Just days after completing the Island Packet Delivery, “Delivery #2 of 27,” I landed a position as crew on a delivery from Fort Pierce, FL, to Tortola, BVI. The owner purchased a 2020 Jeanneau 440 Sun Odyssey at the Annapolis Boat Show in late October. His goal was to get the boat to Tortola, BVI, and into charter by mid-December. The owner had hired a captain and me. Within two days, we were in Fort Pierce, provisioning and having our farewell dinner at Crabby’s Dockside in Fort Pierce City Marina. We departed on December 2nd. Our first docking experience at the fuel dock was not smooth. The captain was getting to know how the boat maneuvered and we were getting to know each other as a team. We fueled up and snaked our way out of the channel into the ICW and towards the Fort Pierce Inlet. The first 48 hours were based on a weather forecast the captain shared while on land. We would go through the Northwest Channel south of Abacos. After that, we would sail southeast towards the Virgin Islands. If you have sailed to and from the islands, I am sure the words “Thorny Path” just popped into your head. More on that later.
The owner was neck deep in new boat ownership, recovering from the Annapolis passage, new crew, charter deadlines, and getting back into sailing after a couple of years. I was still green. This would be my 3rd delivery and a long passage. This was a very educational sailing experience, from routing to diplomacy aboard to docking to the empowerment of an owner and sailor.
The first leg, from Fort Pierce to San Salvador, Bahamas, was our shakedown portion of the passage. A shakedown of the boat and a shakedown of us aboard. We crossed the Gulf Stream motoring sailing SE. I have no idea what wind we had, although it was a smooth crossing. We came upon Freeport, Bahamas, at night, so as it is, we played Frogger through the midnight hours with tankers, cargo ships, cruise lines, and other recreational vessels. Within 2 days we were on the east side of the Abacos, coming around Eleuthera to sail SE. At this point, we had motor-sailed almost the entire 48 hours. The winds were from the SE/E at 15 knots with mild seas. Unable to sail off the winds and the reality that we will run out of fuel in another 2 days, we had to plan. What was the plan after all?
It was starting to become clear the plan was loose, and the routing would be thorny with a lot of fuel stops. Did I mention it was December of 2021, when Covid restrictions and quarantine were still in effect for different countries. The previous day, in our passage conversations, the captain had mentioned another route on the inside of the islands. He was interested in sailing there. That idea was vetoed by the owner when we calculated the mileage of the routes. The captain’s plan was to motor down the islands of the Bahamas, Turks, Puerto Rico, to the Virgin Islands. The details were unfolding. Would we be able to sail this route? Do we have enough fuel? Can we just stop in any country during Covid? Last, but not least, we didn’t have any weather source. The captain figured his phone would work since we would be “near” land going down the island chain. Ok. All cards were on the table. The owner was...skeptical.
We continued, as I had mentioned, rounding the north side of Eleuthera with the Atlantic on our port side and the Bahamas on our starboard as we motorsailed SE. We would need to get fuel in San Salvador. But before that…
It was sunrise; the owner and I were awake chatting at the helm. The sun was warm, the breeze still SE/E, so we were motor sailing. The captain comes up through the companionway, “Good mornings” all around. He walked over to the chart plotter between the two helms and pushed a button about 10 times. The boat veered port and tacks through the wind into a 360-degree circle. The main was up and sheeted in tight as we were on a close haul. The jib was rolled up. I jumped to the helm, hand steering us back on course. Unfortunately, the two fishing lines we had off the starboard and port stern were laced around the double rudders. I have heard sailors say that when waking up or coming on shift, there shall be no changes in sails, routes (unless completely necessary), and leave things as they are until you have been awake for 20 minutes. This was supporting evidence for that “rule”. Turns out he was trying to brighten the screen and instead of pushing the power button, he pushed the port auto pilot 10 degrees button…10 times. It happens. Every auto pilot and instrument has its own settings for dimming the screen too. The experience was like an extra shot of espresso in your coffee to wake you up in the morning.
