Being officially out of contact is exciting. A mixture of emotions is swirling in my brain. Thrill, fear, uncertainty, novelty, anticipation, eagerness, and openness take turns controlling my brain. Out of contact means that we have no wifi, no cellular coverage, no VHF contact because the nearest rally boat, is more than 20 miles away, and even our SSB was out of range. We do have our inReach device that allows us to text short messages. Being out of touch with everyone familiar allows us to get in touch with the locals here.

Our rally of 25 boats is hanging out in the San Blas Islands for three weeks and we can sail about as we please. Most of the boats are gathered in the Holandes and Lemmon Cays where the snorkeling is pristine, and the Happy Hours happen daily. While we love this group and participating in these activities, Bill and I were eager to venture out to the authentic Guna villages to learn about their way of life. A few others are doing the same, but we are the farthest east.

Three days ago, we were the only rally boat in Rio Diablo, but I think others will eventually make it here. This community no longer practices the Guna way of life; they are so modernized now that they are actually having a Super Bowl party next week!

From Rio Diablo, we sailed to Snug Harbor and remained the only boat in the anchorage. The closest islands surrounding us were uninhabited, but you could see Playon Chico in the distance. We were visited by many dugout canoes. My favorite was a pair of boats, tied together. The first had a Padre and Madre (father and mother) and eight children, one boy and seven girls, all about 9-15, and the other trailing boat had two lazy older boys without paddles and two adorable white puppies. They came to welcome us to the neighborhood. All were full of giggles and silliness as they explained that they were all one family. I told them that I had a huge family too, and that I had six brothers! The seven girls burst into hysterics and sympathy for me. Our language barrier made it impossible for me to tell them that my six brothers were wonderful siblings. It is becoming easier to say “Hello, How are you?” and other simple phrases in Spanish, but I have very few Guna words down at this point. And their Spanish is no better than mine. They clung to our gunwales (edge of our boat) and chatted with lots of hand motions and repetition until we understood vaguely what they were trying to say. When I offered cold water, they fell all over themselves to pass the cold beverages around. One child kept saying “Bastia” softly with an impish grin. We didn’t understand this word, but thought that he might be saying Boston, seeing we were from the northern US. So we launched into hand motions and words, telling them that we lived near Boston and that our home was covered in snow. They have no word for snow, so they call it “like ice”. We even gave them a tee shirt that showed handicapped skiers on snow. This made them all laugh again hysterically and we watched them pass the tee shirt up and down the line as Madre and Padre paddled slowly home. I looked up Bastia in my guide book and found out it meant candy. Poor kid; he was asking for candy, and all he got was a tee shirt to share with 7 sisters!

Next stop: Mamitupu. We are still here. I may not leave. We are so off the beaten path at this point; we haven’t seen a single sailboat since we left Snug Harbor, only dugouts. Entering this anchorage was challenging as we needed to sail in weaving between reefs with me on the bow for water depth watch and Bill at the helm.

The GPS chart plotter was useless, showing reefs where there was deep water, and vice versa. We could never have done that in low sunlight. As we rounded the corner of the island, children and adults ran to the shore, wildly waving. I was not sure if they were warning us of the reefs or welcoming us. As we dropped anchor, we could see that the children still kept examining this new boat in the harbor and many greeted us as we dinghied to shore. Three teenage boys offered to take us around the village. Two of the boys seemed eager to learn Spanish and English words for things, and kept repeating our words. The third boy saw a few cute girls walking by, and slinked away; the girls were much more intriguing than we were!

This village has about 1200 people, packed into a tiny island. Babies and small children peaked around every hut opening, curious to see such odd looking people. Most women were sitting out in the sun sewing molas, while the men seemed busy walking by us briskly. Most of them had spent the day rowing, singlehandedly, across the bay in their hand built ulus, hiking up into the rainforest to harvest bananas, mangos, yucca, or materials to use for building huts.

Then they paddled back with their ulus packed so full they looked like they were sinking. In fact, they were sinking! Constant bailing was necessary. Some bailed with their feet while paddling with their arms.

The boys brought us to the two schools but these seemed to be closed. One explanation was that they close for 3 months for harvest season. The Congresso was an impressive large hut, used for daily community meetings at 5 pm. All community members older than 18 must attend to hear the plans and grievances of the island. Chiefs of the island run the meetings, assigning tasks for members to keep life running smoothly. While the San Blas are officially part of Panama, the Panamanian government allows them to be autonomous, which seems to be working out nicely.

We were welcomed into both of the boys’ homes. In each home, they quickly found two plastic chairs for us to sit on, while most of the family members stood. Grandmothers hung in hammocks, and babies played naked on the dirt floor. There were no tables, beds, toys, curtains, or anything! Just bare huts with hammocks hanging out of the way, waiting to be hung more strategically for night use. One mom was sewing a mola when her one year old climbed into her lap to nurse, then climbed back down again to play in the dirt. The mom continued chatting with us, unfazed by the child’s clambering.

They offered us food, but we declined. I wish I could have said yes, both to be polite, as well as to sample what they eat, but we are not confident our delicate digestive systems are up for the challenge of this environment. Hand washing seems to be a foreign concept, refrigeration is nonexistent here, and food is stored and prepared on or near the dirt. This made me realize that our tidy lifestyle actually makes us weaker, rather than stronger!

While strolling through the village, we met Pablo, a Guna who speaks some English. We had heard about his coconut press which made coconut oil, and asked him how that worked. When he told us the machine was broken, I quickly jumped in to say that Bill was an Engineer, and could take a look at it. He asked us to come back the next day for a look. Bill later almost glared at me and said “why did you sign me up for this?” I knew that helping the Gunas would be a rewarding experience, and that Bill would be grateful in the end that I jumped in with the offer. And I was right!

Sure enough, working on the generator the next day was a gratifying experience for Bill. He felt like a “surgeon in a teaching hospital” as the village men gathered to watch this gringo operate on their machine. At one point, Bill was blowing on a small tube, seeing if the seals were tight, and I heard the men ask “why is he smoking it?” After at least an hour of disassembly, cleaning, and reassembly, the generator fired right up. It turned out that the coconut press worked fine, it was this generator that held up the works.

While Bill performed magic on the generator, I tried to connect with the community. Knowing that food is an important commodity, I had baked cornbread aboard Alembic that morning to share in the village. First, I offered it to a few children, then their moms, and soon old folks began emerging from huts to come sample this “strange food”. All eagerly reached out their hands for a sample. Soon, I was rewarded with the best looking mangoes, delivered to me by a naked little cherub.

When the bread was gone, I pulled out a bit of string I had in my bag and began placing it in the hands of small children, about 4-6 years old. I guided them wordlessly, with a light touch on their shoulder, into a huge circle, so the ends of the string could be tied in a knot while the children held the string in a circle. One bead was tied on the string, and could freely slide along the circle if the children could figure out how to make this happen. With a little encouragement, they discovered while one child held his hand high and the next held his hand low, the bead would slide down. Then the low hand had to go up, etc, so the bead could continue to travel in the circle. Watching the delight in these children was heartwarming. They have no TV, toys, bikes, or even art supplies. But they have imaginations, and eagerness, and teamwork and enormous gratitude. The boys continued to play this game for a long time, shrieking with delight as they gained power over the concept.

