On Sunday, Feb. 17, we left Clark’s Court Marina on the south coast of Grenada just as the sun set, merely committing to an attempt of a night crossing to Trinidad, agreed that we would turn around if conditions were too rough. The wind was fairly steady at around 20 knots, and the seas were not as high as we expected, so, despite the fact that none of us felt particularly well in the chop, we radioed back that we were going to commit. I was the one down below making the radio call, and I stayed down a bit too long. Grabbing the Dramamine, I clambered up the companionway and told the kids to get out of my way quickly as I made my way to the lee side just in time. No one felt well, but I was the only one to lose my dinner.
We soon realized that we were going to reach Trinidad well before daylight as we sliced through the waves at 8 to 8 ½ knots with a reef in the main and the staysail up. The gibbous moon illuminated the surface of the sea, as did the enormous oil platforms we passed as we went further south. The kids slept on the bench seat cushions and I slept on the cockpit floor as Peter took the first watch under conditions which, had it not been our first real sail of the season, would have seemed great. My watch began at 1 a.m. and by 2:00, the lights of Trinidad could be seen, and by 3:00, the outlines of the mountains rose above the horizon. Peter woke up and decided to heave-to until daylight. We drifted slowly north, and at 6:00, I was the first up; we got under way again. I slept some more as Matthew helped Peter. The winds had moderated, so Peter lowered the staysail and put up the genoa to maintain speed.
The Mouth of the Dragon, the entrance to the Gulf of Paria, sounds frightening, but conditions were smooth in the Boca de Monos and we breezed through and went into Chaguaramas to clear customs and immigration. We decided it would be better to be on a dock in order for Peter to get mechanics on board, so we took a slip at the Crew’s Inn Marina. We had expected Chaguaramas to be truly ugly because it is known for its boatyards, not its ambiance, but the marina seemed to be situated in a nice, attractive place.
We spent two days there, and Peter was able to get some things accomplished, and we arranged to go back and rent a car for the weekend so we can explore the island by land.
Wednesday afternoon, Feb. 20, we left the dock and motored the short distance around the headland to Scotland Bay off Boca de Monos in order to have darkness for observing the total eclipse of the moon. This was a lovely, flat anchorage, surrounded by jungle inhabited by howler monkeys and many birds, including large parrots which flashed their bright chartreuse plumage as they winged in to roost in the trees by the shore for the night. Conditions were perfect for observing the lunar eclipse as we watched the bright white disk pale to dull burnt orange as the curvature of the earth crept across the orb. The greatest eclipse was after 11 p.m., so we stayed up quite late. Cruisers are usually asleep around 9 p.m., living more by sunrise and sunset than the clock.
We stayed for two days at Scotland Bay, which was the sight of a rest and recreation facility for US troops during WWII. There are no traces other than a few concrete piers and steps along the shore. Neglect allowed the jungle to consume the buildings and roads. The locals use the pebbly beaches for camping, fishing and relaxing—and they seem to leave all their trash behind. It doesn’t seem to bother them to be surrounded by their own and former visitors’ discarded bottles, bags and debris. It would be truly scenic without the refuse.
We returned to Crew’s Inn Marina on Friday, Feb. 22, in the late afternoon. There was one girl, around 8 or 9, who our kids had met at the marina, and she came over to watch a DVD. Our plans for the weekend were to go to the capital, Port of Spain, and shop for provisions on Saturday and explore the natural areas of the island on Sunday. Because rental car companies close at noon on Saturday and are not open at all on Sunday, we had to rent a car for two days even though we planned to take the bus to town on Saturday. We (particularly me) were frustrated and wasted most of the morning getting a rental car since the woman at the agency by the marina was foolish enough to lock herself out of her office (after Peter had already waited in line behind other customers for nearly an hour). We had to walk to another marina to find and negotiate for a car.
Since we had the car, we drove to Port of Spain, about ½ hour drive to the east. Traffic is described as horrendous during the week, but the roads were not crowded on Saturday. Neither was downtown Port of Spain; in fact, it was rather deserted and visually unimpressive. We went in the Red House, the building housing the parliament. It had a large enclosed courtyard with no artistic flair. There are no embellishments, color, murals, statues or paintings revealing anything at all about Trinidad and Tobago’s history, traditions or culture. We walked along Frederick Street, described in the guide books as a vibrant shopping area. The bland storefronts displayed inexpensive (should I say cheap?) merchandise in the manner of old general stores. A few people were out, but it was quite quiet. We made it to the historical museum, which was low-key but had informative and interesting exhibits on the geology of the area, including the oil and gas reserves; the political and social history of the country, including depictions of the grandeur of the colonial lifestyle for those in the upper classes; and the history of the music of Trinidad, including the development of the pan drums. The kids found most fascinating the displays of actual costumes and the photographs of elaborate, colorful costumes from Carnival.
