Perfect weather and perfect wind continued for the duration of our passage. We passed within sight of Mayaguana Island and the Plana Cays – the last we would see of the Bahamas – early the third morning. Later that day, in the Caicos Passage, I sat staring out at an empty horizon when out of nowhere, a U.S. Navy warship loomed into view off our port beam and passed with a mile of our position, steaming east at about 20 knots.
Jo and Frank had a library of charts and cruising guidebooks to the islands they planned to visit, with explicit instructions for safely entering practically every navigable harbor in the West Indies. The entrance to Providenciales was a tricky one, according to the book. Shallow banks of 20-foot depths surrounded the island, and these banks were studded with scattered coral reefs that reached almost to the surface. Celebration’s designed draft was 6-feet, but she probably sat several more inches below her waterline, loaded as she was with all of Josephine and Frank’s worldly possessions, several month’s supply of food, plus water and fuel.
The ketch, Texas Tumbleweed was a vessel of equally deep draft, though apparently faster, as we had lost sight of her early in the passage only to see her once more as we approached the harbor at Provo just before sunset. The guidebook for the Caicos Islands said that safe entrance to this harbor required visual navigation, only possible when the sun was high enough in the sky to make it easy to discern water depth by the various hues of blue and green in the crystalline water. Deep blues indicated ample depths and the correct channel. Light turquoise green was to be seen over the sand banks, turning to pale yellow in extreme shallows; patches of dark brown indicated coral – to be avoided at all costs. Our approach time was wrong. The sun was already too low to illuminate the channel. We caught up to Texas Tumbleweed and cautiously followed from a quarter mile astern as Stan, the man of the family, steered the yacht confidently despite the low light conditions. His teenaged daughter Rachael stood on the bow pulpit bagging the headsail as they approached. It was obvious that they were anxious to make port after the three-day passage, and I was too. I looked forward to going ashore again and to seeing what, if anything, was different about the Caicos Islands, which looked on the chart to be merely an extension of the archipelago that makes up the Bahamas.
Frank grabbed the binoculars from their holder on the bulkhead near the companionway as we slowly followed Stan’s lead.
“That fool’s headed straight for the reef!” Frank screamed as he backed off on Celebration’s throttle.
Stan seemed to realize his mistake at the last minute when he suddenly brought Texas Tumbleweed about hard to port. The peaceful bliss of our open sea passage ended for good when Jo and Frank began a fierce argument about the correct location of the entrance. They tore the guidebook out of each other’s hands and fought for possession of the helm. Meanwhile, Stan was tacking back and forth just outside the reef, at a loss as to what to do next. His calls on the radio for advice briefly interrupted Josephine and Frank’s dispute, but no one could decide what to do.
“We’ve got to go to the left of those rocks there, then turn in!” Josephine said, as she grabbed the helm and pushed Frank forcefully aside.
“What-a-ya, outta ya mind or something, Josephine? Frank threw his hands up in disgust, his face flushed with anger. “Just go ahead and put us on the reef!”
“SHUT UP! I can see where I’m going. It’s just like the book says.”
“I’m tellin’ ya, Josephine. We’ve got to go to the right of those rocks! Can’t ya see tha freakin’ channel? What-a-ya, blind or something?”
I began to sense that neither of them knew what they were talking about. I grabbed the guidebook and looked at the situation myself. My interpretation of the instructions was completely different, but when I tried to express this, I was quickly cut off. I decided to let them have it out. It was actually quite amusing to listen to their verbal battle, carried out at a New York pace that I could barely follow. Frank threw a fit and ranted and raved, but he didn’t have a chance in hell of convincing the stubborn Josephine that he knew anything about navigation. He stormed below to return to the novel he had been reading before being interrupted by our arrival at the island, telling Josephine to go ahead and run it aground, but not to ask his help in getting off the reef.
