Hurricane Season in the Out Islands

Sailing through the shallow Bahamas means studying charts every single day. Sailing the Out Islands of the Bahamas during Hurricane Season, you’d better study the weather too.

As we planned our route from Georgetown, Bahamas to the Dominican Republic, the map of Long Island beguiled us with interesting towns, shallow channels, and reefs along the west side. But to visit those spots would require going slowly south. Because of our late travel though, we needed to go quickly east. We’d adopted the mantra, “never give up east to go south.” At least not until we’d run out of Bahamian islands to go east to.[

What are the Out Islands?

The Bahamas are a long chain of islands between the Florida coast and the Atlantic Ocean. The Near Bahamas are the islands closest to Florida. The Out Islands are those that border the open ocean, providing shelter to the ones on the inside. There are many Out Islands, but our route took us along the southernmost of the group – Rum Cay, Long Island, Crooked Island, Acklin’s Island, Plana Cays, and Mayaguana.

Despite the usual dire warnings of hidden coral heads and treacherous currents, we left the protection of Georgetown, headed out the cut, and crossed to Calabash Bay, at the north end of Long Island. We’d expected adventure. Instead we found a large yacht floating in the clear, turquoise shallows, white cabins dotted the beach. For a few hours we let the resort vibe wash over us, playing at vacation until 9 PM – AKA Cruiser’s Midnight.

Rum Cay

At first light, we snuck out through the reef. The motor sail to Rum Cay, one of the farthest out of the Bahamas Out Islands was long, hard, and rough. We bashed into waves all day. Exhausted, we were very glad to get to harbor.

Because we have a long history of always traveling wrong way, wrong season, we often feel a sense of last-sailors-alive-after-a-cataclysm. Rum Cay is where we started to feel we were truly the last boat to come through the Bahamas this hurricane season. How dumb was this decision?

Ashore, we found that we were the only people on land as well. Walking the main road from the mail boat dock to where the chart showed a marina – a potential place to hide if a storm threatened – we saw goats, rusted machinery, coconut trees, but no people. At the marina, we found a scene of gorgeous devastation. A hurricane had filled the basin with sand, broken down the docks, and sunk many boats. On the hill above the marina stood a cluster of vacation cabins, also destroyed by storms. Compromised roofs, collapsed decks, broken windows, undermined foundations.

Looking down on the barrier reef we watched a shark cruise between the coral outcroppings. Last we walked up a hill, hoping for a better view of the ocean, and instead found a farm built of shipping containers, driftwood and interesting tidbits. The spread housed more goats, along with chickens, and pigs, so there must be people here somewhere.

Rather than the outer reef where we’d seen the shark, we dove the bay, anchoring our dinghy near the coral heads. There wasn’t much bright coral, but there were lots of flashy little fish. We’d read in The Thornless Path that Flamingo Bay, on the north side of the island, was a great place to dive. Unfortunately not in current conditions.

If there’s one thing cruising teaches, it’s that you can’t always get what you want. The weather, the timing, the depth, holidays, all of these had impeded our goals on many occasions. But we’d also learned that being forced to do something else leads to the best discoveries.

That afternoon the mail boat showed up. I expected the captain to shout at us and tell us to move. We were anchored close to the channel. But the ship scooted around us and landed at the town dock. People finally appeared, to offload the cargo.

Dolphins

The next morning, on our southbound leg to Clarence Town on the southern end of Long Island, our heading put the wind on our side for a nice, comfortable beam reach. But it was a tradeoff. Out in the middle of the ocean, with nothing between us and Morocco, the waves were bigger, and so was the sense of isolation. I kept anxiety in check by driving. When I’m overwhelmed, and fear takes me by the throat, I like to watch what the waves are doing, feel how the boat is behaving. Every time something new comes along I have to take time to observe how seaworthy the boat is, and that Tom and I – the weak links – can manage what’s coming at us.

When Tom yelled, “come forward, quick,” I was at first afraid to let go of control. But the boat is set up to steer and sail herself with minimal interaction from us. We just have to tune the sails, point the direction, and let her go. So I went forward.

