Log 19: Finding Rainbows and Farewell to the Bahamas, Part 2: The Preparations

(No need to waste time on the backstory here. If you haven’t read Part 1, check it out here).
*Warning: This article does contain some cuss words. I made the conscious decision to include them, keeping true to the real dialog of the story. Please read at your own discretion. Thanks for your understanding.

The thick chain rattles loudly as it drops from Belafonte’s bow. It’s already the evening when we arrive in Man O’ War Bay, Great Inagua, Bahamas. Feeling grateful to be welcomed by a rainbow and calm waters, we know it’s only reprieve. A mist of anxiety lightly washes over the boat as we tie things up from our sail here. Although we are tired from the overnight passage, there is much to consider for the upcoming days. Roughly 900 nautical miles of open ocean crossing is in our near future, and it’s all we can think about. We settle in after a bite to eat and lie awake in bed. Questions and thoughts buzz though our minds until we finally open our eyes to find sunlight and relief that we did sleep.

Of course, this is when the waiting game begins…

We plan to ride the Windward Passage from here south between Cuba and Haiti, passing Jamaica, then crossing the Caribbean Sea to arrive in Bocas del Toro, Panamá. With no stops. For this to unfold safely and correctly, we need a solid weather window.

A couple days pass filled with snorkeling sessions, running from mosquito swarms, looking for birds, and scoping out the nearby Morton Salt Mine. All while the lingering urge to prep buzzes in our ears, (nearly as loud as those mosquitos). It’s gorgeous here, but sometimes it’s difficult to enjoy the beautiful place you are in when you’re constantly consumed thinking about the future and how to get there. It’s a human-made curse that can easily go from healthy, respectable planning, to obsessive, dooms-day prepping, (arguably) easily. Have you experienced this before?

Shuffling through various weather radars and predictions, we target a weather window for next week. Is this really it? Well, time to restock the provisions. The grocery store was about a 10-mile dinghy ride. We pack our grocery bags and head into town. Amy and MJ from Motherload Sailing are also in their dinghy riding alongside. The bumpy ride accentuates the lovely pin holes in our dinghy. Wonderful.

We tie up to a large docking area and climb up a sketchy metal ladder onto the dock. “’Tis is tradition,” first thing’s first, food. We walk up and down several blocks to find an open restaurant. A small, adorable burrowing owl spots us with his big yellow eyes, and hops into a little hole near a big buttonwood tree.

We pass an older lady sitting outside a shop smoking a cigarette and listening to reggae music. “Excuse me,” we stop and ask, “where can we find an open place to grab a bite to eat?” The lady sweetly smiles and directs us around the corner and further up the road. We say thanks and keep walking. We find a bar and grill, and although unsure if this was the right place, we see it’s open and go inside. The place wasn’t pretty on the inside, but the chicken sandwiches were on point. Bright green parrots cackle outside as the hot sun now beams down from high in the sky.

While we trudge back towards the grocery store, sweat dripping, an old dusty blazer SUV pulls up next to us and stops with all the windows down. It’s just the driver in the car, a large Bahamian man with long black dreadlocks. He asks, “What up man, you need a ride?” He had the biggest smile on his face, pearly whites glowing. His soft and friendly expression and jolly attitude seems genuine. His clothes were dusted up and construction tools laid in the backseat. I bet he’s on his lunch break. It’s hot as hell and we stand out like a sore thumb. Everyone’s been so nice here, I’m sure he’s not a serial killer. The four of us look at each other, agree, and ask if he’s sure he doesn’t mind dropping us off at the store.

“No, no! No worries man. If you’re going to ‘da grocery store it’s right up ‘da road!” He chuckles clearing the tools from the seat. Soca music bumps from the speakers as we pile in. We exchange greetings as we roll off and street signs zip by the window. I notice a small family photo wedged into a slot in the dashboard. The man tells us how he was born and raised here and still loves it. He turns his head a bit, “I saw you walking, and thought, they’re not from here,” he gives a friendly laugh. “Oh, how can you tell?” We jokingly laugh along.

“Thank you for the ride, it’s a hot one today, huh?” MJ asks. The man turns again, “Oh, yes, it is! No problem man. I was worried, you know what ‘dey say… sugar melts in ‘da sun!” A second to process this comedic gold and we all burst out laughing together. We briefly talk about our journey and plans, followed by the assurance of what we already knew – we were crazy – but in the best of ways.

