“I’m going ashore for ice,” I told Richard Thomas, owner of the Reliance 44 cutter Strider, where I was a guest. He was below, buried in the engine compartment, installing a replacement alternator. The high-output Balmar was out of commission.

Strider was at anchor this past April off the beach in St. Lucia’s Rodney Bay. Upon our arrival the day before, we had discovered the problem. Fortunately, Richard had the original alternator under a bunk up forward. He’d stowed it there after installing the new Balmar alternator during the boat’s repowering two years ago.

“Ice? Good idea,” he said. “It’s been weeks since we’ve had ice in our rum.”

Richard’s boat has refrigeration, but the freezer thermostat had shorted out when a drip from a deck fitting got into the works. There was a refrigerator box, but no way to make ice.  

Is refrigeration necessary on a Caribbean boat? It’s nice, but 10 years ago, my family and I spent an entire season in the islands without it. The original Sea Frost system on Searcher, my 34-year-old Bowman 57, used a refrigerant that had become illegal in the United States. Replacing the system would have cost more than $5,000. We made do with ice, spending $700 for the entire season.

The trouble with ice in the islands is that it only comes as cubes in bags. There’s no block ice, which lasts longer. While my family and I anchored in Bequia, I’d send my 9-year-old son, Havana, ashore every afternoon in the RIB to buy a bag of ice for my evening rum, and to cool the milk and butter. Finally free from his domineering sister and parental control, he sped off to go nosing around the anchorage. 

“Do your exploring on your way in to get the ice,” I’d admonish him. “Not on your way back with the ice.”

I recalled those times as I jumped into Richard’s RIB and headed ashore—but first, with a little exploring. Packed along the beach to the south was a string of all-inclusive resorts and the yacht club, like a miniature Disneyland. On the beach to the north was a community of single-story cottages, knock-together restaurants and bars, lean-to workshops, and fishing boats pulled up on the sand. A dilapidated concrete pier was the playground for a bunch of West Indian kids. I watched them jump off the pier, float, and kick a worn-out soccer ball until it went into the water. They were all fit and thin, happy to be alive. I lingered in the dinghy, just off the pier, remembering the simple joy of my youth, frolicking on the dock of our lake home in New England. 

In the harbor, I found ice at the fuel dock and bought four bags. That should last us a couple of days, I figured. As I was about to head back out to the boat, I noticed a half-submerged replica of an 18th-century pirate ship—an obviously abandoned tourist party boat. 

It was The Pearl, according to the nameplate on the bow. By the look of it, the boat had been there for a while. Another West Indian entrepreneurial venture comes to an end.  

When I got back to the boat, the alternator was installed, and the engine was purring. “When I run up the revs,” Richard said, “the belt starts to squeal.”

“Batteries must be putting too much demand on the alternator,” I said. “I’ve had this problem on my boats. A squirt of belt treatment often works.”

Allowing the belt to squeal creates friction, which can lead to the belt’s burning out. We didn’t have an extra aboard.

“We can’t get the batteries up to a full charge if we can’t run the engine up to 2,000 rpm,” he said.

Hmm. It was time to pour some rum and contemplate the situation.

It had been a cloudless day—ideal to photograph the setting sun. I brought up my telephoto lens and settled in on the seat at the aft rail, with my rum (now with ice) within easy reach. I’ve done this dozens of times, trying to photograph the flash of green as the top of the sun disappears below the horizon. It lasts but 125th of a second.  

On this evening, conditions were right. Sahara dust, swept up in sandstorms off the deserts of North Africa, was filling the skies of the West Indies. At times, it was so thick that it looked like Maine fog, obscuring the islands just miles away. The dust was also settling, accumulating on Richard’s decks, clogging the running rigging and pissing him off. But it added a deep red to my photographs.

As I sat with my camera ready, a small catamaran crept into the scene. It was heading south, riding on the horizon, 3 miles off to the west.

It sailed right into my picture as the sun set.

Luck? Perhaps, but as a professional photographer and one who has taught photography, I’m forever preaching that luck favors the prepared artist. In other words, be ready when the photo gods present you with a gift.

The next morning, as we got underway, the squealing began as soon as Richard got the revs above 1,000.

“We can’t go on like this!” he shouted over the noise.

“Disconnect the exciter wire to the alternator and let it freewheel,” I suggested. “Perhaps that’ll stop it.”

He did, and the squealing stopped, but the batteries weren’t charging.

“Do you think the solar cells will help?” I asked.

“We’ll hand-steer to save the batteries,” he said. “I’ll turn off the fridge. We have ice now.” Sailors are adaptable.

“I’ve got to get another Balmar alternator shipped down,” he added, “and Antigua is the best place.” 

I looked at the Navionics charts on my iPhone. The distance to our next anchorage, Saint-Pierre on Martinique, was 44 miles. It would take us seven to eight hours, some of that time spent under sail. From Saint-Pierre, it would be another six hours to Portsmouth on Dominica for another night, then 47 miles, another seven hours, up to Deshaies on Guadeloupe. After that, six hours, mostly under sail, up to Jolly Harbour on Antigua.

“We’ll be in Antigua in four days,” I told Richard. 

We were now ignoring a cardinal rule of cruising. We had a schedule. 

By 10 a.m. that morning, we were 15 miles west of one of my favorite anchorages on these islands, Sainte-Anne on Martinique. A few years ago, at the tail end of a delivery down from Antigua, I spent two weeks there. On this trip, we’d miss it, but I felt compelled to tell Richard what we’d be missing.

“You round Pointe du Diamant, just over there,” I said. “Then scoot between it and Diamond Rock. Ahead, there’ll be a line of white-hulled sailboats, so thick you can’t see the beach. That’s the anchorage off the village of Sainte-Anne. Marina du Marin, a huge complex, is farther up in the bay. The marinas there are full of French catamaran charter boats, but there’s an easy-in, easy-out fuel dock, and more chandleries ashore than any other place in the islands. There’s a huge supermarket in there with its own dinghy dock.”  

There is little space for anchoring, though, and many of the boats appear to have been there for years, with some abandoned. I prefer Sainte-Anne’s anchorage. The water is cleaner, there’s a view of the sunset, and there’s always a breeze. It can be a bit of a dinghy ride in to the village, but there’s a substantial town dock and a garbage depository, and it’s an easy walk to the shops. There are no marine services, no fuel or water, and no chandlery.

The village has two streets, two small grocery stores, open-air fish and produce markets, and an excellent boulangerie. When I was there, a young couple from Lyon, France, had established a floating boulangerie service for boaters. Every morning, they made the rounds of the anchorage in their RIB, with tubs full of fresh croissants they made themselves, and baguettes from the shop ashore. It cost a bit more, but well worth it.

Ashore, the village of Sainte-Anne is a photographer’s paradise. I’d wander the streets, framing colorful compositions with my viewfinder. I’d linger across the street from a storefront, waiting for the actors to walk on stage and into my frame.

There’s a hill behind the village, with a trail to the top that begins just behind the church. It zigzags, following the 14 Stations of the Cross, with a shrine at each turn. At the top are a concrete building and cell tower—and a view of the anchorage below that’s breathtaking. 

There are beaches, hiking trails and a resort nearby. Agricultural fields spread across this part of Martinique. This island is blessed with an abundance of rich volcanic soil. It exports sugar, bananas and other agricultural products, including really strong rum. 

Which reminds me, back aboard Strider—it was now lunchtime. We were due west of Fort-de-France, Martinique’s commercial port, and we’d run out of wind. The mountains that run up the middle of the island were blocking the easterly trades. From these mountains, some of which rise to 4,000 feet, rivers run down gorges and valleys to spill into the sea. Doyle’s Guide describes a few small anchorages along this section of the coast. It was the last anchorage at the northern end of the island that drew us: Saint-Pierre.

We arrived as the sun was getting ready to set, lighting up the faces of the buildings that line the beach—like a French Cubist painting. Richard found a suitable spot to anchor in 30 feet of water, just a stone’s throw from the black-sand beach. Behind the town, the summit of Mount Pelee was lost in clouds. I sat on the cabin top, a glass of rum and tonic nearby, photographing the village as the light faded into dusk and the town’s lights came on.

Years ago, the family and I went ashore here. We spent a few days exploring the island’s interior, but that’s a story for another time.

The post Island Memories and Ice Runs: A Sailor’s Caribbean Tale appeared first on Cruising World.

What do we do while off-watch, or during the heat of midday anchored in a tropical cove? We stretch out in the cockpit, under the awning, and read.

The ship’s library is as important as the pantry to the crew’s well-being. Stocking both requires some serious thought.

It would be a shame to go sailing through the Caribbean without historical and cultural context. Before Street and Doyle began writing guides, dozens of books told of adventures and life sailing in the West Indies. Growing up on a lake as a teen in the 1950s,  I was messing about in small boats and reading about adventures in Yachting and Rudder magazines. Jules Vern’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea was the first novel I read all the way through. I was 14. I still have that book, with my handwritten notes inside.

