I’m not sure any urban mecca could be at the top of my sailinglist, but taking Gémeaux down the East River certainly was a thrill and an absolute spectacular way to enter New York City.
On that late September day, skies were perfectly clear—that is to say weatherwise, they were sunny and blue. New York’s congested airspace was a jolt to the senses. Commercial airplanes flew in and out of the area’s three busy airports. Helicopters gave hourly tours and transferred company executives whose time was too precious to sit in standstill car traffic. On the water, police boats, water taxis, advertisers, ferries, and pleasure boats raced busily from one port to the next.
I sat on the pulpit at the front edge of our bow and took in all the sights and sounds and, yes Greta Thunberg, smells of the Red Apple. Every few hundred yards we would pass under yet another historic bridge with the subway, bikes, and cars clattering above. What a wonderful perspective from the water noticing, for example, that there is a docked prison barge on the other side of the river from the famed Rikers Island prison.
We passed the United Nations that was just warming up to host the 74th session of the General Assembly, with none other than Greta herself. The new Freedom Tower and Empire State Building towered above hundreds of other skyscrapers and large blocks of apartment complexes. Clearly, our view was better than any car, airplane, or helicopter!
We finally landed at the Brooklyn Marina on the shore of Brooklyn Heights with a jaw-dropping view of Manhattan in the background. We slipped out of boat clothes and put on those horrible things called shoes to wander the upscale neighborhood of historic brownstone townhouses. We provisioned with yummy wines and deli treats and I even got a cat fix at the Brooklyn cat café. I still can’t believe they all escaped becoming boat cats.
The following day, we boarded New York’s subway, the largest in the world with more than 450 stations. The 911 Memorial took our breath away with its creative design and exhibits of artifacts, which immediately transported us back to the heartache of the 2011 attacks.
On a brighter note, Allen’s sister, Anne, joined us the next day where we crammed in a 2pm Broadway matinee of Hamilton and an 8pm performance of The Great Society–LBJ’s presidency facing Vietnam and the civil rights movement. Our family friend, David Garrison, played all the bad guys—Nixon, George Wallace and Alabama Sheriff Jim Clark. We joined more friends and delighted in the chance to go back stage and hug the cast. In typical New York fashion, we sat down for dinner at 11pm. Somehow, in our sleep-deprived stupor, we found our way back to the marina via subway and our heads finally hit the pillows just after 2am. Whew—this pace is hard on us cruisers:)
The next day brought some wind so we sailed up the Hudson River and down by Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, dodging busy waterways on this gorgeous sunny Sunday. The entire weekend was surreal, playing city tourist on land and returning at night to… a sailboat of all things.
Click here to view more New York photos in our photo book of Maine.
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Daylight emerges ever so quietly in a heavy bank of fog. After hours of uninterrupted seas during our overnight passage from Cape Cod, lobster pots make their debut. Suddenly, a loud CLUNK! against the hull draws us all to attention. With only ¼-mile of visibility it’s nearly impossible to see what’s out there, but we’re certain we’ve run into our first lobster pot. Instead, we see a black shark-like fin surface from behind our boat. Our first sun fish with its huge black circular body, bobs away, unfazed by the newcomer in this northern state, and apparently unfazed by a hard, fiberglass hull to the head. Occasionally in this obscured visibility, we stop conversation and say, “Did you hear that?” and then the three of us listen intently to determine if it was a horn or an engine and, more importantly, are we going to collide with it?!
Welcome to Maine.
Dense fog and limited visibility continue all the way to Bar Harbor where we tie up temporarily to a fisherman’s mooring ball for a quick dinghy trip into town to rent sea kayaks. It’s so disorienting to not have any sense of direction or our surroundings in this white landscape, but we manage to get the kayaks onboard and set off to anchor in nearby Northeast Harbor. Barbara and I take turns standing on our little carpet that warms the helm’s chilly floor, being spotters while the captain expertly navigates through never-ending fields of colored buoys.
Over the next week, Barbara and I take our sea kayaks and explore the Maine coastline. Sprawling cabins with four chimneys sit majestically on acres of lush green lawns amidst thick forests of pines. Each homestead is tethered to the water with a long wooden dock that rises and falls with this huge 10-foot Northeastern tide. The variety of boats complete the landscape—noisy lobster boats, weekend motor boats, and beautifully hand-crafted wooden sailboats of all sizes. Rarely do we spot another catamaran.
