Better the Second Time Around

In some of my first Whispering Jesse blog postings, the "Where's the Dinghy?" series, I detailed our ill-fated May 2004 sailing trip in the British Virgin Islands. We endured a lifetime's worth of sailing misfortunes in a single week, everything from dangerous weather to almost losing our dinghy.

I'm happy to report that things do indeed go better the second time around. What we learned from the first time's disasters prepared us well for the trip we took last month. It went so well that Nan said it was our best vacation ever. That's a far cry from last time, when in the middle of some particularly bad weather Nan said she hated sailing and would never do it again.

Here's what we did differently this time:

Instead of sailing with only the two of us, we recruited Nan's sister Monica and her friend Vicky to join us. Neither had ever sailed before but they were quick learners and excellent shipmates.

Instead of scheduling our flights with no room for error, we took the time to find flights that would give us options and get us from Denver to the British Virgin Islands in just one day, with time to spare in case of problems.

Instead of assuming our luggage would arrive when we did, we packed some toiletries and clothes in our carry-ons.

Instead of using a smaller, less expensive charter company, we went with the biggest and best, the Moorings, out of Road Town harbor on Tortola.

Instead of going with a smaller boat, we went with a forty-foot Beneteau, the 403 Club. It made for a smoother ride and much more cabin room, plus it included such niceties as an auto-pilot and an electric anchor windlass.

Instead of staying at an expensive hotel the night before our charter began, we stayed on the boat and got well-acquainted with its systems before heading out the next day.

Instead of sailing around Tortola clockwise, which is somewhat contrary to the prevailing easterly Trade Winds, especially on the north side of the island, we sailed counter-clockwise and enjoyed the benefits of never having to use the engine to make headway.

Instead of assuming the boat would have adequate water and fuel, and that every mooring area would have a water and fuel dock, we planned our itinerary to include strategic refueling stops at Marina Cay and Sopers Hole.

Instead of assuming that we would be able to get a day mooring at the Baths--no anchoring allowed!--we spent the previous night at the closest overnight spot, Manchioneel Bay on Cooper Island. We were underway by 6:15 the next morning and were the first boat to arrive at the Baths that day.

Instead of thinking I knew where I was going as we tried to enter North Gorda Sound and almost heading out to open sea by mistake, I checked and rechecked the chart, and entered the sound safely through the Mosquito Island channel.

Instead of using a long line to attach our dinghy to our Marina Cay mooring while we refueled, and then running over it and fouling our propeller on the return, we tied the dinghy up close to the buoy and motored up to it extra-cautiously.

Instead of thinking there would be plenty of moorings available at Jost Van Dyke, we sailed early from Tortola's Cane Garden Bay to White Bay and tied off our dinghy to an open mooring buoy, then made a side trip to Sandy Cay. When we returned all the other moorings were taken.

Instead of arriving late to the Sopers Hole and Norman Island mooring areas and ending up with windy, noisy moorings, we made a point of sailing early in the day and were rewarded with quiet, protected moorings, the one at Norman Island being the best of the trip, with excellent snorkeling right next to the boat.

Instead of suffering twenty-plus knot winds, four to six foot swells and frequent squalls, we were lucky to have fifteen to twenty knot winds, minimal swells and partly cloudy skies--perfect weather almost the entire week.

As good as it was, the trip was not without incident:

Monica took a bad fall going down the steps into the cabin, cracking two ribs and bruising a wrist. She had taken off her sandy shoes in the cockpit before descending, and her wet feet slipped out from under her at the bottom, causing her to fall back hard against the steps. She was a trouper, only complaining when we made her laugh.

We failed to notice an approaching boat as we were casting off the water dock at Sopers Hole and had to take evasive action, which resulted in us being pinned by the wind to the windward side of an adjacent dock. Fortunately, we didn't cause any damage to the boat, but I think I swore myself hoarse. We would have been forced to wait for the wind to die in order to make our escape, but a smart bystander directed a man in a dinghy to come under the dock from the leeward side and push our bow out into the wind while I gunned the engine and steered us out of there. It worked like a charm.

