The Queen has reached La Cruz de Huanacaxtle on Bahía Banderas, Mexico after 29 days at sea and over 2000+ nautical miles of little wind, or wind from the wrong direction. After using half our fuel supply to reach an area of expected winds, there was still none, so we opted to motor-sail toward Cabo for a refuel. Now here, after much longer time that we expected to be at this latitude, we’ve spent the past two days reassessing our plans to head north.

Maxwell needs to get to Bristol Bay, Alaska by mid-June, and we simply do not have enough time to sail the boat to Seattle between now and that time. The plan as it stands is to get the boat to San Diego, California and leave it there while he and I both head back to work. The Queen will make her way to Seattle at the next northbound sailing season, which is said to be in November.

We wish we didn’t have to leave La Cruz; its cobblestone roads, friendly people, and fantastic food (not to mention the incredible climate) have already wrapped their tendrils around us in the past 48 hours of being here.

The next leg should be quite a ride, it’s considered the “Baja Bash” as northbound boaters are faced with big winds and waves right on the nose the whole way up. We plan to take the near inshore route, cruising close to the Baja Peninsula where there should be relatively lighter winds if we hug close enough. In addition to that, we will be able to take safe anchorage if and when necessary. What this means is that we’ll be taking advantage of the diurnal wind patterns, with a lot of nighttime navigating… say hello to nocturnal sleep schedules!

We’ve taken the bow sprit plank off, as we expect to be bashing into plenty waves. Yesterday we tuned and tightened the rig and finished lashing everything down topside, and after one last taco and cocktail on land we will shove off for quite a ride.

See you in San Diego!

Posted by Janelle’s sister Monica as received in 160 character parts from satellite device.

After a relaxing and mostly steady first week, our pace has slowed to a crawl as we practice patience in a vast ocean of negligible wind. We had motored northwest to get ourselves out of the “no wind zone”, using almost an entire tank of diesel (of two tanks total). Making this choice meant that we would not run the engine again until absolutely necessary (i.e. once we reach “The Pacific High”) and in the meantime would sail while we could and drift while we couldn’t. Of this past week, we’ve had about four full days of simply drifting.

In the meantime, we’ve continued to make a valiant effort at staying cool, with frequent bucketfuls of saltwater poured over ourselves in the cockpit. We’ve been visited by an enormous whale—our guess is either blue or grey whale just by sheer size—who came to make a loop around our boat before turning back to his course one afternoon. We’ve become a shady respite for a variety of small fish and a small sea turtle, as well as a floating home for a confused black sea bird and one finch-like bird (RIP little finch, May 9, 2019).

The other day, with the glassy and endlessly deep (~13,000 feet) water all around us, we were just about to set up the swim ladder to dive in when, coming up toward us from about 20 feet away were three sharks. From our vantage they appeared to be about 4-5’ long and of course solid grey. Laughing in disbelief, fear, and gratitude, we agreed that we wouldn’t swim. Then along back came the three sharks, with two more friends. Our decision was confirmed without hesitation.

Above: dolphins playing alongside the boat (apologies for the rotation issue)

We have our sights set on a mid-June arrival to Seattle, and we’re trying not spend too much time recalculating our arrival should this slog of a pace continue. We are maintaining a hopeful outlook that the winds will soon enough be in our favor and we’ll be sailing along to our hearts content.

May 5, 2019

Posted by Janelle’s sister Monica as received in 160 character parts from satellite device

Setting off from Panama City was much like many of the other departures we’ve experienced in this cruising life: running around town with our lists and freezer bags gathering supplies and food, cramming as many land-based delectables into our tummies as possible (is there such thing as too much ice cream?) and watching the weather patterns for the areas we’ll soon be alone in. But Panama, in its unique blend of residual Americanized bureaucracy and American nonchalance, held a special brew of frustration for us sailors from the first few days there until the very last moments within its reach.

