think they just want to help you clean the kitchen." I reply. Once again my humor goes unappreciated.
So we begin our assault. The insect-holocaust lasts all afternoon. The poor bees die in all manner of heinous ways. From my wife, there is no mercy when it comes to stinging pests. She transforms into the Atilla-the-Hun of bee slaughter, while sweating up a storm in her makeshift bee-repellant battle gear. The war rages on into the evening, air force versus infantry. Soon chemical weapons are introduced (Raid insect killer) and at times I almost feel sorry for the bees. After returning several hundred tiny winged souls to their maker I finally decide to put an end to the suffering, on both sides, and disperse the bee-mob with a smoking mosquito snake.
The bees dissipate, order is restored, dishes are done. Some semblance of a normal life has been returned to "Windarrra." Then, from a far corner of the boat, I hear a meek voice. "Are all the angry bees gone yet?" Our son enquires. He's been in hiding all afternoon. Smart kid. No crazy beekeeper garb for him, and above all a clean conscience.
KILLING TIME IN PARADISE
Location: Spanish Virgins to Antigua
The months of March and April found us entertaining family and friends in the Spanish, US and British Virgins. Sailing among the beautifully mountainous islands and diving the pristine waters was a scenic change from the flatlands of the Bahamas. The diving was not as good, the water not quite as clear and no spear fishing allowed in may places but it was still awesome to say the least. We often remark that if you could take the waters of the Bahamas and combine them with the mountains of the Virgins you would have heaven on earth, or Bora Bora, only much closer. From the Virgins we sailed to St Martin where we spent three weeks taking in the beautiful scenery, food, wines and the European and Creole culture. Most of out time there was spent away form Mama (Becky) as she had flown home to be with her ill Father in Cape Canaveral.
Upon Becky’s return we wasted no time in restarting our journey, this time reaching for Saba in moderate trades. Saba, is a seldom visited, quaint kingdom among the clouds lying South West of St Martin. It precipitous cliffs rise from a thousand feet below the ocean surface to several thousand feet in the air, with its highest peaks eternally shrouded in mist. Visiting by yaccht is difficult due to a lack of viable anchorages (there are only two, even in good weather) and the depth of the water. We hooked to a mooring in the shallowest area which was still over 50 feet deep. Access to the main town of “The Bottom” in Saba is accomplished in one of only three ways. You can fly in via the very short aircraft carrier-like landing strip and catch a ride along a winding difficult roadway. Defiantly not for the faint hearted. You can arrive via boat at Fort Bay and then walk or hitch a ride (like we did) to the town up a winding sheer mountainous road. The third is via the 800 sheer steps of ladder bay which was the original way that the Sabans of old arrived on the island, along with all supplies which of course also needed to be carried up this abrupt incline. We also opted for this route. Half way up is the old customs house and the accompanying outhouse which are both perched on the side of the cliffs, just like the stairs. Using the outhouse is purely blind faith in the masons that erected it. Just close you eyes and pray for a happy ending.
From Saba we sailed to Statia and anchored for the evening. We did not clear in as we were only passing through. This “mere formality” however did not stop the intrepid captain from accomplishing a clandestine supply run to the local supermarket and liquor store for a few staples. It was actually the sharp words of the Captains wife that “there “will be no breakfast without bread and eggs” that led him to break all internation precedent by commiting the crimes of smuggling and illegal immigration. The reality of eh matter was, we were out of beer, and Statia was duty free. Next day was onto St Kitts, which we bypassed for the calm but shoal anchorage Nevis’s Qualie Beach. After a day of relaxing we left Nevis for Barbuda in blustery weather with seas around 8 feet on our beam and winds over 25 knots on the nose. We arrived early and found ourselves the only boat in sight. A welcome observation considering the crowded islands we had seen up until now. The crystal clear waters, low island and beautiful white sand beach that stretched for before us was reminiscent of the Bahamas. We looked forward to a few days of exploring. Our dreams of solitude we based by a heavy onshore weather forecast and look at our chartplotter, showing that we had almost beached ourselves the night before while we slept. Our first major damage of the season occurred here as well mitigating the reasons for our untimely departure. The lower dampening bracket of our dingy’s Yamaha outboard was missing, relegating our normal 20 knot dinghy rides to a mere 3. Not ideal when the nearest point of interest it Barbuda was at least 5 miles away. So reluctantly we sailed to Antigua where we were determined to take it slow. The wind was honkin’ on the nose, as usual.