Hey, if everything went perfectly, it wouldn't be an adventure now, would it?

Here was our itinerary for the week:

Day 1, Saturday, May 5: Moorings Charter Base in Road Town, Tortola to Manchioneel Bay at Cooper Island.

Day 2, Sunday, May 6: Cooper Island to the Bitter End Yacht Club at North Gorda Sound, Virgin Gorda, with a four-hour stop at the Baths.

Day 3, Monday, May 7: Virgin Gorda to Marina Cay.

Day 4, Tuesday, May 8: Marina Cay to Cane Garden Bay on the north coast of Tortola.

Day 5, Wednesday, May 9: Tortola to White Bay at Jost Van Dyke, with a side trip to Sandy Cay.

Day 6, Thursday, May 10: Jost Van Dyke to Sopers Hole at Tortola's west end.

Day 7, Friday, May 11: Tortola to the Bight at Norman Island, with an unsuccessful snorkeling stop at the Indians. This time, all the day moorings were already taken.

Day 8, Saturday, May 12: Norman Island to Moorings Charter Base.

Monica and Vicky flew home the next day, but Nan and I spent an extra week at a villa on Cane Garden Bay owned and operated by our friends, Allan and Joycelyn Rhymer. They invited us to a festive Mothers' Day luncheon and made the second half of our vacation a joy with their boundless hospitality.

Next time, north to Anegada!

Where's the Dinghy? Day 8

or, How We Learned Most of Cruising's Lessons in Just One Week

Day 8 (Saturday, May 8, 2004)

The next morning, we both awoke feeling hungover from the previous night’s wine. The only thing on our immediate agenda was to get the boat back to Conch Charters before noon. All we had to do was negotiate the six miles back across Sir Francis Drake Channel to Road Town, and our trip would be over. Partly because I wasn’t feeling well and partly because it was such a short distance, I didn’t bother to put up the sails. We just motored across the channel and circled around near the Conch Charters dock until someone responded to our call and came out in a dinghy to guide us into our boat’s slip. We worked on packing up our stuff and moving it to the dock until Miles came along to check us out. Miraculously, the only damage was to the boat hook, which was a little crumpled from being bent and straightened, but Miles didn’t notice and we didn’t mention it. He was more concerned with explaining to me the intricacies of our previous day’s impellor problem, which I already understood thoroughly from having experienced it firsthand. He gave us an exit survey to fill out while he poked around the boat. One of the questions was, “Did you circumnavigate Tortola?” I hadn’t really thought about it much before I read the question, but that was exactly what we had done. We didn’t do it very directly, and we certainly didn’t do it very gracefully, but we had managed to make our way around the island and return to our point of origin, safely and on time. We had faced many trials, and we had learned from each of them. I don’t know if Nan would agree, but I felt confident that we could handle almost anything at this point. I was already thinking ahead to our next trip, and ultimately to my dream of sailing around the world.

Epilogue

When people ask about our sailing trip, I tell them that we had quite a bit of trouble, everything from bad weather to mechanical problems. But I also tell them that I never said to Nan, “We’re screwed.” Everything, even the completely unexpected, was manageable in the end. In fact, at one point during the trip, what I said to Nan instead was, “Despite all the problems we’ve been having, I’m having the greatest time of my life.”

Where's the Dinghy? Day 5

or, How We Learned Most of Cruising's Lessons in Just One Week

Day 5 (Wednesday, May 5, 2004)

The next morning, around 8:00, one of our neighboring boats motored past us while blaring a Sousa march at top volume. They made two loops around the slumbering party catamarans then headed out of the bay. We couldn't resist big smiles and thumbs-ups on their return pass. Payback’s a bitch.