Escaping the tendrils of Panama City’s commercial and governmental obstacle course, our final wave of farewell was given by the Canal’s Flamenco signal station controller as we radioed to them of our departure through the traffic control zone waters. The pleasant wishes for a safe voyage affirmed our perspective that dealing with the Panama Canal Authority far exceeded those with the government or the general commerce in terms of cordiality and professionalism. With that, we settled into the cockpit with the twinkling city skyline to our backs and the equally twinkling skyline of massive ships to our bow.

Not paying too close of attention to our surroundings as we eeked out the remains of cell phone and internet reception, suddenly I was hearing a very high pitched yet faint “chirp”. Looking around, we realized that we were within 20’ of a buoy whose flashing white light chirped when it  flicked on and off. Note taken, phones down.

Halfway through the night, I was roused awake from my “sleep shift” to the same chirping noise. What in the world? We were miles and miles from shore and there were no obstacles shown on the chart… poking my head up on deck we peered into the darkness to decipher what we could be missing. I was up on the bow when I thought heard Maxwell say “you called it!”, meaning that I was right about hearing another buoy. When he said it again, I realized it was, “a dolphin!” and I eagerly shifted my gaze down into the dazzling water, whose bioluminescence was vividly churning in our wash. Through the darkness I suddenly saw shadows soaring through the water leaving trails of sparkling light in their wake. The chirping noise was the dolphins talking to each other, and we could hear it inside and outside of the boat. From the bow sprit I could see the group of them racing over and under each other, alongside and ahead of the boat. The fun they seemed to be having was palpable; how could it not be if you’re swimming with your friends and family in warm waters that sparkle in millions of tiny lights as you dip and dodge through it? I couldn’t get enough of the sights and sounds: discerning the shape of the dolphins only by way of their sparkling outline in the darkness, listening to them talk to each other, and hearing their short breaths as they surface. It was my turn for watch, and I made my pallet on the midship deck next to the HobieCat to watch and listen for my friends to visit again.

The first two days of sailing out of the Gulf of Panama were rich with marine life. We spotted multiple pods of dolphins, sometimes flying out of the water in what we assumed was a feeding frenzy given the swarms of sea birds and gathering of dolphins; a large ray flapped its wings gracefully along the surface of the water; we spotted numerous sea turtles lingering casually; there was a pod of what we believe to be fin whales whose spouts and size were a giveaway that they weren’t more dolphins, and the seabirds were plentiful.

Once we gained some distance from the Gulf, our wildlife sightings became more sparse. In exchange we get to see that deep cobalt colored water that seems like a familiar old friend. We’ve been trolling the lines for tuna, and still haven’t brought one in. However, Maxwell did catch a small Bonita fish, but we let it go. On the same day (his birthday), he hooked an enormous sailfish. I was downstairs drilling something when he starting calling my name—running up to the cockpit I found him madly reeling in the line saying he’s got something big! I hurriedly grabbed my camera to capture the moment and he realized that the fish had broken free. But this monstrous being was still leaping out of the water over and over again, and he was HUGE. We lost our hook to him, but Maxwell assured me that they’re designed to disintegrate so I felt [only slightly] better. That evening our dinner plans gave way to  birthday carrot cake instead, and we laid in the hammock as Maxwell recounted some of his favorite memories from the past year.

Above: the sailfish that got away (zoom in)

Over the past three days or so now, we’ve been visited by emboldened birds, which we suspect may be brown boobies. They’ve decided to claim the railing on the bow sprit, and tried to also claim a rail on the dinghy davits, but their potent stench of salt and fish resulted in us restricting access to an area so close to the cockpit. They typically have been arriving in the mid to late afternoon and depart in the early morning, but as I write this entry this morning on our eighth day, more and more are coming in for landing.

We are nearing the borders of Nicaragua, Honduras, and El Salvador, about 250 miles offshore from the Gulf of Fonseca. We’ve been battling for the past five days or so with fleeting wind, and have been obligated to run the engine during many more days and nights than desirable just to keep making headway. We’re hoping to make our way into steadier winds and keep the engine off until we get to the North Pacific High, otherwise we may need to find a place to fill up our tanks. In the meantime, we do what we can to stay cool and in the shade, shifting our shade sails around the boat as the day goes on and the winds fluctuate. With the motor running so much and so very little breeze, the inside of the boat is too warm most of the day, but the obligatory time spent on deck has been rewarded with shooting star and satellite sightings.

