25 December 2001, Christmas Morning.
The winter trade wind, normally a Fresh Breeze, (Beaufort Force 5, 15 to 20 knots with 4 to 6 foot waves, many breaking) have faltered. The Christmas winds, blustery Force 6 to Force 7 conditions, have not arrived. Those would be extreme conditions for a small open boat out here in the Bequia Channel where strong currents also run.
Present conditions are Beaufort Force 3, a Gentle Breeze, 7 to 10 knots, waves 2 to 3 feet – ideal for pleasure sailing in dinghies. Coming out from under the point, I had expected a Moderate Breeze, perhaps a need to reef the sail, probably breaking waves. Not yet.
We scoot over smooth waves with good speed towards St. Vincent’s pinnacled skyline, pointing high up the channel. About this point in a big-boat sail, I squawk out a tune on my harmonica. Today I sing a scrap of an artist friend’s song:
“Full Moon, sitting on a blue lagoon in Quintana Roo, who could ask for more….”
Sister Sue, were she here, would be sailing circles around us in a rented Sunfish or Laser. Fran is no competition for fast sailing dinghies. That is why we got an easily start… kind of early. Pre-dawn would have been better. Early enough, I think, and the weather is great. We’ll soon see what the current is doing.
We begin climbing the wind, close hauled. I trim the sail, then adjust the leeboard so that she steers herself, hands off – wish my big boat did that. That leaves both hands free. For what, I don’t know. The sheet is cleated and there is no need to steer or bail. I could be writing this out here. Were I to fall asleep, I would expect to run ashore in Kingstown Bay before lunch.
By cultural habit, this is the time of year that we most think of the folks back home. Many of my Colorado friends and relatives have scattered coast to coast and beyond. Except in Hawaii, it is winter for them. In Boulder, at the eastern foot of the Rocky Mountains, there will be cold, snow, slush, and ice to deal with – then a return to crisp, clear skies, normal conditions, excellent light airplane flying weather. Except when chinook winds tumble out of clouds capping the Continental Divide, “snow eaters”, high winds warmed to temperatures that I once considered moderate. It is good to remember these things. Long ago, soon after I sold it all and bought the boat, Susan sent post cards of the Flatirons, sandstone monoliths rising behind Boulder, in summer and in snow… or was it Sue? Helen? Counting mine, I have several.
Out here in the channel, an interesting thing is happening. The point on the distant shore that is directly in front of us is drifting slowly to leeward, towards our downwind side. Put another way, the current is lifting us above the point directly in front of us. Watch the movement of the foreground against the background, the shore against the skyline. Regard the background (for this purpose) as stationary. At this distance, it takes a while to see the movement.
So, the current is helping us on our way. We glide over smooth waves with a gentle rise and fall. There is a gurgle of wake and the caress of a warm breeze.
“…Who could ask for more…”
Understand, this is a temporary state. Things out here change, mile by mile, day to day, hour to hour, sometimes in an instant or a boatlength. And this time of year, especially, is not the time to be out here in a small open boat. And the tide will change.
I adjust the cushion and take a pull on the water bottle.
Across the Continental Divide west of Boulder, the rising air dumps much of its moisture in prodigious snowfalls on Ski Country USA. Picture nephews Zach and Doug, the family’s Fire/Rescue contingent, avid skiers, flying down the slopes.
Freeze frame: The airport digging out, Kirk on the plow, Peggy and T.J. sweeping snow off the wings, Lynette on the phone rescheduling lessons. Picture me in the manager’s office working on the newsletter, all my other paperwork being complete, all agencies appeased – you can imagine such things when you’re daydreaming. Marsha, one of the best helpers I ever had, is posting to the books with a quiet smile. Let’s say she’s just seen that we’ll have enough money for the Christmas party despite the new insurance rates. The phone rings, com line. “Jimmy, got a minute?”