The sea was calm so there was no real danger to life if we wrecked the $150,000 yacht there. My kayak was safely on deck, and I could just put it over the side and be on my way. I was only crew and the navigational decisions were not my concern. All of this channel and reef business was new to me anyway. My kayak could go anywhere there was at least 4 inches of water, and had I been approaching this island in it, I would have simply paddled up near the reef and looked for a slot to pass through into the sheltered lagoon beyond.
Stan stumbled upon the right entrance by chance, and managed to steer Texas Tumbleweed safely through. Josephine followed. The channel was right where I had tried to say it would be, but I just watched and kept my mouth shut. After witnessing Frank’s defeat, I wasn’t about to get into verbal sparring match with Josephine. Once in the channel, Stan opened up the throttle again, thinking he was free to cruise the remaining 3 miles or so to the Provo anchorage. But he strayed to far to the left side of the channel and slammed right into a small, isolated coral head. He was hard aground when we caught up.
We could not put Celebration risk by maneuvering in near the coral to get close enough to put a towline on Texas Tumbleweed. Frank came on deck and held us in position in deep water while Rachael rowed out from the stranded yacht in their inflatable dinghy with an anchor so they could attempt to kedge off the reef. Rachael was barely making progress in the dinghy, so I dove over the side and swam over to help her. We managed to get the anchor set, but the windlass would not budge the heavy-displacement ketch. The crew of Texas Tumbleweed would spend the night hard aground, until morning high tide came to float them off. I swam back to Celebration and we motored slowly into the anchorage. We were anchored by nightfall, and Josephine hoisted the orange quarantine flag. No customs officials would come out tonight, as it was a Sunday, so we retired early after a quick dinner. I slept for 12 hours in the peaceful anchorage, where for the first time since leaving Georgetown I could stretch out in my bunk without having to brace my feet against the bulkheads to keep from being slammed into the side of the hull.
Texas Tumbleweed arrived in the anchorage the next morning and Stan reported that yesterday’s accident did no damage to her hull. After they settled into the anchorage, the dinghies were launched and we all went ashore together to report to a bar and grill called the Aquatic Center, where customs officers would meet us. The formalities were simple, and we were given clearance into the Turks and Caicos for a period of two weeks, which was far more than I hoped we would need. I didn’t plan to even bother unloading my kayak, as Josephine and Frank assured me that we would proceed south to the Dominican Republic as soon as a window of favorable weather presented itself.
Prices at the Aquatic Center were outrageous, but it was the hub of social activity for boaters in the anchorage. This harbor was certainly no Georgetown, and the surrounding countryside of the island was much more arid and desolate-looking than anything I had seen in the Bahamas. The Aquatic Center was isolated on a long barren point several miles from the main town of Providenciales. We were told that it was easy to hitchhike on the island, so I walked with Jo and Frank to the main road, which was unpaved, and soon we flagged down a local islander driving a dump truck. The driver wanted us to know about every new construction project on the island, and talked non-stop about the recent development that had resulted from the island’s popularity among divers from all over the world. Exceptionally clear waters, unspoiled reefs, and a tax-free environment for businesses had led to almost overnight transformation on this dusty speck of rock between the Bahamas and the Caribbean proper.
All I could see from the windows of the truck was a barren desert of rolling hills with dense thickets of scrub brush and cactus. It se
emed more fit for lizards and birds than anything else. But when we arrived in the town of Providenciales, I was surprised to see brand new store fronts of glass and steel, with parking lots filled with late model European and American sedans and sports cars. It was certainly the most modern community I had seen since leaving Key Largo. We got off the truck at pizza restaurant owned by Californians, and ordered an astronomically priced pepperoni pizza and a round of beers. I wouldn’t last long on my budget in this place, that was for sure, but Frank and Josephine were paying the bill as long as I was crewing on Celebration.
I thought we would leave Provo after a couple of nights in the anchorage, but the weather dashed my hopes. The cold front that had given us a free ride south from Georgetown had blown itself out, and now firmly in the trade wind belt of the tropics, we faced a headlong bash against 20-25 knot winds for the 100-mile passage to the Dominican Republic. Josephine and Frank wanted to sit it out and hope for another cold front.