It seems that every night out here so far has offered a different and spectacular sunset. There was one, however that raptured us for every moment that it drug out, seeming to  draw the high altitude cirrus clouds toward its fiery light as the sun sank deeper into the silvery indigo waters. Sunsets have been a consistent highlight on this voyage [for most of us], but these on the Pacific side seem to bear much more magic, perhaps because as we sail into them every evening on our west-northwest course, it is an immediate reminder that we are one day closer and we are finally, truly, heading home.

We lucked into having a fantastic advisor for the first leg of our transit: Guillermo the marine cartographer; All advisors work as such as a part-time job. Before we entered the Lock, Guillermo helped us practice steering as a floatilla, which of course Maxwell did great at.

Guillermo was with us as we went through the first Lock, which was made up of three chambers to get us up to the level of Lake Gatún. Each chamber was about 1050’ long and we were following a reefer ship through, sharing every chamber with him. We were nested in the center of two other sailboats, tied to them while they were tied to the walls of the locks. It was all a very exciting and nerve-racking experience for those of us feeling greater responsibility to the effort.

Line handlers on the boat next to us working with the Canal line handlers on the wall

Looking astern with the two other sailboats at our sides

Going into the last chamber as twilight sets in

By dark, we were getting through the final chamber and making our way to a big mooring buoy in Lake Gatún. We had the buoy all to ourselves, and settled into the calm of the Lake and the sounds of the jungle surrounding us as night set in, our hunger grumbled, and our eyelids drooped.

The next morning, even after trying to gently wake Maxwell in time to prepare for the day, he wasn’t obliged to peel his eyes open until the advisor had already hopped on board. We got going with a start, firing up the engine to continue our crossing of the Isthmus of Panama.

Approaching the Miraflores Locks

Canal linehandlers walking along the wall

Car carrier ship sharing the chambers with us on the way out

The chamber walls closing in front of us

View from the first chamber to the second chamber to the Pacific level

Puente de las Americas

BioMuseo on the Amador Causeway in the foreground of the city skyline (Gehry designed)

Michelle driving to Las Brisas anchorage

We made it to anchor at Las Brisas with a little bit of daylight left, and everyone enjoyed a sundowner with the cool breeze blowing. Typically when we get to anchor we like to sit it out on the boat for the first little while before going to shore, and our desires this time were no different, especially given the 15’ tide change and strong winds. However, the family was anxious to get off the boat when we anchored, so we obliged and set out to see what kind of dinner options we could find.

Our taxi driver recommended Niko’s Cafe, which offers comida típica de Panamá that was económico. The cafeteria style eatery had a broad selection of various Panamanian dishes; I had balacao (a tomato-base fish dish) with rice and plantain. Everything was delicious, and we finished it off with $1.50 double scoop ice creams—something that we crave constantly while sailing.

The next day we explored more of the city with the family, taking in sights at Casco Viejo, Avenida Central, and finally a microbrewery on the way home.

These past few days we’ve shown Michelle and David just how exhausting the act of provisioning is—from traipsing around town to find the right store for the right part, to lugging tens of pounds of groceries, to parting ways with more money than you really want to spend. By the time we were done, we all deserved a good night’s rest and a day on the boat without running around in the heat. Maxwell and David worked on the generator, which they had discovered had an issue with the fuel injector pump, while I packed away provisions and kept everyone fed.

Today, Monday April 22, we are doing our laundry in town, then will return to the boat to top up our fuel and water, batten down the hatches, and aim to embark this evening for a 40+ day nonstop, two person voyage from Panama City to the Seattle. Thanks for reading our stories and cheering us on along the way. We hope you won’t get any other updates until we’ve reached the Emerald Playground!

Use this link to track our progress!

