When last we left our report, everyone was sleeping peacefully at anchor in Benures Bay – Gerry and David in the aft cabin, lulled by the slap of an occasional wavelet, Dan and Lisa in the quieter but more cramped V-berth. Dan’s a dinghy sailor and volunteer sailboard instructor. He’s taken navigation courses but had no cruising experience. Lisa, his wife, is also a dinghy sailor (that’s how they met, at a local sailing club), also had never cruised before. My wife, Gerry, had spent nights on the hook with me in a 23 ft mini-cruiser. We'd also cruised together on a friend’s 33 footer, on a 53 footer crewed charter in the BVI, and on 65 ft and 125 ft sailing schooners, but she’s not a sailor. I’ve also crewed near shore and blue water passages and am a volunteer instructor, teaching folks from a landlocked sailing club the rudiments needed for sailing out in flotilla to the Boston Harbor Islands - anchoring, reefing, chart reading, radio, compass, etc.

The bareboat charter was Dan’s idea. He just wanted to go somewhere and sail in the tropics. I knew that the BVI was the place to go, had enough qualifications for skippering a small monohull, and had the time to make the arrangements and prepare for the trip (with a big boost from TTOL). All of which to indicate that our collective zero experience bareboating in the BVI was backed up by some, but not an overwhelming amount, of relevant skills, knowledge, and experience.

Sunday, 2/29: Our scheme is to head east and north. No fixed itinerary, just do the counter-clockwise route. Set sail from Benures going between Norman and Peter. Beautiful weather, moderate winds. Round Carrot Rock, sail a while, look north. “Oh, sugar” I say, or words to that effect, “that’s weather coming. Let’s reef.” Probably the first time in my life that I’ve reefed early; that is to say, on time. The squall hits. The boat is ready, we’re dressed for it, no problem except suddenly zero visibility. We have plenty of sea room, the BVI doesn’t have fog (I think), we know where we are, I’ve skippered in fog, we have a GPS running and another for backup – I decide not to worry. Visibility improves, we tack into the Salt Island Passage under grey skies with high winds and rough seas.

Someone says, “The boathook’s gone.” At the toe rail we find one of the two stretch Velcro straps that had held the hook to the grab rail, but the other strap and the hook are gone. Never had problems on other boats holding the boathook aboard with straps like this, but, for whatever reason, didn’t work here. (I suspect an errant and careless foot, but can’t be sure.) We head in to Lee Bay, Salt Island, for lunch. Of course, this involves picking up a mooring without a boathook. A kayak paddle isn’t really a good substitute, but somehow Dan and Lisa make it work.

Not good to have no boathook. Call Sunsail on VHF to ask for a replacement, am interrupted by Sunsail Yacht Taree in Francis Bay, St John. They’re disabled with alternator problems and can’t reach Sunsail directly. (Line of sight from Francis Bay to Hodges Creek grazes most of the south coast of Tortola, is blocked by all the headlands. It’s an easy shot from Francis, over the neck behind Mary Point, to us at Salt Island.) Sunsail very anxious to communicate with Taree via BVI Radio. I handle the back and forth to set this up, earn the promise of yet another drink I’ll never see. Sunsail doesn’t forget our needs, either, and the launch with a smiling Cliff appears before the end of our lunch, bringing a replacement boathook, which we stow below.

Manchioneel Bay had been a possible stop for snorkeling at Cistern Point, but with windy overcast and roiled seas that doesn’t seem an option. The moorings at Cooper look jammed from a distance, it’s still early in the afternoon, I want to get as far north as possible, and I’m psychologically unready to go backwards. I make the poor decision to head for an anchorage on Great Camanoe. I decide there’s not enough light for someone who’s never been there before to see the reef in Cam Bay and work around it; besides, I think, it’s directly exposed to the wind. Looking at the chart and the wind, I figure that Lee Bay, Great Camanoe, must be in the lee, and we will be okay there.

We motor off across the Drake Channel making 4+ kt, around Beef Island, by the crowded anchorages at Marina Cay and Trellis Bay, up to Lee Bay. The cruising guide says the approaches are “clear and unobstructed.” The guide also says that, under northerly winter conditions, “the resulting ground swell can work its way into this anchorage. Depending on the prevailing conditions, a second anchor should be set or an alternate anchorage identified…” A swell is working its way in, the waves are crashing on rocks on both sides of the bay, sending up beautiful but fearsome spray, and the bay feels to be about two boat lengths wide between the rocks. It’s much, much wider, of course, but that’s how it feels. By now it’s approaching sunset, and I judge that my chance to “identify” an “alternate anchorage” is nil. We set two anchors. (Forward, at close to a 90° angle, using the dinghy to carry out the 2nd anchor.)

We also set the GPS anchor alarm for 100 ft., but with the two anchors, we hardly budge – forward and aft, side to side, that is. Up and down is another matter. Through most of the night, we’re riding a two foot swell sliding in from our stern, and with the up and down comes the roll. At the head of Lee Bay a low saddle of land separates Lee Bay from Cam Bay. We look enviously across at the anchor light of a boat in Cam; it seems steady, unmoving.