Last night, Pablo, his lovely wife, Jacinta, and their 3 year old grandson came to Alembic for a visit. Jacinta showed me how to prepare coconut and a few other local vegetables, while the boy played our Ukulele and Pablo and Bill had a few beers. I wish we had more time to stay at this island, as I definitely could see us fitting in to this community. Our acceptance was evident this morning, as we strolled through the village for the third day. This time, rather than peaking from behind hut entrances, the children bounced out in our path to yell “Ola!” as we walked by. Everyone seemed to greet us warmly today, not shyly as they had the first day.

I’m not looking forward to raising our anchor today…

Note: I wrote this on Jan 30, but didn’t have enough data connection to post until today, Feb 16.

While Colombia was the area that caused us the most anxiety in our planning stage, the San Blas Islands was our prize destination, what we looked forward to with unwavering anticipation. Now that we have been here for exactly one week, we can confirm that this archipelago is spectacular.

Getting here was surprisingly more challenging than we had expected. The first day was simple. Leaving Cartagena at noon, we sailed lazily eight miles down the river with many of the rally boats as if in a parade. You could hear each of us calling Cartagena Port Control on Channel 16 on the VHF. English was the spoken language for this communication, and you could sense the challenge from cruisers and Colombian radio operators as many tried to speak this foreign language. Of course the radio operators went back to Spanish when local boats called. It was necessary to report our exit, say how many people were aboard, and indicate where we were planning to make our next stop. Each of us said Isla Del Rosario was our destination. After exiting the river, we headed southwest for 15 miles and anchored well before sunset at Isla Grande, which is part of the Islas Rosarios. Here, we never even launched our dinghy, choosing to relax, make dinner, and go to bed early.

Our second day was not so easy. We raised the anchor at 7:30 after our oatmeal and tea, and headed out into very light air, with barely enough wind off the starboard bow to fill our sails. But by ten, we had 15 knots on the beam with all four sails working. At first, we were enjoying this ride. Dolphins joined us and Bill caught another tuna. The winds piped up a bit, up to 20 knots, and the seas built to 6-8 feet. By noon, we resolved into a rough ride. By 4pm we were hoping for relief. And there were still 18 more hours to go.

I don’t know why this trip was so miserable. Other rally boats reported that this was an unusually miserable ride for them as well. Here’s a comparison with our trip from Haiti to Colombia: From Haiti: 25-35 knot winds and 12 foot seas for 72 hours. From Isla Grande: 15-23 knot winds and 7 foot seas for 27 hours. Which sounds more pleasant? If you guessed from Isla Grande, you would be incorrect. By a long shot. Both were winds right on the beam (not winds coming from ahead or from behind, but exactly 90 degrees to the boat). This is supposed to be the best angle of sail, right? Again, wrong! Not this trip! Maybe the waves were steeper, or more confused or something; whatever the combination, it was lousy.

To make matters worse, we had rivers of salt water below in our cabin. Again, to compare to our Haiti trip, which was perfectly dry below, even when the waves were soaking us up in the cockpit, this made no sense. We came to a conclusion: most of our trip from Maine to Colombia was on a port tack (wind coming over the port, or left, side of the boat), while this trip was on a starboard tack. New leaks opened up to allow a steady flow of water in three places. One stream developed down the inside of our wet locker, where we, ironically, hang foul weather jackets and pants. The second came down from a chain plate and soaked all of my clothes. The third, and most concerning, dripped in from a small screw hole, enabling salt water to drip steadily on the SSB radio, channel across the top of the device, and spill over the front, causing a river on the floor below.

Dropping anchor in the San Blas, at 10:30 am the following day, was such a relief. I could not even reflect on the beautiful place we had come to; being so overwhelmed with the looming work of cleaning up all the salt water and assessing the damage. I have to admit that I was at such a low point, I almost cried, exclaiming “I hate Alembic”. Bill made some breakfast and tried to get me to eat, but I was in stubborn automatic cleaning mode. My first concern was the SSB radio, and my second task was to drag all of my clothes out of the lockers, rinse them with our precious little fresh water, and hang them up in the rigging to dry. Once I completed this, I collapsed into the cockpit and fell dead asleep.

Waking only 30 minutes later, I was surprisingly refreshed, and heartily ate what Bill had prepared. Relieved to hear Bill’s assessment that the SSB was still functioning, I realized that Alembic didn’t really deserve all of my pessimism. I had been simply exhausted from being up all night. Bill had been sick and I was on permanent watch for almost the entire trip. It’s amazing how just a nap can change your whole perspective. I now could look around me and let my jaw drop in wonderment.

I found out two days later, that the name of the anchorage we were floating in was the Hot Tub. How appropriate! Thank you, John and Georgina, for calling us on the VHF and suggesting we anchor here with you! We really needed the luxurious relaxation provided by this Hot Tub!

We reveled in the Hot Tub for two days, snorkeling around astonishingly beautiful reefs, and zooming about the “neighborhood” in our dinghy. Another anchorage nearby, called the Swimming Pool, had about 30 sailboats, with plenty of room for more, while our Hot Tub, was crowded with about 15 boats. This group of islands was called the Holandes, and one of the most popular areas of the San Blas.

Reluctant to leave, we moved on to another very popular set of islands, called the Lemmon Cays, only about 6 miles away, to attend a Jumble. This is a gathering of cruising boats where spare gear is shared, swapped, or sold, to other cruisers. It is a great opportunity to swap charts and guide books that you don’t need anymore because you are moving on to new areas. Another grand purpose for a Jumble is for cruisers to meet, have a Happy Hour, and trade stories and plans. Bill was intrigued by the kite sailing gear for sale, and I was enamored by the mola products an Italian woman was selling. She buys molas (fabric art which is the main product in the San Blas) and sews them onto handbags, iPad cases, wallets, or anything you can imagine. Her prices were ridiculously low. She had beautiful handbags, originally purchased in Italy, with full size molas for only $25! I had just purchased three molas from Guna Indians paddling dugout canoes up to Alembic and the prices I paid were $35, $40, and $60. And these were not on Italian handbags! This Italian woman explained that you can get a much better deal on molas closer to the mainland, in villages where they make them. This became my plan: sail to traditional villages, meet the mola makers, and purchase more to bring home to share.

Our private anchorage was peaceful; a small deep pool surrounded on all sides by mangroves. While most of the Lemmon Cays were crowded with cruising boats, this spot was challenging enough to enter, allowing us to enjoy complete solitude. We radioed our rally friends to welcome others here too, and the following day Echo and Shamal navigated the reefs to join us for a second night. Pelicans dive bombed the tranquil pool, like chubby people doing cannonballs, disturbing the peace and making us laugh as they gulped down their catch. They are so clumsy compared to the graceful terns and herons who delicately swoop and grab fish with their talons without even a splash. Eagles perched in the highest branches of the palm trees, watching the scene.

We continued to enjoy our rally friends, having Happy Hours and dinners aboard boats, sailing to nearby anchorages, and snorkeling on dramatic reefs. Luckily, we heard about the ten foot crocodile after we enjoyed one spot. I’m not sure I would have been brave enough to swim in the Swimming Pool if Michel and Brigette had told us of their siting beforehand! Many of the reefs have walls where the water depth drops from a few feet deep to over ninety feet straight down. We even saw a reverse wall, where the top was actually an overhang. One reef came so close to the surface that Bill and I suffered many scrapes crossing over it to get to the deep wall on the other side. It was hard to enjoy the deep side, knowing we had to cross the bar again to get back to our dinghy.