A little longer than a week after arriving to the Caribbean mouth of the Canal, we began our much-awaited transit. Leading up to this point, we had been through the rigamarole of arranging transit without an agent. Many of the private pleasure vessels that transit the canal use an agent—someone to help orchestrate the paperwork, payments, and equipment (if needed) to properly transit. By spending the additional $400-$600+ for an agent, you are likely to secure an earlier transit date. We had read about other cruisers that had elected not to use an agent without any issue, and since the process seemed pretty straight forward (with the only real drawback being the possible delay in getting scheduled), we decided to handle the arrangements ourselves.

After getting measured by the admeasurer on Tuesday April 9, we went into Colón to pay our not-so-small fee of $2375. The fee is paid at a specific bank, all in cash, which you cannot withdraw from this bank but only from a different bank a few blocks away. Not only that, the “Zona Libre de Colón” as well as the rest of the city is the picture of a post-apocalyptic war zone—burned up cars, crumbling concrete buildings, and armored police on every corner… strolling down these few blocks with a wad of cash was far from a leisurely exercise and sent my anxiety soaring more than it has been this entire journey.

Fees paid, we called the scheduling office that evening to find out about when we could transit. We had heard that boats were getting scheduled within days of payment, so when we’re told that the soonest date was April 21st we were floored. Not to mention, Maxwell’s family was due to arrive and depart all before we would even get to go through! So, after a bit of begging and pleading with the scheduling agent, he came around to say that it might be possible to get scheduled for April 13th or 14th. Apparently, the issue was that they did not have the new schedule for advisors (Canal authorities who are required to ride with the handline vessels through the whole transit) so they wouldn’t know if more slots are available until the schedule was to come out on Friday. Call back Friday, he said. We called Friday, and he didn’t have an answer yet. He expressed concern that we wouldn’t be ready to leave even if he could squeeze us in for a weekend transit, and I hastily responded with, “no, no, we are all set—rip-roaring and ready-to-go!” Looking across the table at Maxwell as this tumbled out of my mouth I felt immediately embarrassed for using such an odd exclamation that probably only caused more confusion to the non-native English speaker on the other end of the line. Alas, he said that he’d be in the office until 11pm and to call back in another few hours to check again. Sigh.

Thanking my stars for my Panamanian cellphone chip, I received a call from a local number a couple hours later with a familiar voice on the other end… we made it onto the schedule for Sunday April 14th! As they say, the squeaky wheel gets the grease!

We called the evening prior to find out that we’d leave in the evening, and we could expect the advisor to be delivered to our boat at 3:30pm. Phew!

In the meantime while anchored at The New Flats, we tried our best to avoid the folks at Shelter Bay Marina, who seemed to have a vendetta against boaters on anchor using any of their services. Steve rented a car that we used to drive across the country to Panama City, where we found an incredible skyline of futuristic skyscrapers and highways that reached out over the Pacific Ocean. We strolled the narrow streets of Casco Viejo, one of the old districts of the city that reminded me of the French Quarter. And we made our way to the airport to pick up Maxwell’s brother after sleeping in the car until 1:30am.

Once all of the family was in town, we tried to relax in and around the Queen amidst anticipation of our transit date. The day finally came, and by 4:15pm on the 14th we were weighing anchor and running to catch up with the other two sailboats that we’d go through the Lake Gatún Locks with.

A Cuba Libre in a can for our dinghy ride around the Canal entrance!

Riding the ferry to Colón; the new bridge is under construction to connect Colón to the northwestern areas

A dam on Lake Gatún

Driving over/through the older Lake Gatún Locks as they full to let a ship through

Casco Viejo

A cathedral in Casco Viejo

Casco Viejo

Plaza de Francia

Ruins of a Jesuit building in Casco Viejo

Waiting to surprise Jacob!

Michelle surprised Maxwell by coming to Panamá too!

Out of the hazy horizon

Straining to surmise whether illusion or imminent reality

A racing rumble in my home-hungry heart bares all

Sees clearly what I don’t yet know…

Land Ho!

