Sailing Synchronicity

From Living a Dream to Fighting for One

2011-10-08T10:10:00.000-07:00

We had mixed feelings about returning to the U.S. last Spring. We were looking forward to spending time with family and friends, but the future back home remained murky. Over the time that we were away, I remained hopeful that things could improve in the U.S. We voted for Obama, because it was “Change we could believe in.” Our mistake was putting all of our faith in a politician.

We began to search elsewhere. “There has to be something better than what we just left behind,” we both had hoped. We looked for it, interviewed countless people traveling from other countries to find out where it might exist. While there certainly seemed to be better models for society, each citizenry faces its own dilemmas that stem from the same issue of greed and corruption.

In the age of Globalism, we are as united in our greed as we are our compassion. Throughout the Caribbean and Central America, each country was impacted not only by the economic crisis on Wall Street, but by a pervasive greed that was encroaching on protected lands and the traditional lifestyles of people everywhere. From mining operations that disrupt ecosystems to cookie cutter resorts that entertain foreign travelers while walling out local citizens, the thread that connected every local protest was greed.

As we listened from the cockpit of our boat, to news reports of the uprising in Egypt, and Tunisia, we asked ourselves when the U.S. would finally join them. Only when enough people wake up from a long slumber of dreaming the “American Dream,” and realize that our reality does not match our notion of what it was “supposed to be,” do we get mad enough to do something about it.

We knew ourselves how easy it is to become distracted from our discomfort. We had been living our version of “the American Dream,” two three-story houses, a lot of creature comforts and “stuff” that we realized we didn’t need to be happy…in fact some of it was a source of misery. When we managed to downsize to a 38 foot sailboat where everything we took with us was eventually ruined by the elements, we had less and less “stuff” all the time, but felt happier than ever. We were fortunate because this awareness came partly by our choosing. We also had far less to lose than those with much greater commitments than we have known, like families to provide for.

We couldn’t return to the U.S. and also return to old habits. Stephen wanted to start a revolution. For him, the only way that he could find meaning in returning to a system that is so broken down, was by taking an active part in changing it. His dream of a revolution is coming true as protests across the country join forces under one movement, the “Occupy Wall Street” movement.

The media asks, “what are your specific demands?” They don’t want to take us seriously. Of course not, because their messages are bought and paid for by their own corporate sponsors. Our specific demand is for our corporate and political leaders to be accountable to people. The diverse protests against war, pollution, de-unionization, predatory lending, etc. all come down to basic human rights…for individuals to be recognized as having worth that exceeds that of human capital.

This is a new Civil Rights movement to stir social consciousness. It’s time for us to examine our values and our way of living….the choices we make as both consumers and citizens every day. As consumers, we don’t have to put more money in the pockets of CEOs who allow their companies to bankrupt and then take off on their private jet or 120 foot yacht, whose engines burn more money in a single expedition than most people will see in two years of salary.

Does anyone really have the right to live in such excess at such a cost to society? Is the American Dream about living in excess? I don’t think that this is the American Dream that most of us aspire to. Many of our friends and co-workers say, “I just want to be able to pay my bills, afford an education, be able to work and have health benefits.” Growing up, we came to believe that if you worked hard enough, then these things would come naturally. It seemed logical back then, that when people failed to meet their basic needs it must have been due to some personal deficit or fault of their own.

Now that hard-working, college-educated people everywhere are struggling to achieve some or all of these basic things are we realizing there might be something more to this. Should we have to aspire to the dream of receiving adequate health care or obtaining an education that we won’t be paying for until we die? As citizens, we can examine our societal values, including the one of rugged individualism upon which many believe this country was founded. But messages of empathy and compassion for others also resound within our constitution.

We went to New York yesterday to meet and talk with people who are part of the growing Occupy Wall Street movement. As we started conversing with “Colby,” one of the movement’s organizers, our circle of three grew to six, including a man who had experience in effecting change in the sixties. He shared how a boycott of local businesses in Nassau County/Hempstead, Long Island led to the desegregation of supervisory jobs for him and his co-workers. Over the course of his career, he held supervisory jobs for corporations like Home Depot and recently, Verizon. He was part of 6 month strike against Verizon, whose CEO awarded himself a 25 million dollar bonus during the strike.

One point he made resonated with me, “if you want these guys to listen, you need to hurt them where it counts…their deep pockets.” He believes that by boycotting the goods and services of corporations with corrupt practices on particular days like “Sunday,” where profits for many businesses are at their highest, you can affect their bottom line drastically enough to get them to listen.

Others like Colby, feel this is simply a band-aid to the problem. “They’ll just have sales and promotions on those days,” or “they’ll negotiate….but then it’s only a matter of time before they go back to their old habits.” Many feel that lasting change will only occur when we stop supporting corporations and begin supporting local businesses.

We must each make individual choices on how to go about affecting change, but the time is now for us to reach across party lines to form a new, unified movement that makes greed unacceptable. Someone who called in to a local Baltimore radio show accurately described the Democratic and Republican parties as “two wings of the same bird.” The green machine, which I view as being comprised of government, corporations and the media, has misinformed us and kept us divided for too long, which has only served their best interest.

Even if we have had the good fortune of maintaining employment or the resources to stay afloat through periods of unemployment, we should not be disillusioned into thinking that this movement does not apply to us. How many of us have worked twice as hard to account for layoffs? How many of us have experienced or witnessed some form of injustice or unethical practice in the workplace, but decided to remain silent because we knew we could be easily replaced and had greater commitments, like feeding a family to consider?

For those of us who can relate, we know that this is not what democracy is supposed to look like. If you’re as angry about this as we are, and you want to look for ways to change it instead of looking for ways to escape it, be it changing the channel on the boob tube or actually trying to leave this country…then join us in the new Civil Rights movement. Occupy Wall Street, Occupy Washington D.C. Join online discussions to find out ways to organize locally and implement changes in day to day living that can bring about lasting change.

Bocas del Toro, Panama

2011-03-01T09:36:00.000-08:00

Bocas del Toro was a welcome culture shock following our stay in Kuna Yala. Another archipelago of islands, less than a mile off the western Caribbean coast of Panama, Bocas del Toro is more lagoon-like with an extensive maze of mangrove coves. After 6 months of being cut off from civilization as we know it, our solitude was broken. Maybe our creativity suffered as a result of having a plethora of options. Suddenly we had grocery stores, hardware stores, book stores and movie rentals. We had just about every type of food restaurant you could think of from Mexican to Lebanese. Our brains went into hibernate mode, as we no longer had to jury-rig things on the boat, or find yet more ways to cook with tuna.

Bocas del Toro is teeming with ex-pat, Hawaiian shirt wearing, guitar playing, Jimmy Buffet loving retirees, young American and European backpackers, serious surfers and a huge native population including many indigenous tribes. While still laid back compared to many parts of the Caribbean, there is a lot going on in Bocas if you surf, dive and party. Bocas can be a dead end, though, and many boats and crew “just passing through,” can still be found here a year later.

In our year and a half of bouncing around the Caribbean, we’ve learned that just because you own a sailboat, doesn’t mean you sail it. Individuals who comprise the sailing community are as diverse as any other in terms of goals, budget, lifestyle preferences, and comfort zones.

Our stage in life and pre-retirement budget is straightforward and as far as life style preferences go, those on a more open-ended plan, naturally crave more creature comforts to make life more enjoyable and some cases, even bearable. But amenities aside, it’s easy to get drawn in by the familiar and all that encompasses the cruising community. The social scene, the boat talk and boat maintenance that will never end, the potlucks and happy hours where you can go on sharing information and making plans forever, but soon forget how to sail your boat.

While the cruising community can be a source of support and valuable information, in some cases, naysayers will scare each other silly about potential passages and destinations. In these instances, misery loves company, and boaters have unnecessarily altered course before giving themselves a fair chance. Before we left the San Blas for Bocas del Toro (about 240 miles), a cruiser said to us “whoa, we wouldn’t want to take that passage right now…good luck.” Stephen and I looked at each other perplexed, as we had perfect conditions (winds and currents) and had a gorgeous passage with good winds, fair seas, pods of dolphins, and a lunar eclipse to boot. Hmm…no wonder this couple had been going on four years in San Blas. If these conditions were not ideal for them, there’s no way out of there.

Reaching beyond our comfort zones to accept the adventure, the consequences of stepping out into the unknown, of accepting the full spectrum of risks and rewards, of discomfort as well as elation, is perhaps the greatest challenge for most, myself included. A lot of things can happen to you and your boat, in both the physical and emotional sense. It will expose your strengths and your weaknesses, and it will definitely change you - all very scary propositions. To know your limitations is a good thing, but only if you’ve dared to reach them. It’s my observation and belief that most people made great sacrafices to dare to venture out aboard their vessel. They’re each seeking their own adventure, and some have found it while others have lost their way. One bad storm at sea is enough to shake your foundation.

But living a life on land can be equally filled with risk. Naturally, where there are more people, there are also more traffic accidents, communicable diseases, risk of food and water contamination, incidents of crime, and even weather-related disasters. But somehow this thought fails to register a blip on our cautionary radar, because either we’re familiar with these circumstances or haven’t had personal encounters of our own. Driving a vehicle is within our competency. We can wash our hands and sanitize incessantly, filter our drinking water, install security systems and carry pepper spray, and in the event of a tornado, we might just be screwed.

I often think about the horrible tragedy that happened on Ridge Ave. in my hometown of McSherrystown, not so long ago. A man who was watching TV in the comfort of his recliner, was suddenly bulldozed through the walls of his own home and into the backyard by a car that came crashing through his living room. He was in dire condition for a long time, but thankfully managed to pull through. This event was unbelievable and confusing to anyone who has grown up in such a steadfast and safe community to live in. The fact that something so inconceivable happened in McSherrystown, caused me and many others to rethink our notion of security, and how we would come to define it in changing times.

Metaphorically, I think we wear our life preservers and do our best to insulate ourselves from the dangerous unknowns, but life remains filled with unexpected occurrences. And sometimes the unexpected or long dreaded event happens anyway. And so we deploy our life raft and keep on surviving. We could lose our life waiting at the dock, or watch it pass us by at the very least.

While I stand on my soap box, I admit that I’m of the anxious ilk and have spent countless hours of my life trying to control things that I conjure up from my very active and often foreboding imagination. Stephen giggles, shakes his head and pulls me back into the present moment, for it is here in which the future is created. And as Tom Petty sings, “most things I worry about, never happen anyway.”

I admire Stephen for his courage in facing those things that aren’t within our control, with not wasting time in fooling himself into thinking he can prevent them, and instead placing well spent effort in fully equipping himself for things he can. In his home town of Strong Island, they call it “having balls,” and if it weren’t for him and his big balls, I wouldn’t have attempted something like this on my own. Some might view this as a negative thing, “dragging Taryn across treacherous oceans.” But this man has opened my world to things I had never experienced or considered. And in approaching these adventures together, I’ve learned to trust him with my life. Stepping out into the unknown with his support has enabled us to know ourselves better.

As others venture out to do the same, perhaps some have come to realize this wasn’t the adventure they wanted, an equally valuable experience, except when they feel stuck. Then it’s a dangerous recipe for stagnation. Aside from three storey tall waves, that ugly word is my greatest fear, and the best way to avoid it is to keep moving. Upon arriving in Bocas, a nice man greeted us with the following words…“Welcome to the Hotel California…haven’t you heard, everyone ends up staying here longer than they planned.” “That’s nice,” we said with a smile, as we privately vowed to each other that we didn’t make it this far to get cozy now.

Once we escaped early morning from the marina (after settling up our bill of course), we set our sights on less traveled islands within the Bocas chain. Our first stop was Isla Popa II (there’s a number I and II), which is home to the Ngobe Bugle, another indigenous tribe of Panama. We found this tribe especially friendly and hospitable. We were anchored in a beautiful mangrove-enclosed lagoon on the edge of the hillsides on which they had built their community.

The setting was a maze of mangrove that shone emerald green in the light of dusk or dawn. We were tucked up into a mangrove cove that bordered the edge of a forest, packed with tall, skinny, limbless trees that reached the same heights where they suddenly fanned out to form a dense canopy. The break in the forest revealed rolling hills dotted with complex huts and palm trees.

It wasn't long after we anchored, that a man paddling from across inlet offered us lobster for a fair price before returning to the village. The next morning, a lady who paddled up with her family in the rain, invited us to come ashore to see their community. Comparing our experience to the Kuna of San Blas, we were pleasantly surprised, as it was a rare invitation we would receive from the Kuna, generally suspicious of visitors.

The children, too innocent to doubt the good intentions of people, greeted us just as sweetly as the Kuna. I instantly made a little friend before being officially welcomed by a fellow American. What a surprise! Kate Douglass, from Virginia, was on assignment with the Peace Corps, and only five months into her two year commitment. She has been working on a number of large tasks, teaching English, assisting the women in forming a cooperative and finding ways to generate tourism. She was impressed that we were formally invited by a woman she had known to be quite shy.

It just happened that Kate’s mother and a friend were visiting, and awaiting an official tour of the community. So we walked and talked together, Kate being very informative and obviously passionate about the Ngobe Bugle and their culture.

The children adore Kate and instantly trusted anyone that was with her. A few little boys especially fond of the ladies, held our hands for the entire tour. When we came upon a hiabicus tree, the youngest boy clad in a white onesie pajama, picked flowers for all of the ladies.

The tour began in the community hall, an open air structure where all major celebrations, including school graduations take place. Kate showed us the typical crops and vegetation: cocoa (above, root veggies like yucca, and bananas and platanos that are picked far before they are ready. Stephen and I have wondered why the local tribes are not able to grow tomatoes, peppers and other vegetables with so much rainfall and such hillsides. The locals have simply explained that the “earth” is no bueno (no good) for growing it, and without having a better aptitude for speaking the language, we haven’t been able to question it further.

Kate discussed family arrangements where large families live together under one roof, and often just one or two rooms. Stephen and I have become used to people from the indigenous communities paddling right up to our boats without saying a word and just peeking in until we notice them. Sometimes they’ll grab things right off of the boat, not to take them but to examine them and question them. Quite alarming at first, we understand that the major cultural differences in terms of personal space, property and boundaries. They have no privacy. They’re used to sharing among and between other households, so that don’t have attachments to things the way we do – so friendly curiosity is easily mistaken for disrespect.

As we passed a home in the village, Kate shared that one of the eldest sons was moving out from under his mother’s roof, and the beginnings of a dwelling that seemed to be just feet from the homestead was his new home. We giggled for a while at this interpretation of independence.

While there is a rotation of Panamanian teachers that stay for brief periods in the village, Kate lives with the Ngobe full time. She showed us the house that she lives in and the wooden, open range for cooking on the front porch. It was here that the boys also charmed us with a traditional dance they had just learned.

Kate talked about the water supply and pointed out the huge tubs in which families catch rain water for bathing, washing, drinking – everything. While this community seems to be thriving, parasites and waterborne illnesses remains a problem among indigenous populations.

We ended the tour inside her classroom, where she and local teachers recently painted an impressive mural of a very colorful and accurate world map across the wall. Seeing her posed in front of it was symbolic of the ways in which individuals like her dare to extend themselves far and wide to shape this big Earth into a global community.

The difference she’s made was evident in the cooperative, where the women have been empowered to organize and run their own business. They sell the traditional clothing, crafts and jewelry: handbags, skirts, hair bands, bracelets and necklaces. Attached to each, is a tag with a price and the name of the artist, so that the money is set aside for them. In some cases, no artist is mentioned and the money goes to the cooperative.

We were used to paying $5 to the Kuna of San Blas for simply anchoring near their island but were always disappointed when the Kuna weren’t interested in showing us their village or telling us something about their way of life. Perhaps they were at one time, but since they have been inundated with tourists and yachties, a piece of that pride has been lost in a new money based economy. We were pleasantly surprised and impressed with the initiative and authenticity of the Ngobe of Popa II. We travel to admire the Earth and to take in the fullness of its beauty. In the absence of cultural diversity, the aesthetics of your surroundings quickly lose their luster and the experience takes on a superficial quality. The kindness of the Ngobe truly enhanced the landscape, and I hope that they are able to generate more tourism, reaping more of the benefits than the ill effects of increased exposure.

The Zapatilla Cays lie in the outermost part of the chain, before re-entering open sea. It consists of two islands, dedicated as national marine park. Although we didn’t go snorkeling, we were later told that the reefs are teeming with lobsters, rays and large fish that are overhunted elsewhere.

We preferred Zapatilla II, more abundant with thick groves of palm trees, where columns of hearty green, Dr. Seuss-like plants grow all along the length of the trunk. Far less tourists are brought to this island even though there is a well-maintained trail that leads to the windward shore. We loved this part sand, part boardwalk trail that wound through a surprisingly swampy center. At last we had an expanse of land to run on when we weren’t hanging our hammocks in a desolate patch of palm trees.

We had the occasional visitor from the family living on the anchorage side of the island. First, the youngest boy (no older than 5), was being extremely helpful and offering to help Stephen drag the dinghy up on shore. He always ran out to say hello, and eventually his father came out to meet us too. On the second afternoon, Stephen brought his drum onshore, and soon we were being followed by a curious older brother (about 7) donning nothing but his underpants and a machete almost as tall as him. He shyly tailed us at a close distance until we turned around to greet him and Stephen invited him to learn how to play the drum.

This little boy was like a sponge, captivated by our every word and movement. Proud of his machete, he taught us how to say “chopiando,” (his word to describe cutting or chopping the undergrowth) and he picked up several English words from us. As it was getting late, we had to coax him to go home for dinner. As I hugged him goodbye, Stephen said, “Careful Taryn, you’re going to get yourself killed,” laughing at the absurdity of me injuring myself while embracing a harmless little boy toting his dangerous tool as if it were his favorite teddy bear.

The island had a few inhabitants that consisted of a few families of one of the local indigenous tribes and a handful of rangers stationed on both shores. Still, we enjoyed endless privacy and had the beach to ourselves at night. One evening, we set up for sunset in the shadiest part of the trail, where the sun went down between thick-trunked trees with gnarly roots that twisted into animated patterns. A perfect mirror image of the forest was reflected in the still swamp waters below the pier.

We were anchored in Zapatilla just after a full moon, and as the sun faded, watched it rise over the tops of the palm trees behind us. This was a first for us, as usually the beach is too buggy to remain even before the sun is setting. But for some reason, maybe the temperature or the breeze, the bugs were kept at bay. The palm fronds swaying in the first light of the moon is lovely, and something to be admired fully in the brief hour that it lasts. As the moon’s light sweeps the beach, the sand is a brilliant white and the water a pale green through which you can see clear to the bottom – to the continuous ridges of sand that have formed without human feet to disturb them.

Our favorite anchorages were off of Isla Bastimentos, where you have a little bit of development, a little bit of rainforest, some local flavor and a lot of gorgeous beach. The Red Frog Beach resort was a new project when we were here 5 years ago, and like every other story lately, it all but tanked when the investors lost their money. It has since been sold and development of these "Florida-like" condos continues, but not without controversy. Initially there was a lot of concern for the endemic species of red frog that inhabits the island. You can still spot an occasional little red frog jumping along the beach, but they are being handled by tourists -probably not good. Most of them have migrated further into the rain forest.

I liked the red frog beach resort only for the yoga classes. It was nice to balance on one leg on solid ground for a change. Most of the controversy surrounding this project is over the lack of consideration for the environment in terms of waste management, fresh water contamination, depletion of rainforest and non-sustainability. When trees are cut down, sloths like this little guy above run out of trees to forage and sleep in.

There is a noticeable difference between establishments that make good use of the natural environment and those that don't. Our favorite example is the the Thai restaurant "Up on the hill" that sits high in the canopy. It is tucked into the rainforest, its structure built around the natural topography - the front supported by stilts. Wildlife abounds and the restaurant relies on the filtered rain water it collects to keep turning out plates. So when there is a shortage of rain, the restaurant is closed for business. The unreliability might be too frustrating for most, but each time we were able to get a reservation, it became a special event - perhaps more appreciated.

Aside from the Red Frog Resort & Marina, there is Bocas Bound - the nicest hostel I have ever seen. We were finally "plugged in" again, with a great Internet connection, cheap meals, cold beers and a "help yourself" supply of endless coffee. The rooms looked really nice for just 12 a night, and there was a huge, open air great room with hammocks, computer stations, TVs, and a bar. When we had our fill of connectivity, we hiked a trail or escaped to Turtle Beach - the one that is less traveled by tourists. This beach, adjacent to "Red Frog Beach" but walled off by massive boulders, was covered with sea grape trees that reached to the edge of the water.

One day, Stephen hung a hammock from one of these bowing limbs. Hovering just above the water, it was the perfect setup and apparently two backpackers thought so. I sat on the embankment watching Stephen duck under waves and these two guys that stopped to take pictures of our hammock. Once they noticed me sitting there, they asked for permission to pose inside of it. As they lay awkwardly in the hammock, it occurred to me that relaxation is an art to be mastered.

Speaking of art...above is an impromptu sculpture made by Charlie, owner of Fin Art in Fells Point, Baltimore. We jmetCharlie and Cherise, from Maryland when we went ashore for happy hour on Isla Bastimentos. They had been backpacking Central America for a few months and just happened to be in Bocas del Toro, and more specifically - on Bastimentos at the same time as us. And as small worlds go, they were friends of a social worker I once worked with back in Baltimore. For the next few days, we went to the beach, had drinks and dinner with Charlie, Cherise and another couple they had met from Denmark. Charlie made this out of wood and things that had washed up on shore. He is an amazing artist who paints public murals and other installations, usually featuring fish or a nautical theme. Cherise calls him the fish whisperer, as he has an exceptional understanding of all kinds of fish and their nature. While in Bocas, he caught a fish a commercial fisherman said was not possible to find in those waters.

Cahuita, Costa Rica

2011-02-23T17:18:00.000-08:00

In Cahuita, Costa Rica, we’ve never had a need for an alarm clock. You can rely on the Howler monkeys to wake you every morning at dawn. Cahuita’s national park and the forest that surrounds it are filled with large families of howler and white-faced monkeys, like the one above, whose deep guttural sounds are intimidating the first morning you awake to them. When you finally spot the source of it - these cute, and even friendly little buggers - you are amazed that they can emit such deep, gorilla-like sounds. The howler monkeys are just one of the many reasons we keep coming back to Cahuita, rich in multiculturalism and biodiversity.

Earthy, crunchy….natural, charming, quaint and Caribbean, are all good words to describe Cahuita, which is a nice blend of Latino, rasta-fari and European culture. Its popular among surfers and big on ecotourism. The region has its own distinct Caribbean flavor, influenced by an influx of Jamaican laborers who worked the banana fields at the beginning of the 20th century, following the construction of the Atlantic Railroad. The dependency on the unreliable, if not exploitative banana trade has recently been overcome by government investment in sustainable tourism.

The main village of Cahuita consists of two main dirt roads without a town center – the main road ending at the National Park. The atmosphere is relaxed, with a great mix of tourists and locals of all ages, and the lingering scent of ganja in the air. There are coffee shops, a handful of small grocery stores and restaurants. There’s also a European influence seen and felt in the Italian and international gourmet eateries, surf shops and cabanas.

The local flavor is a blend of Latino and Caribbean influences – where rice, beans and plantains meet Caribbean curries. When you first glance at a menu, the choices seem overwhelming, but have no fear - you’ll eat whatever meat or seafood is available. My favorite dish was the pulpo (octopus) in coconut curry, served up on New Year’s Eve with a funny story.

A cute frog hopped along the edge of the wall next to our table in a packed restaurant. He came from the roof, and it seemed he was quite lost, high atop this balcony eatery. He was no small frog – wide-mouthed, tan & green and four inches in length. Stephen dared me to try to catch him and carry him to safety. I couldn’t resist, and almost had him in my grip before the slippery little sucker launched forward and landed smack in the middle of a lady’s back, seated at the next table.

I let out a gasp before covering my mouth in hysterics. Stephen thought this scene was terrific, but also felt the need to inform the lady which initiated a string of events. He tapped her on the shoulder, and upon receiving the news, jumped, causing the frog to jump into her hair. As she began flailing around, the rest of her party jumped to her aid, knocking over beer bottles. The frog leaped to the next table, which subsequently jumped and shrieked and now the whole restaurant was involved, including the servers who were trying to capture the frog. We couldn’t stop laughing at the mayhem I started, if only they knew.

The main attraction is Parque Nacional Cahuita, a huge expanse of both natural rainforest (2,711 acres) and the adjacent shoreline that includes 600 acres of coral reefs. Preserved by the government. It’s well-maintained, with beautiful sand, boardwalk and a 4 mile forest trail that winds right along the beach.

In the forest, you can spot sloths sleeping in the trees. During our second trip to Cahuita, we visited the Avarios Sloth Reserve, where we saw many cuties like the one above, who were rescued when they fell prey to disease or development. One had lost an arm when electrocuted on some telephone wires. A baby born with a central nervous disorder, was unable to cling to its mother and abandoned at the base of the tree. Avarios was featured on Jack Hannah’s Animal Kingdom, which spurred our second trip to Cahuita in 2006.

While sloths spend most of their lives in the tree tops and are harder to spot, the 4 mile long park trail is teeming with monkeys, iguanas, raccoons, birds, butterflies and other reptiles. We’ve seen the occasional armadillo or anteater scurry across the paths. The raccoons tend to linger, knowing that where there are humans, there is also junkfood.

Birdlife abounds in the canopies and tropical streams: herons, toucans, parrots, and macaws. All kinds of sea turtles nest near Punta Vargas, where according to our National Geographic Costa Rica guide, “the waves help bring them in at high tide.”

In past trips, Stephen and I have walked right into spider webs spanning less traveled parts of the trail, deep into the forest. It was the first time I’ve ever seen anything startle Stephen as he forged ahead, smack into a web stretching from one side of the path to the other. In the middle of these huge webs were gnarly looking spiders that span the length of an adult hand. This enduring image combined with my malaria medication, invoked vivid dreams in which the mosquito net above our bed became the web I found myself entangled in. The dark shadows of the room turned into long, hairy spindly legs that startled me right out of my sleep. I flew out of that bed like a bolt of lightning, screaming, “spider, spider!” as Stephen flicked on the lights and began searching under the bed for the monster that was about to eat me.

On this trip, we packed a lunch one day and hiked to a more remote part of the beach, where we spread out our blanket and dozed off. We awoke to a masked bandit, far more plump (and apparently more skillful) than the one above, attempting to open our bag of goodies. He was so damn cute, it was hard to be cross with him, and he casually strolled away (obviously a Caribbean raccoon) when Stephen yelled at him to get lost.

Costa Rica abounds with reptiles, including over 160 types of snakes. We found this little guy, whom we think is either a common arboreal snake or the “chunk-headed” snake that preys on amphibians. He was casually hanging out in full view, along the edge of the trail. Stephen, being a snake lover, had no problem getting up close and personal for a photo. While the shape of his head looks threatening, we believe he is one of the more harmless types. We once passed a huge boa, crushed when attempting to cross the highway. Reminded of Lucy, who couldn’t come on the boat, but is finally living a fulfilled life as a new mama, Stephen immediately turned the car around to try to help him along, but it was too late.

Before leaving the park, we encountered un mono loco who was both engaging and frightening trail walkers. He was exceptionally friendly until the moment you wanted to walk away. He walked upright far more than scampering along on all fours, as though he believed himself to be human too. There are signs in the park that forbid the feeding of monkeys, and I wondered if he had landed some sugary junk food. As I snapped away with the camera, he walked right over to a spider web, plucked the gangly thing right out of the center, popped it in his mouth and crunched away. As Stephen began to turn his back on him, he crinkled up his little forehead and bared his teeth to show his displeasure. Unsure as to whether he might pounce, we slowly slinked away until we saw a new group of tourists approaching. Then we made a break for it to leave them discover just how cute this monkey was.

Stephen and I continue to stay at Siami Lodge at the quiet end of town. Sia Tami is down a dirt road, and is teeming with wildlife, since the property is at the edge of the park. There are several identical houses – all two bedroom, that go for $50 a night. The houses are cozy and airy, with beautifully landscaped yards: banana plants, coconut trees, huge fan palms, wildflowers and tropical plants that line the walkways. I could spend a month renting a place on this tranquilo property, where we had a howler monkey living amongst the trees in our front yard.

A French pastry chef and his children were actually renting the house across from us on a long term basis. We got well-acquainted with them the first night we made dinner and our kitchen utensils started breaking. I made my introduction with a half opened can and a second visit when our wine opener broke off mid-cork. When the final instrument broke, I told Stephen it was his turn, and he returned with a full box of éclairs for dessert!

We bought a lot of groceries in town to make use of the huge kitchen, but had sticker shock when we discovered the high taxes factored into the cost of everything, particularly wine and beer. After reading about how much Costa Rica typically invests in education, healthcare and the preservation of its climate, I wanted to believe that high taxes resulted in an improved state of well-being for all. But a local businessman shared his viewpoint on a top-heavy government, rife with corruption. Hmm….wherever you go, there you are. Or, same shit, different country.