Even in the beautiful Somes Sound fjard with its thickly-wooded sloping shores that pour into the blue sea,lobster pots litter the water like an urban hillside of Easter eggs. Each day we paddle a little farther, spotting loons, mergansers, and bald eagles. We search for little creeks, take in the detail of seaweed, paddle through dark skies and rain storms, and talk to locals and lobster fishermen. Did you know that 90% of the pots belong to commercial fishermen who hoist up nearly 100 pots a day?
And then we eat lobster…again and again. And it is spectacular. We order it at Abel’s waterfront restaurant, from small docks and diners, and ultimately from the lobster fishermen themselves when they pull up their pots just off our stern. After all, we spend each day navigating around all these lobster pots so of course we should participate in the benefits of the whole industry, right?
Barbara returns home and we continue sailing in Maine with our buddy boat, Exodus, who plays tour guide to their many favorite islands and anchorages. This small state of Maine with more than 4,500 islands has more coastline than California. Every inch of it is stunning. We discover Bucks Harbor, home to Robert McCloskey’s famous children’s book Blueberries for Sal. In this authentic rural fishing village, mom runs the dock, while her daughter studies in the back office for AP exams and her two sons play nonstop with cars on their chalk-drawn driveway city. A 10-year old girl in pigtails and glasses brings in her daily catch. Her lobsters weigh in at 8 pounds on the store sale and the little girl happily runs off with her $32 profit.
Almost a year ago, on the Suzie Too Rally, we met Al and Maggie aboard Sweet Dreams. Today, we visit their home near Pulpit Harbor, a cozy harbor of nearly 100 boats flankedby a huge osprey nest. We spend an amazing evening at the Turner Farm, where staff greets us with gin and tonics as we wander the farm taking in rows and rows of flowers and vegetables, which later appear on our plates for a delicious 6-course dinner.
Maggie takes us to their local farmer’s market in Vinylhaven, which is the epitome of small-town fun—one produce stand, one guy selling homemade bread wrapped in tea towels, another gal selling lamb grown locally on the island, and about 8 kids marketing lemonade, cupcakes, and rice krispie treats. Everybody knows Maggie and we delight in getting a glimpse of her life in rural Maine. Continuing to be the ultimate hosts, Al and Maggie lead a hike around their island, followed by a yummy lobster dinner at their cottage. If you ever have the pleasure of Maggie cooking for you, be sure to request her cornbread with a secret ingredient.
As we approach the end of August, we join a 3-day rally sponsored by our Ocean Cruising Club’s local port captain, who escorts about 20 boats on a fabulous itinerary to Sea Island, Hurricane Island, and Maple Juice Cove, where American artist Andrew Wyeth created his famous painting of Cristina’s World.
Before this short sailing season ends, however, we want to reach the furthest northern point of Maine so we leave the rally and head down east to Roque Island, which sits just this side of the Canadian border at 44 degrees North. I love the rugged landscape and the secluded bay of Bunker Cove, which we share with about 15 seals who swim so close we can hear their breath. Mid-morning on the following day, we deem the tide ideal for mussel foraging. My neoprene glacier gloves are the perfect solution for picking off clusters of sharp, barnacle-covered mussels from rocks just below the surface of the water while Allen guides the dinghy around the shoreline.
Back onboard, the two captains sit on the stern of their boats, searing off barnacles until the mussels looked restaurant worthy. Ronna and I cook a delicious wine and garlic broth for our fresh mussels and the meal is spectacular! …and nobody died:)
All in all, the weather this Maine season is gorgeous. The lack of wind often forces us to motor instead of sail, but we’re grateful for many many sun-filled, albeit cold days. It’s hard to imagine that in a few months we’ll be dripping in Caribbean sweat. For now, however, we enjoy lazy mornings snuggling under down comforters until someone works up the courage to make coffee. When we do sail, the Captain has mastered a unique method for spotting lobster pots:)
The water temperature is about 50 degrees. The captain has made two very fast dives to dislodge lobster buoys that have become one with our props while tied to mooring balls…brrrr. Although there’s no snorkeling and we paddle board very carefully to stay dry, we explore ashore at nearly every anchorage. We pick wild raspberries and blueberries on Mistake Island; hike to Jordan Pond from Northeast Harbor to enjoy hot popovers; visit more sailing friends in Sorrento, warm our bodies on large granite slabs scattered throughout Merchant Island; hike to the 556-foot! summit on Isle au Haut in Acadia National Park; and learn that in fact before Plymoth AND Provincetown, those busy pilgrims arrived on the little Maine island of Damariscove. We need to update our history books!