We have made it to the entrance of the Panama Canal! Our longest crossing so far—950 miles or so—we had the anchor down at the “New Flats” by 5am on Saturday April 6th. Our appointment with the admeasurer is for Tuesday, with Maxwell’s family arriving on Thursday to help us with the needed crew to get through the Locks. While at anchor for the next few days we plan to continue keeping up with boat projects bearing in mind our preparedness for sailing the Pacific.

We’re both nervous about the upcoming 40+/- day voyage, which we’ll do as just the two of us. But we’ve been lucky to have some practice on this last leg with two-person shifts and after the first few days of adjustment getting back out in open water, it wasn’t too bad! 

Stay tuned for more updates about the canal transit, as well as photos for earlier text-only posts. 

We’ve been scrounging our way through Luperón, scrapping together Spanish and hand gestures to hunt out supplies and expertise. The initial plans for sail repair and propane fill up had morphed into a to-do list including: mend 30’ tear in genoa sail, repair hydraulic steering, repair emergency tiller, thoroughly repair main engine motor mounts, repair generator (which stopped producing voltage to charge our battery bank), and finally finish repairing the plank on the bow sprit. Oh and also, when we checked in with customs I was made aware that my passport had expired. In November! At least now I know that the Bahamas don’t really look at the passports of incoming tourists and maybe I should get my eyes checked when I return to Seattle because I swear that I had checked the expiry prior to leaving and thought to myself, “oh good, I have plenty of time left”. When we told Papo that we’d be here for a week, I had thought that was generous. How naïve.

I’m realizing that out of all the things to communicate about in Spanish (even including mechanical conversations which I know diddly-squat about in English), receiving and following directions is the most difficult. While I can understand the directional, prepositional, and descriptive words being used, I have yet to be able to process these data into a successful arrival to the intended destination. I wonder if part of the confusion is culturally rooted, similar to how matters of time are so different here. For example, the “tall, white house” that I was looking for to use a printer for my passport form ended up being a tall green house, and when I asked when the woman would return to the house I was told 5pm. I immediately looked at my clock and it said 5pm. Hm.

We’ve also dedicated portions of our time scouring the town for parts to scouring for empanadas, a savory treat whose South American cousin I’ve been longing for ever since I left Argentina. Empanadas, in Luperón, are only made and eaten at a certain time of day. What time of day? “Noon and 8pm”. We checked the recommended street food stand at 8pm and found absolutely no activity. The next day, we lucked into the oil being hot and golden half-moons on the counter at 2pm and were told that they are making empanadas everyday between 6-11am. Whether it’s Latin American Time, Island Time, or just Luperón Time, we’ve begun to adapt and free ourselves of the rigid adherences to time that our North American roots have bred into us (and yes, even Maxwell on his perpetual Big Easy time has found room to relax).

In between projects, we had taken a smaller trip to see the 27 Charcos, a tourist attraction that features 27 waterfalls, cliff jumps, and natural slides that you hike up to then jump/slide/swim down. Dominican Republic has been in a drought, so there wasn’t enough water for all 27 falls, but we were able to go from waterfall 12 to the bottom—the first and biggest jump being 25’. Parts of it reminded me of the side canyons in the Grand Canyon: surprisingly brisk water weaving through magnificent, carved bedrock. But this time I was looking out of the canyon at cocoa trees and native mahogany rather than mesquite and sycamore. After the new tiller tabs were welded on, the generator fixed (it needed a new regulator), the engine adequately mounted, the bow sprit plank complete, the sail dropped off at the sailmaker, and the replacement seal kit for the hydraulic steering cylinder en route from Seattle, we were ready to take a little break and see the country.

Craving elevation, we managed to rent to motorcycles (this was accomplished by going over to the mechanic’s shop and asking if he knows where to rent them, being motioned inside and shown his, then agreeing to let him go in search of another, smaller one for me. We paid an indulgent $54 for the two for two days) and orient our maps toward the “Caribbean Alps”. After a bit of a rocky start, I’m just learning to ride a motorcycle after all, including running out of gas in the first few miles, we were making our way south toward Jarabacoa. A mix of paved roads, graded/under construction roads, freeway shoulders, city driving, and patches of gravel roads led us to the mountain town that had a remarkably different feeling than the other towns we’d been in thus far. Cruising downhill from the mountains as the sun was setting, the town was bustling with beautiful produce and bumping music.