Just the same, we were enjoying a vacation away from the boat and made good use of the house with hours spent on the front porch. Since we had seen much of Cahuita in the previous two years, I enjoyed doing a lot of nothing, like: rocking in a hammock with a good book, watching the sporadic rain fall and add color to all the landscaping, and sipping on coffee while observing our resident monkey in his tree.

One evening, I took a stroll down the lane, and encountered the monkey on the ground. He had just come down from the tree, and the family dog from across the way came galloping towards him. The monkey froze, upright in mid-stride. The dog froze too, and they locked eyes for a second before the monkey took off to join his family in the big tree at the end of the drive. For a moment, I worried what might happen if the dog caught him, but as the monkey reached the base of the next tree, the dog had a clear shot and let him get ahead before nipping playfully at his tail. The dog clearly just wanted to play.

On New Year’s Eve, the most popular local reggae and latino bar was overflowing with gringos, latinos and rastas, and was playing music for everyone. Up until midnight, locals paired off – some of the Latino men grabbing gringas to show them how to salsa. Then came the fireworks. Rewind the tape to early that afternoon, when Stephen wondered aloud what kind of a homegrown display we were in for. “I’m sure it will be somewhat official,” I answered, adding something about “Costa Rica seems especially interested in the safety of its people.” Fast forward to midnight: locals are launching small rockets of TNT in the middle of the street.

As they exploded just above our heads, I was trying to admire them while also ducking for cover. The embers and debris were raining down on the tin roofs and in the street around us, with a sound akin to hail. Less than 15 feet from where we stood, a man lit a firework while holding a baby on his hip. A band of rastas began a serious drumming session inside the bar to commence the mayhem. The fireworks were never ending, sporadically erupting well into the following afternoon. The walk home was precarious, like walking through a landmine of explosives combusting at street level.

The climate is so diverse, that within hours you can travel from tropical beaches to dense cloud forest in the Central highlands where most of the population lives. There’s a volcanic chain of mountains, including the still active Arenal, where resorts have been set up around the resulting hot springs. The entire landscape spans 12 “ecological zones” that include: “tidal mangroves, dry deciduous forest, tropical rain forest, subalpine grassland, and cactus covered, desert-dry savanna, (National Geographic guide).” Of all the places we’ve been thus far, Cahuita remains at the top of our favorite places to escape to. At every turn, there is amazing vegetation and wildlife. The beach is gorgeous. The culture respects the land, with 25 percent protected in wildlife reserves or national parks.”

The free and relaxed atmosphere of this town is the reason we keep coming back and even fantasizing about buying a plot later in life. The main highway was recently paved and we’ve noticed a huge difference in traffic just over the past few years. The increased accessibility is both good and concerning, but so far the growth seems positive and controlled. We love it here because it’s unpretentious and has a colorful populatin with virtually no class distinction or animosity between races. The people are good-natured and the whole town has a raw, natural beauty – but is developed with enough creature comforts that you don’t have to feel like you’re roughing it to enjoy it.

Cinco Meses en Kuna Yala

2011-02-01T12:39:00.001-08:00

From August to December, we covered the San Blas archipelago of over 300 islands (East to West), leaving only once to do a major provisioning in Portobelo. In August, we had three more friends aboard: Moncie & Brigitte at the beginning of the month and then Christine a couple of weeks later. We were reunited with JC (Jean Charles), our charter captain in 2006, when we first fell in love with San Blas, with our friends Annie & Russ on Mohini and Dan & Yo on Jacana. We also met Tom & Julie aboard Gris Gris from New Orleans. They all fed us amazing dinners (sharing their cherished food stores when the nearest grocery store is 50 miles or a day sail away). They kept the wine and laughter flowing and our sanity in check in this place where it is easy to lose track of time and everything you thought you knew.

San Blas is like the doorway to the Western Caribbean, where many sailors from all over the world convene before or shortly after transiting the canal. We had the pleasure of meeting a diverse group of yachties from all over the world: couples, singlehanders and families with young children. It was interesting to be gathered together in such a remote part of the world, living temporarily among one of the last indigineous groups of people. Many conversations resulting from the cultural experiences and observations revealed both similarities and differences in perception.

After just a few weeks in San Blas, we anchored in the eastern part of the Coco Banderas and Stephen noticed that we had settled in next to “Thai Phou,” the 42 foot Jeanneau we chartered in 2006. Jean Charles wasn't aboard, but sailed in with guests a day later on another boat in his fleet. He swam over to greet us (he says he’s swimming more these days to work off years of wine and cheese). In minutes we transitioned from recognition to recall of memories from our trip. JC had recently lost his business partner to cancer and inherited the boat that he was now training his newest Kuna captain to sail.

As long as JC was in the area, we were always invited to join his charter. This was a great introduction to Kuna Yala, as they hopped to a new island each day. The first couple we met and spent the most time with were Zena and Jean-Urbain Hubau, a well-traveled couple originally from France and presently living in Brazil. They were extremely generous to share their time and meals onboard. JC is an amazing cook, so we were spoiled too early in our trip. In the weeks to follow, if we weren't lucky enough to score some crabs from the locals, every food group came from a box or can.

On the island of Miriadup, JC introduced us to the Kuna family that maintains it. They prepared a typical meal for us: squid ceviche, barracuda caught that morning, coconut rice and salad. There were quite a few pets on the island including a green parrot, a dog and an iguana acquired just that afternoon when they shook it down from the top of a palm tree. Jean, who is very fluent in Spanish, informed us that he overheard plans to eat the iguana. JC was in denial that this could be true and insisted that the iguana was “good for tourism,” and they wouldn't dare harm it. But when we returned to Miriadup on our own, the iguana was nowhere to be found and we were told that “the dog got it.”

On our trip four years ago, I scolded Steve & JC for their merciless defeat of the vertically-challenged Kuna in a volleyball match. This year, I watched in amazement as the Kuna made an epic comeback. They had obviously been playing a lot of volleyball in the past four years, and seemed to beef up a bit too. Now they were pulling out sneaky, Harlem globe-trotter like tricks to smear the gringos faces in the sand. To compensate for height, one Kuna got down on all fours, while another jumped up onto his back to spike an incoming ball. “I used to feel sorry for the Kuna, but now I want to kick their ass,” I told JC when I vowed to join the charter group in a rematch the following day.

The volleyball matches took place on the island of Kuanidup, also site of the Kuna “eco-resort.” It's a compound of about 8 “rustic” cabanas with one centrally located building with toilets and showers, a shelter with picnic tables (the restaurant), and a recreational hut with a bar and pool table right atop the sand. Stephen came up with his own version of “Hotel California, “ that goes, “Welcome to the Hotel Kuanidup….it’s asi-asi.” Translation: "It’s so-so.”

Brigitte & Moncie came well prepared to do some snorkeling and exploration, but their adventure started well before they landed in Kuna Yala. They checked into a “quaint” hotel in an otherwise questionable section of Panama City, the night before flying into the islands. Brigitte and Moncie are two cuties who never fail to attract attention, so the cabbie and hotel staff felt it necessary to whisk them into the lobby before too many locals noticed the gringas. But you can’t keep the two of them penned up for long. They braved some catcalls to explore the surrounding neighborhood and sample the local cuisine before calling it a night in a room where they weren’t going to get a lot of sleep anyway.

When their tiny plane touched down in Playon Chico, they had their first experience in a main Kuna settlement, where families live without electricity or plumbing. We headed for the Coco Banderas islands while the girls slept below. We had the anchorage in the West Cocos mostly to ourselves, apart from a brief visit on the island with Accelsio & Cristobalrino, 17 & 18 year-old Kuna fishermen who sleep in a makeshift shelter during the week.

We first met the boys when Steve and I had a blanket and chairs spread out on the beach near their shelter. They were finished fishing for the day, and just had one large conch in their ulu (dug out canoe). We felt like we were in their front yard and offered them water and snacks, which they gladly accepted. They had no water on them or anywhere near their campsite. Then the two boys pulled up coconuts to sit on and we insisted that they share our blanket. We were only able to have so much conversation given our limited Spanish, so when we were at a loss for words, we settled for beer and cards instead.

They gave us a coconut (the main economy, strictly forbidden to visitors unless offered by Kuna) and their only conch. Overcome by what we felt was unnecessary gratitude, we invited them aboard for dinner and cooked up some conch and pasta. I was worried that we wouldn’t have enough to feed these teenage boys, but was forgetting that the Kuna usually only eat one meal a day. I swear the boys only took three bites before they were both full and then forcing themselves to finish the rest. We felt like overindulgent Americans, as we at ours and finished theirs.

When we first met the boys, we noticed they were so skinny that their shorts kept falling off. Accelsio asked Stephen for a pair of shorts, which he would have gladly given him if they weren’t twice the size of the ones he was already wearing. When we did our major provisioning in Portobelo, we purchased a new pair of shorts for each of them, and made a trip to their island to give them their Christmas gifts just before leaving.

We'd like to be altruistic, but in reality we exchanged English for Kuna curse words. However, we later discovered that the words we taught them were far more scathing, as offensive words simply don’t exist in the Kuna language. The literal translation of their phrase for “f&*k off!” was “go away!.” When we last saw the boys, they asked us to take them to Bocas del Toro with us. The look on their faces said, "Please get us the hell out of here." While I would love to open the door to greater opportunity, my conscience would not allow me to transplant these boys a couple hundred miles from home with nothing more than a change of clothes. And we weren’t looking to adopt two young men.

We enjoyed catching up with the girls over long breakfasts and endless pots of coffee spiked with rum. Our afternoons were filled with snorkeling, lounging on the beach and flipping through magazines, trying to tell one Kardashian from the next. Our evenings consisted of sundowners, boiled crustaceans and solving the world's problems by the time the bottle was empty.

We tried to fill the girls’ week with all of the highlights of life in the San Blas, but somehow managed to share a little slice of American life with the Kuna instead. After an afternoon of snorkeling and purchasing molas (the local crafts) on Dog Island, we went ashore on the island of Kuanidup for dinner at the Kuna “resort.” Over dinner, we met a European woman staying in one of the cabanas. She quickly joined our party and we turned the hut that served as the bar and rec area into a dance club. Brigitte hussled two Kuna boys shooting pool.

The pool table was leveled pretty well for sitting directly on the sand. One thick piece of wood supported the thatched roof in the center. A small stereo system behind the bamboo bar pumped music at the loudest volume I have ever heard on any Kuna island. I couldn’t help but feel like we were probably breaking some traditional Kuna laws, and would have to answer to the Congreso (the local chiefs) in the morning. Brigitte thought the boys were cute and gave one an innocent kiss on the cheek when saying goodbye. Traditional Kuna law states that they may not marry outside of their tribe – so we joked with her about the “loophole” that fails to cover one time hookups.

Before the girls left for Panama City, we toured a Kuna village and rode up the River Diablo through the rainforest, via our dinghy. Brigitte’s favorite part of the trip was the snorkeling, while Moncie’s was the rainforest. Moncie's an environmental scientist researching invasive species in the Chesapeake - and was easily enamored with wading through the river. While she overturned rocks Brigitte helped me wash some clothes, and Stephen pretended to get eaten by a crocodile. We sailed on to Playon Chico, where we had one last dinner together before sad goodbyes.

Christine flew into Corozon de Jesus just a couple of weeks later and had flown straight through the night without checking into a hotel. Despite her long journey, she was psyched to have finally arrived, and we celebrated with a breakfast cocktail - at least it contained fruit juice.

Like Brigitte & Moncie, we took Chris to the Cocos first, where she also enjoyed crustacean dinners and snorkeling. It was fun to explore the reefs with Chris since she’s an advanced diver and was educating us about underwater species that we hadn’t even noticed before.

We built a beachfire at sunset on an island with just a handful of palm trees. We’ve named this one “Yoga Island,” as it is my favorite spot in San Blas to do yoga. Stephen and I often have beach fires in order to burn our garbage – the best way to dispose of trash in San Blas. Sometimes the Kuna will offer to dispose of it for you for $1 a bag, but we quickly learned that too many of them simply take it inside the mangroves or up a river to dump it.

We sailed with Chris to the East Lemons, a cluster of islands about 2 miles from the shipwreck that we snorkeled on Dog Island. We had an adventurous dinghy ride to Dog Island with a sizeable sea swell that made our inflatable seem more like a white water raft. By the time we made it to Dog Island, a brief squall was passing through, making the currents around the wreck too dangerous to snorkel. We had to make a call on whether to stick it out and hope things would clear, or potentially get stuck on the island with worse conditions for navigating back to the boat. We pondered our decision over a couple of beers underneath a shelter of dried palms, while we watched Synchronicity pitch in the swell far away at anchor.

Suddenly, the sun came out and the current eased up. We had liquid courage, and snorkeled on the wreck that we had wanted Chris to see. Unfortunately, Chris had not learned an important lesson that came after 7 seven years of marriage to Stephen – don’t follow him. The man has NO FEAR, like the t-shirt, and always emerges from tight spaces unscathed. After a kayaking incident in Barbados, where I blindly followed him into open waters beyond the reef and earned the nickname “shipwreck,” I now choose to play it safe. Chris is very calculated, but when she followed Stephen through a chamber of the sunken boat, she was bitten by the craggy reef.

When we emerged from the water, she had an unsightly gash that needed tending to. Back at the boat, Captain Maguyver’s medical services were needed. It was the second time he performed surgery that week, as he had to extract a fish bone that had been lodged deep in my throat, using a flashlight and a pair of tweezers. We administered local anesthetic (a cold Balboa) and Stephen decided he would need an anesthetic as well. While Chris and I were feeling a bit squeamish, Stephen cleaned out and treated her wound. Poor Chris had to hobble around the boat and in and out of the dinghy for the rest of her stay. When she made it back to the States, her doctor told her Stephen had actually done a decent job.

While Chris was aboard, she had the pleasure of meeting the infamous “JC,” owner of San Blas Sailing, the charter boat company. He invited us to an island in the Hollandes, where he was entertaining his newest guests, a mother and daughter from France. While ashore, Chris got to meet a Kuna family, get a traditional ankle wrap, and purchase some molas. That evening, we joined JC and company aboard his boat for dinner. Chris got to sample some of his yummy French cuisine.

Before Chris left, she also experienced a sunset ride up the river through the rainforest. Our last meal ashore with her was truly typical – without menus or any clue of what you’re about to eat. Over a box of wine (the only way you can buy it), we recapped our trip. Chris was packed in no time, as she is truly the most efficient traveler I’ve met. She even had one of those small, microfiber towels with super drying capability that is just slightly bigger than a hand towel. We were sad to see her go.

Six months was plenty of time to discover an abundance of unchartered attractions including deserted beaches, reefs, tropical rivers, rainforest and Kuna villages. The total population of Kuna living in Panama is somewhere around 50,000. About a third of more of the population live and work in the cities of Panama: Panama City, Colon or Changuinola (Costa Rica border town).

The remainder of Kunas still living in the San Blas territory, (Kuna Yala) are concentrated in the larger settlements near the mainland. Many of these settlements have gone “non-traditional.” While most continue to live in homes constructed of bamboo walls and dried palm roofs, some have afforded concrete structures with the financial help of family members working outside of the territory. Nargana is the most advanced of these settlements, boasting “24 hour lights” enabled by a massive generator. There are roughly 1,500 Kuna packed onto this island, and while many still maintain traditional customs and dress, a larger number are donning NY Yankees caps, jeans and D&G knockoffs.

On the island of Nargana is a small health clinic, bank (no ATM), school and small jail. This island is good for restocking with produce, homemade bread, eggs and some canned goods as many of the Kuna operate small tiendas – but supplies are inconsistent. There are two small restaurants in Nargana, and ordering a meal is always an adventure. While fishing is their livelihood and source of sustenance, the
Kuna aren’t very good at filleting or preparing fish. We became excited when we saw the daily catch that we were about to order – it looked to be about 20 lbs. or more and certainly capable of providing more than a few good filets. The end plate was an over fried cut with side fin, scales and all.

While I can’t blame the Kuna for wanting the opportunities and luxuries of modern society, they’re leadership is a bit archaic and they have progressed to an awkward stage that has left both their people and environment vulnerable to the byproducts of unsustainable growth. Trash is perhaps the islands’ biggest problem. We noticed a difference immediately from just four years ago, as many of the islands are strewn with plastic and miscellaneous junk: chairs, shoes, clothing, and parts of appliances. We were anchored in the beautiful East Lemons one day when Stephen noticed two Kuna dragging a refrigerator behind their motorized canoe. With his binoculars, he watched as they dumped it just off the reef. As they passed by our boat on their way back to their island, he said, “muy malo,” (very bad). In response, they said it was no longer a problem, gesturing with their hands that it has “gone away, out to sea.”

All of the islands are owned by Kuna, and the Congreso (their form of government) assigns families to look after individual isles and harvest the coconuts – once the main economy and currency. The dollar or “plata” has replaced the coconut, and as a result, bartering has all but disappeared from the culture. The small remainder of the population (a few thousand) still opt for a traditional lifestyle in the outer islands, such as Isla Pinos at the eastern most end of the island chain.

Isla Pinos was our favorite island in San Blas, as it had a diverse topography and a quaint village in which the richness of Kuna culture could still be observed. Isla Pinos is known as “Tupback,” meaning “whale” because it is shaped like a giant whale surfacing from the sea. It has the highest elevation of all the islands at 150 meters and a great trail for hiking to the top. On this trail we saw a ton of wildlife, monos (monkeys), a black & green specked frog, reptiles, and interesting birds.

The island had almost everything the Kuna needed, eliminating the need to make trips up the rivers and into the rainforest on the mainland. There was a significant fresh water source that was piped into a catchement system and we passed many Kuna women on their way to the stream to bathe or do laundry. We hiked the circumference of the island, discovering a number of gorgeous coves, groves of coconut palms and hillsides covered in banana trees. About a mile and half around the western edge of the island, we discovered a pile of wooden planks cut with impressive precision given the lack of available tools, and the beginnings of a large canoe.

As we kayaked past the main village on “Tupbak,” a Kuna man in knee high rubber boots walked through the trees along the shore, shaking a feed bag. Suddenly a large pig came running towards him, oinking excitedly. Talk about free range pork. In many of the villages, large wooden pens are built within the family compound or on stilts over the water to house the cerdos (pigs) and their babies. Chickens also roam free, and roosters crow just about anytime of day. I suppose they are as unscheduled as the Kuna.

In the center of town is the building that serves as the main meeting place for the Congreso. It’s headed by the head Sahila or chief of the village and his assistants who help to interpret his “ancient wisdom” as he rocks in a hammock in the center of the room during daily afternoon gatherings of the entire community. Sahilas from all over the islands meet a few times a year for district meetings known as the Congreso General of Cultura.

The village surrounding the Congreso is comprised of small family estates of three huts with an inner courtyard. Most are situated along the shore with a small wharf that contains an outhouse at the end of the pier. There’s usually a primary school, a few tiendas (stores) that get regular shipments from Colombian trading boats, and the village hall. Volleyball, basketball and soccer are really popular with the Kuna, and there are many fields and courts devoted to these sports throughout the islands. While many are makeshift with available wood and fishing nets, some are the nicest structures in the village. Isla Pinos’ young soccer team became enamored with Stephen when he started kicking around the ball with them. He suddenly had a band of groupies that following him.

As you walk along narrow dirt paths that wind through the community, you pass by doorways where grandmas rock in a hammock with their grandchildren. During the day, women tend to the household smoking fish and sewing molas for tourists or for their own personal clothing. Traditional dress is a floral print blouse with short “poofy” sleeves, sinched by elastic at the crease of the elbow – with elaborate molas integrated into the torso, to completely cover the midsection. The skirt is a long piece of fabric with a two-toned design (usually an animal print with navy & bright green or bright orange) rolled up at the waist. Calves and forearms are wrapped in “wini” – long strings of small, colorful beads threaded in geometrical motifs. The more traditional women will also wear a red and yellow headscarf, gold ring through the nose and face paint (a thin black line down the center of the nose and bright red and pink rouge over the cheeks). To say their dress is colorful is quite an understatement.

Throughout the village, children run and play or bathe themselves in little tubs outside their hut. They are always really happy to see you. Huge welcoming parties of children run to shore as we anchor the boat and yell “Hola! Hola!” until they’re blue in the face. When we finally set foot on the island, the more bashful ones play hide and seek with you, while the extraverted wrap themselves around your legs and waist.

There are usually great smells emanating from small fires that burn inside the huts: roast fish and stews with boiled yucca, plantains or rice, and baking bread. The men are gone from the village most days. Most paddle to the outer islands in their “ulus” (dugout canoes) to fish or skin dive for lobsters on the reef. On their way back to the village, fishermen would pull up alongside our boat, offering to sell whatever they could from the day’s catch – mostly lobster and giant crab. If we were lucky, sometimes pulpo (octopus) and conch – very tender and delicious when prepared right.

Family members take turns inhabiting these same islands to tend to harvest coconuts or sell molas to tourists. Fewer paddle to the mainland and trek deep into the rainforest to tend to banana plantations or gather wood for building materials. Up the River Diablo near Nargana, Stephen and I hiked deep into the rainforest following a foot path along the water pipe to its source almost 5 miles in. We were impressed with the vast amount of land and resources available to the Kuna and could not understand why there were so few plots for farming. It seemed that if they were a little more industrious, they would have much more to their economy than just the coconut. One of the village elders explained to us that it is becoming more difficult with each new generation to engage the youth in farming. They go into the city for their secondary education and realize they can earn a day’s wage in an hour without the backbreaking effort. We were also told that farmers have become discouraged by thieves who steal their crop on the days they aren’t tending to them.

It’s unreasonable to expect that youth who seek education and opportunity in the city will return to Kuna Yala willing to abandon what they’ve come to know in the developed world. As we hiked away from the village on Isla Pinos, we came to a particular spot along the shore (perhaps the best spot to receive a signal), where Kunas came to talk on their cel phones. And TV sets have begun to pop up in huts, tiendas and restaurants on traditional islands where antennas tower high above thatched roofs and generators hum in the background. TV seems to dominate the atmosphere wherever it exists. Steve and I entered a restaurant where a Jackie Chan movie was playing with Spanish subtitles on a huge flatscreen. Imagine a giant flatscreen in an open air restaurant without a plumbed bathroom or printed menus. A group of Kuna (including our waitress) was glued to the set, and we were whispering our order so as not to interrupt. We ate in silence as we watched the other patrons become completely captivated by this world that contained inaccessible realties.

The trickiest part of sailing among the islands was spotting reefs. Polarized sunglasses were absolutely necessary. We developed a system of hand signals so that I could communicate while perched up on the bowsprit to Stephen back at the helm. I was thankful for the experience in the East Caribbean that enabled this to be more of a fun challenge than a stress fest. Holding was not always the best, since the bottom often consisted of sand mixed with coral rubble, so Stephen always dove down on our anchor to test it.

Synchronicity was the perfect sailing vessel for San Blas. Unlike many cruising boats, she can take off in very light winds – which is what we had on most sunny days. At the beginning of our stay, winds would range from 5 – 10 knots, allowing us to glide atop smooth, reef protected waters in between islands. The scenery was always breathtaking no matter where you looked. To the north, there was a beautiful ocean horizon dotted by palm tree islands. To the south, a continuous mountain chain, covered in verdant rainforest -not a spec of development for over a 100 miles. We were always surrounded by coral reef islands, rimmed in white sand, followed by the palest green and turquoise blue water.

The overnight passages among the islands along Panama’s Caribbean coast have been among my favorite. We’ve been able to take advantage of perfect weather windows with limited squall activity. This makes for tranquil night watches, where all you have to do is set the sails, babysit the wind vane from time to time, to make sure she is keeping us on a good course heading, and just relax and enjoy the stars. On each passage we’ve made, we’ve been visited by pods of dolphins. This never ceases to be an amazing experience. They’re like surfers…they love to ride the waves and show off their tricks as they leap from the crests and dive under the hull. Sometimes they twist and spiral around each other, endlessly. They love to play and call others to the party. It will start with two fins arcing their way towards your boat. Then before you know it, 5 and 10 more show up. Suddenly, we’re surrounded by a pod of 20 to 30 dolphins who will stay with the boat for up to half an hour before they disappear in the depths below.

The most spectacular display we’ve seen at sea, was the lunar eclipse that occurred on our second night en route to Bocas del Toro, just before Christmas. It was about 2am, and we had just crossed Panama’s major shipping channel into Colon when the moon began to fill in, a light shade of brown cast from Earth’s shadow. It was just us and a big freighter a few miles away. I wondered how many of their crew were also out on deck enjoying the view, as the moon filled in completely, revealing a plethora of constellations.

Even Gretchen enjoyed hanging out in the cockpit with us at night, when she usually prefers a spot buried between sail bags in the quarter berth. One evening, the seas were so calm, that she laid on top of the dodger gazing at the moon.

On our way to Bocas del Toro, Synchronicity made record time. What could have been a three night passage was completed in just two. After flying along at an average of 6.5 – 7.0 knots, even under reefed sail, we finally came to a halt when fighting a 2 knot current about 20 miles outside of Bocas. At this point, the boat actually seemed to be going backwards. Only then did we start the engine and motor the rest of the way in.

The greatest danger we experienced in San Blas were the intermittent squalls that could sometimes pack a punch with strong winds and ominous lightning. While steep waves remain my greatest fear at sea, Stephen has realized lightning is his kryptonite. Most evenings, lightning was a constant part of the night sky once the sun went down. At any time of the night, you could pop up on deck to watch a spectacular light show of pink and purple flashes and feel safe knowing they were at least 30 miles away.

One evening, shortly after Thanksgiving, the lightning ceased to be a spectacle of beauty. Of course, the worst squall we experienced would catch up with us in the only anchorage where our anchor failed to stay set. Around 5:30 am, the winds kicked up, and we worried about dragging into the shallows or onto the reef. We couldn’t see through the wall of rain, how close we were to the shore, so Stephen went straight to the cockpit in only his boxers to start the engine. I put my foulies on and went over to the quarter berth behind the chart table to grab his, when I felt a strange static and electrical current that made me jump back. I felt a jolt of adrenaline rush through me like someone took electric paddles to my heart. I met a wet, shivering Stephen in the cockpit and handed him his rain jacket as we were both realizing that we had just been struck by lightning. Our electronics (chart plotter, wind instruments, GPS) suddenly went haywire. Our friends on s/v Mohini hailed us on the radio to say that a bolt struck a tree on the shore just behind us. We were truly lucky that it was most likely a side strike that traveled from ashore and hit our boat. After consultation and guidance from friends who had been through lightning before, Stephen was able to get our systems up and running again, saving us much time and expense.

Our very first (and hopefully last) lightning bolt truly “struck” Stephen as he shared his feelings that while he LOVES sailing, subjecting our home to the elements is no picnic. My response surprised us both, as I erupted into uncontrollable laughter. I was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down my face and my throat hurt from not being able to catch my breath. Stephen looked a little bit worried and unable to grasp the humor. “I’m sorry….” I started, when I could finally speak again. “I just think it’s hysterical that after 4 years of endless planning, preparation, 2 major downsizings, 30 foot seas, near separation, and finally a lightning bolt…that we’ve come to realize that maybe it’s not so great to live on your boat!” But with great risks come truly great rewards...and on most days I think it's all been worth it.

Festival del Cristo Nazareno: Portobelo, Panama

2010-10-24T09:14:00.000-07:00

At 6:30am, Oct. 21, the sun had just risen over the small town of Portobelo, already alive with music, singing and pilgrims flooding in on foot. It was the annual holiday celebrating the arrival of a mysterious statue of El Cristo Nazareno (Christ of Nazareth), also referred to as El Cristo Negro (The Black Christ) to Portobelo about three centuries ago. Actually, the music and festivities had been going strong all night and were ramping up by the hour. No wonder Gretchen woke me up so early, she loves a festival on shore, and probably never went to sleep. As soon as I fed her, she was back on deck.

Portobelo is along the Caribbean coast of Panama, about 50 to 60 miles WNW of where we were in Kuna Yala (San Blas). From the boat, the shoreline looks charming. It looked especially inviting after we made it into safe harbor following a squall that packed about 38 knots with lightning. The lightning was scariest to me, seeing as our boat is a giant lightning rod.

There is a lot of history in Portobelo, a UNESCO World Heritage site. In the 1600s, it was one of the richest cities in the world – hard to believe today when all that remains are the ruins of forts and tiny homes of corrugated metal. Colombus landed here at the end of his voyaging, and Sir Francis Drake lies somewhere on the bottom of this harbor (his body was thrown overboard when the plague claimed his life). Captain Morgan filtered countless treasures looted from all over Central America through Portobelo on their way to Europe.

The three main holidays celebrated in Portobelo each year are Independence Day (Nov. 3), Carnaval in January and El Cristo Nazareno in October. The Cristo Nazareno celebration begins a week before the 21st with food and rosary vendors, drumming, dancing and lots of drinking in the streets. We’ve been here since Saturday, Oct. 16 and have seen pilgrims making the journey on foot from Panama City, each time we've taken the bus to Sabanitas, about 40 minutes away. They're dressed in purple - many in purple robes trimmed in white, frilly lace and gold sequined crosses. Panama City is about 80 miles from Portobelo…a very long walk. They began trickling in at the beginning of the week, and by sunrise Oct. 21, you could see a steady stream flooding in on shore.

