Impertinent Munchkins and Trolls Abroad

Cruising dosen’t leave a lot of time for writing, oddly enough – and so a lot of the writing I did never got posted.

Whats New:

Parked the boat on an island in Turks and Caicos Islands.

Went Back to work at Kteck for a term employment gig.

Got sent back to Toronto for 3 straight months AGAIN.

Quit and changed to a 9-5 Ottawa Job at Canadian Blood Services.

Baby Eleanor Ayres born January 20th

Moved house to a place in Britannia, a neighborhood in Ottawa.

Planning on resuming cruising when

a) Money for new parts to finish installation of new engine is available

b) Eleanor is old enough to cruise and appreciate it. (open to debate)

c) Hurricane season of year X is over.

I have to admit to a bit of a phobia – call it nowindpassagaphobia-with a side helping of North Swell.

Thats pretty much whats keeping us pinned here in Boqueron. That and waiting for a parcel to arrive which will contain three things.

1. A new tiller-pilot autopilot self steering unit
2. A block to replace the one that got destroyed in a gybe while crossing from Culebra to Vieques
3. An AIS receiver

The first item is a bit ironic, as it seems I may have unexpectedly fixed the derelict Autohelm 3000 wheel based pilot I found on the boat, in a back locker. The previous owners told me that the motor was good, but that the electronics were fried. I believed him, as I figured he would have probably fried them himself trying to fix them earlier. Also the belt from the drive was missing. Today in a fit of boredom I took the electronics module apart, cleaned the internal contacts a bit, and put it back together. Now the motor responds as it should and the blinky lights all blink. Not bad for an old analog unit from the 1980s. I also found the belt drive for it under the floor with a bunch of old hoses and fan belts. We may have a working autopilot – at least for flat seas and light conditions.

The second item became neccesary when our downwind steering antics provided a bit of an excuse for the boom to swing amidships and then bash back outwards – blowing uyp the sheet block it was secured with. After that, i attached the boom brake that had been hiding under the captains berth in a box. Handy preventative device that, even if it does squawk like an injured goose as it “eases” the boom across in a gybe. We seem to be gybing a lot in this downwind sailing business. The sea munchkin seems to dislike running outright, unless you pole out the jib. And that pole is a big heavy pain in the keester to muck with.

Luckily – most of our sailing has been possible by “beam to broad reaching” with the wind across the beam or the buttcheeks. With a real breeze, the boat actually likes this kind of sailing. Unfortunately, we have a penchant for arriving at our destinations when the sun is overhead, enabling us to see rocks, wrecks, submerged cannons, and other debris without hitting it – and that neccesitates leaving in the early mornings, when the wind is nil on the South coast of Puerto Rico. perfect conditions for going against the trades, but not so great for bearing West.

We have been sailing by day, and anchoring at a series of interesting anchorages as we head West.

Gilligans Island was a series of bays and mangrove swamps overrun with vacationing Puerto ricans wading amongst the shallows with beers and portable brbeques. Their favourite pastime is seeing just how shallow one can run a jet-ski, before one has to turn it over and scoop out the various sea life that gets sucked into the jet. I, on the other hand prefer to wade slowly through the shallows pullng the dinghy by hand, so as to give the various sea creatures a sporting chance to bite my feet.

Prior to Gilligans Island we anchored for the night at Isla Cayo de Muertos. As the story goes, a pirate put his dead beau in a glass coffin on the island, and then managed to freak out nearly every pirate in the area who, naturally – assumed this was just a trasure burying ruse rather than a sick and morbid bit of amateur carpentry. At least thats how the story goes. The island was also once the refuge of a famous rum distillery, and is now a kind of park. We tried picking up a mooring, but the amount of water under our keel on the moorings there was a little scant. Any waves and we would have been testing the keel for stress factors, not to mention grinding sand into smaller sand.  We instead opted for anchoring further in deep water in the bay of the island. That turned out to be a bit of a treat, for right under our keel, once the anchor was set was an old cannon – doubtless left by pirates. I was tempted to haul it aboard, but the size and barnacle-encrusted nature of the thing led me to conclude that it wasnt a good idea. Probably against the law too. Natch.