That same year, my mother found an evening course for me to take, hosted by the US Power Squadrons. Piloting, Seamanship & Small Boat Handling by Charles Chapman was the textbook. I still have that book, too, and still use the knowledge and skills I learned. 

In high school, I began reading about my maritime heroes: Horatio Hornblower, Sir Francis Drake. Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island introduced me to young Jim Hawkins. I learned about scattering carpet tacks on the deck at night to repel unwanted boarders while reading Jack London’s South Sea Tales. In 1966, The National Geographic Society published Isles of the Caribbees by sailor Carleton Mitchell. It’s about a winter’s voyage aboard the yacht Finisterre, sailing from island to island. The book is lavishly illustrated by National Geographic photographers. The images got me dreaming of sailing through the tropics, and of becoming a photographer myself.

I bought my first boat, Quinta, a 34-foot wooden Alden sloop, when I got back from Vietnam and landed a paying job as a newspaper editor. Three more sailboats followed as my adventures grew more ambitious and my skills increased.  My library grew, too.

Heavy Weather Sailing by Peter Bruce and K. Adlard Coles is there; so are Don Street’s many books, including The Ocean Sailing Yacht, and Street’s Cruising Guide to the Eastern Caribbean. It was John Ridgway’s book Round the World with Ridgway that convinced me a Bowman 57 ketch was the boat I’d been dreaming of since I was a teen. I was in my mid-50s when Searcher came into my life, taking me to the Caribbean three times over the course of 14 years.

James Michener’s 1989 novel Caribbean will provide enough reading to fill an entire season in the islands. More contemporary authors, such as Peter Nichols, John Kretschmer, Beth Leonard, Lin and Larry Pardey, Charles Doane and Herb McCormick continue to write about a life sailing. I’ve not even gotten around to the technical and DIY books that need space in any ship’s library.

During my years of messing about in boats, my marine library has grown to fill a bookcase. Boxes are stuffed with past issues of Cruising World, SAIL, Sailing World, Sailing, Yachting—even a collection of Nautical Quarterly.

A few years ago, I was rummaging around the library at Libby Nicholson’s Pineapple House in English Harbour on Antigua. I stumbled onto Richard Dey’s book Adventures in the Trade Wind. It’s a true story about Morris Nicholson, an English chap who fled the UK after the war and sailed to the Caribbean. He worked his way up and down the island chain and eventually became a charter captain on one of the Nicholson schooners out of English Harbour. This is a story about island life before bareboats, GPS and tourism. I swapped it for one of my books I’d just finished.

I have Dey’s book with me here as I write this column. Curious about the writer, I reached out to Sally Erdle, founder and long-serving editor of Caribbean Compass, a magazine to which I frequently contribute.

“Richard Dey has written for the Compass,” she replied. “In fact, Richard compiled two very well-researched bibliographies on the literature of the Caribbean. We published them in 1999 and 2000.”

You’ll find Dey’s two bibliographies in the Compass archive, here and here.

I also just finished Carleton Mitchell’s The Winds Call, published in 1971. I can’t wait to read whatever comes next. 

David H. Lyman is an author and award-winning marine journalist who contributes regularly to Cruising World, Caribbean Compass and other magazines. Find him at DHLyman.com.

The post The Ship’s Library: Add These Essential Reads for Caribbean Cruising appeared first on Cruising World.

ARC Season 2024 is officially underway, with the first boats preparing to depart soon. Some 1,300 people on 240 yachts are expected to sail in the ARC and ARC+ transatlantic rallies. They are gathering now in the Canary Islands, where they will prepare before sailing across the Atlantic to the Caribbean in November.

This will be the 39th edition of the Atlantic Rally for Cruisers from Las Palmas de Gran Canaria to St. Lucia, and the 12th edition of the ARC+ rally, which sails from Las Palmas to Cape Verde and then to Grenada.

Both rallies attract sailors of all nationalities, ages and backgrounds, on a variety of yachts from custom builds to production family cruisers. Multihulls are increasingly popular, with a record 46 catamarans and two trimarans listed for the ARC, and 26 multihulls registered for ARC+.

Some 94 yachts are registered for ARC+ to Grenada, and 146 for ARC to St. Lucia, with 1,300 crew from 38 countries ages 9 months to 83 years.

In fact, 53 children younger than 16 are expected to cross the Atlantic this year with the ARC rallies. ARC+ via Cape Verde is the more popular route with families, as the stop in the islands provides opportunities for exploring new places. There are 19 family boats with 37 children scheduled to sail the ARC+ route, with 16 children on eight boats in the ARC.

The children hail from 10 nations and include three sets of twins. All children 6 to 16 years old can join the complementary ARC kids’ club in Las Palmas, giving parents time to make final preparations. Rally activities in Las Palmas begin two weeks ahead of each rally start.

The safety inspections, cruising seminars and activities such as a liferaft demonstration and sextant workshop all help to build bonds among the sailors.

More than 60 boat manufacturers and brands are represented across the ARC fleets, from Allures to X-Yachts, with Beneteau and Jeanneau leading at 18 and 16 entries, respectively.

The smallest yacht registered this year is Hallberg-Rassy 340 Aria Legra, and the largest is the Southern Wind 105 No Rush.

After departing Las Palmas on November 10, the ARC+ fleet will make landfall in Mindelo on São Vicente in the Cape Verde islands, 850 nautical miles and five to seven days’ sailing away. Then, on November 22, the fleet will head 2,150 nautical miles west to St George’s in Grenada, which should take around 12 to 16 days. The final prizegiving is December 12 on Grenada.

As for the ARC fleet, it will sail on November 24 from Las Palmas some 2,800 nautical miles direct to Rodney Bay in St. Lucia, a voyage of 18 to 21 days for most boats. The prizegiving takes place on December 21.

Which boats will finish first? Eleven yachts are racing under the IRC this year for racing purposes. The ARC record from Las Palmas to St. Lucia with no motoring was set in 2016 by George David’s Rambler 88 in eight days, six hours, 29 minutes and 12 seconds.

Potential first-finishers this year include the Volvo 70 Green Dragon, the Vismara 62 Leaps & Bounds 2 and the Swan 76 La Loévie, which is skippered by three-time ARC racing division winner Jean-Pierre Dick.

Where to learn more: visit worldcruising.com.

The post ARC, ARC+ Rallies Prepare to Set Off appeared first on Cruising World.

The destination was the verdant Caribbean island nation of Dominica, in the Lesser Antilles chain, sandwiched between the French isles of Guadeloupe and Martinique. The goal was to partake in the fun, music, food and camaraderie of the second-annual PAYS Dominica Yachting Festival, a weeklong celebration to benefit the Portsmouth Association for Yacht Security. 

My ignorance regarding this entire venture was twofold: I’d never been to Dominica, and I had no clue what PAYS was all about. However, when my old mate Hank Schmitt invited me to come along for the festivities aboard his sweet Swan 48, Avocation, I reckoned there was nothing to lose. 

What transpired was one of the best weeks of my sailing life.

But first, we had to get there. 

It was almost precisely 170 nautical miles, more or less due south, from our departure point on St. Maarten’s Simpson Bay to Dominica. We were closehauled in the easterly trades for our entire one-tack overnight voyage, and it was a bumpy ride. But there were some definite highlights. Off St. Barts, we caught a glimpse of the impressive fleet of superyachts competing in the annual St. Barts Bucket regatta. At sunrise, we enjoyed a respite from the relentless easterlies, sluicing down the lee of Guadeloupe. The last 17 miles of open water were sporty, but exactly 26 hours after hoisting sail, we picked up a mooring in Prince Rupert’s Bay fronting the volcanic black-sand beach and the funky coastal town of Portsmouth on Dominica’s northwest coastline.

After catching a ride ashore on one of the PAYS water taxis, I had the first of many surprises. One of the locals caught a glimpse of our skipper, a dude I’ve known for decades—but never by this handle. 

“Look!” he called to his pals. “It’s Daddy Hank!”

Who’s Your Daddy?

There are several good reasons that Hank Schmitt is a rather beloved father figure along the waterfront of Dominica. After decades of roaming the oceans under sail—and through his related business, Offshore Passage Opportunities, the networking service that has helped countless sailors realize their own voyaging dreams—Schmitt is continuing to pay it forward with PAYS. 

The tale of how a native New Yorker from Long Island Sound became a favored patron to a faraway Caribbean island is, well, a winding one indeed.

The sailing bug bit Schmitt early, at the tender age of 7, when he started racing dinghies in junior programs at various yacht clubs on his home waters. During high school, he matriculated to Rhode Island’s Portsmouth Abbey, and starred on the sailing team while working summers at a boatyard back home and sailing his dad’s Cal 2-30. After graduation in 1977, with a one-way ticket to Florida, he finagled his way aboard a Morgan One Tonner to race in the prestigious Southern Ocean Racing Conference, the major ­big-boat yacht-racing series of the time. 