As we walked through the Church on the evening of the 20th, pilgrims were kneeling before the Cristo Nazareno in prayer. Policemen who are stationed here throughout the festival, removed their berets and bowed in reverence. In the background, people slept all throughout the Church, in pews and on slabs of cardboard or blankets in the aisles. Their purple robes hung from hangers on the walls behind them.

It was then that I came to the realization of what I had seen at the El Rey Supermarket in Sabanitas during our last shopping trip. There were several people reclining on slabs of cardboard just outside the grocery store, in front of the stacks of shopping carts. The El Rey also acts as an informal bus depot (covered in grime) but the people camped out on the ground, resting on their journey to Portobelo.

There are many versions of the legend behind the statue of the Cristo Negro/Cristo Nazareno that culminated into its current traditions. The most popular is that the Cristo Negro arrived on shore hundreds of years ago “in a black box from the ocean.” The people who lived back then “didn’t know what to do with it” so they sent it back out to sea. It appeared again, and the cholera epidemic suddenly disappeared. The people believed it to be a miracle associated with the statue, and kept it in a protected place within the Church of San Felipe (in the center of town), where he still resides today.

A less popular, but more likely version declares that a sinking ship dumped it along with the rest of its cargo to stay afloat, when a nearby boat of disapproving fishermen chose to salvage it. Soon after the townspeople began to venerate the statue, cholera was gone. And a third version simply asserts that the arrival of the Cristo Nazareno was a shipping error…it was in route to another part of Central America and mislabeled, “Portobelo.” All too familiar with the inefficiencies of Central American bureaucracy, I believe this to be the most likely scenario.

But without miracles, there wouldn’t be a festival of such magnitude. And participation in this festival proved to me that the belief in miracles is powerful enough to unite a culture that is otherwise disenfranchised. Stories of miracles in the years following the plague, include one about a “lottery ticket,” that was shared with us by fellow sailors. According to the story, a Panamanian made the pilgrimage, and upon reaching Cristo Nazareno, prayed to win the lottery. In prayer, he vowed to paint the Church in exchange for the miracle. After winning the lotto, he declared he “never intended to paint the Church,” and had the audacity to try his luck again in a later pilgrimage. Jesus granted the same miracle again, but with a high price for not staying true to his word. He died in a car accident – a winning lotto ticket found in his pocket.

Once the pilgrims make it to the entrance of Portobelo, the very devout crawl on their knees about a mile to San Felipe Church in the center of town, to intensify their suffering. On the evening of the 20th, we watched a young man crawl down the center of the main road, amidst dancing and loud music, while a young female poured wax from a burning candle on his back and another male swept the road in front of him with a cloth. The theory is: the greater the suffering, the greater the chances are that Jesus will forgive them for their sins when they finally reach him in the Church. Panamanians and spectators alike, share mixed emotions and opinions about this display of faith. The more open-minded say, "to each his own" and see it as a unique way of making sense of suffering or reconciling past sins. Many more see it as bad practice (or a "freak show" as some have called it) - that drawing attention to one's suffering is frowned upon by God. And others ask, "What kind of a God would require this for forgiveness?"

Despite opinion, people almost universally agree that it has stirred confusion emotions - often unexpected sadness. The man crawling on his knees (above) made the journey with the lady kneeling in the previous photo. As pilgrims crawled, the intensity and drama of each person's journey varied. Some were actually quite humble, crawling alone and masking their pain as they made their way over poorly paved streets littered with broken glass.

Some are disabled or sick, as I believed the man in the photo above may have been. He and his mate crawled with the encouragement of relatives who held miniature shrines of Cristo Nazareno for inspiration a few feet in front of them. This particular couple attracted the largest crowd as medics tended to their wounds along the way. When they made it to the steps of the Church, they collapsed in the street, holding hands while a ton of people hovered above them, snapping photos (see slide show). The Red Cross tried to hold a perimeter around them while they struggled to the foot of Cristo Nazareno, where they were quickly hauled out on stretchers. Stephen nominated them for "the most dramatic" award.

This is a very nice family who accompanied the man in the middle on his journey. The father on the left told me he was "muy orgulloso" - very proud of his two sons who made the pilgrimage. His son in the middle wins the "best look alike" award. The father talked with me in Spanish about the importance of this day to them. Our vocabulary is steadily increasing, but I was only able to interpret in his message that "we are all family" and that "Jesus is always watching us from above." So many people and local journalists photographed this family, yet they had no camera to take a picture home with them. We found a sweet old man in a blue vest that said, "El Photographia," toting a polaroid camera. He looked like he could use some business, so we paid him to take a photo for the family to keep.

When they make it to the Church, the pilgrims are greeted by crowds of media - photographers and cameramen, and people who are cheering them on. Some continue through the Church at a steady pace, while others stop at the threshold of the Church, sobbing and shaking their heads. A little boy who accompanied his family members, watched in confusion as they paused in front of the Church, stricken with grief. These two men appeared to be suffering greater emotional pain than physical. It looked to me like they were hesitating because they felt they were not worthy to enter the Church. It left me wondering about the source of such feelings of unworthiness.

As we walked through town, we were surprised by this monkey who leaped out onto a porch between two vendors' stands. His owner told me it's a female that he found in the Darien region of Panama. She's attached to a collar and a long leash that gives her enough room to roam around the front porch that wraps around the front of the house and to swing from two wash lines. The monkey was amazingly good with people and especially gentle with little kids who stopped to let the monkey climb on them. She would approach them from the ground and pause to look up at them as if asking permission. Then she would carefully climb up the front of their legs and hug their waist.

As pilgrims began arriving to Portobelo this week, they set up tents in the middle of town, camping out until the holiday is over. If you saw how dirty the streets are, you would appreciate just how truly devout this is. Then again, this isn’t the first world, and concepts like cleanliness are relative. Under a pavilion outside of San Felipe Church, pilgrims strung hammocks and set up small grills for cooking. Down by the town dock, locals bathed in the sea and showered (in various stages of nudity) at the end of the pier by dumping buckets of water over their head.

We decided to do our provisioning on Monday and Tuesday, before the streets became flooded and overwhelmed with traffic. By Thursday, the entrance to Portobelo is baracaded and the taxis can only take you so far. We took the “party buses” to Sabanitas, and after the first trip back on this crazy bus line, opted to splurge for the taxi instead. The leftover American school buses pump Latin club music M - F and are airbrushed with murals honoring both voluptuous women and Jesus at the same time. “Sins in the rear and forgiveness in the front,” Stephen summed it best when while taking in the artwork on one of the buses. Inside, they distract your eyes from the torn up seats and chewing gum with hot pink feather boas and zebra striped paint. To us, it seems like a constant party, but around here it seems a way of life.

I love these buses and the general lack of concern for safety. As the buses fly around blind turns at top speed, Abuelas (grandmothers) hold their toddlers up to the open windows so they can feel the air on their faces and reach out with their arms to touch the passing trees.

At the end of our first shopping trip, we had a loaded backpack, huge shopping bag and a cardboard box stuffed with food. When the packed bus to Portobelo arrived in front of El Rey, people were standing in the aisles and we thought we might not make it on. But then two young guys who may or may not have worked with the buses were being extremely helpful and held up the bus to take us around the back for loading. When one of them opened the emergency exit (now painted over, as the concept of "emergency" is now irrelevant) there was barely enough room to squeeze in. Stephen attempted to find space for our groceries as I waited patiently outside with a growing awareness that the guys helping us wanted me to get on in a hurry – and for good reason. The bus driver couldn’t see, or maybe didn’t care whether we were on or not. Before I knew what was going on, I was being lifted in the air and placed gently on the bus. Before I could stand up straight, our friends were stuffing me inside and latching the door as the bus took off down the street. The greatest part about the back of the bus was that we were closest to the speakers. As we shouted to each other above the music while straddling our groceries and holding on for dear life, I was laughing to the point of tears. This was the most fun I ever had grocery shopping.

The taxi rides were less eventful, but we had to stop at several police checkpoints on the way back to Portobelo. The policemen here look intimidating in their camouflage with M-16s and bullet proof vests, but are extremely friendly and will be the first to smile at you in greeting. The police checkpoints are mainly set up to prevent people from bringing drugs and arms into the festival, but we were warned to carry our documents in case they tried to confiscate our liquor. Since we were restocking the boat with beer and wine, this was crucial information to have. At one stop along the way, a female police officer pointed to our case of wine on the front street and smiled as she tilted her imaginary bottle to her mouth and said, “Party.”

Another sailor who has been in the area for years gave us some really good advice. “Never speak to them in Spanish, if you speak English you are less suspicious to them and they’ll wave you on through. And never show them a map when asking for directions. They’ve never seen a map, but they sure like to look at one.”

While riding with him to Colon one morning, we saw his advice in action. He rolled down his window at a police checkpoint and said in his deepest Texan accent, “Howdy pardner!” The policia paused for one moment as a funny smile emerged on his face. Clearly he was deliberating over whether to exert effort in an attempt to communicate with this silly foreigner. In the next moment, he simply waved us on through.

The food vending tents are the most colorful part of the scenery and are stacked with bins of rotisserie and fried chicken, ribs, kebabs, spiraled sausages on a stick, yucca frites (fried yucca fries), patacones (fried plantains), rice, tamales, deep fried corn bread and coconut treats. The yucca fries and cocadas (coconut treats) are our favorite - and the potato salad that was colored purple with beet juice for the festival.

Latinos know how to do chicken, but otherwise roadside pork and beef throughout Central America usually looks better than it tastes. I am reminded of a time Stephen bought sausage from a family that ran a little market adjacent to their home. After a few bites, he tried to feed it to an emaciated dog that took off running in the other direction after one sniff. One of the best features of this festival is the 50 cent beer that can be purchased out of just about anyone’s home. We’ve been finding that there is often a “local price” and a “gringo price.” In Portobelo, we are less likely to be taken advantage of by the locals than by fellow expats who claim their beers are $1 because they are the “coldest in town.” That’s sooo like the white man. El Cristo Negro is “for all people,” with beer prices “for all people.”

The vendors were very warm, humble and happy to share their beliefs when asked. They sold beautiful handcrafted rosaries with multi-colored beads and designs unlike any I’ve seen in my Catholic upbringing. They sold necklaces and car ornaments with pictures of Cristo Nazareno and statues ranging in sizes no bigger than your thumb to 3 ft tall. People carried their Cristo Nazareno statues over their shoulders and mounted them in shrines used to motivate family members making the pilgrimage on their hands and knees. Worn out from hours of inspiring crawling pilgrims, the Cristo Nazareno (seen above) took a break in a plastic chair along the parade route.

We were buying incense from an older man who spoke a little bit of English. He was delighted to learn that Stephen had the same name as him…”Esteban” in Espanol. Esteban had a big statue of Christ – the only one that was blanco (white) not negro. When we asked him why it was white, he answered, “We didn’t have time to paint it.” We found this quite funny and he laughed with us as we talked about the color of Jesus’s skin and the likelihood that a man from Jerusalem would be “white” not dark-skinned. “That’s why they killed him,” Esteban stated half teasing, but also with seriousness. “They were waiting for a man with white skin to save them.” “Isn’t that just like the white man?” I joked back, and we continued to laugh in the face of our cultural differences.

At first glance, the presence of alcohol appeared widely accepted. Like Carnaval, it seemed integral to the way the Caribbean celebrates its religious beliefs. As the celebration wore on, however, we noticed two very distinct factions of celebrators: its devout participants and its onlookers. Some of the devout went so far as to pass out pamphlets and preach the importance of abstaining. Some sipped beers while donning ostentacious purple robes, but clearly their wasn’t a lot of suffering going on. And then we witnessed the greatest paradox of all, a pilgrim who crawled through the streets toward forgiveness, while motivated by a can of Balboa (the national beer).

The photo above features an example of the miniature shrines created by pilgrims, to keep the faith, and remind them what they are crawling towards. This man pauses takes a break in the street, about a 1/4 mile left to go. Theatrical or humble, almost every pilgrim grabbed my attention. I admit that some tears crept up on me while watching "the most dramatic couple." Beneath their grandiosity or masochism was an undeniable void. I've always been a sucker for the Hollywood formula...cue music, cue tears. I hate to see anyone cry. But I was pretty embarressed when a group of adolescent Panamanian boys started laughing at me.

When the pilgrims make it to the Church, Cristo Nazareno awaits them atop an enormous platform, adorned with candles and flowers arranged to spell "Nazareno." The statue is brought out from behind the glass and placed on the platform on the evening of the 20th. The platform is so large, that it takes over 20 men to carry it through town during the procession that takes place from 8 PM on the evening of the 21st. The men sway in a fluid, dance-like movement at a pace of two steps forward, one step backward along the parade route through town. The men must make it back to the Church by midnight, when the Church bells ring, the fireworks go off and the festival goes wild. The firework display was unbelievable for the size and economy of this town. From the middle of the anchorage, the sounds echoed like canons. Bordered by forts on both sides, it was easy to imagine that you were amidst a battle scene that took place centuries ago.

The Jesus Nazareno is followed by a band of horns and trumpets and a procession of pilgrims holding lit candles. At midnight, the pilgrims make a mass exodus out of Portobelo, making the journey home. The devotion of the pilgrims and the beauty of the services adorned with flowers and glowing candles is an amazing sight, but the food and dancing are equally remarkable. Little girls and boys from toddlers to adolescents make rumba and salsa look as easy as tying your shoe laces. A little girl who couldn’t have been more than two years old was busting some dance video moves to some club music blasting from speakers five times her height.

This is Gretchen the day after the 21st. After a week of being on the prowl, Gretchen is worn out. It's hard work staying up all night hunting birds and watching fireworks. Gretchen caught two sweet little birds trying to catch a break on deck. We awoke twice this week to the sound of a shrill squeaking very early in the morning. She chased her second catch inside the cabin, where Stephen was able to pry it loose from her claws. the bird flew to the opposite side of the boat, and as he shooed it out of the companionway, Gretchen took an impressive leap across the boat, swatting it in midair. It's hard to beleive this cuddly furball is a vicious hunter.

Rediscovering Kuna Yala with Chuck & Jenny

2010-08-11T14:57:00.000-07:00

I now refer to it as Kuna Yala instead of the San Blas, as we have been corrected by several Kuna who fought hard for emancipation from Panama. So now we fly both the Panamanian and Kuna Yala courtesy flags. The Panamanian flag resembles the U. S. flag with its red, white and blue stars. Venancio, master mola maker, handcrafted a Kuna flag for us, a backwards swastika that gives off an unfriendly air in the company of visitors who know just a little bit less about Kuna Yala than we do. It is written into Kuna history that this “sun” symbol has been amongst the native tribes for thousands of years before it was stolen by the Nazis for evildoing. We wanted to stay in good favor with the Kuna, but I don’t know if it is worth fielding all the questions from fellow sailors who want to know “what is up with your Nazi flag?”

The actual point of this blog is to share a little bit about Chuck & Jenny’s visit to Kuna Yala, and the recent discoveries we made together. I left McSherrystown at 11 am on a Saturday and arrived with Jenny in Kunaville around 7 am, Sunday morning. We traveled straight through the night with long layovers in Ft. Lauderdale and Panama City where we arrived around 2 am. I give Jenny a lot of credit for her bravery, mostly with the last leg on our little puddle jumper of a plane. It is quite a stretch for someone who isn’t the fondest of flying in general. And Stephen laughed about the fact that she was the first person off the plane. It was a nerve racking journey that began with us realizing our flight out of Reagan was an hour earlier than we had thought. So we rushed from Baltimore through DC traffic and wrong turns, still making it to our gate with time to spare. In the tiny airport of Ft. Lauderdale, there was nothing to do but get caught up with each other in the only bar/restaurant in the airport. After three glasses of wine and dinner of course, Jenny was feeling ready to conquer this leg. But we sat on the tarmac for an hour while maintenance crew “fixed” some part of the plane. Our buzz wore off and I passed out while Jenny remained wide-eyed despite her need for sleep.

We struggled to keep our eyes open at Panama International where we were letting time pass until we caught a taxi to Albrook Regional Airport, about 35 minutes away. Jenny, me and a group of three other Americans, were the first ones to arrive before the gates had opened at 5 am. We camped out on the steps, fighting to stay awake just a little while longer by reading a celeb gossip mag and eavesdropping on the yuppie-hippie couple across the way. “Our wedding was totally organic,” the recent bride told their female friend who they had just picked up in Panama. “All the food was fresh, from local farms, our wine produced from local vineyards, and our four flower girls were dressed to represent wind, earth, fire and water.” Jenny and I snickered then exchanged knowing glances with the friend now silent as the happy couple aired their differences quite audibly.

An armed guard man stood outside the whole time, observing all of us until an attendant from Air Panama came out to collect us from the steps. Jenny & I were the first to check in, as the yuppie-hippie couple didn’t even know what airline they were flying. We were soon shuttled into the smaller waiting area where Jenny would scan the yard and I would reluctantly explain to her that the smallest plane was the one that we would be taking. Fortunately, she didn’t have a lot of time to think about it, because Albrook Airport has really stepped it up in the last four years. Their process has become quite efficient, and now includes a roll call before boarding the plane. The typical one to four hour delays have been reduced to 30 minutes. Better than you could hope for in Central America.

We were on the type of plane where you could see into the cockpit and watch your pilot fly the plane. I now understood the reason for the strict weight limit on the baggage as they piled our bags in small compartments at both the front and tail ends of the plane. We headed over barren mountains to the edge of the Caribbean coastline, and as the plane circled the small island of El Porviner, Jenny came to realize that we were about to descend there. Its little airstrip was just 10 yards wide and maybe the length of three football fields.

On the ground, I peered through the windows to scan the crowd for Stephen. He and Chuck sported island shirts and full beards. “Hmmm…” I thought to myself. The werewolf facial hair was going to have to grow on me. Regardless, I couldn’t wait to see him. Apparently, like Jenny, no one could wait another second to get off this plane and I just had to wait as people kept filing past me in a steady stream despite my proximity to the door. I nearly toppled Stephen over, stepping on his toes just to get to him. Behind me, I heard a woman say to her friend, “Is this the right place?” her tone contained a hint of lowered expectations.

We had our first Kuna style breakfast for a grand total of $8 for the four of us, in the newly renovated hut known as the airport restaurant. Kuna breakfast consists of homemade, fried bread, fried eggs, fried packaged deli ham, fried plantains and a slice of packaged queso (cheese) if you ask for it. Si, and there is also fresh coffee instead of Nescafe.

Jenny and I got caught up on sleep while Stephen and Chuck sailed us to our first anchorage off the lovely island of Solardup. The water surrounding its shores was lagoon like and filled with starfish. We enjoyed sundowners on the beach and dinner aboard before spending the next day just lounging here. Steve hooked up a hammock and we played Frisbee in the water while a group of workers clearing the island for an upcoming “resort” stopped to watch. They were no doubt entertained by my highly dramatized attempts at catching and throwing the frisbee.

An older man on the crew kept stopping to chat with us, as best as we could in Spanish. What I gathered from him is that he is not happy about all of the recent development of the islands. “Mas turistas, no esta bien.” He repeated over and over. We later learned that a new road has been paved in Carti, a town on the mainland that is receiving waves of backpackers now that access has been created for the first time ever between Kuna Yala and Panama City.

The owner of the island led the work crew and boasted the development of the new hotel next year, before shaking us down for four U.S. dollars – our fee for visiting his island. We didn’t have any cash on us, so the group shuttled Stephen over to our boat in their motorized dugout canoe, on their way back to the mainland. “Stephen looks like their sacrifice,” Jenny pointed to Stephen cross-legged and placid in the middle of the crew. Cash secured, they offered to transport Stephen back to the island but he insisted on swimming. For some reason they thought this was “peligro!” (dangerous). Perhaps the Kuna aren’t the best swimmers, but this is Stephen’s main form of exercise aside from hoisting the anchor. If they’d known that Stephen had also weighted himself down with four beers, they would have never forged on without him.

There are Kuna resorts, Kuna hotels and Kuna hostels. The Kuna resorts are “rustic cabanas,” translation: bamboo hut with thatched roof, windows, sand floor and two stacked mattresses. The Kuanidup Resort has added cabanas and a generator to the island since we were last here. There is now a pool table and flat screen TV in the main “office” where you can usually find the Kuna gathered. One evening, Stephen went searching for our waiter, only to find him glued to the scene of a high speed car chase with the rest of the staff. “How do the Kuna even relate to that?” Stephen shook his head in disbelief while sharing his findings with us. “The Kuna don’t even have cars.”

The Kuanidup Resort now has plumbing in their main bathrooms, which they might be better without. During a visit to the island, Jenny and I had an adventure using these bathrooms, permanently flooded since you have to bucket in your own water to fill the toilet for flushing when it runs dry. There is a huge tub of water just outside the bathrooms for this occurrence.

The Kuna hotels, on the main islands, actually have concrete floors and plumbed bathrooms that seem to work efficiently, but there are no frills. These are stacked with beds, usually four to a room and are more akin to hostels. The Kuna hostels, a recent addition with the influx of backpackers, go for $15 a night and are huts far less desirable than one built for a Kuna family. There are no windows, just one makeshift door for privacy. I’m pretty sure guests sleep in hammocks.

When we arrived to Kuna Yala, it was rainy season, yet the weather was beautiful for the duration of Chuck & Jenny’s stay. It was like Mother Nature knew they were visiting, because the day they left it was overcast and rainy for days. While they were aboard, we were visited by many Kuna, who paddled alongside our boat in their dugout canoes, selling their molas and other crafts. Lisa, a notorious transvestite master mola-maker and entrepreneur who we had come to know in 2006, had arranged a tour with Chuck & Stephen prior to our arrival. Lisa came with her assistant, Noriega to pick us up from our boat one morning and shuttle us in her motorized canoe to the mainland for a nature hike to a waterfall.

The sights on the trip over were amazing. The water is always so tranquil and smooth, reflecting the skies above like a giant mirror. The clouds had dissipated from the mountains and their greens contours shone brightly in the morning sun. When we arrived at the mouth of the Rio Sidra (the river), the boys had to get out and navigate the kayak through silt and sandbars. We were told that the river was ceremonial, a place where the Kuna come to bury their dead. Lisa also asked us not to take pictures since it was a sacred site.

The banks were lined with hibiscus, mango and palm trees. Schools of fish swam alongside our canoe. At the end of the river, we hiked in past a cemetery, where several Kuna were attending to the gravesites. Each family site is separated by a thatched roof sheltering mounds of earth. Each site looks freshly dug, the sides molded into a point, an acute angle pointing in the direction of heaven. The graves are marked with hand painted wooden signs. Some have plastic crosses and artificial flowers. All of them have at least one coffee mug if not several vessels for eating and drinking along the journey through the afterlife. It was remarkable how the Kuna honored their dead. Families maintain the graves regularly and Lisa showed us the site of her family she claims to visit at least once a week.

The hike into the mountain was gorgeous with a clearing at one point for us to look across the water to the islands we had just come from. When we arrived at the waterfall, we were told we could jump in and even swim the stream back to the kayak instead of hiking. Seemed like a great idea until I jumped in, only to be attacked by fish moments later. Lisa forgot to mention the hungry fish in the stream that like to nibble on humans. Totally taken off guard, I screamed at the first peck, making a made dash for the boulders. Lisa was giddy with delight at my reaction. “Don’t worry, they’re not pirranah, just hungry,” she reassured. “Oh, well that makes it okay then.” Even Steve was startled by the tiny bites after jumping in again with full knowledge. Neither Jenny nor I were having this. There was no way we were “swimming” back to the kayak.

We had some great reefs to snorkel around the islands of Little Kuanidup and Wassaladup which we renamed “Wassonladup” for Chuck & Jenny Wasson-to-be. The reefs here are great to snorkel because of the calm, bathtub temperature water with minor currents. Below the surface is teeming with all kinds of tropical fish: angel fish, parrot fish, squid, eels, rays, sea anenomae, sea cucumbers, urchin, sand dollars, starfish, barracuda and even the occasional benign shark.

We swam to a wreck just off Dog Island, which is one of the most beautiful snorkeling spots I’ve enjoyed. When the afternoon sun is uninhibited by clouds, all of the colors of the rainbow: purples, pinks, blues, mustards, rusts, and scarlet sparkle from the resulting coral, fish and plant life that has covered the wreck. Schools of larger fish hide in the underbelly of the ship while tons of smaller fish feed along the sides.

One evening, anchored off of Green Island, we went ashore to collect wood for a fire we built after dinner. We returned, covered in bug spray for the bonfire/trash burning event. Trash is a problem for San Blas, as there is no place for it to go. Rather than collect it and deliver it to the main islands where they could charge you to let it sit until it is eventually burned or drifts out to sea, we try to burn most of it ourselves. Many Kunas collect it in large heaps on their private islands for burning as well - a temporary eyesore hidden among palm trees. A faint glow from Panama City over the mountains is the only source of light pollution here, and barely noticeable, so the stars are abundant. We would look away from the glow of the fire from time to time to notice a new constellation of stars that became more visible in the night sky.

The rest of Chuck & Jenny’s trip was spent sailing, swimming, lounging, eating great Kuna meals and having mas cervezas y vino. One afternoon, Stephen and Chuck caught an enormous tuna that resulted in afternoon food coma compounded by the blistering sun. In retrospect, we agreed the tuna could have fed us two lunches. We troll for fish almost every time we move anchorages, and Stephen has recently tried out his spear guns. We have found that the best way to hook a fish is to wait for a Kuna kayuko to paddle up next to you, waving their fresh catch high above their heads. The greatest effort expended by using this method is the negotiation. “Dos langostas (lobsters), quince (15),” a Kuna fisherman requested. “Hmm…diez (10),” replied Stephen. “Okay,” responded the fisherman. No blood and guts. No scrapes from brushing against the reef. Easy.

We had two dinners ashore, one at the Kuanidup Restaurant (a sheltered picnic area) after the most amazing sunset, and our last on El Porviner at the “hotel.” Our lobster dinner on Kuanidup was $8 a person and our last meal of Baracuda (very tender), bottled Coca-colas and cervezas was just $6 a person. I am happy to report that Kuna fare is fabulous and very filling, contrary to what their very skinny frames might lead you to believe. Everything is usually served with rice, beans or lentils and ensalada which is lettuce and tomato on the main islands, but cabbage & carrots (like a slaw) on the outer islands. El Porviner makes some damn good French fries. Ah, but I still long for all things dairy…fresh milk and ice cream. And it would be nice to get some fresh veggies more than just once every two to three weeks. The veggie boat makes its rounds to the more popular anchorages unexpectedly. Sometimes you can find out about anticipated stops through the Cruiser radio net, but you have to be up pretty early in the morning to catch it, as Stephen and I learned the hard way.

Sometimes Kuna will peddle loaves of fresh bread (more like bread sticks) and huevos (eggs) early in the morning. Just when Stephen and I think we’ve found a private anchorage, we are reminded that we are never alone. The Kuna are always close at hand, even before 7 am, and will shout “Hola!” at the first sign of stirring inside the boat. One morning, as we lay in the V-berth we suddenly heard a sneeze, only it didn’t come from me, him or Gretchen. “Unbelievable!” I started laughing. They had quietly made their way out to us and were lurking just outside the bow. “Hola!” was the next thing I heard. “Molas!” “Tenemos muchas molas!” I shouted. (We have a ton of molas). “No necessito mas molas.” (I don’t need any more molas). “Hay magazinos?” they ask in reply. When we don’t have a need for whatever they’re peddling, they will often ask us for magazines, chocolate, towels, sunglasses, bug spray. If they don’t have something we can use, we find ourselves handing out pens, old magazines, and hotel size soaps and lotions.

After a full week of immersion in Kuna culture, we hugged Chuck and Jenny goodbye outside the Airport Restaurant early on a Friday morning. It was a pleasure to have them aboard my first week back. They were great guests and sharing Kunaville with them was even more fantastic than imagined. Our faces became long as I realized I didn’t know when I would see them again, and whether they would be Mr. & Mrs. Wasson in our next reunion. We stood along the side of the runway, waving to them as they peered through the window of the plane. I felt a pang of anxiety for Jenny as the plane took off, the most exciting event on the island that day. Soon they would be checking into a resort in Panama City to enjoy luxuries I have traded in to be here.

Highlights of the East Caribbean....

2010-07-25T16:47:00.001-07:00

Dominica

Dominica was one of our more exotic destinations in every sense of the experience. It’s an independent nation, struggling for a foothold in the second world. We were told Jugo Chavez is bringing economic opportunity in the form of oil refineries. If you are visiting the city of Portsmouth, you’re probably a sailor or a member of the Peace Corps. Whenever we went to the market, which starts hours before dawn, I was often mistaken for a Peace Corps worker. There is both appreciation and animosity towards them and “the students” at the local medical school just outside of town. They’ve built their own tiny city and have the chance to mingle with local Rastas on the weekends.