Prior to Muertos, we anchored for a considerable period at the Salinas anchorage. Salinas is suppsed to be infested with sea cows, but the sheer number of boats and silly humans probably scared them sensibly away. The day we arrived in Salinas, the area was mad with boaters out for a weekend of mayhem and fishing. Within the harbour, boats moved at a stately 5 knots so as to avoid chopping up the sea cows into sea steaks. The boats outside the anchorage buzzed around at warp speed trying to run down the few fish that hadn’t fled to another island. The only thing they did manage to run down was some poor snorkeler, who got to find out first hand what its like to be a sea cow meeting a propeller. Im sure they patched him up in the end – I think every ambulance in the county showed up to see the commotion.

From Salinas we took a cheap rental car across the island and toured the Mandatory caves, SETI antenna at Arecibo, and San Juan West Marine. The drive across the Karst landscape on curvy roads was like something out of a car commercial. Or a car tyre commercial. Or perhaps a brake-pad commercial. My passengers had a beautiful view.

We are currently anchored in a modest rocking swell, not very far from a forbidden island.

The swell is because this anchorage is pretty much open to the way the seas are coming from today – the South-East. Our original plan was only to go this far if we made good miles on the sail from Vieques, but the forcast noted that the winds would eventually shift to the North-NorthEast, which would leave the midpoint stopping anchorge I had picked open to the seas at night.

Instead, we decided to make for the “Monkey Island” a 17 mile hop across in light winds. We ended up motorsailing most of the early sail as we got a late start (8AM) and didnt want to arrive at a strange anchorge too late in the day. As a result, we actually got to the island rather early (round 130) which left us a bit early on the weather too – so now we are rocking in an open seaway waiting for a weather trough to pass and the winds to shift north, which will be well protected for us. This will likely happen once the larger sea breezes of Puerto Rico stop reinforcing the already weak trade winds.

The island we are near is forbidden and interesting as it is populated by about 700 monkeys, which live there as part of some sort of research project. Normally people are not supposed to land on the island, but we may snorkel up to it and look at the monkeys. We can hear them occasionally screeching on the hills. At one point, Tim our temporary crewmate, got out the binoculars and I posited that he would see a group of monkeys in tuxedos looking back at him with binociulars as well. This did not come to pass. This is not the Island of Doctor Moreau. It is properly Cayo Santiago on the charts.

The Island of Vieques has been a series of ups and downs. We arrived and originally anchored for the night in Bahis Salina del Sol, which was formerly used as a shooting gallery by the US navy. I guess they got tired of blasting Bikini Atoll, and decided to pick on something closer to home for the conventional weapons. Most of the watery bits of the island are presumed cleared, but I continually imagined our anchor finding something under the water and exploding in a spray of hollywood shrapnel and fire. Also of note, the bay of Salina del Sol smelled of manure. We then sailed on to Ensenaa sun bay which smelled even worse from the local mangrove swamps. I didnt mind so much as it allowed TimBits to eat as many beans as he wanted – nobody could tel if someone had passed wind, for all the swamp gas. This bay is known for its neighbouring bay – Puerto Mosquito, which is on record as being the most glowy of all bioluminescent bays in the world. Apparently glowing dinoflagellates like the taste of mangrove swamp run-off. We walked to the bay and swam around. I felt like mickey mouse in the movie “the sorverers apprentice”: every movement of hands or feet left a wash of mystical blue light behind, and a sprinkle of magic pixie dust glowing in my chest hair. I had to remind myself and my crew that in fact this display of light and colours is in fact a display of abject terror on the part of the tiny animals we disturbed, and that guinness book or not, it wasnt sporting to scare the bejeezus out of tiny animals just because their asses glow. My crew was not amused at this. We continued to frolic until the moon arose and made the spectacle a little less impressive, and the path back to the boat a little more walkable.

Before Vieques was Culebra. Culebra is a magic place that is boring as hell – and everyone there likes it that way. It has a well protected anchorage and an assortment of smaller bays and reefs to nick off to on the boat. There is an entire cadre of cruisers who have parked here and gone no farther. Noted among these are Tony and Suzanne on the sloop Gabra. They came to Culebra from Orleans Ontario over a decade ago, and dont seem to have plans to leave yet. Their advice and great attitude made Culebra a wonderful stop and a definite “must visit again” lister. Culebra has a cheapo ferry to and from Main island Puerto Rico, so we stayed a couple of days and took a rental car on the mainland to see the Rum distillery and the Rain forest park in eastern Puerto Rico. The Distillery (Bacardi) is rather dissapointing, as visitors are herded into a propaganda center and then walked through a series of corporate whitewashes before being dumped into the inveitable gift shop and bar. Compared to the Wild turkey distillery in Kentucky where you actually get to see the actual distillery, the tour left a rather bad taste in my mouth. Kind of llike a paranoid corporate version of those communist tours that were so well known in the last few decades. I hope someday to see the original “real” bacardi distillery in Cuba, and get the corporate bullshit smell from my nose. We followed the tour up with an evening wander through the old city of San Juan and then stayed overnight in a guesthouse which was quite charming.