A pod of at least 30 small, spotted dolphins frolicking on our bow, jumping, and splashing, and tumbling, taking turns riding the wave. The half hour they were with us became the new best sail of my life. Not only did I have wind on the beam, but also a pod of 30?, 50?, 80? Who can count dolphins? The speed of them. As they took my breath away, they took my mind off my fears. My dolphin teachers taught me that I can calm down and feel fine sailing 8 foot Atlantic waves.

Clarence Town – Long Island

Walking around the Clarence Town settlement we met no one anywhere but the dock, where a mailboat lay with its bow tipped up so that vehicles could roll on and roll off (RORO). It was Friday afternoon. There were no stores open. Which was probably a good thing, as we were low on Bahamian Dollars and there was no ATM.

The next day we explored in the dinghy, looking for a place to snorkel. The outer reef was inaccessible due to shallows, and beaches made of sharp, volcanic rocks, so again, we stayed on the inside. Walking the beach, collecting shells, we discovered a rustic compound. There was a shed built of plywood and driftwood, a fire pit, and an outdoor kitchen under a beautiful palapa with intricate palm weaving.

Who made this place? It seemed well cared for, but at the same time, a ruin. Over and over again, the Bahamas reminded me of the early video games, Myst and Riven, in which you explore strange lands full of nothing but abandoned machinery, puzzles, and the sounds of wind and surf. At the outer edge of the island, we stood and watched the waves relentlessly pound in, just like in those games.

Back at the beach, we found a man had pulled his boat up near ours and was unloading equipment. Talking with him for a while we learned he built this getaway for his family. The little house was for their special needs daughter. His wife ran a bakery, he worked construction, though he said it was tough to get work on the island. He told us about his family being forced to move to Nassau for work in the 80’s, when Morton Salt abandoned the Long Island salt ponds.

I’d seen photographs of people working salt ponds. One woman in particular struck me. She wore a light-colored dress for working all day in the hot sun. But she wore no shoes. She was working barefoot – in salt. I cringed at the excruciating pain of caustic and gritty salt rubbing her feet raw. Stinging. Good old Morton. It’s really sad they pulled up stakes and left the islanders with no employment. But judging from those photos, they were slavers well after slavery was over. Meanwhile, in the idyllic and clueless US, I grew up knowing that, because I had Morton iodized salt, I’d never get a goiter.

We told our new friend we’d like to shop at his wife’s bakery, but he said everything was closed until Tuesday for a holiday. But we had to leave or be stuck here for a week through a coming thunderstorm. To push our trip to the DR back any further would risk getting caught by a big one. (ROFL emoji.)

Back aboard Domino, we set about getting ready to go. Tom took the motor off the dinghy. I had my bluetooth earbuds in, listening to a story while hanging laundry out to dry. I dropped a washcloth, tried to catch it, and dislodged an earbud, violating the second of Bartlett’s Familiar Laws of Boating. Tom saw what happened and dove in. He found both items, climbed out, and gave them to me. Then he turned around and said “where’s the dinghy?”

Far across the harbor, heading toward the opening and out to sea, that’s where. We still don’t know what happened, but that $5000 vessel was not tied on when Tom jumped in the water to retrieve a $2.00 washcloth. Ah hahahaha. We are so funny.

Tom grabbed a kayak and took off after the dink. I started the motor and got ready to go get him. Through binoculars, I watched as he caught the dinghy and clambered aboard, but then I saw the kayak drifting away. Next he was in the water again, swimming after the kayak. I was dumbfounded, unsure what was happening. Then I noticed that the dinghy wasn’t going any further, he’d managed to anchor it before swimming after the kayak. He caught the yak and towed it back to the dinghy.

I watched this shadow puppet show, backlit by the setting sun, and felt stuck, unable to decide whether to pull up anchor and go get him before darkness fell. It looked like he was making progress, but I imagined he was cursing me for not coming to help.

After hopping back and forth from dinghy to kayak, he started paddling back to Domino, just as the sun disappeared behind the clouds on the horizon.

(Note: This problem of how to decide when it’s time to take action, versus letting things go too long came up again a few weeks later.)

Landrail Point – Crooked Island

The trip to Landrail Point the next day took six bouncy hours, once again into east wind and swells. The anchorage there was what’s called an “open roadstead.” A straight coastline with no encompassing bay. The mass of the island itself provided protection from the east wind. But swells coming from any direction could reach us. Even small swells can be a challenge. These were coming from the south and as we faced into the east wind, hit us on our starboard side, rocking us constantly.