The Valley of Desolation

One such Rasta named “JC,” was our hiking guide on a day long trek through The Valley of Desolation to the Boiling Lake. “They (the students) don’t like to mix with our kind,” he informed us while giving us the back-story on Dominica’s diverse subcultures. JC explained what it meant to be a Rasta, living off the land and having a keen knowledge of how to use every bit of the environment for shelter, food and medicine. In JC’s case, being a Rasta also means trying to fly under the radar of the local park wardens, and anyone who may try to keep him an honest citizen.

Turns out our guide was “unofficial,” but not “unentertaining.” The moment we stepped out of the rental car to start our hike, I detected an herbal scent wafting from the back of the jeep. There stood JC with a mischievous smile. Dominican Rastas seem to be free to smoke provided they don’t try to share it or sell it to their foreign counterparts. JC rolled a spliff so big he didn’t need to “share it.” Inundated by the smoke, I pushed Stephen ahead of me on the trail. “You go first, or I’m going to be too high to make it to the boiling lake.”

You’d think JC’s habits and general demeanor would make him a slow hiker, but he put both of us to shame. He knew these trails like he could walk them in his sleep. He was unbelievably quick, even in his heavy boots that he shared were two sizes too big for him. As he belted out Michael Jackson’s Greatest Hits, he’d stop dead in the middle of the chorus to point out a special type of tree, and pick up the beat exactly as he left it. He’d find time to bust a moonwalk or some other Michael dance move and still be way up ahead of us.

This trail was an unbelievable 8 hour trek through dense rainforest (where we got to swing from vines) and sulfur fields known as “The Valley of Desolation.” The descent into the steep valley was a little precarious with slippery mud below your feet and shifting rock overhead. “Move quickly,” were JC’s orders – but not too quickly or you’ll slide the whole way down.

The sulfur fields were neon greens, oranges and yellows depending on a combination of elements – heat and sulfuric content. We were literally stepping over lava flows. It bubbled in some places, and JC said you could boil an egg in it. Close to all this activity, the streams flowed in a variety of colors: orange, onyx and a pure white that reminded me of glacial waters – steaming instead of freezing.

Along the ridge of the forest, water flowed into natural pools that held the temperature of a hot tub. JC let us climb into one of these pools, hidden inside a cluster of trees. Hot water poured down the rock face and over a natural infinity edge into the next pool below. As we dug our toes into the dirt, the heat became more intense.

Our hike ended at a boiling lake. It was far bigger than Stephen imagined, a deep crater almost 100 yards in diameter and almost 300 degrees Fahrenheit. Each time the center started boiling up, it would roar and hiss, then blanket us with a thick cloud of steam. Sitting around this volcanic wonder stirred up talk of volcanoes which made JC uneasy. As we shared our knowledge of Yellowstone’s super volcano and scientific estimations that it’s overdue for an eruption, JC became upset with us. “No! Jah would never let that happen,” he insisted. As we made our case, he made his – one I’d never considered before. “Were humans around the last time it erupted?” he asked. “No,” we answered. “Well, now that humans are here, Jah won’t let the volcano erupt.” Sounds plausible.

Titou Gorge

Our epic hike ended at Titou Gorge, one of the film sites for Pirates of the Caribbean. The scene in which Johnny Depp is walking with those long sticks and then falls into a Gorge….you can actually go swimming in the bottom of the gorge in the coldest mountain water that flows between huge boulders that give you the feel of swimming inside caves. Very little light gets inside and the water varies from an ice blue to a deep emerald. In the last “cave,” a water fall rushes in and you can climb onto a ledge to sit behind it.

Screw’s Sulfur Spa

Another highlight of Dominica was “Screw’s Sulfur Spa.” A business savvy Rasta, “Screw” held onto a vision for years that a hot spring lie under his property in the village of Wotten Waven. For years, he dug with a shovel until one day hot mineral water seeped through the ground. Screw had built his home in the top of a very large tree that existed on the property. Soon, this tree would also become the bar and reception area for an elaborate resort. The resort grew from a few small basins into expansive pools of varying temperatures. The landscaping incorporates art and the natural rainforest. My favorite time to be here was at night when you can float on your back and gaze up at the stars through the trees. Screw was extremely generous, especially with his ganja rum. At the end of each visit, he gave Stephen a few shots of this “truth serum” and a bag of fruit from his property.

Zumba

In Rouseau, we were anchored next to a big catamaran, “Hands Across the Sea.” The couple aboard ran a non-profit organization dedicated to bringing school supplies to children on the islands. Their cousin, a dancer trained in New York City, was also visiting to give workshops to the local dance schools. She invited me to join a Zumba session one day at a school auditorium in town. When I got there, the dancers were giving a recital to the local heads of ministries. When they were finished, a few of the girls welcomed me and pulled me up on stage to Zumba with them. Suddenly we were all performing for groups of uniform-clad school children funneling in. They were dancing in their seats, and some even ran up on stage.

Eating in Dominica was a great experience whether at the local market or in a restaurant perched in the treetops in Wotten Waven. Locals love to cook with “ground provisions,” meaning yams, tarot root, yucca, potatoes, and plantains – anything starchy. They’ll load your plate with fish, rice, ground provisions and “green salad” (lettuce & tomato), all prepared with local spices. They love to make fritters out of just about everything too – fish, potato, onion, meat.

Dominica is one of the poorer islands, and had one really bad incident of theft in the Portsmouth anchorage that earned it a bad reputation among cruisers. There was just one time that we felt “unsafe” while walking through a residential area back to the boat at night. In populated areas, it’s always best to take a cab after dark. After a few cat calls, I picked up the pace and looked straight ahead. It turns out one of the guys calling out to me was actually our “boat boy,” and was just trying to say hello to us. The local government has compensated for recent crime by organizing boat boys to look after yachts at anchor and connect them with services during their stay. We found most Dominicans to be very fun-loving, straightforward and generous. Dominica isn’t a beach resort-type destination, but it’s definitely worth a visit on a cruise ship.

St. Lucia

We spent a few weeks in St. Lucia, where Mom & Dad Toman came to visit over Easter. We spent a few weeks in Rodney Bay, home to a few resorts, including Sandals. We met a couple that has been sailing the Caribbean for about 30 years, part of the time for leisure and part of the time as a charter business. They were extremely friendly to us and invited us to a sunset happy hour at the yacht club they belonged to. Like most places, we appeared to be the youngest among the crowd. At times its fun, and at other times it gets lonely. We’re always grateful for those who “take us under their wing” and welcome us into the group.

We hooked back up with a couple we met, Russell and Annie, who have been sailing their catamaran all over the North Atlantic & Caribbean for a few years. Annie and Russell have about 30 more years of life experience than us, but are extremely youthful and seem more like our peers than most. We had the best time with them at the local Friday night street party. All the bars stay open and set up food stands on the street. A few roads are blocked off for a stage where either a DJ or band sets up. It is the best atmosphere, with locals and tourists mixing easily. This is partly because local men & women will pick visitors out of the crowd to dance.

We sailed down to Marigot Bay, a much quieter town, in preparation for Mom & Dad Toman’s arrival. They rented a beautiful condo overlooking the bay, and we got pampered with AC and hot showers all week. The pool had a swim up bar with the most delicious but overpriced tropical drinks. We spent a lot of time just lounging here, or snacking on hors d'oeuvres back at the condo. A couple of nights, we took the 30 second ferry ride across the bay to the only two restaurants.

One afternoon, we sailed with them to the Pitons. This was an impressive sight, but our plans were cut short when some dangerous cross currents made our ride less than relaxing. Mom Toman and I were enjoying the view from the bow when things started to get bumpy. “Hey girls, why don’t you make your way back to the cockpit,” Stephen called out. Suddenly, Dad Toman started heading towards us in a gesture of chivalry I feared might end in a man overboard drill. Fortunately, all passengers were secured. The wind and weather was great, but there was a southerly swell that induced a bit of seasickness.

On another day, we did some land travel with a personal driver. The sights we visited included “The Drive-In Volcano,” botanical gardens and a natural sulfur spring. The site of the volcano contained lava pools like those in Dominica’s “Valley of Desolation,” and were far more accessible with added protections for the public. You weren’t going to walk around lava pools here. The tour guide warned of the dangers, citing tragic accidents where the ground gave way and a man was severely burned. Another lost his pet dog who decided to jump the fence.

The drive up the windy roads was perhaps as adventurous as our sail. The van brought on a new wave of motion sickness as our driver boldly jerked around every turn. The gardens were a gorgeous reprieve with waterfalls and hundreds of species of tropical trees and plants like “crab claws,” bird of paradise and cattails.

St. Lucia’s natural sulfur springs did not meet the bar set high by Screw’s Sulfur Spa, but it was still a unique experience for Mom & Dad Toman. This was the first time we have ever spent a week alone with them, outside of Long Island. Free from typical distractions, we got to know them in a special new way - outside of their role as parents and grandparents. This was true quality time without agendas or time constraints. Marigot Bay is the perfect place for this type of family vacation.

The Grenadines

Bequia

The Grenadines is the quintessential paradise of the Eastern Caribbean. We spent several weeks hopping through the islands of both the Northern and Southern Grenadines, two separate nations for purposes of customs and immigration. Here, there are less “excursions” as each island becomes the destination with their distinct beaches and cultures. Time actually moves slower than anywhere else in the Eastern Caribbean, more like the pace of molasses.

St. Vincent has an unsavory reputation, so we bypassed it and headed for Bequia. Stephen found a lot of great scuba diving opportunities here, and earned his advanced open water certification.

This island was small enough to tour by scooter in one day. The day we drove across the island was the day we visited the sea turtle reserve and happened upon “the whale.” We learned the importance of preserving one species, and drove down the road to bear witness to the endangerment of another.

The methods behind Old Brother Heg's turtle conservation were questionable, but he reports that his tracking proves better odds than natural survival rates. He has received criticism for feeding his turtles canned tuna, but he swears it has resulted in a breed of stronger, more determined tuna. “To them, I say bullshit!” he defended. He explained that the turtles have to fight there way to the bottom for the tuna much earlier than their bodies typically allow them to sink. My favorite turtle was Brother Heg’s family pet. Our cruising friends, Herb & Frank told us to look out for it. It was marked by two holes drilled in the ends of its shell. Heg put these holes here for his grandchildren to take the turtle to the beach. The poor turtle is restrained against his natural urges to head for the ocean!

The beaches of Bequia were gorgeous, and empty. The nightlife was shared equally among the restaurants in town, as each claimed their night of the week for lobster, reggae or two for one drink specials. Every bar had a waterfront view, and there was even a little resort complete with a dive center and spa.

Mayreau

We skipped Mustique, home to one of Mick Jagger’s McMansions. We were warned the prices would be too steep for us to set foot on the island. Our next stop was Mayreau, in the Southern Grenadines. The island of Mayreau had the best sunrises and sunsets because of the way the light would shine against the little spit of palm trees in Saltwhistle Bay.

We picked up a passenger in Bequia, Andy. He was a boat captain that Stephen met while diving and needed a lift down to Union Island. He’s the captain of a big mega yacht, owned by a pro-football player and was out of his element on our little sailboat. One thing he could do well, however, was set an anchor. That was crucial in this tiny bay where the edges could get shallow fast.

Andy joined us on shore for a lobster cookout prepared by local fishermen. This was almost the last night of lobster season, and lobster was not as abundant in the East Caribbean as we had hoped. Our lobster dinner came with a complimentary hand-rolled spliff. For digestion, of course.

The next day, Steve & Andy went for another dive, and the dive boat dropped him off on Union Island. We pretty much laid on this picture perfect beach for two days in a row. We toured the island in one morning, stopping for groceries at a convenient store run out of a woman’s home, and for breakfast at a little Rasta diner, “Righteous and de Youths.” Righteous was not so righteous when it came to the fair price he promised. We gave him the benefit of the doubt, and didn’t insist on nailing down a dollar amount when he failed to produce a menu. How much could a plate of eggs and a dinner roll cost? Try $30 US. I don’t think so. He must have mistaken us for tourists. We were quick to let him know that we had been around the block and knew the price of eggs. And so our breakfast dropped to $15.

We spotted a little stone Church with goats in the yard, containing statues and altars adorned with sea shells. It was a very inviting, cozy Church with one of the best ocean views. Imagine stepping out of mass onto a cliff that overlooks the Grenadines.

Tobago Cays

From Mayreau, we headed to the Tobago Cays, the most spectacular snorkeling grounds I had ever encountered. When Brigitte came to visit, we took her here for her first snorkeling lessons. There were several tiny islands in this cluster that makes up the Cays. These islands were mainly rock with short but steep hikes to the top for sunrise & sunset views.

One day there was a group of men experimenting with this crazy flying machine. It was a parachute attached to huge circular fan powered by lawn mower engine. They strapped themselves into the seat, gave it some juice, and soared above the Cays. To coast back down, they would simply let off the gas. We climbed to the top of the island they were taking off from to watch this experience akin to the Wright Brothers sampling their first flying machines.

The Cays is a marine park with special protections for both the reefs and a preserve where you can snorkel & swim with sea turtles. We would happen upon two or three turtles at a time, often two adults and a baby feeding on sea grass. Underneath the water, you could hear them chomping. They seemed unafraid and would linger as long as you kept a safe distance.

Carriacou

Carriacou was the last island in the Grenadines that we stopped at before heading for Grenada. There wasn’t much happening on this island. It was pretty much a place to clear out of customs and make use of the Internet. We noticed there was a lot more nudity going on in this anchorage and couldn’t figure out why. One morning, a naked couple practiced some sort of calisthenics routine in their cockpit.

The most fun we had in Carriacou was at Lady D’s Hallelujah bar, a fishing barge docked in the middle of the anchorage. We stopped for happy hour on our way back from town and ended up staying for dinner, listening to Jo’s whole life story. She was in a panic when we arrived; worried she had just made a bad investment by taking over the business. Her dinghy engine had cut out on her on her way to work and she was adrift until she radioed a friend who gave her a tow. She was frazzled as she tried to get the place in order, but we were in no rush. She made us a huge meal for practically nothing and told us how she had left the island to work in London as a seamstress for top designers years ago. They paid her a pretty low salary, but she saved her money until she could afford to return to Carriacou as a landowner. When she announced her plans to leave, she said they reacted with jealousy. They commented that they must have paid her “too much” for her to be able to afford a home in the Caribbean. She explained that if they hadn’t spent all their money on Prada and martinis that they could have afforded the same and more.

The morning that we cleared out of customs, we had breakfast on a little patio just yards away from Synchronicity. As I sipped my coffee, waiting for Stephen, a high speed ferry filled with school kids in uniform pulled up to the dock. They filed off the boat in maroon jackets with navy blue ties and pleated skirts and pants. Not a bad way to get to school.

Headed for Panama!

2010-07-14T10:48:00.000-07:00

After two short, but eventful months spent stateside, I am heading back to the Caribbean this evening. Jenny and I will be flying out of Reagan Intl. into Panama city and then catching a commuter flight into the San Blas tomorrow morning. Stephen and Chuck will be waiting for us at "el aeropuerto," a conglomeration of huts built around a tiny airstrip on the main island of El Porvenir.

They promised to bring coffee, which will be needed after two late nights with the Sanders' family and a third night of travel. I don't know if the Kuna are big on coffee, but Stephen happily reported Balboas (the national beer) are still $1 as in 2006. This is good news for our budget.

I'm looking forward to traveling back with Jenny, who is sometimes nervous about flying. Good thing I didn't show her the picture of our commuter plane before we left! Our arrival into San Blas marks the beginning of the second half of our journey - the Western Caribbean. Stephen and Chuck arrived in San Blas last weekend after a week long passage from Curacao.

Jenny and Chuck will be our first guests on this leg of the trip and I am excited to spend some quality time with them here. The last time they were both aboard Synchronicity was Fall of 2008 when we arrived in Annapolis after our trip up the Northeastern coast to Maine. Chuck gave us our first boat, the "L Phin L." It's come full circle as we now get to share with him, the dream he inspired - a major ocean passage and its payoff.

We plan to travel through the San Blas islands until October, when the squalls hit. By this time we'll be near Playon Chico, towards the eastern most end of the island chain where we can sail on to Cartegena, Columbia. From there, we hope to travel through Panama again, onto Honduras and Belize. At that point, our course will be determined by the status of the oil spill, hurricane season, and/or other opportunities to replenish funds. In our life of unknowns, at least one thing remains certain - we will need to work again!

Brigitte and Moncie will be our second guests, arriving in the San Blas the first week in September. Sharing San Blas will be like watching the expressions on a kid's face at Christmas. You wish for something like this, see it in the movies and magazines, but is it as real as the picture? And would you ever get to have it for yourself?

An archipelago of over 300 islands off the Caribbean coast of Panama, the San Blas is about as surreal as it gets. It is home to the Kuna Yala, an indigenous indian tribe still practicing a very traditional way of life, making the best of their natural resources.

In the 1930s, the U.S. helped the Kuna negotiate terms with Panama on this reserve that now belongs solely to them. They are considered citizens of Panama and often send family to live in Panama City for months and years at a time for work and a public school education. The Kuna seem to have the best of both worlds without the tax burden. They continue to fish in hand-built canoes with make-shift sails, yet carry cel phones.

J.C., our charter captain in 2006 informed us, "Don't let them (the Kuna) fool you. They are not poor, but very rich." He explained how tourists come to the island feeling sympathetic for the Kuna and are ready to give them top dollar for their fish and crafts. They perceive the Kuna as an isolated and perhaps desperate group, as they hustle out to your boat in their dug-out canoes, inundating you with their wares and making the saddest puppy dog faces when you don't buy from them equally. "The Kuna are the richest people I know," JC explained as he kept them honest in their negotiations with us.

Kuna are smart, and very entrepreneurial. They may not be rich by U. S. standards, but they have an abudance of wisdom and contentment. They measure their wealth through their ability to provide for every need while maintaining a life free of daily stressors common to the modern world - the ones that can lead to a general unhappiness most of us get comfortable with. And they get to do it in a paradise many are eager to devleop.

Another interesting aspect of their lifestyle is the culture of making "molas." Molas are pictorial patterns embroidered onto pieces of fabric for the purpose of sharing Kuna tradition. The art is passed on in every family, usually to daughters unless there are only sons. In that case, the youngest son is often raised as a female for the purpose of carrying on the tradition. There are "Master Mola Makers" and then there are those that mass produce the patterns of the "artists." We met two such artists, Valencio and Lisa (above).

The patterns made by a Master Mola Maker are more intricate and therefore more expensive. Lisa is known as the "Donna Karan" of the Kuna, since she makes clothing as well. Stephen bought one of his favorite shirts (his "Camisa de Lisa") from her in 2006. He ran into her this week, adding another camisa to his wardrobe. It will be interesting to stay in the San Blas for such an extended period, making the transition from tourist to neighbor. I'm pretty sure life without internet is key to preserving the Kuna way of life. Bottom line, don't expect to hear from us for a while. On days with good frequencies, we'll send some messages from the boat, and we'll talk to everyone in October!!

Isles des Saintes, Guadeloupe

2010-04-01T08:21:00.000-07:00

"Les Saintes" is a chain of 6 - 8 islands, mostly uninhabited, just 12 miles off the southwestern end of Guadeloupe. If you speak a little French, or can tolerate the language barrier for a few days, this is an awesome vacation spot. It's a superfast ferry ride from Guadeloupe and a favorite vacation spot among the French. Their harbors are the clearest we've seen since New England, the people are warm to guests (even English speaking guests) and their villages are beautiful and clean. Attitude aside, the French have the nicest developments so far. The main settlement here is, "Le Bourg" a fishing community on the the largest island, "Terre d'en Haut."

They wake up really early around here. Fishermen are buzzing about the anchorage in their skiffs by 4:00 am. The town is awake and busy by 6:00 am, when the boulangeries (bakeries) and patisseries (pastery shops) are filling the air with their scents of fresh baguettes and melted chocolate found in the pepitos and croissants. For the best pick of the batches, it's best to make it to shore by 7:00 am, as they may actually run out by 8:30 am. As soon as the patisserie sells out, it closes its doors, but the bakeries continue to make bread and sandwiches into the afternoon.

In town, dogs follow their owners down the street without a leash and stop to play with their neighbors or chase chickens around with their pals. Everyone seems to know all of the local dogs, which shopkeeper they belong too when they are roaming free and making their way porch to porch. The houses are beige and white with red tiled roofs and almost every one has a garden with beautiful flowers or shrubery - often cactus. Like so many other islands, many people own goats, cows and chickens - and lots of them. For some reason, the animals seemed especially social here and would walk right up to the fence to greet you. Unlike their cousins on the other islands, these goats are opportunistic and know how to schmooze the tourists for food through the fence. I love when all of these animals are grazing and hanging out together, especially when there is an iguana in the mix. There's usually just one or two at a time and they seem to be staring at the other animals in disbelief, as if they are thinking, "Where in the hell am I?"

The center of town is built around a small park with palms, fruit trees and benches. It's a great place for hanging out in the morning, eating your pasteries, drinking your American coffees out of your own personal mugs and watching the Frenchies mingle. Sometimes you can pass the time eavesdropping on conversation and making up your own dialogue. Our favorite scene was a mother who stopped her scooter in the middle of a crowded street to start screaming at her son for misbehaving. It drew quite a few more observers and this dialogue was not open for interpretation. Scooters and bicycles are the main mode of transportation, so if you plan on visiting this island, you can rent one or take a taxi. There are no car rentals.

But the island is so small, that it is usually about a 15 minute walk to any of the beaches or trails if you're into hiking. We hiked the closed off road to the top of "Mt. Chameau," a little over a 30 minute trek to the top. This walk has the most amazing views the entire way up, with one exception...The Saintes version of a "recycling plant." We spotted many recycling bins in town, color-coded to sort aluminum, bottles and cans. We thought this was fantastic and thought the Saintes to be very environmentally conscious compared to everywhere else we've visited where recycling seems to be non-existent. Stephen says he was suspect of this but "wanted to believe." Well, I don't know why they bother to sort it when it all gets dumped over the side of the mountain. Stephen and I noticed the smoke from the anchorage and decided to walk out to the end of this paved road and peer over the edge to see what was burning...all of the plastic bottles and aluminum cans, covering the mountainside until they slid into the sea below. "I knew this place was too good to be true," Stephen expressed in disappointment.

At the top of Chameau, the highest point on the island at 1,000 ft., was a historic Napoleonic lookout tower where we scaled three very exposed and questionable ladders to get to the roof. From up here, you have a panoramic view of the entire island chain, Guadeloupe to the North (photo above) and Dominica to the South. This one tested my phobia of heights, and another woman trying to ascend was making the mistake of looking down on her climb up. She froze half way up the ladder, her husband waiting at the top. Since he seemed a little impatient, I wish I knew French to yell down, "Just look at the rung in front of you!" I would have thought twice about this climb too, if I didn't see really small children and then adults twice my size already on the roof.

We met another American couple, Bobby and Leslie, on a boat hailing from Rock Hall, MD. The place of Stephen's infamous tale about trying to sail the Tartan (our first boat) back to Baltimore in a Nor'Easter. We were so happy to speak English, we lamented together about the French and exchanged information about the islands. They had told us, "Be sure to hike the donkey trail down the other side of the mountain, you can't miss it...just look for the yellow painted rocks." I was feeling a little leary about this, and as we stood at the top of Mt. Chameau, I looked back at the lovely road, so easy to follow with incredible views. Surely we would be back into town in no time to head for the beach. Then I looked ahead down a rock-lined path covered in dense forest and Stephen's face beaming ear to ear at the prospect of following the trail to discover views that only donkeys get to appreciate. "What the hell?" I muttered to myself.

I came to regret this pretty quickly as the very steep "yellow-marked" trail began to disappear under piles of dried leaves. The views were great for about 5 minutes until we were enveloped by trees and then practically crawling on our hands and knees as the overgrowth got thicker. Suddenly we didn't hear traffic or any signs of civilization anymore, just the sounds of a distant sea crashing on the shores down below. I imagined us descending out onto a cliff with huge crashing waves. "I don't think we're on the trail anymore," Stephen said before climbing a tree to see out over the forest. I praised his agility when he discovered the way out. So 45 minutes later, we had traversed the side of the mountain, spotting the occasional goat that "baaa-ed," to us up through the bush. Apparently, they don't even really venture here. "We're on an adventure!" Stephen said with some excitement in his voice. He is always great about putting a positive slant on an adverse situation. "Is that what this is?" I asked, still undecided.

After crabwalking and sliding down mounds of leaves through a gully that looked like it could have been a trail, we finally heard cars passing close by. Suddenly, I spotted a road sign, leading the way up over a possible drainage ditch. The best part of getting lost was emerging from the mountain to discover we were right at the beach we wanted to check out yesterday. Dirty and sweaty from the mountain, we jumped in, in our hiking clothes. We also discovered a large pipe leading into the cloudy water - "Hmmm...what are we swimming in? Well, that was refreshing." At least we didn't waste time walking over with all our beach gear. Back at the boat, I chose to stay down below while our neighbor who suggested the "donkey trail," stopped over to visit. Stephen very politely described our adventure, to which Bobby replied, "Oh...we haven't been that way in 'a few years'."

This advice was redeemed later by their ability to help us out in a state of panic. Stephen and I had come back from town with armfuls of groceries and in the process of loading everything onto the boat, failed to secure our dinghy. Twenty-five minutes later, we emerged ready for the beach, to discover our "car" was missing. I can't adequately describe the sickening feeling of losing your dinghy and staring back at a wide expanse of water to know that it could be already drifting out to sea. We were so fortunate to meet Bobby & Leslie the night before, the only other two people we knew who spoke English. I dove off the boat and swam over to them, luckily they were on board. As I climbed up their swim ladder out of breath, I told Bobby, "I need your help, our dinghy is missing." After a 30+ year career with the DOD, Bobby sprung into action immediately. "Hop in our dinghy," we'll go look for it." We had motored less than a minute when I saw the "Sea Eagle," with our orange gas jug tied along side a catamaran anchored behind us. The woman was from Sweden and spoke enough French and English to receive the dinghy from a local fisherman and return it to us. This act of kindness restored my faith in humanity and in the French...at least for the time being. I was so relieved, I stood up in the dinghy to hug this woman. Stephen and I wish we could have communicated well enough to try to find the man who saved it. This experience confirms why "The Saintes" is a truly special place among islands that are growing more desperate.

When we finally made it to the beaches, our favorite was "Pompierre." This beach was stacked with very tall palms and other low lying trees that gave you plenty of shade, to the point where it was harder to find a spot in the sun then away from it. For me, this is a good thing. This is the most popular and the prettiest. The two don't always go hand it hand, but the French really seem to know how to vacation with very little enviromental impact. This bay was clear with a soft sand and weed bottom. The bay was extremely protected with a small island blocking the entrance. It was a fantastic view and great for snorkeling along the outer edges. There was a trail to the other side of the bay where there was another beach along a bluff, exposed to the sun. From here, people were swimming to the larger island or atoll in the middle and walking up the grassy side of it to the top. Stephen swam and snorkeled the whole distance from the main beach to the other island, where he discovered squid and huge blowholes into the sea.

We've been eating on board most of the time, usually only treating ourselves to dinner out once on each island. The Saintes was definitely a place we wanted to try French creole cuisine and had the best atmosphere for it. There were lots of really small, quaint places with stone courtyards or waterfront views. Stephen was extremely happy to find "Coleurs de Monde" where the menu was in both French and English and the waitstaff spoke English as well. It was an easy choice. It was upstairs with tables on the balcony that overlooked the anchorage. There were antique, stained-glass lamps at each table and the food was so rich and amazing. We shared a seafood penne in a cream sauce and tiger prawns in a red creole sauce. Now I know why the French eat so much and stay so skinny, the food just goes right through you. All the creamy cheeses, sauces and pasteries - I don't know how they do it on a regular basis, but once in a while is definitely worth it.

Carnival!

2010-03-09T13:37:00.000-08:00

We wanted to experience Carnival! in Guadeloupe (their version of Mardi Gras) and weren't disappointed. For an island lacking access to so many resources, I was astonished at the pagentry involved. I have never seen costumes so exquisite or performances with such a high caliber of coreography, all done locally.

We celebrated Carnival in both Pointe Pitre and Basse Terre. While Pointe Pitre is the biggest city, Basse Terre is the capital and put on the best celebration. Carnival was basically celebrated Friday through Tuesday, (Fat Tuesday) when they put on a "black & white parade" to symbolize the "death" or end of the festivities.

The festivities in Pointe Pitre were more humorous than Basse Terre. We learned from this experience that the best place to see the parade is at the main grandstand area (think Herald Square). Each group is slowly filtered through this bottle neck, creating a very anti-climatic experience as you get juiced up by the drumming and dancing of one group, and then you wait around for at least 20 minutes - sometimes half an hour until the next one comes through. We've adjusted to island time, but come on! This was slow as molassess, lasting from about 4:30 PM - to after 10.