Leaving sheltered Cane Garden Bay for Marina Cay, we discovered that conditions were pretty much the same as the day before: brisk wind and swells directly out of the east, our direction of travel. If we ever get a chance to sail around Tortola again, I think we'll go counter-clockwise just to avoid this situation. Like the day before, I opted not to beat into the wind and motored serenely along instead. Unfortunately, most of the beaches along the north shore of Tortola are fairly exposed and do not feature safe anchorages, otherwise they would be little bits of paradise. Across from Lambert Bay, a secluded paradise all its own, we passed Monkey Point, which looks to be a great day anchorage, with its interesting rock formations and giant cacti. But we wanted to get a mooring at Marina Cay and we had heard that they filled up quickly. As we rounded out of the passage between Little Camanoe and Great Camanoe, we were struck by the beauty of the perfect little island sitting in the sapphire blue water. Small wonder that a young married couple, Robb and Rodie White, had made it their own private utopia back in the 1930s.

We moored successfully about fifty yards from the fuel dock, then dinghied over to the island to explore. We walked from one end to the other in about fifteen minutes, stopping to admire the gardens, the view across to Virgin Gorda, and the little house the couple had built at the highest point on the island, which has since been converted to a visitors' library and bar. We had soft drinks at the separate Pusser's bar and restaurant down by the beach, then went to talk to the fuel dock guys to see what the procedure was. Just bring it on over, “mon,” was about all they had to say. We went back to the boat and tied the dinghy up to the mooring ball to reserve our place, then put out the fenders and dock lines so we'd be ready. A big trawler took almost a half-hour to fuel up, but then it was our turn. We motored over to the fuel dock and swung in sweet as can be. While the boat was being fueled, I took the hose to fill the water tank. Thirty-odd gallons later, it was topped off. I guess we did manage to go through all that water somehow. Surprisingly, with all the motoring we had been doing, we had only used up about eight gallons of fuel, when I had worried we might not reach Marina Cay with what we had. I guess putting along at low knots really does help conserve.

Feeling pretty confident after the easy docking, I motored back to our mooring ball. Maybe because the dinghy's painter was black and hard to see or maybe because I was going a little too fast, Nan missed the mooring pick-up and we went right over the painter. The engine stalled almost immediately. Not good. I didn't want to believe that we had just tangled up our propeller, so I tried to restart the engine. No go. I felt sick to my stomach as I looked over the side at our dinghy nosed tightly against the side of the boat while we slowly turned to face downwind, tethered to the mooring ball by our propeller. "Now what?" Nan asked. I have to go into the water to fix a big problem for the second time in three days, I thought. I was about to change into my swim trunks and grab my snorkel gear when a local gentleman in a dinghy came by and asked if we needed some help. Jimmy, as he later introduced himself, was a captain on a chartered boat nearby and had witnessed our predicament. I nodded and pointed at the bent boat hook floating near his dinghy. Smiling, he fished it out of the water, straightened it out and handed it back to Nan, then asked me for a dock line. We tightly secured the stern of the boat to the mooring ball to take the stress off the painter, then I changed and went under the boat with my snorkel gear and a steak knife. It was worse than I imagined. In addition to the painter, the mooring line and its milk jug float and line were all wrapped tightly around the propeller's driveshaft. I cut the float's line and untangled it from the rest. Doing this involved diving under the boat and holding my breath while bouncing off the sharp barnacles attached to the boat's underside. When I handed the jug, line and knife to Nan, she said, "You're bleeding!" I grimaced and went back under. It took several more trips under the boat to loosen and untangle the painter and mooring line during which I managed to cut a finger pretty badly on a barnacle. When they were free, I let the mooring line dangle since we were still attached to the mooring ball by the dock line, and swam around to the stern to hand Nan the dinghy's painter. I told her to tie it to the boat, then climbed aboard and headed to the bow. Jimmy and I worked a new dock line from the bow to the mooring ball so we could release the stern line. The boat swung back around to face the wind, and things were back to normal. I thanked Jimmy profusely and promised to buy him a drink at the bar later. He smiled, waved and headed back to his own boat. I returned to the stern and was stowing the extra dock line when Nan uttered the most memorable line of the trip, "Where's the dinghy?" Sure enough, it wasn't attached to the boat. In fact, it was already about a hundred yards away, floating free. I uttered something unprintable and shook my head in disbelief. I was already exhausted, and there was no way I was going to be able to dive in and swim fast enough to catch up to the dinghy as it drifted away on the wind. Another nearby neighbor noticed what was happening, got in their dinghy and chased ours down. When they returned it, to our immense gratitude, they mentioned that one of their crew was having trouble with seasickness. As a thank-you, Nan gave them some Anavert, an anti-vertigo drug that she apparently had been taking since we stepped onto the boat. "It really works!" she said. I gave her a quizzical look.

