The Terrible Tongue

I am now sitting at the dock of the Nassau Yacht Haven, waiting for the customs officer to come and clear us in so I can go get a shower. After three days at sea, one becomes a bit ripe. This is to say that simple pleasures are about all I can think of after the terror on the tongue. Read on if you dare.

It was a very simple matter to once again lift the anchor and sail off on the ocean, leaving behind the banks and setting up our course to cross the tongue of the ocean. This is a deep, tongue-shaped channel that comes right in from the Atlantic Ocean. A part of the Bermuda Triangle intersects the tongue, and it is theorized that the legendary city of Atlantis may be under its fathoms of dark, unpredictable waters. We had always heard one should approach this crossing with the same sacred reverence as that of the Gulf Stream crossing. Our weather forecasts predicted for Nassau and Bimini a nice 5 to 10 knot ENE breeze, perhaps building to 10 to 15. It was no surprise that the water was far more turbulent than that of the banks, and the wind started out just as expected. The easterly component of the wind became more prevalent, while the waves were moving in a southwesterly direction, setting up what I call “bashing through the waves”. Since Max was already running full steam ahead and we were making very slow progress, Wayne decided to put up both the main and the jib (or Genoa if you prefer). The wind continued to increase, as did the amount that the boat heeled. Up and down the waves she heeled, side to side. Add to that a close-haul on an increasing wind and we were simply put, slanted most of the time. Now words of wisdom rang in my brain from my diesel mentor, Claude. Axiom number one: when in doubt, don’t go out. Corollary D (for diesel) number three: the diesel does not like to run when the boat is heeled, as the oil in the oil pan may not be getting to the engine.

Fate or a slip of the foot? We still don’t know. While attempting to gracefully climb the stairs of the companionway and join Wayne in the cockpit, my foot may have slipped and accidentally pulled on the kill cord. (Sheesh, what is the kill cord? It’s the little line that Wayne rigged to the cable that turns off the motor. Why? Because the actual cable is still too stuck and/or corroded to be usable, so you have to go down below and pull the little kill cord to turn off the boat. Boat joys.) Mere moments after I climbed out, the engine sputtered and died. I apologized and explained I may in fact have slipped on the stairs, thus pulling the cord inadvertently. At first, Max did not want to start up again. Wayne decided to try his luck with the wind instead as he could make almost as good speed with just the sails as with the combination. Soon it became evident, however, that we were not going to make Nassau by nightfall if we didn’t have a motor. I blurted out Corollary D Three, and we tried to right the boat as best as possible. We also noticed a landmass to our port side. We figured out this was Chub Cay, but having heard the marina there is closed down and knowing from last year that there is basically NOTHING on Chub Cay, we decided to press on if the engine restarted. After a few sputters, it did. Fabulous! On to Nassau then. There is nothing but tongue between Chub and Nassau, so this was not a commitment to be taken lightly. But with provisions and fuel measured for three days, we figured we had a better shot at a reasonably enjoyable life if we made the crossing. The wind was predicted to blow 15 to 20 the next day, and we did not want to be stuck in Chub with little food and no place to provision or get fuel.

As the day wore on, the wind increased. This resulted in more heeling – but what to do? One of the smartest decisions we made all day was to reef the main at this point. Max was thrumming along and we were bashing through as best as possible. Even so, we figured making the harbor by dark was going to be dicey. Then we saw them: the big buildings on New Providence. Exultation! We are making it!

Hold on there, podner. Don’t rejoice too soon because the tongue was not done with us by a long shot. Just as the tops of the buildings were coming into view, Max had enough and quit again. Shit! Shit, shit, shit! The wind is now 20 and increasing, and we are engine-less. We can see them, we just can’t get there. But we have to. So, luckily we are on a sailboat and we are going to sail the boat into Nassau harbor. We have absolutely no choice in the matter. We can’t stay out here, and there is nowhere else to go. There is no closer harbor. The only other possibility at the west end of New Providence is not really a harbor and we need to get into some protection. Wayne correctly guessed that Max’s fuel was so low that it wasn’t making it into the line when we were heeled to starboard, and our rumbline was a starboard tack. Luckily, the GPS is still working and we are determined to get there. Despite the sun being high in the afternoon sky, we knew we would not make the safety of the harbor before nightfall. Nothing to do but press on.