During the periods of waiting, we sampled all the local carnival cuisine, basically three types of sandwiches: a bokit (sandwich on a pita), an aroulou (French version of a hamburger on a colossal roll bigger than the patty by at least an inch around), and a baguette with thon (tuna salad), poulet (chicken salad) or jambon (ham). We learned that "fromage" means cheese and "oeuf" means egg. Complet (like deluxe) is their version of everything which is lettuce, tomato, mayo ketchup, onion, cheese and egg. Steve liked having a fried egg on his burger. This process was not without its challenges, as we find the french language so difficult, and they find communicating with us equally frustrating. It was at least adventurous, but nothing compares to American carnival food.

We were fortunate to meet enough generous, English-speaking people - mostly among the younger generation, who were able to help us find out when and where the big celebrations were. We observed that while most people only spoke French, they also only listened to American music. The evening before the first parade, the Miss Carnival pageant was held in Pointe Pitre's town square. The emcee and pageant participants carried on with the crowd in French and then one of the singer's broke out into Michael Jackson's "We are the World." In English! Then a couple came out and danced to "Time of My Life" from Dirty Dancing. "What is going on?" we were both perplexed. It seemed that our music of the 80s had just reached Guadeloupe. But not really, because everywhere I went, I heard Hip-hop and R&B currently popular in the states. A dance troop put on a performance that was all hip-hop, and fashions were definitely influenced by American mainstream. So perhaps the younger generation knows more English as a result of their affinity for our culture. No wonder we feel like the traditional French dislike us Americans so much. Their kids want to be just like us, to the point that the young males aren't wearing speedos anymore, but OP boardshorts instead! Thank god the days of the banana hammock are coming to an end.

Sorry I digressed....By the time we made it to Basse Terre, we had this Carnival thing down for the big extravaganza. We had gone through so much to get there, that we weren't missing it for anything, not even an untenable anchorage that bounced us around in our sleep. Clearly it was bad, as we were the only boat bold enough to anchor there. And so we stayed out until the very end of the celebrations...not eager to get back and fight the 3 foot rollers in our dinghy. Stephen steered us through the swells as I focused on the starry night sky above.

There were about 80 groups or more in the parade in Pointe Pitre, and there were at least this many in the Basse Terre celebration. Only a few of the groups were repeated in this parade. There were so many new colorful and artistic costumes and floats. The drumming just got livelier and better. Jam sessions consisted of coconut shakers, loud whistles, conch horns, djembes and huge drums men wore slung over their shoulders. One group would chant, make these gutteral sounds and jump high with their drums, beating them in mid-air. Stephen was able to capture this above. It seemed that at least 50% of the population was part of the pageant with this amazingly innate sense of rhythm and movement. Their pride in this tradition was evident mostly in their presence - the way they carried themselves, but also in the hard work that went into the sewing, and float design.

There were many themes interwoven into the celebrations. There were extravagant headpieces, that at times became too topheavy for the dancers. Costumes were made from materials symbolic of birds,animals and other things found in nature - very ornate and tribal. There was a lot of Caribbean plaid, red, yellow, green and orange patterns. Groups wore masks of famous French and American politicos (many Obama masks) with long-sleeved button-down shirts suffed fat around the belly so they needed suspenders. Then there were lovely ladies who donned body paint in lieu of material.

Then there was this whole monkey and devil theme where groups of mostly young men would wear monkey or white faced-devil masks with purple hair and crack very big whips on the ground right next to you. This was very startling, not just for us but for all of the spectators who seemed leary and even disapproving of these groups at times. I would like to find out more about the symbolism behind these costumes and the whips.

Then there were groups designing floats and costumes around the theme of the business they were promoting or an environmental cause. Like the tailors that rolled down the street behind a huge pair of scissors and thimble. A young group made a statement by dumping grocery carts of trash all over the street and acting out a scenario in which they all worked together to clean it up. Litter & general garbage disposal seems to be a huge problem for many of the islands.

Crowds of people flooded the streets and the main square. Even little toddlers marched with their group in miniature versions of the costumes, binkies still in their mouths, shaking their little bodies to the beat of the music. There was such a great energy, that language was no longer a barrier, as you could communicate through looks and gestures, everyone sharing the experience.

It was another late night, and this time we let McDonald's fuel us, as "Le Big Mac," is a term we understand. The menu here, was very limited though, your only options being "Le Big Mac," "Royale with Cheese (quarter-pounder)," chicken nuggets and chicken snack wraps. We went back later for coffees, thinking McDonald's would not let us down. To my dismay, the McDonald's version of coffee was the smallest I've seen yet on a French island. It was literally a shot sized styrofoam cup filled only half way. Stephen brought me two coffees. "WTF?" was written all over my face upon opening the lid.

The celebration in Basse Terre went on from after 3Pm until after midnight. Although exhausted from non-stop celebration, we were so glad to be a part of it. It was one of the most beautiful and engaging things I have experienced visually and emotionally. I can only imagine what the celebrations are like in Rio.

Antigua

2010-02-19T11:28:00.000-08:00

After two weeks of sharing an island with mostly donkeys, we were in for a little culture shock when we arrived in St. John's, Antigua. First off, there were actually restaurants we could go to for a meal, wow! And they even held regular hours. First night at anchorage, we decided to reacclimate to civilization and had a few drinks at Hemingways, where the bartender and owner were very generous and gave us the lowdown on the area: where to shop for food, where to go for nightlife, areas to avoid. Valerie, from Guayana, let us sample the house passionfruit juice and ginger beer, teaching us how to make our own aboard.

It was an off night. With no cruise ships in port, the shopping district was like a ghost town and we were Hemingway's only customers for hours. As friendly as the staff was, we decided to search for cheaper eats. A walk through the town was kind of sad. Without tourism, it was clear that St. John's had very little going for it. Being the only visitors in town, we were targets for all the husslers until Monday, when hundreds of tourists descended from the bows of the cruiseships onto the town like ants - the albino kind.

Stephen and I awoke Monday morning and peered out our portals. "Holy mother of God," where did these ships come from and how did they sneak in so quietly? It was amazing, we didn't even feel the slightest rocking, anchored on the other side of the pier, a few hundred feet away. The activity swarming around the ships and "Heritage Quay," the shopping district was our entertainment for the morning. We saw a rather ambitious couple in matching exercise gear jog down the ramp, eager to get their exercise in. "Where do they think they're going to run around here?" Surely their strides would be broken by the vendors and crowds. There were no parks, no open spaces.

Then we wondered what the tourists would do all day in St. John's. Once we left, we would discover that as in most other islands we've visited, the cruise ships usually pull in to the least scenic ports. It makes sense, as their size can only be accomodated by the industrial areas. This whole area was reminding me of the Baltimore Inner Harbor with palm trees. As you pull in, you are greeted by freighters and shopping pavillions. While these ports can be charming in their own way, the islands have so much more to offer. While many may leave without ever finding this out, some get to sample this beauty by being the first off the ship, in search of a ride or ferry to take them out of town. They will at least get to see one of Antigua's gorgeous beaches before they have to leave port again.

We decided not to stay long in St. John's. We'd take care of business: post office, internet and grocery shopping. The anchorage itself was noisy and stinky. It was lined with mangroves which emit a sulfuric stench, and nightclubs which pumped music until early morning. However, Gretchen seemed to like it here. A mangrove tree served as an apartment complex for cranes that came and went all day. When they were still, it looked like a giant rose bush whose blooms morphed into birds as they stretched their wings and took flight. Gretchen is a city cat at heart, so she was content to watch the traffic and talk to the birds as they passed overhead.

We were lucky to find the restaurant, "El Taco Loco," off the beaten path. They were usually out of a lot of stuff, but the food was so cheap and so good that we ate here for dinner and lunch. We especially liked Omar, the manager who remembered us from our last meal. "We have the chocolate cake today, do you still want a piece?" We were out of luck on Sunday when the only places open in the entire city were Subway and the open air markets selling fresh produce. There was not a coffee to be had anywhere that morning, and the market was intimidating since at that time we were the only two tourists in town.

People called out to us from every stand, coming up to us and literally placing fruit in our hands to touch. "It's good, see." Wow, talk about an interactive shopping experience. On our way into the market, young boys awaited as we approached in our dinghy, hoping to help us tie up for money. A very sketchy young guy asked us if he could help us carry our bags. When we said "no thanks," he continued to stalk us the whole back to our dinghy. We stopped several times, and I kept noticing him across the street or somewhere behind us. I thought he had finally given up when I looked up from inside our dinghy and there he was sitting on the curb staring us down. I have learned to become more aggressive in order to let people know that we won't be intimidated, so I stared right back. When we went grocery shopping, a sweet young girl checking backpacks and women's handbags at the front asked me if she could have mine. "I'm glad you think it's nice, but no."

The one landmark we did visit while in st. John's was the historic Cathedral that they finally closed as it is hundreds of years old and in desperate need of repairs. We read the apologetic letter posted on the front door explaining that after a church member was injured by a part of the ceiling that caved in, a survey determined the church could not remain open. There was no sign of construction, however, and no guarantee of reopening as they also explained the insurmountable task of raising millions of dollars from parishioners to fix it.

What we found most interesting about this church was the surrounding cemetery and the way its grounds were being used by locals. In my experience, I am used to cemeteries being treated as solemn places in which you engage in behaviors that demonstrate respect for the dead. All around us were people sitting or laying atop headstones, gabbing away on cel phones, eating their lunch or taking a mid-day snooze. Stephen and I used to find ourselves saying, "unbelievable" about so much in our journey. We've since changed this to "Believable."

We made it out of St. John's Harbor, to the outer islands where we spent a few days snorkeling reefs and lounging on the beach. We anchored behind "Redhead Island," a small rocky, uninhabitable island that became our private anchorage for two nights. In the morning, we dinghied over to Great Bird Island, about a 5 minute ride, so we could hike to the top before the tour groups arrived. On top were magnificent views of the outer islands and reef surrounding Great Bird. We found a huge blow hole opening up to the sea below and stumbled upon nesting birds that started to squawk and protect their babies as we got closer. "Stop scaring them!" I yelled to Stephen who kept inching closer for better pictures.

We returned later in the afternoon as the crowds thinned out and all that remained was a catamaran that stopped for about an hour. We decided that a ferry to the outer islands was the best option for tourists visiting by cruise. Here, they were far from vendors toting Antigua t-shirts, glossy conchs and shot glasses. A single vendor set up on the other side of the island each morning with coolers of food and beer. I was surprised by the number of people who stayed on the cat instead of getting off to check out the beaches. Then there was this man in the photo above who decided he was going to take it all in. As the cat approached the beach, he was the first one at the bow with snorkel mask already on, breathing hose in his mouth. They lowered the swim steps and he went down face first, gliding the entire 8 feet to shore where he ran out of water to float in. Once he hit solid beach, he stood up, snorkel mask still on and walked the path to other side where an entire bay of reefs awaited him. "Good for him!" He was making the most of his vacation.

The East Coast of Antigua is an amazing sail. We had ideal coniditions, close-hauled in 10 - 12 kts. of true wind against a gorgeous backdrop that changed from green countryside to steep, rocky bluffs and atolls with caves carved along the edges. The island offers just enough modern civilization to keep you connected while giving you plenty of places to escape to. The settled areas among the shores were quaint & picturesque, reminding you of a time long passed.

There were many sailboats, as Antigua is a popular destination for yachters. It features many races, including the big one, "Antigua Race Week," the last week in April. This has been a big regatta for the Caribbean for the last 30 years with a few hundred yachts participating from other countries. The anchorages here are well-protected and beautiful with clear water. There are so many anchorages and beaches in Antigua you really could spend a couple of weeks sailing between them.

Our last stop in Antigua was the historic English Harbor. This anchorage didn't have a great beach, but was very pretty and peaceful. We couldn't believe how many boats were anchored here while it remained so quiet. We arrived early enough in the afternoon to tuck up close to shore with enough room to swing from some very interesting boats: a zebra striped boat named "Rush," and "Sea Terror," which looked like a terror to sail on. An interesting voodoo mask hung inside its cockpit.

Lots of big yachts and catamarans tied up stern to quay at Nelson's Dockyard, named for 18th century British naval commander, Lord Nelson. After 4 weeks of accumulating laundry, we were able to get it done in a little laundry room inside the dockyard. Just me and its manager, Cheryl or "Baby" as Stephen preferred to call her by her nickname. I found this to be my best laundromat experience so far. Even though we opted to do our laundry ourselves rather than pay for Cheryl to do it, she insisted on helping me load and fold. "I'll get bored if I don't stay busy, " she explained. When we first spotted the laundry area, we saw two machines sitting on the grass in the middle of the courtyard. Since just about everything is "believable" to us now, we started to turn around thinking this outdoor set up was the laundry facility. To our amusement, these were two non-working machines, as we would have guessed at first glance in our former lives.

The dockyard included customs & immigration, (who didn't catch that Barbuda neglected to charge us entry fees), a pub with the first beer on tap we have come across since Bermuda (Heineken), and a grocery store that closed by 5 pm, while we were sipping those draught beers.

Aside from Nelson's Dockyard, the other attractions here are Fort Berkeley and Shirley Heights. We hiked the 10 minute trail from the Dockyard to the end of the fort, which overlooks the sea and the surrounding harbor. The trail and fort were filled with goats which were gorging with milk. We had a hard time deciphering whether some were actually holding milk or just had some really big kahunas to put any male to shame. Anyhoo, the fort still stands from the 1700s - the days of Lord Nelson when they stored 300 barrels of gunpowder inside what was then, a "bomb proof" warehouse. But seriously, the goats had some of the largest testicles, proportionately speaking of course, of any animal we have seen.

We attended the famous Sunday Night party at Shirley Heights. From the beach, we climbed a trail to the very top. You could hear the steel drums so clearly the whole way, deceiving us about the distance remaining. "We've got to be close," we kept saying. An opening through the trees revealing we were only half way to the top. We were so focused on mixing a drink for the trek up that we forgot to bring our headlamps for the hike back.

When we made it to the top, the trail opened up onto a field of people far less sweaty than us, holding rum punches. A skinny, tanned blonde woman with perfectly styled hair in a long flowy dress passed by us. "If she's here, there's got to be a road," said Stephen. Fortunately, there was a road and plenty of taxis, but we spent our last EC on rum punch. Hmmm....a ride back down or another rum punch? It was some really good punch. The kind with nutmeg.

The steel drum band was excellent. They sounded more like an orchestra. They played until 7:00 and then a reggae cover band went on til late. It was an awesome party with families with small children, 20-something singles, older women with hired escorts, cruisers and locals. It was cool to see people from outside the U.S. party to the Stones and Paul Simon.

Shirley Heights overlooked the entire southwest end of the island, spanning both English and Falmouth Harbors. When the sun went down, red lights from the masts of the megayachts docked over in Falmouth lit up like a city. What Stephen and I appreciated most, however, was the food line. This place knew how to streamline things. With the number of people there, their were no waits for food, no pushing your way through the crowd to order. You picked up a ticket numbered according to your choice of BBQ. You walked over the the BBQ line where a lady immediately piled green salad on with tongs and then 1 huge ice cream scooper of potato salad. They had the grill going all night so there was no waiting for your ribs or chicken either. This was by far the fastest service we have encountered in the Caribbean.

We feel blessed to have encountered another amazing island with exhilirating sailing that seems to keep getting better. Everytime I begin to think that we've been through a lot to get to this point, however, I am reminded of how lucky we've been. We ran into Hannah & Ky in English Harbor, the couple who were demasted in Bermuda. We knocked on their boat when we spotted it, and learned more about their journey and the perils they have been through.

This couple is sailing just until summer, when they have to be back to the states for Ky's gradschool program. They started in Houston, TX, and were grounded on a sandbar somewhere in GA when the tide went out. Floating upright again, they sailed on to the Abacos and headed for the Med. A couple hundred miles past Bermuda, they were demasted in some strong winds. The whole rig came down at night while Hannah was on watch and they spent the next day or so pulling it back on board and jury-rigging a sail configuration while pitching in big sea swells. With half the sail area, it took them two weeks to beat windward to Bermuda.

We found it amusing that they also had to beat in to Bermuda from the opposite direction. "That must be the Bermuda Triangle," said Stephen. Like him, Hannah's hubby regretted that this all happened on her first passage. "I'm just happy she still wants to sail," he said. I give this girl a lot of credit. I have symptoms of PTSD from some seriously big waves and the entire rig of her 30 foot boat came down in some serious weather while she was alone on watch. They were at sea for 27 days before making it to Bermuda where they were grounded until they could replace the mast. And here they were...they had made it to the Caribbean, determined to make the most of what time and money they had left. You never know what you would do if faced with the same circumstances, but if I lost my mast I don't knonw if I'd keep going. "Gee, this has been real...but you can drop me off here..." I joked with Stephen. "Yeah, real awful," he added.

Hannah and Ky are truly amazing and inspirational. Each time the wind begins to gust or the waves begin to steepen, I feel fear well up inside of me. I think I fear the feeling of being afraid more than the actual circumstances. I hate the thought of being paralyzed by fear and try to push myself to take the helm when the winds start to howl. There is so much to discover on a journey like this one, not just about people and the world at large, but about yourself. Free from many of life's distractions and easy escape routes, it's easier to hear your inner voice and check it from time to time, observe how it affects your experience. For me, living so close to nature has revealed the fragile balance between peace and chaos & the interconnectedness that exists within our private realities and our surroundings -the world as it truly is.

"Life's a Beach" in Barbuda

2010-02-01T12:59:00.000-08:00

Approaching Barbuda was like looking 20 million years into Saba's future. A volcanic island reduced to no more than 125 ft. at its highest point, it's bordered by miles of shallow reefs and the aftermath of erosion - miles of fine and powdery white sand that feels like crushed velvet under your feet.

Barbuda is as unambitious as it is undeveloped. In 2010, its 2,000 or less inhabitants are starting to get caught up with the rest of the civilized world, conflicted by their desire for more jobs and opportunity despite fears of becoming mainstream.

The Codringtons, a family of English settlers, leased the island in 1685 to set up plantations in the highlands. As every other European settlement goes, they needed slaves for the plantations, about 800. The climate is so dry that they ended up raising mostly livestock instead.

Back then, Barbuda was part of English Antigua (pronounced An-tee-ga) and was annexed after Emancipation. Land has been held communally since, so technically it can't be sold to outside developers. Long after the days of Emancipation, Barbuda rejoined Antigua, which has led to much conflict between Barbudans and their elected officials, known to give Antigua a green light for hotel projects without consulting Barbudans first. Antigua started work on a hotel atop Spanish Point (above) against locals' protests to keep it a national park. When they didn't listen, Barbudans marched down to the peninsula and shoved their mobile offices right off the cliff. Antigua got the message and hasn't pushed for development since.

After much observation and some informal interviewing, the bottom line is this: Antigua wants Barbuda for its sand mining operation and waterfront real estate. Barbuda lacks the resources to be fully independent, and joined Antigua with the expectation that they would establish a secondary school, help them create jobs, etc. Every Barbudan says the same thing, "We want controlled development."

Until Antigua is able to create a 21st century Barbuda, however, it isn't going to help them with their schools, roads and hospitals. Until then, they give Barbudans 90,000 EC weekly (2.6 EC to 1 US$) in exchange for access to sand. Locals say that this all goes toward the salaries of their elected officials, but some gets distributed to Barbudans in the form of a weekly check. As we headed out of Codrington after clearing customs, we saw a crowd of people by the lagoon. I said to Stephen, "Oh, this must be the "Friday Fish Fry." There wasn't a fish fry, but a line that wrapped around a building where a man in uniform would emerge every few minutes to allow another group through the door. They'd exit stage left with single white envelope in hand.

Clearing customs was probably the most adventurous thing we've done since we've arrived. You can only get to Codrington via the lagoon, and a water taxi is $40 US one way. So we kayaked down the coast, to where the strip of beach is narrowest. On that particular day, the surf was up where we wanted to land. As we paddled in, everything was calm. We began to coast the waves into shore until we heard a thunderous sound in the distance. We looked left, right into the curl of a wave headed down the beach. "Here we go again," I thought as I heard the familiar "Hold on" from Stephen. Except, I probably would have been better off abandoning ship this time around. The wave crashed over us, flipping us upside down in our kayak. Thank god for the discovery of the waterproof bag in St. Martin that held our passports and other important documents. As Stephen checked to make sure this bag was still attached, I was trapped under the kayak, re-living trauma. Waves rushed over me, as I fought my way to the surface, trying to hold on to our paddles the whole time.

"Holy Shit Mon!" I exclaimed, an unsightly drenched and sandy mess. With a trek across the lagoon still ahead of us, we quickly assessed the damage. Everything had made it, except the sunglasses missing from our faces. "Oh well," two new pairs of shades still doesn't amount to the cost of a taxi ride. For $80, I'll risk another pummeling. We drug the kayak over the strip of beach and launched her in the lagoon.

As we pulled up to the dock, we were greeted by a self-appointed tour guide, insisting on

showing us the way to Customs and Immigration. But we had already done our research, and didn't need the special treatment. As he chatted us up, the Port Authority officer was getting away on a fishing boat. "We need to get to the Port Authority first," said Stephen. "Oh, there she goes," he informed us. My heart sank to my stomach as I realized I was probably just retraumatized for nothing.

We forged on, in pursuit of Customs and Immigration. Our guide wasn't quick to get the message, and was less than helpful as the Customs officer didn't accept his explanation that the Port Authority Officer cut out of work early "to go fishing with a boy." Out of earshot, we pondered the intentions of our unwanted guide. "Does he expect money?" I asked. "I don't know, but I don't need a chaperone," said Stephen.

We left the impression that we were giving up on clearing in and parted ways. "Okay, well you know where to find me on Monday," he said. With him out of the picture, Stephen persisted with customs and immigration who agreed to clear us in with a phone call to Port Authority, somewhere in the middle of the lagoon. It seemed we were received more positively without our friend around. Sadly, we saw him later, waiting in line for his check.

A walking tour through Codrington, revealed that there was no reason to come back. In general, the younger generation of Barbudans behave indifferently to tourists. A lot of young people hung out in the main village all afternoon, seemingly bored with nothing to do but blast music from their car stereos.

In a small village that doesn't get many tourists, we stood out. Although I'm sure thumbing through the guide in the middle of what I didn't recognize as the town square, didn't help. I was approached by "King Goldilocks," an older man running his own taxi-tour guide business. "Excuse me Miss, you seem lost," he said as he introduced himself and asked me to "turn to page 31." As he pointed to an ad he stated proudly, "See, that's me, King Goldilocks for all your transportation needs." I appreciated his friendly, yet straightforward marketing style.

We met more of the older generation along the coasts, not waiting for Antigua to do something, but making every effort to generate business through tourism. They own small restaurants, fish, operate water & land taxis and raise livestock. When Stephen and I were biking back to the boat one evening, we witnessed a grey-bearded man herding his cows on horseback. With the horse and a few small dogs, they chased the escaped cow home.

We met Uncle Roddy, who ran an outdoor bar & restaurant on the front porch of his home. Like every other restaurant we tried in Barbuda, he wasn't able to offer us a meal. I know, it sounds crazy, right? But you have to call ahead so that they can go into town or hook up with a fisherman to get you what you want: steak, lobster, chicken... Without much business, it doesn't make sense for them to stay open, and without a way to call them, we were always out of luck. We tried to spend our money in Barbuda, and it was hard! They didn't even collect our customs fees, since the Port Authority officer decided to leave early to go fishing. In two weeks, all they could get from us was $25, spent on groceries and BBQ chicken from the only food stand you could rely on - open Fridays after 4.

Uncle Roddy described the primitive Barbuda he grew up in, where less than 50 years ago, there wasn't any electricity. Today, Uncle Roddy runs his business off of solar and wind. Cel phones are abundant, but internet is still lagging, and mainly found at the guest houses in town or 1 of the 2 resorts. "We're still growing up," he said, as he asked us and a Canadian couple for suggestions on how to accomodate more visitors. This couple chose Barbuda for the same reason we did, "We wanted a place where there was nothing going on."

Since almost everyone lives in Codrington, there is plenty of empty land all along the shores and interior roads. If a Barbudan wants to build a house, they pick a plot and do it. Sadly, we saw many start-ups with fantastic views that seemed abandoned half-way through. Of the houses that did get completed, most sit deserted while former residents are overseas in search of other opportunities. Outside of Codrington, most of the island is a ghost town with boarded up resorts that have closed within the last six years. Tourism was never thriving, but a security guard who has worked at Cocoa Point Resort for 21 seasons, says "this is the worst it has ever been.

It's sort of hard to believe that with very little civilization and no place to deposit the trash that has been accumulating on our dinghy/trash barge, that we have spent two weeks here. You might look at the beach and think that it is much of the same, and that such emptiness might get old quick. Once you get ashore, though, you realize how different each mile of beach is from the other. It took us days to explore the West coast alone, discovering the pinkest sand we have ever seen, resulting from eroding red coral.

Abadoned conch shells line the shore, left behind by fishermen that extracted the conch for stew. The shell life here is abundant...so many colors and varieties in pristine condition. Unbroken geomeric patterns and perfect spirals reminded me of the mathemataical "pi." There were piles of the tiniest shells you have ever seen...microscopic versions of conchs, cockles, mussels and snail-like shells.

Another stretch of beach was lined with miniature trees and drift wood, perfect for fire building. We had our own "burger night," bringing new meaning to "flamebroiled." Fuddruckers' got nothin' on Stephen's burgers and homeade rolls. One night, We had our own private bonfire on the beach, and thankfully managed not to set the coastline ablaze. Beers & burgers by the fire, about 100 yards from the boat was awesome, despite the perpetual battle with the "noseums" (sand fleas). They covered every exposed piece of my flesh with scars to remind me of my perfect evening for the following week.

We walked, biked and hiked for miles, exploring desloate beaches and dirt roads that we almost always had all to ourselves. Imagine being able to bike down the middle of a two lane road for miles, where the only other pedestrians are horses, donkeys and goats. We would hike the arid highlands, where small trees had twisted trunks that stretched sideways, in the direction of the prevailing winds. Amidst patches of brush, volcanic rock and sand, you would come upon whole skeletons of wild animals who came here to die. It felt like walking through a Salvador Dali painting.

In the Northern Highlands, we explored caves around Two Foot Bay - named for a slave who escaped by wearing his shoes backwards, sending his trackers in the wrong direction. The guide listed several caves, but Barbuda doesn't mark them so you will be more inclined to hire a tour guide. I don't blame them, but since we're on a budget and like to explore things on our own time, we scoured the area until we found them.

The prettiest was "Gunshop," a cave that has an opening, where you can climb through onto the cliff overlooking Two Foot Bay. As we searched for it, we encountered a couple looking for the same. The male counterpart must have been trying to impress his lady, since he claimed he had found it before and wasn't interested in joining efforts. So who do you think found it first? From the cliff, we could see them still wandering below. I was going to call out to them, but Stephen pulled me back before they could see us. "Shhh, don't help them, let 'em find it on their own."

On the bike, we scanned several dirt roads until we found one substantial enough to lead to the old Codrington Estate. There were no street signs, only obscure markers like empty plastic bottles hung from tree branches. From shore, we discovered an "unoffical" road leading into town that Stephen dubbed "Donkey Shit Trail." Mimicking the voice of a GPS, he gave directions, "Follow the red marker. Bear right at the piles of shit ahead. Turn left in .3 miles at the blue string hanging from the tree."

From the estate, we hiked a trail to "Darby Sinkhole," 350 ft. in diameter and about 100 feet deep. At the bottom lives the only rainforest on the whole island. There is one tree down there, unlike any others we saw in Barbuda with a trunk and roots so big it looks like a freak of nature sitting amidst all the skinny palmetto palms.

There was a place where we could scramble down to the bottom, discovering a dark little underworld with cave like features. Palmetto palms reach to the top of the crater and their leaves intertwine, allowing very little light to shine into the hole. As we scanned the perimeter, we saw hundreds of hermit crabs crawling all around us. These aren't like the ones they give away at the carnivals. While they are more afraid of us, they have one huge claw that reaches around the front. Stephen would pick them up and then freak out when he saw the claw. We'd both jump and I'd shriek as he dropped the poor little things to the ground.

As for the rest of our time here, we moved anchorages twice to check out the Southern coast's palm-tree beaches. Palms are pretty sparse on the island, and these palms were grown specifically for the resorts. Cruisers aren't welcomed on the property belonging to the exclusive "Cocoa Point Resort," so we set up shop at the deserted "K-Club." You can tell we're American by the number of things we bring to shore: beach chairs, beach blanket, stereo/ipod, and cooler. Just like the west coast, We had the resort all to ourselves. For the first time, I felt courageous enough to hang out topless. Most anchorages didn't fill up and we were far enough away from other boats to go skinny dipping on a regular basis.

Stephen did a lot of snorkeling and saw a huge stingray one morning. he claims it's wing span was the width of our cockpit. He saw the one above hanging out under the keel of our boat. For some reason, fish like to hang out under our hull. We had a regular baracuda in st. Bart's.

