We headed out of Nanny Cay Marina after a morning of anxiously re-installing the transmission’s heat exchanger (it blew an o-ring the night before) and testing all the other engine-related systems. As we motored through the narrow inlet bordered by the jetties that were so menacing just weeks before upon our crippled entry, and rounded the southern coast of Tortola in the benevolent ten-knot breeze, I put the most apprehensive crew at the helm, Tracy. I’m not sure why she was so tentative about piloting her home, but I pretty much had to order her to take the wheel, “and smile when you do it!” Besides, the seas were incredibly calm in the western end of the Sir Francis Drake Channel, and I thought it might be a long time since we saw sailing conditions so perfect.

As we approached the western end of Tortola and entered the pass between the Thatch Islands and Soper’s Hole, I took the wheel to weave our way in very light wind (in the lee of the island) north through the narrow pass and all the bottle-necked boat traffic going in every direction. But once we made it through the pass, we were unpleasantly surprised by 15 to 20 knots of northeast wind, the resulting seas and menacing clouds on the horizon. It was like a completely different day; definitely the “island effect” in full force. For the first time on Kai Ohana, we would be beating the rest of the way to Jost Van Dyke.

So I cheated. I fired up the engine, putting it through its first real test since the transmission refit, and we motor-sailed the five miles (about an hour) to our destination. But by the time we got to Great Harbour, she was overheating and we had to drop the anchor quick. As with pretty much every anchorage in the Virgins, the bay was full of boats so we had to anchor further out than any of the others in about thirty feet of water. Because of the northeast wind, the anchorage was surprisingly calm though it seemed very exposed to the Atlantic Ocean – any southeast blow would make the bay untenable at best.

As soon as the engine cooled down, we discovered the overheating problem was caused by an empty antifreeze reservoir because a hose had been reinstalled improperly, which produced a loop or air gap in the system giving the impression there was more fluid in the system than actually existed. The sensitivity, complexity and intricacy of the systems on a boat still amaze and befuddle me. It’s true what Tania Abei told one of the kids in an email: “Your learning curve is going to be steep for quite awhile.” It will be nice once this hill I’ve been peddling up for the last two years starts to level out.

I saw Cameron in the distance casually walking around with his hands clasped behind his back, his face with that same calm, yet joyful expression. He stopped occasionally to chat with someone, and then looked around to make sure everything was going smoothly. I ran over and gave him a quick hug. Cameron is not only the owner of the marina, but an inspirational guitarist, a kind person, and a great friend. (Not to mention I totally had the hots for his son.) He convinced my family to stay for Spring Regatta because he knew Preston and I loved to race sailboats.

“Hey Sara! Have you found a crew position yet?” Cameron asked. “Nope,” I replied “Not yet, but I will, no worries.” To tell the truth I was a little worried. The friends I had made the previous weeks who were sailing in the race didn’t have room for extra crew, so if I did get a spot it would be on a boat with complete strangers. Though that wasn’t what I wanted, it wasn’t going to stop me.

As it got closer to the start of the race, I met a lot of new people and just about talked everyone’s ear off, but I wasn’t that excited about the crew position I had found. I wasn’t even sure what boat it was, but I did know it was full of men and I had a stinking suspicion I was going to be the token babe, getting shoved in the galley making sandwiches and handing out beers.

As I was walking back to our boat, thinking about how I would wake up at 6 a.m. to find the captain of the all-men sailing boat, I suddenly found myself in a group of people pulling me backwards. “Come with us! Come! Come party with us!” Normally I don’t go running off with drunken sailors, but when I turned around and saw Al, a skipper from Trinidad my family befriended at the front of the group; I figured they were all walking to his boat. That’s where I met Angela.

As we talked on for hours, I could tell she was an experienced sailor, and I wanted to sail with her. She invited me to crew on her boat, and there was no question about it, this was the boat I’d be racing. The next morning I was dressed and ready to go, but I found myself aimlessly walking around the dock trying to remember the name of the boat I was to crew. Phil, Al’s friend, saw me wandering around, and knowing from the night before that I was crewing with Angela, kindly pointed me in her direction.