Monhegan Island is love at first sight, albeit its long list of rules. The island is 1.4 miles long and nearly a mile across, but stands majestically alone 10 miles from the mainland. We raft together with Exodus for two days of communal living on one of the few available mooring balls near a small rock outcropping, which is flush with nesting gulls and cormorants and seals basking in the sun. Protected woodlands offer several trails on the island that wander through dense forests of spruce and fir and then open up high above a rocky coastline below. For once we can see more than just heads of seals, the clear water exposing their entire bodies drifting vertically in the surf below.
Local crafted beer (and tater tots!) at the Monhegan Brewing Company is the perfect reward for a long hike, followed by a lobster dinner from the Fish House Fish Market that we enjoy back on Gémeaux. Equally as beautiful as the forest is the town of Monhegan—home to many local artists, inns, shops, the world’s first solar-powered post office, a farmer’s market, and a general store that carries all of life’s necessities, including fresh-baked baguettes. Smoking is strictly prohibited anywhere outside the village to avoid destroying the entire wooded island in a nano second. Through rain sprinkles the following day, we explore trail #11 in Cathedral Woods that leads us through dozens of fairy homes, creative miniature constructions using bits and pieces of surrounding nature. We seek shelter from the rain and tour the Monhegan Museum, fascinated once again by the array of historical artifacts that these rural islands manage to collect. On this day after Labor Day, lobster pots begin appearing as Monhegan’s fishermen return to being lobstermen after a busy season of playing deep fishing guides to visitors. It’s time for us to go.
Even though we are far north of the hurricane line, Dorian threatens the Eastern seaboard, having just devastated the Bahamas. We alter plans, as weather often dictates in this sailing life, and head to DiMillo’s Marina in Portland where a slip costs us $200/night…ouch! Hurricane Dorian ends up bypassing Maine so we simply enjoy the sights of this lovely town built on cobblestone roads—martinis at Blythe and Burrows, lobster mac and cheese at 555, and the best…provisioning at Whole Foods.
In only four weeks, we’ve covered about 500 miles of Maine, just scratching the surface. We bid a sad farewell to this remarkable state and begin our southbound journey, props in tact and no lobster pots dragging behind.
New Year…near year’s resolutions—I’ll write more! I actually do write an entry every day in our log book but all the sailing talk would bore you. You know I love to write and really I want to keep you up-to-date on all our adventures. Did you also know I get sea sick? Yes, an occupational hazard. So when we’re sailing I can’t write, or read for that matter. I do all my reading through Audible books now. When seas are calm at our anchorages, I swim or snorkel or hike or explore town. Sometimes I do laundry, sometimes I provision the boat, i.e., walk or take the dinghy to a market and schlep groceries back to the boat. (Stay tuned for an article on provisioning.) When we have company onboard, forget about writing. And of course, there’s always a long list of projects and stainless steel that needs to be polished. You don’t really think I sit around and watch sunsets all day, do you?
Okay, let’s bring you up to date because we’ve covered a lot of ground and we’re going to be covering more. One more excuse—it’s hard to keep up!
Most insurance companies define hurricane season between July 15th and November 1st. During that time, your boat must be either north of Cape Hatteras, North Carolina or south of Grenada to maintain regular coverage. In 2018, we pulled Gémeaux out of the water and she sat on the hard in a Grenada boatyard for hurricane season. For the 2019 summer, we decided to keep her in the water and sail to Maine. The Suzie Too Rally to the Western Caribbean (See Rally Reflections)finished at the end of April in Belize. We needed to put on some miles to get all the way north to Maine for the summer. One month after the rally ended, we were sitting in a marina in Annapolis, Maryland. We sailed nearly 5,000 miles during that season, 2,000 of which we covered in the final 2-3 weeks making our way up from the Caribbean, past Florida, and into the Chesapeake Bay. I didn’t write much at that time:(
Ft Jefferson-Dry Tortugas
Chesapeake Bay Bridge
While we ran around the country in June, visiting family and making sure the California house was still standing, Gémeaux remained in Annapolis for a little facelift—galvanized anchor chain, carbon fiber sails, and new 1200 watt solar panels were the most exciting. And you thought only seeing an octopus tickled my fancy. Finally, after nearly six weeks, we snuck out of the marina one pre-dawn morning, pointed Gémeaux north, and headed for Maine.