With little height to the land, there isn't much to block the wind. So when it blows, the water becomes choppy and cloudy and the snorkeling isn't the best. Still, we spotted lots of coral and schools of little fish. At anchor, we saw sea turtles bobbing their heads at the surface for air.

When it rained, Stephen practiced his culinary and bread making skills. He's venturing outside the box with his english muffins,"coconut raisin bread," and homemade meatballs. A shortage of options ashore has also fostered inventive cooking with food stores. We're still finding new uses for tuna and nutella.

With nothing to block our view, we saw this full rainbow arch across the island. It appeared just as we were going ashore for our bonfire, and was too big for me to fit in the whole frame. We took our time in Barbuda, unsure of when we will experience this kind of beauty or have another beach to ourselves for days on end. We've kept pretty busy by reading, journaling, making videos, listening to music, listening to news and comedy on Satellite radio, finishing crossword puzzles and doing nothing at all but watching the scenery unfold.

Next stop is Antigua, 30 miles due south. First port is St. John's, where it's back to civilization and more provisioning in their marketplace. Once we're stocked again, we'll head east to Antigua's quieter islands before making our way around the southern tip. We plan on being in Guadaloupe for "Carnival" 2/15 - 16.

Saba, a Best Kept Secret

2010-01-18T16:52:00.000-08:00

Greetings from Saba! Pronounced "Say-ba," it's a Dutch island least traveled because of its inaccessibility, but also one of the best diving spots in the Caribbean. A dormant volcano, formed around 500,000 BC, it's just 5 miles wide but about 3,000 feet steep. The shelf around the island drops off quickly, and there are diving sites over 100 ft. deep. This makes anchoring tough and anything but a due East swell will make your stay rolly. Maybe this is okay for those who like to be rocked vigorously to sleep. In the right conditions though, the dramatic beauty of this anchorage is worth it.

The entire perimeter serves as an impenetrable fortress, protecting one of Earth's last true nature reserves from human development. It looks intimidating as you approach by air or sea and isn't the place to go if you want a lazy day on the beach. The shoreline all but disappears in the winter. The beauty that awaits inland requires some effort to discover, so be prepared to burn those calves and quads exploring on foot with the goats and donkeys. Many of the trails are still the only roads for Sabans to get back to their hillside homes from town.

Until the 1940s, engineers believed that a main road was impossible. But in 1943, a determined Dutch engineer completed what Sabans refer to as "The Road That Couldn't Be Built." And some of the taxi drivers refer to it as "The Road That Shouldn't Have Been Built." There are retaining walls filled with boulders and a few holes where some have busted through. Some drivers refuse to pick tourists up at certain places on the road, but as Dad Toman points out, without the road, there would be no taxis!!

Before "The Road," Sabans had built over 800 steps where they carried everything that came by sea, the whole way into town. Carved into the leeward side of the island, or Ladder Bay where we were moored, boats could only land when the sea was calm and had to bring cargo ashore by wading in waist-deep water. Among the craziest things carried up the steps over the years were a piano and a bishop.

We got to catch a ride along this road that connects the two main villages "The Bottom" (guess where that one is located) and "Windwardside" at a much higher elevation. We're on what I like to think of as the "physical fitness budget." So when we learned that a cab ride just from Fort Bay (the main port) to The Bottom, would cost us $15, we were prepared to hoof it until "Coochie" offered us a ride. Saba's population is just about 2,000 with families of Dutch, Irish, Scottish, English and African descent.

I found the people here to be exceptionally personable and welcoming. There's nothing superficial about their friendliness, their only motivation being pride for their island. While they do things on their own time, we were always acknowledged and taken care of right away. It has been among the most hospitable places we have traveled to, reminding me of times spent with Carol's family in Bermuda. When we tried to check in with customs first thing Sunday morning, the officer was out most of the office -something we've come to expect on weekends despite posted hours. Sue at the marine park office cleared us in on her end and with a relaxed attitude said, "Go ahead and tour the island and check back with customs later. If you don't make it back by 4:00, just check in with them tomorrow."

Initially feeling like strangers among this small island, we were quickly absorbed into the community when Stephen mentioned that he was friends with James Curran, a relative of the McCarty family responsible for founding Saba Steel. Stephen has been keeping in touch with James through e-mail and we couldn't believe it when he told us he had family on Saba of all places. The world can be just as small as Saba. Coochie, who just happened to offer us a ride when he saw us hiking up the side of "The Road," had grown up with the McCarty's and knew the family well. Coochie offered to take care of us during our stay on the island, free lifts into town included. Knowing that he was close with James' family made the otherwise scary car ride feel safer.

While Coochie insisted that we come into town to enjoy some "nightlife," this was not an island where we wanted to be away from our boat past dark. Not because of crime, of course. The guest houses often don't give room keys because crime is unheard of in Saba. While it was generous of him to offer us rides back to Ft. Bay, I don't know which would be scarier, the dinghy ride around the island in choppy seas in the dark or Coochie's driving down "The Road That Should Have Never Been Built" after a few drinks. A desire to live was reason enough to turn in early every night. And so we got an early start on our ambitious hiking plans every day. This lifestyle helped out our budget, as we spent less than $50 in Saba, which included Customs & marine park fees, a pizza with beers and even some groceries.

The sunsets here were also worth getting back to, as we were anchored along the western shore with an uninterrupted view of the horizon. Having nothing but open sea on one side seemed disconcerting at first, but proved to be comforting since we were secure on one of the free moorings installed by the marine park. Even in the unlikely event that your boat somehow broke free from the mooring, you're on the lee side of the island drifting out into open waters instead of other boats or a reef.

As you can imagine, groceries can be very expensive in Saba, but we were well-stocked from St. Martin. So I try to include photos whenever I can to prove that we are still eating well for all those concerned. Stephen is quite the cook and now breadmaker too! There's nothing sexier than a man kneading dough for bread. This is a meal of steak, avocado and mashed pumpkin. Avocado, pumpkin and banana have become staples in our diet.

And of course, another megayacht photo. I swear they keep getting bigger. This one was about 240 ft. anchored just ahead of us, but further off shore, probably in about 100 ft. of water. They pulled in from St. Bart's just for the day. And can you believe there were only 6 guests aboard? Excluding crew. A lot of big yachts like these pull in for an overnighter just to go diving with one of the three companies or on a guided hiking tour. Diving, Eco-tourism and fishing seem to be the biggest industries.

Unlike most people who visit Saba, we covered almost every part of this island on foot, winding up and over the mountains on steep trails where you encounter all of its rainforest and wildlife which include cows, donkeys, goats, snakes, geckos and the occasional rodent. I swear I saw bats too. My favorite is the goat. There are so many of them and I was sure to get some goat pictures for Daddy who wants to raise some of his own again one day. He used to have pet goats when he was a little boy living in McSherrystown. Back then, I'm sure McSherrystown was a lot like Saba today, where people had large gardens, knew everybody and could still leave their doors open at night. The goats were very sweet and shy and leary of humans since their still a delicacy around here. I have my goat call down, though and like to think I had them tricked into believing I was one of them. They are unbelievable climbers with their hooves - the most unsophisticated hiking shoe. From our anchorage you could hear baby goats calling out to their mamas at night.

The hike that you don't want to miss on Saba is Mt. Scenery. This is the highest point of the island, and surprisingly easy to climb since the park maintains some of the nicest trails I have ever been on. Over 1,000 stone steps lead the way to the top of Mt. Scenery that has one of the most gorgeous views I have ever seen, looking down onto the village of Windwarside. On top of Mt. Scenery, we were above the clouds and even in them at times as they rose up over the peak.

I love this photo, 1) because Stephen looks so cute in it, 2) because you can see Statia (St. Eustatius) and St. Kitts (St. Christopher) behind him, and 3) you can see how on this particular day the ocean seemed to blend with sky. You had to stare closely to figure out where the ocean ended and where the sky began.

On our second day in Saba, we started a 5 mile hike from Ft. Bay, where we landed our dinghy to the other side of the island. We passed through "The Bottom," one of the main villages that is home to The University of Saba's Medical School and hospital. Walking by the hospital was like passing a ghost town. The windows and doors were all open, revealing empty beds. Only staff walked the halls of the building, their voices echoing inside. It seemed their primary job that day was keeping the hospital clean. We had asked Coochie if they had universal healthcare or had to pay out of pocket, to which he replied, "I don't know, I've never been sick." And this is a man of at least 30. Clearly living here is good for your health. At the end of the village, a man pointed the way to the Sandy Cruz Trail through his backyard.

From there we reached the Top of Troy Hill just above "The Bottom" where we saw beautiful homes like these, with views that many people dream of. What I love about Saba is that views like these are not restricted to the wealthy. From working class to upper class, almost everyone has a view of the ocean, the only difference being the size of the home and amenities. On our trek back from Hell's Gate to Windwardside, a school bus driver named Yvonne picked us up on the side of the road after dropping the kids off at home. She told us about her house in St. John's Village above the island's gorges dense with forest, and her view of the valleys, Statia and St. Kitt's in the distance.

The "Sandy Cruz" and "All Too Far Trail" leading to the other side was my favorite hiking in all of my experiences so far. These trails wound around the outermost edges of the island and almost every inch offered ocean views over cliffs and through the trees. While the drop-offs were steep, the trails were well-maintained and I never felt unsafe. On the beginning of the Sandy Cruz Trail we spotted Synchronicity at anchor so far below.

The only trail we decided to keep away from was the "North Coast Trail," since the brochure stated, "WARNING: Guided hikes only. Do not proceed without a guide. Several people have been lost here!" Having survived the "Peligro trail" of the Monte Verde cloudforest in Costa Rica, we learned that dangers in less litigious cultures are typically understated. The red trail or what Stephen and I now refer to as "The Peligro Trail" indicated that while caution should be exercised, it was the best trail for monkey sightings. "How dangerous could it be?" I said to Stephen, half an hour before scaling the side of a cliff with sliding rock. As many know, there is no turning back with us. So when we read a brochure actually emphasizing danger, we assumed the worst - that "lost" meant "dead," and took heed. Customs had already conveniently cleared us out of Saba on the same day we checked in, so no one would be looking for us.

We eventually crossed paths with James, the local guide, and asked him about the dangers on "The North Coast Trail." After emphasizing the importance of hiring a guide and confirming that people "were lost" I asked him what happened to them. "Oh, they took a wrong turn and we found them the next day," he said. Stephen and I had a good laugh about this one.

We hiked all the way to the Old Sulfur Mine on the East side of the island, where the trail opened up onto a huge meadow overlooking the sea and "Green Island" where waves crashed onto this huge rock of an island below. To the right of the meadow there was a sign perched on the edge that read, "Sulfur Mine." From the bottom slope of the meadow it looks like the sign drops off into nothing. I figured it was just pointing to the general location of the old sulfur mine, to be admired from afar. As I saw Stephen lingering by the edge, I thought "Please don't tell me he's going to try to climb down there." It was only when you approached the sign that you could see a trail leading straight down into the Sulfur Mine. Leary at first about the loose gravel path, it was as safe as any other part of the trail. As our motto goes, "Well, we made it this far."

The mine was built with the same determination as "The Road," but perhaps a bit hastily. Both attempts to make the mine operational were unsuccessful within the first year. Once they mined the sulfur, they had to figure out how to get it to down the mountain and loaded on a cargo ship, so they rigged a steel cable to ferry the sulfur from the mine down to Green Island where they would load it onto freighters pulling alongside this inhospitable shore.

All you have to do is look at this photo of Green Island to figure out why this was a really bad plan. With steep seas crashing against this so-called island and reefs that you can't see surrounding it, I'm amazed that any freighter was bold enough to attempt it. Sabans are a gentle yet persistent and fearless breed of people.

A more successful venture was the airstrip, engineered by a French pilot from St. Bart's not long after "The Road." Like "The Road," many thought this wasn't possible either. Flights arrive in small propeller driven planes from other islands about every other day - sometimes daily. People say the flight in is like landing on an aircraft carrier. The airport/airstrip is located in Hell's Gate, one of the smaller villages on the island.

We ended our journey of Saba in Windwardside where we found "Saba's Treasure," a pub without beer on tap, but at least it's ice cold, and really great pizza. It was either pizza or the "Colombian" snack bar that really just served burritos, burgers and fries. Easy choice. Inside, the walls were covered with old articles about Irish natives who came from long family lines of diehard mariners, some lost at sea in hurricanes. Something I don't like to read about.

Our last day in Saba was spent at anchor, as two days of serious hiking left me paralyzed from the waist down. I figured I could still float, so we went snorkeling in the caves around Diamond Rock, on the northern tip of the island. These were some of the deepest reefs I've been snorkeling on. Instead of turquoise, the water is a deep blue. It was the first time we swam with sea turtles, and a curious baby swam right up to us. Stephen spotted a huge lobster at the bottom, and told me he was studying its behavior for future capture. Since the area around Saba is considered marine park, fishing is forbidden. Gray reef sharks are also common here, but I was happy not to see any.

After a few days in Saba, we sailed off our mooring, in pursuit of Barbuda, about 95 miles due East. The winds were so light, just enough to keep the boat moving, and we could still see Saba at sunset. This was one of the nicest overnight passages with the calmest conditions. It was great for sleeping and reading on watch, watching stars and shadowy outlines of so many other islands. I enjoy the endless views of the vast ocean, but also appreciate staying in sight of land. We're looking forward to spending a couple of weeks in Barbuda's contrasting landscape, where everything is flat and beaches stretch for miles, also uninterrupted by development.

Spending the Holidays in St. Martin

2010-01-07T15:04:00.000-08:00

The sail from Isle de Forchue (St. Bart's) to St. Martin was pretty uneventful aside from the loaded freighter that couldn't decide on a course heading. At the last minute we tacked to alter course, in awe of the monstrosity crossing less than 100 feet in front of our bow. Otherwise, the winds were light and we motorsailed towards Simpson Bay Lagoon (Dutch side), making it just in time for sunset and the 5:30 bridge opening. As we motored into the lagoon, it was like we were lining up for a parade procession, passing by the grandstand to salute the bridge operator and the onlookers in Herald Square (the tourists seated outside the St. Maarten Yacht Club). The megayachts were the huge character balloons that get the oohs and ahs as spectators look up at these crafts without a human face aside from the many string operators that are too busy to make eye contact with the people. As our little sailing yacht motored past, John and I were up at the bow, giddy at the unexpected welcoming crowd that was cheering for us, the little man. "Hurray, you made it!"

The lagoon is where you want to be, well-protected and a close dinghy ride to all the marine stores and big supermarkets. The bridge only opens a few times a day for inbound and outbound traffic, and watching boats scramble to get through is always entertaining. I admire the bravery or gumption of the small sailboats that cut right in front of the big boys. Yikes! When the bridge is scheduled to open, you don't want to be on the road as traffic backs up for miles, the whole way to the airport, and it can sometimes take up to an hour for all the megayachts to get through. One breakfast, we became one of the SMYC tourists, waiting to see if one of the megayachts would get stuck, which sometimes happens, or even just scrape the sides as many barely make it through. I would only feel sorry for the crew, always poised with fenders and holding their breath until the tail ends clears it.

St. Martin is an even bigger hub than St. Bart's for megayachts, as as it is one of the last ports with so many marine suppliers and services until you get to Martinique. It is rumored that the Victoria's Secret boat is here. So far, these are the biggest boats I have ever seen, many of them equipped with their own helipad like the one above. And this one is a baby-sized yacht because it can still fit in the lagoon. There were mini cruise ships, doubling this one in size, anchored in the Bay. Even the biggest yachts don't let their size deter them from getting around as often as they like, whenever they like. We were told that for between $1 - 2,000 (petty cash) they can have the bridge opened in between scheduled times. One day a yacht pulled right up to the bridge and blasted his horn until the bridge opened.

Living amongst captains and crew of these vessels will give you a lot of insight into the social and cultural scene. Unlike St. Bart's, there are far more opportunities to intermingle, like at the Lady C, a notorious crew bar made out of a ship that floats alongside the dock. We found this bar with John on our first night anchored in St. Maarten. From dockhands to sous chefs, everyone was rowdy and in the Christmas spirit, dancing on tables in santa hats while trying to swing from the boom. The bouncers were pretty tolerant, requesting many times that people get down from the mast and tables, but never kicked anyone out. While some of the yacht owners are more laid back and permissive of their crew, others have strict curfews and rules. So while the owners are away, the crew will play and play hard.

Also known for it's burgers and BBQ, the sign out front read, "Saturday, All You Can Eat Ribs for 11.95!" But if you come back the next day it will read, "Sunday, All You Can Eat Ribs for $11.95!." Pretty clever marketing. We met Donna and Steve, a couple from South Dakota celebrating their 30th anniversary at Lady C on a Wednesday, because they didn't want to miss rib night! We really enjoyed meeting this couple and were dually impressed with each other's lives. Donna and Steve have been farmers all their life. They have 4 kids, with their youngest boy in Iraq and a baby of his own on the way. They shared a unique midwestern perspective, one that is forward-thinking on energy, the economy and where our country is headed. While nomadic life on the water seems polar opposite of growing roots on the farm, it is so similar in terms of self-reliance and resourcefulness. Therefore, we felt very much on the same wavelength (pun intended!), and Steve and Donna had actually just started thinking about learning how to sail before meeting us.

There is no story behind the picture above. The absurdity of this mermaid on the bowsprit of a monohull is the story itself. It's well-endowed chest and lifelike hair caught our attention. From afar, it is a faceless, strangely tanned, blonde, busty mermaid. But as you approach, you are in for a surprise as it is more like a mermaid diva with implants and too much makeup.

Here's another quirky snapshot we had to take of the "7-Alive." Unlike 7-11, there's no slurpies or hot dog rotisserie. Just your standard groceries with some cold ice, waters and beer. And real vegetables! This is a feature I prefer over 7-11. They're not open 24 hours, but who needs to be? And they don't believe in wearing the 70's style uniform with that tacky vest. It's no bullshit. It's 7-Alive.

We missed being at home with everyone on Christmas. I actually missed having a reason to get warm by a fire - indoors, not a bonfire on the beach. We still managed to enjoy ourselves no problem mon! We fully embraced Christmas in flip-flops and beach wear. For those of you who are wondering how they celebrate Christmas in the islands, they do it Caribbean style - mostly with ribs and BBQ but families do prepare turkey or ham on Christmas Day. People get dressed up in green and red beads with santa hats and many homes and businesses do decorate with lights and a traditional Christmas tree. Sometimes they'll string lights up on palm trees too.

On Christmas Eve, we worked on boat maintenance projects all day until evening when we set out on the dinghy, following the sounds of live Christmas music. We were led to the outdoor market, where a small band with staw hats that reminded you of the Hawaiian Punch guy played a mixture of Christmas and drinking songs on kazoos made from broken beer bottle necks. They were actually called "The Broken Bottle Neck Band." We were served ribs and goat while watching a crowd of locals gather to dance with this band. Band members were actually dancing with people, as they made it their mission to split up couples and force them to dance with someone else. Stephen & I had fun with this for a little while, but grew frustrated when they wouldn't let us dance with each other for even a minute. So we followed the sounds of more mainstream music to La Palapa, an outdoor tiki bar/dance club. This is where synchronicity happened again. We met Herb and Frank on Magic Dragon out of Deltaville, VA, a boat we had been communicating with via SSB when we left the Chesapeake in November! We heard them on Chris Parker's weather net, also looking for a good window to get across the Atlantic and hailed them over the radio. We had checked in with them a few times over the first couple of days and then lost contact, until meeting them in the flesh almost 2 months later!

"Hey, weren't you guys just dancing with us?" Herb approached us. They too, followed the sounds of the music to the market place until one of the band members spilled a rum punch down Herb's shirt while trying to dance with him. Over a couple of beers, we commisserated about shitty conditions that forced us both to put our boats hove-to. We all agreed it was nice to meet other couples who had a less than ideal sail across the North Atlantic. Like us, they traded it all in to go cruising, and we have been thankful for the opportunity to spend time with them, sharing stories, experience, information and lots of beers and cocktails. To learn more about their story, check out their blog at: http://www.sailblogs.com/member/magicdragon/

We exchanged Christmas gifts on Christmas Eve under our tree made out of aluminum foil: new flip-flops for Steve and a new beach dress for me. Gretchen even got some new kitty treats. I didn't make it through National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation before passing out, and had to wait until after the New Year when we had power again to finish watching it!

We spent Christmas morning on the internet at Cappucinos beach bar/diner. For me, this was the best combo of island and Christmas. Instead of snow, we had cool breezes from the rain that downpoured all morning. I was as close to friends and family as I could get, typing messages to them while the entire Mariah Carey Christmas album was blasting through the speakers.

Christmas night, we went to Caribbean Cinemas to see "Up in the Air," followed by Christmas Dinner at Saratoga along the waterfront. stephen ordered the ahi tuna, but I went for the traditional ham, seeing lots of tuna and less pig in my future. I was correct, as we ended up purchasing a case of "Chicken of the Sea" on a recent provisioning trip. We have already started to get really creative with tuna...tuna omelettes, tuna mac n'cheese, tuna casserole. We figured out that we have enough tuna to have one can a week for the next year.

While we had been very busy trying to resolve our power issues on the boat, the problem being the lack there of, Herb and Frank had explored some of the island's beaches and told us we had to go to Maho by the airport for the unique experience of lying on the beach while the underbellies of planes descend right overtop of you, landing on the runway about 40 ft. from the shore. When we got to Maho, I immediately saw and read the sign posted above. Since Stephen is so observant, I didn't see how he could miss these signs posted all along the beach, and made the false assumption he knew what we were in for. Herb warned us to secure everything, as he lost his bifocals and witnessed others losing beach towels and backpacks when the planes took off.

So we were standing on the beach, directly behind an aircraft that was getting ready to take off when it started its engines. At first it just got really gusty, and then we started getting pelted with sand, or as Stephen describes it, "getting sandblasted." I didn't necessarily feel in danger, but had my eyes closed and was having a hard time keeping my footing as the winds were pushing us backwards towards the water.

Before I realized what was happening, I heard Stephen start yelling above the roar of the engines, "Take cover!" as he wrapped his arm around me and started dragging me towards the waves. Like a soldier having a flashback from the war, he toppled me to the ground below the sand dune and covered me with his whole body like a shield of armor. "Stay low! Stay low to the ground!" he said in a panicked voice. I started to worry that the situation was more dire than I had realized. It soon passed and the plane had taken off. Once the winds died down, we both looked up and saw that everyone else on the beach was standing on two feet, unalarmed, and some were even taking pictures of us still dazed, lying in the fetal position. We picked ourselves up in embarrassment and began to shake off the sand and pick the tarmac off of each other's face.

In need of a beer after this episode, we headed to the bar where we watched others take cover and could not stop laughing at the ridiculousness of the whole scenario. Our reaction was by far the most dramatic. Stephen shared that he had not once felt as terrified during our entire voyage to the Caribbean as he did just then on the beach. Meanwhile, I realized that ever since we left Baltimore my life got a whole lot more dangerous and relaxing at the same time. Not a good combination. I was probably too nonchalant about the force of winds an aircraft could create, but terrified of 30 foot seas.

We took a cab back to Maho on New Year's Eve to watch the fireworks from the Sunset Beach Club. We asked the cab driver if there were ever any fatalities from the plane traffic as the sign suggests. He and his friend both laughed as they replied with a resounding "No," but said there was a crazy accident where a plane came in too low and took out the fence along the road. They said you can find it on You-Tube under "mystery plane - St. Maarten."

Christmas vacation didn't last long, and I began to value quiet time just before sunrise, before setting out on whatever mission was on the day's agenda. Every daily chore that used to be completed while multi-tasking has become a day long singular mission for us. Boat parts & provisioning missions, laundry missions, grocery missions, Internet/communications missions, scouting land for laundry, groceries and internet missions. Each but the latter involves lugging a lot of shit back and forth via dinghy and our backs. We have become work mules.

Once the missions are complete there is always a pending boat project, some of them - like replacing our entire battery bank, take days. Others just hours - like oil changes, scrubbing the deck or cleaning the bilges. Sometimes we get asked, "What do you do with all that leisure time?" I can't wait to find out. Some suspect that we would become bored with no full time jobs, but staying afloat in paradise is a full-time job. I'm still trying to make time for all those leisure activities I dreamed of doing: yoga on the boat everyday, finishing books, writing letters and looking for gifts to send home. If I ever get a chance to enjoy a life of pure leisure for days on end, I will welcome boredom.

Just when we start believing that this cruising life is way more work than it's worth, we remind ourselves that this is only the beginning. That we are in St. Maarten so we can complete major projects and provisioning while we have access to parts and resources. We keep telling ourselves that as soon as we get out of here, the true island life will begin. St. Martin, at least on the Dutch side, is super developed but dirty, with absolutely no sidewalks. This makes for very grimy provisioning trips. On our last trip to "Le Grand Marche" (the biggest supermarket), we were sure to stock up on plenty of food so that we can avoid coming to land for as long as possible.

We plan on heading to the more remote islands of Saba, Barbuda and the Grenadines where we can hang out at anchor for days and cook all our meals on the boat. By the time we got to the register, the grocery cart was overflowing and we had a side basket that was also full. On this particular day, we didn't have enough bags or muscles to lug all this back to the boat. We chose Le Grand Marche for it's shuttle service to your dinghy where we loaded a cooler full of meats and cheeses, a 100 liter waterproof bag full of packaged & can foods, an ikea bag, a small knapsack and additional backpack filled with more goodies.

We both placed bets on the total bill. It was tricky 'cause everything is in Gilders which is about double $US. I guessed close to a grand, while Stephen guessed $800. When the screen showed $1,033, I started celebrating my win, or loss depending on how you look at it. But then the next screen showed the actual price in $US - which was around $500. Now we were both celebrating! We couldn't believe we got so much food, which could last us at least 3 months, for just around $500. Sadly, our mission produced another mission - finding places on the boat to store all this food.

Back at the boat, Gretchen was ready to chip in, protecting the 5 pound bag of Jasmine rice and cookies while we unloaded the rest of the groceries. We staged the food in stacks and rows all over the main cabin: jars of salsa, sauces and dressings, bags of potato & tortilla chips, cans of veggies, and extra large jars of new favorite replacement for peanut butter - NUTELLA! This stuff is like crack. We actually went back to land for more, debating whether to get 4 or 5 more economy-size jars. The task of actually putting away the food was too daunting to finish before bed. We found reasons to make other tasks priority for the next two days while Gretchen enjoyed cuddling up to new food items. Her favorite is the chicken soup mix. After making it her pillow for a while, she decided it must have been a bag of kitty treats and tore into it.

With chores completed for a little while, we finally got to explore more of the island, starting with Phillipsburg, the capital of Dutch St. Maarten. Phillipsburg has a great waterfront with a boardwalk surrounded by hills and lined with palm trees. I wouldn't go swimming on this beach, however. There's a lot of commercial traffic and the water is a milky sea green. This is also the major shopping district with high end stores on Front Street, closest to the beach and all of the sketchy botiques and electronic stores a few streets back. We fell for the so-called "deals" as we bought our web cam here for skyping. The salesman seemed straightforward and honest enough. When we got home, the software was full of defects that froze our computer screen. We finally read the receipt that indicated all sales were final.

While Stephen was searching for electronics, I went shopping for a dress in the flea market. Apparently, I am an easy target for pushy vendors. When we went to Rosarito in Tijuana for Claire's birthday, she laughed at how my demeanor changed after hours of politely saying, "No, Gracias" while vendors hovered around us on the beach like seagulls. Maybe it's the social worker in me wanting everyone to feel good that's overly careful to not offend, even when someone is insisting I buy a bright yellow ugly dress three sizes too big for me. "But it's too big," I smile, stating the obvious. She continued to follow me, "No, it fits perfect," she says holding it up to me. "But I don't like it," I reply just as Stephen arrives. Now she's trying to insist that I don't know what I'm talking about and I do like it. "Look, she doesn't want the dress," Stephen comes to my rescue. Finally, she waves us away in anger declaring us unreasonable. I was not interested in going through this experience just to get a dress. I was ready to give up but Stephen encouraged me to look further. I'm glad he did, as we met a vendor with nice dresses that weren't just "One Size Fits All" and a very pleasant and patient attitude. Her children were captivated by Stephen and the pictures on our camera. They found him very entertaining and struck silly poses for him while I shopped. To boot, she gave me 2 dresses for $30.

We're figuring things out as we start to adapt to and optimize our new lifestyle. This is partly through trial and error and partly through the helpful advice of other cruisers like Herb and Frank, who suggested to open a Skype account. While we're still trying to get the web cam up and running, we have learned how to make phone calls using this internet site, and are loving that we can now talk to friends and family anywhere in the world for just 2 cents a minute as long as we have a computer, headset and internet connection. Most of the islands, even the less developed ones have at least a few establishments that offer wifi, and some with signals you can pick up on the boat.