After enjoying these relaxing islands for four days, we decided to be fully legal, and sailed to Isla Porvenir to check in, a necessary evil. It was only evil to our budget. $465.00! Yikes! There were four desks to attend: first the cruising permit ($195), then the police who checked our passports, next the Gunas ($20 per boat and $20 per person), and Immigration ($105 per person). We felt so sorry for the twenty-something European guy who arrived to check in his boat and crew. He had 3 friends aboard who were leaving in a few days, and didn’t realize the huge fees he was facing. With his head drooping in despair, he headed back to the boat to get more cash. US dollars only, no credit cards. Who has this type of cash aboard??? And who is willing to part with it? At least we were only two and would be spending over a month in Panama and the San Blas Islands, so the expense was worth it for us.

After checking in, we considered visiting the little village to our stern, and should have, as we later found out that they had Digicel Sim cards for sale which we needed for any hope of wifi. Instead, Bill visited John on Oystergo to assist with starting his engine. Poor John, he is single handing and first he lost his steering, going in circles trying to enter Porvenir, then his batteries died and even a 3 hour charge by his generator didn’t help to start the engine. Jeff from Echo came over too and the 3 of them managed to get it going finally. Traveling in a group definitely has benefits. The next day, we heard John was repairing his mainsail. Always something on a boat, and I feel bad that he has had to face so many challenges.

Leaving Porvenir, we sailed back to the Eastern Lemmon Cays, another group of delightful islands and reefs. Snorkeling on the wrecked freighter was well worth the dinghy ride. Fish and coral have commandeered it over the past 60 years and have created a paradise for us to view. Happy Hour on Blue later that day was fun, as we reunited with Rhumb Runner who had sailed off to Panama to collect a new dinghy and pick up a visitor. We also met a wonderful family from Austria who are interested in sailing to New York and possibly Maine. The following day we visited with them to share our favorite areas and give them waypoints for excellent anchorages and our mooring in Maine.

Ready to leave these idyllic island groups, Bill and I were eager to seek more authentic Guna culture in islands further south and east. First we sailed to Green Island and enjoyed a nice swim and Happy Hour aboard Malika. Michel and Brigette are French and can barely speak English, so the three hour visit was entirely in French. I am surprised how well my French is developing chatting with the 5 French boats in our rally. I also feel bad for them because they mentioned that they won’t go further south, or through the canal because the language barrier is such a challenge.

We are spoiled that most cultures try to speak English and you can travel the world knowing only English. Bill and I are trying to learn Spanish, Bill with Rosetta Stone, and me with stumbling about with hand gestures, pictures, and efforts of speaking. Knowing French has definitely helped with my Spanish, as many of the words are similar, especially if you are reading. We are now at the point where we would feel comfortable landing in a Spanish-only community. A lot of confusion would ensue, but we could get by.

Rio Diablo was our next destination. There are two island communities, Nargana and Corazon de Jesus, linked by a walking bridge. Here the people have given up their traditions of the Guna lifestyle and even have a prison and police force, unnecessary with traditional Gunas. Nevertheless, the people had the same gentle personality and greeted us warmly. Federico was the first to greet us as soon as our anchor was settled. An older, roundish man with a huge smile explained that he would take our garbage for a dollar and could bring us gas and do our laundry. We took him up on the garbage disposal, always a challenge in remote islands. Some cruisers have bonfires on deserted beaches to take care of this; we will probably do this at some point too. You shouldn’t bring garbage ashore, or give it to a kid for a buck, because you will soon find it floating about the bay. We had heard that Federico would deal with garbage appropriately.

Exploring this community, we found our Digicel Sim card and also purchased two cards which allow us to import data for wifi. How much data this purchase ($19) amounted to has been a mystery. We barely have any connection and can’t figure out how to see how many GB we have. We have been able to connect to wifi but just barely, and incredibly slowly; I’ve decided it’s just not worth the effort. We also found a bank, but it had no money!  And the boat yard was busy with many repairs that looked much simpler than repairing Alembic.

Heading up the Rio Diablo was a great adventure.  Many ulus were headed up there too, collecting water, visiting their deceased, and harvesting veggies.  To sum up our San Blas Island experience so far: this is well worth the effort in getting here! Snorkeling and anchorages are second to none, and the Guna culture is fascinating. Tomorrow, we are leaving the most popular cruising grounds in favor of exploring more of this culture. More to come…

Bill and I had stayed in a hotel in the old city of Cartagena twice before, one night each on our way to and from the airport at Christmas-time. So sailing to Cartagena should’ve been very familiar, right? Wrong! My impression of this city had been that of a very old, low to the ground, walled city. Upon entering from the sea, it looked like New York City with huge, modern sky scrapers. I was completely disappointed. But I got over it. I love this city!

We entered the harbor as if in a parade. 25 sailboats, single file, maneuvered around cargo ships in transit, small fishing boats with long fishing lines out every which way, speeding motorboats with far too many passengers aboard, and even a submarine under way! Our rally organizer, Suzanne, had arranged with the Colombian Navy to be escorted to an anchorage right beside the old city. When we had visited before, this anchorage was empty; all cruising boats were anchored further south in a crowded area.

We were instructed to call the Cartagena Port Authority to gain permission to enter the nine mile long channel, so the VHF radio traffic was a steady stream of rally folks chatting in several languages. The Port Authority called each of us back again to give us exact latitude/longitude positions to drop our anchor. This created quite a comedy scene as we all entered the tight area, dropped anchors and backed down with 100 feet of chain. Alembic’s designated waypoint to drop the anchor was right under a catamaran’s boat, because they had dropped in their position and backed down 100 feet to our position! This boat had a young boy aboard, so I asked him to watch out as I dropped a huge anchor on his feet. He was entertained, not worried, as we splashed our anchor right beside him. It all worked out. We settled like ships on a battleship board, each of us lining up with the wind and spaced about 100 feet apart. I’d like an aerial photo of our formation. Luckily, the wind has continued to blow, keeping us lined up facing the breeze. If this wind stops, and we drift about our anchors in random circles, there will likely be collisions!

As soon as everyone settled in their assigned spots, we launched our dinghies and headed to shore for a welcome party at Club de Pesca. This yacht club rivals any fancy club in New England. Elegant drinks, exquisite hors d’oeuvres, and beautifully dressed people filled the tiled outdoor establishment. Bill and I are not yacht club people; we have found them to be stuffy and unwelcoming to the “underdressed” or “simple” people. But this was breaking all of my negative images of hoity-toity clubs. They welcomed all of us warmly and made it clear that they would do anything to make our week long stay in their city enjoyable.

Festivities began the next morning with the club’s first Regatta of the year, where all of the captains of the sailboats welcomed any rally sailors to hop aboard. Many of our group took this offer, and experienced this race, with screaming Spanish captains, blaring latin music, a myriad of shots of tequila, many close calls, and even a collision at the start. Most of the rally guests had no idea what was being screamed to the crew, and were entertained by the back and forth shouting followed by plenty of jolly cheering. After the race, we all sat at tables with our boat crews and enjoyed free beer, margaritas, delicious latin food, and hilarious recounts of the day’s race.

