A BOAT OUT OF WATER

Deltaville, VA
N 38º 18.46 | W 76º 24.78

Anchored in Deltaville last night and, gasp, a squall blew over. What a year. No harm done. Love that anchor.

Picked the girl up out of the water this morning. We have stopped in Deltaville to give Cara Mia a bottom paint job and a hull wax, because we're getting her ready to put her up for sale. (If you are interested in buying a sweet and well-loved Island Packet 380, contact us!)

I've mentioned before that we're planning a new and exciting adventure. More about that SOON.

For those non-boaters among us, this is a travel lift. Two slings go under the hull, and then they lift it so the keel is above ground level. Then they drive the boat onto land and put it on jack stands.

For the record, this is an AFTER picture.

The bottom was slimy, and we had a good 'ICW mustache,' which is a brown stain from South Carolina waters. Lots of work to do!

And so begins what we hope will be only five days out of the water. Let's hope we don't find any problems! The boatyard is going to sand the bottom for us. We will do the rest of the work.

The weather is finally, finally smiling on us. Our mid-July weather calls for highs in the low 80s and lows in the 60s, perfect weather for working -- and sleeping without AC.

Strict haulout supervision provided by the crew of To Be.

TAKEN BY STORM

Lake Worth, Palm Beach, FL N 26º 45.964 | W 80º 2.667

A lightning-filled squall chasing us into Nassau.

If you read our logbook for the past two months, it tells a lovely story, island hopping through the Berrys and Exumas. Perfect destinations that evoke turquoise dreams. And that is a true story.

If you look at our beautiful photos, the story is a little different. It was a turbulent weather season in the Bahamas this spring, with storm fronts constantly on the move. We had less than 10 days where the weather didn't dictate our movement.

We ducked into the all-around protection of Warderick Wells so many times, we started calling the entrance our driveway. Fortunately for us, it's one of our favorite spots in the northern Exumas and offers calm nights and lots of activities no matter the weather.

Squall line north of Warderick Wells.

The weather gurus kept predicting an end to the storm fronts.

"Next week, we'll start getting settled weather..."

The squall that chased us from Hawksbill to Shroud Cay.

We eventually got weary of rolly anchorages and the high stakes running dodge, so we decided to head back to Florida, where it's easier to find protection.

On our way from the northern Exumas to Nassau, a squall stalked us. I thought I was outrunning it, but I think it just fell apart.

Then on our ride north, the New Providence Channel was all bumpy from gusty wind the day before. On our first attempt at crossing to the U.S., we went north off the bank at Great Harbor and turned back rather than facing unpredicted 20-knot wind and annoying swell.

The next day, we sailed west instead of north, across the Bahama Bank in lovely following wind and seas topped by a riot of stars and a bright swath of Milky Way.

By dawn, we left the bank and entered a confused Gulf Stream where rolling swell, 4 to 6 feet, came at us from behind and on the starboard side. There was not enough wind to keep us stable, but for the Gulf Stream, it was not so bad.

As we approached our destination, Lake Worth, the weather reared its head again. Squalls surrounded us on all four sides.

When I looked to starboard and saw a waterspout, I screamed right out loud, "PLEASE, JUST LET US PASS!!!"

Waterspout dropping from the clouds.

Oddly, old Mom Nature listened. One of the squalls dissipated and the others skittered off.

There was but one more bit of weather before we ducked safely into inland waters.

As we came within 10 miles of the Lake Worth Inlet, an offshore squall kicked the wind up from the east. At the inlet it was pushing the water into big 6-foot rollers marching in at short intervals on an incoming tide. Had we missed our target arrival time, the tide would have turned, leaving us to stand off until either the water laid down or the tide turned again.

Instead, we rode in at a galloping trot and finally dropped anchor just inside the inlet on a perfectly smooth Lake Worth.

We live at Mother Nature's whim, and sometimes she's a harsh mistress. But on her good days, she's such a charmer. She blessed us with many perfect days to explore new islands with friends old and new. Photos to come!

One last volley at Great Harbor the night before we left.

