Emily, don't be a bitch ...

As I write, Mother Nature is giving birth to what could be the first hurricane of the season, hurricane Emily. No abortions, no way of stopping it, nothing anyone can do but watch and wait to see if Emily will pay them a visit and leave them homeless, destitute or dead.
Having spent a good part of my life in the tropics in what is know as the hurricane belt, I have been through my share of tropical storms and hurricanes both ashore and afloat. The worst was hurricane Luis, a category 5 monster that devastated the island of St. Maarten, sinking or throwing ashore almost 1200 boats in the process. The two photos were taken during and after hurricane Luis. I rode out the storm at anchor … well, actually, seven anchors and a massive mooring.

At the end of the storm, which lasted two days, our boat was about the only one left in the war zone of Simpson Bay Lagoon that wasn’t damaged, and to this day I don’t know why. I had boats sink under and around me. Astern, a dozen yachts, some upside down, littered the shore and many were beyond the beach and amongst the trees.
I spent a good part of the next couple of weeks diving in the toxic brew of the lagoon, blindly feeling my way through the wrecks, salvaging what I could for friends whose homes and dreams were lost, some without trace. That exercise left me with a serious respiratory infection that has bothered me on and off to this day.
I remember friends hugging and sobbing on the beach, some not only lost their boats and everything they owned but eventually saw their marriages and relationships end in ruin. Looting was rampant until the Dutch military arrived with their helicopter gunships. Armed soldiers enforced a curfew. There was no water or electricity. People found God, others kicked him into touch.

Throughout the worst 48-hours of the storm, when the wind reached 155pmh, I was monitoring the VHF radio and heard some remarkable things. I heard someone on a ship, aground and battered by giant waves, ask the police for assistance. A police woman replied: “We are all too frightened to leave the station. God be with you.” Then the radio went dead or she turned it off. There was incredible humor, too. One skipper spoke calmly as his boat was driven onto the concrete dock outside a local bar and receive this from another yacht: “Order us a packet of fags and a bottle of rum, we’re right behind you.”
One thing I will never forget is the power unleashed by the storm and thinking, even then, how wonderful, nay beautiful, it all was.
Before air and water mixed and made it impossible to breathe, I would crawl along the deck to the bow wearing my mask and snorkel, check the warps and then shuffle back to the cockpit again. Eventually, the return journey was made backwards because it was two dangerous to turn around. On my final jaunt, I was blown out like a flag and that put paid to that.
If you are reading this and you live in the hurricane belt, then stay safe. If you live elsewhere, please wait a few days before naming your daughter, Emily.

Camels, needles and St. Martin’s Simpson Bay Bridge

I drove over the Simpson Bay Bridge today. For those who are not familiar with the island of St. Martin, that’s the lifting bridge that spans the entrance channel to the Simpson Bay Lagoon on the Dutch side of the island.
In the yachting season, which runs from around mid December to the end of April, the bridge is the scene of much action. It opens and closes six times a day as a steady stream of boats enter and depart the lagoon.
A few years ago the bridge span was lengthened, reportedly to allow the super yacht Limitless access to the Isle de Sol marina. I reported on the first transit of the said yacht. The only thing missing that day was a fire boat leading the parade while shooting water high in the air like they do in New York.
One of my lasting memories is the police boats trying to shoo everyone away from the channel ahead of Limitless as she made her stately way into lagoon. The way they carried on you would think Limitless could suddenly leap forward at a hundred knots and scoop up all before it. Still, the police know little about boats and a whole load of politicians were watching so I guess they had to be seen to be doing something.

The bridge has been the scene of many an expensive encounter. Navigating through the bridge can be tricky. A strong current, especially during spring tides, often rips down the channel. Couple that with a strong trade wind and you need some skill to thread a150ft super yacht through the eye of the bridge.
The best viewing point to watch the boat traffic is the deck at the St. Maarten Yacht Club. A noisy, vibrant place during the yachting season, visitors to the club have born witness to much screeching of torn aluminum, the rattle of steel on steel, the cracking and crunching of concrete, and the popping of fenders the size and cost of which would keep a cruising family if funds for a year. At one time skippers, having hit the bridge, could sneak away, carry out repairs, and hope all would be quickly forgotten. Now, everyone has a camera phone, and the super yacht’s owner is likely to see their multi-million dollar vessel performing, dents and all, on YouTube long before they get that woeful “it wasn’t my fault, boss” call from the skipper.
More on the Simpson Bay Bridge in the next blog, until then, I hope you enjoy the picture of Limitless, which always makes sailing through the Simpson Bay Bridge look easy.

Hurricanes drive me nuts!

Like everyone who lives in the islands, I spend part of the year with one eye to the east looking for, let’s keep it polite and call them ‘pesky’, hurricanes. This is the first year that our boat Strange Light has been stored ashore for the windy season and I’m not sure I like it. There’s something, well, perversely thrilling about bouncing around on your boat while all hell breaks loose. Of course having a steel boat, a massive mooring, and several big anchors, does help. There’s still plenty to worry about, like commercial boats run by jokers who think might is right except when it comes to anchors and seamanship. And yachtsmen who leaving their roller furling sails on their forestay where inevitably they un-furl and cause great entertainment before dragging the yacht away or tearing the mast out of the deck. Watching the apartment windows bow while waiting for the roof to blow off just doesn’t do it for me. My wife, on the other hand, thinks I’m nuts!