We were instructed by a crew member to go to Club de Havana that night for live Cuban music and salsa dancing. Following orders, we headed out at 11 pm. Music started closer to midnight, but we were glad to have arrived early to find a space in the crowded club. True to his word, this was an authentic experience with a bona fide eight member Cuban band. Surrounding us, were Colombians, aged 21 to 71, dancing to the lively beat. Bill, John, and I danced along with them, but I’m afraid it was obvious that we were gringos who wished they could salsa!

The next day, Sunday, was scorching hot at the outset. Hoping to experience a Catholic mass at the old Cathedral, we opted to take a taxi, rather than walk, so we wouldn’t be dripping with sweat upon arrival. The service was serene, with a priest speaking Spanish so quietly, that I could barely hear him from our pew near the back. Throughout the cathedral, fans blew wildly, whipping my hair around, further hindering my hearing, but keeping us cool throughout the mass.

A vagrant, whom we have seen every day in Cartagena, sat in the pew right in front of us, leaving and returning throughout the mass. This particular man can be seen walking in and out of many establishments throughout town, begging for money. Colombians show no signs of frustration when nonpaying guests come in to their restaurants, stores, museums and churches. Most of these wanderers have something to sell, and will approach each customer to ask for money. Many people play music, dance, or try to sell jewelry, flowers, cigars, or handmade art. We have given many people money for their unsolicited performances, but rarely pay for any items. Teenage rap singers, a 12 year old opera singer, a family dressed up as gold statues, a group of street funk dancers, and a violin player were among our favorites. This bum in the church, unfortunately, had nothing to sell, and was clearly seriously mentally disabled. I am curious about the social programs offered for the homeless. Santa Marta and Cartagena seem to have few seriously disturbed homeless people wandering the streets, at least less per capita than I have seen in Portland Maine.

On Monday, we walked to the fort and learned about how many battles the people of Cartagena have endured. This gave me even more reasons to love the people here. The views from the top were amazing.

Tuesday and Wednesday were spent traveling around the city on foot, trying to find many boat parts. We needed a piece of cable, a new cap for our diesel jug, rechargeable batteries, and a few other things. What is a simple task in the US is a full day task here, and we often come up empty handed. That’s okay, though, as we have learned to improvise with everything we do. And the experience of going to a ferreteria (hardware store), drawing pictures, using our Spanish dictionary, and lots of hand signals is fun. Each ferreteria is unique and only carries a few categories of items. They usually have a counter a few feet from the sidewalk, and employees go to the shelves behind to fetch what you are interested in buying. When we do find what we want, we are always shocked by the low price, like the mini batteries for 30 cents a piece.

Today, Jennifer, a local woman who speaks fluent English and French, came to Club de Pesca, to show us the many fruits in season here in Colombia. We tasted all of them while learning about the culinary and medicinal benefits of each. Now we are all better prepared to select offerings from the San Blas folks who paddle around in dugout canoes, trading their produce for items we have on board. Locals in the San Blas don’t need money, but are always interested in our fresh water, canned vegetables to stretch their locally grown choices, and other items for fishing, art or learning.

We will be sad to leave this vibrant city, and plan to return someday soon. We have plans to leave tomorrow, and sail toward the San Blas Islands. But first, we are heading off now to a farewell dinner, put on by the wonderful Club de Pesca. More latin food and drinks and lessons in Salsa!

While we loved Santa Marta, we were eager to untie the lines and sail again. We left at first light on Friday, and entered the harbor with 24 other sailboats. Two swimmers grabbed a navigation buoy and held on, hoping to avoid being run over by the parade. We often saw these swimmers in the early morning, getting in a long workout. The times we tried to do this, my mouth filled with gasoline-tasting water, and Bill got tangled in plastic bags! We were not brave enough to try again.

The harbor was soon filled with catamarans and monohulls traveling in zigzags, as we headed into the wind to raise sails, and heading off the wind to get on course. Once underway and on our course, we lost much of this great wind, and started engines to keep up the pace. We all wanted to get to the anchorage in Porto Valero, 55 miles ahead.

Approaching the Barranquilla River, was bizarre. The water had a clear line marking the fresh river water flowing on top of the Caribbean Sea salt water. I would like to do a study to see why this water doesn’t mix more, giving a gradual color change. We were almost three miles out to sea from the mouth of this river, and there seemed to be no mixing. Bill caught a tuna as we approached this line, as did several other sailors nearby. Apparently, this water causes a wall of sorts, where the tuna swim with the current, hit the wall, and turn around. In their confusion, they bite on lures more frequently than they tend to during the more steady water patterns.

As the water changed from a clear turquoise to a milky cafe au lait, the wind also changed from a docile breeze to a spirited ride. We moved along briskly at this point, and witnessed too much wind as we turned the corner to head into the anchorage. No matter, the sea state was calm, and the boats settled nicely at anchors.

Luckily, Bill noticed, even in the dim light, that we had blown out another luff tack. This mainsail is only a few months old and we’ve already blown out three. We have sliders that run up the mast with webbing to attach the sliders to the mainsail. The webbing doesn’t tear, but it becomes unstitched. I just stitch them back in place, hoping my stitching will last longer than the original. This time, however, the slider actually broke, allowing the webbing to slip right out. As the sun went down, I stitched the webbing back on to a new slider and ran it up the track. Fingers crossed that this fix will hold.

The Colombian authorities came around to each boat to check us in. The officers must have been new to this job, because they caused damage to the first boat they visited. They tied their small vessel to a cleat on Bayzano, and with a rolling swell in the anchorage, the boats lurched, yanking on the cleat, loosening it. Luckily, they just did drive by’s for the rest of us, taking pictures of the boat and calling it good.

Knowing we would be rising well before dawn to complete our passage to Cartagena the next day, we all turned out lights, except the mast heads, and went to sleep. I would have liked to have gone to shore to explore this new place, but there was no time.

Rising at 4 am, we found the air completely calm. After a quick bowl of oatmeal and a cup of tea, we raised anchor, and set out into the dark. Raising the mainsail was a waste of time, and we soon dropped it back down again, resigned to a day of motoring. Slight breezes came and went throughout the day, and you could see all of us raising sails, only to find them mostly drooping lazily. This confused me. We had worried about the coast of Colombia since the start of the trip in Maine. We had been warned that the coast had stormy weather with huge seas all the time, and to prepare for this accordingly. Well, we have sailed along this coast on three separate days so far, and each day has been so mellow and barely enough wind to fill sails.

This journey has been all about surprises. Nothing is as we expected. The books and charts are guidelines, but each day brings new weather patterns and conditions to deal with. So far, we have found that Alembic has outperformed all of our expectations. Bill and I have found many surprises with our relationship as well. After being together for 34 years, we thought we knew everything about each other. I am happy to report that all of our new findings have just brought us closer, and stronger. We are looking forward to seeing all of our loved ones, and our favorite home, Maine, but we also have learned that we want to keep sailing. We are now making plans to revisit some of the places we have seen, and explore new ports as well.