In addition to improving our lives with new technologies, we're learning how to streamline all of our processes whether it be blogging or doing laundry. We try to take only what we need to shore and find ways to make the best use of our time. We know that service is often slow, so we'll go to restaurants with free wifi so we can blog, e-mail or make phone calls while we're waiting. Because you're often waiting, not just for a table, but for a server to simply acknowledge you, and then there's often another 20 minutes of waiting until he or she takes your order. Then there's at least 20 minutes from the time you request the check until it arrives. This is isn't always the case, just the restaurants that are more popular. We have come to prefer the roadside place that consists of a van, awning and a few picnic tables. The food is cheap, sometimes even better tasting.

More recently, we were able to get over to Marigot, the capital on the the French side of St. Martin. It's so much nicer and more peaceful on this side of the island with cleaner, paved roads with sidewalks and lots of cafes and open air markets selling fresh produce and breads. It's also the more expensive side, so it figures. You can enjoy the best of both worlds by going to Marigot in the morning for breakfast and the market and then going back to the Dutch side for $1 beer happy hours. Of course you're dealing with the Euro again, however, we noticed that some of the vendors at the market don't feel like doing the conversions so they'll just match their prices dollar for dollar.

While in Marigot, we climbed to the top of Fort Louis which overlooks the west side of St. Martin, Simpson Bay and Anguilla to the North. To the South, you can see Saba in the distance. At the entrance, there was a sign explaining how the French settlers came to build the Fort. Stephen and I cracked up at the irony of their so-called "diplomacy." Rather than order its construction, it's founder decided to discuss the project with the settlers to solicit their help. As it reads, the settlers came together and "pitched in," by donating their slaves. True diplomats.

While everything they say about "island time" is true, and most of us can come to even appreciate it, "Island time" should not be confused with "Island customer service" which truly does vary from region to region. Just when we think we have successfully abandoned all expectations in hope of a less frustrating experience, we are reminded that there are some standards that are just too deeply ingrained. Some cruisers blame poor customer service on some of the demands that megayachts have imposed on local businesses. The general perception of foreigners is that they are pushy and move too fast (think of the megayacht blasting its horn at the until the bridge opened).

So sometimes visitors are met immediately with resistance, before greetings are ever exchanged. The Coconut Juice Stand, as silly as it sounds, it just one example of the barriers that are created when parties hold very different standards of customer service. You wait around the stand, wondering who sitting around the picnic table is a customer or a worker until you ask the question or someone finally says, "Hey Joe, I think they want something." "What's in a coconut shake?" Stephen asks. Joe doesn't answer, but goes over to the blender already filled with some concoction. Who knows how long it's been sitting there, and begins to pour. So Stephen assumes based on his American experience that Joe is offering him a sample. But Joe has filled an entire cup and set it down in front of him. "Five dollars," says Joe. "But I asked you what is in it," explains Stephen. "Coconut," says Joe. While I appreciate this kind of simplicity, this was the wrong day for that kind of venue. So we gave up on the Coconut Stand and went in search of mudslides instead. We felt lucky to find them.

Before leaving St. Maarten, we did get to discover it's more beautiful points, like Cupecoy Beach, so secluded most people go completely naked. On this particular day there was so much nakedness you kept your eyes low to the ground and directly in front of you. I wish I knew the etiquette. Do you make eye contact and say hello or walk past like a horse with blinders? Many megayachts that can deal with rolly anchorages will stop here overnight or for the day because the scenery is so pretty with orange-beige bluffs and clear turquoise water that pools around flat, smooth rock that you can walk on. At the end of this beach, Danny, owner of "Danny Boy's" serves cold beers and ribs and chicken under a tent alongside the road. Danny is here "every day" even holidays as he claims he doesn't like to spend much time at home. I didn't dig into the reasons why. Other beaches worth mentioning are Baie Long and Mullet Bay, which was busier with tourists probably because kids love to romp in the waves. We prefer the calmer waters, can't imagine why I'd want to avoid waves...

From cupecoy Beach, we looked across the horizon to Saba in the distance which seems to be calling us to it. Saba is not an easy anchorage and gets especially rolly in Northerly winds and swells, so we'll make it when and if weather allows. It is supposed to be one of the best dive sites in the caribbean because of its narrow but steep formation. Until the 1940s, there were no roads because engineers thought it to be impossible, and all goods had to be carried up 800 steps cut into the side. "The road that could never be built" is the only major road linking the two main villages of the island - "Windwardside" and "Bottom." They finally built an airport, also thought to be impossible, a tiny little airstrip they say is like landing on an aircraft carrier high above the sea. There is a lot of amazing hiking here and if we make it, we're going to climb to the top of Mt. Scenery, 3,000 ft. above sea level. If wind and weather is against us, we'll head to Barbuda. OUr target for leaving St. Martin is Saturday, Jan. 9.

American in St. Bart's

2009-12-27T15:54:00.000-08:00

All you need is a few days in St. Bart's (St. Barth) to understand why they call it the French Riviera of the Caribbean. It is an island I never heard much about, perhaps because they have chased many an outsider away with their prices and attitudes. But if you can stomach it just long enough to find your way out of Port Gustavia, you will find gorgeous, secluded beaches, very charming villages and people. The French native to the island are extremely patient and hospitable. At the patisserie (pastery shop) a girl broke out the French-English dictionary in an attempt to understand us, and a waiter at a restaurant serving local cuisine brought us a complimentary flask of house rum following dinner.
As soon as we dropped anchor in the harbor of Port Gustavia, we were hit with the realization that we were in very different cruising grounds than we were used to. We were sailing with the big dogs now, bigger boats, bigger pockets and bigger egos. So big, there's very little room left for little boats and people like us to fit in, literally. You must be very good at the helm and quick to drop an anchor to negotiate the very tight spaces left in busy ports like these.

It was only the beginning of the winter, and already the outer harbor was filled with vessels donning flags from all over Europe. With so many languages spoken, the universal mode of communication is body language. A local man who spoke English was kind enough to offer us his mooring ball to get closer to shore. As soon as we tied on the mooring lines, it was apparent our boat was swinging too close to a French trimaran (three hulls). The man aboard, who didn't speak English was technically supposed to move his boat at anchor. A firm stance with arms crossed over his chest exuded the more stereotypical French arrogance and inflexibility. We didn't feel like arguing with that. Three hulls trumped our monohull.

As we took our dinghy into port, we were greeted by rows of megayachts berthed all along the promenade. I had never seen poweryachts so big. The one above has a garage in the back end. If you look closely, you'll notice that it's open and there's a fishing boat inside. Only a few minutes ashore taught us that unlike Bermuda, friendliness was not expected but actually frowned upon. My hellos and good afternoons were either ignored or received dirty looks. Alrighty then! I must place a disclaimer on this, however. It seemed I typically encountered this behavior close to centers frequented by the megayachters.

It was interesting to get a glimpse into this strange new world, where the streets bustled with young men and women wearing matching shorts, skirts and polos that featured the name of the yacht they worked on. Crews of people swarmed around the yachts and luxury dinghies (dingies with steering wheel consoles), endlessly buffing and waxing hulls, answering their walkie talkies and reporting back to captains at the other end of the boat through their headsets. Virtually anything you needed could be obtained by pushing a button.

A breakfast along the waterfront, confirmed that we were no longer bystanders to this world of extravagance, as omelets were 10 Euros or more ($15 US) not including the ingredients like tomato, pepper, cheese...which was 1 Euro extra. There were additional charges for splitting plates and each tiny cup of coffee (all espresso) was another 2 Euros. We had lunch ashore on our first day after anchoring, too tired after a night of being up on watch followed by a morning of boat chores and taking care of general business like reporting to customs. I chose wisely, unbeknownst to me by ordering an Amstel Light. Stephen and John were tricked by the cheaper Heineken. It seemed too good to be true until the little pony bottles arrived. Stephen now refuses to drink another Heineken out of sheer principle.

A few streets back, or I should say "up" from the waterfront - they are very steep, we discovered cheap eats at a patisserie that bakes all the pasteries for the other restaurants. Chocolate and almond croissants, strawberry tartines and coconut custard, all for less than $3. Baguettes were abundant and $1 each. The thing to do is drop by the bakery in the morning and load your shopping bag with baguettes. Throughout the morning, it seemed that everyone you passed on the street was carrying at least one. When in Rome, do as the Romans do...with tons of baguettes, we had to figure out what to do with them. You can only have them with so much cheese and wine before that gets old. Stephen had the brilliant idea of using them as rolls for turkey and breakfast sandwiches. Regular bread will never be the same.

While the French may be generous with their pasteries, they are stingy when it comes to coffee. When you order a "large" they fill the little cup the whole way instead of only half way to the top. This frustrated the hell out of me and John, longing for a normal sized coffee. Each morning we ended up buying two cups - there are no free refills. I like a strong coffee, so espresso was fine with me. It put an extra spring in my step, but also waged war my stomach after one too many. So that's why they make them so small!! John was not down with the super strong coffee and longed for a cup of Starbucks or any old-fashioned cup of American coffee. Contrary to popular belief, Starbucks is not as global as you think.

We headed out of Gustavia to Anse de Colombier, in search of quiet beaches and anchorages. Atop the island sat a home once owned by the Rockefellers. This part of the island is so remote, you can only get there by boat or by hiking the trail in. We dinghied less than 100 feet to shore to watch the sunset, but happened upon a scene far more entertaining.

A group that chartered a catamaran was having trouble getting their guests back to the boat. Unable to manuever the engine of their dinghy so that they could pull up to the beach, women were wading fully clothed up to their shoulders in the water and then struggling to hoist themselves into the dinghy. One almost made it, head into the dinghy and ass suspended in air, she lowered herself back in the water probably realizing we were enjoying the show! Our laughter was unleashed when they gave up on trying to get her back into the dinghy and tossed her a line to tow her all the way back to the boat. "That's just ridiculous!" Stephen managed to catch his breath long enough to speak.

Chartering a boat with or without a captain is an excellent way to see the islands in a way you'll never get to if you're on a cruise ship or staying at a resort close to port. We highly recommend it, since we had the trip of a lifetime chartering in the San Blas, Panama. When we chartered, we were very new to sailing and would have had a rough time figuring out the anchorages, how to barter, where to fish, etc. That's why chartering a boat with a captain was the way to go. When boats are chartered independently by people with limited sailing experience, it can be a less than relaxing vacation for its crew and everyone anchored around them. There are islands like Anguilla that we probably won't sail to just because charter boats are abundant and there's a good chance you might get bumped into. The road less traveled is well worth it in the end.

The next morning we hiked the trail to the top of the island and over the hillside to other beaches. Every part of this hike was beautiful, filled with iguanas, butterlies, and tons of wild flowers and plants like type of cactus with two red blooms that form a pair of eyes (or a pair of something else depending on your imagination). The islands of St. Bart's surprised us with their landscapes that reminded us of the southwestern U.S., covered with all kinds of cactus and red rocks similar to Sedona, AZ.

The trail led along the edge of steep cliffs overlooking the shoreline and powerful waves crashing into rocks below. As I walked this path, I was grabbing for the side at times to be sure I wasn't going to step out into nothing and take a tumble to an unpleasant fate below. I kept stopping every few feet to take another picture, probably annoying Stephen and John. I felt like I was entering an enchanted garden as the path became more closed in by overgrowth and natural archways formed by rock or vines and low hanging trees.

We followed the trail until we descended upon the town at Flammand's Beach. Unlike the beach on the lee side at Colombier, this one produced waves big enough to knock Stephen and John around and wear them out. For those of you who know either one of them, that takes a lot. I felt like a Mom keeping an amused but protective eye on them as they disappeared and tumbled beneath the waves like little boys. A few seconds would lapse as I waited for them to reappear. They always emerged cheering and laughing until they could barely walk to shore.

Back at the boat, the beach along Colombier was filling up with sunbathers and more hikers. The anchorage had more sailboats, charter cats and French fishing boats with topless sunbathers. Stephen and John set out on the dinghy in search of snorkeling while I set up a chair at the bow of the boat and cracked open a Red Stripe. Chilling in the Caribbean sunshine on my own sailboat in the middle of December, I finally felt like I had arrived to the place I had dreamed of and prepared for, for 3 years. I enjoyed watching the scenery, including those that gazed over at our boat, maybe wondering how we found ourselves here, the whole way from Baltimore, MD.

We cast off from Colombier later that afternoon and motored the short distance back to Gustavia for sunset at Shell Beach, very popular among the locals. I felt very American, bogged down by all my beach accessories: beach blanket, chairs, cooler, wine carrier. Everyone else seemed to be traveling light, even wearing less clothing. I think John and Stephen probably enjoyed this one. We had never seen so many many shells or topless women on a beach before. Unlike Jamaica, where the only people on the nude beach are the ones you don't want to see naked, almost everyone in St. Bart's was gorgeous.

It was interesting to see how natural it was for them to hang out in groups, engaging in conversation fully exposed. It's even common for the tourism guides to feature nudity. These are guides that you can pick up just about anywhere. Naked women from cover to cover advertising anything from jewelry to IBM laptops. I thought for a minute about taking my top off on my own boat while Stephen and John were away, but even then I couldn't bring myself to do it. I guess I spent too many years in Catholic School to free myself of Puritan ideals. Parents with small children allowed them to run on the beaches clothing free. It becomes like second nature to them so they aren't plagued with the self-consciousness that we are. While many of the French are Christian, it's like they skipped over the story of creation. You know, that part where Adam and Eve are banished from the Garden of Eden and they finally notice that they're naked. These people aren't aware they left the Garden of Eden. With palm trees and white sand never more than a few blocks away, it's easy to see why.

The next day we rented a car and toured the rest of St. Bart's. It seemed pretty easy to negotiate on the price. As the man at the rental place said to John, "For you, I give the special" - a PT Cruiser convertible for around 50 Euro. With top down, we felt very chic driving around the island. This was the best way to see the panoramic views around every corner. We drove from beach to beach, snorkeling at Anse de Cayes and stopping at Saline (featured in first photo) for another wine and cheese-filled sunset. With baguettes of course!! This was my favorite beach for swimming. The water was the temperature of a lukewarm bath and the water was clear to the bottom with just enough current to keep you afloat and carry you in to shore. It was at this beach that we experienced the trade offs that come with public nudity. There's something about a dude emerging from the water totally in the buff that is shocking, and maybe disturbing according to the pained expressions on John and Stephen's faces. We were also reminded that some of the French prefer not to shave.

Driving around the island was thrilling and a little scary. Everyone drove fast despite the crazy blind turns and steep drop-offs. As narrow as they were, the roads were actually wider than Bermuda. The port of Gustavia was the busiest with traffic, and the French are like Americans in that they love to lay on the horn. This is partly because people think nothing of leaving their car running in the middle of a busy street while they run into a store to pick something up. And parking the car was the scariest of all! When we got back to Gustavia, the only spaces available were on inclines so steep you weren't sure that the emergency brake would work. Poor John was on edge paralell parking as the PT Cruiser drifted within inches of the car behind us. Way to work the brake John!

Once we had our fill of the main island, we checked out of customs before stopping at Isle de Forchue, a desolate island that is a nature marine park, belonging to St. Bart's. Immigration on St. Bart's gives bureaucracy a whole new meaning. When we checked in, they gave Stephen a hard time about not bringing his own pen. This was an entirely different experience than checking into Bermuda, where the customs officers were very accomodating. We had a minor squall sailing over to Isle de Forchue, with winds gusting up to 30 knots. It was a short but intense sail as the winds blew strong and kicked up the seas a little. The winds pushed us over there in no time (less than an hour), and approaching this anchorage was breathtaking.

There were very few boats moored and we had the entire island to ourselves the whole time we were here. The island was inhabited only by goats for years, and they pulled the last of the remaining goats off the island after they had managed to eat every ounce of vegetation until it was practically barren. Less than 10 years ago, they began replanting trees in the gulley. Now it is picture perfect, with all the colors of the rainbow: red rockfaces and cactus blooms, orange clay and mud, yellow grasses and butterflies, green cactus and shrubs, blue sky and ocean, purple flowers, and pink and lavender sunsets.

The morning after we arrived, Stephen cooked us brunch while John went for a swim around the boat, discovering a huge fish hanging out by our keel that resembled a baracuda. John had definitely spotted a baracuda, also by the keel, at the anchorage over in Gustavia. This one may have been a wahoo, but John didn't want to get too close to find out and jumped back on the boat. I commend him for sticking around long enough to have a good look and ponder this. Suddenly the area around our boat became a live aquarium with big fish and small silvery fish with blue and yellow-green fins. They practically leaped out of the water as we fed them scraps of bread and fat from our ham. Then Stephen decided to take the opportunity to cast his line out. I had forgotten about the strict regulations prohibiting fishing of any kind on the nature reserve. Fortunately, he didn't catch anything.

The island had over 4 peaks for good climbing and amazing views of St. Bart's and St. Martin. Stephen and I climbed two of them. The second one made my heart race and tested my fear of heights. I have climbed several peaks in NY's Adirondacks, including Mt. Marcy, the highest in NY state and never had the butterflies like I did on this one. I almost stopped halfway up the rock but pushed myself to get to the top. It amazes me how Stephen and John practically run up the sides of these things like they're billy goats. They made me nervous a few times over the course of this whole trip, balancing themselves on rocks suspended on the edge of bluffs where it would only take a strong breeze or a few sliding rocks to make you lose your footing.

We hiked to the top with our video camera and took video to try to share the experience - check out the video link on the side of the blog. Unsure of how I was going to get down, Stephen scouted the best path to traverse to a grove of trees where we hung out in the shade and looked down onto Synchronicity (see spec in lower left corner of photo above). John managed to hike two more peaks and discovered a blow hole at the end of the island - an opening that went straight through to the ocean where water rose up with every wave that crashed on shore.

Despite what our friends and loved ones might think, time doesn't slow down in paradise - at least it hasn't yet for us. Saturday came quickly, and it was time to get John over to St. Maarten (Dutch side) where he would catch his flight home. Hours of leisure are interrupted by petty frustrations that come with the logistics of living a lifestyle "free" of many technologies and conveniences. All the things that make life easier and more comfortable while also enslaving us to the modern world. And now I will quote the very silly movie made by the makers of South Park, "Freedom isn't free, there's a hefty f*&%in fee, freedom costs a buck 'o 5." - Team America. Do not mistake this for complaining. I consider every single day on this journey a blessing and will gladly trade instant gratification for life's hard earned pauses. I feel so fortunate that we are able to do this for whatever time we are allowed. I see every sunset with a fresh set of eyes, and savor every last drop of wine while feeling the difference between textures of sand against my toes. I spend less time thinking about the past or the future, and much more time focusesd in the present.

Spending a week of sunsets in different anchorages throughout St. Bart's wasn't a bad way to start life in the Caribbean. After St. Maarten/St. Martin, we hope to be heading to islands less developed. Time may not slow down, but we'll keep sailing until we get far enough away so that time is less encumbered by modern civilization's many distractions.

Smooth Sailing to the Caribbean

2009-12-25T07:51:00.000-08:00

We arrived safely to St. Bart’s on Monday, Dec. 18th after an 8 night passage from Bermuda. Our friend John from Baltimore came along for the passage, bringing pounds of cherry Twizzlers, Snyder’s pretzel bites and tons of Snickers for night watches. He also helped us out a lot by bringing boat parts from the U.S., saving us a bundle and a lot of time on shipping.

John learned to sail with Stephen, coming along on cruises in the bay since we owned the Tartan. Now she belongs to John and I couldn't think of a better owner for her. He was a nice addition to the crew because of his knowledge, passion and aptitude for sailing. He never panicked when conditions stepped up, and was proactive when it came to trimming sail and other maneuvers.

This was his first major passage and watching him go through the motions of adjusting to life underway was like watching a filmstrip of myself on the last passage. We compared notes on the sounds inside the cabin that would keep you awake at night. We both agreed it was like sleeping inside an industrial sized washing machine that sometimes spun out of control to the point she was going to break!

John flew into Bermuda on Saturday, Dec. 5th, the night before departure. A night of rowdiness began with Christmas parades and festivities in St. George’s square. Then we hopped a bus to the Swizzle Inn where you “swagger out.” We got our fill of drinking, dancing to a blues band in between gorging on ribs and chicken. It's popular for bars in the islands to do BBQ on the weekends. They found us quite entertaining, and even gave the microphone to Stephen to sing along. He surprised us all with his own version of scat that included animal noises. As the the sax player said, "You guys livened up the place!" We were able to give John a quick tour of St. George’s parish before casting off, leaving just enough time for a major front to blow through.

We followed the tailwinds of this system out of Bermuda. The seas were still choppy with waves of up to 12 ft. for the first 36 hours out of Bermuda. The biggest John had ever seen, and I prayed the biggest he would have to see. The skies stayed gray and dark until sunrise Tuesday morning while both Stephen and John were on watch. They witnessed one of the most beautiful sunrises at sea, lighting up the skies with vibrant shades of pink, lavender, red, orange and blue. Almost the whole spectrum of the rainbow, like the one they passed through.

As they watched the sun rise, they could see squalls passing through in the distance. The dawn brought the biggest rainbow, signaling the end of gray skies and foul weather. As Synchronicity passed directly under its arch, it was like we had entered the gateway to paradise. Almost the rest of the trip was filled with sunshine, rainbows, shooting stars at night and even dolphins that came to swim alongside our bow. It was like my first grade sticker book come to life. The three dolphins criss-crossed around each other as they rode our wake. They spiraled through the water, revealing their eyes and underbellies just before leaping out of the water.

Other discoveries of the slimy type included a squid hurled on deck early on in the trip by a churned up sea. He reminded me of one of those sticky rubber toys in the prize window at the roller skating rink. He was clear all the way through so you could see his insides and his head and eyes were elongated like an alien’s. His bright blue eyes were the only spec of color.

Then there were the flying fish that would visit during our night watches. Many of them flying through the water would accidentally land on deck. Sometimes they would fly right into you. When they landed they would flop around all over the deck. I’m sure I woke up John one night when I shrieked as one came out of nowhere. Even though it freaked me out to try to grab it, I figured I would want someone to try to save me had I found myself in some unexpected situation, gasping for air as I fought for my life. He was a slippery little sucker, so I had to grab a paper towel to grip him before chucking him overboard.

Then there was the huge Mahi that Stephen hooked on his line using the silver spoon – later lost in the mouth of a teethy, gnarly-looking thing while trolling on our way to St. Maarten. This Mahi weighed about 25 lbs. and wouldn’t die easily. Still trying to figure out the best way to end it quickly for them, Stephen gaffed it and then asked John to bop it on the head with something – a winch handle! He did so reluctantly as we all winced with each thud. These fish are so pretty – iridescent blues, yellows and greens that are so bright until the life runs out of the Mahi. We also read somewhere that they travel in pairs – with their lifelong mates. Every time you catch one you wonder if you are leaving behind a very lonely partner.

Still, once it was caught, it had to be put out of its misery. And we were growing tired of food out of a box or a can. Stephen was an awesome cook underway, making us meals everynight through every type of condition. Sometimes cursing at the rolling pots and at Gretchen who wants to get right up in the food that she’s smelling. It seems this is the only thing she has to look forward to on these passages, where she settles in to places for hours – sometimes days on end.

For several days we had calm seas and breezes of 8 – 12 knots – just enough to keep the sails filled and keep us moving along at over 4 knots. This made for very nice night watches where you could relax enough to watch the stars. Thanks to Dad Toman, our Sirius Satellite radio which we had been without since the last big storm, was now reconnected and we had tunes to keep us going through the night.

One morning the breezes let up completely and Synchronicity was becalmed in one of the deepest parts of the ocean, second the the Puerto Rico Trench. Of course John and Stephen saw this as the perfect time to "go for a swim." Apprehensive about what might be lurking below in this blue abyss of 20,000 + feet or 5 miles to the bottom, I decided to keep watch for "unfriendly sea creatures," that might see John and Steve as the catch of lifetime. Dangling from the line of the back in snorkel gear they did look like the perfect bait for Jaws. They finally convinced me to jump in long enough to go below with my mask and see the swirls of sunlight that spiral hundreds of feet into the deep blue below. It can be disorienting, for at the same time the light separates into perfect symmetrical beams that seem to reach up towards you in "a thousand points of light."

My favorite night watch was to the tunes of Christmas music on the Forties station. I had forgotten all about Christmas until then and cuddled up with a blanket under the stars as I thought about Christmas memories from childhood – Christmas Eve and Christmas dinner at Mom & Dad’s, Aunt Lynn’s rice crispie treats, always trying to make the Santa Claus parade in downtown Hanover with Uncle Jim & Aunt Jane. I don’t think we ever made it in time, but at least we always made it to the Famous Hot Weiner on Black Friday after Christmas. I will miss them and even miss the hot dogs and chili maybe more than the turkey itself.

For the last couple of days, once we made it to about the 19th parallel, we picked up the trades and the boat started flying again. Hull speed increased to 6 knots, even going above 7 for a few hours at a time. Wind speed was now anywhere from 12 – 20, gusts to 22 and increasing with every passing squall. Once we hit the trades there was line of squalls coming from the East.

We called ourselves the “squall patrol,” on the Sunday just before approaching St. Bart’s. We tried to dodge as many as we could, or at least dodge the worst of the rains and wind. Just sailing under a poled-out headsail alone, we would furl it in almost as quickly as we had furled it out. The winds always seem to drop to almost nothing just on the edge of a squall or right in the center of it when you would also get poured on. Sometimes the boat would pick up speed in a matter of seconds going into one but then lose all speed with sails luffing as soon as it passed over. The most it gusted was up to 35 knots and this was pretty short-lived. As the squalls kept coming, I started to think back to our last leg into Bermuda when conditions only seemed to get worse. I thought to myself, “It figures.”

I learned on this passage to always keep your thoughts about what mother nature may or may not do to yourself, as it seems she is always listening and wants to keep you in your place. I considered the irrational nature of this belief until it was confirmed. We had managed to avoid one nasty looking squall – three clusters of dark storm clouds that had merged into one. The clouds had just missed us when they stalled mid-air as if they realized we had gotten away.

We began to revel in our success, Stephen commenting, “Ahh, we’re in calmer seas now.” He began to sit down to take a break when he quickly stood up as if he sensed the consequences of his words. Seconds after he moved from his spot, a random wave came spilling over the side in the very place where he sat, filling up the cockpit with a few inches of water. We both looked at each other completely spooked. It was like the squall has sent the wave to mess with us.

Fortunately, Mother Nature was kind to us, settling down for the evening although I think John still had some increased winds and boat speed to ride out like the Comet at Hershey Park. The seas were still swelly from all the squalls. During the height of them John did get to see even bigger waves – mostly 15 feet with a couple of 20 foot rollers here and there. By the time I had settled in to my very last night watch, things were evening out, the waves were settling and there was an insane lightshow going on above, with shooting stars streaking the sky in every direction.

I woke Stephen up almost half way through my watch, thinking we might have to alter course to avoid a huge ship first detected on radar and now visible on the horizon. The ship ended up running parallel until it was miles ahead of us before crossing our bow, but you can never be too vigilant even in this vast ocean. In the middle of our trip, a huge freighter crossed our path after we hadn’t seen a boat for days. In this vast ocean, the chances of crossing paths with another vessel seem small – but then you turn around 20 minutes after scanning the horizon to see one appearing out of nowhere. This one was westbound, probably for the U.S.

Ready to retire below again, another stray wave ended up dousing Stephen awake, so he joined me for the planetarium show. We later learned that we had seen a meteor shower. We kept an all night vigil, the lights from Anguilla, then St. Maarten glowing brighter as the islands drew nearer. Then we finally saw a faint glow from St. Bart’s up ahead. John joined us in the cockpit just before dawn, which brought with it more squalls. We weren’t getting off that easy. We could start to make out lights and even building structures on St. Bart’s when the winds and seas began to pick up and Stephen disengaged the wind vane to do some heavy handsteering in towards shore.

The moon was rising about an hour later each night over the course of the passage, and this morning she didn’t pop up until right before sunrise. As the first color started to appear in the sky, we tacked away from land just to move out of the way of a squall and to avoid running out of lee shore. Just like our last moments into Bermuda, Synchronicity was moving downwind, coasting gently along, rolling down the waves like little puffs of air were blowing her in.

I could make out land better then Steve and John’s faces still covered in shadows. It was quiet and peaceful and these islands were already some of the most beautiful I had ever seen. White house with red tiled roofs dotted steep hillsides that were covered in green. There were many small islands or outcroppings of rocks surrounding St. Bart’s. You could see the island of Saba, rising 3,000 feet up out of the ocean in the distance – it’s peak enshrouded by clouds.

As we made our way through the cuts and the channel into Gustavia, John enjoyed the view from up at the bow, ready to drop anchor. It was a smooth ride in, this time with a fully operational engine. Once we dropped hook and were secured, we all gave hugs and high fives, raised the quarantine flag, then poured ourselves some bloody marys. Bonjour, St. Bart’s.