After a nice rest at a hostel, we set out of town toward the south west, our eyes on the tall peaks and occasional hang-glider. We wove our way up the mountainside on a narrow, two-lane road that had been freshly paved, and turned around when we got to the entrance to the National Park, as there was no outlet road that would let us head north again toward Luperón. A majority of our trek north from there was on the back roads, which were characteristically steep, unpaved, and rutted out. Riding a motorcycle offers no rest for the senses, and this “technical riding” really put my mind and my nerves to the test. What made it, though, was the gorgeous pastoral scenery that went on and on.

Now, back in Luperón, we’ve hoisted the mended genoa back up the furler and reassembled the hydraulic cylinder back to its flawless function. We were treated to a delightful dinner on the beach in La Isabella (thanks, Mom and Mike!) and are finally ready to head back out to the open water. I believe that I’m the most anxious to get going from the Dominican Republic, but at the same time I have some inexplicable unease about heading back out there. I suppose that is the poisonous effect of getting too comfortable in a cheap, and climatically-agreeable harbor. Regardless, we are all packed and battened down and ready to untie from the mooring ball tomorrow morning, Friday March 29^th. We are painfully behind anticipated schedule, but we hope to make good time to Panama and get scheduled to move through the Canal as soon as possible. From there, it will be a major provisioning and inspection period before the crew of two—Maxwell and me—will set off for the offshore-but-not-quite-out-to-Hawaii arc toward Seattle.

P.S. If anyone reading this is interested in going through the Panama Canal, we are in search of volunteer line handlers! We won’t know our transit date until we arrive to Panama, which we estimate to be about 8 days away, with the transit only taking two days.  

Two days before arriving to Luperón, we began noticing that the steering helms were becoming unresponsive. We had been battling with keeping the autopilot on course, and in correcting course by hand we found that we still weren’t getting any traction on our heading. Checking the hydraulic fluid reservoir and pressure gauge, we found that we had zero pressure and our fluid windows showed that we were completely empty, even though we had topped up the fluid just days prior.

The steering compartment, where the hydraulic cylinder and emergency tiller shaft reside, is behind our bed in the aft cabin and like most all things on the boat, is a bear to access and work in. We crawled into “the cave”, the part of our bed with a lower ceiling due to the step down into the cockpit above, and peered into the compartment. Every time the ram moved in and out of the cylinder, generous amounts of hydraulic fluid were oozing out. Having no means of troubleshooting and fixing the cause of the leak while underway, we pulled out the emergency tiller and fitted the bolted-on elbow into the shaft in the steering compartment. Autopilot was no longer an option, but fortunately the winds continued to be in our favor, making steering with the tiller more manageable than expected.

Maxwell was able to rig up the tiller by tying off a few lines to hold its position, and we were able to maintain our course for the first night and day under sail and without hydraulic steering, only making minor adjustments. In the very early hours of the morning in the second night without power steering, Maxwell came to get me from his watch to get some help. I came up top and asked what’s going on… “the tiller broke”. Peering into the darkness and seeing lights on the horizon and what seemed to be landforms, I confirm on the chart that we were within two miles of shore—closer than where we had planned to get this early in the morning. (Again, we were aiming to time our entry to Luperón Bay as early in the daylight as possible to take advantage of calm conditions and good visibility). The tabs that connect from the tiller arm to the bolted on elbow had snapped off the arm.

We tried to use the sails to our advantage to steer us away from the coast, as we were headed straight toward it. But without a tiller, Maxwell was grabbing at the two tabs that were still connected to the elbow with a giant pair of channel locks in an attempt to get enough hold and torque to push the rudder over and point our 26-ton Queen back out to the open water. No avail.

