The Bahamas Out Islands
Looking at the charts, the Bahamas primarily
consist of, and are characterized by, the two
large, shallow banks that are ringed by
islands: the Great Bahama Bank, on which
we’ve been sailing since we left Florida a
month ago, and the Little Bahama Bank, to
the north and which we skipped on our
voyages, and which hosts Grand Bahama
Island and the Abacos.
South and east of the Grand Bahama Bank
are the sprinkling of the Out Islands, part of
the Bahamas but not connected geologically
to the two Banks. They form a series of rest
stops on the way to the Turks and Caicos
and then the Caribbean, but the distances
between islands are greater, the
anchorages are fewer and less protected,
and services become much less available.
Looking at the charts, the Bahamas primarily
consist of, and are characterized by, the two
large, shallow banks that are ringed by
islands: the Great Bahama Bank, on which
we’ve been sailing since we left Florida a
month ago, and the Little Bahama Bank, to
the north and which we skipped on our
voyages, and which hosts Grand Bahama
Island and the Abacos.
South and east of the Grand Bahama Bank
are the sprinkling of the Out Islands, part of
the Bahamas but not connected geologically
to the two Banks. They form a series of rest
stops on the way to the Turks and Caicos
and then the Caribbean, but the distances
between islands are greater, the
anchorages are fewer and less protected,
and services become much less available.
On the other hand, the islands are less inhabited and more pristine, the locals are less inured to the onslaught of
cruising boats, and it’s possible to see the Bahamas as they used to be.
Conception Island
We left the Exuma Marina, in George Town, at 0800 on Saturday morning, about an hour before high tide. The first
hour-and-a-quarter of our trip was spent on the same sort of jinking and jibing through George Town Harbor to our
exit cut as we did when we arrived 10 days ago.
There are two “official” entrances to George Town Harbor, as marked on the charts and described in the Cruising
Guide, at the far northwest and southeast ends. The northwest entrance, which we came through, is considered the
easier of the two to navigate. There’s a third cut a little southeast of the midpoint of the harbor called the Fowl Cay
Cut, which is shown as impassable by our charts, isn’t even mentioned in our Cruising Guide, but which is extolled
by Bruce Van Sant in his The Gentleman’s Guide to Passages South as cutting hours off of a departure from
George Town Harbor headed for points south. So, being suckers for anything targeted at gentlemen, as well as for
saving that much time, we decided to take a shot at it.
We weren’t perturbed by the experience of another young family we talked to at Volleyball Beach who’d run their
Mason 42 hard aground on the rocks, almost sinking it, trying to enter through Fowl Cay Cut several months ago.
They freely admitted to not having the proper detailed charts, let alone sailing experience. They were exhausted
from a 60-hour, round-the-clock sail directly from Nassau in deep water, around the top and the outside of
Eleuthera, hand steering most of the way since they’d let their son run down their batteries playing video games and
their generator then autopilot went defunct (they did this, rather than island hopping down the Exumas as we did,
because they felt the water was too shallow for their six foot draft). They sailed right by the northwest entrance to
George Town Harbor on their way down, missing it entirely, and then they tried running Fowl Cay Cut after dark,
missing the actual cut by about 100 yards to the northeast. Hmmmmm ... I bet we can do better than that! Nor were
we dissuaded by the looks of disbelief, scorn and even pity from some of the other cruisers who’d never, ever used
anything but the northwest entrance … why would they? They’d never ventured further south. On the other hand,
we weren’t lulled into a false sense of overconfidence by the “piece of cake” types, either. Instead, we decided to
follow Mr. Van Sant’s advice: “… you can pilot this entrance on a white sand road. Pilot your vessel. Don’t run my
waypoints. They’re too close together.”
So, with Steve at the wheel and Dianne keeping a sharp lookout, with the sun high enough in the sky to light up the
shoals and reefs and coral heads, and a full-moon high tide under our keel, we went for it. And it was pretty close to
being a piece of cake, other than the one time when we thought we were home free and through the cut, and the
depth sounder went from reading 50 feet to 9 feet in about 30 seconds. A hard turn to port to regain the channel,
back to starboard, and we were soon in deep water.