BLOW HO HO

White Cay, Berry Islands, Bahamas

"Be sure you're tucked in somewhere with west protection by sunset," weather guru Chris Parker said ominously on the SSB as we sat anchored in water wide open to the west.

Okay, 'wide open' is not quite correct. We were surrounded by flats, which break up any big swell, but do nothing about the wind.

The forecast was for a front to swoop through just after sunset (why always at night) kicking up 20-knot wind with periodic nasty squalls. The blow would end by noon the following day.

We looked at our options, debated and decided to reanchor a little further out and sit it out.

It wasn't a decision we were thrilled with but neither was it scary. Should the anchor give way, we would be blown toward sand, not rocks, and we would spend the night ready to pounce, get the anchor up and motor to safety. Not really relaxing but not dangerous either.

When I went forward to lift the anchor to move, I could see through the crystal water that our chain was wrapped and wrapped around a huge-ass rock. Very disconcerting.

I pointed, Chip turned the boat, I reeled in chain. We overshot, backed up and, what?!?! The chain was free. A pre-storm miracle.

We hunted and pecked around for almost an hour trying to find an ideal spot to anchor, no grass, good bit of sand, deep enough water in a 300-foot circumference so we could swing on anchor.

Finally at rest, some Bahamian fishermen motored up just before sunset and gave us a grouper in exchange for two beers.

"Do you think we'll have a big storm tonight?" I asked, assuming fishermen were good weathermen.

"Oh, no. We'll have a beautiful night," he said.

Bahamian fishermen v. Chris Parker. Any wagers?

Sure enough, we could see the front coming toward on the waning sunlight. As darkness fell, the wind kicked up.

There it is! Maybe it will pass north of us?

By midnight it was howling, and we were getting quite a ride on short, choppy water.

I lay in the v-berth going over my anchor drill, puzzling over how I would release both the snubbers, how much chain I would pull in before checking to see if it was piling up wrong (we had 125 feet out). I pondered how in the heck we would find a patch of sand in the dead of night when it had taken us 45 minutes to find one in the daylight.

The tide shifted around 2 a.m. putting the anchor against both wind and current. The snubbers groaned and the wind howled, but the anchor held. Every 30 minutes I opened up Navionics on the iPad to check our position. Our anchor held beautifully.

There was little sleep and a little nausea but nothing to report.

Would I do that again? Probably not. We were lucky that we didn't have squalls. Marsh Harbor to the north got a 50-knot squall with rain, lightning and hail. Eek.

Chris Parker: 1
Fishermen: 0

We rested today and are ready to sail south to Nassau. The farther south we get, the calmer the weather.

South! South!

An inland, saltwater blue hole.

Where some swam ....

... while others watched. Creepy.

ANOTHER DAY, GO OR NO?

White Cay, Berry Islands, Bahamas

We listened to the weather forecast early from our lonely Slaughter Harbor anchorage. We had a tiny 22-mile route to take, but the forecast was calling for squalls and sporadic high winds.

The sky looked unsettled and drippy, so we made coffee and waited.

About 10 a.m., Chip saw a boat leaving Great Harbor and entering the North East Channel where we wanted to go. It was two boats traveling together, and they reported calm conditions.

We lifted anchor at 10:55, and headed on the same path as yesterday, minus the Norwegian Pearl. The sky was overcast but looking milder. Boats all up and down the Berry Island chain chattered with us about the conditions and relayed messages between us and Jessie Marie.

Our conservative plan was to duck into Petit Cay if it looked squally, but a catamaran heading north reported beautiful conditions south toward our destination, White Cay.

The wind was settling into a beautiful westerly. We sailed along on 'another day' on calm-ish seas and pulled into the remote White Cay at 3:18 for a happy reunion with Karen and Dale.

Cara Mia and Jessie Marie are once again anchored side by each.

CONTINUING SAGA

Shellbine Creek, GA 30º54.770N | 81º29.663W

This morning dawned overcast and spitting rain, but we have a bead on Brunswick, only 30 miles north, our final stop for the next few months as we hunker down the boat for hurricane season and prepare for our month in Paris. Let's just say, with all the weather challenges of the last few days, tucking into a quiet, safe marina sounded like paradise.