At 19, in Houston, he hopped aboard his first offshore oil rig; that began a seven-year odyssey that took him from the United States to Europe to Africa, and included his first transatlantic voyage, from Boston to Italy on a 400-foot drill ship at 8 knots. Thus, a pattern of movement was established. The equal attractions were new adventures and blue water. And it turned out, he was just getting going.

Back home in Huntington, New York, after the oil business cratered, he launched his own rigging and dive business, spent a few harrowing winters fishing commercially out of Montauk, and started doing yacht deliveries. Lots of them. Hundreds of thousands of miles. After one, in 1987, he landed a repossessed Tayana 37 that he renamed Hunk-a-Schmitt and lived aboard for 13 years. In 1992, he sailed it in Jimmy Cornell’s America 500 rally commemorating the 500th anniversary of Columbus’ famous voyage, visiting 25 ports in 10 months with a pair of solo Atlantic crossings. 

That led to, among other things, ­founding Offshore Passage Opportunities and the annual North America Rally to the Caribbean, during which he eventually ran a fleet of Swans back and forth from their charter bases in Rhode Island and St. Maarten each year (and earned some extra dough selling crew berths to fledgling voyagers). His own Swan, the 48-foot Avocation, always led the parade. 

That annual Caribbean pilgrimage is what first drew Schmitt to Dominica. For years, after arriving in the islands, he’d do a standard circuit of charters for members of Offshore Passage Opportunities: the St. Maarten Heineken Regatta, a swing through the British Virgin Islands, Antigua Sailing Week. When the BVI portion started to get old, a fellow skipper offered a fresh suggestion: Check out Dominica.

During that first visit, around 2012, Schmitt met a boat boy named Albert, who was operating a dilapidated skiff. He tapped some members of Offshore Passage Opportunities for a contribution for the materials to build Albert a new boat. The next time he visited (with some cache with the PAYS locals after helping out Albert), he realized that the few moorings he’d seen off Portsmouth were missing. The Offshore Passage Opportunities crew stepped up again, eventually raising more than $20,000 for several dozen new moorings. 

That led to the first organized PAYS fundraisers, originally called Yachtie Appreciation Weeks (the second one, in 2015, drew more than 100 boats). They helped to fund a seaside PAYS pavilion and adjacent docks. The pandemic stopped the momentum, though Schmitt continued to raise and send money to help several Dominican families, and somewhere in there landed a nickname. Once normalcy returned, so did the weeklong celebration, rebranded as the Yachting Festival, with barbecues, tours, beach parties and more. 

For me, arriving for the 2024 PAYS party aboard Avocation, something was clear right from the outset. It’s pretty great showing up in Dominica in the company of Daddy Hank.

Embracing “Nature’s Island”

It’s hard to say what was the best part of the festival because it was all pretty damn festive. But we’ll start with the people, especially Team Avocation: Daddy, of course; his longtime Long Island mates, Alex Hummel and Dave Evans (the latter sailed down aboard skipper Peter Bourke’s Class 40, Imagine, a nifty yacht that added much to my own personal experience); and Offshore Passage Opportunities member Don Geier, a Kansas man who, in retrospect, probably had no idea (like me) of what he was getting himself into. And then there was the PAYS posse, with ringleader Eddison Laville playing a prominent role, and a cast of characters as colorful as their own monikers: Cobra, Toxic, Blackie, Boy-Boy, Kenny G and so many more.

A few more things stand out, especially the dazzling beauty of this rich, fertile island. Dominica has been called the Caribbean’s “nature island,” and with good reason. With its steep peaks, dense rainforest, rushing waterfalls, and abundant flora and fauna, it is jaw-droppingly gorgeous. 

It’s become known for eco-tourism, also with good reason. Those aforementioned black-sand beaches (which, to my eye, are nothing less than sensational) luckily deterred the arrival of Club Med-style resorts that afflict many a Caribbean island. The overall vibe remains inviting, laid-back and unspoiled. (That said, there’s plenty of new development underway, including major roads and a big international airport. My advice? Go. Now.)

Perhaps the best, easiest, most inclusive way to experience this island is also the simplest: Take a hike. As Avocation was a bit crowded, Alex and I decamped to shoreside quarters at the Mango Garden Cottages, which are run by Eddison’s Swiss wife, Sylvia, who invited us on “a morning stroll.” With a spirited quartet of happy pooches, we ascended an uphill trail past wandering goats and terrace gardens of cabbage and bananas to the Diablo Canyon, an arresting destination near a pretty spot called Sulphur Springs (its cool water was a lovely place to dip weary toes). A couple of hours later, Alex and I were drenched in sweat, while Sylvia and the dogs appeared fresh as daisies. Much too late, Alex made an astute observation: “It’s probably not a great idea to go on a steep hike with a Swiss woman.” Thanks, Captain Obvious. 

That turned out to be just a warm-up for the next day’s trek. Dominica is circled by a 14-stage, 115-mile long-distance hiking route called the Waitukubuli National Trail. Sylvia dropped off Alex, Dave and me at the trailhead to Stage 13, the Penville section, listed on the map as a “moderate” hike of 8 kilometers, or about 5 miles. All I can say is, I’m glad we didn’t tackle a “difficult” route. It was a true wilderness trail with crazy vegetation, incredible cliffside ocean views, and plenty of sharp switchbacks—on one of which I was almost knocked into oblivion on a narrow path by a burro going up while I was headed down. By the end, some five hours and a rainstorm later, we were all toast—but also beginning to understand Dominica in elemental terms. 

The next excursion, thankfully, was back to sea level and decidedly more mellow: a float up the Indian River with Albert, a fine guide, on the oars. The “indians” for which it was named were the indigenous island Carib people, before the colonists from Spain, France and Great Britain showed up, with predictably horrible results. Dominica boasts some 365 rivers, Albert told us as we slipped beneath a dense canopy of foliage and past century-old trees, their roots deep and tangled. Along the way, he pointed out the nests of termites and hummingbirds. Coconut crabs skittered along the shoreline. What’s left of the original Carib clans now live in villages to the north, but this was a serene place. Their spirit was still there.

We didn’t get a true sense of how vast and diverse Dominica was, however, until we piled into a van for an overland tour with another knowledgeable local named Kenneth Gussie. (He spelled it out in my notebook and said, “Don’t call me Kenny G,” though unfortunately for him, everybody does.) By any name, Kenneth was a passionate, knowledgeable ambassador for his homeland, which he called “the island of dreams. What are you looking for? Rivers and mountains? Caribbean culture? Fresh organic food? Eco-tourism? Where you can just be yourself without worries, and have great times?

“I’m going to make Dominica smile,” he continued. “That’s what I’m going to do.” He was as good as his word. It actually took us two days to take it all in, and that we did. 

Kenneth spoke of the place’s rich history, the different and lasting influences of all those earlier European colonizers (Columbus, on his second voyage, gave Dominica its name: Latin for Sunday, the day he sailed past), and its tumultuous break for independence from Great Britain in 1979. Kenneth also had fond comments about the recent influx of Chinese people to the island: “Very good friends. They teach us farming techniques, fishing techniques.” He also waxed poetically on the perfection of curried goat. 

We drove from the top of the island to the bottom, all 29 miles. We took in the national parks, including the one called Morne Diablotins, home to Dominica’s highest peak (4,747 feet). We had a look at the banana plantations, the fishing harbors and the botanical gardens in Roseau, the country’s busy capital. We stopped at the Indian reserve and picked up some crafts and souvenirs. We swam in the Titou Gorge and paid a visit to the Trafalgar Falls, where Hank and I scrambled up the boulders and had a refreshing soak in the cool, rocky pools. Everything was amazing. Thank you, Mr. Gussie; you did a wonderful job. All smiles.

Last, there was the one activity that put me firmly back in my more natural element: racing sailboats. The midweek Race to Mero was as casual as could be, and meant to showcase the new set of PAYS moorings installed off the beachfront of Mero Beach. There was no start or finish line; you could motor for five minutes at the outset; and the whole idea was just to go sailing and have fun, which I’m always up for. 

That’s precisely what transpired on board Peter Bourke’s Imagine, aboard which he’d invited me to sail as a ­doublehanded entry. Bourke had originally planned to do the Global Solo Challenge singlehanded round-the-world race aboard the boat, but an untimely bout with COVID-19 sidelined those plans. Now he was cruising the islands. His well-prepared 40-footer was a joy to sail, and even with fitful breeze, we managed to make 8 knots at one point and had a fine time slipping down Dominica’s coastline in the company of another half-dozen racers. And Mero Beach was a sweet spot to pick up that mooring. 

In a related aside, it must be noted: Cannabis is legal for the residents of “nature island.” If you (like me) happen to enjoy an occasional puff, the beach party on Mero, with a crazy street parade in the middle of it, is a good place to be. My new island brothers were more than happy to share. 