From the outside of Fowl Cay Cut to Conception Island was a 35 mile, 7½ knot motor through calm seas with puffs
of wind. We set our anchor at 1500, jumped into the dinghy, and we were off for some fantastic snorkeling. By
nightfall, there were only six other boats in the anchorage.
Conception Island is about 3 miles long, 2 miles wide, uninhabited, and surrounded by miles of reefs, with coral
heads towering 20 feet over the white sand bottom. The island is a marine park, with fishing and taking of shells
prohibited. We dinghied up Conch Creek, which opened up into a huge, tidal lagoon, where mangrove thickets
ringed shallow estuaries. We drifted with the tide, waded in sand the color of talc and soaked up the sun.
Rum Cay
Rum Cay is only about 15 miles southeast of Conception Island, but the sail there took us about four hours since
our destination, Sumner Point Marina, is on the far, southeast corner of the island. Once we rounded Sandy Point,
on the southwest corner, we had another seven miles of picking our way over shallow bottom and around a
scattering of coral heads. The tortuous final half-mile into the marina was marked by eight markers, and we did
bump the sandy bottom in the middle of the marina channel. This is not an entrance that should be tried in anything
but calm weather and good sunlight.
Rum Cay is about nine miles east-west and 5 miles north-south. In years past it had a thriving salt industry and a
population of about 5,000 full-time residents; with the collapse of that industry, population has dropped to about 60
people. Remnants of the old industry remain, with a large salt pond, manmade channels from the tide to the pond,
an airstrip, and ruins of houses and other buildings. Cat Island Air makes twice-a-week flights to the island. There
are also cotton bushes growing wild across the island, which must have some relation to the old boat dock at Cotton
Field Point.
The latest feature of Rum Cay, one which is struggling to support a revival of the island, is the Sumner Point Marina.
A channel is being blasted and dredged out of a high, coral-rock bluff. Docks are being built, and the land
surrounding has been subdivided and sold, mostly to Americans who are building houses. The marina has a
fantastic restaurant, a bar and basic facilities – laundry, fuel dock, shore power, internet access – along with young,
enthusiastic owners and staff.
There’s a mix of cruising sailboats that are passing through, and large fishing boats that stay here for extended
periods, with a real family atmosphere. Yesterday, one of the fishing boats came back in the afternoon with three
wahoos, one tipping the scales at 98 pounds, and we now have a 10 pound chunk in our refrigerator for dinner
tonight (and, probably tomorrow night as well!). We’ve run into some boats we know from George Town, including
Quicksilver, a sailboat with three recent marine engineering graduates from Kings Point Merchant Marine Academy
taking their six months off from their seagoing jobs to cruise the Bahamas. We met these guys in George Town
when they found and returned Jay’s Emerald City Surf Shop hat after he lost it during the volleyball tournament.
Yesterday, they took Jay with them out to the coral heads to introduce him to spear fishing.
In snorkeling the coral heads we’ve seen lobsters, groupers, triggerfish, huge eagle rays and bat rays, and all
variety of reef life. Maddy caught her first real eating fish, a nice jack, fishing the edges of a coral head using last
night’s chicken for bait. We were warned, though, not to swim or snorkel in the marina, because its channel is
patrolled by huge sharks – nurse, bull and lemon – that converge every evening under the fish-cleaning table to
gorge on the scraps thrown into the water.
The settlement of Port Nelson hosts two small stores (including the surprisingly well-stocked Last Chance grocery),
three bars, two restaurants, the Batelco tower, government facilities befitting a population of 60, a scattering of
houses, and a pack of dogs, all spread out along about a mile of paved roads.
The other snorkeling/diving attraction of Rum Cay is the wreck of the HMS Conquerer, the British Navy’s first
propeller-driven steam battleship. This101-gun pride of the fleet foundered on the reefs off Sumner Point on
December 13, 1861. We almost suffered the same fate, on the same reefs, in our dinghy, Rosebud, but with our
better maneuverability, quicker thinking captain and better-trained crew we were able to avoid similar disaster.
Our First Overnighter
We stayed at Rum Cay for five days, weathering two strong storms, waiting for a favorable window to face our next
challenge. Mayaguana, 130 Atlantic Ocean miles southeast from Rum Cay, has poorly protected anchorages, little
to offer in the way of services or attractions, and would not normally have figured into our cruising itinerary. Except
… it’s the closest Bahamas island to Providenciales (“Provo”), in the Turks and Caicos, the only island that’s within a
one day sail of this destination, and therefore our final pit stop in the Bahamas as we work our way south.