By this time, we were quite hungry, and the friendly guard at the museum recommended the only place nearby actually open, T.G.I. Friday’s! Most people come out in the evening, he said, and that was when restaurants were open, but we were advised to avoid the city after dark.
After a good lunch and a rest, we were revived after our walking and standing around in the museum, and we headed for the zoo. It was actually larger than we expected, but most of the animals were kept in cages that zoos in the U.S. would consider entirely too small. There were agoutis, a caiman, tropical birds, peccaries, snakes and lizards as well as cats, which were of the most interest to the kids. Peter and I were most interested in seeing the animals which are native to Trinidad and South America. The kids were most attracted to the cats, even though the ocelot was the only once native to this area of the world. The African lions and Siberian tiger were the big draw for them. The zoo is surrounded by the botanical gardens, which appeared to be well-designed and well-maintained, but we didn’t have time to stroll along the paths.
We drove back toward the waterfront and the main highway south along Charlotte Street. Now this street was hopping! We drove slowly through; pedestrians were out in throngs. The shops were open and in front of these, both sides of the narrow street were lined with the stalls of vendors of fruits and vegetables. We felt safe in the car but would have felt overwhelmed and afraid of robbery had we been walking. The produce looked enticing, however, and the traffic was moving slowly enough that we could stop and buy tomatoes, portugals (a local citrus fruit like tangerines), and bananas through the car window.
We stopped at a large supermarket at a modern mall on the way back to the marina to get provisions. (Yes, they had milk!) Saturday evening must be the prime grocery shopping time, because the only time I have seen longer lines for checking out was when everyone was preparing for a blizzard at Tahoe.
The next day, Sunday, February 24, we visited two of the island’s best natural environments, both of which are protected. The Asa Wright Nature Center is in the mountainous rain forest in the north-central part of Trinidad, reached by highway to Arima and then winding roads up into the jungle. A fine rain fell as we ascended, but luckily for us, since we had forgotten to bring rain jackets, it stopped as we parked. (Going to the rainforest and we forgot to bring raingear—what were we thinking? Or, rather, what was I thinking, since it seems to be my responsibility to remember such things for the whole family!) The main building of the world-famous bird-watching center is a lovely old, sprawling house with a spacious verandah overlooking the rainforest, with bird feeders placed at the next level down to attract the birds for close viewing. Katya was particularly entranced by the brightly-colored specimens of tropical species. All the colors of the spectrum seemed to be represented. My favorite was a quite large bird with the apt common name of yellow-tail. A member of the oriole family, its body is covered with glossy dark plumage, but the long tail is vibrant yellow. It has beady blue eyes. In the highest branches of large trees, these birds build pendulous nests with openings near the top through which they enter. We stayed for a couple hours observing the lush surroundings and birds and enjoyed a delicious lunch in the library.
At 4 p.m., we, along with many other tourists and local people, boarded large pirogues on the Caroni River for a 2 ½ hour exploration of the Caroni Swamp. Our guide was quite good, pointing out a snake coiled in branches above our heads at one point and an armadillo curled up in the crook of a tree at another. I spotted another snake in a tree before the guide! The highlight of the meandering trip through the canals of the swamp was bird-watching. The boats all stop to wait for the flamboyantly colored scarlet ibis, the endangered national bird, along with the white egret, to return to roost on trees on small islands at sunset. First came flocks of herons, which seemed to decorate the green foliage like bright white flowers as they settled in for the night. Suddenly, a dozen or more flashes of red emerged from afar and the first scarlet ibises to be spotted flew to the same place, circling and alighting on the branches. Everyone reacted with “oohs” and “aahs” as if it was the beginning of a fireworks display. Wave after wave of white wings and red wings—never together--caught the last rays of daylight as the egrets and ibises returned to their homes after foraging in the mangroves all day for food. It was a lovely sight.
The next day, we got organized to leave Trinidad, clearing customs and using up the rest of our T&T currency at the marina’s grocery store. Later than scheduled (but not surprisingly for the Caribbean), the radar guy showed up around noon and actually succeeded in fixing the radar with a part from an old radar found at his shop. Of course, we won’t be using the radar as we leave Trinidad and cruise in the waters of Venezuela because we have been told that the pirates (yes, there really are pirates) use passive radar to pick up boats’ signals to find them for attack. This is the first time in over two years that we have trepidation about the places we plan to visit, and I was anxious all day as we prepared to leave Trinidad.