Peter and I had another cool sail back to Prince Rupert’s Bay. I might’ve still been high, because at the very end of it, by virtue of the fact that we were the only boat to complete both light-air legs entirely under sail, Imagine was declared the winner. At the awards ceremony that evening, Peter even got a trophy. More smiles.

With that, my work on Dominica was complete.

Heading North

Our festival experience had commenced with an overnight sail from St. Maarten, and as all good things must come to an end, it concluded with one too. Alex and I enjoyed a delicious lunch of coconut-curry conch and backed down a couple of blazing shots of cinnamon rum at our new favorite beach bar. We all bid the PAYS posse thanks and adieu, and we were off. 

It was an absolutely fantastic sail. The breeze had freed a bit on the way back to St. Maarten, which meant more of a reach than the upwind thrash we’d experienced on the trip down. It seemed fitting. After a week on Dominica, our souls were a bit freer as well. 

I deliberately crashed until midnight, with the plan to stay up for the rest of the evening because I love catching dawn at sea. It proved to be a smart call; I also saw the rise of a brilliant moon. Best of all, as I came on deck, there in our wake was the Southern Cross. I hadn’t expected to see it this far north.

In that moment, it was hard to tell which was tugging more on my heartstrings: that beautiful southern sky, or wishing that I was still on that unforgettable volcanic rock called Dominica, afloat on the sea beneath it.

It PAYS to Sail to Dominica

The third annual PAYS Dominica Yachting Festival, with a weeklong program of tours, beach parties and casual sailboat racing, is scheduled to take place March 22-30. For more information, visit paysdominica.com. § While Hank Schmitt is scaling back on his own voyaging, his Offshore Passage Opportunities networking service is still connecting sailors and skippers for mutual oceanic adventures. Learn more at sailopo.com.

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Dazzled in Dominica appeared first on Cruising World.

Strider, the Reliance 44 cutter I was aboard as a guest of the owner, left Bequia at midday on April 4. Our course was northbound to Chateaubelair, a village halfway up the west coast of St. Vincent. The 20 miles took us less than four hours. There was little wind as we left Admiralty Bay, but once out of Bequia’s lee, we caught a fair easterly breeze of 12 knots. With the engine off and sails up, we were making 6 knots.

Our original plan had been to hop up the chain of islands to Antigua by day, covering a distance of 250 miles and dropping the hook each night. If time allowed, we’d go ashore, clear in and spend a few days exploring. This normally requires an entire season, not the four weeks that I had—and we’d squandered two weeks hanging out on Bequia, with a side trip down to Union and Carriacou islands.  

Strider’s owner and I wanted to be in Antigua for the annual Classic Yacht Regatta at the end of the month. We could make that in two days if we sailed nonstop, but why rush when there is so much to see and do on these islands?

The west side of St. Vincent has a half dozen anchorages. Neither of us had been to Chateaubelair, so we chose it and read up on the anchoring options in my 2009 copy of the Doyle Guides. The village itself is tucked in at the end of a valley that spills down from Soufriere, the towering volcano that erupted in April 2021, spreading ash over most of St. Vincent and nearby islands to the south. Since we had no need or time to go ashore, we chose an anchorage on a narrow ledge beneath the cliffs to the north of the village.

As we rounded the island south of the anchorage, we could see a few yachts already anchored along the cliff that rises 400 feet above the sea. A girl on a surfboard, with two younger kids aboard, was paddling about. We skirted them, gave a friendly wave that they returned, and watched them paddle on. An elderly fisherman in a kayak came by, towing a line. He hollered, “There’s a school of tuna here!” and then paddled on.

Striker’s owner, Richard, was at the helm calling off depths as we creeped in close to the palm-tree-lined cliff. I was on the foredeck, readying the anchor. At 30 feet and no more than 100 yards from shore, Richard put the engine in reverse. The boat slowed to a stop, and I released the anchor and began to play out the chain.

Once the anchor was on the bottom, I let out another 100 feet, deployed the chain brake, climbed out over the bow rail, and put my foot on the chain. This is my standard operating procedure. I can feel the chain vibrate as the slack plays out along the rocky bottom. 

The chain tightened, rose and jumped. I could feel the anchor skip, reset, skip again, set and stay put. Richard gave the boat another nudge astern. The anchor chain raised up in a straight line. The boat stopped. We were here. 

I rigged the snubbing line, let out another few feet of chain to hang slack over the bow roller, and headed back to the cockpit. It was time for rum. Richard prefers punch; I’m an “add tonic” guy. 

As we were settling into the cockpit, a gunmetal gray catamaran charged into the anchorage at 6 knots, narrowly missing the kids on the surfboard and passing over the fisherman’s trolling line.

“That Frenchman has no regard,” Richard said, setting down his drink and heading forward.

“How do you know he’s a Frenchman?” I asked.

“Look at the flag. Besides, who else would be so arrogant?” 

The offending catamaran slowed to a stop just ahead of us. Richard began—nicely, I thought—advising the chap on board that there were kids about and that he’d run over the fisherman’s line.

The man in charge, in French-accented English, replied, “Who are you talking to? Me? Who are you to tell me what to do?”

“Have a little respect for the people that live here,” Richard said.

“You are trying to disrespect me,” the Frenchman replied, adding a string of words that are best not printed here. 

The argument continued for another minute, until the Frenchman became preoccupied with his anchoring. Two things worried me: the catamaran’s proximity and the chap’s anchoring methods.

As it turned out, what I should have been worried about was noise. Richard’s admonishments resulted in loud music playing all night from the catamaran’s aft deck.

April 5

We got underway at first light, motorsailing north along St. Vincent’s wilderness coast. Clouds obscured the summit of Soufriere, yet shafts of sunlight darted in and out of those clouds, spilling down valleys that descended to the sea. The entire northwest coast of the island was a rugged wilderness with no sign of man’s intrusion.

A northeast wind began to fill in as we approached the north tip of the island, motorsailing with a fully reefed main and a bit of the jib unrolled. As anticipated, the wind began in gusts, to 30 knots with seas on the bow. It’s the island effect, bending the prevailing trade wind and seas. We sheeted in and fell off to the northwest as conditions worsened. There was spray over the bow. Water filled the scuppers. For a while, it was a rough ride.

By 9:30, things had settled down. The seas and wind were east at 15 to 18 knots on the beam. We unrolled the main, kept the jib short and charged along at nearly 7 knots on course for the Pitons of St. Lucia, already visible 20 miles ahead.

It’s delightful out here, between the islands. Atlantic swells are on the beam, wind chop ruffles the sea’s surface, and the view is of blue sky with popcorn clouds far off on the horizon. It’s trade-wind sailing at its best. 

One of the charms of this chain is that the islands are strung out north to south in a gentle, 400-mile arch. With the trades blowing easterly (maybe a bit northeast, sometimes a bit southeast for much of the year) it’s a beam reach from Grenada to Antigua. From there, the wind will be on the starboard quarter as you make your way up to Sint Maarten, and all the way up to the British Virgin Islands. At times like this, you wish the sailing could go on forever.

Around noon, a 350-foot tanker with a black hull passed close astern. By 1 p.m., the wind began to move into the southeast, and by 2 we were back motorsailing in St. Lucia’s wind shadow. 

But by now, we were 3.5 miles west of the Pitons, too far out to stop for the night. I was sad, because there is a special anchorage below the northernmost pinnacle. My family and I spent four days anchored there in 2010. Anchoring is tricky, as the bottom falls off precipitously, requiring a stern line run ashore to a boulder or tree. A bunch of kids are usually there to help, for a few local dollars. It’s a short dinghy ride into the village, where there is an open-air market stocked by farmers. Guides and taxi drivers will bring you up the hill to hike or slip into the hot mud pools.

We gave all of that a pass and continued north to St. Lucia’s Rodney Bay.

Richard was restless. Something was bothering him.

“The engine is too hot,” he said, looking at the gauges before heading below.

The only way to shut down Striker’s diesel engine is to open the hatch in the cabin sole and manually pull the fuel shutoff. The pushbutton on the engine’s control panel is inoperative, one of those small details that Richard has not gotten around to fixing.

“I think we may have some sargassum weed in the raw-water strainer!” he hollered from deep in the engine room. 

Richard reached down in the bilge and closed the through-hull fitting that feeds seawater to the engine’s heat exchanger. The strainer is a stainless steel mesh basket inside a brass-and-glass fitting. Richard unscrewed the housing, removed the basket and found a few strands of seagrass. He put the strainer back together and opened the seacock.

Within 10 minutes, we were back under power, motorsailing up the west coast of St. Lucia. We passed along the island’s west coast, the inlet of Marigot, and Castries. Finally, we reached Rodney Bay, just north of the entrance channel leading into the IGY Marina complex. 

Richard went below to shut down the engine, only to discover the engine room partially flooded and the Balmar alternator half submerged.

The raw-water strainer was the culprit. After Richard’s inspection, the lid was improperly seated.

Now what? A brainstorming session in the cockpit.

