Twin Cays to Staniel Cay to Little Farmers Cay

Shroud Cay is part of the Exuma Cays Land and Sea Park, which restricts harvesting the sea life that we’ve been itching to catch with our sling speargun. The Park extends quite far to the south, so our next destination of Twin Cays was about as far as we thought we could make it within daylight hours to get past the Park boundaries. (It’s well encouraged to get into the anchorages before sundown in order to more easily spot coral heads looming just below the surface of the water). Regardless of our poor choice to do a long tack west before pointing southeast (I’ll take the blame for that), we made it to Twin Cays as the sun was going down below the horizon.

Our initial dinghy expedition the next day was to snorkel the reef along the western edge of the anchorage, which racked my nerves with the sight of waves breaking on the shallow coral. But the peace and bounty we found below the surface wiped it all away instantaneously. Schools of tropical fish, arches of coral, and the lurking barracuda entertained us as we made a loop around the reef. Luckily, we didn’t have any shark sightings, which are common in the Bahamas. In fact, at nearly every anchorage in the Bahamas, we were visited almost immediately after dropping anchor by large nurse sharks, often accompanied by a sting ray. After our quick look around, we motored over to the eastern of the two cays, toward a ramada visible from afar. It turned out to be a swanky, albeit vacant, beach cabana with its own dock, kitchen, security cameras, and beach loungers, all available for rent by the day.

Our curiosity momentarily sated, we went back to the mothership to pick up Steve and head out on the bigger expedition to investigate the wind turbines to our east on Over Yonder Cay, and to try out our shiny, new sling. Over Yonder Cay proved to be quite the compound, with a massive archway leading up from the private dock, multiple grandiose structures, and solar panels tucked away on the hillside. We tucked in behind Rat Cay, just to the north, to snorkel along the deep coral reef edge. Large purple fan coral waved us on and small silvery fish slid along the surface. A type of coral I had never seen before, seeming like oversized and inverted mushrooms, formed vases up to 3’ deep. Inside of one Maxwell pointed out a neon purple-blue shrimp latched to the side. Alex motioned me over to where he was watching, which on first glance appeared to be an orange-brown billowing octopus, but on further focus I realized it was a lionfish in its full regalia. Maxwell came over to take a look, or we thought he would, but suddenly what we were looking at was an ornately decorated, invasive predator stuck onto the three tines of his spear. The rapid transition from peaceful observation to carnivorous slaughter sent a shock through the water, which was quickly followed by an urgent swim to the dingy to deposit our bounty before any sharks got whiff of our catch. Maxwell and Alex went on to spear a few other reef fish, and two lobsters, which all made for a lovely feast that evening.

After Twin Cays we left for Big Majors Cay, where Alex and Steve were looking forward to seeing the “Swimming Pigs”, the once-domesticated Sus that have been having their way on the beach with the help from tourists that come to feed them any variety of snacks they’re willing to share. Unfortunately, eight piggies recently met their maker at the cost of too many sand-coated snacks that ultimately disrupted their GI tracts. Please don’t drop your snacks on the sand; the pigs can be hand fed, can catch a good toss, or can eat out of the provided troughs.

We motored to the next cay over to fill up on water from Staniel Cay for $0.40 per gallon and take in some civilization for the afternoon and evening. Prices in the Bahamas held strong and out of reach for those of us on a meager budget, so we relished in a walk around the island, ending up at the government dock by sunset where locals had brought out their amp, speakers, and roller skates for a Friday evening spin.

Leaving Staniel Cay, we were bound for the last stop in the Exumas before taking a “cut” out to the Exuma Sound and southward toward Georgetown on Great Exuma Island. Our cut had to be carefully selected for depth, and our timing had to be selected in consideration of tides and winds; we chose to head for either Galliot or Cave Cay Cut and anchor nearby at Little Farmer’s Cay.

This last portion of the journey was, for me, the most interesting geography in the Exumas. With landforms on either side of us, there was plenty to look at and to contrast the turquoise waters. We hadn’t coughed up the dough to buy the Explorer Charts, the preeminent guide to sailing the Bahamas, and our Navionics chart card showed that we could continue through shallow-but-not-too-shallow waters to the anchorage at Little Farmer’s. We watched the depth sounder. We slowed. We bumped. We stopped. We put her in reverse. She didn’t budge. Shifting sand bank: 1, Uptown Voodoo Queen: 0.