We lifted the anchor and pulled across the channel for a fuel-up when they opened at 7 a.m. Are manatees good luck? Not sure, but it was thrilling to watch this gentle, whale-like manatee having a little spa moment in the warm runoff from our exhaust.

Ah, warm water.

Off we went, optimistic and fixated on free laundry and hot showers. Rounding the northern end of Amelia Island, at the St. Mary's inlet, the clouds were making a beautiful display beyond the fort.

But the reason they were so dramatic is that a stationary front has been sticking like velcro across the Georgia-Florida border, causing wind, rain, squalls and a puzzle for the weather predictors, who keep getting it wrong, wrong, wrong. We desperately wanted to get north of the ridge, and we weren't the only ones. We spoke to several other boats along the way who were on the same mission.

It was with a certain sense of foreboding that I looked north at the dark clouds, a backdrop for an equally foreboding nuclear power plant. Soon it was raining. Then it was pouring. We kept plodding. At least it wasn't blowing. Yet.

Today's hurdle, and the last real obstacle between us and Brunswick: St. Andrew's Sound, at the northern tip of Cumberland Island (the lower right tip on that chart) and Jekyll Island just to the north. The first time we traversed St. Andrew's, I was shocked that the "intracoastal waterway" took us basically out into the ocean, through shallow water between two shoals. We have passed that way twice, both times it was like gliding on glass.

As we inched our way north, it was apparent that the Sound would not be glassy. The wind started picking up from the northeast, which would leave that Sound terribly exposed. (Outer Bankers: Imagine the Albemarle Sound open to the ocean with a stiff northeast wind.) The wind had just clocked around from the west, so perhaps, just perhaps, the swell hadn't had time to build up.

My shift came up as we were approaching the Sound (of course, sigh), just as the Cumberland River was widening.

We were almost to A1 on that map, which is an anchorage inside Cumberland Island.

Dark clouds ahead.

Let's review: We are approaching an exposed sound. The wind is now a steady 25, gusting higher. It's pouring rain. Visibility is bad. The heavy swell is already starting.

Here's the soundtrack going through my head:
--I used up a good amount of boat karma getting through the St. John's River yesterday.
--We just fueled up, and if, on the off-chance, we got bad fuel, getting tossed around in the sound would mean dead engine.
--Brunswick and safe harbor is only 20 miles away! Can you just please, please let us through?
--Anchorages available are okay, but squalls are predicted overnight.
--Will tomorrow -- or the day after -- be any better?
--The Cumberland anchorage on the southern tip of the island is well protected but at least two hours behind us.
--AAAAARRGGHHHHHH!

To add further to the frustration, the weather prediction had been for 10-15 knot wind and light chop, so it's not like we chose this.

I was at the helm, and on our boat, whoever is helming is captain. After rolling all the options around in my head for awhile, I chose the toughest option of all: I turned the boat around. It's defeating. You know you're backtracking, and to add further to the defeat and second-guessing, other boats were going on ahead. (That used to bother me a lot more than it does now. Let them have the crappy conditions.) The bottom line: we're supposed to be having fun. Unfortunately, 'fun' wasn't available in any of our bad options at that point.

We had an extended discussion about the anchorage marked A1. Coincidentally, we had tried to anchor there two years ago and didn't like it, even in fair weather. Instead we went back a tedious two miles, 45 minutes, to Shellbine Creek, on the lower left of the chart above and here's a closeup.

We anchored above the green one, about where the 9 is.

Looking at the chart, you think, oh, that will be so protected, but that's the first lesson we learned about Georgia anchorages two years ago: they are in marshland. Shellbine is a little creek running through marsh grass. No trees, hills, nothing. So, no wind block and very narrow, but good old Georgia mud that swallows the anchor like quicksand.

We found a spot in the creek that was only six feet deep at low tide, which helped our anchor chain ratio (supposed to be up to 10 times the depth, especially in heavy weather). With the creek being so narrow, we could only put out about 70 feet of chain, and, get this: six feet of tide, which would put us in 12 feet of water with only 70 feet of chain with wind in the mid 20s and squalls predicted overnight. The best I could do was put out extra snubber line (a rope hooked to the anchor chain that drops the pressure point well below the waterline, which helps the anchor to stay dug in).