I’m not concerned about the boat – both anchors are well set, with lots of scope, and our rock and roll won’t bother them – we’re probably much safer than if we were on a mooring, particularly a BVI-style, chainless mooring. For the people on board, that’s different. I think there’s a disconnect in my brain where the differing messages from the eyes, inner ear, and stomach are supposed to combine and cause nausea; I’ve never been seasick in my life, and I’m really thankful for that. The others have varying degrees of discomfort and sleep disturbance. During the evening, sink water runs out and we switch to 2nd tank. “Not bad,” I think, “half our supply has really lasted.”

Monday, 3/1: Glum crew greets a gloomy day. Up anchors early, then motor out of Lee Bay, while a turtle eyes us curiously. I’m still hoping to make it to North Sound, if we can. We turn north and look at the seas heading south. I decide, “We don’t have to do this.” We turn south, which I think prevented a mutiny, motor to Marina Cay, and look for a mooring. Most moorings still taken by boats that overnighted, but the ball closest to the Marina Cay dock is open, and we go for it.

Our replacement boathook doesn’t extend, so Lisa reaches way over to snag the pendant, holding the boathook by the grip on the end, and is left with the grip in her hand while the hook goes overboard. While I yell “No!” Dan jumps into the water, grabs the boathook before it sinks, and swims to the mooring ball. He raises the pendant with the boathook; Lisa picks it up by hand and drops the end of the eye over a horn of a cleat. Dan’s a strong swimmer (Lisa even stronger), but I was nervous about maneuvering a boat under power toward a swimmer I couldn’t quite see. When he’s back on board, I tell him not to do it again, it’s too dangerous.

We’re moored, sort of, but the pendant isn’t secure. The wind’s blowing us back hard enough to bury the mooring ball and stretch the pendant bar-tight. While Dan stands on the aft end of the cleat to keep the pendant on board, I try to raise the eye and slip a bridle line through. No go. I bring up another dock line and tie it onto the pendant just ahead of the bow with a rolling hitch. Using the windlass, I pull back on this “control” line a few inches, enough to slack the pendant eye, then tie the bridle to the eye with a larks head, then rig and cleat the bridle. I slack the control line, take it off the windlass, but leave it tied on and cleated on board as a safety line. We’re moored! (The next day, I’ll reverse this process to cast off: tighten the control line to slack the bridle, remove the bridle and put the pendant eye on a cleat, slack the control line, untie and remove it, then drive the boat toward the mooring so the pendant goes slack and can be dropped overboard. I like this method, but others say it’s too complex.)

Dan announces, “Lisa and I want to go ashore.” “Sure,” I say, “I’ll start up the dinghy (not a quick process) and run you in.” “No, we’re leaving right now and we’ll take the one-man kayak.” Over goes the kayak, over go Dan and Lisa – and over and over, as they try to get both of them up on the kayak at the same time. I head for the dinghy. By the time I persuade the motor to run, they’re way downwind, on their way to Trellis Bay. I pull them back to the boat, they put the kayak back on board, then refuse a dinghy ride again and swim for the dock. A while later they reappear, very happy, and announce that they’ve taken a room and will spend the night ashore. They invite us to join them for dinner at the restaurant. We accept, and they accept a dinghy ride ashore with their stuff.

Gerry and I relax on board, then head to the dock late afternoon. She goes for a walk around the island, I head for happy hour at the Library, clutching my Drinking Man’s Guide. I have a pk at happy hour price, $3.75. I wait to use my coupon until the price goes up. Much better than with the bottled Pussers mix on board. Gerry appears, cajoled in by Michael Beans, who found her at the top of the island when he went to blow his conch there. Beans’ high energy show begins. I go back to the bar. “Is it still happy hour?” I shout. “No!” I order one pk and one virgin pk, offer the Guide’s 2 for 1 coupon, and am charged $3.75! I dunno.

After good dinner at restaurant, we head back to boat. Hard to miss boat nearest to dock, but even so, it’s comforting to head for our bobbing red light under the bimini. Water quits again as I ready for bed. Seems it wasn’t half our tankage that got used up earlier, it was the boat’s standard equipment 50 gallon tank, and I’ve just killed the 10 gallon supplemental. I haul one of our 5 gallon polyethylene tanks down from on deck and park it in the galley.

Tuesday, 3/2: In sunny but very windy daylight, I move kayak from starboard, where it was blocking water fill, tie it up to port. Try pouring five gallons in from our other poly tank, get some in. First tank, in galley, is slowly leaking.