When we finally returned to the island, it was starting to get dark. We wandered up the path to the library/bar, following the sound of amplified guitar music and singing. There was a huge crowd enjoying the onstage musical antics of Captain Mike Bean, including a conch shell horn-blowing contest. We found Captain Jimmy, thanked him profusely again, and bought him his drink of choice, a cranberry and soda. As a hired boat captain, he was still working, after all. Then we spotted some friends from back home whom we had also run into at the Bomba Shack. With Nan's nodding agreement, I mentioned how difficult it had been sailing the boat essentially singlehandedly on the days we had actually had the sails up. Shannon piped up that since we were all sailing to the Baths at Virgin Gorda the next morning, she would be happy to join us and help with the sailing. Good deal!

Where's the Dinghy? Day 3

or, How We Learned Most of Cruising's Lessons in Just One Week

Day 3 (Monday, May 3, 2004)

Early the next morning we received a call over the boat's cell phone, which was our direct lifeline to Conch Charters. Emma said my bag had finally shown up, where were we? When I told her we were at Sopers Hole, she said she would have someone run it right down to us. Three hours and several phone calls later, David arrived at the marina with my bag, sweating and out of breath, almost as if he had literally run the bag down to us. We were familiar with the concept of "island time" but this was bordering on the ridiculous, even for a Monday. We did appreciate the great customer service, but we were now getting a pretty late start for Jost Van Dyke, our final destination for the day.

We rounded Steele Point at the western-most point of Tortola and headed almost due north for Sandy Cay, where we hoped to snorkel and eat a late lunch. As on the two previous days, we were again flying just our jib. Good thing, too, because the wind and seas on the north side of the island were even stronger than on the south. At one point, I clocked us at 5.3 knots, which is pretty honking fast for a thirty-foot sailboat under jib alone. Nan was nervous. The boat was rolling severely each time a swell passed under us, and there was an ominous-looking black cloud out to the east. A little while later, as we approached Sandy Cay, the storm associated with that cloud hit us hard. The wind picked up to close to 40 knots and the rain started to come down in sideways sheets under our bimini. There weren't any day moorings and Nan didn't want me to try to anchor, so we decided to head for a safer mooring in the shelter of one of Jost Van Dyke's southern bays. This would require a jibe, and it was entirely too dangerous to attempt at this moment, so I did a 270-degree "chicken jibe" instead, slipping and sliding around the cockpit to get the jib over while Nan held the wheel through the turn. We were now running down, or more accurately, surfing down huge swells with the wind directly at our backs. Rain was pouring into the open cabin, so I asked Nan to get out the storm boards and put them in place. She pulled out the three trapezoid-shaped pieces of fiberglass but couldn't figure out how they went into their slots--sideways, upside down, largest one first? It would have been almost comical to watch her struggle if we and everything we owned weren't getting soaked. I think it was at this point that she said, "I hate this! I am never doing this again!" Not for the first time. And not for the last.