Since it’s about 600 miles between Annapolis and Maine, the Captain graciously allowed a few stops along the way. We stuffed our faces with Maryland Blue Crabs in Cape May, NJ; rented bikes and ate hot donuts from Payne’s Killer Donuts on Block Island, RI; and watched 12-meter sailboat races with Jim Moore off the coast of Newport, RI—the sailing capital of the U.S. Up and down the east coast, we sailed with dark-hulled monohulls and weekend sailors. We were definitely the black sheep in our double-wide.
July was family month—first my dad and then my niece and nephew. New England proved to be the ideal destination for these visits—short day sails, lovely beaches and anchorages where we could paddle board and swim, lots of seafood, and ice cream everywhere. I’ve spent little time on the East Coast so I thoroughly enjoyed finally seeing Martha’s Vineyard, Chappaquiddick Island, and my new favorites—Cuttyhunk and Hadley Harbor. We even witnessed history as a water spout and record storm with 65 knots of wind struck the area. I loved having the kids onboard—teaching them to paddle board, playing for hours in the sand, watching Kyle fish for hours, and watching Sydney’s horror when Allen first showed her how to shuck oysters and then ate the critter.
The revolving door continued into August as our dear friend, Barbara Thomas, came onboard in Plymouth, MA and sailed with us to Maine. First stop, however, was Provincetown on the northern tip of Cape Cod. And what an absolute delight. We explored great shops and galleries, met up with long-time Park Service friends, climbed the Pilgrim Monument, kayaked and paddle boarded up and down the bay, and hiked the Dune Shacks Trail and gorgeous shoreline. I even had a spa day—haircut, massage, and chiropractor. Most importantly, we learned the REAL story of where the pilgrims landed—in Provincetown of course.
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Eight months ago I sat amidst charts and maps learning how to spell Huaritcheru. I noticed that the Colombian islands of San Andrés and Providencia are actually closer to Nicaragua than to Colombia. That Colombia is a country and Columbia is a city in the U.S. I still had little experience sailing and zero experience with the geography of the Western Caribbean. I didn’t know that the Panama Canal was 50 miles long with a lake in the middle and I certainly didn’t know where the heck the San Blas Islands were. I’d never seen an octopus, a green flash, or a Guna Indian. By April 2019, all that had changed and it’s just now, in the familiar comforts of the United States, that my mind has settled and the experience has finally sunk in. When at last I don’t need to interpret the language or wonder how to buy groceries. When there are no more opportunities to snorkel, dive, hike, noodle, host dinner, be hosted, drink, and be toasted with 40 other boats always eager to fill a social void like a dorm of college students. It’s over. It was exhausting. And it was an experience of a lifetime.
“You’ve created an entire civilization down here,” Cara observed when she and Nick visited us in Santa Marta, Colombia to get a glimpse of our lives on the Suzie Too Western Caribbean Rally.
True—we had book club, yoga, Spanish lessons, haircuts onboard, and dinner with friends practically every night. We also gave back to our community–we had trash pick-up days and donated to a local children’s charity. Different from life on land, we were still learning the names of our new friends and we gathered on sailboats instead of in cul-de-sacs. These new friends welcomed my kids to our little civilization like a bunch of doting grandparents. In turn, my kids got a true sense of rally life and blue water sailing (complete with Scopolamine patches). Before long, Nick was helping Allen dock rally boats at the marina and Cara took on the role of chief Spanish interpreter. In Cartagena, we explored the Old City fully adorned in Christmas decorations and twinkling lights strung from archways that created tunnels of festive color.
Later, after spending Christmas in California, Allen and I would return to Cartagena to celebrate New Year’s Eve. We joined millions of people that night all clad in traditional white, with pop-up dinners and dancing in every street and alleyway. And just like that, January 1, 2019 arrived and we sailed to our next destination—the San Blas Islands off the coast of Panama. The contrast couldn’t be more different.
