January Seascapes

Me (Eva) at the helm

One would have thought that after acquiring the sailboat, Andariego, I would have been writing more, not less. The fact is, I have been working on Andariego’s upkeep and sailing. In between sailing and upkeep, there’s been my university teaching work, research, writing, and added community work with Puerto Rico’s Sierra Club chapter. I know, it’s not an excuse. Following are some highlights of sailing Antilia (my mystical name for Puerto Rico). My virtual sailboat is no longer virtual; his name is Andariego. January was a month filled with visits from friends and family. The first half of the month Jeanine stayed at my home, visiting from Las Vegas, Nevada.

Jeanine is my soul sister from Avignon, with whom I’ve spent wonderful days with family in Provence. She went sailing with me. To those in Provence I say: Je pense souvent a vous avec tendresse. Je n’oublie pas votre merveilleux accueil et les bons voyages que nos avons fait ensembles. J’espère pouvoir vous accueillir un jour à Puerto Rico de la même façon. Jeanine gave Andariego a French version of his name, le Vagabond de Mer. I love it.

January 6-7. Jeanine and I stayed onboard Andariego. She slept in the forward cabin. I slept in the aft cabin with its three portholes opened. I did a full self-reiki session (60 minutes) before sleeping. As I sat in easy pose looking aft, I could see the harbor lights dancing in the water. I was comfortably rocked to sleep by gentle dock waves at Isleta Marina.

January 9, 2011 (1330-1730). Ramón, Silvia, Jeanine and I sailed Andariego. We sailed to Icacos and Palomino, and passed close to Ramos Island. NOAA’s weathercast was 9-14 knots, waves 3-5 feet, with isolated showers. Ramón and Silvia were impressed with Andariego’s sailing performance. Jeanine doesn’t sail. In fact, she doesn’t even swim. She wore a life vest at all times. She sat on the port side of the boat as we raised the sails soon after leaving port. Her expression of awe as the white wings went up is unforgettable; an audible in-breath and in the out-breath, “My god, they are so big. They are so beautiful. Take a picture. Take a picture.” And I saw Andariego’s sails, again, for the first time.

Upkeep. Andariego’s head (toilet) pump stopped working properly. I have had to buy a new kit to replace the pump. Installation is pending. The present pump works in dry bowl but not wet bowl. The third-world-technology remedy is to bring buckets of sea water to clean the head after use. No fun. The joys of sailboat ownership.

Jeanine and Sylvia

Just before Jeanine flew back to her home, Sylvia arrived from England. She is my husband Neill’s sister. She had never been to the tropics. She could not believe the noise the crickets and coquis made at night. I gave her a coqui pin as a souvenir. She had seen palm trees before, she said, in Italy (yeah, right). She had never been sailing, though she’s been on motorboats and ferries. Her son lives in a houseboat on the Thames River.

January 23, 2011 (1130-1600). Ramón, Silvia, Sylvia (Sam), Neill and I sailed Andariego. The seas were choppier due to north swells, according to NOAA, and the wind was gusting around 15 knots. Sam is an excellent swimmer. She sat in the starboard stern perch seat. She never once complained but I could tell she was feeling a little queasy. She did all the right things—sight on the horizon, drinking water—and managed not to get seasick. I wish it would have been a bit calmer for her. She still enjoyed the sail and the company. We sailed a similar route as on the Jan. 9, but we spilled more air from the sails to keep the sailboat from heeling more than 15 degrees. It was a bit tricky to do, but we managed it. Around lunchtime we did a heave-to near Palomino but because of gusty winds and following seas, we were still moving a little over one knot towards Isleta Marina.

Ramón, Neill, Eva, Silvia

Upkeep. While sailing, Neill noticed that the portside inner stay was wiggling like a snake while we were sailing on a beam reach port tack. I was shocked to see that. The stays hold the mast up. They are defined in the book, Sailing Fundamentals, as “Shrouds (sidestays)—wires that run from the masthead (or near the masthead) to the sides of the boat to support the mast and prevent it from swaying.” (p. 35). The headstay and the backstay, plus the two sidestays make up the four stays that hold the mast in place. We tacked to a starboard tack and sailed back to Isleta Marina.