After trying all the tricks up our sleeves (letting the sails out to try to get enough lean to clear the keel from the ground; pushing the bow with the dinghy; rocking in and out of reverse), we admitted defeat, crossed our fingers for a prompt rising tide, and headed to shore for a swim and stroll.

As the light in the sky started to wane, we began hearing frantic pulses from an air horn. We strained our eyes to discern any critical change to the ever-leaning Queen and loaded into the dinghy to see about what Steve was experiencing. We found her starboard rail about 18” above the water, and once we delicately boarded I made my way to the port side, feeling like our combined body weight had the capacity to send her all the way over. Maxwell, ever calm and confident, was sure that she wouldn’t go all the way over. We had a 22 degree tilt.

We found Steve, however, to be in quite the opposite condition. He greeted us in his life jacket, with fanny pack of essentials around his waist, and urgings that she was taking on water and we are indeed going down.

Deep breath.

Maxwell determined that the water Steve was seeing was actually from the bilge that seeped out of the floor hatches in the salon when we reached the maximum lean. All we could do was continue to wait. We had already been visited by one other dinghy who also thought the tide would come in sooner; that time had come and gone. Now, a newer arrival to the anchorage came over to offer us help with their Explorer Charts after we finished our dinner. So, we enjoyed a lean-or-wedge-wherever-you-can dinner of reheated stuffed bell peppers (thanks, Alex!) then visited the neighboring catamaran motor yacht. They offered us beers on their flybridge where we restrained our gushing for the luxuriously appointed vessel and had a lovely conversation with the couple from Oxford. They advised that the deeper water we were aiming for doesn’t actually exist, and showed us their typical route in and out of the anchorage, which they visit yearly.

When we got back to the Queen, we noticed that the tilt was lessening with the [finally] rising water, and we decided to close our eyes for a while until we had enough water to move over to a proper, deeper anchorage. The rest of the evening went off without a hitch: the tide came up and left us at least 1’ of water under our keel, I fetched the temporary anchor up with the dinghy, and we reset our main anchor in the dark approximately within a couple of miles from the Cut we were to take the following morning.

Highbourne Cay to Shroud Cay to Twin Cays

Since we shoved off from the marina in New Orleans on January 18^th, neither Maxwell nor I had experienced a moment of solitude (not counting solo night shifts or time in the head). The dynamic of personalities on the boat was becoming a bit grating for me, with the mostly-constant levels of stress likely contributing to the energy. Pair that with a small group of men that for some awful—albeit apparently natural—reason, could hardly share the same space without making their machismo known… I was ready for a relief. Our arrival to Highbourne Cay offered the first glimmer of this respite, and when the murmur of paddling to shore began I wasn’t shy in saying that I would be glad to stay on the boat and on anchor watch.

The peace and quiet didn’t last as long as I needed to fill my coffers of patience and grace, but I understood when they explained that their shore leave was cut short due to an exorbitantly steep bill at the pretentious marina restaurant and the overall lack of interesting attractions on shore. We left the next morning for Shroud Cay, hoping for a more humble anchorage and the chance to dip into the crystal clear waters.

We arrived to Shroud Cay shortly before sunset on February 18, getting closer to expertise in dropping the anchor without a hitch. As quickly as possible, we launched the dingy and headed for shore, full speed toward the white sand beckoning is from afar. The boys, now only Maxwell, Steve, and Alex, swam with the rays and along the edge of the coral bank while I enjoyed my book “Two on the Big Ocean” (thank you, Ilze!) and practiced yoga in the sand. Leaving the beach as the sun was dipping below the horizon and the bugs began to bother us, the changing colors of the evening were phenomenal.

The previously clear-as-blue raspberry KoolAid water lapping onto shore transitioned into muted shades of violet, indigo, and cobalt, reflecting the more pastel persuasion transpiring in the sky above. As the light continued to drop, and depending on the direction you faced, the four feet deep water glimmered in teal, silvery azure, or ultramarine with a golden glaze. With minimal clouds in the direction of the sun, we motored out toward the silhouette of our ship on the horizon in front of the flaming orb melting into a puddle of gold.

On our first morning at Shroud Cay, we loaded back into the dingy with our snorkeling gear to investigate the stream coming from the mangrove where we had heard that sea turtles were spotted. The tide was on its way in, and as we approached the inlet, the current became stronger and the water shallower. Everyone disembarked to give the dinghy more float as we pulled her through the shallows. Each further bend through the banks of the mangroves drew us deeper toward the center of the Cay, with electric cyan pools contrasting the whiteness of the sand shoals, darkness of the waxy mangrove leaves, and blue-green of the palm undersides being exposed by the blowing wind.