This boat—like all boats—is electrically dependent. There’s the bilge and fresh-water pumps, refrigeration, the windlass, the autopilot, nav lights, radios, navigation instruments, phone chargers… We had enough juice in the batteries for a day or two if we conserved power. The engine would run without electricity once it started. We could sail. We could hand-steer. And we were anchored off Rodney Bay, one of the Caribbean’s largest marine centers. There had to be someone ashore who could fix the water-soaked alternator.

I opened the Doyle Guides app on my phone, and found Regis Electronics nearby. We now had a game plan for the next morning. We also had a backup. Richard is a resourceful mariner, so he had a spare alternator aboard. He’d retained the factory-installed alternator when he added the higher-output Balmar.

That next morning, while Richard was clearing us in, I went exploring. The inner harbor of Rodney Bay has hints of Fort Lauderdale, with condos and motoryachts. The IGY Marina complex is huge, with floating docks hosting charter fleets, powerboats and transients. Shops and boutiques are all around, including a gelato shop my kids couldn’t stay away from when we were here last. 

It took Richard a good hour to clear in. “There was a line,” he said, joining me at a table in the shade near the dinghy dock. From there, we took the alternator to the shop. It was fried. Not fixable.

Back in the shade, Richard called Hamilton Marine, our favorite chandlery in Maine. He knew the alternator guy, and the store had an exact replacement on the shelf. They could ship it down. Richard called a friend in Maine who was planning to join him when we reached Antigua. He asked if she could bring it down with her.

With that problem solved, we headed back out to the boat for lunch. Then, Richard installed the original alternator.

We needed a few things, so back into the lagoon we went. We found the supermarket and stocked up for a few days.

Late afternoon, about rum time, a guy named Gregory came by the boat for a chat in his floating farmers’ market. I remembered him from years ago, with his baskets of fruits and vegetables, all under a palm-thatched awning. He sold us a loaf of his daughter’s banana bread.

The next morning, with the engine purring below, we raised the anchor and prepared to get underway. Richard increased the revs to 2,000 rpm, and then the alternator belt screamed.

We looked at each other. Now what?

The post A Rumble Below appeared first on Cruising World.

When I first sailed the Lesser Antilles islands in the late 1970s, I listened to the morning weather broadcast from Radio Antilles. It came on every morning at 8:05, from an AM radio station on Montserrat. “Today’s weather will see winds south of east to north of east, from 12 to 18 knots, with higher gusts. Occasional showers. No significant change is anticipated over the next 48 hours.”

I swear, it was the same recording we heard every morning. 

The trade winds do blow, with predictable regularity, from the northeast to southeast all year long. There’s an occasional deviation: the passage of a hurricane or a few days of calm. There is a wet season in the summer, a dry season in the winter, and short periods of stronger winds—the Christmas winds—in late December through early January.

Still, after 25 years of sailing here, here are my words of warning: You can get lulled into complacency amid these islands. It’s part of their charm. But then you pay for it when the winds kick up.

Christmas Winds

A few years ago, at the end of a delivery from Antigua, I had anchored off the charming village of Sainte-Anne on Martinique. Something awakened me at first light. Still half asleep, I plodded to the companionway.

When I emerged into the cockpit, the weather was blowing like stink. I looked through the dodger window to see hundreds of whitecaps marching toward us. They were only a foot or so high, but they were steep, deep and sharp. They didn’t really bother the 54-foot sloop I was on, but the dinghy astern was dancing a jig.

Then, I heard the surrounding noises. There was a hum throughout the boat as the wind strummed a tune in the rigging, rising in pitch as the wind increased. Other noises mixed in: the snapping of the ensign astern, the flapping of the sail cover, the high-pitched whine of the wind generators above the aft arch.

I switched on the nav instruments. The wind indicator hovered between 20 and 25, then scooted up to 30 as a gust hit. This is a moderate gale on the Beaufort scale.

It was late January. The Christmas winds had arrived—late.

I thought it would blow like this for a few days, but rarely a week. It’s all academic, I told myself. What were the practical implications? Getting ashore in the dinghy would be a wet ride. I was reluctant to leave the boat on its own.

By the time I looked again, the RIB tied off astern was bouncing like a pony trying to throw its halter. The painter couldn’t take too much more before it would tear the ring out of the boat. I had elected to anchor way out at the edge of the field, for privacy and an unrestricted sunset view. That means the easterly wind had a longer fetch to build up these nasty waves.

I hauled in the RIB and tied on a longer painter, figuring more scope might reduce the snapping. It didn’t. Closer in? That didn’t work either.

Other boaters had come to the same conclusion. We all needed to haul our RIBs out of the water. Some had davits; others, like me, had to use a halyard or stow the thing on deck. 

That done, I checked the anchor chain. As the boat was driven back in a gust, the anchor chain straightened out, and the snubber came taught and stretched out. I had dived on the anchor when I first set it and was confident it would hold, but I wondered if I might awake one morning on my way to Honduras.

I watched as two French bareboats attempted to re-anchor. It didn’t go well. The wind was driving them sideways so fast that the anchors never had a chance to set.

The Christmas winds—we’d all just have to sit tight.

Island Effects

The tall mountains of the larger Caribbean islands block the trade winds, creating a wind shadow to leeward. These shadows can extend out to sea for 10 to 20 miles, which means a lot of motoring as you make your way south or north along the island’s flank. It can be a welcoming experience after bashing through the open Atlantic between the islands.

As I was sailing north from the Grenadines up to Antigua last April, I was aboard Richard Thomas’s Reliance 44 cutter. We’d left Prince Rupert Bay on Dominica that morning and were sailing north, west of Îles des Saintes. It was mid-afternoon when we ran into Guadeloupe’s wind shadow. We were about 5 miles offshore and had to proceed under power.

Then, I spied three sailboats, close in with the shore, sailing north, their sails full. Could there be a westerly sea breeze at play? 

“It is possible to make way under sail in the lee of the High Islands?” Don Street writes in his Transatlantic Crossing Guide (my copy is from 1989). “Most sailors assume there will be a total lull close to shore, so they pass 3 to 4 miles off—which is just where you find absolutely no wind. But there is a way to skirt along the lee shore of these high islands, which I discovered in a book of 18th-century sailing directions. There are three recommended ways of passing the islands: at seven leagues (21 miles offshore) or else close enough to be within two pistol shots of the beach.” 

The historian Dudley Pope explains that a pistol shot was a recognized term of measurement in those days and appears frequently in accounts of naval battles. It’s the equivalent of 25 yards.

“So stay within 50 yards offshore,” Street continues. “Which may be a bit closer than you want, but not by much. You stand a good chance of enjoying a smooth, scenic sail the length of the high island. The best time to try this is between 1000 and 1600. After 1600, the breeze falls off rapidly.”

He continues: “During the day, as the land heats up, you’ll sometimes pick up a westerly onshore breeze right up to the beach, counter to the trades, which continue to blow to the west higher up. Alternately at night, the cool air falls down off the hills, often providing a beautiful moonlight sail along the beach.”

This is one of the tricks savvy sailors use when sailing along Hispaniola and Puerto Rico’s north coasts.

“Dawn and dusk are the only times when there is absolutely no wind in the lee of these islands.” Street goes on. “I would say that, except for these times, you’ll be successfully sailing the lee shore about 75 percent of the time. Of course you can always sail up and down the islands, passing to windward of them.”

Night Winds

It’s those night winds Don writes about that concern me most.

Anchored in the delightful harbor of Deshaies on the northwestern tip of Guadeloupe, I’ve experienced these night winds numerous times. All is fine as you nestle in at anchor, and then the winds begin around 2 a.m. Easterly blasts of cool air traveling at 30 knots barrel down through the mountain valley, and through town and the harbor, testing your ground tackle and anchoring skills.

I lay awake in the cockpit, one eye on a fixed light ashore to see if we were dragging. 

“These are katabatic winds,” Chris Doyle told me recently. “Heavy cold air at the mountaintops slides down the slopes in the valleys and out to sea, resulting in a westerly airflow at the sea surface.”

Island Wind Refraction

Refraction is the phenomenon by which waves—light, radio, sound and sometimes ocean waves, currents and wind—bend when meeting an obstacle and curve away from their original path. That obstacle can be an island.

When sailing south one season on Searcher, my 57-foot Bowman ketch, we motored down the lee shore of Dominica with plans to anchor in Saint-Pierre on the northeast tip of Martinique for the night. As we approached the southern tip of Dominica, we began to experience a south-southeast wind, and I fell off to the west southwest. Swells were behaving the same way.

Five miles later, the wind and waves started to come back to the east, and we corrected our course to the south. By this time, we were too far west and in no position to fetch Saint-Pierre. Then, I figured we’d experience the same effect, in reverse, as we reached the northern tip of Martinique. The winds did bend to the north, and we were able to correct our course and make it in.

This effect occurs around many of the islands’ northern and southern tips. Tides also play a part. Even if only a foot or 2, a foul tide can also kick up a nasty chop when running counter to the prevailing wind. 