We’d previously decided to make the Rum Cay to Mayaguana leg in a single, round-the-clock sail. The alternative,
island hopping back and forth in a series of 35- to 50-mile day sails, would have added four, five, or maybe even
more days to our trip, depending on weather, and we’d preferred to spend those extra days in George Town and
Rum Cay. Having made that decision, though, didn’t ease Dianne’s and the kids’ nervousness at doing our first
overnight sail, in open ocean.
We pulled away from the dock in Rum Cay late morning, at 1100 on Friday, March 6, and were in open water with
the sails up by 1130. We had a great 15 knot north-northeast wind, just aft of our beam as promised by the National
Weather Service, but the eight-to-ten foot waves were higher than predicted, and hitting us from ahead, so while we
made great time it wasn’t the most comfortable ride for the first few hours. An inauspicious beginning: Jay and
Maddy were queasy, Dianne ended up feeding the fishes a few times in spite of the scopolamine patch stuck behind
her ear, which she'd augmented with a dose of Bonine and topped off by wearing an electric guaranteed-to-take-
your-mind-off-your-churning-stomach wrist band. (Steve: “I hope you saved the receipt?!” Dianne:
“Uuurrrggghhhllle!!!”)
Things calmed down after a while, but remained uncomfortable throughout the day. We did celebrate a major
milestone, though. At about 1230, we crossed the 23 degrees, 30 minutes parallel of latitude. What’s so special
about this, you might be asking yourself? Well, that’s the Tropic of Cancer … we are now officially in the tropics!
(For the astronomically inclined among our readers, the Tropic of Cancer is the northernmost latitude at which the
sun will be seen directly overhead at noon, even if only on one day, during the summer. For the literarily inclined, it’s
a novel by Henry Miller that was banned in Boston, but that, as they say, is a whole ‘nother story.) Steve bounded
below and emerged on deck wearing nothing but a tight-fitting Speedo brief, his tanned and toned body glistening in
suntan oil, looking for all the world (well, to himself, at least) like the Guy from Ipanema; but, to his surprise, crossing
into the tropics didn’t automatically bring with it a hot burning sun, sultry temperatures, and waiters in crisp, white
uniforms carrying trays of Coco Locos, so it was back into his jeans and t-shirt, L.L. Bean sweater and life vest for
Steve.
(Editor’s note: certain events in the preceding paragraph are fictitious, included purely in a cheap attempt to spark
prurient interest on the part of certain of our readership. Did it work? We thought not.)
Once the sun went down, the wind died and the seas calmed quite a bit, enough for Dianne to relieve Steve for a
four hour watch from 1130 to 0330. All was clear, we kept the radar proximity alarm on, but while we saw a few other
boats and ships, none came within miles of us. Bioluminescence sparkled like fireworks in our wake. When Dianne
pumped the head to flush in the middle of the night, gleaming glowing green guys went swirling through the bowl,
sort of a photoplankton thrill ride (Ride the Whirling Bowl of Death!!!). A quarter moon rose at about 0400, the sun
rose at about 0600. The wind and waves started picking up again with the sunrise, but both had backed around to
the north and it was a much more comfortable ride. Once we rounded the southwestern point of Mayaguana and
were in the lee of the island, we were in bay-like conditions. We entered Abraham Bay, on the south shore of
Mayaguana, and had set our anchor by 1100: 132 miles in 24 hours.
So … What’s in Mayaguana?
We don’t know. We only stopped for one night, planning to weigh anchor before sun-up the next morning so we
could get to Provo by early afternoon. We were miles by dinghy across the mudflats of Abraham Bay from one of
three settlements on the island. We needed to nap after our all nighter, anyway. So, we set up our “mosh pit” (where
we lower the salon table and pull out the cushions that transforms it into an almost-queen-size bed), watched How
the West was Won, and basically veg’d out all day.