As the sun set on Monday, February 25, we sailed out of Chaguaramas Bay and then headed north for some distance away from the Venezuelan coast, although the direct path to our next destination, the islands of Los Testigos, would have taken us close to shore. We now find we have to add security and crime prevention to the factors of wind and waves and current in setting and steering our course. The trip was uneventful, however, and, with Peter covering most of the night watch as usual, we arrived and anchored on the lee of Isla Testigo Grande at 0930. For the first time this year, we were in crystal clear, turquoise water. What a delight! There were only two other small sailing yachts anchored with a stern line to shore; the rest of the yachties were in the more rolling anchorage a bit farther north off the beach of the tiny town. However, after a couple hours, small fishing boats started to arrive, and we realized that we had usurped their space! However, the men on the half dozen boats did not seem to mind and were quite friendly to us, despite the lack of a common language.
The island has a large sand dune which sweeps up from the windward east side and tapers down over the lee of the main hill. We took our dinghy to the lee shore and slipped and slid, with the sand falling away beneath our feet, up the steep western slope to the top of the hill. The view to the east opened up below us, a vast triangle of sand cascading down to the breakers. Smaller islands dotted the horizon. With ease, we made our way to the sea, where Matthew and Peter frolicked in the waves while Katya and I walked the length of the beach and back.
The next day, our little adventure was to the quiet, small fishing village, a simple row of buildings behind the palms of the white sand beach, open to the air. It was siesta time, and the hammocks hung low and swayed in the breeze. A generator provides all the electricity for the town. There are no cars, although pirogues are ubiquitous. Life is obviously much slower and more simple here than in our world.
Peter decided to ask the pescadores on the boat near ours for a fish to buy. I wrote down some questions and phrases for them to use; Matthew’s pronunciation is better than mine, but he was nervous about actually trying to converse in Spanish. Apparently, oral language failed, but the men and boys were charmed by the blond-haired, fair-skinned boy’s attempts and invited Peter and Matthew on board. They learned that the fishermen go out for about 10 days, working and sleeping on the decks the whole time. The fish are stored in a tank in the center which opens up on the bottom to the sea. Since we had not been to an official port of clearance yet and had not exchanged dollars for bolivars, we had no Venezuelan currency. Peter tried to give them American dollars for a fish, but they insisted on making a gift of the large snapper they offered. Later, Peter took them a gift of rum, which they appreciated and apparently shared with all the fishing boats anchored there for the night.
We were happy to be among them, not only because they were friendly but because we felt safer. However, we began our habit of battening down all the hatches and locking up the dinghy and its engine each night. We put an alarm, an unused item on this boat until now, at the top of the locked companionway. Each night, the horn is by my side of the bed and Peter has a flare gun (with the intent to use it as a weapon if necessary, not as a distress signal). Despite this, my fears of robbers surfaced in my dreams. The first night, I dreamed that I was trying to fight off a robber on board, and I woke up Peter with a violent kick to his shin (after which he woke me up). The next night, I was dreaming I heard footsteps on deck above us and was shaking Peter to wake him up because I couldn’t get my voice to work—until he woke me up. It appears that the greatest threat Peter faces is me in my sleep!
On Thurday, February 28, around 1100 we started to weigh anchor. We had discovered that the chain had wrapped itself around a log on the bottom 22 feet below, so we 45 minutes maneuvering forward and back, to port and to starboard, to disentangle ourselves. By the time we actually got out of the anchorage, we had to reassess our decision to head for Porlamar on Isla Margarita that day and decided it was too late to reach before dark. We turned around and returned to our lovely, cozy anchorage for another night.
The next day, Friday, we pulled up anchor around 0900 and headed out to sea with the wind from the east at 30 knots. How courageous we have become over the last two years! This would have scared me beyond belief before. With that wind, we should have made it to Porlamar in four or five hours. However, the wind abated and shifted, and we had to make several tacks, increasing the distance and time. We knew that Porlamar is not considered a comfortable anchorage, and we realized that we would not get there before the customs and immigration offices closed for the weekend. We changed course, and headed for the north side of Isla Margarita to anchor in the bay off the town of Juangriego for the weekend, unable to go to shore without customs clearance. (We were later told that no one would have checked or cared.)
On Sunday morning, March 2, at 0900, we pulled up anchor and motorsailed upwind to get to the southeast side of the island and Porlamar. Peter was at the wheel and I was reading in the forward cockpit when the poor old mainsail split below the second reef point in a moderate gust. Down it came and we raised the staysail. Later the genoa went up for more speed as we headed south. We realized that there is no choice but to get a new main, so after some debate and correspondence with former owners and Tony, the owner of Maya, a Sundeer, Peter has ordered one to be made in Barbados by Doyle to be shipped to us whenever, wherever we may be where it can be delivered.
Porlamar is an open anchorage with small swells, but it is a nice place. There were about 60 boats there, on the eastern end of the bay. As advised by a French couple on the adjacent yacht at Los Testigos, we sought out Marina Juan, who handles all the paperwork for clearance for the yachties there. It seemed strange to me not to go directly to the customs and immigration offices ourselves, but turning all your documents over to an agent and having them do all the work for a fee is the way it is done here.