Today has been a strange day.

The coast guard showed up. In fact they showed up in twice the usual numbers – two coast guard boats. Munchkin and I braced ourselves for a boarding, but instead of boarding the coasties just cruised in circles around the bay. Then things got wierd. One boat stationed itself in the middle of the bay amd the other one started slowly circling the bay, its electronic siren, instead of wailing the normal klaxon was belting out a rather well rendered version of the “Darth Vader” theme from Star wars.  This was kinda unnerving. Then the boat approached the other coastie and started playing the theme from “jeapoardy” – and we could overhear voices on the loudspeker that sounded bemused and not at all like the hardcases that the coast guard has made itself out to be in some locales. The two coasties then spent the next couple hours running towing and MOB drills before zipping off back to the more populated bays of St. Thomas.

In other news, I degunked the generator and it now works. I also fixed the gas tank. The method for patching it was not unlike a scene from the movie “trainspotting” – Since HDPE gas tanks cannot be glued (succeptibility to solvents in glue would also mean meltable by gasoline) the only way to fix them is to “weld them’. So weld the tank I did. First filing it partway with water to prevent explosions, I cut off a tiny piece of HDPE from a corner of the tank that wasnt functional (mould tab edge) and then heated a spoon over the stove burner like some addict cooking up. Once the spoon was hot enough to melt HDPE I applied the back of it to the crack, and then applied the patch and melted it into the crack some more. Weld completed! I then tested that it would hold pressure, water, and finally gas. It be fixed!

Not that we have any great love for Pramac, the grotty generator that is half lawnmower, half industrial accident, and all noise. On the other hand now I can use it to drive our big drill and make some holes in the head to pass hoses for the new holding tank. The holding tank that sits on the floor not yet legally installed as expected by the aforementioned coasties. I am sure glad they didnt board us. Darth Vader music nothwistanding.

We are currenty anchored in Lindbergh bay, nest to the airport, and over the hill from the power generating station. The runway runs behind a bank of trees beyond the beach, and occationally I forget this fact and am alarmed to see a plane land, and then continue to roll to all appearances down the main street as if it was planning on taxiing right on to Charlotte Amelie down the road.  Its rolly, noisy, and the chart says we are over or near some undersea cables – but damn the sand is nice and holdy, and the bay is nice and empty. The so called “nice” anchorage around the corner is crowded so full that only hardpan and coral awaits those who think they can anchor there without first waiting like a cat for an opportune spot in the “good holding” area to open up. During the winter, I think a cat would wait about a month for such an opening.

Around here, you can always tell the decent anchorages by the fact that they have been overrun by private mooring balls and public pay mooring balls. These virgin islands are far from virgins – perhaps they should call them the mooring ball islands now. Anyhow, at night this bay quiets down, the planes stop landing, and the generators over the hill quiet down considerably.  I like the nights.

It has just rained, as I write this, and probably will threaten to the rest of the time we plan on making an outing in the dinghy. If we are lucky, the clouds will circle also playing star wars music. Perhaps theres something in the water we took on a couple days ago. At night the dance music from resorts on the waterfront start booming out a repetitive bass throb. Its hard to tell if they are trying to drown out the sounds of the Power station and Airport, or if they are genuinely into techno. Munchkin calls the music “oompa Loompa” as it reminds her of the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory creatures of the same name.

Now that I have been living on a boat again for over a month, I’m reflecting on the nature of living aboard and cruising. For all the hype in magazines, living on a cruising sailboat with no income – having disposed of the job from which said income originates, is a bit like many of the other extreme lifestyle choices people make, and subsequently rave, wax poetic, and write periodical magazines and novels about. Cruising is then a bit like joining the army, adventuring in the mountains, backpacking a third world nation, or having children. There is a period of adaption that is wholly different from your previous lifestyle, and a time in which adaption occurs. For the army there is boot camp – in which the idea is to continuously increase the amount of discomfort and bizarre bullshit a person can tolerate, until they are socialized into the deviant society of the military enough that any crazy fucked up thing will seem relatively normal.