Conditions remained the same for the next 36 hours to San Salvador, motor sailing and beating into 15-20 knots of SE/E wind with swell and wind chop coming port bow to beam.
It was a Sunday morning when we arrived at the small outer island of San Salvador. The plan was to fuel up, get the fishing line off the rudder stocks, and keep moving. The channel coming into Riding Rock Marina is narrow, but that morning the sun was shining, the water was calm, and as beautiful as any Bahamian water. There was a long, side-tie dock in front of us with a small marina off to the left. There were some sandy shoals in the middle of the basin. I can’t explain exactly what happened, but after the first attempted docking, we were hanging off a bow line held by the dock attendant perpendicular to the dock. The line was released, and by the 3rd attempt, we were docked. Phew. It was a Sunday morning at 9:00 am. The marina called customs for some sailors trying to get diesel and water; they said fill them up and let them go. Typically, if you come to land or to fill up, you must clear customs and pay $300 for a cruising permit. You can cruise the Bahamas for 3 months if you like. It doesn’t matter if you are just filling up and staying a day; you must pay the $300 cruising permit and clear customs. We filled up with diesel and half a tank of water. Don't forget: the fishing line was still around the rudder stocks. The captain didn’t show much initiative to go swimming, so I volunteered. First, I asked the dock attendant if they had any sharks that came into the basin. As he listed 10-15 different types of sharks, I started to tune him out. “Ok, have you seen any sharks this morning?” I said. “No,” he replied. As I slid into the water, the attendant watched for sharks, as I had requested. I pancaked my body and legs against the hull, grabbing the rudders and transom ladder to get to the 2nd rudder. I quickly unraveled the fishing line and cut the last bits off. Morning swim! We also got a weather report. SE/E winds…
Our departure was more graceful than our arrival. We continued motor sailing SE on the outside of the Bahamian Islands. Nothing really changed in the next couple of days. We were doing 4-hour night shifts in the beginning, but it wasn’t working for everybody, so we changed to 3-hour night shifts. We were eating our own eclectic sailing foods and snacks. The owner was enjoying the detachment from the media and society. The captain remedied that with the latest news story, which, inevitably, was on the other side of politics than the owner. The passage was…going.
As I sat in the cockpit looking at everything and nothing, I glanced down at my fingernails. Under my middle fingernail was... something. Was it dirt or a smudge of oil? To my horror, it was a splinter UNDER my fingernail. It didn't stretch half way through my nail, but close enough and gross enough. I had a flashback of departing the dock in San Salvador, Bahamas. Specifically, the moment I reached for the bow line wrapped around the woody, dry piling. My finger didn't hurt. I used tweezers to attempt extraction. It only aggravated my nail bed. The owner, a carpenter by trade, said the body will push it out. So, I lived with it. Over the next month, little by little, my body pushed it out. Piece by piece, I removed the splinter. By the end, removing even a small bit was gratifying.
Within a day and a half, we would be on the outside of Turks. Then, another 3–4 days on the north side of Puerto Rico. We were still on the “thorny path,” beating into the trades. Sometimes, you just want to see if the plan works out…you are going with it. I think we were at that place, the owner and I. Ok, we had gotten this far. It was decided that we needed to stop in Turks for diesel; get it where you can. We motored into this gorgeous bay with the most brilliant waters as the sun was rising. There is a mooring field, the marina office, and a long pier where the fuel is located. As we approached the dock, we noticed that our lifelines would be against the concrete pier, and there was recessed, large, corrugated metal below. We were a bit small and at low tide for this large dock. We needed giant fenders to hold us out... the owner thought of that one. He started tying 3 fenders together, making a larger triangular fender. We made 2 of them. Great idea. Now, we needed to get on the dock. We approached the dock upwind, and there was a current against us with a slight push into the dock. It took a couple of tries to get within jumping distance. Docking was a sore subject at this point. The captain had botched every docking opportunity since the moment we pulled out of our slip. The system was the owner on the bow line, me at midship with the spring line and the captain at the helm. I became a translator between the owner and the captain when communicating while docking. The owner was courteous, yet growing impatient and concerned for his gelcoat. Of course, the last 2 docks were quite intimidating as concrete gelcoat slayers, and that is how it is in the islands. We were tied up.
