Ballet of the Cobalt Seas (12/27/21 Bahamas Crossing)

I can’t get over this — every time I step off the boat and onto a pier, or the other way around, I feel like I’m jumping over an endless abyss. Or that I was hopping on stones to skip over another universe. In a sense, I really am. The water is so clear here, that it feels like there is nothing under my boat. Just air, containing a whole different universe with fantastic creatures. These were my first thoughts as I set foot in the new-to-me country for the very first time.

There had been a few things on this cruise that was really taxing on me. Starting out the first leg in the Chesapeake Bay with a completely unexpected storm didn’t help. Then there was the relentless cold, that hurt just a little bit more whenever the sun went down. During winter months Atlantic coast is regularly hit with strong northerly winds. The same winds less severe here, but the Bahamians call the conditions generated a ‘rage.’ It hurts a bit more up north, and I got to see my first rage at Beaufort. Then there was the endless roll-ey seas during my passages down to Florida. Followed by two and a half days of the same rage in St. Augustine, which left me constantly stressed about my boat and a sleeping place that bounced up and down violently.

But Sonora del Viento, and all her crew, survived it all. And the timeless wisdom on how any test that doesn’t break you will always make you stronger, is correct. It was all preparing me for this portion of the trip, being here at this jewel of this corner of the earth.

The day before our departure in St. Augustine, Christmas eve, left us rushing to do our entry papers for the Bahamas. Alec, my mate for this portion of the trip, had very short notice. Within a few days of me contacting him, he took the time off work and drove to St. Augustine from Gainesville. We discovered that we couldn’t even apply for the cruising permit unless we had our travel visas, which we could not get if we did not have valid COVID-19 test results. And such results had to have been taken within five days of arrival. And here is the kicker – several Bahamian sources had indicated that this requirement had been changed from five, down to three days, starting on the 23rd or the 24th. It all depended on the website you were looking at. We couldn’t make the planned passage unless we had more than five days, so we had to do everything we can to get these tests and permits done on time.

Alec discovered that the county run rapid test site had low wait times, and had results within the hour. So despite having done a PCR test the day before, I took another COVID-19 test. I was a bit anxious about it because I’d been much more relaxed about avoiding infection than I had been back home in the District of Columbia. I would go eat out sometimes, and I also walked around St. Augustine when there had been insane crowds that gathered for Christmas. Fortunately, both tests came back negative.

Then it was a hectic laptop session at the St. Augustine marina lounge to get all the permits applied for. Shortly after that, getting all the approved paperwork printed out at Office Depot before it closed. By a stroke of luck, we got everything in order, complete with a Bahamas travel permit, valid for five days. The next morning was hectic rush to get the boat fueled and watered up in the morning. This included weighing anchor, moving Sonora to the fuel dock, then again to a temporary slip. Finally, at one in the afternoon, we left.

Let me skip the details on when we reefed, shook out a reef, changed heading or started the engine. To summarize, we followed the coast of Florida for about thirty nautical miles towards Port. St. Johns, then turned South East to head towards the Gulf Stream. This point of sail gave the boat a lot of power on a beam reach. Conventional wisdom says to turn perpendicular to the ‘stream. This is because this lets you spend less time in the Gulf Stream, but we’d still have to make up ground after being pushed north almost as fast as we sailed east. With no northerlies or other bad weather on any of the forecasts, I decided to hold the South East heading, which gave me a course over ground closer to east. This way, we could have fully powered, beam-reach sails to punch through the Gulfstream relatively quickly.

Normally, I sail at night with two reefs in my mainsail. This time, I made exception to the usual rule — I felt it was safer to move the boat as fast as it would go and minimize time spent in this great current. We managed to maintain a speed of four knots over ground, which means we were absolutely pushing the boat. We knew we’d have crossed when our course over ground started showing south-east again. All in all, it was about sixty nautical miles that took all of a night and a good part of the day to get through.

If you had just woken up in the middle of the Gulf Stream, the colors surrounding you would take your breath away. The water at the stream is such a deep, vibrant blue. This was the first time being in water over a thousand feet deep for me, and possibly for Sonora as well. I can easily imagine five hundred meters of distance over the ground. But five hundred meters of water, vertically down, was hard to fathom. There we were under full sails with a healthy motion through very deep waters, chimes and glockenspiels playing an imaginary mystical score as we sailed through cobalt seas.

Our passage was otherwise uneventful. Thus, our crossing could be described as primarily being a bird transportation service. While I was asleep below, a booby had flown a few laps around the boat. Alec watched it try to land on the luff of my mainsail, hilariously slipping and ‘eating shit’ and splashing into the water, though I am fully aware this expression may be inappropriate when there is no dirt involved. Fortunately for the booby, it was a sea bird. It would rise up out of the water like some sort of sea-phoenix and try it again. When it finally smartened up, it landed on the pulpit, coming to a rest with its port feet on the pulpit, and the starboard feet on the lifeline.

Incredible. We were in some bouncy seas as the sea state picked up towards the latter half of the stream crossing. Mister Booby managed to stay on, and even spent some time preening himself. Through several watch changes, the bird was still there. At some point I had to go up to the bow to grab my flashlight that I had negligently left — its incredible how objects stay at the bow through pitching seas. Even when I was there, Mister Booby held fast and stared at me. Mister Booby, you are truly a salty seaman, although it only makes sense that the creature that lives in the ocean would far surpass our mettle at sea.

I bet that bird was tired. It just needed respite. I felt much like it, but I knew I had a lot more left in me. I suffered in silence, and kept the boat moving. Alec did the same. Three of us sailed quietly under the watchful eyes of the stars.