Things livened up a bit in Provo when George Bouillon came sailing in one day on Winning Edge. I had become good friends with this free-spirited Frenchman while hanging out with him in Georgetown. I hadn’t expected to ever see him again, since he wasn’t ready to go when we left. He was still single-handing when he arrived in Provo, having failed in his attempts to find an eager female first mate to accompany him. He said he was disgusted with the Canadian and American yachting women in the Bahamas, and was ready to continue his quest among the reputedly beautiful and willing women of the Dominican Republic.
George was undaunted by the expensive beer prices at the Aquatic Center, insisting that I join him for round after round as he talked of his plans. He said that he had left France at the age of 20 and moved to British Colombia. He had worked as chef on an oilrig off Alaska, and had made enough money to retire at 40, at least for a little while. As soon as he quit his job, he made his way to Miami and paid $12,000 for Winning Edge, an old but solid fiberglass Hunter 27. He took off for the Bahamas immediately in his new boat, and planned to sail to Martinique, where he had a friend, and where he could live indefinitely as a French citizen. Like me, George wasn’t worried too much about the distant future. His primary concern was to find adventure and a good time, and a female friend to share it with.
Our stay in Provo stretched into a week, then finally the trade winds slacked off enough for us to motor-sail across the Caicos Banks to the southern end of the island group, which would be our jumping-off point for the passage to Hispaniola. The crossing of the shallow banks took an entire day of motoring at 5 or 6 knots and demanded constant vigilance because of the many coral heads scattered at random everywhere near our route. I spent most of the day leaning out from the bow pulpit of Celebration, looking for subtle changes in water color that indicated shoals and reefs and giving hand signals to Frank to indicate which direction to dodge. At the end of the day, we anchored near a small island named Ambergris Cay, and were soon joined by Winning Edge and Texas Tumbleweed, who had followed us across the banks.
Foul winds again thwarted our plans to sail the following day, so we motored the 20 miles or so to South Caicos Island in a drizzling rain. Cockburn Town, the settlement on South Caicos, was quite the opposite of Provo. There were no modern buildings or shiny cars here. The waterfront was lined with derelict and run-down fishing boats, and everywhere was rusting automobiles and farm machinery. In contrast to Provo’s population of outsiders, Cockburn Town consisted exclusively of black islanders, as far as I could tell, and the dwellings were similar to those in the rural settlements of the Bahamas, only less well kept and less colorful. The place had a depressing atmosphere and the residents appeared listless, as if aware the rest of the world was far away and no one was coming here except others like us who were only passing through on the way to somewhere else. There were few trees along the dusty streets of Cockburn Town, so most of the people sat in the shade of their modest houses to avoid the harsh rays of the tropical sun that blazed down when the clouds passed and the drizzle stopped.
George and I headed for town in his dinghy as soon as the anchors hit the bottom, not to be stopped by outer appearances from checking out this new place and having a few beers with the locals. We found a general store that sold everything from tractor parts to clothes, and there we purchased cold Heinekens and sat on the wooden benches out front with a few old men and boys, answering their questions about our respective hometowns. I told them that Cockburn Town reminded me a lot of some of the rural Mississippi towns I knew. We spent the whole afternoon there, drinking beer after beer to survive the sweltering heat, and attracting quite a bit of attention from these islanders who get so few visitors, and hardly any who cared to spend anytime talking to them.