We walk over to the marina office; the owner and captain go in. Within 5 minutes, the owner is busting out of the double doors like a movie star walking out of a building before they blow it up, yelling, “We are fucking outta here.” I hopped up and stepped in line. The captain in tow. Let’s go.
We had motor sailed for a day and a half. We had a lot of fuel and 10 jerry cans worth on deck, so we left Turks without fuel. The marina office was not as relaxed as the Bahamians, and there was a quarantine in Turks when you entered the country. The owner was not willing to risk being quarantined for some fuel. He was reaching his limit. We had T minus 8 days until the Jeanneau was to be in Tortola. We continued motor sailing SE.
I had been plotting our coordinates every day on a paper chart. The owner had started joining in. That day, he asked me what I knew about routing and this passage. I explained it was my first passage on this route. I had read the book “Thorny Path,” researched Cornell, and other serious sailors and delivery captains who had talked about route 65. Go east to W65; they say at some latitude above N25 is best. From there you sail south on the E/SE trades, then you will have a beam to close reach, hopefully. I asked him what he knew, and he said, “I read the same. Should we go east?” I said, “You are the owner.” We agreed we could not go east right now; we would have to wait and hope the wind would lighten. Of course, we didn’t have any weather updates. The winds were E 20-23 knots with 4-6 foot wind chop. It was uncomfortable enough beating into it, pointing just off the wind.
The next day, as the sun rose, the wind lightened, and the owner and I sat in the cockpit eating breakfast. The winds were dying down, I thought…he looked at me and said, “Should we motor east now?” Of course, I was in. We have limited fuel, no weather forecast, we are at latitude N21 00, and T minus 6 days to get to Tortola. We were just east of the La Navidad Bank, south of the Turks. So, we altered course and headed due east. An hour or so later, the captain came up, and the owner shared the new route. Motor east as far as possible. Hope we are east enough to be able to sail south to Tortola on E/SE winds. It’s the only way, really. We would not have been able to motor to Puerto Rico, and there were no signs of a favorable wind to be able to sail, or rather we had no idea what the weather was going to be. The seas were mild and the wind light, and the sun shone down on blue waters.
Within 24 hours we had motored as far as we could due to both wind and fuel. We were around N 20 30 W67 30. We aimed the bow of the boat at the Virgin Islands and managed to squeak out a close haul on course. The winds were picking up over the next couple of hours. The trade winds were back, and we were sailing…beating…ok, sailing to windward.
We ended up double reefing the main and genoa for the next 2 days as we sailed off E winds of 22-25 knots true with gusts up to 30 knots. We had consistent wind wave chop of 4-7 feet at 6 seconds. We were sailing and sailing hard. The Jeanneau was on a hard heel for 2 days on a port tack. The waves coming over the deck soon left us encrusted in salt. Moving around down below was at your own risk, and going on deck was not advised. Everyone had to settle in, rest a bit more, and hunker down when the wind howled. It tamed the crew. We were on the home stretch, which helped. And, best of all, we were going to be able to sail to Tortola with T minus 5 days.
Forty-eight hours later, Land Ho! It was the islands! We were still beating into the wind and waves. The rising sun was glistening off the waves jumping over the bow. We were still sailing on 22-25 knots of true wind, which had lifted us all the way here. It was a beautiful morning. I saw something on deck. I went to the bow to investigate. It seems the chain has been jumping out of the anchor locker through the windlass opening. Our heel angle and gentle nudges from each wave crashing over the bow were enough to toss the chain out of the locker, little by little. The anchor was secured; we did that upon departure. That could get quite messy if 50 feet of chain was hanging off the bow of your boat while sailing…I fed the chain back into the locker and returned to the cockpit with the news. No harm, no foul.