When we arrive, the song “Last Last” by Burna Boy comes on. “I love this song,” I say smiling, “Thanks again!” We hop out the worn, lifted SUV. Our new friend cranks up the jams, grinning from ear to ear and waves goodbye as he rolls away. The song echoes behind us when we swing open the grocery store doors. It’s go time baby.

We scavenge the store for provisions. I find the produce section and it’s essentially barren. Dang, so much for fresh food. The mailboat must be overdue. There were two squished tomatoes, one rotten head of broccoli, and a bell pepper that came with a complementary pet. Canned items and dry goods were the best option. The selection isn’t outstanding, but we snag items that can get us by for a couple weeks. We grab what goods we can find and head back to the dinghies. All of us are loaded down with heavy, stuffed backpacks, filled reusable grocery bags slung over our shoulders, and worn out flip-flops kicking rocks in the street. “Man wish that guy would roll by again right about now,” we smirk, waddling our way down the street and onto the dock.

Oh no, Scout’s tubes are super deflated! Brendan hops aboard and starts pumping it with air while I load up the food. We release the lines and motor out of the protected cut. The sky is turning dark. Now just to make it back home before that storm on the horizon beats us there.

Racing as fast as we can through the choppy waves, we can feel the hot grey rubber tubes softening under our butts. Oh no, please just make it home! It starts sprinkling down on us. “I hate this stupid dinghy,” Brendan growls. And as if it heard him, Scout hits a wave full force, and briefly collapses in the center, catapulting the bow upward into a 45-degree angle. As our butts now briefly define gravity. “F***!”

With no strength or support from the limp tubing, our collapsible, inflatable dinghy managed to fold in on impact, luckily popping back down almost immediately. We smack back down. “Oh shit… it’s fine, it’s fine!” I scramble to brace our now wet, fallen over grocery bags. A two-second scan for damage and Brendan digs for the manual pump again. And let me tell ya, the bike pump in your parent’s garage is probably faster and fancier than this thing! “Oh shit, we’re taking on water,” I gasp. The connection in the floorboard snapped back uneven, and a stream of water started seeping through the floor. The cussing continued as a second trickle started to flood in from the other end of the floorboard connection.

It didn’t take long for MJ and Amy to notice we stopped and came to check on us. Thankfully, cheering up the mood as well. We knew it would be incredibly difficult to pile all of us and our heavy grocery order into their dinghy and tow wounded Scout back. A possible option in a critical situation, but we were still floating and had to get back fast. So, we keep pressing forward, keeping them nearby to help if needed.

The sprinkle turns to rain. What ensued next was a sight I can only imagine as hilarious to anybody else, and the perfect metaphor for our recent state. Brendan steers the outboard with his left hand, with his right gripped to a plastic cup bailing out the ankle-deep water from the floorboard. At the same time, I’m awkwardly hunched over attempting to balance as I pump air into the dinghy, looking like a coal miner pushing a handcart down the railroad tracks. Ridiculous.

Finally, we make it back to Belafonte. We hoist our wounded warrior Scout out of the water (which obviously didn’t go well either). Then, attempt to wind down, knowing this all starts over again tomorrow. Thankfully we did the heavy stuff today, so we plan to ride with Amy and MJ in their dinghy into town for the last items.

Departure day inches closer, and soon, it’s knocking at the door. However, we must still get our zarpes from the customs and immigration office. Zarpes are official documents that grant clearance for departure out of the country. Laws around zarpes can fluctuate depending on the country you’re exiting/entering. Although (at the time of this writing) the Bahamas does not legally require one to leave, Panamá requires one to enter. So, it’s on the checklist too. But it was the weekend. Offices are closed?

By some miracle, exceptional luck, fate, pure chance, or whatever you want to call it, we were able to acquire them on the weekend by talking to folks in the local laundromat. It was the most friendly and hospitable experience I’ve ever had involving government paperwork. And as weird as that sentence is, there’s a lot of that in the cruising world. We can’t get over how friendly this place is!  

The following day, we spent our time prepping Belafonte for the 7-10 days of nonstop sailing. Everything on the list must be checked. And after one last run into town, a rainbow dropped from the sky. It was beautiful and reminded me of our arrival here.

Maybe we have arrived at something? Or somewhere, within ourselves?

I smirk at the thought and lay down in bed. Tomorrow, we depart. We need all the sleep we can get. The cabin lights click off. We’re ready.

Check back tomorrow for the finale of this three-part series, Log 20: Finding Rainbows and Farewell to the Bahamas, Part 3: The Passage!

Thanks for reading! 🙂