During last April’s voyage, north up the coast of Guadeloupe, we decided not to duck into Deshaies for the night. We could make the anchorage off Jolly Harbor on Antigua by midnight. As we were rounding the northern tip of Guadeloupe, we encountered confused seas and strong, gusty winds. It was frustrating and uncomfortable.

I’ve experienced this before; the winds get channeled between the main island landmass and two small islands off the tip of Pointe Allegre. After a while, things settled down, and progress could be made. By the time we got the anchor down off the beach in Jolly Harbor, it was 2 in the morning.

No Wind

Occasionally there are days of no wind at all. Larry Tyler, owner and skipper on the charter yacht The Dove, has been sailing these islands for more than 30 years. Recently, he told me, “The only thing that comes to mind is that every year once or twice, the winds die down completely and then suddenly you get a westerly wind blowing you on to beach, if you are anchored too close.

Last April, during the Antigua Classic Yacht Regatta, the first day’s race was a drifting competition in calm conditions. The sea was like a mirror.

Hurricanes

Every summer and fall, from June through mid-November, these islands are visited by a series of tropical waves. Before some of these waves reach the islands, they may turn into tropical storms with winds as high as 70 knots. As they accumulate energy and build strength, they turn into hurricanes, with winds in excess of 70 knots.

The whirling winds, rain, surges and waves pass through the island chain quickly, normally moving along at 12 knots. They come and are gone in less than a day, but the devastation they leave behind can be extreme. 

Hurricane Beryl came through the Grenadians last July, destroying 70 percent of the homes on Carriacou and Union Island, and severely damaging the remaining 30 percent. The peak of hurricane season is September, after the summer sun has heated up the Atlantic surface water, leading to enhanced evaporation, the fuel that drives a hurricane.

Thankfully, these days we have excellent sources to find out what’s coming.

The post Understanding Wind in the West Indies appeared first on Cruising World.

Someone has stolen the trade winds. 

It’s Easter Weekend, and I’m aboard Strider, Richard Thomason’s Reliance 44 cutter. We are anchored in Tyrell Bay on the small island of Carriacou. It’s been windless for days. Don Street writes that it’s just a “typical April calm,” but this lack of an easterly breeze has also stolen the natural air conditioning we’ve come to expect in the West Indian Islands. 

So, it’s also hot. Yesterday, the temperature on deck was 94. Below, it was in the high 80s. By mid-afternoon, with the boat anchored facing east, the cockpit was wide open to the afternoon sun. I found myself moving around in search of what little shade the Bimini top could afford. Everybody was complaining except Richard, who thrives in this heat. There was Sahara dust in the air, and it hadn’t rained in a month. The normally green hills were brown. April had become the new July.

Richard and I spent just two days on this laid-back island. We could have spent a month, but it was time to get moving. We both wanted to get to Antigua for the Classic Yacht Regatta at the end of the month. Time was a-wasting. 

Monday, April 2

We were off the hook just as the sun peeked over the Carriacou hills. Both of us have data feeds on our iPhones. Richard is on AT&T. I‘m using Spectrum. He has access to PredictWind. I’m partial to Windy. We wrangled over which was better, but we had to agree: getting up to Bequia would not be easy.

The wind would be light today, northeast tomorrow—not conducive to sailing up-wind back to Bequia for fuel. But we could make Chatham Bay on the west side of Union Island. It’s only 8 miles. Under power, we were there by 10:15, tucked into the northern end of the cove, with the anchor down 20 feet in a sandy bottom. We’d lounge here until the wind became more favorable. It was time to take a swim in the clear water.

Chatham Bay is one of those anchorages you dream about. The hills descend to a gently curved beach, fringed by palms. There’s not a vacation home in sight, no condos or adult-only resorts, just a scattering of beach bars and barbecue shacks catering to the visiting charter guests who drop in. There is a dirt road over the hills into town, but a few years ago, Chatham Bay was isolated, accessible only by foot or boat. 

Hiking trails take you to lookouts above the bay, where the entire Grenadines spreads out before you. When we arrived, there were just two other boats anchored in the cove—by evening, two dozen had arrived. As the sun set, a beach bar was pumping out loud music, and crews were heading in for another night of partying.

We were tempted to join them, but since we were “just waiting for a wind shift,” we had foregone the formality of clear-in at Clifton. We were here “in transit.”

Tuesday, April 3 

As we left the lee of Union Island, the morning northeast wind appeared slightly more favorable, but fetching Bequia was still going to be rough. If we managed to make 4 knots, it would take us six hours to cover the 25 miles. 

Then there was a west-setting current of a knot. In 10 hours, that would push us 6 miles west of our course, not to mention any leeway. The wind was forward of the beam, and the seas were on the bow. It was slow going and wet.

We shouldered on. 

It was a pleasure to watch a man sail his boat. Richard had been single-handing Strider for a few years, and he knew intuitively what the boat needed and liked. He tucked in a reef on the main and tweaked the head sail, which reduced the weather helm. It’s a one-man job. He left me to tend the helm.

The boat settled down on a northerly tack. We had most of the day with little to do, so he and I got to talking about the boats we’ve owned and the women we’ve loved. 

“Strider was built in Montreal in 1992,” he said. “She’s a 44-foot hand-laid fiberglass cutter designed by Pierre Munier and built by Reliance Sailing Craft Co., Ltd. They built 44 of them, starting in the late ’70s through the mid-’90s.

“There are still quite a few of them around,” he continued. “I know of two. I found this one down in North Carolina, just before Covid. It had been neglected for a while, so I cleaned her up and brought her home to Maine. I spent a good year refitting her. I replaced the engine, removed all of the plastic teak from the deck, installed non-skid decking, and then stripped and revarnished the brightwork. I removed years’ worth of bottom paint and painted the topsides. I tore out a lot of wiring, went through all the systems, and spent money and time replacing or updating all the electronics. Now, the autopilot, chart plotter, radios—everything is integrated. Afterwards, there was a lot of cleaning and painting.”

“You’re not finished?” I asked.

“There is still a lot to do,” he said. “I have to get back to Maine for the summer.”

“Did you have to redo any of the cabin work?”

“No. The original owner, a cabinetmaker from Toronto, did a fantastic job below.”

To this, I had to agree. The interior has hand-rubbed, varnished teak and off-white cream accents. The forward stateroom has a V-berth with an opening hatch overhead, along with lockers and drawers for stowage. The main cabin has a U-shape dining table opposite a settee. The nav station is across from the galley, which has a three-burner stove, oven, refrigerator, freezer and dual sink. Aft are head and hanging locker for wet foulies. Adjacent to the companionway are two berths, port and a starboard, one with a door and vanity. Richard uses the starboard berth, which has a draw curtain, as his toolshed.

Strider is indeed a well-put-together boat. On the exterior, the stem has a graceful angle that leads down to the water, while the sheer sweeps elegantly from the bow to the stern. The transom is flat with just the right space for the nameplate and home port. 

“She handles well,” I said from the helm.

Richard tucked himself into the forward end of the cockpit to leeward. “She’ll do 6 knots, constantly, even 7, maybe a little over 7,” he said.

This is what I was experiencing, plus Strider is fairly comfortable in the  seaways. She does not bounce.

“She’s a heavy boat,” he added. “She has a long keel and an entrapped prop. The rudder is hung off the aft end of the keel.

“I hesitate to say it,” he said with a pause, “but I’ve never had a problem picking up trap lines. She sails right over them. But she has her drawbacks. I suppose every boat does. She’s wet. The helmsman catches spray in a good blow, so I had new canvas and side curtains made. She’s so well fitted together that it can be a chore to access anything.”

“What are the things you like about the boat?” I asked. 

“I like that everything’s set up for single-handed sailing,” he replied. “All of the halyards, sheets and furling lines lead directly back into the cockpit. Everything’s right at your fingertips. There’s a button to push to furl or unfurl the jib. When I first sailed her, I did have a problem with the in-boom furling. The boom needs to be exactly perpendicular to the mast for the battened sail to wind in properly. Once I fix the vang, it works perfectly. The main sail is old, and occasionally the bolt rope slips out of the groove going up the mast. It’s critical not to be furling or reefing in 30 knots of wind.”

Richard then sat in silence for a while before adding: “She’s certainly not a super-expensive or fancy yacht, but she’s really, really nicely laid out, nicely put together. She turns heads wherever she goes. I get compliments in every harbor. ‘Beautiful,’ they tell me.

She is a beautiful boat.”

“But you still want to sell it?” I asked.

“I do.” 

“Why?” 

”It’s not really the boat I want to live on for the rest of my life,” he said.

Sure, it might be nice to have a boat that requires less work, but why own a boat if not to take care of it? A man needs something to work on—something requiring physical work—with his hands and tools. The intellect can sit back and watch as something wonderful comes to life, like the shape of a piece of wood or the glow of a well-laid coat of varnish. It brings balance to life. 

But Richard makes his living with his hands. He’s a builder and renovator of wealthy people’s summer homes in Maine.