Leaving the Bahamas
It’s about 60 miles from where we sat at anchor in Mayaguana to our destination, the Turtle Cove Marina, Provo,
and we wanted to get there by mid-afternoon, which necessitated an early start. We awoke at 0400, and after a
quick pot of coffee we commenced to raising anchor at 0430. When we entered Abraham Bay yesterday we’d
purposely plotted a very straightforward route from the cut in the surrounding reef to our anchorage point, we had
relatively deep water (12+ feet) the whole way, and spotted only two coral heads on the way in that we needed to
avoid. So, we were fairly confident that, by retracing our inward route exactly, using the 1/8 mile resolution on our
chart plotter, we could exit the same way without incident.
There was no wind, the water was glassy, and by turning on our foredeck light we could illuminate a 20 foot radius of
water ahead and to the sides of the boat, right down to the bottom of the bay. So, proceeding at 2 knots, with Steve
at the wheel and his eyes glued to the chart plotter and compass, Dianne up forward keeping a sharp eye out, and
long, silvery fish jumping out of the water all around us, we successfully picked our way out into deep water just as
the orange crescent moon peeked over the horizon.
We turned to the southeast, cranked up the engine to 2500 RPM, and were on our way to Provo at 7½ knots … at
which point, the engine alarm started shrilling!
We quickly shut down the engine, which was overheating. Quick investigation showed that the belt driving the water
pump and alternator had shredded. (Steve had replaced this belt when he replaced the alternator a few weeks ago
… Was it too tight? Was it too loose because it had worked itself in and he hadn’t rechecked it? Was it a defective
belt? Had Steve damaged it putting it on? A series of existential questions to which the answer may never be
known!) Anyway, Steve mobilized his repair crew – basically, he rousted Jay out of bed – and turned to replacing it,
while we drifted a mile off the reef. Thirty minutes later, we were back on our way.
The wind picked up to about 5 knots by late morning but stayed right on our nose, so we motored the entire way.
We were crossing the Caicos Passage, one of the historical deep water passages through which the Spanish
galleons of old would travel after crossing the Atlantic to reach the Old Bahamas Channel, en route to Cuba,
Hispaniola, Florida and the Gulf of Mexico. It funnels 2000 miles of North Atlantic swell into a narrow channel
between the southern Bahamas and the Caicos Bank. As a result, we had long, slow, rolling swells on our beam for
most of the trip. Steve suggested that we should head on a more easterly course, with our sails close-hauled, then
tack south when we could, which would add some miles and time to our trip but make for a more comfortable ride
and allow us to turn off the engine. He was roundly voted down by the rest of the family who, in spending their third
day on the boat, was more than willing to suffer a little discomfort and burn a few extra gallons of diesel to get to our
destination as quickly as possible.
We rounded the northwestern tip of Provo at about 1300, at which point Steve hauled down our Bahamas courtesy
flag and hoisted the yellow quarantine flag. While it was another couple of hours until we were at our dock, this
ended our Bahamas voyages and thus ends our Bahamas voyage log.
cruising boats, and it’s possible to see the Bahamas as they used to be.
Conception Island
We left the Exuma Marina, in George Town, at 0800 on Saturday morning, about an hour before high tide. The first
hour-and-a-quarter of our trip was spent on the same sort of jinking and jibing through George Town Harbor to our
exit cut as we did when we arrived 10 days ago.
There are two “official” entrances to George Town Harbor, as marked on the charts and described in the Cruising
Guide, at the far northwest and southeast ends. The northwest entrance, which we came through, is considered the
easier of the two to navigate. There’s a third cut a little southeast of the midpoint of the harbor called the Fowl Cay
Cut, which is shown as impassable by our charts, isn’t even mentioned in our Cruising Guide, but which is extolled
by Bruce Van Sant in his The Gentleman’s Guide to Passages South as cutting hours off of a departure from
George Town Harbor headed for points south. So, being suckers for anything targeted at gentlemen, as well as for
saving that much time, we decided to take a shot at it.
We weren’t perturbed by the experience of another young family we talked to at Volleyball Beach who’d run their
Mason 42 hard aground on the rocks, almost sinking it, trying to enter through Fowl Cay Cut several months ago.