Everywhere I looked people were rigging sails, checking their masts, and putting on sailing gear. I was pumped when I finally arrived at my commission, Augustine. I stared at the beautiful Beneteau 1st-40 racer/cruiser, yet discovered everyone was still asleep. I wandered around the dock doing what I do best, talking with people, when Angela popped her head out of the hatch and said, “Sara? I knew I heard you! Come aboard and I’ll show you inside.”

We walked down into the cluttered boat, and I turned around just in time to see the startled naked captain who had just gotten out of the shower. He swiped a towel off the hook and wrapped it around himself while Angela and I laughed. In a half-sleep, hung over, and in a grungy voice, he introduced himself then stumbled forward to his cabin to get dressed. I could tell already, this would be an interesting weekend.

As we sailed out of the harbor, I tried to remember all eight of the crew’s names I had learned that morning. So far Johanes was the easiest, because the Captain, in a slightly Antiguan accented, high pitched voice, would call out “Johanes! Where’s the sail? Johanes! Make them help you untie the sail. Johanes! Untie it now, Johanes!”

We got further away from the harbor when the captain turned on the radio. “Nicki! Nicki dearest listen to the radio would you.” Nicki, the opti sailor of the group, crawled over to the radio where she listened for the start sequence. I listened with her, but all I heard was how hard the wind was blowing and the size of the swell – I knew I was going to get sick. I called over to Angela, “Do you know it’s blowing 35 knots?” “I know! It’s CRAZY! This is supposed to be a light wind regatta!” She said, as she ran up to the bow in the heaving seas, holding on to everything possible, so she could rig the jib.

As she got to the bow, the boat dove into a breaking wave and covered the entire boat. Everyone was gasping from the cold water running down their backs, while the Captain hooted and hollered at the challenging conditions. I was rather amused with the whole crew. Everyone was pumped up, having fun, and though they were serious, were being goofy at every opportunity as well.

Angela came to the back of the boat, soaking wet, with a hudge smile on her face, and said “Hey Sara, come sit up on the rail with us.” Just as she said it a wave of seasickness came over me and I ran to the back of the boat to let fly my granola breakfast for all to see at the start line including the Regatta camera crew. During the race, I was so seasick; I was wondering why I was out there at all. I just sat on the rail, hiking out with Angela, saying, “This will be over soon, and I will be able to go lie in my warm bed.”

I surprised myself the next morning by hopping out of my bed, well rested, and ready for another day of sailing. When I showed up to crew again, the wind still blowing around twenty-five knots, the captain gave me a look of, “Oh no, Sara’s going to get sick on my boat again.” And sure enough I did, but it didn’t matter. I wanted to race, and I wasn’t going to give up.

The third day was the best, the wind had fallen off about fifteen knots, and I felt awesome. I was ready to do what ever needed to be done. I was used to everything on the boat by now, and I spent most of the day on the bow with Angela while she taught me what she knew about sailing. We had a great start and sailed all the way around Norman Island in the first position. While we were behind Norman Island, we noticed the boats were catching up to us so Angela and I ran to the bow to switch the cruising jib with the bigger racing jib. We had to sit down and press our deck shoes against the toe rail to prevent ourselves from falling overboard and pulled the sail on top of us making sure it didn’t end up in the sea, while Johannes pulled up the racing jib.

It took me a while to get out from under the sail, but once I did, I scrambled to the back deck with the sail in tow while Angela got the jib pole set up for going down wind. When we turned down wind I could see Angela was having difficulty controlling the jib pole; it was slamming against the shroud, and the sail was whipping around in the wind hitting her occasionally. When she finished clipping the pole in she ran to the aft deck demanding duct tape. I didn’t know why she needed duct tape until I saw blood in her hand; her finger had been smashed between the shroud and the pole. She duct taped her finger and continued helping out on the boat as if nothing happened, all in the spirit of winning the race.

Standing up on stage with the whole crew at the Awards Ceremony was a really cool feeling. Though I have sailed in many Austin Yacht Club races, I have never been in such a big regatta, and been able to say that I crewed on a boat that took first place in it’s fleet. We all walked off the stage, and after dozens of pictures, we went to the bar where Mike, the first mate, treated us to our first round of Pusser’s Rum Painkillers.