Sailing has its own transitions.  From the purgatory of the boatyard when all is dust, bugs, and expensive work that grinds the senses with heat and skinned knuckles, and a thirst for the cool water waiting only a short distance away – to the expensive but tethered life at the dock, where money continues to flow to no apparent purpose and the boat, while floating, still appears to be going nowhere. To the travails finally of the open water, where one can gradually or instantly immerse oneself in the beauty, the terror, and the satisfaction of having learned one thing more or another about how this counfounded boat works in its native element.

In our first year with the sea munchkin, we spent a great deal of time in the boatyard, either dug in, or shaking on the stands waiting to launch. We then spent a lot of time in various marinas, getting eaten by sharks and minnows alike (financially speaking) before we could finally escape and exist as a cruising boat is ideally meant to – on the hook in a pleasant protected bay. We then jumped right to the opposite end of things, and crossed a passage – doing everything wrong all at once, right up front.  It was sobering and taught us the value of liming, which is a form of Carribean Slack that is revered by peoples of the Caribbean and the followers of Bob Dobbs alike. We then slacked away most of our 30 days in the BVIs until we realized our 3 months were up and we had to actually go back to the Grea White North to earn more money, so as to feed the sharks more dollars before they realized we had credit to chew on as well.

This year, we followed a similar path, but at a more sensible pace. A week or less in the yard, followed by only a couple days in the marina of squeaky ropes and incessant swell. Then motoring across to a fine bay to hang and reflect. It has been a month now and we have accomplished only a little. The sharks of the boatyard only swalled about 120$ to fix the fridge, the marina likewise only got about 150$ for the privelidge of letting us jerk and sway in bondage. Not too bad.

Of course, the ratcheting of discomforts and bullshit has continued, so I wonder if our enjoyment of the present quiet bay is an artifact of all the crap we have had to endure, or simply a nice place to be. Probably a little of both. As hunger is the best sauce for any dish, so bullshit pain and frustration are the frame that allows us to enjoy that perfect anchorage and put it into a perspective as a work of art singularly placed in ones life to make the rest worth it.

This has been a hectic day. We sailed mostly downwind from West end Tortola to Cruz Bay St. John. Cruz bay is like a
shopping mall parking lot at Christmas time, except you have tractor trailer and larger trying to park, and most of the spots re taken, and the rest are dangerous. We managed to scoop a 3 hour anchoring zone spot in front of the sea plane base, and dingied into the customs government dock. Clearing in was not really an issue, but I was dumb and forgot my wallet back at the boat. We were expecting to pay the harbour authority some kind of fee, so after clearing in immigration and customes, I dingied back and grabbed the wallet, then hunted for the harbour authority office. We didnt find an office but we did find a couple women in blue uniform shirts with a handdeld device that looked like an iphone, with a recipt printer attached to it. It turns out that they were the harbour authority. We asked if we needed to pay anything, and apparently, no we didnt. Michelle was incensed. It all seemed so disorganized to her. I am glad we werent in Egypt – where disorganized and baksheesh go hand in hand. I think she would have had an aneurism. I am perhaps a little more inherently cynical already when it comes to authority. I dont expect them to be organized, or clever, or even friendly.

Hmm, I just heard a crash ahead of the boat. I suspect something has gone amiss – perhaps they dropped their barbeque into the drink. I have to look — schaedenfreude is alive and well on the water…

It is a fairly calm morning in Sopers Hole. Yesterday we went on our last inland expedition into Tortola. We caught an expensive cab first to the chandlery in Nanny Cay, and then another into Road Town. The Chandlery had a couple things that I needed, but not everything. One thing on the list was a new pressure pump for the stern shower. The sticker shock sent me to buy a solar shower instead. Simpler, and can generate hot water too. Not a bad deal. We also sent our propane tank for a refueling – a first, as it had never been filled since we bought it in St. Maarten. The Butane tank we will probably never refill now that we have left the more Euro islands has been holding out on its gas supply since we bought the boat.

We went into Road Town technically to shop, but a lot of the shops were closed by the time we got there. Instead we walked around, had a couple of beers from the “Bat Cave” bar which overlooks the inner Harbour, and then went and watched a couple movies back to back. The first one was a family animated film starring a chameleon. The second was “I am number 4″ which was both hilarious and terrible. Terrrible because the film seemed more or less a rehash of the “Twilight series” but with aliens instead of vampires. Funny because the theatre put the wrong lens on the projector. This lens issue meant that we kept seeing the top edge of the film instead of the proper aspect. We saw stuff at the top that audiences were never supposed to see. At first it was alarming – watching close-ups with the tops of peoples heads, and seeing the furry end of boom-microphones edging in above their heads.