It was nearly dark when we returned to the harbor. George rowed me back to Celebration, where Josephine invited him to join us for dinner. She had prepared lobster that she bought fresh off a fisherman that afternoon. She had painstakingly put together an exquisite meal, with multiple side dishes to go with the steamed lobster tails, but I don’t quite recall the details of the trimmings and certainly not the taste. George and I sat down at the table in a state of hysterical laughter, joking about the ridiculous extravagance of Celebration’s plush interior. We were so drunk we devoured the lobster as if we were eating tuna-fish sandwiches or pizza, hardly noticing what it was. If Josephine was offended at the time, I don’t remember. After we ate and had another round of Frank’s stiff rum drinks, George and I both passed out in the cockpit and slept until pouring rain woke us sometime after midnight. The next morning Josephine told us that she wouldn’t make the mistake of wasting lobster on us again, saying that we wouldn’t have known the difference between fresh lobster and frozen fish sticks.
After a couple of days of waiting in the anchorage off South Caicos, whiling the time away with diving for conch, which littered the sand bottom, we finally heard an encouraging weather report. A cold front was headed our way, promising a day or two of northerly winds. Preparations were made for the passage, and we said our good-byes to Stan and the rest of the crew of Texas Tumbleweed. They planned to attempt a direct passage to Puerto Rico, bypassing the Dominican Republic altogether. George, however, would sail with us, or at least attempt to keep up with us, on the slower Winning Edge. Before we left, he talked me into loaning him a hundred dollars, in case we arrived in Puerto Plata at separate times. He said he was short of cash for clearing customs, but that he could get some wired to a bank in Puerto Plata and pay me back immediately. I agreed, even though one hundred dollars was a lot of money to me when weighed against the total I had remaining in my stash.
My spirits were high as we sailed out of the anchorage early in the morning. The cold front had arrived as predicted, bringing a shift in the wind, heavy cloud cover, and light rain, but the air was still warm and tropical. I was elated to be leaving the flat and arid islands of the Bahamas and the Turks and Caicos. In the Dominican Republic, I looked forward to seeing mountains which reach as high as 10,000 feet in the island’s interior, and forests, which I had heard were lush and jungle-like. I also looked forward to immersion in a different culture, where I could practice my high-school Spanish. In addition, the exchange rate was reputed to be good, so unlike the Bahamas, it was a cheap place to travel, and I could stretch my limited funds farther. I was glad that George was going there, and looked forward to spending more time hanging out with him.
As we dropped the Caicos Islands astern, the rain steadily increased with a building north wind, requiring us to wear foul weather gear on deck and to put a reef in the mainsail to maintain control. Josephine estimated the crossing to take about 20 hours. At a steady 6½ knots, we were on schedule. Although George left the harbor a half hour ahead of us, by early afternoon we had passed him and left him far astern.
Josephine had cooked a big pot of what she called “schooner stew” before we left, anticipating rough conditions that would make working in the galley at sea difficult. The hot stew of cabbage, potat
oes, and kielbasa sausage was a blessing as we huddled in the cockpit of Celebration, ruthlessly tossed by a following sea and drenched by rain. I felt sorry for George as I ate. He never thought of things like cooking in advance, and on the radio he told us he was eating crackers and cheese and steering by hand because his “auto-matic pee-lot” was no longer working.
The romance of sailing to Hispaniola was beginning to wear off by late afternoon, and all I wanted was to get to dry land. The rain was relentless and Celebration rolled sickeningly in seas that were rising 10-15 feet beneath our stern and breaking in a hissing roar of white froth. But my misery was temporarily forgotten when Frank yelled and pointed at something on the surface of the gray waves off our port beam.
Whales! They were the first I had ever seen, and they were up close and personal…and huge! There were several of them, diving and rolling to the surface, and waving their giant tail flukes in the air. We weren’t sure if we should be worried or not. They were less than a 100 yards away, all of them bigger than Celebration. Whether out of playfulness or malice, there were numerous accounts of whales ramming yachts. I had just read Steven Callahan’s book: Adrift, in which he recounted his experience of having a his yacht stove-in in the middle of the night in the Atlantic Ocean, most likely by a whale. His boat had sunk immediately, leaving him mid-ocean in a life raft, and beginning an ordeal of survival that lasted 76 days.
On Island Time: Kayaking the Caribbean Page 15