Scouting the deepest cut in the channel, suddenly something floating dead-ahead plunged down into the water. A sea turtle!! We pulled the dinghy onto the sand, tied it up to a mangrove tree, and donned our masks and fins. Three, maybe more, juvenile sea turtles were skirting around this deep bend, and as I stepped closer to the deep water, a small (~3’ across) ray started gliding toward me. Below the tideline, a coral reef made up the outside bank of this curve, and schools of fish skirted back and forth with and against the current. The tidal drift was the perfect pace to drift leisurely down along the bank, requiring minimal effort to swim against it back up the bank. The sea turtles came in and out of view with visibility at about 30’ feet. Occasional brain coral looked intact and black sea urchin was nestled into a crevice in the ancient coral. Most of the visible and discernible life along this stretch appeared smaller than normal, prompting us to guess that this little mangrove sanctuary served as a nursery for various juvenile creatures.

When we felt we had gotten our fill of the underwater sights for the time being, we scurried up the mound of earth on the opposite side from our dinghy to catch a glimpse of the deep dark blue waters of the Exuma Sound crashing on the beach of Shroud Cay’s western banks.

Loading back into the dingy, we continue up the channel to see the end of the cut at its western terminus. We took the alternative dingy route back to the east coast of the Cay, rowing along as we talked about crew dynamic. The sun was well on its way down and we made it back to the Queen as darkness tried to set in against he brightness of the nearly full moon.

We still have yet to entice anything onto our trolling fishing line, so Maxwell blackened a filet of his Alaskan Coho, and we ate together before everyone finally indulged me with game night, closing down a lovely day in anticipation of our next destination: Twin Cays.

With our main sail mended and our new-to-us staysail in hand, we were ready to head to the Bahamas (our route change was borne of the various degrees of discontent felt by the crew after the Gulf crossing; the prospect of short, daytime sails in calmer conditions offered by the “Thornless Path” was well-received as an alternative to heading out into the open Atlantic before pointing south to Puerto Rico). Our initial crew of five was now down to four, as Patrick left in Key Largo to tend to family matters in Florida. The passage from Key Largo to Bimini, Bahamas was relatively uneventful, up until the Captain took over the early morning shift to find that we were on trajectory to sail right past Bimini on our starboard by miscalculating the force of the Gulf Stream and the favorable winds. Luckily, we corrected in time, and only had slight backtracking to enter the shallow channel to Alice Town.

We had heard and read about the anchorage adjacent to Bimini Big Game Club, but upon our inspection we found it to be already too crowded with two small sailboats. Deciding to try our hand at pinching pennies rather than paying for a slip at one of the marinas, we laid up next to the three groupings of pilings along the edge of the channel with a front row view of the power plant and government building. Maxwell and I launched our tandem inflatable kayak with the crew and boat’s paperwork in hand to make our first international landing. We paid the $320 for our visas and headed back to the mothership as the rain starting pouring down in buckets and waves crashed over the sides of our tender. With winds whooshing and pellets of rain plummeting, I swallowed my nerves and helped Maxwell paddle back out solo to tie a few more lines to the pilings for extra security. blowing

Bimini set an unexpected tone for the start of our journey through the Bahamas. The most striking characteristics were the massive piles of conch shells that accumulated near the water’s edge (mostly near an eatery), the hoards of golf carts that presumably were tourists from the resorts at the other end of the island who came to see what life was like in town, and the prices for goods. Not to say that we were expecting the Bahamas to be cheap, but, as one local pointed out to us while we were browsing, one box of cereal (Raisin Bran) plus one container of ice cream (half gallon of something like Breyer’s) was going to cost him $20. Locals seemed happy, although there appeared to be a general lack of care for the areas that they occupied (garbage on the beach, on the roads, most buildings in disrepair, etc.). On top of that, I got the impression that the access to either healthcare and/or nutritional diets was subpar. For the small portion of the population we saw, there seemed to be a disproportionate amount of folks that suffered from poor health in one way or another. We were happy when our work was done on the boat and the weather window arrived so that we could head back out the channel toward our jumping off point to cut across the Great Bahama Bank toward Nassau, New Providence Island.