We ordered a tensiometer ($80.) from West Marine to fine tune the stay. None were available in local stores (not a hot ticket item). In the meantime, Capt. Michael is our tensiometer. He tightened it with a screwdriver and a pair of pliers, hard-shaking the stay after tuning, to adjust up or down. I re-taped it after he put back the two clips that hold the tension adjustment. Sailing Fundamentals states: “The shrouds, forestay, and backstay support the mast. The strong metal fittings that attach these wires to the mast are called tangs. The other end of each shroud and backstay is attached to an adjustable device called a turnbuckle. The turnbuckle allows the shrouds and stays to be adjusted to the proper tension.” So, if I understand correctly, I taped over the tang and turnbuckle clips that hold the stays in place.

There’s a linguistic metaphor here. The stays are violin strings on a mast that vibrate to the touch of the wind. They play ethereal music to Ocean’s rhythm. Birds provide piccolo tweets, gusts percussion on sails’ skins. Dolphins dance to Andariego’s pas de deux. But who’s that playing pizzicato on the stays?

Leonardo di Caprio?

Dockmanship

LOG: Sat 12 Sep 09. 1000-1400. Onboard Lolita (30’ Beneteau, 1984). Crew: Silvia, Inés, Hernán and myself. Weather—Wind: E 10-14 knots (We experienced the 10 knots mostly.). Seas: 2-4 feet. Sky: Cumulus white clouds on the horizon to the east and southeast. Barometer: 29.92 in. Hg. (steady). Position: Between Sunbay Marina, Fajardo and the islands of Icacos and Palomino.

     There is an excellent little book, Dockmanship by David Owen Bell, printed by Cornell Maritime Press (1992), which is all about docking and undocking a sailboat—berthing, unberthing; arrival, departure; alpha, omega; the beginning and the end of a sailing adventure. Bell states that, “Many people consider good dockmanship to be the mark of a competent skipper.” For many a sail lately, while I have been the designated captain, I have managed to do this task with greater and lesser degrees of apprehension (I’ve a good record so far of not damaging body or property.). The more I do it, the more I realize, it is not about an individual’s competence to manage the task, but rather an individual’s ability to conduct the task, much as an orchestra conductor leads musicians, instruments, environmental acoustics and surrounding audience. Bell says there are three components to any docking situation: (1) elements under your control: the engine, rudder and dock lines; (2) external forces beyond your control: wind and current; and (3) the human factor, partially under your control: attitude, reflexes and perception—yours and those of the crew. Docking to me is orchestrating all these factors at once in a very quick, brief, flashing sacred moment in the craft of sailing. It is sacred, if seen as entering and leaving the cathedral of the sea. Conversations cease, silence rules over occasional warnings, and everyone is focused on the musical overture.

     Such were my feelings and spirits as we left Sunbay Marina for yet another sail onboard my good old friend, Lolita. There wasn’t much wind, but the sun was shining, and after so many rainy days, threats of storms (Erika) and tropical depressions, it was a well-received welcome sail. We sailed towards Icacos and Palomino, never reaching either. As the sailors’ adage goes, once sails are up and you’re sailing, you’ve reached your destination.

     We had the company of a new Caribbean Sailing School student, Hernán (see picture), who took to sailing as a natural. After only five lessons, he joined our team where he practiced checking oil, starting/stopping the engine, raising sails, helming with a tiller, doing a heave-to, working knots and ropework, and of course joining in the dockmanship, where he was in charge of the aft starboard line and on arrival the forward starboard line, as well as assisting crew as required in our musical overture’s grand finale.

The Squall

LOG: Sun 9 Aug 09. 1200-1830. Onboard Bébé II (32’ Beneteau). Crew: Ramón, Silvia and myself. Wind: E-NE 13-18 Knots. Seas: 5-6 feet. Barometer: 29.90 steady. Weather: Scattered clouds, distant thunderheads southeast, NOAA small craft caution. Position: Between Sunbay Marina, Fajardo and the Island of Icacos in Puerto Rico.

I am inspired to enter a log in my entries in the manner that Myron Arms writes his in the book, Riddle of the ice: A scientific adventure into the Arctic (1998). He starts every chapter with a log entry for the sailboat Brendan Isle, as it sails into the icy waters of the Labrador Sea, Davis Strait and Baffin Bay. As it ventures north, he states, “… you are a sailor, moving along with the forces of nature rather than against them. You are a minion of the wind—only partially in control of where you go …”

And so it was on this particular Sunday. We debated whether to go to Palomino or Icacos. There was a large thunderhead behind Palomino. Normally these weather formations travel east toward Naguabo. We moved northeast towards Icacos hoping to avoid it but it decided to travel northward and split north and east (to mainland Puerto Rico). Greek mythological sailors, such as Jason and the Argonauts, would have been convinced that the gods had a hand in it. It came straight to us. We came about and headed back to sea rather than to boat-crowded Icacos. In its imminent approach, we reefed the mainsail. Ramón and Silvia furled the jib just as it began to engulf us into its misty grey. I was behind the helm and felt myself becoming “a minion of the wind” and the blinding cold rain. The water looked like the pocked surface of the moon with multiple little peaks. I started the engine and headed close to the wind, working “with the forces of nature rather than against them,” well aware that our bearing kept us from harms way, if it pleased the gods.