We whizzed past Little Harbour, Great Harbour and White Bay in quick succession, but every available mooring was taken. The prudent sailors were all waiting out the storm. Still not wanting to trust the anchor, we said the hell with it and headed back to Sopers Hole. We arrived in the late afternoon to find that every mooring was taken there as well. No way around it, we would have to anchor. I had Nan steer as I untied the anchor's securing line and made sure the bitter end was cleated. I had her aim at where we hoped to end up, then put the engine in neutral. I ran forward and, lacking a windlass, dropped the anchor quickly hand over hand. When I felt it hit bottom, I let out what I thought would be sufficient rode and then tied off the line. There wasn't much room and the wind was still blowing, so I thought our backward motion would set the anchor for us. It seemed to work. At least, it didn't appear that we were moving backwards relative to the boats around us.

As luck would have it, about a half-hour after we anchored, a boat near us left its mooring. Nan still didn't trust the anchor because of the weather and wanted us to move, so it was up anchor. I fired up the engine and put it in gear, then ran forward to pull up the anchor while Nan steered. If you've ever tried to pull up a thirty-pound anchor by hand, you know it's not easy. I couldn't pull it up fast enough and the boat was veering to starboard toward an old private mooring. Sure enough, the anchor line wrapped around the mooring and we were left dangling. I went back to the helm and motored counter-clockwise to free us. No go. OK, then twice around clockwise should do the trick. All it did was shorten the line. "Now what?" Nan asked. "I guess I have to go in the water and figure it out," I said. Good thing my snorkel gear had finally arrived that morning. When I swam out to the mooring ball, I couldn't believe the collection of junk that was just below the surface--old fenders, milk jugs and a random collection of algae-covered rope holding it all together. Wrapped tightly in a figure-eight pattern in and out of the mess was our anchor line. With the weight of the boat in the wind, there was no way to untangle the line without taking the tension off it first. I went back to the boat for one of our fenders and a dock line. I tied an end of the dock line to the ring on top of the mooring ball, then went back to the boat to secure the other end to one of the bow cleats after pulling the boat up as close as possible to the mooring ball. I untied the bitter end of the anchor line and threw it overboard. With the tangle, there was no danger of losing the anchor. After going back in the water to untangle the line, I tied the bitter end to the fender so it wouldn't get away, then went back on board to retrieve the anchor. Of course, while all this fun activity was going on, someone else came in and took the available mooring. By this time, it was starting to get dark, so we said the hell with it, private mooring or not, we're staying here for the night. I adjusted the dock line and opened a beer.

It had been a day when only stupid people, or people who thought they could stick to an agenda regardless of the weather, were out. I think we were guilty of both. We found out later that small craft advisories had been in effect on this day--and we definitely qualified as a small craft--but we didn't know it at the time. There isn't a full-time weather channel on the VHF in the BVI, just a couple of local radio stations that announce forecasts between reggae songs. Maybe we should have been listening. That evening at the Jolly Roger, where we treated ourselves to the special, we ran into an old friend who runs a day charter that we had done during both of our previous visits. I asked him if he had been out with paying customers that day. He shrugged and said that it hadn't been so bad. Later I overheard him at the bar animatedly telling someone that he had gotten his catamaran going over ten knots under jib alone. I had to close my eyes and shake my head.

Where's the Dinghy? Day 2

or, How We Learned Most of Cruising's Lessons in Just One Week

Day 2 (Sunday, May 2, 2004)

The next morning we took a quick dip off the stern to wash away the cobwebs from the previous night, then headed back across Sir Francis Drake Channel toward Tortola's West End. The winds were still blowing at a brisk twenty knots and the seas were still in the four- to five-foot range, but at least the sun was shining. We soon noticed a good-sized flotilla coming up from behind off our port side. In addition to at least twenty flags representing countries, yacht clubs and sailing businesses from around the world, the lead boat was flying just its jib, as were many of its followers. This seemed to confirm that we were doing the right thing, sailing with just our jib. I was starting to wonder how I would ever be able to get the mainsail up, reefed or not, since I wasn't sure if I could get Nan to hold the boat pointed into the wind while I climbed up to the mast to unzip the sail and get it raised without snagging the battens in the lazy jacks. With the weather the way it was, it would be a few more days before I would have a chance to give it a try.