We had been told last year by people on another yacht who had spent a lot of time in Venezuela that provisions were readily available and cheap. In fact, everything is very inexpensive here, but the selection of fresh produce is not as good as it is in Grenada and Trinidad and milk cannot be bought anywhere at any price anymore. Hugo Chavez has set price limits on the sale of milk and eggs, supposedly so that poor people can afford to buy them. However, the regulated price is so far below the cost of production, let alone distribution, that the farmers won’t supply the retailers at a loss. Instead, they are shipping the milk out of the country or making milk-based products such as yogurt, the price of which is not regulated. So, there simply is no milk for sale. Eggs can be found being sold directly by the farmers on dusty corner lots in the barrios. Luckily, the bus that transported us to the major, modern shopping mall outside the town stopped on the way back to Marina Juan’s at one of these and we were able to get three dozen eggs for about $3.00.
This is the first place where I have ever been where we exchanged currency on the black market. The term conjures up images of clandestine meetings with nefarious characters in dark, dirty back alleys. In fact, the black market flourishes everywhere, including supermarkets, shops and restaurants. Once again, it is just how things are done here. The exchange rate for foreign currencies to bolivars is set by the government at ridiculously low levels which the banks must use. At the bank, the rate is about 2 ½ bolivars for each dollar. At the supermarket, we paid with a $100 bill and received change in bolivars at a rate of 4.7.
Luckily, there were other children in the anchorage. First, we met a German family who helped us figure out the system here in Venezuela, particularly in Porlamar, for getting food, diesel and water. They have a daughter, Mira, who spent every day with our kids, either on the beach or on our boat. The last day we were there, a French boat came in with two boys Matthew’s age and a younger girl. The five kids all watched a movie on our boat down below (we seem to be the magnet) while the two sets of parents enjoyed conversation and good bottle of wine from Provence on deck. They were just beginning their live-aboard odyssey; the wife, in particular, was interested in how we were coping. Unlike us, they have a couple young men aboard as crew—seven people on a much smaller boat. Compared with most sailing yachts, particularly mono-hulls, the space on our boat seems expansive and provokes envy at times.
We were concerned about staying in Margarita or on the surrounding smaller islands because of the high crime rate. However, we learned from an American couple (actually, Peter learned; he’s the one who is the social butterfly in the anchorages and marinas) who came into Porlamar the day before we planned to leave for Isla Tortuga, that a Russian megayacht was anchored on the western side of Le Coche and was supplying security for the anchorage, so it was perfectly safe. Based on this information, we hauled anchor and motored through the anchorage, waving good-bye to our German and French friends, and sailed there on Thursday, March 6, using only the two headsails and finding they worked quite well. We dropped anchor near the megayacht Solemar, south of Punta Playa, in front of a beautiful white sand beach bordered by four small resorts. This place is a premier kite-boarding spot, which is apparently why the Russian copper magnate had come. He had entirely booked one of the resorts for his friends who flew in to join him and supplied kite-boards, windsurfers and jet skis for them all to enjoy. The area was dotted with colorful sails throughout the day.
Matthew wanted to wind-surf, but we couldn’t convince the outfit that rented gear that he had enough experience and that Peter would provide sufficient supervision in the dinghy for it to be safe, even though there was an off-shore wind. Since that was not an option, he was pleased to accept the alternative for driving a jet-ski for a half-hour.
Peter took Katya out for a few minutes first, then Matthew took control with Peter riding behind him. They both had big smiles on their faces as they whizzed around. Since Le Coche is an up-scale resort, all prices are quoted in dollars or euros and are comparable to those in the U.S. and Europe (in other words, not cheap), so the jetskiing was limited by cost.
Peter had been thinking about giving kite-boarding a try, and it looked exhilarating to be flying above the azure water on the board. We had plans to move on to Tortuga and then Los Roques, perhaps catching up with the French boat with boys so that Matthew could trade more Yu-Gi-Oh! Cards, but I decided that Peter should take lessons for two days as his birthday present. The professionals on the beach were all booked for lessons by the Russians, but a Venezuelan on the yacht anchored ahead of us gave private lessons, so Peter signed up for lessons on Saturday and Sunday. He made a great deal of progress, but the learning curve is steep even for someone with a lot of experience wind-surfing and sailing.
Peter had heard that a local yacht who had taken a few Russians to the island to the west, Cubagua, had been robbed of a dinghy and two outboard engines that weekend. They had requested assistance in making pursuit from the local fisherman, but they understandably refused, stating that they knew the pirates had guns. I was particularly alert on watch that night as we sailed away from Le Coche for Isla La Tortuga. We were still in the “high alert” zone (according to the Venezuelan authorities) until we were well west of Isla Margarita. In fact, we have only heard of piracy on yachts at anchor so we were at less risk traveling. However, we were prepared with a loud distress horn, a one- million candlepower flashlight, and the boat hook to ward off approaching vessels. It certainly seemed strange to have to discuss what actions we would take “if.”