The best part was an outdoor scene, where it was raining. Michelle exclaimed – What is that big frame thing above the car?  I realized at once, from my work in film – It was the rain machine/sprinkler! You could see the whole arrangement. Either this was a lens issue, or the movie was really badly made. Either way, watching out for production errors made light of the terrible terrible writing and ho-hum acting.

We caught a cab back to Sopers at around ten, which included a side trip for a woman in some kind of drama situation.  She kept getting calls on her cellphone, crying occasionally and asking for detours.  In the end she wound up detouring to pick up an infant and then getting dropped off at a hotel with surly security guards who wanted nothing to do with her.  I Wanted to pay her cab fare, ask about what was going on, even offer her a place to sleep on the boat – but the vibe definitely didnt seem to warrant the intrusion of outsiders. The taxi driver seemed nonplussed, at any rate.

We bought a small scale chart of Puerto Rico and I have been studying it this morning. The scales and weather to deal with near this larger land mass will make things a lot more interesting. I have decided to go the South route – North has too few ports, and too much potential for ground-swell. It is probably not a bad way if you are going with the trades as we are – but I am not after stiff winds and fast passages – I am looking for gentle winds and low seas, and lots of pretty places to keep the Admiral interested. I am also possibly looking for a port to keep the boat in for a week or two while I head North to support Michelle in the PHD defense Tango.

There is a possibility of doing this boat-storage thing further on in the DR, but I wouldnt count on our passagemaking chutzpah progressing that much by then. I am inclined to just get going and head straight for the Bahamas – but the state of systems requires a more measured approach and proximity to supply chains and safe anchoiring areas in which to do invietable repairs. So far the head and shower have taken their breaks from function. I suspect the Outboard and the Engine may follow, if they get their way. They are students of entropy those two – racing any way they can to become rust again.

Sopers Hole, BVIs

Sailed here yesterday. Sopers hole last night was like trying to anchor in the throat of a wind instrument played by a recalcitrant schoolchild. The hills and islands of Tortola and Frenchmans Cay channel the wind into this narrow harbour and send it barreling along one wall or another. This morning, the winds are gentle, which tells me it isnt windy enough outside to sail yet – otherwise We would be getting twice that in here.

I am getting more confident in the boat, and her unlikelyness to break under sail. The engine continues to work, but I cannot guess as for how long. Oil leaks are springing up at the head and block joint, and every start is accompanied by blue smoke. The leaks are not catastrophic for now, and the amount of oil lost can be replaced and mopped out of the bilge – but I imagine soon a day when it will be enough to lose oil pressure and contribute to a final failure. I suspect the head gasket will avail me little at that point – likely corrosion of the head or block from raw water cooling will have made that pointless. Unless, the gasket itself being a dissimilar metal is what is dissolving, in which case a clean-up and new gasket may be just the thing – but that is wishful thinking.

This week the seat on the head broke, which is a problem as the head is a Lavac, which requires the seat to create a vacuum for flushing. Now we have to flush by adding buckets of seawater to provide the flushing, which is a pain. Inquiries to the local vendor indicate that lavac heads are back-ordered for a month now, so It seems unlikely that I will be able to do a proper replacement for the head in the next couple weeks. I may have to just get one of those pesky crappy Jabsco ones for the time being, but IF i have to spend the money, I would rather it be a Lavac – despite the breakage they are incredibly resilient toilets. And that counts for a lot out here, until you cant get another.

In the next couple days we will check out of the BVIs and enter the United States VIs. The check in procedure is a little trepidatious, but probably will go smoothly. Weather has been good of late, harbour island effects notwhithstanding. Winds have been ENE at 10-18 – not a bad direction for all those folks wanting to hazard a passage to St. Maartin.

The plan is to check in at Cruz Bay, and then go on to St. Thomas and do some anchoring and waiting for parts for about a week. If No parts appear, then it will be a passage to Puerto Rico where they have more stuff and a West Marine Store.

There is a good selection of food here in the Tortola West end, as well as taxis to Road Town. I am debating going to see a movie tonight, except the Cab fare will cost more than the film itself.