Thanksgiving in Bermuda

2009-12-04T17:51:00.000-08:00

Twenty-one days of living off the hook in St. George’s Harbor, and we finally have a dry mattress and departure date of 12/6. Oh, how I will miss our morning ritual of folding the tempurpedic like a taco, stuffing it through the companionway and dragging it through the rigging to the bow without falling overboard.

In 21 days, Stephen continued to amaze me while he poured over the guts of various systems on the boat, one by one bringing corroded and shorted pieces of machinery back to life. As I assisted him, I enjoyed watching the process so evident on his face. He would talk through scenarios with me as realizations flooded his mind faster than I could keep up with. As if I knew what he was talking about – he could have been speaking another language. “Sure, sounds logical to me.”

Engineering would have been the perfect field of study for him. It was actually a little bit scary at times, reminiscent of scenes from “A Beautiful Mind,” as his thoughts seemed to race with equations. What is truly scary though, are his trips up the mast. That mathematical mind of his figured that our rig must be slightly off-center, accounting for the slight speed differences on each tack. This and concern that our jib halyard was chafing led him to the top with me hoisting and lowering him from the deck (see speck on deck in photo above).

While 75% of these days were filled with boat projects, repairs, and hours of cursing at the engine, it our mission to explore Bermuda. Sometimes this meant braving the elements like wet dinghy rides and a turbulent start to a Sea Taxi commute to Hamilton. This managed to bring uneasy glances and laughter out of the most stoic of Brits. As we headed through the pass out of St. George’s Harbor and straight into 20 knot winds, the ferry went full throttle, pounding down on the waves, creating walls of sea spray as high as the double decker ferry. Steve and I laughed at the large amounts of seaweed flying through the air. This only lasted 5 minutes, until we rounded up the coast. It still seemed scarier than braving the waters on our own boat. It was something about being at the hands of another captain –and without sail or the ability for the boat to right itself in the event of a takedown. No power yacht cruises for me.

Hamilton, the capital, is a surprisingly busy city that I would never want to drive through during rush hour. Front Street that runs along the water, was congested for miles. And as for the roundabouts…good luck. I spotted an elderly lady behind the wheel and said a prayer for her. As in England, they drive on the left side of the road which is disorienting when getting used to crossing the street. Narrow and steep winding roads with few sidewalks (with the exception of downtown Hamilton) make for vigilant pedestrians.

I noticed right away how economical and low key most of the cars are on the island were. Occasionally you’d spot the one that added some bling. Imagine my old Geo Metro with tinted windows and rims. But even the most expensive looking homes had modest cars in the driveway. We were told the average home value is over a million. A nice one bedroom apartment can rent for $2,200 or more. Few Bermudians are able to have cars, so just the privilege of owning one seems to denote status. Gasoline costs $6 a gallon.

Scooters are abundant and by law, everyone must wear a helmet for damn good reason. There is plenty of parking for scooters everywhere and it’s cool to see women dressed up in suits, high heels and helmets driving their scooters to work. What I don’t get is why cel phone use while operating a scooter hasn’t been banned. Fortunately, I only saw one guy doing this. But I saw countless others smoking while riding.

Since tourists couldn't rent cars and scooters were both seemingly dangerous and hella expensive, we took the bus everywhere. As many things in Bermuda, including the sand itself, the buses are pink and abundant. It was no problem to find a stop no matter where you were on the island – just look for the double arched shelters along the side of the road. On average, they run about every 15 minutes, up until 11:45 PM, and don’t let the color pink fool you – you better hang on to your seat. During daylight, bus rides were pretty pleasant with lots of ocean views. Around quitting time, the buses usually became rowdy with locals and drivers engaging in shouting matches over the rules of the bus which were part-serious in tone, usually at the start. Complaints soon developed into teasing which seemed harsh but apparently playful, only because everyone was smiling and laughing together. Stephen and I remained quiet bystanders, taking it all in.

One custom that just wouldn’t grow on me, no matter how many times I tried to look at it with a fresh pair of eyes was the odd business style of shirt & tie with shorts and dark knee socks. I saw it on older and younger men with all kinds of shirt & short color combos. I still couldn’t stop giggling while taking undercover photos. Maybe it was the images I conjured up of every man in my life sporting this look: Stephen, Tony, Daddy, Dad Toman, Raj & Greg!

I still find it hilarious. I had read in a tourism guide that Bermuda’s dress was very conservative. That we weren’t to even think about going out in public without covering up – many women in skirts and shorts below the knees and shirts with some kind of sleeve or a sweater overlay. To get into some clubs and restaurants, men were required to wear collared shirts and dress slacks with the suggestion of a suit jacket and tie. I realized quickly that I had made a mistake in allowing my bathing suit to show through my top when I asked a man seated next to me a question about uploading files, while using free internet at the phone company. He looked me up and down in a disapproving sort of way and was short in his reply. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. You be careful now, you hear?” Be careful? I felt like I was mistaken for a prostitute, who used the code lingo of “uploading files” to solicit customers.

I had a flashback from high school, overcome with the same feeling of defiance as when Mrs. Theic wanted to measure my skirt. Suddenly, the Bermuda shorts thing made sense. It’s just like Delone Catholic High School’s “Dress Down Day” with limitations. Theic’s voice over the PA system boomed through the deepest caverns of my repressed memories….”You can wear sneakers but NO JEANS!” This will be enforced with detention. “Please people,” said my favorite philosophy teacher, Mr. Franko, “Queen Maureen (his nickname for the principal) has no fashion sense. You’ll all be walking around here looking like dorks.”

Here I was in Bermuda, with a new Queen – one you didn’t want to mess with – the Queen of England, arriving at the Anglican Church of the “Most Holy Trinity” on this very day to commemorate Bermuda’s 400th anniversary. “Dress Down Day” for Bermuda was permitting it’s citizenry to show a little leg at the high price of compromising good fashion sense. Fashion aside, I began to button up and attempt to hide my bikini straps, afraid that if spotted by the Queen, I may have to serve detention in the Magistrates Court downtown.

Fortunately, the crowds poured out into the street in huge numbers, blocking me from getting a good glimpse of her. I managed to photograph the back of her head, donned in a turquoise blue bonnet, while Stephen got the greatest shot of her in her motorcade (Look through the windshield of the range rover in the slideshow's motorcade pics).

I had also read in the tourism guide that Bermuda was “big on manners” – more like hypervigilant. The paradox being that pleasantries were sometimes enforced and debased with a defensive rudeness which seemed to result from misperception. Fortunately, countless others counteracted this sentiment with exceptional friendliness and authenticity. As we learned more about Bermuda’s history, economic, and social issues from its residents, I gained insight into the tough exterior, with a new understanding and appreciation for an outspoken, yet loyal and fun-loving breed akin to my Wagner heritage.

Looking at Bermuda from a geographical perspective also sheds light on the nature of its people. Jagged cliffs and boulders form tumultuous shores and sea states. But inside its borders lies a peaceful, hilly green island with small farms and pastures, vegetable and flower gardens and other diverse trees and vegetation. Formed from lava and volcanic rock, smack dab in the middle of the ocean, it is far enough from any other land mass to feel somewhat “cut off” from ease of access to both resources and opportunity.

As anywhere, there are two sides to every story. Some local business owners will tell you that they have tried to recruit Bermudians to learn their trade amidst a shortage of workers, but were received with lack of interest. Others tell a story of years of hard work and dedication without promise of being promoted within. They have accepted entry-level positions, some despite experience and education received abroad, and grow frustrated as foreign workers get hired for the positions they had aspired to.

Wherever the problems lie, the resulting gap in income and opportunity are becoming visible. To remedy the unemployment rate among native Bermudians, foreign workers are beginning to experience longer delays with applications for work permits/visas. But Bermudians are still taking whatever work they can get, often piece meal through temp agencies and part-time work. And the prices after steep “duties,” will make you wonder how they make ends meet, until you spot signs of their resourcefulness, such as stepping roofs in order to collect their own rain water. We were told these roof designs have won awards in the architectural communitiy.

A five minute walk through the grocery store left me with sticker shock and a half-filled basket. I realized why the chickens and roosters that roam the island run like hell when they see you coming. If I lived here, I think I’d start hunting my own. Six bucks for a loaf of bread or a box of cereal (not the organic kind). Over $2 for a single tomato, $3 for a head of lettuce and $4 for a HALF gallon of milk. Even pumpkin, a local staple, was expensive. And snack foods…forget about it. They were outrageously priced. A bag of Snyder’s of Hanover (flavored pretzel bites) was not within reach of my budget as it was nearly $7. Ferrero rochere chocolates, which we could get in the States for less than $2 were $6 here.

We rarely ate out, 'cause even when we made it a point to order the least expensive items on the menu we were still dropping a wad of cash. We split a “Bermuda blooming onion” and one cheeseburger with fries at the White Horse Pub. Add two pints of beer and tip, and we said goodbye to a fifty. A Pizza/Chinese restaurant called “The Upper Crust,” charged $34 for a 14 inch pie. “Where’s the lower crust?” asked Stephen. “We want to eat there.” We would only go to the pub when we were really craving a good pint of beer. The Frog & Onion featured above was a traditional English pub located at the Naval Dockyard, and the only place we found serving local brews.

We found out about Goslings Black Seal Rum very early in our trip. This delicious, caramel-tasting syrupy sweet rum made it easy to stay away from the bars. A bottle of Goslings and a bottle of Ginger Beer and you're set with “Dark n’ Stormies” – a popular Bermuda drink for the week. Another popular one is the “Rum Swizzle.” I read that it is made Goslings, club soda, lime juice and sugar cane, but everytime I’ve ordered it, it’s pink like a rum runner. One too many of these at a Birthday party we walked right into at "Club Ovation," and I had a severe case of the Sunday flu.

We became great at hunting for the best deals on everything. It became like a game, devising creative meals around the cheapest foods. One Sunday we took the day off to make our own Bermudian brunch, instead of paying no less than $30 a head elsewhere. The traditional style brunch includes salted codfish and boiled potatoes in tomato sauce with hardboiled eggs, bananas and avocado. Yeah...it's a meal with a lot of texture, but yummy!

While cooking and eating local foods is one of the things I love about cruising, I love days at the beach the most. We made it to Horshoe Bay, Bermuda’s most popular with sand that appears pink in the right lighting from all the tiny pebbles of red coral deposited from the tide. We talked to two men harvesting seaweed that grew in piles along the shore. Fall is the season for seaweed and while the government tries to appease tourists by hauling it away, these two farmers taught us about its importance to maintaining stability in the ecosystem and its usefulness as a natural fertilizer for crops.

After Lover’s cove (“kiddie pool” by day), had finally cleared out, we climbed the rocks despite "Keep Off the Rocks" signs. Hey man, the other kids were doing it. You've gotta try for the best view. The ocean from up there looked so vast beyond Bermuda. We spotted some other lagoons and happened upon “Andy” who was really interested in talking about Bermuda’s nudist population and how we should "really try it out," - sunbathing naked while in Bermuda, that is. No thanks, Andy. Not after I felt ashamed about showing my bikini straps in the city. But have yourself a blast out there. “Will you mind taking our picture?”

There was a trail heading out of Horeshoe that went both over and around the bluffs to adjacent and very deserted beaches. The latter could only be walked during low tide. I wouldn’t want to be caught in waves pounding against rock once it starts coming back in. My favorite part of exploring Bermuda’s beaches was discovering the wildlife, like live conchs in craters that have formed permanent pools of water and birds like the cranes and the Kiskadee, (photo above) which is native to Bermuda. These yellow birds seem to travel in pairs and chirp the sounds “Kis-ka-dee.” Stephen seemed most enamored by these alien-looking pods that contain some kind of clam or conch-like creature that embed themselves into rock and water with a suction that Stephen could not pry loose, although he was determined to. “Man! These are tenacious little suckers!” he kept repeating. We have yet to find out what they were.

Horeshoe was the most popular, but Elbow Beach was my favorite. It sat below a huge bluff with stairs carved out of the side, winding up to some resort. Since it’s off-season, it was very secluded. Stephen and I parked our chairs in our own little cove and philosophized about the world’s problems over meatloaf sandwiches and a bottle of wine. I think we concluded that it’s all Wal-mart’s fault. An empire that can manage to make a cynic out of Daddy must be pure evil.

Twenty-one days of putting ourselves back together helped us appreciate the finer points of life like sunsets, cold milk thanks to fixed refrigeration, a dry place to sleep, Doritos, and remembering that you can still watch DVDs on your computer. By the time Thanksgiving Day came, we missed our families and the prospect of eating Michele’s bacon wrapped turkey and her “corn thing” dish. Still, our hearts were filled more with gratitude than longing, and we looked for weeks for the best meal in town, narrowing it down to “The Chapel of Ease” dinner at the church or the R.A.A. Club’s “All You Can Eat” buffet. Stephen was interested in mass quantities of food, I had one request, “I don’t care where we eat, they’ve gotta have stuffing.”

The day before Thanksgiving, desperate to find an Internet café that would actually let me get on my blog, we wondered into Carol Richard’s store. Now at the top of our list of things to be thankful for: the kindness and generosity of strangers like Carol (wearing pink in the photo) and her clan, a Bermudian family who quickly made us one of their own. Since the regular computers for customers would limit access to the blog, Carol let me use her main frame to finally share our story about the passage. As I clicked away, she and Stephen had much to talk about, including roots in New York. It turned out Carol grew up in the same part of Queens as Mom Toman. Despite our mission to finish the blog and head to the beach, we enjoyed talking with her so much - she's a well-traveled lady. The time evaporated and suddenly we were being invited to her home for Thanksgiving Dinner.

This unforseen option, was the best of all. Not only was there stuffing, but we were introduced to new local dishes like cassava pie (chicken baked between two layers of cassava dough), fried turkey, beets and a pumpkin dish mashed like potatoes. As first time guests in her and Bryant Sr.’s home, we were made to feel extremely special. Each time we offered to help, we were told to “just relax” and were granted first dibs on the food. I didn’t know what to expect in terms of how formal or casual this dinner would be.

Feeling pressed for time after working on the boat all day, we were convinced we were running late and just had enough time to grab wine and dessert before catching a bus. Carol lives under Gibb’s Lighthouse on one of the highest points of the island in Southampton Parish. Her home was big and beautiful with large, open rooms and tons of skylights and windows for natural lighting. She picked us up at the bus stop against a gorgeous sunset over the beach and gave us a quick tour of her neighborhood. To our relief, Carol’s family was super laid back and for once in our life we were early. “We Bermudians are always late,” informed her niece, Jill.

We got to spend time with Carol, Bryant Sr., and Jill while Carol’s 7-year-old niece did her homework – an essay on what she was thankful for. Bryant gave us a tour of their home that has grown substantially over the years, becoming their own community of both family and tenants -soon to become part of the family. Both people and food started pouring in quickly as we were introduced to sons Duane, Bryant Jr. and countless friends and relatives from virtually all over the world: Nikki & her husband Flavio from Italy, Becca from Canada, Kevin and Annie from the Dominican Republic.
And then there was Robert, introduced to us as "WAbert", Carol’s nephew from Singapore who we got to know better hanging out in St. George's Parish. Robert is one of those guys who is as witty as he is charming. A genuine guy that invited us to hang out with his group of friends on his birthday after only knowing us for a day. Robert talked fondly of “Auntie Carol,” as he told us about all the relatives who didn’t make it. They were back in New York with the Tomans. Robert first came to visit his aunts in Bermuda over 20 years ago, and stayed. While Singapore is still home, he spends 6 months out of every year in Bermuda.

As we joined hands with Carol’s family before dinner, I gave thanks for rare and precious people like her, and experiences like these. The kind that happen while traveling that you can’t plan for but remind you that at any given moment you are part of something greater than the plan itself. I am thankful for the discovery of a family that shares similar personalities, viewpoints and values as my own. I thank my Mom and Dad for teaching me the importance of being inclusive of others - for welcoming friends, co-workers, neighbors as well as family to our table on many occasions. I thank Auntie Carol for reminding me of this, and for being my family away from home.

Halloween in Deltaville, VA

2009-11-19T08:48:00.002-08:00

Coming into Deltaville, I hadn’t showered since Annapolis on the Sunday that Adriana and Will came to visit. It became too damned cold to take a shower on the boat as it was dropping into the low 50s and cold showers are tough when there’s no heat on board. By Thursday, I was beginning to smell my own funk. Not quite sure what it was, I said to Stephen, “Do you smell something…is it me?” I’m pretty sure it was my hair. I could have at least done the baby wipes thing to get my body clean, but hey those things are wet and cold too, so I just decided to put on a fresh pair of clothes and stink those up too. I’ll save the huggies for the long passages in the Caribbean where the warm breeze can dry my skin.

Leaving Annapolis, we were headed for Tangiers, an island smack in the middle of the bay almost completely isolated from everything. Stephen had always wanted to see this place, as he had heard that they had a very unique culture with their own dialect and variation of the English language. We left Annapolis just after 1:00 – when the bridge to Spa Creek opened up for us on the hour, and didn’t drop anchor off of Tangiers until between 6:30 – 7:00 am the next morning. Pretty sure the marina wasn’t open, we dropped anchor in some choppy waters and caught some Zzzz.

When we woke up the next morning, around 10:45, Stephen radioed repeatedly to the only marina with no reply. The first few calls over the VHF were nice, then he started sounding irritated and finally desperate. No one from the marina ever answered, but a very nice lady from the vessel, “Aria,” responded to us to let us know that Mr. Parks of “Parks Marina,” probably wasn’t in yet and either he or one of his family members would be there eventually. She also informed us that she knew a couple who recently visited Tangiers who gave it “mixed reviews,” as it was late in the season and “everything was closed except for one eatery in the town.” This coupled with the fact that the channel and water around the marina was very shallow, was enough for us to decide to hit the bay and not waste our time in Tangiers. Should we get grounded, it looked like it would be days before we would be getting out…waiting for Mr. Parks or his family to come save us.

So, making an hourglass formation with our course appearing on the Raymarine, chartplotter, we headed out across the bay, Southwest for Deltaville. Dropped anchor in a very nice, calm and well-protected spot just outside the Deltaville Marina between 5:30 – 6:00 PM. Yeah! Showertime. We motored for a couple of hours, long enough to produce some hot water.

Believe me when I say there is nothing going on in this town. The marina is probably the busiest place here. Surprising to me, there were quite a few boaters from all over the U.K. stopping here. I heard more languages spoken in this tiny marina in bumfuck than in the DC metropolitan area.

Deltaville’s motto should be, “Because we can.” With only one grocery store within 40 miles and no laundromats, they’ve got you by the ….. So, I reluctantly forked over $20 bucks just to do laundry on site and use their internet and bathroom facilities. The only grocery store in town charged $4.99 for Stephen’s regular OJ, so I was going for the cheap, not preferred choices. We stocked up with some more milk, OJ, saltines (to go with the ginger ale for seasickness) more canned veggies and Stephen’s favorite Sweet Baby Ray’s BBQ sauce, should we catch a huge tuna while trolling across the ocean.

We got a lot of tedious and grimy boat work done here – hoisting our dinghy onto the boat, scrubbing all the harbor gunk off of it (you will not believe how the Domino’s sugar plant can leave a gummy coat on the surface), deflating it and packing it away in the already jam-packed V-berth. We did a lot of unpacking and repacking of things just to find shit that was supposed to be in an “accessible place we would both remember.”

Stephen rigged our courtesy flags for traveling outside the U.S. and went over emergency procedures, should we become more adventurous and opt for the life raft tour of the Atlantic instead. We stocked up on an extra flares for our own personal fireworks display, topped off with fuel, emptied the garbage, etc. etc.

On Halloween, Mom’s Birthday, the night of Brigitte’s infamous annual party, and the eve of our departure, we sat in the cockpit staring at the full moon above, illuminating the water around us. We checked in with each other to see how we were feeling now that we had gone from months to just hours away from this passage that is so huge and significant to both of us. We reflected on the ways in which we’ve grown and become more prepared, and the ways in which we both would never change but have come to accept. This has been part of the preparation as well. I know it’s going to be tranquil and peaceful at times, but also unpredictable and emotionally and physically exhausting at other times. But then again, when it comes to sailing, you never know what you’re going to get. Whatever lies ahead, I’m f(*&in excited to do this thing! Bermuda here we come!

First Port: Annapolis, October 2009

2009-11-19T08:44:00.000-08:00

Coming or going, we always find ourselves spending more time than planned in Annapolis, and for good reason. This time was no exception. Whether it’s recovering from the pain the Pusser’s painkillers deliver, hanging out with Chris and Kim (the Tyrrell sisters) or staying one more day to go sailing with friends, it’s always time well spent.

This year’s stop almost felt like a repeat of last year. Spent hours at Chris and Kim’s place again – although this time just for drinks and a good meal, as we have become more efficient at getting laundry done in town. Can you believe these girls saved my pair of panties left behind on the last laundry visit? That’s what I call a true friend.

And this year, we are returning the favor by saving Brigitte’s very cute VS thongs that got mixed up with our laundry last time she stayed on the boat. Brigitte, is this a subconscious ploy to get Stephen in enough trouble that I don’t take the trip with him? What a funny scene…Stephen discovering another girl’s pair of panties in his pile of laundry, no less – and in the middle of the Laundromat with a captive audience. “Oh, look Tar, I washed your panties for you.” “Those aren’t my panties.” Stephen got on the phone to Brigitte right away to clear things up.

We always make it a point to hook up with Chris and Kim Tyrrell who have lived in the area most of their lives and who know Annapolis inside and out – where to go for the best happy hour, where to get the best sushi, or where to hang out late night for the best music and club/lounge.

These two should definitely open their own resort or B&B at the very least. They are always stocked with a full bar and entertainment (music to movies and Digital TV). They’ll put you up in their guest room and make you kick ass meals whether its brunch or dinner. The salmon in capers and white wine lemon sauce with homemade garlic, cheese mashed potatoes was awesome. Yes, we loved every bit of it, even if we will be eating a lot of fish at sea. Kim stated just before dinner, “Damn, we should have prepared a land meal since you guys are going to eat nothing but fish.”

We had to take the next day off to recover and get the boat ready to move farther south. We had been watching the weather report, and knew that we probably weren’t going anywhere until Monday, so I was preparing for a couple days of quiet when Stephen sprung the best surprise on me right before bed….”Guess who’s coming tomorrow?” He covered up the name associated with the text that read, “I’ll bring the vodka and the bloodys.” Unfortunately, knowing our group of friends, that could be anybody. “I don’t know, but I can’t wait to find out…”

“Adriana!” So happy to see her again before leaving. She and her sister had taken her mom to Cairo – her dream vacation of a lifetime, and wasn’t able to participate in the Bon Voyage activities. While I knew that pirate parties don’t compare to Egypt and time well spent with Mom, I knew there was a chance I would not see her again until an unknown time and place far away from home.

We took Adriana and Will out for a Sunday sail in the bay, just by the Annapolis bridge which is always super busy with boat traffic, but not of the commercial kind like in the Baltimore harbor. The weather was perfect - warm and sunny with light winds. Just enough for us to do some sailing while still enjoying countless bloodys and mimosas. With each drink we got more confident, a little rowdier.

A man was single handing his sailboat in the bay and was having trouble starting his engine. Stephen kept calling out, asking him if needed a tow, but he declined each time, even more determined to start his engine. He certainly wasn’t going to accept help from the likes of us and I don’t really blame him.

Everytime we’re in Annapolis, we meet other cruisers. Last year it was Mike and Nicole, and this year we met Stanley (photo above), singlehanding his boat and John & Barbara of Mojo. Stanley, diagnosed with Baird’s disease a couple of years ago, quit his job immediately to pursue his dream of traveling to “50 places to see before you die.” Now in remission, he has seen all 50 places and plans to get to

Cuba

as he is hopeful it will be open to Americans by the end of the year.
John and Barbara reminded us of what a small world we live in, as they have also traveled to the San Blas Islands (Panama) and knew “JC” (Jean Charles), our captain aboard Thai Phou. “He helped coordinate our friends’ wedding,” John told us. John and Barbara have been sailing for about 30 years, losing one boat to a fire before Mojo. Like most cruisers we meet, they were very generous and helpful, exchanging information and giving us new things to consider… like getting a Wifi booster and spending time in Cartagena, Colombia – an island we hadn’t considered and among their most their favorite places.

Baltimore Bon Voyage - October 2009

2009-10-25T08:27:00.000-07:00

This is a nostalgic time for both of us, as "Baltimore," a huge chapter or era in our lives morphs into something greater and unknown. It is hard to stomach waves of mixed emotion that grow with the awareness that we're all on the verge of major changes: our parents are approaching retirement, relationships are deepening and changing, some of us are advancing in and embarking on new careers while others are traveling, pursuing more education or thinking about relocating altogether.

Nothing stays the same and we can either fight it or change with it, often finding sheer amazement and even greater happiness that comes when we let go. Baltimore has been beyond good to us, but the time has finally come for us to venture on. Lord knows we've tried to leave before, but I wouldn't have named our boat Synchronicity if I didn't believe everything happens for a reason.

We feel so blessed and fortunate to have such a wonderful support group, our network of family and friends that have backed us all the way, have taught us so many important lessons in patience, hope and faith. You are the pillars of our life and bring us so much joy. Thank you for always being there and for being so damn cool!

The cruise on the Fearless may have been rained out, but no one could keep this rowdy bunch of pirates down, as we took over the Cat's Eye Pub by storm. We partied on throughout the night and Sunday, with brunch at Little Havana. I never laughed so hard, our cried so hard as I proceeded to bawl my eyes out throughout the week of goodbyes, which are really just "so long for nows.."

We didn't actually shove off until a few days after planned departure. I am thankful I got to spend one more time with... my only and favorite sis, Tristan; Raj; Claire Bear, my first and best friend in Baltimore for over 10 years, Angela, and John. John saw us off in true mariner style - sounding the air horn as he cast us off the dock right off Thames Street. Stephen responded with a few blasts of our own horn and of course I bawled my eyes out again as I watched a post card perfect Thames Street and then Baltimore City fade from view.

Martha's Vineyard

2009-10-25T08:14:00.000-07:00

Every part of Martha’s Vineyard was quaint and had a great local pub scene. Everyone was super friendly and helpful. In Oak Bluffs, we saw hundreds of pastel-colored gingerbread houses that were built and occupied by the working class and probably go for a pretty penny today. People in this town seemed very hard-working, generous and helpful. It was easy to make friends here, especially over beers at happy hour.

Even the guy who owned this truck with threatening bumper stickers was friendly. He insisted we take a picture since he was proud to be a "Masshole," (see bumper sticker) and proud to show it off. It really screamed for attention in this really quiet gingerbread house neighborhood. It made me want to be a masshole too.

We rented a smart car since it was too cold to do the scooter. Apparently, a safer choice as well, since we saw some article posted by an activist just next to the rental about the significant loss of life due to scooter accidents on Martha’s Vineyard. The smart car was fun, and everywhere we went people were pointing, smiling and sometimes laughing. The thing could get around, but everytime it shifted into gear, I practically slammed into the dashboard. Stephen swore that there monkeys under the hood doing the shifting.

At the local brewery, we met a great couple, Bill and Lisa over a couple of beers and pizza. They were amazed that we were living on the boat and had so many questions. They introduced us to “Backdoor Donuts,” which sounded kind of kinky. There is a local donut shop that sells donuts out of the back door at night time when they come in to make the donuts and they are fresh out of the oven. It feels very underground operation, since people sneak up to the backdoor and whisper their orders through the screen. Apparently the neighbor complained about the noise and there are signs posted asking patrons to be quiet. We bought some apple fritters at Bill and Lisa’s suggestion, which were drenched in sugar and goodness.

We rode through little fishing villages and stopped anytime we felt like it, walking along empty beaches, checking out more bluffs on the West Coast of the island and basically going on an eating frenzy. Of course, we needed a layer of blubber for the cold nights ahead of us.

We ate more clam chowder at their snack huts and finally tried a crab roll, which is nothing more than crab salad on a hot dog bun. We stopped at a real farmer’s market along the side of the road that was a farmhouse selling produce inside and pumpkins and flowers outside. They had really yummy apple cider, and monkey bars made with “organic” chocolate, bananas and coconut.

The wind was really blowing when we got into Martha’s Vineyard, about 25 – 30 knots steady and we were worried about holding with just one anchor down. When the Harbor Master suggested that we throw out another, Stephen told him with confidence that our boat would hold. I was worried, but Synchronicity didn’t budge the whole time we were there.

Surfing the waves and chop in the dinghy was wild, like a water ride at Six Flags, we were practically laying on the floor of the dinghy to keep from flipping over. The water was so frigid up here, we would have had hypothermia no doubt. With the temperatures dropping, it felt good to have a hot shower on land for once where I wasn’t shampooing my hair vigorously to get the suds out before my body turned blue. I think this is the last time I showered until we made it back to Annapolis (baby wipes excluded).

We couldn’t leave here without having lobster, and picked out (2) 2lb lobsters at a fish market near our anchorage in Vineyard Haven. They steamed them for us and wrapped them in foil so they stayed hot until we made it back to the boat. We took the picture above as proof to our parents that we are not going hungry on this trip.