First Light, Last Light
Great Inagua to Crooked Island
At four in the morning, the moon sets behind a cloud at the horizon, an eerie orange misshapen glow. It gets very dark and the horizon is barely visible at the edge of the world. To the east, a reddish point of light catches my eye. There's land over there, it's what we're aiming for. But it's not a land light. It’s not a ship, either. I watch as it rises and brightens into the biggest star in the sky. But it's not a star, it's Venus. My star app tells me that Venus is in Pisces currently and that she's only a third illuminated. Of course, being a planet, she would have phases, I just hadn't realized. No wonder she stands for beauty. Even less than half lit, she's very beautiful and so bright. My mother was a Pisces and she was very beautiful and bright too.
Another light on the horizon, which I scrutinize for a land light, turns out to be a ship. Motor Vessel Malau, the AIS1 tells me, will pass four miles off. Nothing to worry about.
I alter course slightly to avoid another ship, although I know she will pass on our port side because I can see a red light through the binoculars. Red is good and green is good (indicating the starboard side) but both together mean she's headed right for us, usually at terrifying speeds, two or three times our speed. Who invented this ingenious system of lights? The earliest record of the use of navigation lights on ships was in the 2nd or 3rd century B.C., but it was an Englishman named William Davis Evans who devised the current system of using colored lights in 1836. For this lifesaving innovation, Evans received £1500 from the British government. The Russian Czar was so impressed he presented Evans with a gold pocket chronometer and £200. Sadly, he died in poverty at age 82. I thank Mr. Evans every time I’m at sea at night.
The sky brightens incrementally, a dusky pink glow. An hour until dawn and already the stars are fading. Venus is the only one left, except for a little star not far from her. I consult the star app and am delighted to find it's Saturn, 100% illuminated. I don't know how they can appear so close and be lit so differently by the same sun. Another mystery.
It's bright enough now to see the dim outline of the ship on the horizon. It's very large and very close. I don’t know why the AIS isn't picking it up. I know ours is working because a lady called us on the VHF radio last night to ask if we were planning to anchor for the night. I was so excited to hear her voice I thought maybe we should stop and anchor. It was a beautiful uninhabited spot with pristine reefs. But we carried on, as planned. We'll stop today to rest and visit some cousins of my Bahamian "sister" Cara.
Clouds at the horizon look like mountains, but these islands are very flat so I know it's an illusion. Nearly sunrise now and I can see the long, low swell that makes for the most pleasant of sailing conditions. There's just enough wind to carry Harmony along at five knots. Perfect. It's tempting to just carry on sailing, but I can already taste Cousin Willie's peas and rice. If we're lucky, she might have conch fritters, which, to me, is the only reasonable way to eat those giant snails.
We are almost halfway to our destination in New York now. A thousand miles behind us, twelve hundred to go. I hope this fine weather holds.
After we anchor in the gin-clear water off the pristine white sand beach at Landrail Point, Crooked Island, Cara’s cousin Jeffrey comes to pick us up in his speedy powerboat. We told him we could dinghy to shore and walk to town to meet him and get lunch at Cousin Willie’s restaurant, but he said his boat was in the water and he was happy to come get us. Poor Gary’s tired of rowing against the wind to shore, so we agreed. Jeffrey was very sweet and his boat was very clean. He’s a fishing guide and I wish we’d had time to get him to take us into the salt flats where people fish for bonefish.
Jeffrey drops us off at Gibson’s Restaurant and Cousin Willie emerges from the kitchen to welcome us and invites us to sit down and have a cold drink. Her iced tea is strong and perfectly sweetened. We look around for menus, but it soon becomes apparent that at Willie’s you eat what she’s fixing. A plate of steamy conch fritters comes first. I narrow my eyes at Gary, who, like me, is not a fan of seafood and particularly not shellfish, but he’s wolfing them down. We haven’t had a proper meal in two days and we’re hungry. It’s too difficult to cook underway so we just snack.
Next thing we know, Willie brings out a huge salad bowl, a dish of the most perfect broccoli I have ever eaten, a basket of fried chicken with a delicious hint of lemon and a deep bowl of Bahamian peas and rice. Conversation stops as we shovel our food down. Everything is so good. I can’t remember the last time I had broccoli. I stop myself just in time to have room left for any possible dessert. I am not disappointed. Willie has perfectly moist fresh-baked banana bread with a side of chocolate ice cream. It’s the perfect end to a perfect meal.
Needless to say, we hate to leave Crooked Island. There is so much more to see and do. But it’s nearly the middle of May now and we must press on. Hurricane season starts in just over two weeks. Fortunately, for now, the weather remains delightfully fair. I watch the Bird Rock lighthouse until it drops below the horizon, not knowing the tragic story that unfolded there over a century ago. Moonrise follows.
When I was a teenager, I had a necklace that was a little flat glass vial about the size of a nickel. Inside was blue water and mercury. If you shook it, the mercury would break into tiny balls, which would slowly re- form as you watched. I loved to do this over and over. I still have it, tucked away in a treasure box.
Tonight, the sea reminds me of that mercury. The nearly full moon shimmers silvery on the restless water. It's not that rough, but every so often a wave picks Harmony up and shoves her sideways. Twice now, a wave has broken into the cockpit, but the water goes right out the drains. If you're tucked in by the bulkhead, you can stay mostly dry. Fortunately, it's 76° so you don't mind it much. I'm wearing my red Musto foulies2 to keep warm and dry. By morning we will be at Conception Island, which is reportedly very beautiful and completely uninhabited. But this is one of those sails that’s so good, you just want to keep going.
Automatic Identification System for collision avoidance
Foulies: short for foul weather gear ie: raincoat
Beautiful entry! Salivating!