Within five minutes that felt like five hours it passed by and the clouds opened as theater curtains to verdant Palomino in the distant center stage. We were drenched. Tissue papers deep in my pockets were soaked. Silvia said the water was colder than normal rainwater. Ramón added that it was thick and hit the skin like pellets. Me, I was so proud of being part of a team that never once panicked, at least not visibly. We pulled together to keep ourselves safe, our sailboat as steady as possible in the turmoil, and her sails intact. After a well-deserved rest in a heave-to, with Palomino to one side and the Fajardo lighthouse to the other, we sailed back uneventfully to Sunbay under sun-clear skies. Scattered dark clouds headed to Naguabo, some to the distant north Atlantic, perhaps to the Labrador Sea.

Three Women at Sea in the Sahara Dust

In the picture on the left, see the haze of the Sahara dust behind Silvia as we sail Lolita.

Silvia, Inés and myself planned to take Lolita (30’ Beneteau) out for a sail on Saturday, June 27, 2009 (1130-1630). NOAA had issued a warning that there would be Sahara dust in the air and therefore lower visibility. The wind was expected to be from the E, 9-13 knots and the seas 2-4 feet. With a due east wind, we chose to sail north towards Icacos.

Lolita had had maintenance work done on her—a mainsail change (which was to be tested by us) and battery changes. As Captain Michael from the CSSC told us later, someone had played with the forward/aft engine lever and left it on neutral. Much to our ignorance when we left dock, the gear was on neutral and moving the lever forward or aft had no reaction except to rev the engine. I thought something was afoul with the maintenance work and as a team and the help of a fellow sailor on dock, we managed to use the wind (without sails) to maneuver into a dock across ours. We did not harm anything or anyone (thanks to the crew and the goddess of the sea). Once we set the little pinkish-white non-descript switch hidden behind the handle from neutral to engaged, we set sail as planned.

As designated captain, I felt dumb for not having figured it out immediately. This gear had always been engaged and ready to go. It was a humbling lesson that nothing can be taken for granted when at sea. Everything at sea is a never-ending learning experience. As the crew said, now we had learned something new to add to our checklist of things to verify before sailing. We worked well as a team under a stressful situation, fearing hurting anything, anyone or Lolita. Once we sorted out our new position in our temporary dock, we set sail again, adrenalin still pumping but joyous that our all female team had saved the day. As we left Sunbay Marina, we spotted a manatee on our starboard side. As sailors of ancient lore, we saw it as a good omen of approval.

Raising the new mainsail was challenging also due to some stiff reefing line that kept getting stuck but that was managed swiftly with a pair of pliers. No adrenalin there. Someone once wrote that the one thing all gung-ho sailors have in common is a love of problem-solving. Once challenges, big or small, are resolved there is such an uplifting sense of pride and wellbeing, which makes the sailing experience twice as pleasurable. You have to solve the problems swiftly so that you can be ready for the next batch, because it is coming.

The Sahara dust gave a misty look to the Caribbean sky and sea (see pix of Silvia with the surrounding white haze). The sail was spectacular, registering up to 5.4 knots on a starboard tack to Icacos. The small island was packed with boats, mostly motor boats, loud music and no moorings available. We were hungry so we opted to heave-to at a distance and enjoy the

sound of the waves and the wind on the sailboat and, of course, the Sahara dust. After lunch (mesa) and our after-lunch restful conversation (sobre-mesa), we sailed back to Icacos to see if we could identify any of the boats. No one we knew well was there. We hove-to again closer to shore but aware that we were being pushed slowly out to sea, and Inés dipped down in the water just to get wet. (see pix of Inés). We sailed back on a port tack and had a peaceful, uneventful sail and docking—three women at sea. We toasted our sail with Passoa and passion fruit on ice.

