Wednesday, May 11, 2011


Rock Sound, Eleuthera 24º51.7N | 76º9.6W
Leaving a sleeping Warderick Wells.
Moving the boat, even if it's just 100 yards, energizes me. How much more so when we take flight into new waters.

I drove us off the mooring and out through the sleeping Warderick Wells cut at dawn and pointed the bow toward Eleuthera just as we discovered a stowaway onboard.

He traveled with us for a good 30 minutes or so, although I'm pretty sure he was interested in a more southerly route.

It was a glorious day to be alive and underway on calm seas, even though some foreboding clouds tracked across just ahead of us.

That white vertical line is a funnel cloud.
A funnel cloud hung out there for a long time threatening but never dropping down.

The last few weeks, I've been dragging a line and hook through miles and miles of beautiful water, always hopeful -- until today. I was just about ready to give up on fresh fish dinners, preparing to pull in my line for good as we neared our anchorage when I heard a loud whizzing noise by my ear.

"What's that?!?!?!" I said.

It was a sound I'd never heard before: my line running. And I thought sailing filled me with excitement.

Photo by Chip
I could tell it was a small fish by how easy it was to reel in. However, the whole scene was sort of comical. I was reeling -- and actually trying to figure out how to use the thing. Chip was running around trying to find the net. Nobody was at the helm. Cara Mia, the only calm one, sailed on in a brisk breeze. We wrangled the little fish onboard without running into anything other than each other.

Small Yellow Jack. So tasty.   Photo by Chip
All this time, we've been waiting to test that theory about pouring alcohol in a fish's gills to kill it. Otherwise, what do you do with a fish flopping all over your boat? I'm happy to say, alcohol works! Put him right out with a smile on his face.

As an afterthought, we arrived at Rock Sound, our first stop in Eleuthera, and had a tasty lunch for two at Tammy's Fish House.

A serious watch, with squalls on the horizon.
Sailing into a storm that outran us.

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