They freely admitted to not having the proper detailed charts, let alone sailing experience. They were exhausted
from a 60-hour, round-the-clock sail directly from Nassau in deep water, around the top and the outside of
Eleuthera, hand steering most of the way since they’d let their son run down their batteries playing video games and
their generator then autopilot went defunct (they did this, rather than island hopping down the Exumas as we did,
because they felt the water was too shallow for their six foot draft). They sailed right by the northwest entrance to
George Town Harbor on their way down, missing it entirely, and then they tried running Fowl Cay Cut after dark,
missing the actual cut by about 100 yards to the northeast. Hmmmmm ... I bet we can do better than that! Nor were
we dissuaded by the looks of disbelief, scorn and even pity from some of the other cruisers who’d never, ever used
anything but the northwest entrance … why would they? They’d never ventured further south. On the other hand,
we weren’t lulled into a false sense of overconfidence by the “piece of cake” types, either. Instead, we decided to
follow Mr. Van Sant’s advice: “… you can pilot this entrance on a white sand road. Pilot your vessel. Don’t run my
waypoints. They’re too close together.”
So, with Steve at the wheel and Dianne keeping a sharp lookout, with the sun high enough in the sky to light up the
shoals and reefs and coral heads, and a full-moon high tide under our keel, we went for it. And it was pretty close to
being a piece of cake, other than the one time when we thought we were home free and through the cut, and the
depth sounder went from reading 50 feet to 9 feet in about 30 seconds. A hard turn to port to regain the channel,
back to starboard, and we were soon in deep water.
From the outside of Fowl Cay Cut to Conception Island was a 35 mile, 7½ knot motor through calm seas with puffs
of wind. We set our anchor at 1500, jumped into the dinghy, and we were off for some fantastic snorkeling. By
nightfall, there were only six other boats in the anchorage.
Conception Island is about 3 miles long, 2 miles wide, uninhabited, and surrounded by miles of reefs, with coral
heads towering 20 feet over the white sand bottom. The island is a marine park, with fishing and taking of shells
prohibited. We dinghied up Conch Creek, which opened up into a huge, tidal lagoon, where mangrove thickets
ringed shallow estuaries. We drifted with the tide, waded in sand the color of talc and soaked up the sun.
Rum Cay
Rum Cay is only about 15 miles southeast of Conception Island, but the sail there took us about four hours since
our destination, Sumner Point Marina, is on the far, southeast corner of the island. Once we rounded Sandy Point,
on the southwest corner, we had another seven miles of picking our way over shallow bottom and around a
scattering of coral heads. The tortuous final half-mile into the marina was marked by eight markers, and we did
bump the sandy bottom in the middle of the marina channel. This is not an entrance that should be tried in anything
but calm weather and good sunlight.
Rum Cay is about nine miles east-west and 5 miles north-south. In years past it had a thriving salt industry and a
population of about 5,000 full-time residents; with the collapse of that industry, population has dropped to about 60
people. Remnants of the old industry remain, with a large salt pond, manmade channels from the tide to the pond,
an airstrip, and ruins of houses and other buildings. Cat Island Air makes twice-a-week flights to the island. There
are also cotton bushes growing wild across the island, which must have some relation to the old boat dock at Cotton
Field Point.
The latest feature of Rum Cay, one which is struggling to support a revival of the island, is the Sumner Point Marina.
A channel is being blasted and dredged out of a high, coral-rock bluff. Docks are being built, and the land
surrounding has been subdivided and sold, mostly to Americans who are building houses. The marina has a
fantastic restaurant, a bar and basic facilities – laundry, fuel dock, shore power, internet access – along with young,
enthusiastic owners and staff.
There’s a mix of cruising sailboats that are passing through, and large fishing boats that stay here for extended
periods, with a real family atmosphere. Yesterday, one of the fishing boats came back in the afternoon with three
wahoos, one tipping the scales at 98 pounds, and we now have a 10 pound chunk in our refrigerator for dinner
tonight (and, probably tomorrow night as well!). We’ve run into some boats we know from George Town, including
Quicksilver, a sailboat with three recent marine engineering graduates from Kings Point Merchant Marine Academy
taking their six months off from their seagoing jobs to cruise the Bahamas. We met these guys in George Town
when they found and returned Jay’s Emerald City Surf Shop hat after he lost it during the volleyball tournament.
Yesterday, they took Jay with them out to the coral heads to introduce him to spear fishing.