Dinghy in to pick up Dan and Lisa. While waiting, chat with weathered Frenchman who is gassing up a large inflatable launch. He complains that he must go to North Sound today in high seas, doesn’t like the idea. Assures me that anchorage at Diamond Cay, JVD, will be okay in this wind. Also talk to dock man, scope out how to bring in boat, starboard side to, with wind blowing off dock. With all crew back on board we drop the mooring, put out fenders, tie up to dock (no problem, with dock guy coaching me on fine points) and fill water tanks (one filler for two tanks, with a divider baffle in the throat, bubbles up if you fill fast – we fill slowly). We discuss our options, decide to give up on VG for now, head for JVD via Drake Channel.

Off the dock, we circle around east end of Marina Cay, go to bring in our fenders. Gerry says, “I tied my fender just like the other one, but it’s gone now.” Turns out her fender had a thin polypropylene whip, not the regular yacht braid of the others. A clove hitch around the lifeline was okay for holding the other fender, but her's just slipped away as we left the dock. Bye, bye.

We head out toward Drake Channel and finally start SAILING again! Wonderful! We round Beef and tack downwind to keep the sails full, the entire length of Tortola. Sometimes 6’ following seas, but no problem. Everyone helms, everyone trims, everyone eats! Head up by Sopers Hole, through Thatch Island Cut, then a few tacks in high but manageable seas to Diamond Cay by about 4pm. We’re alone! No signs of life at Taboo. Winds still strong. Sometime in the last 2 days someone hooked our boathook on something and pulled. The boathook extended. It's still not adjustable, but at least it's a decent length. We pick up the mooring closest to Little JVD, where water seems smoothest, and it’s okay! And the place is beautiful!

Wednesday, 3/3: Dinghy in to Foxy’s Cousin Harold’s dock. He helps us tie up, collects the mooring fee, and, unasked, directs us to path to Bxxxly Pxxl. One good result of the high winds, the pxxl is cookin’! We wander around on the rocks, watch surf crash on shore, admire healthy turks head cacti, step on cactus thorns that easily penetrate rubber thong sandal soles, remove thorns. Beautiful area, nice shore expedition. Taboo beginning to come to life when we return, might be open for lunch, but we’re ready to leave. Some other time.

We drop mooring, motor to Sandy Cay. A few boats there, we anchor out of their way, have lunch and watch. Looks like surf is curling around both sides of the cay, breaking on the beach. Youngsters from other boats are swimming in. Dinghy from Aristo-Cat II goes in to beach. Some of the other boats leave. We could/should have pulled up our hook and moved closer to beach, but we don’t. Beach is well within swimming range for Dan and Lisa, but Gerry and I take the dink. I cut the motor too soon, trying to ride in on a dying wave. Before I can jump out and pull boat up the beach, the next wave comes in from port and flips the boat on its side. Gerry gets dumped, I’m in the water, too, trying to keep boat from going over while simultaneously collecting shoes and sandals which are floating by. Charterer from Aristo-Cat II runs up, steadies the dinghy, helps me get it back on its bottom and up onto the beach. I’m congratulating myself that we survived, and without losing anything, when Gerry realizes her glasses are gone. She has her prescription back on Avast Behind, but no spare glasses. Everyone searches, but no luck. We go off on the nature trail around the cay anyway.

While we walk, I’m thinking that I really don’t have a plan for getting us off the island. The motor’s cranky and never starts right up; I can imagine pushing off, then being caught in the surf while trying to start the motor and coming crashing completely uncontrolled onto the beach. The oars don’t lock in and would probably get lost in a push-off through the surf. Ahh, but we have a dinghy anchor, I remember! Back on the beach, we push the dink close to the water, then Dan swims the anchor out as far as it will go. Not far. With Gerry in the bow, we push the dinghy off and I scramble in as Gerry hauls in on the anchor line as fast as possible, then she pulls the anchor up and heaves it out as far as she can. It drops, catches, and she pulls in again. We’re out of the surf zone! I fire up the motor after a few tries, and we live again.

Back on board, Gerry tries my regular glasses, and they work for her. She even has clip-on sunglasses, so she’s back in business. I’m wearing prescription shades, so I’m still in business, too. I remember that I have a spare pair of glasses somewhere on the boat, but I can’t find them. Later.

We sail to Great Harbour and find a place to drop our hook in the crowded anchorage. This is our night for the high life! Sort of. In to Foxy’s for his show, we hear him play, drink our pks. Good. Dan and Lisa want to stay ashore for dinner, invite us. I suggest Corsairs, based on memories of posts on TTOL. Good choice! Food is great, waitress is wife of chef? owner? (my memory is confused) and she is ON! Bubbly and fun. We’re the only paying customers, but her son and her mother-in-law (from Brookline, MA?) are sitting nearby. And in the back, unexpected bonus, Reuben Chinnery plays and sings. Wonderful! I’m blind by this time, but it’s not the pks and wine; I’m still wearing my sunglasses. Fortunately, I’d switched on our red cockpit light before leaving the boat, on the off chance that we might be late returning, so we don’t have much trouble finding our way “home”. And when we get home, I search and find my spare glasses.

Next installment: Back on the high seas.

David