The boy who cried “Hurricane!”

Hurricane Irene did her worst and finally expired over Quebec. Like an ex girlfriend of mine with the same name, Irene liked to share it around a bit. Quebec, for goodness sake!

Here in the Caribbean we expect to be hit by hurricanes. Those who have lived here a while know what to expect, we are aware of what could happen and how destructive a storm can be. There was a time in the Caribbean when most people, especially those living on boats, were rather blasé about hurricanes because they were such a rare occurrence, in fact business owners who also owned yachts enjoyed the low season and went sailing. In St. Maarten that all changed on September 5 1995 with the arrival of Hurricane Luis. A category 5 monster storm that devastated the island and changed the way those who experienced it think about hurricanes. Once you have been through a destructive hurricane, you will never react in the same way again.

An island like St. Maarten is a pinprick in the ocean, and the chances that it will take a direct hit from a tropical storm or hurricane are low. Tropical storms vary in size and move at different speeds. Some storms are tiny in diameter and if they miss the island by 30 miles, we may get nothing more that a clap of thunder, a squall and a rain shower. Other storms are hundreds of miles across and can cause serious damage even if the eye wall never comes within 70 miles of land.

The problems begin when a storm doesn’t arrive as predicted, and that brings us to the boy who cried “hurricane!”

Ignorance is bliss.

Shortly after Irene swept north along the east coast of the USA, many said that it was a waste of time preparing for a storm that hardly affected them. Others were left crying amongst the remains of their possessions.

Forecasters do a wonderful job in predicting the paths of hurricanes but even with all their technology they don’t always get it right. It is not an exact science.

The next few times the forecasters get it wrong and you decide they are crying wolf, keep your weapons handy. The next wolf could be wearing sheep’s clothing.

Diana Nyad ... more than just a swim

I write this having just received news that Diana Nyad has given up her attempt to swim from Havana, Cuba, to Key West in Florida. Diana was 29 hours into the 103 mile swim and according to reports was forced to retire after she started to vomit.

Diana is 61-years old and no matter what the sport, her age alone makes this news worthy, and is one of the reasons why the story was picked up by press agencies around the world. CNN even had a producer on board one of the support boats who was using the micro blogging site Twitter to keep everyone updated with Diana’s progress.

What Diana set out to do is a stand-alone story in itself, but for me it isn’t so much the swim I find fascination but the way one woman, trying to fulfill a dream, made her way into the fabric of our consciousness.

Early this morning I swam 26 lengths of the pool in my apartment block and retired, gasping, for cups of tea and breakfast. For the last week, while taking my morning swim, I thought about Diana. On the two occasions I swam while Diana was in the Florida Straits, I became so focused, I believed I was swimming with her.

When Diane was in pain her followers were asked to help through Therapeutic Touch (TT). I’ve heard of this and have a friend who believes in it, so much so that when I told her, she immediately began sending gentle healing thoughts Diana’s way. The power of Diana was again touching people way beyond the swim.

That America still has an embargo against Cuba in 2011 is plain stupid. Against all odds, Diana actually influenced two ‘warring’ governments, at each other’s throats since the Cold War, and brought them closer together.

Having followed Diana’s exploits on Facebook, one woman wrote that at 41-years old, the swim had inspired her to take on the Iron Man Challenge. Stories like this are popping up all over the place.

Another woman, commenting on social media, said she was disappointed that Diana didn’t complete the swim.

She won’t be anywhere near as disappointed as Diana.

Not achieving a personal sporting goal, no matter how easy, or tough, is hard to come to terms with. I know because I’ve been there. However, my sporting accomplishments, or lack of them, never affected anyone but me.

That Diana didn’t make the swim is a personal defeat, although you never know, this woman might be back. Did she fail? Not in my eyes or in the eyes of the thousands of people who were moved by the power and love generated by this remarkable woman.

Every breath; every stroke, every mile, yard, inch, of that magnificent swim, made Diana Nyad a winner.

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.

Spray hoods … Oh, the shame!

Photo: 1932 classic Driac II showing spray hood with greenhouse removed.

There’s a lot to be said for an inside steering position on a cruising yacht and although I would never admit it there were times in the past when I would have given my last case of rum for some shelter. When I started sailing, British yachtsmen were expected to sit in an exposed cockpit and suck up whatever the weather threw at them. Yacht designers were complicit in this by failing to include any form of shelter in their plans. Real yachtsmen sat at the helm in all weathers, donned their leaky oilskins, and did the right thing by keeping a good watch at all times. Behave like a man they said and look into the wind and spray, and we did, be manly that is, even my wife.
Our first boat, on which we crossed oceans, was just 23 feet long, with a large open cockpit and no protection from the elements at all. Wind, sun, salt—we took it all on the nose and that is one of the reason’s I now have problems with ‘weird’ things on my skin. Back in our early days, we wouldn’t have been seen dead sporting a spray hood, no sir, they were for wimps. Our yacht would always remain sleek and uncluttered by unsightly canvas and stainless steel frames. The only exception was a French Plexiglas ‘bubble’. Wow, I wanted one of those real bad because they smacked of Bernard Moitessier, Cape Horn and voyages through the Southern Ocean. Whereas a canvas spray hood made you a wimp, a bubble made you a hero!
With maturity came common sense, well, at least some, and on our next boat we fitted a spray hood and in so doing all my morals went out the porthole. Why? Because we fit a spray hood to a classic yacht! There, I’ve confessed and feel better for it. Not only did we fit a spray hood, we also fit a frame at the back of the cockpit. This allowed us to attach a canvas top with a removable back and sides, in fact we turned the cockpit into a greenhouse and it was wonderful. I did the steel work and my wife sewed. I must say, when the whole thing was rigged, the boat looked like shit, but boy were we happy. At the first sign of bad weather, we would roll down the sides and sit in comfort.
On my final voyage with this boat, I left St. Maarten with her looking like a classic yacht but by the time I was north of Anguilla, I was watching the world go by from the comfort of the greenhouse. I took the thing down before docking in the Azores, so that people would know how tough I was and did the same before entering Falmouth in England.
The boat we have now was designed to the old British character building code of ‘real yachtsmen sit out and suck it up’ and I am currently seeking ways to protect us from the weather. It looks like another greenhouse is on the cards, my wife likes the idea so much she is reading up on Hydroponics.