Hopefully, some of you will come along for parts of our journey. Kenny and Jenna just booked tickets this week to be with us in Belize, Cay and George will also be joining us for another week in Belize, and Ben and Pat are trying to arrange a time that works for them as well. We are a moving target, so booking flights can be challenging, but we are always hopeful to share this amazing experience with others. Alembic is ten feet longer than our last cruising boat, Wings, a Westsail 32, giving us space for more on board. Come help us fill this space!

Seven days ago, we returned to Santa Marta after a full three weeks away. Now my mind is in a bit of a jumble trying to switch gears from the Maine way of life, to that of Colombia. In addition to formidable efforts to speak Spanish and stay cool in this sweltering heat, we are adjusting to sailing in the company of 24 other boats. Well, we haven’t sailed yet, but this is the plan, starting on Thursday. A few days ago, Bill said “It feels like we are freshmen in college all over again”. Yes, it does. We are trying to remember names of people, names of boats (dorms?), and who is paired with whom (remember how important this knowledge was in college?!)

Back in August, we joined an OCC (Ocean Cruising Club) Rally which was to begin in Curacao Jan 2 and end in Belize May 1. Knowing we would be in Maine at the time of the introductions and first sailing legs from Curacao to Aruba and on to Santa Marta, Colombia, we decided to sail to Santa Marta early (arrived December 10), fly home to Maine, and be back in the marina when they arrived.

First to arrive was Shamal, with John and Georgina on board. They, like us, sailed directly from the Bahamas, and were eager to meet the rest of the Rally goers. Having a full day to get to know our new friends was wonderful, and easy. The next day, four more boats arrived, and I managed to learn each of their names and on which boats each person resided. I was thrilled to learn that Michel and Brigette, from France, were eager to converse with me in French. Then came the remaining boats and everything went blurry. Names, countries, boats, and languages, were all in a big pot of confusion. Luckily, someone had organized a cheat sheet with all of the boat names, people names, hailing ports, and boat types. They even had photos of the people! The Swedes’ photos were swapped, and a few pieces of information were missing, but receiving this by email was much appreciated. Editing the document as I learned more about each person, I used this chart like flash cards, where you memorized your new vocabulary words in school.

I believe I have most of the names down now, but which boats they are on is still somewhat of a mystery. We have already had a few Rally meetings, two pot luck dinners, and a jam session up at the marina headquarters area and many of us have gone to town and beyond together on foot, taxi, or small bus. Bill and I are having a grand time traveling beyond Santa Marta in small groups. It’s a toss up to decide which is more fun, amusements with the Rally folks or adventuring inland.

On Sunday, eight of us hired two taxis to take us to Minca, a small town up in the mountains. From there we set off on foot, up a dusty road, to a coffee plantation.

Too bad I don’t drink coffee; the others told me that it was excellent. We gave ourselves our own guided tour of the coffee factory because we couldn’t wait the twenty minutes for a tour guide. As a result of El Nino, it has been exceptionally dry lately and we noticed that the water wheel was not running. There was a small electric motor running the huge drive shaft which is normally run by hydropower. Up here in the mountains, the power is scarce, so using it for processing the coffee beans meant that the espresso machine upstairs couldn’t be used.

After a delicious lunch at the coffee plantation, we headed back up the forest trail and down the dusty road back to Minca. The sweet little town, which seemed more of a crossroad than a village, was packed with locals celebrating their last night of the Three Kings holiday week. Buses, taxis, and motorcycles with far too many passengers on each, crowded the tiny intersection. As we threaded through the throngs of vacationers, we wondered how we would get down the mountain. No one in their right mind should travel up that winding road unless they were sure of a customer willing to pay to get down. A clever old man spotted us, calculating the fare he would collect if he could manage to cram us all in his jalopy. Christian, the best at speaking Spanish, got the front seat, four of us squeezed into the back seat, which was built for two, and two contortionists, Nigel and Bill, folded into the back, the space meant to carry a few bags of groceries. As soon as the tinny doors were closed and secured by rope (!), we began plummeting down the mountain. In our broken Spanish, we tried to tell our ancient driver that we were not in any hurry, but he insisted on playing slalom with every vehicle on the road. Many times, oncoming trucks had to slam on their brakes to avoid a head on collision with us, as our intrepid driver wove through the continuous line of cars heading down. The winding road, with switchbacks almost dangling over the cliffs, would be scary even at slow speeds and with no other vehicles.

Maybe it was the prayers, maybe it was gravity, but we made it down to the bottom of the mountain. I wondered if our driver was as relieved as we were to have arrived unharmed. I also wondered if he could take passengers up the hill, or if the old clunker had to go back up empty.

The following morning, we again assembled at the marina office, this time with 11 different people. We headed off to Tayrona National Park to hike and swim in several beach areas. The stop at the fruit stand was beautiful, and tasty. The selection was much better than any of the grocery stores we had visited. Lucky for us, the line to get into the park was ridiculously long, and we stood a chance to be told that the park reached max capacity for the day. Our tour guide, Andres, came up with a new plan, which proved to be much more fun.

First, we hiked into a waterfall where we swam in a crystal clear pool while watching the water plummet from the sky and also continue to fall well below us to many more pools and the river. After another short jaunt in the bus, we began another hike, this time into an indigenous village and toward a river where we jumped into tubes and floated for over an hour while watching howler monkeys and birdlife in the branches hanging above us.

The river carried us to the mouth, where it dumped into the Caribbean Sea. Here, we were advised not to swim because the waves were rough; our legs were getting sand blasted while just wading.

Shallow draft boats took us back up the river to where we had begun. Here we enjoyed a five star lunch. I really wanted to snooze in the nearby hammocks after the filling meal, but we were escorted back to the boats to the “bus stop”.

Back home to the marina, we showered off the dust and prepared for the jam session. This group knows how to have fun! We had several guitars and shakers, and Jeff’s masterful skill on his enormous keyboard kept us on tempo. Finally, the day’s events caught up with us and we began dropping with exhaustion.

Another day of boat chores and trips to town to provision our galley and our mechanical spares, we are ready to head off. But first another BBQ! The marina provided us with music and DJ’s who sang and we provided the food. Now I can say that I know everyone’s names and will be looking forward to leaving tomorrow to sail on to new places.

How lucky I am. We had a parade of warm welcomes from so many dear people on our quick jaunt north for Christmas. In order of occurrence, not in order of importance, because how can you really put these huge bundles of love in any kind of order? The list looks something like this:
Jolie and Dan left the lights on, so that we could tiptoe up to Chloe’s room to sleep when we arrived at midnight.
Jolie set up a perfect first breakfast and a bit of time with her when she really should have been meeting clients.
Time alone with Mom, which is always a rare event that I can never get enough of, so a few hours was a treat!
Then time to chat with Dad even though he was exhausted from four hours with lively Elizabeth.
Kenny and Jenna welcomed us at their new home where their skills of craftsmanship and interior design are blossoming.
Christine, Christian, Cathy and Matt prepared our favorite foods, and arranged a great visit and a cosy room for the night.

Winn Dixie time for me and guy time for Bill to fill our hearts with companionship extraordinaire.
A quick visit with Steph and Teo to make me really miss CBHS and all of its meaningful connections.
Erica stepping off a plane from Colorado with a face so lit up it could warm any planet.
Camp. Nuff said.
Back to Kenny and Jenna’s for Lindsay’s arrival and a day where the girls finished Christmas prep and the boys finished (almost) the deck.

