Origins of Plan B

The Origins of Plan B

(Writing from Guadeloupe)

As far back as last summer, our thinking was that we would fly
to Trinidad, spend a week and a half preparing Horizons for her
northward journey, and head out about the first of February.

In addition to being northward, the journey would be sentimental,
a valedictory visit to places that we love and that we would
not be seeing again, ever (at least not in our capacity as cruisers,
since we could always book a flight).

But we would have time to savor this and remember that as we
plied our way gently northward, arriving at the Virgins and then
sailing to the Bahamas by way of the Turks and Caicos, so as
to arrive in America early June, and at Slip 19 in Hartfield
a little before the Fourth of July.

Our Plan A started fraying around the edges fairly early in the
program, and we are presently considering whether 1) Plan A has
been ripped to shreds by the events of the intervening weeks,
or 2) possibly Plan A has not yet absolutely ripped to absolute
shreds and there is a way we can make our way to Slip 19 in Anno
Domini MMXI.

The problem is a combination of time pressure and fatigue.

Losses to Weather: Two Weeks in Trinidad. Winter weather systems
in North Atlantic extend their southward reach and send northerlies
our way. Mid-Feb we see an opening and go to Grenada, against
much uglier weather than was forecast. We get there, but we
have lost the ship-to-shore radio and the wind instrument. Both
losses are surprises, and this takes us to—

Losses to Wind Instrument Failure: One Week in Grenada. Grenada
Marine solve the problem promptly, but we have to stay close
to the boat while they work out their schedules. That's OK,
since there is a new VHF radio needing installation, and some
small projects not worthy of mention. Last year we put in a
new autopilot (except for the drive unit), but we didn't know
that a part of it could fail, too—

Losses to Autopilot Failure: One Week in St Lucia. As we move
northward, the autopilot starts being overwhelmed by the least
little wave, shutting itself off and producing a sudden and alarming
120-degree turn to leeward, without warning. Eventually it quit
altogether. Regis Electronics in Rodney Bay finds the bad electrical
connection on the drive unit and fixes it, but it takes us several
days to get on the technician's dance card. Meantime, we enjoy
Rodney Bay and St. Lucia and find it lovely. (When we were last
in St Lucia in 2003 our time there was disappointing, and we
hadn't planned on returning. Now, with changes to the marina
and a new supermarket that sources from the US it is a delight.)

Losses to Heat Exchanger Failure: Ten Days in Martinique. After
a few days in Marin we enjoy a delightful four-hour sail to Fort
de France. Entering the bay, we furl the jib and staysail, since
the Trois Ilets anchorage is upwind. Ten or fifteen minutes
later the light and alarm on the panel signal overheating. Jack
checks the exhaust water before shutting the engine down, and
the pump is working like a champ—but the liquid coming out is
tinged with the color of coolant, indicating a busted heat exchanger.
We get a tow from the Societe National de Sauvetages en Mer
to a boatyard three miles from downtown F de F at six PM Wednesday
and call the mechanic the next morning, Thursday. He drives
up from Marin to diagnose on Tuesday, and he installs the replacement
part on Thursday. This is prompt and efficient service, but
what we hear is the clock ticking ever louder.

We have kept pushing and now we are in Guadeloupe. Martinique
to Dominica to the Saintes and the final four hours of yesterday's
ride to Point-a-Pitre involved unforecasted bad weather and confused
seas. Plus Laurie had accidentally put her left contact lens
in her right eye and the lens did not want to come out. (It
came out of its own accord overnight.) Jack's knee, which is
always complaining these days, is joined by his hip and his upper
back—it's like a trio in some orthopedic grand opera.

We both pronounced The Seven Words: I'm getting too old for this.

We did not, however, immediately seek out the services of a yacht
broker.

Horizons, according to Plan B, will return to America in MMXII,
after spending hurricane season on the hard, probably in Antigua.

(Writing from Antigua)

A bit of time passes. We cannot get through to Antigua by telephone
or email to either Jolly Harbor or Antigua Slipway, both of which
are places our insurance agent has told us we can haul with a
reasonable hurricane premium. We have friends in English Harbour
who take time to go to Antigua Slipway, collect the information
on hauling there and email it to us. The creative secretary
at Jolly Harbor, having received a long-shot fax from us, faxes
back to the same number with their costs and the statement that
they have room.

Welcome to Plan B. We sail to English Harbor, 40 miles, half
of it at hull speed, only using the engine for 30 minutes on
either side of the passage, and drop anchor close to our friends
on Alexina of Shoreham, first met in Rome in 2004. They crossed
from Cape Verde this February and have been in Antigua since,
waiting for their friends, who will accompany them down the chain.
We have a grand reunion. Peter and Helen look the same to us
(as we to them, no doubt) and their daughter Tiger is now 10
and as charming as ever, though much taller.

We decide to haul at Antigua Slipway, thereby allowing us to
work on the boat in protected English Harbor while we enjoy seeing
the magnificent classic yacht race next week. We will have front
row seats as they turn in the harbor.

We have spent a while torturing each other with whether we could
have just soldiered on, much as we did in 2004. Have we wimped
out, ingloriously? We could still make it to the Virgins in
time to surge through the Bahamas and make it home in time …
if we really persevered, and if the weather holds and no time-consuming
problems occur. The conclusion is that while persistence is
one of the great virtues, it is wise to select carefully just
what it is that one is going to be persistent about! In our
case and in the present circumstances we remember that we set
out on this cruise eleven years ago for the pleasure of it.
Accordingly, we vote for pleasant. We'll bring Horizons back
next year.