Sea Books and eBooks

One thing that the eBook revolution has done is open the world of publishing to writers of sea books. For instance, my friend Cap'n Fatty Goodlander now has ten books in his stable and is working on more. His latest Somali Pirates and Cruising Sailors is an in-depth look at how, when, where, who, and why Somali pirates and cruising sailors interact—and the social, economic, and personal cost of Somali piracy to all concerned. Fatty is the perfect man to write this book, having recently cruised through the same pirate infested waters with his wife Carolyn. Fatty chronicled the voyage in Red Sea Run, a fascinating story of how a cruising couple maneuvered through the dangerous sea lanes off Somalia only to fall foul of land-based pirates in Egypt, a country where officials have turned extorting money from yachtsmen transiting the Suez Canal into a fine art. Fatty has heartily embraced new publishing and his popular books are a joy to read.
Earlier this year I was sent the Kindle version of Richard Henry Dana's Two Years Before the Mast with eNotations by Chris Thomerson to review. Thomerson has done an extraordinary job. In this wonderful version of the famous sailing classic, you highlight a word or phrase that you don’t understand and up pops a thorough explanation. This has opened up the world of square rig sailing like never before and turned Two Years Before the Mast into a must read for anyone even slightly interested in maritime history. After reading this eBook you could just about sail a square rigger! I can’t recommend this book enough.
At the opposite end of the spectrum, Frank Virgintino will soon publish a Kindle version of A Thinking Man's Guide to Voyaging South ~ Cruising the Caribbean. The ambition of many sailors living in North America is to sail south to the West Indies. The voyage can be tricky and a lot has been written about the best way to do it, however, the info is now rather dated. Mr Virgintino has come up with the most comprehensive guide to passages south that I have ever read and, believe me, not only have I read them all I’ve also made the voyage south several times.
Two fun reads available as eBooks are Julian Putley’s Sunfun Calypso and Sunfun Gospel. A BVI resident, sailor and writer, Julian’s books come with great reviews. The two ebooks, along with Julian’s famous paperback: A Drinking Man’s Guide to the BVI, are all available from Amazon.
Island Ice and Wet Feet by B.D. Anderson are two more rollicking Caribbean yarns that are available at the touch of a button.
My own book, Caribbean High, an action adventure that takes the reader on a thrilling seagoing chase through the islands, is selling well on Amazon. I didn’t know what to expect when I published, but the book has received some cracking reviews and I am very grateful to my readers. Spurred on by the success of Caribbean High, a second novel is now in the works.
All the writers mentioned (and I am sure there are many more) are experienced sailors with a gift for telling a good story and for sharing their knowledge. They tell it like it is, good and bad, and that is what sets them apart from those who write about the sea yet have never sailed upon it. So, if you are looking for a good nautical read then point your spyglass towards the Amazon website where you will find some terrific eBooks about the sea.
Happy reading.


Caribbean High ... The Movie

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.

Wear your life jacket or go to jail!

There’s a movement afoot in the US to make the wearing of life jackets compulsory for recreational boaters. I say stomp this movement out before it goes any further!
I have been sailing a long time. I have seen the changes made by various governments to, as they say; make things better and safer for the recreational boater. All government departments are in on the act - customs, immigration, licensing authorities and coast guard. I firmly believe that 90 percent of what they have introduced, or intend to introduce in the future, is designed not to make boating safer but to raise more revenue and curb personal freedom.
Before the proponents of health and safety start commenting, let’s get this one out of the way: life jackets and kids. Yes, I believe that under certain circumstances children should wear life jackets. I also believe that children should be taught to swim early on in life.
That said, how would these draconian rules work? How far would they go?
My mind is working overtime here, but bear with me.
Fail #1: You are on a mooring, the anchorage is flat calm and you and your family are sitting in the cockpit enjoying supper after a lovely day on the water. The lamps are lit, music is softly playing, and the kids are about to go to bed. Suddenly, out of the dark comes a man or woman in uniform to levy a fine because you are not wearing your life jacket. (Oh, and is that a beer you’re drinking, Sir?”)
The result … shock, shame and boat for sale.
Fail #2: The racing is close. You are in a tacking duel with the other hot favorite to win the Summer Series. Ten guys roll under the boom at every tack and launch themselves onto the windward rail. It’s hot work and the sweating crew are in T-shirts and shorts. A RIB approaches at high speed, you think the press photographers are here. Smile! What a mistake, they are coast guard. Instead of winning the cup, you are fined for not wearing life jackets, and the guy who works the foredeck, who gave them a mouthful, is off to jail in handcuffs.
The result … they have taken the fun out of what you love doing. Worse, they have taken away your freedom of choice.
A responsible skipper should know when to order the crew to wear their life jackets. Educate don’t legislate!
If this law goes through you can say goodbye to one of the last great freedoms left to mankind, the freedom of the seas.