Most of the San Blas archipelago of nearly 400 islands is uninhabited and all could be uninhabited by the end of this century if the sea level continues to rise. Islands are named in the local Guna language and most end in dup like Uargandup and Narasgandup. You can walk the perimeter of almost every island, weaving through palm trees on white sand beaches and sea stars in the aquamarine water. The indigenous Guna Indians are fierce protectors of their Guna Yala country—diving is prohibited to preserve the coral reefs and travel to the islands is highly restricted.
It’s illegal to take coconuts from the island, even if they’re on the ground. Most Gunas are fisherman and many today sell their beautifully crafted molas, clothing that originated from the women’s tradition of painting their bodies with geometric designs. Some residents speak Spanish; few speak English. There are no cars, supermarkets, newspapers or Internet. And sadly, there is no way to combat trash, specifically plastic, which is a growing problem from the influence of Western civilization and the ocean’s current from urban areas that reach as far as Africa.
The San Blas is the perfect destination to explore by boat so we spent more than three weeks sailing from island to island. We rarely went ashore; instead, we played constantly in the water. Snorkeling was exquisite as we added turtles, spotted eagle rays and nurse sharks to our growing list of favorites.
As provisions dwindled, potluck dinners became more creative. Potatoes went in everything (except salad!) and I learned that cream cheese can be served with almost any canned food to be called an appetizer. Guna Indians would paddle by in their wooden ulas to sell a couple of lobster crawling in the bow of their canoes. Occasionally, we were lucky enough to buy produce from a Guna who paddled all the way to mainland Panama,
Line at the supermarket!
procured items from local markets, and turned his canoe into a floating vegetable stand. One particularly industrious Guna with a particularly large canoe (and motor) appeared in our anchorage late during our stay when fresh stores were completely gone. Rally boats lined up in dinghies, anxiously waiting their turn to buy pineapple, papayas, carrots and anything green. Slightly wilted lettuce never looked so good.
The social calendar remained active in the San Blas. Allen’s brother and family successfully navigated the travel restrictions to join us for a week of snorkeling, great dinners, and lots of laughs over our new favorite game, Codenames.
In between company and rally events, the Captain and I would sneak off to an unnamed island, drop anchor, circumnavigate the perimeter with a mask and snorkel, enjoy the quiet of a few nesting hawks, and declare the island Gémeaux-dup. Sitting in our anchorage today outside Newport, Rhode Island, watching cars traverse the bay bridge, airplanes traveling overhead, and boats tacking every direction, I can hardly believe that a place like the San Blas exists on the planet. I do hope in my lifetime that we find solutions to climate change and the plastic trash that are devastating these treasured lands.
In February, we returned to civilization with a bang. Enormous westbound freighters with containers stacked 20 stories high waited in queue at the entry of the Panama Canal as their eastbound counterparts exited in between them. Our marina was just outside the canal giving us front row seats for this dramatic maritime commerce.
While we stayed on the east side, we bid farewell to several Rally boats that transited the Canal for their western voyage to Asia. It was an amazing education to see the preparations for their passage and to actually watch several vessels go through the locks of the canal. It’s hard to believe this engineering feat that so significantly impacts our modern world began construction in the 1800s.
As if the Panama Canal wasn’t enough to captivate us, Shelter Bay marina’s backyard was a magnificent nature preserve. At sunrise and sunset, great roars from nearby howler monkeys would echo through the trees like a haunted house.
Capuchin monkeys and dozens of bird species made curious bird watchers out of all of us. Even a sloth posed perfectly for my camera. Our stay in Panama ended with a weekend to explore Panama City, where we savored electric flowers in our gin and tonics, delighted in the bulk food selection at a Costco-like store, and languished in hot showers at the Hard Rock Hotel. And still the rally wasn’t over.
After watching so many rally members tout their scuba experiences in this diving mecca, I decided it was time to refresh my certification. The Colombian islands of San Andrés and Providencia were the perfect places to do that. I had the good company of others in the rally at the same experience level and together we rediscovered the skills and witnessed some amazing creatures like reef sharks. Ask me 20 years ago if I thought I’d ever swim with a shark!
San Andrés is renown for its duty free shopping. Residents from mainland Colombia swarm the little island and leave with overstuffed shopping bags. The ladies of the rally took a break one day from working on boat engines to participate in the folly.