“Be nice to have a midship cockpit,” he says, “and a large bed in the aft cabin.”

I’ve owned four sailboats over 50 years. They each required a lot of work, money and time, especially the two wooden ones. When I bought my last boat, Searcher, a 57-foot Bowman ketch, she was already 20 years old and had more systems than I needed for cruising. I tore them out and kept only the basics.

On Searcher’s last voyage through these islands, 14 years ago, we hand-steered—all the way down, back and through the islands. The out-of-date autopilot was too expensive to replace. We had $700 worth of ice instead of $5,000 worth of new refrigeration. Even those things felt like conveniences. During my earlier voyages in these islands, before chart plotters, I relied on a sextant, a hand-bearing compass and a log to plot dead-reckoning positions. In the late 1990s, I found one of the first Garmin GPS receivers. It was easier than taking noon sights, better than Loran and even better than the first satellite receivers that took four hours to calculate a fix. I was still using paper charts in those days. On more recent deliveries, I have relied on Navionics on my smartphone.

Back to sailing on Striker: Our course up to Bequia would have been a pleasant romp in a southeasterly breeze, but this was a strange season. It was a day of hard, wet work fighting our way to Bequia. Strider was making progress against the wind and seas, with spray over the bow. Occasionally, the lee scuppers would fill, and I was getting wet hand-steering for most of the day, fore-reaching.

It was late afternoon when we finally arrived in Admiralty Bay’s inner harbor. First things first: ashore for a shower, laundry and a rum punch at Daffodils’s bar. Over 20 years, this establishment has become a restaurant and bar with rooms to rent and a floating filling station.

The next morning, April 4, while Richard was at the post office officially clearing us in and out of St. Vincent and the Grenadines, I was at the ATM extracting more Eastern Caribbean currency. We had provisioning to do. Back out on the boat, the boys brought Daffodil’s yellow-and-red floating filling station alongside and tied off. It took half an hour to top up Strider’s fuel and water tanks, and fill our spare jugs.

Richard settled up, we cast them off, got the anchor up and were underway before noon.

It would be 18 miles to our next anchorage in Chateaubelair, a small village halfway up the west side of St. Vincent. We’d be there before sunset.

The post Caribbean Cruising: Wind Woes in the Grenadines appeared first on Cruising World.

Earlier this year, I was sailing through the Caribbean with Richard Thomas on his classic 44-foot cutter Strider. We were on our way from Union Island to Carriacou. Richard and I, both from Maine, are partial to wooden sailboats. We wanted to visit the shipwrights on Carriacou who still build boats the-old fashioned way.  

We rounded Jack Iron Point, a craggy cliff on the southeastern tip of the island, bound for Tyrell Bay. A hundred boats were anchored or moored along the half-mile beach. We found an open spot, launched the dinghy and went ashore.

While Richard handled the customs paperwork, I checked out Carriacou Marina. It has a storage yard with a Travelift. There’s a crowded dinghy dock, a mini-mart, laundry, showers, a chandlery and Las Iguanas Restaurant. The storage yard seemed full, with small yachts and fishing boats on the hard. I saw large blocks of concrete, but no tie-downs in the ground, and no hurricane pits.

Similarly, at Tyrell Bay Marina, we found a large storage space and a Travelift, but also a dozen catamarans and a dozen yachts on poppets. None of the boats were tied down, and there were no hurricane pits.

This is worrisome, I thought at the time, having survived my share of bad storms in the Caribbean throughout the years. But no major hurricane had hit Carriacou in 20 years. The last one, Ivan, was in 2004.

We walked along the village road, where a few knock-together bars and barbecue shacks sat along the beach. We found a lot for boaters to like on Carriacou—two air-conditioned and well-stocked supermarkets, a dive shop, a general store, a sail and canvas shop, and a few restaurants—but we wanted to find the wooden boatbuilders.

On the east side of the island, we saw two wooden fishing boats under construction, beneath the trees on the beach. But no one was around.

Alas, our hopes were dashed. I was back in Maine by early May. Richard sailed Strider north to Bermuda.

And then, Hurricane Beryl swept through the Grenadines, destroying much of what we’d seen on Carriacou.

Jonathan Petramala, a YouTube documentarian with WxChasing, flew into Carriacou the day before Beryl hit. He and his team also toured the island the day after Beryl. They talked with locals, who helped to document the destruction. Many of the lovely locations I’d photographed during my visit were wrecked or outright gone.

The cruising community is doing what it can to help. Lexi Fisher from Doyle Guides assembled a list of relief organizations accepting donations. Caribbean Compass and Cruising World magazines spread the word too. The US and the European Union pledged millions of dollars in immediate aid.

Cruisers on the less-affected islands headed to Carriacou with supplies. Samaritan’s Purse, a relief organization, sent a portable distillation system to extract fresh drinking water from seawater. Once the airport reopened, the islands’ governor flew in to survey the damage.

Hurricane Beryl was a category 4 storm with winds of 140 knots. It will be years before things return to normal on Carriacou.

I hope the wooden-boat builders don’t give up. And I hope that, someday, I get a chance to return and meet them.

The post Paradise Pummeled appeared first on Cruising World.

In the Eastern Caribbean, as you sail from island to island, you are sailing from country to country. There will be customs and immigration paperwork at each stop. If you visit even a few islands, you’ll be clearing in when you arrive, clearing out when you leave, and then doing it all over again.

Each island has slightly different procedures. It’s enough to try your patience. Plan to spend at least an hour at each office—or longer, if there’s a line. Bring the ship’s documents, crew and passenger passports, and the exit paperwork from the last island.

The Doyle Guides app spells out a procedure for each island, with regularly updated information. (Printed guidebooks get updated every two years.) NoonSite also has details about the process worldwide. Most individual islands have a Facebook page, too.

The Virgin Islands

All yachts arriving in the US Virgin Islands need to check in and register with customs and the Department of Homeland Security. On St. Thomas, that’s done at the airport or at the facility inside Cruz Bay on St. John.

Try not to go in when a ferry from the British Virgin Islands is there. There’s not much dock space, so pick up a park mooring outside and take the dinghy in.

In the BVI, use SailClear (see below) to begin the process, then go ashore to the offices on Tortola, at West End and Road Town. 

All About SailClear

English-speaking islands use this online customs declaration form that is accepted at most ports of entry throughout the Caribbean and Bermuda—minus Antigua, the Bahamas and the French islands.

Annual registration costs $25. Once you have filled out the form with basic information such as the yacht’s name, crew and guest names, and passport information, it’s all still there the next time you need it.

This form is sent in prior to your arrival, but sometimes, a system is down and you still have to fill in the information by hand, in person.

Antigua uses a slightly different system, called eSeaClear. On the French islands of Guadeloupe and Martinique, if you understand French, you can clear customs online through dedicated websites. Or, anchor the boat, take the crew ashore in the dinghy, and let the crew start shopping while you clear in at a computer terminal in town. After pressing the send button and paying a few euros for the service, you will receive a printed cruise permit that is valid for several months.

On the French side of Saint-Martin, you’ll find a computer terminal in one of the chandleries ashore. Should you pick up a mooring in Marigot, you have to check in at Port de Gailsby and pay a 35-euro fee. You’ll also have to complete an online form prior to visiting the office. On the Dutch side of the island, you’ll need the paperwork from your last port of call, proof of insurance, ship’s papers, a crew list and passports. There’s a bridge fee for entering the lagoon. Once in, you can pass between the Dutch and French sides of the island by foot, car or dinghy without checking in or out.

On the French island of St. Barts, you can begin the process online. You will be given a passcode to use in person at the port office. Or, you can use the computer terminal there. If you’re only staying for 24 hours, you can clear out at the same time.

Antigua has four ports of entry, but clearing in at Jolly Harbour is cheaper than at English Harbour or Falmouth, where you have to pay additional park fees. You can anchor outside Jolly Harbour and take the dinghy in. Fill out the eSeaClear (different from eSailClear) form online and send it in. There are four offices you need to check in with: health, customs, immigration and the port office. Expect to spend a few bucks, and an hour or more.

No matter where you clear in on Antigua, if you plan to sail around to English or Falmouth harbors, where all the action is, you’re supposed to go ashore to customs at Nelsons’ Dockyard and pay the park fee.

The French Islands

You will need to check in at each island. On Guadeloupe, the first port is Deshaies. The French do not accept eSailClear, but they do accept an online form. In Les Saintes, a customs computer is in the building just south of the ferry landing.

Dominica

Submit the SailClear form before arriving. If you’re stopping at Portsmouth, call the Portsmouth Association of Yacht Security on VHF radio channel 16 as you enter the bay. Someone will come out, show you the mooring, collect the $15 mooring fee and take care of the clearing-in process for a fee.

You can also do this yourself, down at the commercial dock a few miles south of town. You can clear in and check out at the same time if you are staying for only a few days.