Night sailing is more work now that the auto-pilot, which had been erratic in its performance lately, stopped working all together. Peter has taken it apart and put it back together, but to no avail. So, the wheel must be handled at all times, meaning that the person not on watch has to sleep on deck since the person at the helm cannot make short trips below. It also means that the person on the helm is more isolated; when we can use the auto-pilot, we can sit in the forward cockpit. Even though the other people may be asleep, it feels less lonely.
Right after sunrise, we arrived at Isla La Tortuga on Monday, March 10, after a choppy passage and anchored Playa Caldera. It was a lovely spot, but there was a bit of a swell coming in, so we only stayed for a few hours, long enough for Peter and me to get a little bit of sleep. We went on to a little islet of the northwest coast of Tortuga called Cayo Herradura and found a true tropical paradise and immediately decided to stay through the next day. The curving white-sand beach curved around the anchorage, and there were only two other yachts there and a few fishermen at their camps on shore. The snorkeling on the windward side of the cay was quite good, and we explored the undersea world both days. The nice thing about having our kayak is that there is no need to go to the trouble of getting the dinghy off the foredeck and into the water and lowering the outboard from its aft mount and then reversing the process in the evening for security. (The last two seasons, in safer areas, we always towed the dinghy and left it in the water at night, tied to the stern.) The kayak can be dropped in the water in a minute and is perfect for exploring undeveloped areas.
Tuesday, March 11 was Peter’s birthday, and we couldn’t have found a more beautiful place to enjoy it. In the morning, we walked along the beach. On the southern spit, dozens of pelicans and various shore birds rested, only moving when approached. The fishing camps were at the northern end. At one, the men were quite busy mending nets, hauling them on board the boats and cleaning and preserving fish.
An older man deftly cut large fish into equal-sized, large pie-shaped pieces. Another man rinsed them with buckets of salt water. A third arranged them in a spiraling, cylindrical pile, loading handfuls of rock salt on each layer. When finished, the older man completed the process by placing a stretched goat skin over the symmetrically arranged pieces of fish.
Each small fishing camp had a large wooden-planked, tin or wooden roofed building with three sides. Some of the roofs had large pieces of dead coral or rocks on top to hold them down. The fourth side was open to the west and the beach, keeping out the prevailing easterly winds. Most of the work was down outside or in smaller lean-to’s; the main structure was for sleeping in hammocks, eating, relaxing. Two of the camps also had separate little structures mounted on poles containing altars. The Virgin Mary was the predominate figure; there were also candles, shells, and various offerings from the sea. Near the lighthouse there was also a small cemetery, with the few graves covered by mounds of dead coral. There were no tombstones, only wooden crosses made of driftwood.
On our night sail on Tuesday to Los Roques, Peter managed to get “Otto” the auto-pilot to function again briefly. It worked for about two minutes on my watch. (It should be mentioned that my watches are significantly shorter and fewer than Peter’s. He can manage much better without sleep than I can.) Once again, the seas were confused, so it was not a pleasant experience. We entered the beautiful area known as Los Roques through the Boca Del Medio of the Bajo de la Cabecera and dropped anchor inside the reefs on Wednesday morning, March 12. It always seems strange to anchor using reefs and not land for protection. It seems quite exposed even though there is good protection from the waves and swells. The various shades of blue surrounding us amazed us, as usual. The beauty of the water never ceases to astonish us. The shallow reef areas and sandy bottoms reflect the sunlight in such a pure way that the bottoms of fluffy white cumulus clouds are tinged with green and the blue-green waters seem to glow.
Once again, we only spent a few hours resting at anchor and then we navigated through the reefs to Noronsquies, a set of three little islands with reefs which create a lovely, calm lagoon. Jus another tropical paradise! Two French yachts were anchored here and there were day-trippers from El Gran Roque on the small beach for a while. A young South American couple had been dropped off by a day trip boat and stayed to camp there for the night. We enjoyed talking with them. Their English was a bit better than our Spanish, so we managed to converse very well.
On route to this anchorage, with food supplies running drastically low, we decided to fish. Matthew was quite excited to snag a good-sized mackerel fairly quickly trolling with the Cuban hand line. By this time, we were down to not much more than spaghetti (but no sauce), ramen noodles and chicken noodle soup plus a few vegetables and eggs for sustenance. I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while the others had fish.
The next morning (Thursday, March 13), Peter and I went snorkeling on the northern barrier reef. There were an amazing number of large (not to mention small) fish, including angelfish, butterfly fish, parrot fish, tangs, squirrel fish, jacks and wrasses. After a lunch of spaghetti (again!), we set sailed wing-and-wing with the two headsails for Cayo de Agua. We had trouble, as daylight was fading, finding our way among the coral reefs using our guide and sketch charts but finally managed to drop anchor (not in the recommended place, we realized the next day when the light was better) on the northern side of the island. The location was beautiful and there were no other boats in sight.