We left the rolly but well provisioned embrace of the aptly named Fat Hogs Bay yesterday and picked up an illicit mooring at Cooper Island.  Cooper Island seems to be the place where the party happens for Charter boats. I had seen this little bay from across the Francis Drake Channel and wondered about the mass of masts on the horizon – seemingly exposed. Not so, as this island provides a decent lee from the prevailing winds. The island features a small resort which is cruiser friendly, and a good dinghy dock. The scramble for paid mooring balls commences early, followed by a scramble to anchor in the little patches of sand left over among the moorings. Boats here are mostly charters, and most of them seem to be heavily loaded with tourists. Music blares from the odd boat and the rumbling burble of generators on larger cats often cuts the night. Once these notes have been tuned out, one can hear an early evening warble of some kind of birds or bats on shore once night begins to fall. Their calls seem quizzical and quite unlike the harsh Rooster calls found on the more heavily populated islands like St. Maarten or Tortola. After about an hour, the birds settle down and crickets can be heard. Not an unpleasant place. We sailed partway here, more or less relearning the quirks of the Sea Munchkin and her myriad decaying hardware issues. The Roller furling worked well, as it is practically new, but the main sail got stuck somehow 6 inches from the top of the mast, leading to a flaky and not entirely efficient sail form. The Mizzen went up with some struggle with the track, but its principle frustration is the Sun awning that obscures access to it without doing dangerous gymnastic deeds around it, or standing upon it – with usually disastrous consequences for the weather beaten awning and its sun weakened material. It felt good to be finally sailing. The motion of the boat through waves was almost pleasant and a major contrast to the bouncing that happens when under power. Having Michelle steering left me free to muck about with sail trim as well, which is a bit more fun than steering.

The winds have picked up again. The last few days in Trelis bay have been the more typical idyllic coditions that I remember from my previous stays here with the sea Munchkin. Our bug-bites are slowly fading into obscurity and the grit and grime of the boatyard is slowlly being forgotten. We made a beaurocratic and shopping run across the island today. The beaurocratic part was to ensure that the boats presence in the islands was permissable up to the time we depart ourselves in a couple of weeks. I discovered the discrepancy a couple of days ago. When we last parked the Sea Munchkin we paid for a temporary import permit for the boat, which expires March 1st, 2011. This is a little shy of our immigration visas. It would have been a shame to be hassles on our departure over such a quibble, but thats what people in uniform can do if theyre in a bad mood. We headed this off at the pass by checking in with Customs and getting them to extend the customs clearance on the boat. The whole thing amounted to a “No problems” and a smile from the customs officer. He wrote a note on the back of our customs sheet, which I appreciated. We also shopped a bit and grebbed a hamburger from a pub which overlooks the anchorage near Road Town. The Pub is somewhat famouse as it also overlooks a sandbar on which hundreds of sailboats have run aground, not going far enough around the hazard before turning into the anchorage. I wasn't there to be part of the peanut gallery so much as to get a birds eye view on the passage before we had to transit it ourselves, hopefully memorizing the way and avoiding ourselves becoming a spectacle to the onlookers on the pub verandah. 

The days at Trellis pass in relative ease. We continue to debate the source of water that somehow manages to leak persistently into the bottom of Bumblebee – our Dinghy. No manner of plug at the transom seems to prevent the bottom being full every few hours we check it. I am beginning to think there is a slower and more sneaky leak elsewhere. We read a lot, and the last few days have been swimming. Michelle has been on the lookout for sharks but so far has only spooted a lone turtle occasionaly coming up for air nearby. During the last few days we have shifted moorings at Trellis to one more sheltered and closer to the local beach-bar , The “Looe Mongoose”. At our latest mooring I dove under the boat and retrieved from the bottom the following:
1. White towel.
2 6 packs of bottled tonic water. Intact. (a third awaits me, apparently someone dropped a whole flat of them)
1 White china “corelle” plate.

Some people seem to manage by hunting lobster or conch in the islands. For my own part I think I will start a restaraunt. Just give me a bottle of gin to disinfect the towell and mix with the tonic. 

The next few days are supposed to blow about 20 knots. It is surprisingly cool here in the anchorage. Virgin Gorda boat yard sweltered, Road Town cooked in the Sun. Trellis Bay in 15 to 20 knots requires an extra blanket, albet a skinny ranger style one. Not at all what I was expecting. 

At some point we will get the boat out of this bay and do some sailing in this stiff breeze, but not before we sort out some rips in our lazy jack zippers, and make sure the reefing lines are well placed and ready to go.  Next Stop is a round about Beef island to Fat Hogs bay (East End Tortola) and then on to Road Town itself before heading West and our of the BVIs altogether. 

So for now, may your drinks be frosty, and may your hammock rope hold steady in the breeze.