We started this adventure around 6am. We figured on getting in at 5pm, maybe earlier. The sun sets around 6pm, and then it is DARK. We figured that Nassau would probably give off a goodly amount of ambient light – as did Miami – and sailed on. This time, we really did sail. It was disheartening to a certain extent, but there was no use in doing anything but trying to be the best team possible. So, it’s 3pm or so, Nassau is only ten miles away. We can make it. We notice that we are losing ground and dropping below our rumbline. We are going to have to tack up. We try out Max on our port tack, and he comes right to life! We tack up almost 2 miles above our course, because we know we are going to fall back down. We get all we can out of Max, and tack back down.

The tacks were inelegant with me at the helm, and the subsequent trying to draw close to the wind so that Wayne could tighten up the lines was fraught with mistakes. We were back-winded. Our lines got stuck. I didn’t think I had the strength to sheet in the lines, but also didn’t really have the skill to hold the helm in what were now 25 knot winds. Somehow, we untangled ourselves and set upon what we hoped to be our final port tack. By now, we’ve been sailing quite a while but are still 8 miles away due to wind drift, etc. It still looks far. Wayne says, “It looks like we’re not getting any closer!” to which I can only respond, “Don’t say that.” I know we are getting closer because the GPS says we are. Ye of little faith, enter not into my house of pain. We hold this tack as long as possible, but this time when we drop below our course, we have no choice but to tack up again in order to avoid the coral reefs on the northern edge of New Providence. Another inelegant, struggling tack. The captain is tired but not defeated. We tack WAY up (under sail only now) because by God this is going to set up our approach and we are going to get in there!
We tack up a mile and a half or so. Yes, it’s been dark for a while but who cares? We are salt-sprayed and starving, running on high-test adrenaline and not much else. I finally come to my senses, and let Wayne take the helm for this take. I’m pleasantly surprised to find I can sheet in just fine and then change places with him so he can crank the jib real tight with the winch. Wind is howling at 30 knots now, with big, mean ocean rollers directly off the Atlantic, and we can make no better than about four because we have to sail so close to the wind. Now the next challenge, where is the entrance?

During this time, I hear snippets on the VHF and learn that our Canadian pals on High Noon and White Diamond are in town as they call to each other on 16. I want to radio them and say, “Come and get us!” but that is of course impossible. I want to see my big friend and George Town Bridge partner, Dave, and get a big hug from him. I want to get off of this boat! But there is work to do before that can happen.

The bright lights of Nassau became a sea of red, green, blue, white, and multi-colored data bits. Which ones mark the entrance channel? No use trying to use the binoculars, because the boat is crashing through waves, up and down, and heeling like mad. Wayne is a madman at the helm, holding her through this mayhem. I’m supposed to figure out which lights, in this smorgasbord of lights, are the ones we are looking for. Christ, I don’t know! (But I cannot say this, as the only thing to do in this situation is to remain eerily calm and don’t say much). I decide that I am going to write a letter to the authorities, urging them to ban the use of red or green lights on buildings and places of business as these should be used EXCLUSIVELY for nighttime navigators. Wayne asks me to look at the chart a get a compass course for the harbor entrance. This is literally impossible in the dark on the heaving boat. I urge him to use the GPS, as I know my waypoint marks the midpoint between the first pair of red and green buoys marking the harbor entrance. He submits to my logic and we bash on.

We are getting closer and closer, Wayne again requesting me to point out the entrance. I’m looking, really looking. I look at the GPS, and it says the harbor entrance is a quarter-mile away and we are a quarter-mile high of our course. Then I say, “Green, red. Green, red.” It becomes a little mantra. I think I see it. I do! I see it! I direct his attention down to where I see a beautiful sight: a pair of flashing green and red buoys, just where the GPS says they should be. OK, we are going to make it into the harbor! I keep the faith, and convert the captain to the church of the GPS.