Unfortunately, it was a bit rolly but not totally uncomfortable. It passed the refrigerator door test, barely. I have determined that an anchorage is too unsettled if the refrigerator door closes itself (or rather, slams itself shut) when left opened.
The next morning, we kayaked to the beach and explored the island, which was inhabited by the Amerindians and is stilled used by fishermen for its fresh water a few feet below the surface in some places. These places are easy to find because they are the few oases in the scrubby desert landscape where palms tower above the dune-created, rolling terrain. Although we were not truly desperate for food supplies, Peter attempted to procure some food by climbing a coconut palm. Agile and nimble as he is, his attempts were unsuccessful, as were alternative methods of beating at the fronds with long sticks and throwing rocks at the tops of the trees.
We left Los Roques after lunch for our next stop in the Venezuelan islands, Islas de Aves. We chose to stop at Isla Sur in the Aves de Barlovento (the windward chain of the islands of birds). What another delightful place! Alone again in an uninhabited, unspoiled paradise, we chose to stay for two days. The northern side (the side we were on) of the island is covered in mangroves and is home to thousands of birds, including boobies, frigate birds, pelicans, and herons. Many times over the next couple days we paddled to the mangroves to observe them. With no predators, they are curious and not afraid, not even the adults with chicks in their nests. They perched and nested quite close together.
The boobies, both white and gray ones, are the most numerous. They all have long, tapered blue beaks. Most have red webbed feet, although some have yellow. The white species (or gender?) have black feathers outlining the edges of their wings. All of them have white tail feathers which splay out in a fan shape in flight. They make large (18 to 24 inches in diameter), bowl-shaped nests out of the gray twigs and small branches of the mangroves. We only observed one chick per nest. These cute nestlings are covered in white downy feathers, making them look plump and cuddly.
The brown pelicans have the usual long beaks with hanging pouches and reddish-brown, spiky feathers like manes from the tops of their heads down the back of their long necks, looking similar to the brown hairs on the back of the necks of giraffes. The black and white frigate birds perch along side them. They and the herons are a bit more skittish when approached. Their long white tails sleekly taper to one point when they are resting; these tail feathers fork in flight, a beautiful sight as they soar and glide.
Of course, the water is teeming with fish. Peter, with some help from Matthew, used the rod and reel and the Cuban hand line in an attempt to catch some food to supplement our dwindling supplies. They got bites, but all the fish broke the line or got away.
Off the small headland protecting our anchorage to the east, a long reef extended. Our snorkeling expedition revealed some of the healthiest coral we have seen in the Caribbean and an abundance of colorful, beautiful fish. Visibility is wonderful and the water is about 80 degrees Fahrenheit, making it possible to swim indefinitely without getting cold.
On Sunday afternoon, March 16, I cooked the last 8 eggs, made egg salad and used the last of the bread to make sandwiches. As the sun was setting, we hauled up the anchor and negotiated through the reefs and shallow water to the open sea, en route to Curacao. Our direct course would have been dead down wind, so Peter plotted a route southeast and then northeast, allowing us to sail on a broad reach. Although we covered more distance, we made up for it in speed, averaging well over 7 knots with winds of 15 to 20 knots, with gusts in the high 20s. The seas were not as confused as they had been on previous night sails, so the trip was smoother. We maintained our unbalanced but usual 4 hour-2 hour watches, with me getting the most sleep and less time on watch.
We approached the entrance to Spanish Waters, a large well-protected lagoon on the southern part of the island, around 0730. On the chance that there would be a local “net,” we switched the VHF to 72 and luckily found one. The net facilitator and the other yachties were welcoming, and it was easy to settle into this cozy anchorage with about 100 other yachts. We learned that a bus left the dinghy dock for the supermarket at 9:00 and 10:00, and the kids and I caught the later one. We were transported in 10 minutes to a modern, well-stocked store. In less than an hour, we managed to procure over $400 worth of groceries, including many gallons of milk, lots of bread, an abundance of beautiful fresh fruits and vegetables and four dozen eggs. We found absolutely everything we were looking for, including Easter candy!
As we were waiting for the bus, a man who was also waiting asked me if we were the people on the Deerfoot Epicurus. He then asked us if we knew Bert, the first owner. Indeed, Peter has met him and corresponds with him sometimes about the boat and our travels. This Dutchman had spent some time traveling on his boat along with Epicurus and another boat about 20 years ago.
While the kids and I were at the market, Peter was zooming around in the dinghy getting acquainted with others in the anchorage, including Bob-- who had already provided with an abundance of information of customs, immigration, buses, and shopping—and an Australian boat with a 10-year-old girl on board. In the afternoon, she and her mother picked up our kids and Peter and went to shore to hike up to an old fort overlooking the sea. I took the rare opportunity of being alone to sleep and to prepare some school work in science for the kids.