Later that afternoon, we motored towards Road Town, Tortola, to check in. The procedure is to moor or anchor in the bay outside of the customs office and come in via dinghy. It is also the ferry terminal, so while there are docks, they are massive, concrete, eat-your-boat up docks with tires as fenders, correction: 1 tire as a fender on each arm of the large U shape with room for 2 ferry boats in the middle. We didn’t have a dinghy yet. The owner's dinghy was shipped to Tortola and was at the charter company's dock. We anchored, and I saw a customs boat come by. I had showered and changed into a summer dress. It helps to be fresh and tidied with officials. I waved them down, explained the situation, and asked if they could come to the boat. They said maybe, and they would return. Within 15 minutes, they were back, and we had to take the Jeanneau to the concrete ferry docks if we didn’t have a dinghy. Home stretch... home stretch.
We weigh anchor, and the captain is at the helm, the owner on the bow, and me in the middle. The winds are blowing at an angle into the land and a bit off the dock lying perpendicular to land. The plan was to dock on the starboard (right) side, bow in. We had to approach with caution with 20 knots of wind and wave chop pushing us in. We find ourselves almost in the middle of the giant U-shaped concrete dock, and the owner yelled to reverse, don’t get sideways, and get the hell out of there. The captain followed orders. The owner came to midship and was contemplating what to do. I said, “All you have to do is get me close enough to the dock with a spring line.” The captain was on the bow line, I at midship with the spring, and the owner was on the helm. Focus. It was almost still in the chaotic wind and wave chop as we approached the concrete gelcoat slayer. “15 feet!” I yell. “10 feet,” “5 feet,” a little closer. I leap with the spring line and run out and around and back to lock up the cleat. By this time, I am running to the bow, and a customs agent is also helping with lines. We readjust the fenders, use the tire as a buffer, and get all the lines secured. It took us 9.5 days to sail from Fort Pierce, FL, to Tortola, BVI. The owner had gotten the boat there 2-3 days before the deadline.
Land showers! Land showers are amazing after passage. It doesn’t matter how fancy the boat; you have more space, more water, and more time in a land shower without…making water. Everyone went for a land shower. I returned and made a cup of afternoon coffee. Mmm. Ewww. It was salty. I put the cup in the sink and got another cup, still salty. Hmm. I poured a glass of water from the tap. Salty. Not full salt water, but noticeable. Backstory: Remember how we filled half of one of our water tanks in San Salvador, Bahamas? We didn’t use that tank until the last 2 days of passage, thank goodness, because the water we filled up with was brackish water. 2nd Backstory: The owner saw me drinking from the tap early in the passage. He asked if I always drank from the tanks in boats. I replied that his boat was only 2 years old; how bad can the tanks be? He had been drinking bottled water, and after that conversation, started drinking from the tap. So, we are all caught up. I have told the owner the water in the tanks is good to drink. Then, we filled up half a tank with brackish water from the Bahamas, and now, we have been drinking it for the last 2 days. He walks in from his shower, and I tell him not to drink the water from the tap; our tanks are contaminated. He had another theory, that maybe the water fill cap was not tight on deck and the waves crashing over the bow were seeping into the tank. Hmmm.
The owners wife and family came down for a week of sailing. We cleaned up the boat and ourselves, visited the beach, ate good food and sat by the pool. When they were ready to sail away, I boarded a plane home to south Florida.
The sailor had returned. He bought the boat and immediately sailed it from Annapolis to Florida with one set of crew, picked up another crew, and 5 days later, sailed to Tortola, BVI. He had sailed over 2000 nm in the last month! It was an eventful experience on a rather uneventful passage.
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