I understand, now, that with confidence comes capability. This is true, at least, on Gypsy. The steep learning curve of single-handing and open water sailing has plateaued, and I have started enjoying myself. It is largely because I am finally comfortable on the boat. I know how she responds to wind, when to reef the sails, when to motor, and how to set the anchor in a blow. I don’t fret when weather strikes, and mysterious sounds no longer keep me up at night. Finally, I am at ease.
My mounting confidence is due to intensive practice. This past week has been an exercise in power cruising. I left Antigua on June 16 and traveled 300 miles in six days. That’s 60 hours of sailing in less than a week. I’ve seen 30-knot squalls, and the Caribbean calm as a bathtub. I sailed hard to the wind, pounding through steep seas, and I’ve glided quickly on a reach, the wind behind. I visited six countries in as many days, and know the coastline and character of each. I’m in the passage-making zone, and having a spectacular time.
Of course I’d love to spend more time exploring these islands, but there is a certain satisfaction to watching them slip past, one after the other, as Gypsy chews up the miles. And to be honest, it hasn’t all been about cruising. I’ve managed to mingle some recreation. I had my first scuba dive at spectacular Pigeon Island on Guadeloupe’s west coast. The site was touted by Jacques Cousteau as “one of the world’s ten best diving spots,” and was subsequently designated the Cousteau Marine Sanctuary in dedication to France’s celebrated aquatic pioneer. I dove the Northeast reef; a superb subterranean wall carpeted with soft corals, tube sponges, and large stalactite formations. Tiny colored fish--damsels, angels, tetras, wrasses and tangs--swarm through gin-clear water. It was the most colorful dive I’ve ever enjoyed.
Later in the day I landed my first fish, a little tuna. (I finished a tuna-salad sandwich not 20 minutes earlier. Coincidence? I think not.) I explored secluded beaches and swam in pristine waters. I enjoyed fresh baguettes and wonderful French cuisine in quaint coastal villages. I witnessed sunrises and sunsets in rapid succession, each one as spectacular as the last. The voyage has been anything but an unpleasant rush.
And I am finally in synch with Gypsy. Still learning some hard lessons (I was knocked down by severe gusts twice off the cape of Dominica--water washing into the cockpit and a train-wreck of belongings scattered across the floor down below), but I don’t take them personally. The Caribbean can still surprise, but during the entire journey nothing has broken. Sailing has become a pleasure, not a stressful challenge.
The only calamity I encounter on my marathon passage is in Les Saintes, a small island cluster five miles south of Guadeloupe. I drop anchor at dusk in the harbor off Bourg de Saintes, and go for a dip in the fading light. As I swim across the channel I feel a sharp sting on my back—a jellyfish. I’ve been stung by jellyfish many times before, but this is particularly painful, and by the time I make it back to the boat I feel painful phantom pricks all over my body. My throat tightens, too—I’m having an allergic reaction.
I take some Benedryl and a hot shower. I sit in the salon, my heart racing as I read “Your Offshore Doctor” for further advice. Then I hear an engine revving outside and people shouting from a nearby boat. I go on deck and in the beam of my flashlight I see an outboard motorboat running in circles at full throttle not 40 feet away--with nobody on board. My first concern is that this runaway boat will come careening into Gypsy, a worry shared by the people shouting on the neighboring yacht. I jump into my dinghy, a remarkably unwieldy rubber raft with 5-horsepower outboard, and motor to the neighboring sailboat. “What’s going on?!” “Where’s the driver?!” They don’t know.
I motor as close as I dare to the runaway boat, but there is nothing I can do. It is spinning in circles faster that I could ever go. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to be deviating from its tight circle—the other boats in the harbor are in no immediate danger.
My next concern is finding the boat’s owner. I motor closer to shore and sweep the surrounding water with the flashlight. I find a man silently treading water, and help him aboard my dinghy. Immediately he shouts in French—pointing at his boat and gesturing frantically. He’s a fisherman, in his 50s I would guess, and by means of crude charades he makes his plan clear—we need to get a rope in the water to bind up the prop of his motor. The neighboring sailboat gives us a line, and the fisherman trails it as we play chicken with his motorboat. He shouts and gestures at me to cut in front of the boat, but it doesn’t seem possible without a collision. We shout back and forth over the din of the two motors in our respective languages, and when he actually tries to take control of my outboard I push him aside and return to the sailboat. It finally dawns on me that the fisherman is in shock, and has been drinking, and is probably not the person to be giving orders.
Fortunately, a boy appears, rowing a little boat, and starts jabbering with the old man. The boy dives into the water and pulls himself onto my dingHy. We motor back to the runaway boat, and the boy throws the line in its path. The line gets caught in the prop and stalls the motor, first try. The boy dives in the water, swims to the boat, and pulls himself aboard. I drop the fisherman on the boat, and the boy dives in the water and swims back to his rowboat. The old fisherman starts shouting at me again, he wants me to tow him into shore. But I’ve had about all the shouting and excitement I can tolerate. When other fishermen come alongside in a skiff I discretely leave them to the abuses of the old man.
By now, the adrenaline of near catastrophe mixed with potent jellyfish has me feeling pretty awful. I ask at the neighboring yacht if they have any medications, and they take me into their care. They find a spray, which relaxes my throat, and give me a stronger antihistamine. After insisting that I call on the radio if I have any further troubles, they send me back to Gypsy. I lay in bed for a few hours, twitching to phantom jelly stings, and wake in the morning feeling fine. The whole incident reminds me that beyond the comfortable security of Gypsy, I need to stay more alert. As Chef advised in Apocalypse Now, “Don’t get off the boat.”
Beyond Les Saintes, it is a pleasant jaunt through the islands. I wake at dawn and cruise between six and ten hours a day, admiring most of the coastline from half a mile offshore.
Some day I will return, because each island has charmed me in its own way. Guadeloupe, shaped like a butterfly, with her crystal clear-waters and charismatic people. Les Saintes with dramatic cliffs that plunge to the sea and dramatic fishermen who need to learn that rum and outboards don’t mix. Dominica, lush like green velvet, with the wind whipping off her mountains and relaxed beachside villages scattered along the coast. Martinique, home to leaping porpoises and quaint cobblestone villages amid the ruin of volcanoes. St. Lucia, with hidden coves amid coconut groves, and St. Vincent where every night is a celebration. I will visit these islands again some day. But for now I am happy to sail with Gypsy and watch them glide past.
< < back to gypsy log
June 24 - Smooth Sailing