Summer Sailstice 09 – Caribbean

Sunday, June 21^st, 2009 – 1130 to 1830. It is the first day of summer. Our fleet joined a group of sailboats celebrating Sailors for the Sea and the Summer Sailstice (see link). This organization based in San Francisco, California has a mission “that educates and empowers the boating community to protect and restore our oceans and coastal waters.” They had registered over 2,000 sailboats, including our small fleet and friends.

I was Lolita’s captain, and with Silvia, Inés and Ramón, we set sail from Sunbay Marina to the island of Icacos. We were following Bébé, with Captain Michael and Margarita, the leaders of the fleet. The wind was E-SE, at about 12 knots with occasional gusts. We sailed NE to Icacos and were there in no time (about an hour)—a fun sail on one tack and just in time for lunch. We anchored next to Glory Days (47’ Bavaria- see to the right of the pix above and the pix below), where Captain Carlos and Glory celebrated the solstice with their relatives.

We feasted on Lolita with a homemade Greek salad (I lived and sailed 4 years in Greece), French baguettes from Pepín Bakery, and Inés’s homemade Tarta Cubana (Cuban Torte) filled with a guava spread. We toasted with Passoa (a passion fruit liqueur) mixed with cranberry juice and lots of ice. Carlos and Glory swam over and had some Tarta Cubana. It was lovely to have them onboard.

Bébé had anchored a bit further. Inés and Ramón swam over, and then Ramón kayaked back to Lolita to pick up Silvia and me. We spent time with Captain Michael and Margarita talking boat stuff and future sails. We suddenly noticed the greater presence of sailboats at Icacos. Normally there are far more motorboats than sails. Today, there were masts all around us—we were the majority—Sailors for the Sea.

I spent so much time in the water, by Lolita’s stern that my fingertips wrinkled. I had not done that in a long time. I took the two pictures shown while I was in the water, with my Olympus water-proof (to 16 ft) digital camera. Glory Days, from my selkie perspective, looks to be grazing the clouds’ canopy (see pix below). Silvia is high up in Lolita’s cockpit (see pix above). As the evening approached, we reluctantly sailed back into the sunset.

Celebrating the summer solstice in the Caribbean? Isn’t that as much of an oxymoron as a deafening silence? You may ask, if you are from the north or south of the equator. When one is born and raised in the Caribbean, as my fellow crew and I know, the seasons are very distinct. The arrival of the summer solstice is loudly announced by the fiery flamboyant trees, fully covered with orange-red, red flowers. The Reina de las Flores (queen of flowers tree) joins with her lavender clusters, as do the ripening mangoes, and many other announcers. There are the migrating birds stopping over on their way north—heavenly treats juxtaposed to the beginning of the hurricane season. Our Taino native people had Yuquiyú (the god of good) and Huracán (the god of evil). They knew we couldn’t have one without the other.

To many of us, this is the greatest sailing in the world. We love our seas, and as we are learning, there is only one sea. From our Caribbean shores, we are protecting the California kelp, so that it can continue growing one foot a day in the summer. To borrow the quote from the documentary, “The Living Sea”—“We can’t protect what we don’t understand. What we understand most profoundly, we love.” We love our Caribbean Sea and thank the sailors in San Francisco for protecting it. We are all sailors for the sea.

Silvertone-Blue Sunday Sail

Ramón, Francisco and Silvia joined me on my Sunday sail at 10:00 a.m., onboard Lolita (30' Beneteau), from Sunbay Marina in Fajardo to the island of Icacos. It was overcast with ominous looking clouds SE and fog-covered rainforest mountains inland to the W. There was a small craft advisory. The sky over distant Icacos to the NE was patchy blue, and with an east-southeast (E-SE) wind, we headed NE, away from the gray, unto a blue silvertone sky.

Before leaving dock we prepared Lolita for a reduced sail area, by reefing the mainsail and attaching a jib instead of the genoa. We tacked our way to Icacos, midst conversations about boats, work, relationships, diets and dreams.

We could not find a free mooring, so we anchored and took a dip in the Caribbean teal-blue waters of Icacos, grayer clouds gathering in strength to the E, and SE and the W; away from us, but menacing nonetheless.

We sailed back in half the time it took us to sail to Icacos. We returned, jibing our way towards the hidden rainforest, dark green coast and silvery choppy waters. At about 4:30 p.m. we docked, said our goodbyes (see picture) and our thanks to Lolita for a great sail, a great day and awesome teamwork. We loosely planned our next coastal venture in one or two weeks time, when we may four meet again.

The drive back to San Juan was all rain, dark gray, May showers, wet greens, budding seeds, and silverytone blue skies to the NE.