So, downstairs into the basement under the flight school, the headquarters of Sombrero Ranches. Rex rules his kingdom from the most decorated office I have seen, mostly Tex-Mex and cowboy paraphernalia, photos, oil drilling bit parts, trophies, oddities, plenty to see while you wait for him to get off the phone. Waiting in another chair might be a governor, a football star, or a wino cook. Mistako is curled up under the desk. Sabu is at his desk against the sidewall. Sabu is the court magician, in the guise of jester, but claims to be a poodle. Nobody quite knows what Sabu does or who he is, not even Rex.
Rex is working on one of his lists as he listens on the phone. “… u-huh … u-huh … u-huh …. Well, I’m just a cowboy. You’ll have to talk to my lawyer about that.” He hangs up, smiles and says, “Jimmy, let’s roll out the 310 and fly down to Arizona for a few days.” Rex loves business. I loved flying. Being manager of a flight school was a rat race. I don’t have to think about that part anymore, except to remember.
Nostalgia is not my normal state out here, not even on Christmas Day. Reminiscing is more a part of my long, leisurely process of writing and rewriting. Out here there are wind, waves, and sailing. The clouds roll by, the birds soar high, flock over feeding fish, skim over the waves and dive into the sea. There are jumping fish and there are flying fish. There is something akin to meditation, a peaceful detachment….
We’ve been sailing this tack out into the channel for quite a while now. In an adverse current, closer to shore might be better. The comfort of our sail and our progress up the channel are nearly unbelievable. Fran has been sailing herself, sheet cleated, balanced on the leeboard, rudder trailing. When I sail her close hauled, I sometimes “pinch” a bit, sail too close to the wind. Pinching may point higher – or make more leeway. It slows her. These are but elements in the complex problem of what serves us best. Since simply being out here on so fine a day is the present objective, sailing standards are arbitrary. I mean, as things stand now. But I might be fooling us on our progress thus far.
Here’s today’s math segment. I’ll keep it short. If a boat sails 45 degrees off the wind, including leeway (that’s a good sailboat!), half the distance travelled is toward the wind, half the distance is across the wind. Figure 60 degrees off the wind for us, a third of our progress is towards the wind, two-thirds is across the wind. Assume we’re losing 5 degrees because the sail’s not set quite right and another 5 degrees because Fran chooses not to steer quite as high as I do. That would put us 70 degrees off the wind, making a quarter of our progress up, three-quarters across. Were this to prove so, after tacking we would be pointing 20 degrees lower than hoped and would realize that the wind direction is less favorable than supposed. Here’s the question: Would we let that affect our morale?
Let’s see. “Helm’s alee!”
Creak, luff, clatter, clatter, pop, creak.
“Steady as she goes.”
Whoa! Check this! We’ll almost make Anse Chemin, three-quarters of the way up Bequia’s north shore, in only one tack out and back!
“… Couldn’t ask for more…”
Wait. Watch. Doesn’t take long to see. The current is still lifting us. We’ll sail right into Anse Chemin on this tack! No, we’re being lifted above Anse Chemin!
The back side of Bequia Head grows increasingly spectacular over the bow, precipitous rock faces rising high out of the waves to the foot of steep, green slopes that rise to peaks. Approaching in a boat, cautiously admiring reverence is evoked – or should be. We sail in until the wind swirling over and around the point begins to play with us, much closer than usual, then tack out.
Off Man Point and beyond, there are usually fields of overfalls where the currents clash, waves that erupt vertically like miniature volcanoes. They can be fearsome. Even today we see a small field of overfalls, which we sail around.
The tack that clears Man Point also clears Bequia Head. Then I free her up a bit and feast my eyes on the spectacular scenery as we glide past Bullet Cay, Diable Point and Brute Point, a mile of rugged lee shore that has wrecked many vessels and claimed many lives. Normally this is a close reach with reflected waves that can rock you to a stop when you try to tack out for more sea room. Today it is like an aquarium. We could land if we had time, which we have. But I don’t.