We dropped the sails to at least slow our approach to the imminent shore and tried to stay calm as we moved through handfuls of tools that might get a hold of the elbow and help us move the rudder. Again blessing the once-cursed spare parts, we found a segment of metal pipe that we were able to slide onto one of the handles of a pair of vice grips that was gripping the aforementioned remnant tiller tabs. This added length gave Maxwell the torque he needed to get us turned 180 degrees and back toward open water.

Deep breath.

Although our risk of getting shipwrecked was now momentarily at bay, we still needed to rig a way to get safely into the bay and onto anchor. We racked our minds and settled on using a scrap of angle iron that we could bolt to the elbow, then reinforce it with our length of metal pipe.

While Maxwell held our course and caught his breath, I dug out the angle, the drill, the bits, the bolts, and the nuts. Rejoining him in the cockpit, I drilled out a hold in the angle to the tune of an awful screeching noise, wishing I had grabbed ear-muffs for us both. The ultimate MacGyver, Maxwell rigged up our new system complete with rope-wrapped grip in no time. By now, the sky was starting to get light and when I came down to get a few snacks for us, Steve finally started getting up to see about the commotion.

Using the waypoints recommended in our book, we started up the motor and began making way toward the entrance to the bay about five miles to the west. Passing cliffs dotted with clouds of mist from the multitude of blowholes, we were all giddy with the magnificent views of tall, green mountains slowly lighting up with the rising sun.

Despite the confusion of which buoys, if any, to use as channel markers (others have written that the buoys here aren’t to be trusted), we safely made it into the west cut of Bahía Luperón. We were greeted by Papo, who guided us to a mooring ball which we could rent for $2/day, and he handed us a flyer advertising the other services he provided, including fuel and water delivery service. We hoisted our Dominican flag and our yellow Quarantine flag, cleaned and tidied the boat in anticipation of visits from government officials, and laid down for a nap.

Little Farmers Cay to Galliot Cut to Conception Island to San Salvador

We couldn’t have asked for a smoother passage through Galliot Cut. We caught the perfect timing of incoming tides and easterly winds, and stayed just to the south of center as our book suggested. Photos don’t do justice to the beauty of passing between the islands; the scenery was spectacular, but coupled with the relief that we were finally moving onward to the next chapter of the journey made the gateway seem divine.

Opposing the general admonishment that “thou shant sail on a schedule”, we contemplated the calendar and our proximate destinations. Originally planning to head to Georgetown, we decided that we didn’t need to fill up our spare propane tank with any urgency, and we could likely get our genoa sail repaired for a much better price in the Dominican Republic. So from Galliot Cut we pointed east toward Conception Island, rumored to have some of the best snorkeling with sightings of larger-than-average sealife.

Our 75 mile crossing of the Exuma Sound to Conception Island took us about 18 hours, arriving within 5 miles of the island in the early hours of the morning. Dropping the sails, we drifted and rested for a few hours until we had the light of day to enter the anchorage. Conception Island is home to Southhampton Reef, extending approximately 3 miles north of the island. The island itself had more topography than many of the others we’ve seen, with cliffs along a portion of the shore and heaping, jagged coral slopes. The inland mangroves hosted a juvenile turtle sanctuary and a protected place for various bird species. Each morning at Conception, we could spot bright white kites flying and whistling overhead, their long narrow tails visible only from certain angles and the turquoise blue of the water reflected on their undersides.

Our snorkeling adventures confirmed the grand underwater topography, but the condition of the reef seemed quite beat up. None of us know enough about reefs or this area in particular, but the eastern areas of Southhampton Reef closer to the island appeared to be well covered in sand and beat up from waves, and lacked the usual abundance of color and life in coral reefs. However, there were some big fish. The two huge parrotfish that we spotted the first day were quickly superseded by the one we saw the next day; approximately 4’ long, this gorgeous purple, blue, yellow, and green specimen lurked in and around a large coral formation about 15’ below me and I spent some time trying to calmly get as close as I could to him. The detail on these creatures is incredible—their smooth bodies are made up of scales about 1” wide, and their painted lips purse over their seemingly solid wall of teeth, also a beautiful pattern.