In snorkeling the coral heads we’ve seen lobsters, groupers, triggerfish, huge eagle rays and bat rays, and all
variety of reef life. Maddy caught her first real eating fish, a nice jack, fishing the edges of a coral head using last
night’s chicken for bait. We were warned, though, not to swim or snorkel in the marina, because its channel is
patrolled by huge sharks – nurse, bull and lemon – that converge every evening under the fish-cleaning table to
gorge on the scraps thrown into the water.
The settlement of Port Nelson hosts two small stores (including the surprisingly well-stocked Last Chance grocery),
three bars, two restaurants, the Batelco tower, government facilities befitting a population of 60, a scattering of
houses, and a pack of dogs, all spread out along about a mile of paved roads.
The other snorkeling/diving attraction of Rum Cay is the wreck of the HMS Conquerer, the British Navy’s first
propeller-driven steam battleship. This101-gun pride of the fleet foundered on the reefs off Sumner Point on
December 13, 1861. We almost suffered the same fate, on the same reefs, in our dinghy, Rosebud, but with our
better maneuverability, quicker thinking captain and better-trained crew we were able to avoid similar disaster.
Our First Overnighter
We stayed at Rum Cay for five days, weathering two strong storms, waiting for a favorable window to face our next
challenge. Mayaguana, 130 Atlantic Ocean miles southeast from Rum Cay, has poorly protected anchorages, little
to offer in the way of services or attractions, and would not normally have figured into our cruising itinerary. Except
… it’s the closest Bahamas island to Providenciales (“Provo”), in the Turks and Caicos, the only island that’s within a
one day sail of this destination, and therefore our final pit stop in the Bahamas as we work our way south.
We’d previously decided to make the Rum Cay to Mayaguana leg in a single, round-the-clock sail. The alternative,
island hopping back and forth in a series of 35- to 50-mile day sails, would have added four, five, or maybe even
more days to our trip, depending on weather, and we’d preferred to spend those extra days in George Town and
Rum Cay. Having made that decision, though, didn’t ease Dianne’s and the kids’ nervousness at doing our first
overnight sail, in open ocean.
We pulled away from the dock in Rum Cay late morning, at 1100 on Friday, March 6, and were in open water with
the sails up by 1130. We had a great 15 knot north-northeast wind, just aft of our beam as promised by the National
Weather Service, but the eight-to-ten foot waves were higher than predicted, and hitting us from ahead, so while we
made great time it wasn’t the most comfortable ride for the first few hours. An inauspicious beginning: Jay and
Maddy were queasy, Dianne ended up feeding the fishes a few times in spite of the scopolamine patch stuck behind
her ear, which she'd augmented with a dose of Bonine and topped off by wearing an electric guaranteed-to-take-
your-mind-off-your-churning-stomach wrist band. (Steve: “I hope you saved the receipt?!” Dianne:
“Uuurrrggghhhllle!!!”)
Things calmed down after a while, but remained uncomfortable throughout the day. We did celebrate a major
milestone, though. At about 1230, we crossed the 23 degrees, 30 minutes parallel of latitude. What’s so special
about this, you might be asking yourself? Well, that’s the Tropic of Cancer … we are now officially in the tropics!
(For the astronomically inclined among our readers, the Tropic of Cancer is the northernmost latitude at which the
sun will be seen directly overhead at noon, even if only on one day, during the summer. For the literarily inclined, it’s
a novel by Henry Miller that was banned in Boston, but that, as they say, is a whole ‘nother story.) Steve bounded
below and emerged on deck wearing nothing but a tight-fitting Speedo brief, his tanned and toned body glistening in
suntan oil, looking for all the world (well, to himself, at least) like the Guy from Ipanema; but, to his surprise, crossing
into the tropics didn’t automatically bring with it a hot burning sun, sultry temperatures, and waiters in crisp, white
uniforms carrying trays of Coco Locos, so it was back into his jeans and t-shirt, L.L. Bean sweater and life vest for
Steve.
(Editor’s note: certain events in the preceding paragraph are fictitious, included purely in a cheap attempt to spark
prurient interest on the part of certain of our readership. Did it work? We thought not.)