The decision is made, we are circumnavigating. Most of the distance lies before us, so does most of the day. But the most doubtful part has been done. Airplane friends may recall the dangerous practice of “going up to have a look,” perhaps recalling the time when conditions really were better than they should have been. Such is today. Any of you who are along for the adventure, sorry – maybe another day. I’d been hoping for a bit more action myself, some minor sea trials. I call Fran our lifeboat, but her seaworthiness is yet to be demonstrated. Today we should have encountered the next level of difficulty, mildly breaking seas, while climbing Bequia’s north shore – which is upwind and (usually) up current of the harbor. That’s what we are set up for. Everything is tied in for swamping. Yesterday, a change in her floatation was completed and harbor tested, which allows her to be paddled while fully swamped in sailing configuration.
But these conditions are just fine. Hope you like it too.
The padded back of the fisherman’s floatation vest (pockets full of flares and a whistle) worn over my billowy long sleeve shirt is a comfortable companion to the seat cushion.
Another pull on the water, settle back and watch the island slide by.
Much of my reminiscing for the past mile or more was in the geological past, wondering at the forces that created these shapes and colors and wishing more visiting geologists would tell Compass readers what happened here. That’s actually what I was thinking. Most thoughts of my audience are during countless hours of writing. And I am the slowest writer that I know – I dwell on my stories about ten times as long as writers I’ve talked to. Half of the time is spent gazing into space. Most of the actual writing is focused on the telling, recording the events, determining what happened, discovering the story, learning to tell it, endlessly playing with rhythms, tones, perspectives, adjusting and tightening the threads and their weave. Then I set it aside to age for a week or two then tighten it up some more.
I frequently think of my audience, of the sailing student in particular, who is often me. But also of the casual reader, armchair sailor, and the sailor who knows more than I. And of the spectator, whether sunning on the foredeck, kicked back in a well shaded cockpit, overlooking the dinghy dock from a waterfront bar, or high up a hill at a place called The View. Or snowbound in Idaho, Wisconsin, or on top of a Colorado mountain. And thinking of the kids, meaning anyone who might get a kick out of the sailing. I overdo it. I could cut the time by half – with practice, to a quarter. And getting a little outboard for Fran would save some time too. But I don't.
Event to report: First boat we’ve seen out here today, a local powerboat with two aboard. They pass by to see who the little sailboat is, we “big up” each other and carry on. They’ve got a fishing line out.
Also, an interesting geological quirk, a hole high up in a rocky point through to the sky beyond.
It is not yet ten. So we do a side trip into Spring Bay. Spring Bay is not a yacht anchorage, too shallow for most, uncomfortable for sure, and a hazardous approach and entrance that may close out in a blow. And there is no shopping ashore. Well, there’s Spring Pottery and a seasonal beach bar, and a real nice, quiet beach resort on the next bay, and the Turtle Sanctuary on the bay past that. Anchor in Admiralty Bay and take a taxi.
An advantage of daysailing a dinghy versus a yacht is that you don’t have to anchor to go ashore. You just land and pull up. So I do, stretch my legs and munch some brunch. Then we launch and beat out of the bay, checking out hazards I wouldn’t approach in the big boat – or in the conditions you normally find here.
Then down a two-mile stretch of hazardous lee shore, a rocky shore except for Hope Bay, which is usually full of surf. Not today. Just another feast for the eyes as we reach toward Saint Hilaire Point. The impressive blowhole usually blowing in Ravine Bay is quiet today.
We continue around the point, past Friendship Bay, between two cays, then a two and a half mile downwind run past Paget Farm and the airport riprap (you can’t see the airport itself from down here, just riprap and the windsock). Then down Moonhole Beach, where we pull up again for a brief visit to Jean at Roundhouse. Then onward (pausing to hail Ravine House from the water) to the end of the island, then through the sometimes ripping shortcut inside of Big Cay.
Here begins the long beat up to, then into Admiralty Bay. Here at last, we are gently nudged a notch towards a more usual reality. Moon continues her cycle, and the tide has finally turned against us. Rather, we have finally turned against the tide. Back and forth, back and forth, it takes four hours. It could have been a lot longer, as I have since experienced. But maybe this is fantasy still, for the extra tacks are filling the free time we were earlier given with more pleasant sailing. We reach back in the beginning of a lovely evening. “… How could you ask for more, more, more, more, Just couldn’t ask for more.” – lyrics by Lauren D. Kaye.
Caribbean Compass, Dec '02