Tuesday, March 18, Peter went into Willemstad to clear customs and immigrations and the kids and I stayed on board to do school work. Over the past two and half years, we have gotten better about keeping to the schedule and not getting behind. The three of us are all determined not to be doing school work this summer. Unlike regular school, which ends each year on a certain date, the Kat-Mat Academy does not finish until all the work is done.
On Wednesday, March 19, all four of us went into old Willemstad, a compact urban area with brightly painted, historic buildings. Part of the area is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, so it is well-preserved and the facades have been maintained or restored to reflect their original appearance. Near the bus depot is the floating market, where boats from Venezuela and other countries dock and sell produce and fish under bright red, yellow, blue and green awnings. One building in town has a series of bells on the outside which ring every hour, accompanying a parade of small statues representing various ethnic groups and classes of people important in the history of Curacao, emerging from the right and circling across to the left where they re-enter there hiding place. It reminded me of the famous glockenspiel in Munich.
Willemstad has the oldest synagogue building in continuous use in all the Americas. Synagogue Mikve Israel-Emanuel was created in 1732 by Seraphic Jews who had immigrated first to Holland from Spain and Portugal in the 1600s. Many of the names associated with the history of the synagogue and the congregation are Spanish or Portuguese as a result.
In the synagogue, the tabernacle is in the middle, surrounded by ten areas representing the tribes of Israel which escaped from Egypt to find the Promised Land. Soft white sand covers the floor of the synagogue. It represents the 40 years spent wandering the Sinai desert. Also, it is a reminder of the use of sand on floors for muffling sounds in secret rooms used for worshipping during the Inquisition. It also symbolizes the words in Genesis in which God said to Abraham: “I will multiply your seed as the sands of the seashore and the stars in the heavens.” Across the courtyard from the place of worship is a cultural and historical museum including many items used in worship as well as in Jewish homes.
After visiting the synagogue and museum, we found a tapas bar nearby which allowed us to escape a brief downpour and enjoy some delicious food at a table on the sidewalk. After that, we wandered along the short blocks pass upscale shops in the Punda, the side of the city on the east side of a waterway, Saint Anne’s Bay (Sint Ana Baai), which connects the Caribbean Sea on the south to Schottegat, a large bay which is the second largest Dutch port after Rotterdam. Two cruise ships were in port, so the streets were milling with tourists. There are two forts protecting either side of the entrance to Saint Anne’s Bay, but the walls are about all that are left and are used as edifices for hotels, restaurants and government offices, so there is not much insight into their former uses or appearances.
We took a free ferry to the other side of Saint Anne’s Bay, which is called, appropriately enough, Otrabanda (literally “the other side”). The ferry is only in use when the pontoon pedestrian bridge, the Queen Emma Bridge, swings open toward Otrabanda to let water traffic through. We visited the neighborhood just north of the bridge called Hulanda, a restored 18th-century village built around a typical Dutch colonial mercantile square where slaves were once sold. Developed and restored by a Dutch philanthropist, Jacob Gelt Dekker, the area is being used unobtrusively as hotels, restaurants and galleries. It also is home to a truly wonderful museum containing his personal collection of ancient and modern artifacts, including cuneiform tablets and pottery from Mesopotamia, weapons and jewelry from the bronze and iron ages, early glass bowls, and relics from West African empires including Ghana, Mali, the Songhai and the Dogons. There is a large and graphic exhibition of the slave trade which is less euphemistic than most portrayals of it found in literature and museums produced in the U.S. or even other Caribbean islands. One of the most profound aspects of the collection of the museum is how it is all woven together into a story of the development of civilization in the western world, from Mesopotamia to Africa, Europe and the Americas. We found it fascinating and stayed a few hours.
Dodging periodic showers, we made our way back to the bus depot. We were exhausted after a whole day on land!
On Thursday, March 20, I thoroughly cleaned the whole boat in preparation for the arrival of William and Henry Rudd (ages 16 and 14), who, I’m sure, couldn’t care whether the boat was tidy and clean or not. They are spending the first part of their spring break with us before flying home to Kenya. Peter went back into Willemstad to send off the autopilot via UPS for repair and then proceeded to the airport, where the boys were being questioned and held by Immigration since they did not have a letter from their parents authorizing them to travel alone. However, they did escape the clutches of bureaucracy, and Peter brought them to Epicurus around 1900 hours.
Friday, March 21, was Good Friday, so the buses were not running on any regular schedule or perhaps not at all, but Peter and the Rudd boys pieced together taxi and van rides to get to Willemstad to clear Customs and Immigration so that the six of us could leave on Saturday for Bonaire. After their return, they enjoyed kayaking and swimming in the bay where we are anchored.