Once the sun went down, the wind died and the seas calmed quite a bit, enough for Dianne to relieve Steve for a
four hour watch from 1130 to 0330. All was clear, we kept the radar proximity alarm on, but while we saw a few other
boats and ships, none came within miles of us. Bioluminescence sparkled like fireworks in our wake. When Dianne
pumped the head to flush in the middle of the night, gleaming glowing green guys went swirling through the bowl,
sort of a photoplankton thrill ride (Ride the Whirling Bowl of Death!!!). A quarter moon rose at about 0400, the sun
rose at about 0600. The wind and waves started picking up again with the sunrise, but both had backed around to
the north and it was a much more comfortable ride. Once we rounded the southwestern point of Mayaguana and
were in the lee of the island, we were in bay-like conditions. We entered Abraham Bay, on the south shore of
Mayaguana, and had set our anchor by 1100: 132 miles in 24 hours.
So … What’s in Mayaguana?
We don’t know. We only stopped for one night, planning to weigh anchor before sun-up the next morning so we
could get to Provo by early afternoon. We were miles by dinghy across the mudflats of Abraham Bay from one of
three settlements on the island. We needed to nap after our all nighter, anyway. So, we set up our “mosh pit” (where
we lower the salon table and pull out the cushions that transforms it into an almost-queen-size bed), watched How
the West was Won, and basically veg’d out all day.
Leaving the Bahamas
It’s about 60 miles from where we sat at anchor in Mayaguana to our destination, the Turtle Cove Marina, Provo,
and we wanted to get there by mid-afternoon, which necessitated an early start. We awoke at 0400, and after a
quick pot of coffee we commenced to raising anchor at 0430. When we entered Abraham Bay yesterday we’d
purposely plotted a very straightforward route from the cut in the surrounding reef to our anchorage point, we had
relatively deep water (12+ feet) the whole way, and spotted only two coral heads on the way in that we needed to
avoid. So, we were fairly confident that, by retracing our inward route exactly, using the 1/8 mile resolution on our
chart plotter, we could exit the same way without incident.
There was no wind, the water was glassy, and by turning on our foredeck light we could illuminate a 20 foot radius of
water ahead and to the sides of the boat, right down to the bottom of the bay. So, proceeding at 2 knots, with Steve
at the wheel and his eyes glued to the chart plotter and compass, Dianne up forward keeping a sharp eye out, and
long, silvery fish jumping out of the water all around us, we successfully picked our way out into deep water just as
the orange crescent moon peeked over the horizon.
We turned to the southeast, cranked up the engine to 2500 RPM, and were on our way to Provo at 7½ knots … at
which point, the engine alarm started shrilling!
We quickly shut down the engine, which was overheating. Quick investigation showed that the belt driving the water
pump and alternator had shredded. (Steve had replaced this belt when he replaced the alternator a few weeks ago
… Was it too tight? Was it too loose because it had worked itself in and he hadn’t rechecked it? Was it a defective
belt? Had Steve damaged it putting it on? A series of existential questions to which the answer may never be
known!) Anyway, Steve mobilized his repair crew – basically, he rousted Jay out of bed – and turned to replacing it,
while we drifted a mile off the reef. Thirty minutes later, we were back on our way.
The wind picked up to about 5 knots by late morning but stayed right on our nose, so we motored the entire way.
We were crossing the Caicos Passage, one of the historical deep water passages through which the Spanish
galleons of old would travel after crossing the Atlantic to reach the Old Bahamas Channel, en route to Cuba,
Hispaniola, Florida and the Gulf of Mexico. It funnels 2000 miles of North Atlantic swell into a narrow channel
between the southern Bahamas and the Caicos Bank. As a result, we had long, slow, rolling swells on our beam for
most of the trip. Steve suggested that we should head on a more easterly course, with our sails close-hauled, then
tack south when we could, which would add some miles and time to our trip but make for a more comfortable ride
and allow us to turn off the engine. He was roundly voted down by the rest of the family who, in spending their third
day on the boat, was more than willing to suffer a little discomfort and burn a few extra gallons of diesel to get to our
destination as quickly as possible.
We rounded the northwestern tip of Provo at about 1300, at which point Steve hauled down our Bahamas courtesy
flag and hoisted the yellow quarantine flag. While it was another couple of hours until we were at our dock, this
ended our Bahamas voyages and thus ends our Bahamas voyage log.
Bahamas Out Islands and Far Horizons
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