But now what, we are flying on a reefed main and a cranked-down jib on a 30-knot wind into a major harbor with nothing but a wing and a prayer left. We form a plan; to starboard of the last red buoy marking the channel there is a little anchorage. Wayne will have to roll in the jib and I am to pilot us to a good spot to THROW OUT THE HOOK and hang on.

And here’s where the cowboy imagery comes in. Wayne turns down into the channel and we roar in there with 30 knots of wind propelling us as if we’ve been flung out of a slingshot. Wayne is flying through the entrance channel, tiller in one hand and main sheet in the other. Yeeeeeee Haw! Not a finer captain there is, he has been battling the sea for more than six hours now with nary a crack in his countenance. We pick out one buoy, then the next, the next, and finally our anchorage. We gotta slow down now! Up directly ahead there is a huge cruise ship. Wayne says, casually, don’t worry – we’ll just head over to the red and we’ll make, it. Yah, mon. By now, nothing matters and I turn on the depth sounder and take the tiller. I mean, even if we run aground we are safely in the harbor. I figure we are flat and I’ll give Max one more shot. He roars to life! I say, “Wayne, we have Max!” He says, “Yahoo! Head upwind and put the boat right there.” By some miracle I do this and we do not run aground. He gives the anchor a mighty heave and we are stuck! I mean, we are just where we want to be, not moving. The anchor is holding beautifully. We are safe. We are exhausted. We are hungry. We are wrung out. We are salty and stinky and nothing of it matters, because we are safe.

The down below looks like it’s been hit with a hurricane. There are charts, clothing, towels, dishes, and books helter skelter. No matter, Wayne puts the bridle on the anchor chain as I straighten up best as possible. When we both finish up, the boat is in working order and the captain requests a beer and some pretzels. I can’t even eat or drink anything for a while, the adrenaline is too strong. It’s 9:30pm. We were out bashing around for 6 hours in order to sail 10 miles. It’s crazy, but we are here. I manage to open a can of soup and saw through some stale French bread, accompanied by some warm Chardonnay out of a box, but it tastes wonderful and we are soon done in completely. We sleep and will figure out the rest tomorrow.

Monday dawned bright and sunny, and the sound of tour boat commentators and fishing boats prevails upon our coma-like slumber. We fall back asleep several times, with the usual confusing half-awake dreams. Finally it is time for coffee and we must rise and meet the challenges of the day. We know there is a little diesel left, but is it enough to get to the marina in a still-strong headwind? By 9am or so, I can’t stand it. I get on the radio and hail High Noon. To my amazement and inexpressible delight, Dave answers!

“High Noon, High Noon, this is Cassiopeia, come in please.”

“Hi there Cassiopeia, go to 09”

“Roger that. Hi Dave! How are you guys doing?”

“Glad to hear from you, how are you doing?”

“We’re OK. We are anchored in the west end of the harbor, after a pretty wild night sailing in…”

“How’s that?”

”Well, we lost our engine and literally sailed in, in a pretty big blow. We made it though.”

“Are you having engine problems?”

“Well, actually we ran out of fuel, but you know what it costs me to admit that to you.”

“Out of fuel, eh? Little lack of planning? Well, I have a jerry can here with 5 gallons of diesel. Would you like me to bring it over to you?”

“OK, well, will I have to worship you for the rest of my lifetime, or are you willing to put a time limit on it?”

“Oh, I’d say five or tens years will do…”

“It’s a deal! Also I will throw in a jug of your favorite flavor of Carlos Rossi.”

“I’ll be right over in five or ten minutes.”

“Dave, do I dare tell you I love you with Mary right there? You are my hero!”

“Stay put, I’ll be right there.”

Wayne and I high-five each other and scream. Dave is coming! We will have fuel! After all the foregoing drama, suffice it to say that arriving at the Nassau Yacht Haven with no difficulty and pulling into a safe, secure slip was the best end that we could ask for.