While I couldn’t justify buying high heels for life on a boat, I did thoroughly enjoy lunch and sangria at a restaurant where you tossed your shoes aside to rest your tired feet in the sand. Later in the week, we dragged the boys out of the engine compartments to rent mopeds and golf cart mules—this was not a difficult sell. Relishing the chance to drive something other than a boat, the captains loved every minute of navigating through bustling streets to circumnavigate the islands. I’m still astonished that people find sailing dangerous
Rally friends Exodus on their stunning Hylas 49
In fact, the next leg of our journey would prove to be dangerous…or at least we prepared for danger. Pirates. We hear they’re out there and we do our best to avoid them. When we sailed from Grenada to Bonaire, we took a route that purposely kept us 100 miles from the Venezuela shore. In Colombia, our Rally leaders collaborated to have the local navy in or near our anchorage at all times. Eager to encourage more boating tourism, the governments of these countries want to avoid crime and incidents as much as we do. Three days later, our flotilla of four arrived safely in the Honduran Bay Island of Guanaja. The dinghy dock where we landed to clear Customs and Immigration actually proved more dangerous than our journey—boat boys fighting over their claim as guides landed one of them in the drink and the other barely missing a blow to the skull with a metal pipe. Not being the target of the dispute, we found the scene completely entertaining. Nonetheless, we were anxious to leave the crowded town center built on this tiny reef where 10,000 residents live shoulder to shoulder—no wonder tempers flare.
By afternoon, we were sitting under palapas built in the water, sipping piña coladas and eating French fries and fresh ceviché—paradise after two nights at sea and a long 24 hours to clear into the country. Largely undiscovered by tourism, Guanaja boasts lush mountainous pine forests and world-class diving as it is situated on the Mesoamerican barrier reef system, the second largest reef in the world after the Australian Great Barrier Reef. While our itinerary allowed only a few days to explore, Guanaja holds fond memories; quietly snorkeling on my own, I saw my first octopus.
32 miles away still on the barrier reef system is the larger, more popular and more populated island of Roatán. Ten years earlier, I visited this island with Cara, where friends hosted us in their beachfront cottage and we became certified PADI divers. As luck would have it, our friends were on the island again AND Cara was coming to visit! We transformed Gémeaux into a day charter as we returned the earlier hospitality and made sailors out of our friends and their families. Cara and Matt snorkeled each day off the back of the boat, watched dolphins play off the bow, and joined us in discovering the Roatán Brewery—local craft beer and corn hole just like home. Their 5-day visit ended too soon and it was time to send the children home—a teary farewell as the water taxi fetched them directly from Gémeaux to take them to the airport.
We washed the sheets, restocked the fridge, and prepared for the next company. After a long day of weather delays, Gary and Courtney finally arrived looking like pack mules bearing U.S. foods we missed and boat parts for the entire rally. We introduced our land friends to our cruising friends and celebrated our good fortune to have all of them in our lives with a lovely dinner ashore at the 5-star Ibigari. Always a treat to have Courtney onboard, we gave her run of the galley and she gave us delicious meals. She showed me how to make sauces and I showed her how to spot eels and sharks off the reef. We talked and talked, drank champagne on the bow of the boat, and talked some more. Ah, girlfriend time.
Gary and Courtney joined us on an overnight passage as we followed the Mesoamerican barrier reef system west about 100 miles and entered the country of Belize—our final destination in the rally. Boring as it seems:), we never tired of exploring new islands and sharing our excitement each time we discovered a new fish or unusual coral. When it came time for Gary and Courtney to leave, we started planning for their next trip to Gémeaux—the only way we could bear to let them go.
Once again, we washed the sheets, restocked the fridge from a veggie vendor on the street, and prepared for another round—just a short but always enjoyable visit from Jim and Jane. When at last we settled into the Placencia Marina to celebrate the end of our 6-month rally, less than half of our original 40 boats remained. So many had transited the Panama Canal, left early to pursue their next journey, or were still getting their fill of fabulous diving in Roatán. Already the mood had changed without the full group and we felt the void these new, but deep friendships left. On the other hand, a smaller group in a marina environment allowed us easy access to one another. Just like neighbors in a cul-de-sac, we’d hear the rap rap rap on the hull like the doorbell at the front door. We’d find someone standing on the dock to borrow a part and they’d end up staying an hour, weighing in on the latest mechanical issue or weather forecast. We’d become deeply entrenched in our civilization and were acutely aware that in a few days our cul-de-sac would stand empty again.
