We set out to cross the Strait of Florida on Monday afternoon at 3:30 on December 18 - roughly 60 nautical miles and twelve hours of sailing. Our destination: West End, Grand Bahama. The breeze was brisk and the swells growing. It was intense and absolutely glorious.
I took the helm for the two hour sail out to the open sea as we left Stuart and the Sunset Bay Marina. Then James took over. The sun was setting - a dazzling view from the water - my camera snapping constantly.
A few hours later, the crescent moon set large, low and orange on the horizon. A Cheshire smile. By then, the sea had come alive with 8.5 foot swells about 7 seconds apart. In the dark, without the light of the moon, I couldn’t see much at all. I had never sailed at night. I was riveted by the stars that sprinkled the night sky and the ebony mountains of waves that rose up around us. The spectacle took my breath away.
At moonset we still had eight hours of sailing ahead of us to reach our destination. James had done the bulk of the sailing and needed a rest. I took the helm briefly but wasn’t able to control the boat in these conditions. It was all on going to be on him. My job, then, became to keep him awake. We were both exhausted.
Bagatelle swayed deeply from side to side as we surfed down the swells. Running with the wind, we went through several uncontrolled gibes. I think I may have begged James to keep from gibing and was annoyed that he seemed to be distracted and not be paying attention 100% of the time. Truth is, he was at ease here. It was work to keep the boat on course in the wind and waves, but he was otherwise unfazed by it.
I fetched snacks and tried to keep the conversations going. Fortunately, we never seem to lack for that - the stars, the milky way, sailing vessels, how to identify a freighter versus a cruise ship from a distance, our childhoods, our children… Orion made his way from the horizon to high in the sky. The glow of Florida persisted long after we lost sight of the shore - nearly to West End, sixty miles away. We lost count of shooting stars and saw one amazing comet streak across our path.
Our heading was southeast but we were being pushed by the northerly winds and were concerned that we would miss our mark so, at about the halfway point - 30 nm from our destination, we made the decision to tack and sail across the current. This would make for a rockier but easier sail. James coached me through a controlled gibe and we headed due east. I quickly found that the boat could easily handle the rocking motion and I became much more comfortable. By then, however, we were both sore and achy and very, very tired. We were averaging 6 knots and made it to within five miles of our destination at West End much sooner than we had planned. We lowered the main and sailed with only the jib, still going upwards of 4.5 knots. The wind was a brisk 15-18 knots. It was still dark.
Within the next half hour the sky had begun to brighten slightly. Nautical dawn is the first hint of light but not enough to see clearly. Civil dawn is better. We made our way into the West End in this light, arriving as the sun rose above the horizon.
We pulled up to the West End customs dock at about 7am on Tuesday morning - a ramshackle pier with colorful huts and a sweet marina. We waved good morning to a few early-rising locals and visiting sailors and went to work tidying up sails, deck, cockpit. The cabin was a shaken mess - not one thing remained where we had left it. We gingerly stepped over cans, bottles of juice, books, clothing to put things back where they belonged and discovered that the hatch over our berth had leaked a considerable amount as we pounded the surf. Everything was wet. We hung our sheets and blankets from the boom and propped wet cushions to dry in the sun on deck. We looked like “those neighbors.”
Exhausted, a nap would have been absolutely delicious, but we still had to clear customs so, instead, we made coffee, grabbed a bagel, and waited for the office to open at “8 or 9 am. ”Island time.
The nap came later in the morning when we had settled into our anchorage spot around the corner from the harbor - an abandoned project from the 1980s that had been planned marina and luxury community. All of the infrastructure was in place including waterways, paved streets and sidewalks, street signs, and utilities. Only thing missing was buildings and any sign of life. Fascinating and more than a little eery, this, along with our night crossing, would be the start of what James affectionately coined our “Great Mis-adventure.” Even so, we will remember it as a great sail and even greater adventure to kick off our winter in the Bahamas.