Analyzing the weather, we left Conception Island on a course to the east, hoping to head out as far into the Atlantic as we could before taking a more directly south route to Luperon, Dominican Republic. We had smooth sailing out and around the north side of Conception Island and Southhampton Reef, making decent headway east. Then night fell, winds fell, and we slowed to about 1.5 knots. When I vacated my nightshift we were on course and about 10-15 miles off the coast of San Salvador Island, with lights barely visible on the horizon. Somewhere in the following nightshifts we fell off course, and ended up drifting north rather than east, fortunately at a snail’s pace. The course was corrected early the next morning, but the winds didn’t pick back up much during the day. We also learned at this point that Alex wasn’t interested in continuing on to Luperon, and he requested getting off the boat at San Salvador Island—an unplanned but not inconvenient stop in the Bahamas.

Deciding to motor sail and make up for the lack of wind, we started up the Ford Lehman diesel engine and moved along at about 4-5 knots until Maxwell noticed an unusual sound from the engine room. The exact timeline of what was to unfold escapes us now, but essentially it goes like this: the engine room was opened up to find that the alternator belt had worn all the way through and broken, spraying black rubber everywhere; the bolt holding the alternator lever/arm had sheered and broken, and; two of the four bolts for the motor mounts had sheered and broken—inside of the engine. Fortunately, we had an extra belt and all those extra bolts that I have cursed time and again getting them in and out of an overhead cabinet. Maxwell doctored the engine up the best he could on the fly, and we continued on our way toward Cockburn Town, Salvador Island.

With little wind, we were still off shore from the island when the second nightfall struck. Somewhere along the way our spare alternator belt broke, this time a clean break only in one spot (and honestly the order of where each item broke and was repaired may be a little mixed up). The point being: we were within miles of shore without an alternator belt and little wind. We kept the engine off for the remainder of the journey, and sailed in our anchor off the shore of Cockburn Town, a first for Maxwell.

San Salvador changed our perspective, slightly, of the Bahamas. We were met with truly generous and kind people who ceaselessly went out of their way to help us find the parts we needed to get on our way. Alex caught a flight to Nassau shortly after hitting land, and Maxwell and I were chauffeured around the island by Collie (cool-ee) in search of an alternator belt that would fit. We found a couple options, as well as a couple pairs of pantyhose as a very last resort. Maxwell ended up replacing our alternator with the original, smaller one in order to get one of the belts to work.

Besides the engine work, we (well, Maxwell, with the help of the eagerly on-looking eyes of Steve and I) replaced the water pump, which wouldn’t turn off. This usually happens when the tank has run out of water, but after paddling back loads of water, (20 gallons at a time towed behind us on the second kayak) we realized that the tank hadn’t been empty at all! We were to buy the water for $1.50 per 5-gallon jug, but after our second trip of lugging the jugs, the shop owners had a change of heart and gave it to us for free. A total of three trips, or 60 gallons, was enough to top our tanks and have the Gerry cans on deck filled.

San Salvador Island, or “Columbus Isle” (this island and Conception Island were some of the first islands that Christopher Columbus made landfall on), is a mostly flat island with mangroves inland and a perimeter “Queen’s Highway” (there seems to be one of these on every developed island in the Bahamas), where most of the development features an ocean view. Poverty was still evident here, but not as distinctively as on Bimini Island and overall the populace seemed very happy.

Before leaving San Salvador, we had a nice visit from a Texan couple with their 8-year old boy Wilson. They mistakenly thought our boat was some famous surf tour sailboat, and they were on the hunt for good surf spots. After talking with them through the time that we were to be battening down hatches, we decided to stay one more night at anchor before heading out to the Atlantic the next morning. This time, the weather finally looked in our favor, especially given the fact that we would be on “emergency motor use only”, with generous winds to push us east for the first few days before a front of northern winds would shoot us straight to Luperon.