Crossing the Banks kept Steve busy biting his nails, with a mantra along the lines of, “I never knew you could take a sailboat across the Banks…” Indeed, our six and a half foot draft was cutting it close which made charting a careful crossing integral to our success. We were fortunate in starting our day shortly after three other sailboats did, and we could track their routing decisions for the beginning of the crossing, which took us down from Bimini toward Gun Cay (pronounced “key”), then cutting east across the Banks. We knew we ultimately wanted to make or way down to the Exumas, and after Bimini we weren’t particularly excited about another developed area in the Bahamas, so we sailed right past New Providence Island, by-passed our Plan-B anchorage at Rose Island, and wove our way southeast to our first stop in the Exumas: Highbourne Cay. Departing the morning of February 16^th and arriving near dark on the 17^th, the crossing took us approximately 36 hours.

Our go-to guidance book for the Thornless Path stated that sailing the Exumas is quite possibly the best sailing in the world, and with winds up to 20 knots, the shallow water maintains its swimming pool-like quality. We were excited to relish in what most people only see in magazines, and the beauty of Bahamian waters was no disappointment.

And so began the soon-to-be-familiar semi-nocturnal state of 24-hour sailing; passing through the looming, well-lit oil platforms with the wind on our cheeks, we imagined that as we continued further south away from land that we could feel the chilly breeze begin to take on a warmer, more Caribbean feeling. Our first full day on the water, January 25^th, was marked by lumpy seas and mostly blue skies with puffs of white clouds. Winds on our beam allowed us to keep an ideal course heading mostly south and slightly southeast. Everyone was earning their sea-legs, with some folks experiencing greater levels of suffering.

By the evening of the second full day on the water, we noted winds picking up and signs of weather in the cloud formations that we haven’t yet learned how to decipher. Steadily hitting our beam at around 22 knots with gusts tipping 26 knots, our senses were piqued as we sought signs that would indicate how to cope with these increasingly robust conditions. Early the following morning, January 27^th, with steady winds in the mid-20s, we started contemplating whether or not to heave-to. In retrospect, we likely should have. Bi-hourly reports in our logbook note increasing adverse conditions, winds steadily blowing in the high-20s to low-30s, with gusts in the mid-30s. The waves, with an inconsistent period and seeming to come at us from three of our four sides, were estimated around 15-20 feet high, with possible sightings of 25 footers (capturing and agreeing on “sighting data” is awfully similar to reports of fishing bounties, but I’m trying to keep it honest here for the sake of historical integrity). We were deck-deep in the shakedown.

We were seeing green water come over the deck with increasing frequency as we raced through the water at 8 to 10 knots, near top-speed for the Queen. The starboard rails were kissing the surface of the water during deep leans, making the bioluminescence visible straight out through pilothouse windows, and each big wave that crashed onto us sent water pouring into the salon through the butterfly hatch or down the steps of the companionway through the yet-to-be-finalized sliding door.

Finally with four of the five crew members in a vertical position, Captain Maxwell delegated roles for his plan to bring the boat speed down and try to make a safer and more comfortable ride. I was behind the wheel with the engine in gear in the pilothouse and Alex stood spotter in his foul weather gear while Patrick and Maxwell crouched along the high side of the deck, clipping in as they crawled toward the bow. Taking down the staysail and tying it up in place, they returned to the pilothouse soaking wet as the bow took yet another slam into the waves. With only the reefed mainsail and the engine in idle, we came down to about 4.5 knots of speed over ground and got closer to taking our first deep breath in hours. By midafternoon, we witnessed slightly weaker winds, with lows back around 18 knots and highs around 24 knots. After 12+ hours with the engine running, we started feeling brave enough to raise the staysail again. To our chagrin, it had caught one of the waves coming across our bow during the night and was now tangled up in the bobstay. We retrieved as much of it as we could and stuffed the partial sail under the 18’ Hobie Cat mounted on deck for further inspection later. Raising the backup staysail for the first time ever revealed that it was slightly too large for our rig, so Maxwell jerry-rigged it well enough to catch some wind. Back to cruising around 3 knots with the engine off, we started contemplating the “thornless path” route through the Bahamas rather than the previously planned route out into the Atlantic. After all, the purpose of this voyage was neither to prove to Poseidon our vessel’s seaworthiness nor our crew’s command over their minds and bowels.

While in the heart of the storm we aimed for an anchorage in Dry Tortugas, approximately 50 miles west of the Florida Keys. However, as conditions eased up, we set our sights on Key West, and relaxed for part of the first afternoon that granted us beautiful weather. Making almost no headway toward our destination, we relished in the sunshine with our fishing line and “laundry bag” dragging behind the boat. I saw my first mahi mahi swimming freely around our boat as we circled around to pluck an orphaned fishing buoy line from the water; the electric blue at the tips of his fins and neon green-yellow at his head stood out against his dark blue body, which raced through the 1600’ deep water of a similar shade.