Angela, her finger very swollen and still wrapped in the same duct tape, told everyone how she heard it snap between the shroud and the pole. And after a while of spinning sailing yarns and knocking back a few more painkillers, the crew decided to have a dinner together. Everyone still had to finish their drinks so Angela and I went up to watch the band and dance, but when we returned we found Mike eating lasagna by himself. “Where is everyone Mike?” Angela asked. “I thought we were going to eat dinner together.” “Well all I know is the captain ran off with a pretty lady, Nicki went with her friends, and I’m hungry, so I’m eating here.” All we could do was laugh at how disorganized the crew was still acting.

Angela and I danced between talking with all the other racers. We heard all sorts of stories. One was about how a man suffered head injuries from being caught in a sheet and thrown around the bow of his boat upside-down and had to be medi-vaced to the states. Several other sailors spoke of boats breaking their masts, or blowing out their sails. On the boat my brother crewed on, the captain got the dreaded Caribbean flu and, the crew got the dreaded severe hang over so they forfeited after the first race. I was grateful that all we suffered was one broken finger and a severely sunburned lower lip that I discovered the following morning.

When I woke up and looked in the mirror, I discovered I had extremely painful blisters the size of skittles on my lower lip. I stayed in my room and rested most of the day because every time one of my family members saw me they would giggle and comment on how sailing favored me, and my newly acquired Angelina Jolie lips.

Once I finally made it over to the showers, I found the marina nearly empty again. Apparently all the sailors woke up early and took off to their next destination: race week in Antigua. I felt empty. Most of the cool people I had partied with that weekend were gone forever, or so I thought.

The following week, I felt better, however, after I surprisingly ran into John, a crewmember and mainsheet trimmer, at a Foxy’s party on Jost Van Dyke. And after a couple emails to Angela, and other members of the crew, it was as if I had another extended family after that sailing experience. This is something that we’ve learned on the water: you keep bumping into sailing friends whereever you go, and I look forward to seeing all my old crew in the future. That one-week of my life will be one that I won’t easily forget.

It’s not that our bottom paint was that old, it was time to raise the water line and do some other things to the hull that required the boat to be out of the water. When I first struck the water line on the hull in June 2006, I did it in the yard with a laser, but I was only able to get about a boat width away, so my line didn’t quite match the water’s level once she had been splashed. Also adding another several tons to the boat between the point when we first splashed her in July of 2006 and completed her in November 2007 required us to raise the waterline (about four inches in some places) to where she would normally sit. And since we had arrived in Nanny Cay without an operable transmission (see Captain’s Log – Marina Cay to Nanny Cay), I had another major project to add to the “To Do List.”

The hauling experience at Nanny Cay was different than anything I had experienced before in boatyard life. Not that the actual equipment operators in JMC Marina were bad (in spite of JC’s sabotaging demeanor), Keith and his crew were actually friendly, professional and courteous, and they had all the proper and meticulously maintained equipment to do any job at hand. They had us out of the water and placed in the middle of the yard within minutes.

Life on a boat out of the water is hard. Unless there are pump out facilities at your boat, forget doing anything that has anything to do with water — cooking, cleaning, dishes, showers, toilet, brushing your teeth, nothing. Every time any bodily function requires water, it’s down the twelve foot ladder, a trek across the yard to the bathroom, do your business and back — at least a twenty minute operation.

Luckily the hotel in the marina had a vacancy during my mom’s portion of the stay. She got a room for her and Cole for the ten remaining days she’d be with us, but Tracy took Cole’s place “in the AC” as it was a perfect environment to work on the web site, besides Cole had more fun working on the boat with his cousins than sitting around in a hotel room all day.

The room also had a kitchenette so we would be there at the crack of dawn with the breakfast fixings, then back to work, then back at lunch, then back to work, and then back again at dinner. There was no need to use the restroom in her hotel room, however, as the new shower/bathroom complex that the marina had just completed next door to her building was so luxurious that any spa in the world would have been proud to showcase them. The end-of-the-day-shower after twelve hours of work in a dirty boatyard was the highlight of the day; sounds weird, but they really were that good. Or maybe it was just that we had just lived in the boatyard from hell for the last two years and forgot what civilization was like.

We’d hauled to redo (raise) the waterline and the bottom paint, and to add some deflector pieces under the chainwales to divert the occasional wave that would catch the ninety-degree angle under the chainwale just right (or just wrong) and shake the whole of her structure from stem to stern. But what we didn’t count on was having to jerk the transmission and replace the seals. A daunting task indeed as my engineer, Chad, was gone and I had no idea on how to even approach the ordeal.