The cushy night at a marina? Not tonight. Not for us. Could be a long one.

THE SHORT STICK

Fernandina Beach, FL 30º40.388N | 81º28.061W

"I'm good enough. I'm smart enough, and doggonit, people like me!" --Daily Affirmation with Stuart Smalley (Saturday Night Live)

Okay, today was not my best day. We trade off two-hour shifts at the helm when we're on the ICW. Today, somehow, I got all the "bad" shifts.

First, I was off watch when a big squall marched over us from behind. How is that bad? I took the helm while Chip wrestled with the jib, which we were taking down about 5 minutes too late. The lines got away and twangled all around each other, which required taking the boat out of gear in case we had lines in the water (lines can easily get tangled up in the prop). Fortunately the staysail was flying, and there was plenty of wind to keep us moving, 30 gusting to 35. It was pouring rain.

That's when I realized that in my rush to help above decks, I had left the salon hatch open -- with my laptop open right under it. Chip took the wheel, and I bolted below to close the hatch and assess the damage. The couch was soaked right up to about 6 inches before my laptop. Whew.

By that time, the wind had dropped down into the 20s, so I suited up and went forward to assess the jib sheet (ropes) situation.

I got them secured but not completely unwound. We trekked on, engine now running.

My shift came up, and I looked ahead to see how far we were from the dreaded St. John's River crossing. It's always nerve-wracking, because the current is swift, but now we had wind blowing with the current.

That chart shows the area we had to transit, the red line being our path. You basically skim through gushing water between a shoal and rocks, literally a rock and a hard place.

Of course, the St. John's came right before the end of my shift. Chip heroically offered to take over, but I am Woman, I won't whimper. I was nervous, but I knew I could handle it.

As I approached the river, I could feel the current pick us up. With the motor and staysail, we were going 6.6 kph, which is about 1.6 faster than normal. Then I faced a decision. I knew the wind would be pushing me to starboard (the right) toward the rocks. The current would also be pushing me strongly that way.

I decided to take down the sail.

My thought was this: It would have helped with forward momentum and traction in the water and been a good backup if something happened to the engine. However, first, it would also be pushing me toward the rocks and, second, I knew I would have to turn as much as 40 degrees to port to keep momentum away from the rocks. That would render the sail not only useless but send it flapping, adding stress and distraction at a key moment. I knew I would be tempted to turn off the wind to keep the sail from luffing, essentially taking my eye off the goal.

Was taking it down the right decision? I don't know.

I crept up to the crossing with a dry mouth, hoping it would be easier than anticipated. The wind was a steady 20-25 on the port beam. The current was cranking. I had to point almost upstream, directly into the wind, to keep forward progress without slipping toward the rocks.

I made it. I didn't like it.

The whole day was intense. Squalls, strong wind, crappy conditions. Watches were tense. We dropped anchor in Fernandina, one of our favorite towns, and didn't even go ashore.

It wasn't my best day, but I'm a good person. I'm a happy person, doggonit.

One more 30-mile trek to Brunswick tomorrow, and we are done with the flukey weather!

Your turn. What would you have done approaching the St. John's? Do you think I made the right decision? 

CONNECTIONS

Vero Beach, FL 26º39.582N | 80º22.298W

Vero Beach mooring field, cloudy and empty.

Having moved around a lot in my life, I've never been one to take friends for granted. But now that we're cruising, always on the move, connections are even more meaningful, especially the serendipitous ones.

We barreled into Vero Beach on Thursday afternoon, dropped the dinghy and took off for shore. Chip was bound for the grocery store on the free shuttle while I tilted at four loads of laundry. Our plan was to set off again early Friday on our trek north leaving no real time to call our friends Ted and Lauren, sadly missing a chance to meet their new baby.

I had just folded the last towels and sat down to wait for Chip's bus when I looked up to see Ted walking in.

"I think you have one of my socks," he said.

"WHAT?!?!? TED!!!"

We know four people in Vero Beach, and two of them found Chip on the street waiting for the bus in front of Publix -- and they had the baby with them! Adorable.