Camp time hiking and family gatherings.
Back to Connecticut for Christmas Eve at Ann and Al’s with most of the Swanson Gang.
Christmas celebrations and overindulging in delicious foods with the Weigels, Kwokas, Woolstons, and Wills.
Dancing at Loose Boots, catching up with our Mt Abram Village family, and lounging.
Dining in Boston with Conor’s parents who were more lovely than I imagined.
One final night at Lindsay’s awesome home in Boston.

Little things meant the most. The hugs, the laughs, the sharing of new ideas and challenges, the plans and hopes that were expressed, the brilliant wisdom and recollections from the hearts of those we care about. I was so topped off by the time we had to say goodbye, that I knew that this journey to Maine was well worth the time and expense. I dissolved into tears saying good bye to Sue Luthe, because she said she would take care of our children in our absence. This is the hardest part of our cruise; leaving behind our children and all of the people we love. Thank you, Mama Sue, for always being there for the Mt Abram family. And thank you to all of my siblings who cheerfully lend a hand every time a family member is in need.

Seeing Alembic again gave us a huge sigh of relief for many diverse reasons. First, she was safe and unharmed by the storms that had charged through during our absence. Second, Colombian officials hadn’t taken her into custody as a result of our expired documentation. Third, we were home in our cosy, efficient space. And fourth, we could again focus on each other, and our upcoming adventures. The sigh of relief was balanced by the melancholy feelings of already missing our loved ones. My challenge today, and in the days to come, is to fully engage in the adventure at hand. Whether I am deep in conversation with a loved one, battling enormous seas, sailing in light air, coming ashore in a foreign land, swimming with new species of marine life, or planning our next voyage, I hope to be able to be wholly present.

I have launched into another world. I’m currently flying miles above the earth on a Jet Blue airplane from Cartagena Colombia to New York City. Bill and I are on our way home to Maine to spend Christmas with family. After living aboard Alembic and traveling on the ocean where I could simply reach over the side and dip my hand into the seawater, this flying vessel interrupts my sense of connectedness to the earth. My world for the past three months has become more and more simplified as I sail, swim, and walk on or near the ocean.

Most of my time has been aboard or very near our compact sailboat, Alembic. We swim close to the boat, and venture a bit further away by dinghy to reach areas too shallow for our five foot draft. Sometimes we roam on foot on nearby shores to meet people, exercise, or shop for food and boat parts. Other times we paddle our SUP (Stand Up Paddleboard) around an anchorage for exercise, exploration, visiting people, or as a visible buoy traveling beside a swimmer (Bill or me), so the swimmer doesn’t get run over by passing boats.

The number of hours I have been apart from the boat has been minimal. In the past three months, I can count the number of times that I have traveled by means other than by boat, on foot, or swimming. Here’s the count: we took a taxi in New York City, rode bikes in Cape May and in Oriental NC, rode in the cars of Jim and Anne, Rick, and Bruce a few times in Annapolis to pick up boat parts, took a taxi to bring Lindsay to and from the airport in George Town, took one bus ride to Cartagena, and one taxi ride to the airport to catch this plane. That’s it! This adds up to about ten hours of travel other than by foot, swimming, riding the dinghy, or sailing.

Some people ask me “When are you coming back to the Real World?” I think I am living in the Real World when I sail by the wind, catch rainwater from the sky, eat fish from the sea, charge batteries by solar and wind power, walk barefoot on the ground, and stay continuously mindful of the weather. Each day, I rise with the sun, sit in the cockpit with my tea, and contemplate my day’s adventures. Each night, I watch the sun set, and consider when the moon will rise. This feels very real to me.

I don’t want to be judgmental; after all, this trip is about finding peace and perspective while opening up my lens for a more broad view of the world. I won’t interpret the term Real World because it is different for everyone, and each of us has to define it from our own unique experience. I am grateful every day for this opportunity to explore the meaning of Real World for me.

All I can say for certain, is that I feel confused right now, up here in this plane. I have missed my children, parents, other family members and friends terribly while I sail, and look forward to seeing most of them on the other end of this flight. This flight is linking my separate worlds in time, but not helping me figure out how to link them in my heart. I suppose I must learn to navigate my discreet Real Worlds. And perhaps they are more connected than they appear.

Getting to Colombia was our biggest nut to crack. The Caribbean Sea is known for relentless high winds and seas, and this would be our first venture to a truly foreign land. Bill and I had sailed to the Bahamas, Turks and Caicos, Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands and Dominican Republic decades ago, but had not ventured further south. I can’t tell you how many hours we stared at the Pilot Charts (statistical data on wind and wave conditions by month) and talked with people who had sailed here before. The clear message was that the winds would blow at least 25 knots and the seas would be at least eight feet. These conditions are nothing new to us or to Alembic, but we were concerned about traveling three days straight and being overwhelmed if the conditions piped up. The Christmas Winds, we learned, were notorious for escalating to fifty knots and thirty foot seas, and could begin any time in December.

Chris Parker, our single sideband weatherman, had advised us to hang tight before moving south of the Windward Passage (the body of water between Cuba and Haiti) so we tucked in to Haiti for five days. We experienced almost zero wind in our protected anchorages there while the Caribbean Sea roared just south of us. Once we had the okay from Chris, we said our goodbyes, raised the anchor and headed due south. Within three miles, our zero winds turned to twenty and the seas were confused as we tried different sail arrangements. Up with the mainsail, two reefs; out with the genoa, roll it back in halfway for a smaller sail; up with the mizzen, reef that too; up with the inner jib; down with the mizzen. Finally, we settled with the double reefed main, inner jib, and a genoa that we could use as a throttle. We rolled it out when our speed went down and in when our speed was uncomfortably fast. We tried to sail Alembic under eight knots because more than that just caused more crashing into the seas.

Soon, we settled into a nice routine of watches. Bill and I traded being in charge every two hours. This allowed for plenty of off watch time to try to sleep, cook, and navigate. Alembic was fabulous. I highly recommend this boat to anyone. She seemed to relish the wind and rolled gently with each wave that passed under her keel. A beam reach (wind directly on the side of the boat) is the perfect angle and this was the position the entire three days. When larger waves approached at a rate of about once every half hour, we were showered with a spray that soaked the entire boat except the area under the dodger. So we hunkered down in the two corners of this dodger while the autopilot steered. When we ventured out further in the cockpit to adjust sails and search the horizon for any other vessels, we risked getting drenched.

Once in a while, a huge set of rollers would arrive and Alembic tipped to port and starboard, scooping seawater with her gunwales. These rivers of water roared down the length of the boat, spilling overboard as she rolled, and draining final contents down the scuppers. Certain that water was making its way below, I kept checking for leaks. As water rushed past the seven ports (windows) on each side, I was pleasantly surprised to find only a few drips onto our stove, a few more onto a wooden cabinet, and a few more onto a shelf where we keep hats. Zero water made its way to any electronics or cushions, which are damaged by salt.