As we rounded the west end of Frenchman's Cay and headed into Sopers Hole, it was like coming home. We had vacationed on Tortola twice before, in 1995 and 2000, and had stayed just up the road at the Fort Recovery Villas both times, so we were very familiar with the quaint little marina and its pastel-colored buildings that seem to symbolize Caribbean architecture. The area around the marina's dock was crowded so we headed for a mooring ball on the opposite side, just past the ferry dock. Yesterday's mooring pick-up must have been beginner's luck because this time Nan had some trouble. Instead of the line being attached to the ring above the waterline, it was attached to the one below. Not seeing the underwater line and not knowing what to do, she hooked the ring and yelled for me to come help her. Before I could get to the bow, the wind pushed the boat awkwardly toward the mooring ball and Nan, not wanting to let go of the boathook, held on as it bent itself around the bow at an obtuse angle. We left the boathook bent for now, thinking it would snap if we tried to straighten it. It was difficult to use but at least it still worked. With a little effort, we were able to fish out the mooring line with it and get ourselves safely situated.

It was still early in the day and we didn't need any fuel, water or ice yet, so we just relaxed. After lunch, I pulled out my guitar, which had fared better in transport than my duffel bag, and was strumming it when a gentleman on a neighboring boat hailed us. I thought he was going to compliment my guitar playing, but he just wanted to let us know that we were tied up to a private mooring. Oops. It had looked just like one of the $25-a-night ones when we arrived, but now that he mentioned it… Maybe that explained the underwater mooring line. We quickly moved to a pay mooring about fifty feet to our right. No harm done. By this time, we were ready to take the dinghy over to the dumpsters near the ferry dock and then on to the Jolly Roger for some pizza and Red Stripe beer.

Where’s the Dinghy?

or, How We Learned Most of Cruising's Lessons in Just One Week

Prologue

My wife Nan and I chartered our first bareboat together this past May. It was important to me going into the trip that it go as smoothly as possible because I had dreams of buying an ocean-going yacht and sailing away, and of course I wanted Nan to go with me--willingly and happily. If this little shake-out cruise went well, it would help to build her confidence and comfort level, and maybe she would begin to share my dream.

Alas, it was not to be. The trip had the makings of a disaster before we even got on the boat. We had planned to fly into the British Virgin Islands the Friday night before our charter began on Saturday, but we only made it as far as San Juan, Puerto Rico because our flight, the last one of the day, was canceled due to mechanical problems. So instead of staying at the Prospect Reef Resort just west of Road Town, Tortola, in the BVI, we ended up at a seedy hotel that was hosting an all-night hip-hop party.

Day 1 (Saturday, May 1, 2004)

Somewhat sleep-deprived the next day, we landed at the BVI's airport on Beef Island. Unfortunately, my duffel bag didn't make it. "No problem. It will show up," said the airline representative who eventually helped us. When I asked when, she said, "Maybe on the next flight. Maybe tomorrow." Her lack of concern convinced me I would never see my bag again. Visions of wearing the same underwear for days on end began to fill my mind.

Off we went for a wild cab ride, on what we Yankees would consider to be the wrong side of the road. We soon arrived at Conch Charters headquarters at Ft. Burt Marina, on the west side of Road Harbour. Sweaty-looking, barefoot guys in "Staff" t-shirts kept walking past us and our baggage, saying, "Good day." One of them finally realized that we were charter customers and showed us to our home for the next seven days, a 1996 Hunter 295 sloop named "Girls Day Off." That name would come to mean many things to me during our trip. It was a nice little boat that had obviously been well used but also well maintained. Nan quickly decided that the aft berth was too hot, too dark and too claustrophobia-inducing for us to sleep there. So the forward v-berth became our cramped sleeping quarters, and we stowed our stuff aft. After checking the tiny galley, we realized the breakfast and lunch provisions we had ordered were not yet on board. This made us hungry, so we went in search of a late breakfast.