TAKING IT SLOW . . . AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE
Antigua to Guadeloupe
Antigua was an Island we planned to take some time with. We first opted for a provisioning stop at the capital port of St John where we anchored among towering fishing boats. The night found us rockin’ in our bunks from the all night disco on shore. By all night I mean ALL night, last call was at 5:00AM. The upside as that the Dj was exceptional. The next day we spent the peaceful, but extremely surgey, Deep Bay. Perched on the cliffs above us to the South sat the Armani mansion and to the North Fort Fullerton. Next day we coasted the light airs along the beautiful and peaceful shores of Eastern Antigua. A nice sail inside Cade’s Reef brought us up into the wind and down the coast to the fortress guarded entrance to English Harbor. English Harbor, the stamping ground of Admiral Horatio Nelson, holds one of the only working Georgian Shipyards in the world. It has been wonderfully restored and I could imagine that in-season this must be a sensational sailors hangout as it was in decades past. After a simple clearance we were headed to the festivities at Shirley Heights a plateau that overlooking the entire area. On Thursday and Sunday nights Shirley Heights transforms into a giant cookout, concert and party with local cuisine, steel drum and reggae bands, impromptu dancing and general mayhem ensues till the wee hours. We decided to hike the trail from to Shirley Heights from the Freeman Bay anchorage where Windarra lay placidly at anchor. When the trail turned to rock climbing we decided to retrace our steps and take a cab. Gazing down from atop the precipitous cliffs of Shirley heights we decided that the cab was the best idea we had had all week. The ride left plenty of energy for Sofia and Blake to dance up a storm until late that night. The sensational view from the top offset the mediocre food.
Next Day we took on some water and fuel at Nelsons and headed East along the South Coast of Antigua to the more secluded Nonsuch Bay. Seas were a bit lumpy and the breeze topped out at about 25 knots but al in all is was a nice sail. As we passed some permanent race markers I could imagine the J-Class yachts reveling in these blustery conditions during the Spring races that are hosted here every year. By late morning large swells had built up over York Bank at the entrance to Nonsuch Bay. Several miles to Windward of the 15-20’ deep York Bank the water drops off to a couple thousand feet. Seas and winds race, unimpeded by any landforms, from the coast of Africa and pound brutally upon the reefs and cliffs of Antigua. At the South entrance to Nonsuch Bay York Bank is the first, and only, speed bump in the ocean’s progress; so needless to say the swell can get a bit dicey. It was a milk run for Windarra and once again our excellent instrumentation gave us the confidence to march past York Bank and straight at the breaking reef off of Fort Harmon Pt, finally making the final dogleg around Submarine rock and to our anchorage in the lee of Green Island. We found ourselves surrounded by a calm expanse of gin colored water rippled by the steady trade winds blowing in from the open ocean, cooling us in the late Spring tropical heat. On the near horizon the wild Atlantic broke impudently upon Bird Island Reef. Farther off out a dark gray squall line marched innocuously by, well out of reach of Windarra and crew. We were at peace again and life began to slow down for a while. We had plenty of time to get to Trinidad and out of the hurricane belt, there was no hurry.
After a few days, just as we were relaxing into our usual unhurried pace of daily dives, exploring, beach combing and swimming we received a call that would change the rest of our time this season. Becky’s father had passed away. We sailed immediately for Guadeloupe where her departing flight awaited her in a couple of days time.
Deshaise, Guadeloupe is a sleepy little fishing village who’s local incomes are supplemented by a small tourist industry bred form passing cruisers and nearby hotels. It was our first view of Guadeloupe and we really liked what we saw. After searching for a restaurant open on a Sunday evening we finally found a place on the waterfront that served us a fantastic Creole dinner . On the way back to the dingy landing we stopped by a street vendor for some handchurned coconut and breadfruit ice cream. We had not changed any Euro’s yet but the sympathetic Vendor (who was closing up for the day) gave us all a huge helping at no charge, refusing any form of payment we tried to press on him.
