Farewell BVI

After completing the must dos of the BVI and visiting our favourite spots one more time, we prepared for our voyage to St Martin.

We filled the tanks, bought the flag, prepared the navigation plan, stowed everything away, conducted the safety briefing, synchronised watches and clipped on our harnesses.

The voyage from BVI to St Martin is just over 90 nautical miles, and at our average boat speed, takes about 15 hours.  In New Zealand terms, the trip is comparable to Auckland to the Bay of Islands.  There is a major difference though.  Once you leave the BVI you are in open ocean until you reach St Martin.  There is nowhere to run to if the weather packs in. There is nowhere to hide.

We had been watching the weather for the past week, trying to find a good window of low swell, calm seas and moderate breezes.  Adding to the complication, the voyage is international so we had to check out of the BVI and into St Martin during business hours. Therefore, our voyage had to be at night.

We checked out of the BVI at 4pm on Thursday.  Gary was on the first 4-hour watch.  As we went through the passage out to sea, we watched dusk settle on Fallen Jerusalem and the rest of the BVI islands fade into the humid haze. 

Gary was pretty excited about the voyage, and in particular being able to go fishing.  As we entered international waters, Gary put out his line.  Just as I had decided to go down for a nap before my watch, a whizzing sound caught our attention. “Quick, take the helm” Gary directs, as he picks up the rod with a massive grin on his face.  I am not so impressed.  Light is fading, the ocean swell has hit us, and I want a nap.  But you can’t wipe that grin of Gary’s face.  At first he thinks he has just caught weed as the line goes limp, but then the fish decides to kick back into life.  The reel screams off again. When we catch sight of the fish, it is fairly large.  Neither of us can identify it.  I’m thinking a big Barracuda, Gary thinks maybe a small Mackerel.  We needed our fish flashcard.  At this point we have slowed the boat down, we are off course, and the sea swell is beginning to make me feel nauseous. 

I can see how this is going to play out.  I know how this story ends.  Gary will get the fish on board.  The sight of the blood and guts spilled throughout the cockpit (not to mention the smell) will make me gag.  With nowhere else to put the fish, Gary will insist on putting it into my nice clean fridge, contained only by a plastic supermarket bag, probably with a hole in the bottom. Okay, maybe I was a bit selfish, maybe you could even go so far as calling me a bitch.

“That thing is not going anywhere near this boat” I announce “Cut the damn line”.  The smile fades from Gary’s face, and is instantly replaced with the innocent pleading one.  “But it’s my first fish” he says, attempting to play the sympathy card.  We are caught in a stare down for a good 30 seconds.  “Fine” he relents, and we haul the fish in, only to get the hook out and set it free.  I am relieved; Gary is distraught.  “What a great catch” I admit, trying to smooth things over.  “Next time we will have the chilly bin ready”.  Hope returns to Gary’s eyes and he gives me a wide grin as I head down for a nap.

I can’t sleep, but I doze for about an hour.  At 7.30 I head on deck with the sandwiches we had prepared earlier.  The sun has gone down, and we are in darkness.  The boat is thrown from side to side, up and down over the 1 1/2 metre very short swell.  We are heading dead on the nose into the wind. 

At 8pm I begin my watch.  I put in headphones and blast Madonna classics to keep me awake.  At first I enjoy my watch.  The phosphorescence lights up our wake, making it look as though we have a train of fairy lights dragging behind us.  I mime the words to “Papa don’t preach” and “Like a virgin” and laugh at myself as I stare up at the stars.  This is good for about an hour.  Then I get tired, really tired.  The movement of the boat seems to be getting worse.  Up, down, side to side, round and round.  I attempt my yoga breathing, but to no avail.  I start to feel sick.  I leave my spot at the helm for a more comfy one further into the cockpit where I can stretch my legs out.  I can’t keep my eyes open, so I close them for a few moments, then check around for boats, then continue dozing.  After a while of this I recover, and return to the helm.  I decide I won’t tell Gary about my dozing.  Of course I wouldn’t fall asleep on watch...

At midnight, Gary appears from down below.  He clips on and joins me at the helm.  I give him a quick run down of the highlights and head down to sleep.  It is nice and warm down below, and I fall asleep quickly.

At 3.30am I wake.  I can see Gary’s legs through the window of the stern cabin I am in, which faces the cockpit.  I grab hold of his legs to give him a bit of a fright, and am surprised at how cold he is.  “It’s a bit wet” he yells at me as I suddenly become aware of the sound of the pounding rain.  “Shit” I say to myself.  I was not prepared for the cold.  I make a mission to the fore cabin to retrieve my trusty pink track pants. I sit in a sheltered corner of the cockpit and acclimatise. We can now see the lights of St Martin approaching. Gary’s debriefing includes a concern about the autopilot.  He thinks it is slowly putting us off course.  I put his concern down to tired paranoia, and send him down to bed.

I watch the steering wheels as the autopilot turns this way then that.   I think Gary’s paranoia is rubbing off on me.  Is the boat turning more than it should?  No, it’s fine.  I keep watching.  Then suddenly the boat makes a sharp turn and begins a 180.  I jump behind the wheel and turn off the autopilot.  I am now out in the open and soaked to the skin within seconds. A few expletives pass my lips.  The chart plotter seems to have lost us, and thinks we are heading 45 degrees from where I think we are.  The autopilot says we are at 71 degrees, the chart plotter tells me 95 degrees, and the compasses say 110 degrees.  I hand steer as best I can for 15 minutes, but I can’t figure out if I am even heading in the right direction.  Eventually I give in and call Gary to deck.  Gary quickly takes in the situation, heads me in the right direction and after giving me a break from steering for a while, heads back down to sleep. 

I am feeling happier about the whole situation as dawn breaks over the horizon.  As light gradually fills the world I can make out the buildings on shore, and can see the waves as they approach.  I see something off the port side.  As clear as day I think I see a dolphin tail.  But it was only a second and I couldn’t be sure if it was my imagination.  Was it a dolphin tail or just a really big fish?  I begin to doubt myself when suddenly, right there within reaching distance, a lone dolphin surfaces next to me.  And just then I knew I have survived my first ocean passage.