On Saturday, March 22, we got up early and were ready to depart right after 0800. As usual, we listened to the cruisers’ net at 0730 and announced our departure to the local community. “My, you’re brave!” was the response. Foolish might have been a more accurate description, I thought, considering there was a small craft advisory in effect. The highest Atlantic swells on record in the last 40 years or so were marching south through the Caribbean. The wind was averaging around 20 knots from ESE and the wind waves alone were 6-8 feet with only a 5 second interval. We had to head SE to make it around the southern tip of Curacao, and the current flows at 1 to 2 knots to the north. So, it was a battle against the wind, waves and current. We attempted to put up the mainsail with a double reef since the most recent tear is below the cringles for a double reef, but we were seeing slits of blue sky along other seams taking strain and took her back down fairly quickly. After a couple hours of beating into the wind and waves against the current, during which the boys started looking a bit unwell, the electronic charts indicated that it would be well after midnight before we would reach Bonaire, and we were still in the lee of Curacao and hadn’t encountered the north swells yet. Of course, we couldn’t enter an unfamiliar area at night and try to locate a mooring ball, and, while a few hours of enduring such a trip could be managed, the thought of another 14 hours or more was daunting. So after a couple hours, we turned back and, averaging 8 knots as we glided along smoothly with following waves, we made it back to the cut into Spanish Waters in about half an hour.
Exhausted from our three-hour adventure, we went to Sari Fundy’s for lunch. After that the three boys took off in the kayak to explore the ruins of Fort Beekenburg on the hill over Caracas Bay and go snorkeling around the piers. Peter and Katya were done in by the supposedly non-drowsy Dramamine they had taken and couldn’t stay awake any longer, so they napped. (I took it also but was unaffected by it.) Around 4 p.m., I woke Peter up and we dinghied over to a small dock and walked across a spit of land to snorkel around some other piers and a sunken tug boat, after which we went up on the hill to see the fort also.
The Rudd boys enjoyed kayaking all around the bay and swimming, and Matthew was thrilled to have boys on board. Katya, as usual, was bored with life no matter what.
On Easter Sunday, the Easter Bunny made two appearances, bringing four baskets of candy before breakfast and then reappearing later, as my kids were reading in their rooms, hiding chocolates in the saloon and leaving incriminating wet footprints on the swim ladder and deck as well as a chocolate smudge on the counter.
Since the wind was still strong, we delayed leaving Spanish Waters until Monday, March 23. Although conditions were better that day, it was still rough. The seas were choppy and the wind was still high. I fell asleep in the foreward cockpit before we came around the south end of Curacao, so I missed the confused seas. William and Henry valiantly worked with Peter at the helm and on the sheets, although neither felt too well and Henry was sick overboard. Unfortunately, the anchorage off the leeward side of Klein Curacao was rolly. Our anchor dragged, so we decided to pick up a mooring ball. The balls did not have pennants, so I “volunteered” Henry, who is always ready to help, to swim to the mooring ball and catch a line from the bow. With the strong wind, we had to make several attempts. The Rudd boys, exhausted, fell asleep, after the adventure at sea. The Browns went ashore and enjoyed walking on the beach and making a temporary collection of hermit crabs. It was spaghetti again for dinner as I was not up to making anything requiring more work as we rolled from port to starboard.
On Tuesday, March 25, as we were getting ready to leave Klein Curacao, a pod of small dolphins swam by close to the stern, providing a wonderful photo opportunity. Our departure was delayed when I accidentally dropped the boat hook overboard from the bow as I was getting ready to release us from the mooring ball. Peter was able to locate it about 50 or 60 feet below the starboard side but was unable to free dive that deep to retrieve it, and getting the snuba ready would have made our start too late, so we abandoned it as flotsam. 
En route, the Rudd boys and Peter made another attempt to catch fish, with no luck. After we dropped anchor in the same place in Spanish Wells from which we had departed four and a half days before, we ate grilled cheese sandwiches and chicken noodle soup—nourishing but not nearly as exotic as dinner the previous three nights. 
On Saturday, March 29, Katya accompanied Peter into Willamsted to clear in with customs and immigration. William and Henry finally had some success catching small fish from the stern of the boat but decided they were not keepers, so we ate pasta again for dinner. 
We stayed anchored in Spanish Waters for another eight days taking care of ordinary tasks such as boat maintenance, laundry (that had piled up for three weeks and took three afternoons to do), grocery shopping and homeschooling. (We have been really good about keeping up so that we can be finished by the end of May.) The kids took windsurfing lessons for four days and did quite well. Matthew is much more enthusiastic than Katya and kept going after the lessons were over until he had blisters on his hands. Peter also got in a few hours of windsurfing, although he was wounded the first day when he stepped on a sea urchin. We returned a couple times to the sunken tugboat to snorkel during that week. Matthew and I spotted an octopus, but it disappeared before we could point it out to Katya.