Martinique

Sailing south from Dominica, Saint-Pierre is the first port on Martinique. The customs terminal is in the town hall at the end of the park, by the town dock. You can also clear in at Fort De France, Saint-Anne and Le Marin. Use the online form.

St. Lucia

Anchor out in Rodney Bay and take the dinghy in, or call ahead to secure a berth at the marina. You’ll find the health office on the first floor, and customs and immigration on the second floor. Before you arrive, submit your SailClear form, or use their terminal to complete it. You can also check in at Marigot and Soufriere.

St. Vincent and the Grenadines 

In Chateaubelair, there is a customs and immigration office. It’s a rather relaxed process, if you can find the house and someone at home.

There is no office in Cumberland Bay; you’ll have to stop in at Wallilabou Bay or Kingstown to clear in. Whichever port, use SailClear.

On Bequia, the post office across from the ferry terminal is where you’ll find customs and immigration. If you plan to visit the Tobago Cays, obtain a permit here. Once cleared in, you are good for the rest of the Grenadines down to Union Island. If you are heading farther south to Carriacou and Grenada, then you need to clear out of the Grenadines on Union Island. The office is in a green, single-story building across from the garbage dump.

Carriacou and Grenada

You can clear in at Tyrell Bay on Carriacou. The office is at the marina. Once cleared in at Carriacou, you are not required to clear in at Grenada.

Final Tips

Go in dressed like a professional yachtsman, not some Captain Ron on vacation. Know the process for each island. Be prepared with the right paperwork. Have enough of the local currency on hand.

The easier you make the process for the agent, the faster the process will go.

The post A Guide to Cruising Paperwork appeared first on Cruising World.

There’s always a feeling of excitement mixed with a twinge of anxiety as the mooring pendant drops, or the anchor is catted, and a voyage begins. What do they say? The thrill in adventure is just this side of terror.

This time, it was the Friday before Easter. Any savvy sailor knows that you never begin a voyage on a Friday, not even on Good Friday.

Our plan was for a quick hop from Bequia down to the Tobago Cays, then to clear customs at Union Island, and then to head to nearby Carriacou. We wanted to visit the shipwrights who still build wooden boats the old way. We would begin our real voyage northward, up through the Lesser Antilles, the following week.

The wind was light as we headed out of Bequia’s Admiralty Bay and motored past Moonhole, an abandoned villa carved into the cliffs along the bay’s southern rampart. We rounded Western Cay with the dinghy tagging along behind and headed south-southwest, aiming for the island of Canouan. This string of islands in St. Vincent and the Grenadines stretches for 30 miles and has a lot going for it. The islands are all within sight of one another, all within an easy beam reach, and each different, with anchorages, communities ashore and great diving. It’s a smaller version of the British Virgin Islands.

I consulted my copy of Chris Doyle’s Guide to the Windward Islands as a lazy swell came from the east, barely noticeable on the calm, flat sea. With the sails rolled up and the autopilot set, the boat’s owner and I settled into the cockpit for the two-hour passage to Canouan.

Lounging there in the cockpit, under the dodger and Bimini top, I found much to like about this 30-year-old yacht. It was quality-built, with a lot of thought put into the design. Handholds were where you wanted them; the push-pit surrounded the cockpit; stout stainless steel rails extended forward to midship; and 30-inch-high lifelines ran forward from there. The decks were uncomplicated. The anchor platform on the bow was well planned. There was a good-size windlass with a chain break. A single bow roller housed the Rocna anchor. There was room on the foredeck to strap down the dinghy offshore.

I was happy to be aboard as Bequia dropped astern and two small islands appeared 2 miles off to port: Petit Nevis and Isle à Quatre. On the horizon, 5 miles farther east, was Mustique, a hideaway for royalty and the jet set. (Neither of us were appropriately attired for a visit.) Ahead, Canouan was visible, and beyond that, the rugged peaks of Union Island, looking like a gateway to Jurassic Park, only 24 miles away.

Canouan was one of the poorest islands in the Caribbean when I anchored there 15 years ago. Then, hotel developers expanded the airport to accommodate private jets. The residents now have a slightly higher standard of living. Grand Bay is the main harbor and anchorage, but we kept going.

Back in 2010, my family and I spent an overnight near here. It was a night to remember. We had anchored in 16 feet of water, off the Tamarind Beach Hotel’s dock near The Moorings charter base. The wind began to whistle down through the valleys. Gusts were heeling our 57-foot ketch. I had 100 feet of chin out on a 70-pound Bruce, but we were creeping ever closer to a catamaran anchored astern.

I got the kids (then 9 and 11) out of bed to help. The spare bow anchor was a 45-pound Danforth on 30 feet of chain and 200 feet of five-eighths nylon rode. While I brought the RIB around to the bow, the kids untied the Danforth and pulled out the chain and rode from below. They lowered the Danforth over the bow rollers as I guided it into the dink and then motored out 100 feet or more, with the kids paying out the line. Eventually, I slipped the anchor over the side—none of that anchor-throwing stuff for me.

Back aboard, we took in the rode until the anchor chain was slack. The kids were too excited to sleep, as was I. Throughout the night, the wind plucked out a tune in the boat’s rigging.

I thought about that memory as my current ride, Striker, rounded Canouan’s west end. We headed for the next small island, Mayreau, 4 miles away. On its northern tip is a perfect little anchorage, Salt Whistle Bay (more of a cove, really). Its palm-fringed beach and scattering of bars and restaurants make it too popular for those looking to get away from the crowd.

We were heading for an even more magical spot in the Tobago Cays. As we approached, I went forward and sat on the pulpit to watch the water change from deep, offshore blue to pale, with the seabed visible 30 feet below. The pale blue nearly changed to white as we approached the beach. Brown patches denoted coral heads and reefs. This was one lovely and lonely piece of the Caribbean, with only an open sea to the horizon in the distance.

It was late March with the season drawing to a close, but there were two powerboats and a dozen or more sailboats anchored. When I had last come through, it was late January with dozens of boats and beaches full of people.

My preference would be to anchor off the beach at Petit St. Vincent, a private resort that’s far from the crowds, yet within a short dinghy ride to excellent snorkeling. We passed Palm Island, with its resort and villas, and ended up in Clifton Harbor. I had been here a few times, including in 2010 after a month in Grenada.

Back then, we had planned to stop at Union Island for the night. While looking for a spot to anchor, a helpful West Indian chap had come along side in his pirogue, inquiring if we needed a mooring.

“How much?” I asked.

“100 EC.” About $60.

“Too much. We’ll anchor. Thank you, though.”

My new friend was persistent, and we settled for about $30.

“Where?” I asked.

“Follow me.”

He led us to a mooring right in front of the yacht club’s pier. How convenient. I gave him the fee, thanked him, and off he went in his colorful fishing boat. My family climbed into our RIB and went ashore to clear in.

Back on board that afternoon, as I was settling in with a rum and tonic, a day-charter catamaran approached with a woman on the bow. She shouted for us to get off the mooring. My kids ran forward to drop our mooring line as I started the engine, and we circled the harbor, searching for a spot to anchor. By the time our boat was secure, I was fuming.

I spied the pirogue tied to the fishermen’s dock, jumped into our RIB and sped ashore.

“I think he’s at his mother’s place,” an elderly chap told me. “Here, Bert will take you.”

I climbed into a nearby taxi. Off we went—first to his mother’s house, then to his wife’s, then to his girlfriend’s and, finally, back to the pier. My “friend” was waiting. He handed me a $100 EC bill. 

“You got change?” he asked. 

I ignored him and headed for my dinghy. He followed. We climbed into our respective boats. He circled our sailboat. My kids hid behind the staysail bag on the foredeck while I argued the taxi fare, the illegal mooring rental, and the unfairness of it all.

After a while, he realized I wasn’t going to give him the money. He left. I lay awake in the cockpit most of the night, fearing retaliation.

But back to today. 

This time, as we passed the harbor entrance buoy, a pirogue with two teenage boys roared up along the side. The taller boy at the engine yelled: “Do you want a mooring?”

“How much?”

“For you, I give you a discount. Usually $150EC. Today, it’s $100.”

“Too much,” I replied.

He lowered his price.

“Done. Now where?”

“Follow me.”

They led us to a sorry-looking buoy with an encrusted pendant. We passed one of our lines through the eye of the foul-looking thing. I paid the boys and they took off.

Not trusting the mooring, I donned a mask and snorkel. I swam down the mooring line to the bottom, where it disappeared into the mud. It looked as if it had been there for a century.

We dinghied ashore, tied up at the yacht club, and walk into town, through a bazaar of colorful awnings, umbrellas and tents above everything from jewelry, bikinis and vegetables to artwork and fruit.

We couldn’t resist the two-story Tipsy Turtle. We tucked into a booth on the upstairs porch, ordered rum punches, and surveyed the scene below.  

Tomorrow, we would hop over to Carriacou and clear in.

We could see it from where we sat—only half a day from Bequia, yet in another world.

The post A World Away: Cruising the Tobago Cays appeared first on Cruising World.