Our sixth day on the open water came to a close as we reached the Garrison Bight Mooring Field in Key West. We found a buoy to tie to with the ease of an adolescent experiencing growing pains, and breathed five sighs of relief to be safely in port where we could assess the damage from the storm and gather ourselves in preparation for the next leg of the journey.

Running aground twice as we approached Port Eads on high tide fostered our hesitation in hitting the South Pass channel again to reach the outlet to the Gulf. With a twelve-hour tide swing, it meant that the next high tide would be at 10pm the next day. That left the whole day to work on battening down the hatches and finding out what we could about the conditions of the pass—south-southeast winds meeting the current of the Mississippi create a soupbowl that we weren’t excited about meeting without the help of daylight.

In the following day or so after arriving to the sleepy marina two miles from the Gulf, we scoured the horizon for the channel out the south passage. We were taking safe haven at the Port Eads complex–rebuilt after Katrina with relief money for a cool $14M. Rowing the dinghy–or occasionally pushing it through the mud–under the elevated decks of the Port Eads complex to a partially submerged stairway, we approached the abandoned Coast Guard lighthouse where we hoped to capture a better view of the outlet. Stepping over a swath of lacy snake skin onto the first few risers of the spiral staircase and avoiding stomping on owl pellets at each of the landings, the view from the balcony revealed a horizon studded with oil platforms and associated infrastructure, appearing as an armada intimidating those of us seeking break through the thresholds of conventional land-lubber life (and further ourselves from the associated dependencies on fossil fuels).

We saw the visible jetty along the left side of the channel, and a slurry of waves crashing to the right side of the channel. We made out that the channel markers indicated a straight path until a sharp turn to the right before straightening out again. We wondered about the depth of the channel between us and the open water, and hoped that the winds continued to help push water up the channel so that we wouldn’t have to wait until the high tide that wouldn’t occur until the dark of night.

Leaving part of the crew at the dock, we set off in the dinghy to get a close up look of the outlet, test the swiftness of the current, gauge the depth, and inspect the “bay” that we had originally planned to anchor in. Our “baby bump”, the new-to-us 11’ inflatable RIB hypalon dinghy with a 9.9 Honda outboard, hadn’t revealed any weaknesses until on this fact-finding mission when no matter how much revving of the throttle, we weren’t making any forward progress. Luckily, the wind blowing up the channel neutralized the downward current and kept us relatively in place while Maxwell opened the engine cover to investigate. As swiftly and calmly as you can only ever get from Captain Maxwell, we were on our way back to the docks with Maxwell crouching in the stern, holding the throttle cable into the engine with one hand and driving us with his other hand.

Reports of better conditions expected on Thursday came from another docked cruising couple and the Port Eads caretaker, Brian. While we were anxious to get out into the Gulf as soon as possible, we eventually came around to heeding their advice and decided to take care of yet more projects (i.e. installing our wind generator and running a backup halyard through a pulley at the top of the main mast (my first time going up the mast in the boatswain’s chair) while at the dock for another day or so.

Our entry into the Gulf on January 24^th was mostly anticlimactic—we had no issues with shallow water in the channel, nor excessive wave action. We were amply out into the open water by the time the sun was going down, turning off the engine to enjoy the peacefulness of the reefed main sail and full jib. The first night watch began with most all hands nestled into the cockpit bench seat, adding more layers of clothing as more stars appeared in the sky.

After garnering navigational advice from the tug captain of M/V Lock Master that was docked beside us at the Locks, we set out at first light on the 21^st for our voyage down the Mississippi River. Passing massive ships and swiftly moving tugs while listening to the constant chatter on channel 67 kept all the crew on deck regardless of the biting wind and chilling temperatures without any help from the sun.

After overtaking a tug within the first few minutes of being on the river, we heard followup chatter on the radio about “that darn sailboat passing Wendy C on her starboard” and immediately our novice self-consciousness and nervousness surfaced. “Should we radio out and ask about proper protocol?” A brief hum-haw revealed that yes, we should ask. Calling directly to Wendy C and admitting that this was our first time down the river clarified that we were in the right to pass on the starboard. Phew. This brief, albeit “public” conversation on the radio resulted in another ship calling back to us and asking us to switch to channel 9 where he gave us more advice in navigating the river, sharing the similar advice from M/V Lock Master that southbound traffic favors the bends and northbound favors the points.