It’s difficult to express how life-long friendships can form in such a short time but it’s inherent in the cruising community. We come from different careers, lifestyles, and countries. We share not only a love for sailing, but for adventure and for a simpler life. We accept the risks and dangers in exchange for the thrill of exploring. We pause to watch the sunrise and sunset and know that the sea is not just blue but a hundred variations. We face uncertainty, illness, loneliness, and sometimes death, realizing that it could easily have been one of us. The Suzie Too Western Caribbean Rally brought us experiences of a lifetime and left us with lifetime friends. Sitting alone in Belize’s famed Blue Hole, we reflected on the irony of the hole in our hearts that the rally left. Fair winds and following seas until we meet again.
Click here for our photobook about the Suzie Too Rally.
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When your sweet kitty leaves a hole in your heart, it’s a real treasure to revive some memories. Hidden deep in a pile of half-finished stories was this fun account from our sweet Dot. May it bring you a smile:)
You won’t believe what I saw this morning as my mom was giving me a spa treatment with the brush. She does this a lot—she says it helps keep all my gorgeous locks out of the bilge, whatever that is. Anyway, I was lying on my back, relishing in the sun, when suddenly I saw this thing hop across the water. It looked like one of those fish my dad has in his big tank at home but then it was flying like a bird. It was crazy. It just hopped along the water and almost landed on me in the boat. I quickly jumped up from the massage table and got down low in my stealth mode, quietly waiting for this thing to reappear. A thousand thoughts are flying through my mind. I decide that I don’t care about all that water. If that thing jumped again I was going to tackle it, kill it, and bring it to my dad in bed. I love to bring him gifts in bed. Sadly, that flying thing never came back but I’m gonna watch for it.
So you’re probably wondering how I’m doing and wondering how long I stayed in the closet. I know a lot of you thought I would fail at this boat thing, but I’m a survivor. Don’t you remember before I became a princess I lived outside and hunted my own food? Mom says I was called a feral. I think that’s some kind of mythical goddess because I pretty much rocked that life.
Anyway, I’m rocking this life too. I just stayed in my dad’s closet to complete all my studies. I needed to learn why the floor always moves. How does the water in my bowl fall out of my bowl when I’m drinking? I needed to learn what all those boat noises meant. They were scary at first but frankly they’re no worse than the guy at home who scares me death when he blows all the leaves from my favorite hiding spots. Speaking of leaves, where did they go?
Anyway at first, nighttime was my very favorite. I remember as a youth when I lived outside, nighttime was the safest time to hunt and play. It was dark and quiet and all the scary people and their scary dogs go away. I could sneak out of my hiding places and go explore. So, I figured that was true here too. I know I’m supposed to stay inside the ropes mom calls lifelines and never ever jump off the boat. Most of the time I’m okay with that. Look, I admit I like to drink water out of the sink and it doesn’t bother me when my paws get a little wet. And when it rains, I kind of dig how it feels when it cleans my beautiful pelt. But otherwise, I do not like water. I don’t like puddles or bathtubs or sprinklers or hoses. And I definitely do not like all this water around me. So not to worry, I’m staying on the boat.
However. Sometimes the boat is on a long leash and water’s actually not everywhere. When nobody is looking, I sneak around the outside of the boat and I can see dirt and trees and GRASS! Oh man I miss grass. I want to eat grass. I want to eat so much grass that I throw up all over the place. I can probably get over to that grass if I just do a little jump. Well maybe not, there’s kind of gap between me and that grass and it’s filled with a bunch of water. I could fall and I’d get wet and my mom would be mad because she told me never ever to jump off the boat. Hmmm, what to do? And just as I’m weighing the pros and cons of this idea, I see something run across the grass. There it goes again. Wait, there’s one…two…three…oh man, there’s a whole bunch of them. They’re CATS! I hate cats. I mean I know I’m a cat, but I hate other cats. They’re almost as bad as dogs. They steal my food and pee in my box, and they’re just mean. They like to scratch and bite and they ruin my hair. Maybe this is why mom tells me to never ever jump off the boat. But dang, why do they get all the grass?
So I don’t leave the boat unless my parents take me to my old home in California. I’m a good cat. Yes you were Dot…you were the best and we miss you:)