Knowing Alembic was handling these conditions like a champ, we assessed our own safety and comfort. Unfortunately, there was no moon during our passage, so it was “dark as a pocket” as Bill kept saying, by 6:30 pm each night. You could feel the rhythm of the ocean but see nothing, and mother nature likes to throw new beats in now and then. At one point, during my watch in the dark, a huge wave happened to crest just as it reached us, and dumped an enormous bucket of water into the cockpit. Now this bucket was the size of the biggest dump truck load imaginable. It roared over our dodger and bimini and submerged the wheel momentarily. The aft companionway (steps down to the aft cabin) had a door in place, but the wall of water pressed so hard and allowed a few gallons to spray through the seals, soaking everything below. Luckily this only happened once. This put my level of comfort on edge for a bit, but I soon realized that this was a fluke and would probably not happen again. Luckily it didn’t.

To be safe, Bill and I always wear our inflatable PFD’s and connect a tether from these to pad eyes in the cockpit. When we need to venture out of the cockpit to adjust sails or perform other tasks, we clip our tether to a jackline. This is a long piece of webbing that runs the length of the boat. We have one to starboard and one to port. Often, this connection to the boat seems overkill, but imagine one weird wave coming by, just as I’m out on the bow. If I slip and fall overboard, Bill would have a hard time turning this boat around and finding me in the seas.

Settling in to our routine, we found that this trip was much less worrisome than we had envisioned, weather-wise. What was more alarming than the wind or seas, were the ships we had to navigate around. This area is like a super highway for tankers, cruise ships, and tugs. Again, true to Bill’s nature, we were well prepared. We had purchased a new VHF just before leaving Maine, which is equipped with AIS. This is a system, somewhat like Radar, which shows you where the ships are within a fifty miles radius. We have radar, so this may seem redundant. However, Radar falls short on several counts. First, we rarely used radar because it drains our batteries quickly with its huge power consumption, and second, it only gives us a spot on the horizon. AIS identifies the ship with its name, location, course, and time and location of nearest point to us. For example, it will say that the closest point of approach may be 2.5 miles in 34 minutes. Of course, when the calculated closest distance is less than a mile, we alter course, or contact the ship by radio and come up with a plan to pass safely. I have radioed many of these ships in the night and they are happy to talk and even alter course for us. They often see us as a tiny blip on their radar screen, but have no idea of our vessel type, course, speed, or anything else. We do not transmit an AIS signal at this point. We may consider adding transmitting, in addition to receiving, AIS data.

During our third night out, our AIS system indicated that there was a ship towing cables that were six miles long! Our radar certainly would never have picked this up. I called the ship to see if the cables were submerged, and if we could sail over them. He said they were seismic cables on the surface and we needed to steer around them. He also indicated that there was a chase boat (a tug) staying at the end. This boat was not showing up on AIS or Radar with the current weather conditions, so speaking to this Captain was a life saver! We altered course significantly to avoid any issues, and gave thanks for our AIS yet again.

After this encounter, our sail began to ease in every way. The sun rose, shedding light on our world which was surprisingly calm! The seas had eased to a very settled state, unlike what we had expected. Everyone had told us that the coast of Colombia would be wild with crazy seas coming from winds whipping from the enormous mountains of the coast. This was not the case. Our strongest winds, over thirty knots, were one hundred miles north of the coast, and now, at fifty miles out, we were experiencing our lightest winds of the trip, about twenty knots. I stared at the horizon for hours, creating mountains in my mind out of the cloudy skies. I told Bill “this feels like Maine in the fog!” because I couldn’t see land through the haze. Finally, at about eight miles offshore, the huge mountains appeared, and our hearts leapt. We had arrived!

After this point, we sailed easily into the harbor. Two kind men in a large inflatable escorted us to our dock and helped us tie up. This was a first; never before had anyone ever escorted us into a marina. I knew right away that I would like Colombia.

How do you help a struggling community? The first step is to listen carefully to the voices of the individuals. Ask the right questions, consider the responses, and continue to ask questions until you get the real story. Then get the story out there to people who can make a difference.

Imagine a woman who knows how to ask the important questions. Now, envision this woman teaching 93 teenagers to ask these questions. You can see the impact. This woman is my dear friend Susan. She has been doing this year after year. Training students to become documentarians. They create the most heartfelt portraits of real people who struggle. The students develop compassion, curiosity, writing skills, videography talent, and editing skills to produce professional quality documentaries to share the message of need.

Susan, please come, with your young scholars, to Haiti. They have stories to get out to the world. Haitian voices have not been heard. People are afraid to come to Haiti because the loudest message is that of violence. During my five day stay I only witnessed gentle kindness, gifts delivered to my boat every fifteen minutes, smiling faces of young and old, curiosity about my travels and my boat, skilled craftsmanship in building boats from felled trees and scraps of fabric, expert sailing and paddling skills among the very young and very old, gardening efforts in the bone dry dirt, and an ability to last days without food.

I tried to capture the essence of the community of Ile a Vache in photos.

Cruisers have told me to avoid taking photos of people, so most are of the village. One enterprising man had transformed his home into a resort for visiting tourists.

This was the only effort toward tourism, sanitation, and connection to the world wide web that I witnessed in the village. My tour guides were teenagers

and certainly did not show me all of the local developments.

Popular shared areas in the village were the playground, the church, and the boat yard where they constructed dugout canoes and more elaborate water craft, all without electricity or modern tools. Also noteworthy, were the street lights. While the island had no general electricity, there were many solar panels to power the street lights.

A few foreigners have come to this island to build establishments and locals have benefitted vaguely from the jobs and tourism. One French man came decades ago to build the Port Morgan Resort. Strolling through this resort, I met the proprietor, but encountered zero customers. Another woman came to help children and opened an orphanage. While this facility was too far away for me to visit on foot, I have heard that she continues her efforts with minimally funded success.

The landscape and access to the ocean is second to none, which begs the question: why can’t this island become a thriving tourist attraction? How can this community help itself? Most locals have inadequate food, no sanitary facilities, and cannot read or write. While I don’t want to inflict my ideals on any individual, I witnessed too many people begging for food, boat supplies, clothing, and revealing to me that they are barely surviving. I wish I could wave a magic wand and bring some ease to this lovely region.

Please, Susan, you are the magic wand. Please come to this lovely place, with your eager young people, to listen to their stories, and show the world how much they have to offer. Thank you for considering.

Haiti wasn’t even on our itinerary. But here we are! And loving it! We left George Town on Monday for a glorious sail out of the harbor and into the Atlantic. The wind was right on the beam, which is ideal, and fifteen knots in strength. Alembic seemed to be rejoicing with us to be back out to sea again. The Hog Cay Cut was surprisingly simple to pass. Many cruisers told us that it was too shallow, and the charts showed spots that were only 2.5 feet. Yes, we draw five feet, but those soundings are for average low tide. High tide this day was extra high, about 3.5 feet above the charted depths. So we planned our trip around this time. The other option, sailing north of Long Island, would add 100 miles to our trip.

Since the grocery store closed at 11am the previous day, and we missed this, we had to shop the day of departure. This set us back a bit, arriving at the cut almost two hours after high tide. The ebb was running swiftly, confirming that we missed the high tide, but the most shallow report from our trusted depth sounder was 6.9 feet. Yay!! We were on our way!

The rest of the day was blissful.

Our autopilot steers, so we just sit back and enjoy. Trimming sails every so often, making meals, eating, and fishing kept us busy, but certainly didn’t wear us out. We had considered stopping in Great Inagua for a rest, but no resting was necessary, so we kept on sailing, right into the Windward Passage, between Cuba and Haiti.