Inside Domino’s mast run wires and ropes. They were wrapped in insulating foam, which when the boat was new, would have softened the sound of clanking back-and-forth inside that big hollow tube. Over the years though, the insulation had broken down and did a less than perfect job. When rocking, it was noisy. Here at Landrail Point, there was a clear reward for setting up a good swell bridle, so we finally took the time to do a first rate job, turned the boat into the southern swells, and got some sleep.

In the morning, we picked our way into the twisty, shallow entrance to the fuel dock, then set off toward Atwood Harbor. We stayed quite close to shore, seeking shelter from a line of squalls. This close to the height of hurricane season, I’d signed up for Chris Parker‘s Caribbean weather forecast. My first installment came that afternoon. One new thing I learned from CP was that dust storms in the Sahara were sending plumes across the Atlantic, and dry, dust-filled air settles tropical winds. Parker attributed the fact that no storms had yet formed to this dusty air. Excellent! If the dust just kept up for another week or so, we’d be in the DR and home free.

Atwood Harbor – Acklin’s Island

We made it into the empty, beach-ringed basin of Atwood Harbor just before sunset, which gave us a good visual of the Sahara dust in the air.

Yes, we prefer leaving crowds behind, but during hurricane season in these far flung islands in the Atlantic, real aloneness felt spooky. There was no Coast Guard, no Tow Boat, no friends to help us pull our boat off rocks, assist with medical emergencies, or bring fuel should we run out.

Far Out

At 3 AM we followed our track from the night before back out of Atwood. The pre-dawn wind was calm, the seas mild. A spectacular sunrise greeted us as we rounded the last point. At eight we were out in the open ocean, the wind picking up and the waves sizable.

The eight hour trip between Atwood Harbor and Mayaguana, the farthest out of the Bahamas Out Islands, brought us everything – fog, rain, squalls, big winds, and very big waves.

It also brought back my fear. My anxiety made Tom feel anxiety, and he did not want to. I didn’t want to feel it either, but for some reason I couldn’t just be stoic. When I’m scared, I vocalize. Thinking about the source helps. What doesn’t help is someone telling me not to feel it. I have to tell myself it’s OK to feel scared. Then look at the reality of the situation and answer the fears with logic. Telling me my fear is stupid just makes me angry.

I told myself “the boat is designed to do this.” I told myself “sailors have been sailing these waters, and these conditions, and much worse than this, for eons. People have transited these waters, in these conditions, in dugout canoes.”

There’s a saying: “the antidote to fear is action.” It’s true. The number one thing that overcomes fear is going ahead and doing the thing I fear. Once I have lived through the experience, that particular fear abates. But in the middle of the experience, there is fear to live with.

“Find out what you’re afraid of and go live there.”

Chuck Palahniuk

I didn’t know my chosen life was following advice from the author of Fight Club, but here we are.

I knew this sailboat that I lived on, at a dock, motoring along on the ICW, at anchor in a protected bay, sailing on a gentle breeze. As far as bashing into 10 foot waves in the vacant north Atlantic, I had only promises of a decent outcome until I experienced it for myself.

That day I wrote in my ship’s log: “We just passed our halfway bailout spot. So, five hours or so to go of this roll and pitch. But tomorrow would be worse. The next day, even more terrible. We’ve got the jib up, and have to tack. It’s faster than pounding directly into the waves, but makes for a longer distance.”

The trip took us over eleven hours.

Betsy Bay – Mayaguana

We anchored off the coral reef in deserted Betsy Bay, a slight indentation in the straight West coast of Mayaguana, the very farthest out of the Out Islands. The bulk of the island protected us from the east wind that had battered us all day. After wiping down my spray-salted glasses, I went ashore and found a beach made entirely of coral – coral boulders, coral stones, coral pebbles and coral sand – my first indication that this place was different.

We could have opted to stay put back in sheltered Atwood Harbor and avoided all this discomfort. But my weather info told me this day was the best we’d get all week. Survivable. Not comfortable.

Thanks to several days of incrementally building winds and seas, I now knew that I could survive 11 hours in 10 foot waves. From here on I can sail into those conditions armed with experience, and a healthy respect for the sea.

The unknown though, that’s still where my fear lives.