Well, I had met a new friend through Martin and Leslie in Trellis Bay (that’s the best part about sailing — all the new friends) who, unknown to me prior to our chance meeting, had a boat brokerage business in the marina. When I saw him walking through the yard, I told him of my problem, and he recommended Lincoln with Aquadoc, a guy from Guyana who had a mechanic shop in the yard. I had many friends from Guyana in St. Martin and I was optimistic at the prospect of working with this one. I liked him from my first meeting and our relationship only got better as the project progressed.

From the beginning, he was absolutely the most professional mechanic I have ever had the pleasure to work alongside. He and his helper, Edward (also from Guyana), were calm and patient during the whole project. Not one time did either of them lose their patience; I never heard a cuss word nor a negative remark made even though it had probably been decades since the transmission had been removed from the engine, and because of the rust, it proved to be one of the most challenging projects we performed on the boat.

I honestly couldn’t see how removing the transmission could have been accomplished without taking out the engine first, but they assured me it could be done. After Preston and I removed the exhaust pipes, the heat exchangers, water pump, alternator, and at least a dozen hoses, cables and wires, Edward went to work. I have never seen anyone get into such tight places as Edward had when he first removed the 150 pound drive shaft with its two universal joints, then unbolted the aft engine mounts, jacked up the rear of the engine several inches to expose the bolts fastening the transmission to the engine, then prepared the transmission to be lifted out using the mizzen throat halyard.

I think that my mechanics were skeptical that I could get the transmission out through the ceiling and up on the deck using the throat halyards; they were accustomed to hiring a crane for these projects. But I assured them that I had already used the same technique and equipment to get the 700-pound genset (which was the identical weight of, yet much larger than, the transmission) into the engine room just a few months prior. We attached the mizzen throat halyard to the eye on the transmission and pulled it through the salon floor and up to the ceiling. Then we attached the main throat halyard to the same eye to guide it forward up to the mid-ship coach roof. Once exposed, they took it apart and confirmed the main rear seal was gone as well as several other components. We quickly got a list together and called one of the suppliers on the island that said he could get the parts. So we waited, and called to leave messages and waited some more, and after three days of no response (very typically Caribbean), I called Twindisc in Jacksonville, Florida who had the parts in stock (even though the transmission is 45 years old) and could overnight them to me. I had them the next day (on a Friday), and by Monday, the transmission was back in the engine room.

The most enjoyable part of the project, however, was ridding the bilge of many gallons of SAE 40 engine oil (used as the transmission hydraulic oil) that had sloshed all over the engine room along with many gallons of black stinky water and who knows what else. As any responsible marina and boatyard possesses, Nanny Cay had a large oil-recycling container near the dumpster so we could pump the bilge into buckets and carry them across the driveway to the container. Preston, as always, was a good sport and volunteered for the worst part of the job: scrubbing the interior planking under the engine with a brush Bilge Cleaner, while I was the bucket hauler.

And of course, every time we had passed the dumpster we had to look inside to see what treasures awaited the discerning eye. You can always tell how wealthy the folks are who have boats in a marina by what they throw away. We would find tools of all types and condition, pieces of exotic wood and occume (marine plywood), cabinets, sail material, canvas, paint, epoxy, fiberglass, fittings and fasteners, rigging, stainless steel, everything you could want to help your project along.

Though checking the dumpster was fun, it certainly wasn’t reliable for what we needed. I guess that’s why they had a well-equipped chandlery that I was pleased to frequent, especially after they opened an account for me. They also had many different shops, stores, bars and restaurants in the marina complex. I was particularly impressed with the grocery store that had the same prices as the large grocers in Tortola (an unheard of practice among the yacht provisioning community – if they can charge more because of location, they usually do). Yes, Nanny Cay is certainly a full-service marina that truly knows how to take care of the yachting community.

We had only intended to stay in Nanny Cay for two weeks, but another of our new friends (who also happened to be managing partner of the marina), Cameron, encouraged us to stay for Race Week (the BVI Spring Regatta). He learned that Preston and Sara had a keen interest in racing, and he wanted them to experience Nanny Cay at the pinnacle of their season. I was only too happy to accept his invitation, as the more I got to know him the more I appreciated who he was and what he had accomplished.