Bend after bend would reveal ships lined up at anchor along the shore, chemical plants spewing dense clouds into the already-cloudy horizon, and rooflines peaking above the levee walls. Eventually the levees ended and we were in the open marsh.

Our sights were set on Venice, Louisiana to top off our diesel and water tanks before heading to Port Eads to find a spot to drop the anchor. We arrived to Venice in time to catch the last moments of the Saints game and get back in the River as the sun was going down in a red sky. The winds died with the setting sun and the full moon’s reflection guided us into the South Pass and away from the major ship traffic.

Taking the South Pass would let us out into the Gulf 100 miles further than had we taken the Intercoastal Waterway, but these additional miles came at the cost of a narrow, shallow channel. Within only a few miles of Port Eads, where we hoped to anchor in a small bay protected by a barrier island that was visible from satellite imagery, the boat lurched as we ran into the sand in the middle of the channel. Heeling hard to one side, the crew on deck jumped to the opposite side to try to balance the boat as we tried to stay calm and plan our next move. Captain Maxwell put her in reverse and steadily pulled us back out of the mud and we were on our way again. Briefly. The second time we ran aground, the Captain sent out the dinghy crew to gauge the depth with our technologically-advanced method of poking the extended boat hook into the channel to chart the deepest part of the waterway.

Our nerves on end, we scoured the satellite imagery and charts again to determine whether or not to extend our transit down this shallow channel and anchoring in an unknown bay was our best option. We saw a marina within a couple miles of our original destination and decided that we would try it out.

We pulled into the dark, narrow marina inlet, crossing our fingers that there would be enough water for our 6’ draft. There was! And the super moon was just beginning to be eclipsed. Relishing in our fortunes to have smoothly navigated the River and arrived safely to within two miles of the Gulf, we laid out on the deck with our monocular and binocular to count our stars.

After a month of finalizing boat projects, purging earthly (and non-marine/non-voyage) belongings, packing an unimaginable amount of spare parts, tools, and gear, and another few days of provisioning for a 20+ day voyage for five people, the Uptown Voodoo Queen shoved off from the marina in the Industrial Canal on January 18th to make it in time for an 8pm appointment at the Ted Hickey Bridge.

The plan for the evening was to transit the 2 miles of Industrial Canal in the nighttime hours in order to be at the junction with the Mississippi River by daybreak—transiting the River during maximum daylight was essential for our novice experience in a highly trafficked channel. Getting down the Canal to this jumping off point required an appointment to have the first bridge opened (the Department of Transportation has to call in an electrician to manually open some of the Canal bridges due to their state of disrepair), passing under the “High Rise” (I-10 bridge), radioing to the LNN railroad bridge to open, radioing to the Florida Avenue bridge to open (and radioing ahead to the St. Claude Avenue Locks that we were en route), radioing to the Claiborne Avenue bridge to open, transiting the Locks, then passing under the St. Claude bridge to dock just at the Canal outlet to the River for the evening.

The single dock line to get through the Locks caused us some trouble, swinging the stern away from the wall with the incoming current and requiring the dinghy to help push the stern back into position while other crew fended off the bow from the wall. After all that excitement, we safely made it to dock at the River.

Arising the morning of the 19^th to forecasts of impending high winds and rain in the afternoon prompted a decision to stay put until the next day. One last night in New Orleans was spent with Maxwell’s family at our favorite restaurant then a restless sleep listening to the whistles and honks and creaks of the traffic in and out and over the Locks.

Parked at the dock past the Locks

These words seem to be the mantra over the past few months. Renewed effort on the Queen since Spring 2018 resulted in setting departure dates and saying goodbyes (at least, preparing to). As I anxiously crank out work at my office in Seattle, Maxwell and his crew are cranking out boatwork at an incredible rate.

For me, this is more than an epic voyage on a beautiful vessel with dear friends; it is, as Maxwell calls it, a crescendo of emotion, struggle, joy, and effort that marks the final stages of this chapter in our relationship. Getting to this point has been every single thing except easy. We’ve relied on our love for each other and the support from those around us to confidently follow our own individual passions over the past [almost] three years. Now, our patience and perseverance is dove-tailing into an adventure of a lifetime that we are excited to share with you.

Stay tuned for updates in the weeks leading up to the Queen’s departure, and we will do our best to keep up with posts as we are on our journey!