Four hours later, after final payment arrangements and a chart briefing with Emma, a complete boat system orientation with Alex, and the arrival of our provisions--except for any bread products, which required a second delivery--we were ready to set sail. Miles tied a second dinghy to the stern, expertly maneuvered us out of our slip, said the conditions didn't look too good, "maybe just a headsail today," shook my hand, wished us luck and motored away in his dinghy. I had been nervous about this moment for a few months already but now here we were heading into sheltered but open ocean on our way south to the Bight at Norman Island, and the wind out of the east was just howling. I had plotted our course before we left, so I pointed the boat on that compass heading and got a visual idea of where we were going, just six difficult miles away. As soon as we cleared the harbor, the seas picked up considerably. Five-foot swells in a thirty-foot boat are not much fun, like a hungover roller coaster ride.

We had motored along at three knots for fifteen minutes when I started to think about what Miles had said about maybe using just the headsail. Then I thought about how we were going to accomplish getting that sail unfurled safely. Finally, I thought about the one-and-only ground rule we had made for this trip: No yelling! It was time to teach Nan how to steer. When I suggested she come back and take the wheel while I put out the jib, she gave me a horrified look through her spray-covered sunglasses. I smiled and explained that all she had to do was keep the boat pointing in the direction it was going, and that she could use the piece of electrical tape wrapped around the wheel as a guide for when the rudder was pointed straight ahead. She looked uncertain as she grabbed the wheel with white knuckles, so I said I would hurry. In less than a minute, I uncleated the furling line, snapped out the jib and winched in the jib sheet on the starboard side. When I took the wheel again, we were a little off-course but not too bad. Nan gave me a look that clearly said, "Don't make me do that again." She had just learned that steering a boat in bad weather is nothing like steering a car in any kind of weather. The combination of the motor and the jib now had us flying along at better than five knots. Alex had told me in our orientation that our fuel tank held only twenty gallons, so I didn't want to waste any if I could avoid it. It was time to turn off the motor and just sail. That must have been a signal to the weather gods to unleash hell because it immediately started pouring rain. I stood up tall under the bimini to keep my head dry while the rain soaked the rest of me, including my only set of clothes.

When we arrived at the Bight, it was time for Nan's next lesson, how to pick up a mooring. But first we had to get the motor started and the jib furled. Since we were now in the shelter of Norman Island, this went smoothly, and Nan actually looked like she was gaining confidence with the steering. We rounded up to an isolated mooring ball not too far from the William Thornton pirate ship and floating restaurant, known by one and all as the "Willy T.", and Nan snagged the mooring line with the boat hook on her very first try. I ran forward to show her how to secure it to a cleat, and our first day of sailing was complete. Still a little soggy, we putt-putted our four-horsepower dinghy over to the Pirates restaurant for dinner and a well-deserved painkiller, a local concoction of rum, coconut milk, pineapple juice and orange juice, with nutmeg sprinkled on top. Dylan, our bartender, just smiled and added extra rum as we told him of our afternoon's adventure. We stopped at the gift shop on our way out to buy a t-shirt and swim trunks to expand my limited wardrobe. Then it was off to the Willy T. for a nightcap and a chat with Alex from Conch Charters, who moonlighted there as a waiter. He had said if my missing duffel bag showed up during the afternoon, he would run it over when he went to work. No such luck. The Willy T. was hopping though, so we stayed for a few margaritas. Not too smart on top of the painkillers. At one point, I turned to Nan and said, "Is that girl topless?" She just nodded. Time to go. As late arrivals to the mooring area, we were left with one of the most exposed moorings. Nan's first night ever sleeping on a boat was a long one. We tangled toes in the v-berth, opened and closed the hatch above us as it rained and cleared, and swung wildly back and forth at the end of our mooring line as the wind continued its long blow.