Obviously, Cameron had been a successful businessman in his homeland of Scotland, but even more impressive, he was successful at doing business in the Caribbean (read Herman Wouk’s, Don’t Stop the Carnival for insight on attempting to make a business work in these latitudes). He also proved to have a great heart because when he heard we were going to Haiti to do a fundraiser for two elementary schools, he donated $2,800 of our fee to his marina to our Haiti project and the balance of our fee to be used to help us get there. I have only on very rare occasions met anyone who has been so gracious and generous.

But before we left for Haiti, we had a blast during Race week. Sara turned out to be the hardcore racer/sailor of the group (read of her experience in her article on the subject), yet Preston and Tracy didn’t show so much enthusiasm. The skipper of the boat they crewed on got a case of the dreaded Caribbean flu and after the first day of racing in 30 knot winds, the skipper forfeited, and instead of finding a different boat to race on, they went with the rest of the crew on the race boat up to the Bubbly Pool on Jost Van Dyke. It also happened to be Tracy’s birthday, which she said was the best one she had ever had.

The parties were as spectacular as the racing. Every night there were bands and dancing and lots of Mount Gay Rum flowing and food from all over the islands. As Cameron warned me as the week was approaching, “This place is going to heave.” And heave it did. There were people who came in from all over the world who chartered racing boats along with those that sailed their own in from all over the Caribbean, and after an intense day of competition, the captains and their crew were ready to put the gloves away for a hard night of partying.

Other than working and racing and partying, Tracy got to tour the island with a friend, Johnny the Irishman, in a borrowed pickup while Lauren and I took a separate island excursion with Edward in the Aquadoc Land Rover. Preston, however, got the opportunity to bolt over to St. John in a Sun Seeker with Captain Tommy Gonzales.

Seeing the islands by sea is a luxury we have gotten used to, but touring them by car is always an unexpected treat. The western portion of Tortola was particularly gorgeous, with its high mountainous spine that runs the length of it clouded in fog and blanketed in a dense jungle that occasionally opens up to magnificent views of quiet bays, little villages, waves wrapping around point breaks, and all the other British Virgins laying about (the islands, that is…).

Read the article here.

We rounded the northern side of Marina Cay under motor and raised the only two working sails we had rigged at the time (the main and the staysail) and progressed down the south eastern shore of Tortola at three knots in very calm seas. My mom and Cole enjoyed the trip very much, but the slight rolling motion eventually sent my drowsy mother to my “sea bunk” about half way through the voyage for what appeared to be a very serene nap. It took a couple of hours longer to arrive at our destination than I had anticipated so we overshot our ETA in Nanny Cay Marina by about an hour and a half. I radioed the marina and told them of our schedule and turned on the “Iron Wind” (the engine – something I don’t like to do very often, diesel being over $5 a gallon in the Caribbean) to get there before the crew went home.

But when we arrived just outside the breakwater (as we were taking down the sails and being blown into the jetties) our hydraulic transmission just stopped working. In a state of “high anxiety,” I woke up all the snoozers on board and ordered Sara and Alexis to the windlass to drop the anchor on my command, and then I pulled the floors in the salon and dove into the engine room. After checking the oil level in the transmission, I discovered that had it not only lost all its contents into the bilge, but we also confirmed that we indeed had lost all ability to maneuver. I quickly poured (an oxymoron) more oil into the transmission (so it could eventually all end up in the bilge as well), and we were able to limp into the harbor only to find a German-registered sailboat spinning around in the basin trying to back into the lift.

Though we were late and I officially lost my “slot,” I got on the radio and called the dock master and told him that not only were we dragging the bottom of his tiny harbor, but we were at risk of losing our maneuverability and he needed to get that boat out of the basin if he didn’t want me to “rake the harbor.” The very professional dockhands calmly instructed the captain of this errant vessel to tie off to a nearby dock and let me into the travel lift slip. Preston, in the dinghy, acted as my bow thruster and maneuvered the bow as I eased her into the travel lift’s slip stern first, and just as our lines were caught by the hands waiting on the docks, the transmission sputtered into permanent neutral.