The following afternoon our sail came to a close at the deep open anchorage at Basse-Terre where we lounged on the black sand beach beneath the Sufriere volcano watching the remnants of another beautiful day disappear into the Caribbean sea. The next day found us refreshed for a 4:00AM departure. After a nasty tack to windward in 20+knots and 6 foot seas we rounded Pointe de la Capesterre and began a solid 8 knot beam reach on the inbound flood which held for the remainder of the sail to our anchorage in the lee of Ilet a’ Cohons at Pointe-a’-Pitre.
Becky flew home the next day to be with her family. The next week was taken up with lazy days at the beach, great French cuisine and daily e-mails and calls to Becky. We had decided at this point that we would halt in Trinidad and fly home for the hurricane season to take care of some urgent matters awaiting us there. I booked non refundable flights out of Trinidad to Miami 12 days later. Out soft deadline suddenly became a very hard one. We had exactly 11 days to navigate the entire Windward chain of islands to the coast of South America, ready the vessel for haul out, put the boat in dry docok and prepare her for 4 months on the hard. A tight schedule under favorable circumstances but there were to be nothing favorable about the next 5 days it took us to make Trinidad. Weather conditions deteriorated immediately and did not relent the rest of the month.
DEADLINES SUCK . . . HOW NOT TO CRUISE THE CARIBBEAN
Guadeloupe to Trinidad
As tropical wave after tropical wave blew off the coast of Africa and pounded through the Windward Caribbean Islands the weather was in a constant state of chaos. Hourly squalls, high steep waves and brisk winds because the norm. And of course the winds were forward of the beam the entire way. Our days became a grueling schedule of pre-dawn departures and late night arrivals in strange anchorages. Short beam seas of 8 to 10 feet with average winds in the high 20’s and 30’s with squalls in the 50+ know range kept us on an incessant and tiresome schedule of reefing and sail changes. Sailing at night was not an option for us, we were just too tired. The Saints, Martinique, St Lucia, St Vincent, Bequia, Mustique, Canuan, Union Island and finally Carricau all disappeared off of our Port beam as we flew by toward Trinidad. Finally on the evening of June 22nd the weather slackened as we entered the much welcome lee of Grenada. As we motor sailed down the coast we shared our last bottle of French Champagne and enjoyed the spectacular sunset and moonlight evening in celebration of Rebecca’s 38th birthday. The next day started late as we were forced to wait for the fuel dock to open at the Grenada Yacht Club. 10:00AM came and went by the time we finally made it off the fuel dock and past Point Salinas, the Southernmost tip of Grenada, and into the open ocean. The weather conditions were brisk but welcome breeze propelled us toward Trinidad at an average of 7 knots. We passed the Hibiscus oil fields with their huge lighted rigs just as night fell. Despite our late start we made Boca de Monos before midnight. Dubbed by Columbus as the Bocas “Mouths” of the Dragon, these 4 passes filter the waters between the Caribbean and the Gulf of Paria, which segregates mainland Venezuela and Trinidad. An outgoing flood combined with heavy ship traffic slowed out progress through the narrow but deep channel situated between towering cliffs. Soon we were out of the flood and rounding the tip of Punta Delga into Chaguramas Bay dodging excessive debris washed into the bay from the surrounding rivers swollen form the recent excessive rains. Chaguaramas Bay turned out to have quite a brisk current and a maze of anchored commercial and private vessels punctuated by a large number of unlit barges and huge commercial moorings. To make matters worse the approach put the brightly lit waterfront of Chaguramas directly in the sight path of the anchorage, completely blinding us and making visual navigation virtually impossible beyond 100 feet. With Becky at the bow, flood light in hand, we slowly approached with a moderate current bearing down on our port side. Something in my head told me that we were in eminent danger despite our slow speed so I took a peek with the binoculars. Just off our Starboard bow we were quickly bearing down on a huge steel mooring, completely invisible with the naked eye against the bright harbor lights. I quickly spun the wheel and bore off to Port just as Becky spotted the 100 foot long steel barge attached to the mooring, missing collision by a few feet. Visibility was so poor I hadn’t even seen the barge, just the mooring. After dropping 200 feet of chain in the deep bay we were finally at anchor. Windarra was at her summer home. Here she would be hauled, blocked and prepared for four months of dry dock. The next time Windarra would see water was in November when she would be heading along the coast of South America bound for Panama.
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