Listening to Chris Parker, our weatherman on SSB, we decided that proceeding southward after the Windward Passage wouldn’t be the best idea. The first day or two would be fine, but the third day would be a wild ride, according to the weather gods. So, what to do? Our ideas of stopping in the Turks and Caicos or Great Inagua were no longer an option, Cuba may need some preplanning, and Haiti… We never really had considered Haiti a possible stopping point.

Luckily, I married a Man with a Plan. Bill always researches. Anything. Anywhere. He had read up about several spots in Haiti as emergency landings if we were having issues. The first place, Anse D’Hainault, was an anchorage on the western end of the Tiburon Peninsula, and the second place, Ile a Vache, was an island around the corner, further south then east.

We decided we would check out the first on our way south, since it was on our course. The sun had set (with the magical Green Flash) two hours prior, leaving us with zero visibility in the moonless night. We decided to skip this place because there was not a single nautical marker or boat showing anchor lights. We were not keen on being the only boat in an anchorage. Carrying on, we sailed blissfully in very light wind and almost zero waves. As we rounded the corner of the peninsula, the winds began to pick up, with waves to match. Soon we were in large confused seas (waves coming from several directions and colliding with each other) with, again, no visibility. Staring into the blackness, we let our ears help us see. We heard voices nearby; sailors in dugout canoes with no lights, and also heard crashing surf everywhere.

Maybe we were tired from three days offshore, maybe we were worried because our trusty GPS was about to go blank (it doesn’t cover this area of Haiti and our mediocre iPhone App Navionics would be our only chart),

 

maybe we were allowing stories of unsafe Haitian shores to invade our brains. We panicked. For the first time ever, Bill and I were scared. Scared that Alembic would be dashed onto rocks by a wave, or that we would hit one of these many small unlit fishing boats, or… we needed to do something fast. We turned around.

Bill’s thoughts were dramatic: “Let’s go to Jamaica! Or Panama! And skip Colombia all together” Mine were simpler: “Let’s go back to Anse D’Hainault which is situated in the shadow of the wind, so calm and peaceful” We began to think clearly again, once we were headed west in this strong east wind. The ride downwind is always surprisingly peaceful, compared to trying to sail right into the wind. We motored around the corner again, headed north, and dropped anchor in the harbor at 11:30 pm, having no idea what it really looked like. Sleep came quickly this night.

Waking at 6, as usual, to listen to Chris Parker’s forecast, I slipped my head out of the hatch to see our new digs. The harbor was a perfect semi circle, large enough for one hundred boats, and we were the only boat anchored here. There were plenty of other boats, either meandering about the harbor, or laying on the beach, waiting for someone to drag them into the sea. Every boat was a dugout canoe. Boys and men were paddling or sailing their craft skillfully. Each boat had a gallon jug with the top cut off; perfect for bailing. I couldn’t figure out if the water entered the boats over the low gunwales, or through leaks in the hull. Either way, they required constant bailing.

As soon as my head rose above the cabin trunk, the parade of visitors began. How nice of them to allow us to sleep before their visits! The first boat had two young men paddling and bailing. I was under the false impression that my French would allow us to communicate with the Haitians who speak Creole. I struggled to understand a word of their welcoming speech. When two more canoes joined the first, I thought Great! These young kids will translate. I find that young children often speak more clearly than adults. Well, my French and the children’s eagerness helped, but the confused communication continued throughout the day. Hand gestures, laughter, repeating many phrases, and persistence all played a part in the steady stream of back and forth. We never left the boat because we were not checked in through immigration or customs, so they came to us.

While the exchanges of heartfelt thoughts were much more valuable than the exchanges of goods, here is a list of the give and take of goods:

We received four lobsters, one large mackerel, a gigantic pile of plantains, two oranges, one huge avocado, one mango, a grocery bag brimming over with sugar cane, many candles, and home made soap. The items we gave were twelve dollars, an old dive mask, two slices of bread, a cup of our tap water, five pens, one pencil, twenty pages of paper, and two spools of thread with a needle in each. Now if anyone was doing any accounting, the day didn’t end up fairly. Some people received more than they gave, and vice versa, but all seemed happy. Not one Haitian haggled with our offerings. They happily accepted whatever we gave them in exchange for the “cadeau” they brought to us. The only disappointments were when we refused many “gifts”. We just couldn’t take more fish, lobster, and coconuts. And we didn’t accept any invitations for trips with them. One young man came to the boat four times, trying to get me to go to visit with his Mom. He desperately wanted us to connect. I encouraged him to bring her to Alembic, but he explained that she didn’t swim, and that “she would die”. Bill also refused many offers to join the young men on fishing expeditions. I already regret our refusals. We were just not ready to leave Alembic unattended, or to leave each other in this foreign land.

Photographing the Haitians is generally not welcomed, according to other cruisers’ opinions, so the images of the day are safely tacked in my brain, not my photo albums. Impressions that stand out are: The tiny canoe with three children, the youngest being naked. The thirty something man who launched into a dramatic story, even placing tears in his eyes with dips of his finger to the sea, about his dad having heart problems and his needing money but the story had so many conflicting pieces of information. The boy who stood in his canoe trying in vain to ask me to tie a knot in the bag of paper and he finally pointed down to the canoe which was brim full of water. He just wanted to get the paper to shore dry! The same boy asking me to write my name and Bill’s name on a paper, then refusing to write his own but insisting I write it as he repeated: J. Gerome. He didn’t spell it out, nor did he verify that I spelled it correctly. At age 17, he could not write his name. The man and his son who had a dive mask that was so old and worn out that the plastic looked like it had melted right down to the flat piece of glass. How they could use this was a mystery to me. The “potty beach” where we could see a steady stream of people come to squat, some with buckets, some without. The young man who clung to an empty bottle as floatation for hours as he bobbed around Alembic, chanting, singing, speaking, but never engaging us in conversation or answering any of our questions. The grown boy who had a fishing line stuck in his teeth. He was paddling, bailing, and fishing, all at the same time and two hands were not enough, so he employed his teeth. It must have been lodged there quite securely, as he never attempted to remove it, even when he talked.

As the day drew to a close, I was filled with awe for these people. Everyone was kind, friendly, and eager to meet us. I wondered how often cruisers dropped anchor here. When I asked this question to several visitors, I received inconsistent answers.

So many more questions are pounding in my head, but they cannot be answered with words, so I have to be patient and allow my wonder and understanding to grow quietly. Why are there no girls above age 9 in the boats? Are there adequate jobs for people here? What percentage of people read? Write? Teach? Do people here have hope for their and their children’s future? Where is the violence that you always hear about in Haiti? Has anyone explained the reasons for better sanitary conditions? Does this matter? The list goes on and on…

One huge hope for me on this journey is to blur the lines between Us and Them. I have a goal of becoming one with foreigners from many countries. Residing in Haiti for less than 24 hours now makes me realize that the line between us has only become more established, not less. I have more questions than I ever did. I have more pity than I ever did. How can I move toward a better frame of mind, where acceptance is natural, and we can learn from and enjoy each other? Without judging. Or trying to “fix it”? I hope to move toward this goal steadily. We shall see…