Ship's Blog

First Impressions at Bimini Harbor

Two types of sailors voyage the seas, those who run aground and those who lie about it. A mere 53 miles east of Miami, the small island of Bimini is the first port of call entering the Bahamas. In Bimini customs are cleared, cruising permits purchased, and first impressions made. It is inevitable that fellow cruisers met here will be seen again and again amongst the 700 + islands that make up the archipelago of the Bahamas. The humiliating feeling of being stuck on a sandbar, as margarita fueled deck loungers sail past waving, tends to linger for the remainder of the trip.

Approaching Bimini

The Bahama Islands are a perfect place to cut teeth as a new cruiser. A smooth sail into Bimini harbor will set the tone for the entire trip. A narrow channel divides Bimini into two separate islands, North Bimini and South Bimini. Unfortunately, entering Bimini harbor is much trickier than it looks. The apparent straight shot into the channel is illusionary at best. Time to toss instinct overboard and follow the path of those who have the approach down to a science.=

Getting The bearing

Instead of heading toward the channel, head for South Bimini. Impossible to see in the dark, look for two diamond shaped signs on the south end of the beach. Line the bow of the boat up so that only one diamond is visible. One sign behind the other means a perfect heading has been established. Inevitably instinct is climbing back from the depths and over the gunwales, whispering to head hard to port toward the channel. Ignore the beast and run straight toward the beach until everyone aboard gasps at the apparent foolishness. Thirty feet offshore is the deepest part of the channel and can manage any draft, no matter how much water it draws. Hard to port! Almost a 90 degree turn will line the boat up for an easy sail into the harbor.

Anchoring

Strutting around on deck sporting your best Capt Ron impression it is time to wrap up everything with the perfect anchor set. Besides a safe anchorage, Bimini harbor serves as a runway for sea plane services on the island. Anchoring in the middle of the harbor is frowned upon as the ultimate earmark of a green sailor. The majority of boats will be anchored off to the north side. Here is a chance to outshine everyone. Sail past Bimini Big Game Resort and find a quiet spot out of the way. The aforementioned seaplanes will surely drench drying towels hanging on lifelines, dampen lovingly prepared deck picnics and worst of all, water down the well deserved glass of rum, for those that anchor at more convenient spots.

Now that a first impression as a sailing guru to the many onlookers has been made, you will be welcomed amongst the seasoned sailors with open arms and invited for a frosty Bahama Mama at the End of the World Bar.

Originally published at http://exoticvisitors.com

Like the last kernel to pop in the pot, I bounced around the co-pilot seat repeating “Yeah that’s gonna leave a mark.” rubbing my hips from the brutal seatbelt attack. I like rough plane rides; especially in small aircraft like the Cessna 302 making its approach into Key West.

I drew the lucky straw for the co-pilot seat in Miami on the short flight to Key West. Answering an ad on Craigslist, a 1947 Nivens 34-foot wooden sailboat was waiting my arrival. This rare find was a stroke of luck. If the boat checked out as described, I would make the eight hour sail back to Fort Lauderdale that afternoon.

One, two, three hops and an armrest breaking grip, the Cessna rolled down the runway. Several “phews” escaped the passengers sitting behind me. The pilot wiped a few beads of sweat from his face that did not look old enough to grace a driver’s license. I couldn’t resist a quip.

“So Cap’n – we land or get shot down?”

“Strong crosswind over the runway.” He explained embarrassedly. Unable to resist the urge, I followed up with.
“That’s a little like the whale blaming the beach, ain’t it?” I laughed good naturedly to assure him I was joking, though I was relieved to have only suffered a few bruises from the digging seat belt.

A five minute cab ride from the airport and I was standing in front of a beautiful antique sailboat at Stock Island Marina. The owner, a proclaimed cabinetmaker, had spent a great deal of time restoring the woodwork to a condition that rivaled the day the boat was built. I surmised that any boat that had been so reverently restored was seaworthy.

Not a full hour had passed since the questionable landing, before papers were signed, supplies from the marina store (consisting of four sandwiches and a case of water) were stowed and a teary wave from the previous owner and I was headed out to sea.

She sailed like a dream. With a beam of only seven feet, she sliced through the water like a canoe. Under full sail, I quickly made it past the reef and into Gulf Stream for the 3.5 knot current that would carry me home.

The low lying islands that make up the Florida Keys quickly faded into a blue irregularity on the western horizon. The eastern horizon had a much more ominous look. Purple and black raced toward me and my little boat. Flashes of white from Poseidon’s trident streaked the sky closer than I would have preferred. Summer storms pop up and disappear quickly in the Florida Straights.

The first gust was under reefed sail, but at 50 miles an hour it packed a punch. In the course of seconds, the world changed around me. A thunderous crack overhead led me to believe I had been struck by lightning. Quickly I gazed skyward in time to see the mast coming down like a spear from heaven. I dove out of the way into the cabin head first to avoid the deadly wood and cables. I tried to raise myself up on hands and knees but my left arm would not cooperate. It had an odd angle to it that I realized could put me in a pretty bad position. I managed to get myself up only to find that the mast had pierced the cockpit floor into the engine compartment and caused severe damage.
I needed to make it back into the cockpit and secure the tiller to stay on a steady course into the wind. Securing my arm with a torn shirt I climbed the three steps to the cockpit to see a tangle of wires and splintered wood. Anger rose in my chest when I noticed that the spot where the mast broke had been patched with caulking and paint; which is not unlike wearing black socks to fix the hole in your boots.

There would be time to cuss the previous owner later. I desperately needed to get the boat under control. Things went from perilous to deadly. The fallen mast had broken the tiller. There was no way to steer, power or control the boat.

The waves were high peaked and no longer rolling. The boat was falling off the tops of waves with bone jarring crashes.

Back in the cabin I looked for anything that could help. With the antenna destroyed I was left to my own ingenuity. Opening drawers I found a box of birthday candles and a half full bottle of Goslings dark rum. I threw them both in a five gallon bucket and made my way back to the cockpit. A long pull on the rum for courage and a handful of birthday candles to bite on for a makeshift mouth guard. Unprotected, the waves would have the same effect on my teeth as Jerry smashing Tom in the face with a frying pan.

I tied the five gallon bucket to a line and threw it astern acting as a stabilizer to keep the boat in a single direction.
There was nothing more I could do in this storm. I returned to the cabin with the rum and a handheld GPS. My speed had decreased and I was making way to the North West in the direction of Marathon Key. I concluded that I had about a 20 percent chance of making it to the safety of land. There was a monumental chance that I would hit the reef, which meant certain death. Nothing left to do but sit on the floor of the cabin alternating rum and glances at the GPS.

I awoke to the unmistakable sound of waves crashing on sand. The boat was at an awkward angle but unmoving. With rum in hand I crawled out of the cabin to the sight of cars speeding by on Route One. Making my way up the incline to the shoulder of the road I began walking when I was promptly arrested for open container and public intoxication.

Originally published at http://exoticvisitors.com