Sucker sail

"Sucker sail" is a technical nautical term that refers to the
perfect combination of speed and ease of sailing that tricks
you into thinking that it's all worthwhile. Normally, we have
one of these about every three or four years. That's why they're
called sucker sails. They keep us going.
After 10 days, we left St Lucia on a Sunday with perfect visibility.
After we were past the headwinds and currents and confused seas
that occur at most capes, Jack turned on the just-repaired autopilot,
which performed perfectly the whole trip. We had Diamond Rock
in sight the whole way. We rounded into Martinique and the anchor
set perfectly—on the first try—and we were sitting pretty off
the lovely town of St Anne. That night we had dinner on the
new catamaran of friends we met almost eight years ago.
We went into Marin the next day to clear in and reprovision with
French goodies from the great discount supermarket with the dinghy
dock. Alas, the shelves were pretty much bare. A dockworkers'
strike had caused a back up in supply to the island shops, although
everyone hoped to have more by the weekend. We intended to be
in Dominica by the weekend, so we bought what we could. We will
have enough herbes de Provence to last us at least through the
next few years, not a bad 10 euro investment.
Fortunately, we left MQ on a sucker sail, too. A very fast reach
to Dominica ended in Prince Rupert's bay with a beach barbeque.
Years ago, the boat boys formed an association, the Indian River
Guides, to minimize the hassles and maximize the professionalism
of their services. It's even better now: they make the bay
safer for cruisers by providing nighttime guard service and putting
down secure moorings. They earn money by providing those moorings
at the cost of $10 American a night, and they put on a great
barbeque once a week to earn more money while people drink, eat,
dance and talk for $20 a head. Future goals include reclaiming
the entire bay and ridding it of the rusting wrecks to the south.
Now even the French are coming to Dominica from the Saintes just
12 miles away. Hard work and vision are paying off.

BUT IN BETWEEN

We spent an extra week and a half in Martinique sitting at a
dock in the incredibly unromantic Baie de Tourelles, waiting
for the one mechanic on the island who handles Yanmar motors.

We had decided to go in to Fort de France to see the capital
city. It has some sights and we had only been through it on
business seven years ago, when Jack had arthroscopic surgery
there. Accordingly, we left Marin Wednesday morning on a lovely
close reach and sailed the 10 miles north. About five minutes
after we turned on the engine to head east (upwind), buzzers
screeched, lights went off and Jack, looking at the exhaust,
saw cooling water mixed with green antifreeze. This pointed
to a catastrophic failure in the heat exchanger, which is designed
to keep the ocean water separate from the antifreeze. Quickly
turning the engine off, we figured out what we might do.

The Doyle guide said that Mechanique Plaisance had a head office
in Anse Mitan; we knew they were the Yanmar representative in
Marin. We could sail there by tacking and there was a chance
at anchoring. We decided to alert the French Coast Guard that
we would be coming in under sail, and because of the many restrictions
we might need help in being pulled to a safe place. After a
time, they replied that they had located a local boat who would
help us when we arrived. They could see us, so they knew where
we were and could relay the information to the local boat. Time
went by, and finally we had just about reached the designated
rendezvous place, but could see no sign of a local boat moving
out to help us.

Called the CG, or more specifically the Societe National de Sauvetage
en Mer, who said the local guy had gotten tired of waiting.
They said we would find no help in Anse Mitan, and we had already
verified this by taking a good look at the remains of the marina
(which hasn't yet bounced back from the hurricane two years ago)
and noting the lack of any response to our calls to "any vessel"
in the harbor. SNSM could send an official boat to pull us to
Baie de Tourelles, where they assured us we would find help.
Everything was there.

So we dropped the hook on the first go in one of the few spots
where the water was shallow enough to anchor in and waited.
When we dropped anchor the depth was 27 feet. By the time we
had let out 200 feet of chain the depth was 85 feet, indicating
a very unfavorable geometry.

If you have been with us on our trip for a while, you know that
not all our encounters with official rescue have been well handled
or even honest. So it was with some trepidation that we awaited
rescue. We now had to take it, as we were not in a safe location
and our sails were down and the Mighty Yanmar was, too.

In over an hour the rescue vessel arrived. This was very different
from Greece. Several of the men spoke English. They requested
that we throw them our line, which meant that this would never
be claimed as a salvage. They were very competent and kind.
The French Canadian's first words to us were "Are we having fun
yet?" which sort of broke the ice. (Even in tropical waters
it helps when someone breaks the ice.)

When we were secure on a dock at FdeF, the French Canadian said
he would come back later. We wondered if that would be when
it all turned to mud. But no, the very pleasant Phil just wanted
to make sure that we had access to a phone. He would call his
girlfriend, who worked in Marin, and make sure she got the number
of the Yanmar mechanic. Phil said he would speak to the mechanic
and tell him exactly where we were, and then call us the next
morning with the number.

This rescue was effected for a total of 425 euro, which contrasts
somewhat with the 12,000 euro we paid in Greece, with threats
of having our boat impounded if we didn't produce the money within
four days.

Anyway, we called the mechanic Thursday morning and he was on
Horizons diagnosing up a storm first thing Tuesday—a very prompt
response, considering. It was the heat exchanger. He did have
a reconditioned unit in stock in Marin and would come to install
it Thursday.

So we got to see lots of Fort de France, since although we had
now bought a phone, the mechanic preferred to communicate by
email, only available with a three-mile walk. We got to practice
lots of French because the dockyard and downtown areas of FeF
where we were are not at all touristy.

So in and out of MQ was not the four days we hoped for, but more
like 15. The two boat units we saved in St Lucia were spent
in MQ. Only a sucker thinks you ever get ahead.