Lauren was leaving town to visit her family Friday morning, so Ted told us to call if we decided to delay our departure.

Mother Nature gave us a good reason to delay, spewing out squalls all up the coast of Florida. Ted picked us up in a deluge, and we all slogged, dripping wet, into his favorite Italian restaurant, Avanzare.

Ted and Chip laughing at our fortune.

We sat at the bar, and Chip started peppering the bartender with questions about the wine list.

"Let me get Roger," she said.

"I wonder why he looks so familiar," I thought to myself. Roger brought out a great bottle of Gigondas and asked Chip if he used to sell wine in the Outer Banks.

"Hold on, I've got a surprise."

A few minutes later, Roger came out of the kitchen with chef Chuck and his wife Kathleen, who used to own a great restaurant in the Outer Banks where Roger was the bartender. He used to serve us well when we sidled up to his bar after a long day at Chip's Wine & Beer Market. They've all relocated to Vero Beach, unbeknownst to us -- until now.

Kathleen, Chuck, not sure who that guy is, me, Chip and Roger.

DON'T FORGET: Today is the second day of RAFT-UP and time for Jane and Ean on S/V Joy to tell us what hobbies they pursue onboard.

BEACH DAY

Peck Lake, FL 27º06.924N | 80º08.616W

Memorial Day passed with us successfully tucked into north Lake Worth, away from the weekend revelers. Early yesterday morning, we headed north through the final gauntlet of south Florida bridges.

From the first time we came south on the ICW, we had heard Peck Lake is a great anchorage for visiting the beach, just a few hundred yards over the dunes. We tucked into the shallow water in the lake midafternoon just ahead of a nasty squall spewing rain. Chip dropped the anchor between downpours.

No beach day yesterday, but who's in a hurry?

After having a quick look at the beach, we designated today our beach day. Despite the fact that we've been so close to the ocean the last few months, we haven't had a single beach day.

Look at that gorgeous, sprawling beach with NO houses. We had it completely to ourselves all morning except for two runners passing by.

The most comfortable beach chair I've ever had!

Gazing at that flat-calm sea all morning got us jonesing to head offshore, which we briefly entertained. Unfortunately the weather is terribly unsettled right now, squally with storm cells developing late afternoon and during the night. Pairing that with inconsistent wind, which would probably mean motoring anyway, we've decided to keep heading north up the ICW, dodging thunderstorms. Next decision point: Ponce Inlet, three days north.

Jazz toes.

IN THE GROOVE

Miami, FL 25º40.386N | 80º9.79W

The three of us shook off our barnacles today, Cara Mia with a little help from Chip. We all performed with more agility.

But, remember that plan to leave in the wee hours and sail to Ft. Lauderdale? Well, barnacles are a good example of why sail plans are tentative. We knew the wind would be dying out today, requiring us to motor some. No way we wanted to do that with all those passengers slogging down the prop. So, with a later start, we couldn't make it to Fort Lauderdale.

Once clean, we sailed away from Rodriguez, Miami-bound, onto smooth water with a beautiful 15-knot breeze on our beam. That lasted about 90 minutes. Then it clocked behind us and dropped to 7-10.

Ah, well, we made good time motorsailing, drawing any power we could from the breeze, enjoying the beautiful turquoise water.

As we approached Miami, things got interesting in an uncomfortable way. The wind was behind us and light. A big swell started rolling in with the tide, rocking us around. I was resigned to rock and roll the last 15 miles, but Chip, who knows more about waves than I do, decided to outsmart them. He got us on a tack where we could ride them and keep the jib full. For my part, I used jib skills learned on the overnight to Charleston last fall, reefing the jib in light wind and giving it slack. For some reason, this helps it stay full. We rode the jib and the swell into Biscayne Bay just as this approached on the horizon:

The huge Miami skyline is somewhere in that dark cloud. It was gusting in the high teens as the squall was barreling right at us. We were hoofing it to an anchorage, when unexpectedly, the storm just stopped.

A happy surprise. We anchored without even a raindrop just outside No Name Harbor.

Such drama in the sky.

Our little salt farm.