Alec saw a flying fish for the first time during the crossing, beating me to it. I didn’t see my first one until we were in the south side of Grand Bahama island, which was many hours later. We were approaching some underwater topography, where many fish like to hang. The Bahamas sits on this giant platform of calcareous rock, built over millions of years of coral growth. The depths abruptly go from thousands of feet, to a few hundred, then finally under a hundred, stabilizing at around fifty feet. As we crossed this boundary north of Grand Bahama island, I caught three Almaco Jack fish. I’d never caught them before. I let them all go, but it’d been so long since I went fishing, I almost forgot how to handle saltwater fish. The first one had an injury on its tail. The second one got hit by a shark before it landed. I felt bad, having contributed to the early demise of this beautiful fish, but at least it would be a shark’s meal. The last one was a smaller, but more ambitious one. We must have been sailing over a big feeding frenzy of some sort.

A few hours after that, my line went flying off the reel, despite the strong drag setting. This fish fought really hard. I wondered what it could be as I tried to be as patient as I could, babying the light tackle as I slowly reeled in the fish. Suddenly, the most beautiful, gold and blue shape jumped out of the water, shaking its head. It was a dorado! Also known as a mahi-mahi. I’d dreamt of catching this fish since my Kayak fishing days over a decade ago. Unfortunately, my fishing tackle had been greatly weakened from sitting on my rod holder, exposed to the sun for years. The dorado broke loose and made off with my expensive trolling plug. It jumped a few more times out of the water, as if it was trying to tease me with its colors one more time. What a spectacular sight. I put on a cheap white grub lure at the end of the remaining line and threw it back in the water. I was almost certain that I was no longer going to be catching really cool salt water species, but another Dorado was hooked! I screamed at Alec, waking him up halfway through his off watch. He also got to see a sight of a great fish jumping out of the water before it finally spat out my hook. No Mahi sashimi for us, but the memory of these fish were burned into my memory forever.

Towards the latter third of this crossing, we decided to head towards the Northern banks of Grand Bahama island. This would let us take advantage of a good point of sail, and sail further away from the negative effects of the gulf stream. Lastly, it gave us options – I could head east towards Walker Cay, Grand Cay, or head south towards West End. West end was actually a bit father away, but I really wanted to spend some time at Freeport. Freeport is usually ignored by most other cruisers, but it felt like a waste of a trip to not visit the second most populated island of the Bahamas. After all, I wanted to see as much of this country as I could – the good, bad, and the ugly.

Whichever route we took, we were now in Bahamian waters, typically full of reefs and other structures that could damage the boat. With our arrival timing, we had to anchor. And the only appropriate area to anchor was in the middle of the shelf, just eight miles north of West End.

As night approached, I was a little bit worried whether we’d still be able to navigate visually. The charts in the Bahamas were not as accurate as the ones available for the United States. With no prior experience sailing here, I didn’t know how bad this inconsistency was. But this was a relatively empty area of the Bahamas banks, so I thought it would be okay. Turns out this wasn’t something I had to worry about.

In the dark, under a full moon, we motored in calm seas. Having suddenly

jumped into a three-day passage, we were tired, sunburnt, somewhat malnourished and dehydrated. All of our muscles ached, and our spirits were only lifted by the excitement at the prospect of our arrival. Our will to remain committed to our mission maintained our focus. Despite our mounting fatigue, there was no doubt about it. We were here. One only had to look down past the gunwale into the water. The water looked almost pink, only mildly disturbed by the boat generating a very gentle wake. Perhaps fifty feet distant was the shadow of Sonora on the sea floor. Yes, despite it being night, the gentle moonlight casted a shadow of us through the water that even our tired eyes could see. We had come to an incredibly beautiful place. I felt incredibly thankful that places this gorgeous still existed on earth. By now, Alec was at the bow of the boat, shining a spotlight ahead and easily spotting any structure that we could collide with.

With full view of the stars with the milky way laid across the sky for us to enjoy, we set anchor in the middle of the Bahama Banks. Our boat hovered above a white carpet. Nothing else was in sight except the feint lights of Freeport on the horizon. We could almost see our anchor in front of a hundred feet of rode, except it was completely buried in the sand. Hundreds of fish came to the boat, attracted by her lights. They schooled and danced all around in the pink glow around Sonora’s hull. It was absolutely magical, surpassing any Disney musical this scene may inspire.

I spent some time getting the courtesy and quarantine flag displayed, then spent a bit of time tidying up the boat. In addition to our masthead anchor light, we left a lantern in the cockpit and another light at the bow. We also left on our AIS alarm. All in hopes that we wouldn’t collide with any other vessels coming through here. But needless to say, we slept very well that night while the ballet shimmers continued on around us, dancing to a nocturne that only the Pisces could hear.

-To be Continued

Hard to Fathom: I’m not a huge fan of pun-based jokes, but couldn’t resist. A fathom is a unit of measurement for depth. One fathom is six feet of water. Fathom is also the act of measuring the depth of the water. Amazing how many expressions in the English language comes from sailing, though it makes sense, since the language largely propagated through England’s expansion of its influence through the Age of Sail.
Booby: A type of sea-bird. More here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Booby
Quarantine Flag: Not a COVID-19 thing — You fly the ‘Q’ flag while in the host nation’s waters until you clear in. The ‘Q’ flag is a solid yellow flag.
Courtesy Flag: You’re supposed to fly the flag of the host nation smaller, but above the flag of your vessel’s nation. Not everyone does. Don’t be ignorant, because you’re in someone else’s country and some of these countries really care about this custom.
AIS Alarm: My AIS unit comes with an anti-collision alarm, as do most other AIS units. Since a broadcasting AIS unit will transmit location, heading and speed information, a computer calculates the closest approach. If this approach is within a certain distance, set by the user, it will start beeping loudly until you acknowledge the alarm.