Dianne and the kids flew from Tortola, BVI, back home to
Coronado on June 29. We’d pulled into Soper’s Hole Marina at
West End the day before, time to pack up, clean up, and have
one final island dinner together before they caught a cab to Beef
Island Airport the next morning. All were ready to spend the rest
of the summer at home, with friends, pets and familiar
surroundings, before school started up in the fall.
I (that’s me, Steve, of course!) stayed behind on Dakota Rose
for the month of July. We’d booked passage for her on one of
the Dockwise Yacht Transport ships, to be loaded in St. Thomas
Coronado on June 29. We’d pulled into Soper’s Hole Marina at
West End the day before, time to pack up, clean up, and have
one final island dinner together before they caught a cab to Beef
Island Airport the next morning. All were ready to spend the rest
of the summer at home, with friends, pets and familiar
surroundings, before school started up in the fall.
I (that’s me, Steve, of course!) stayed behind on Dakota Rose
for the month of July. We’d booked passage for her on one of
the Dockwise Yacht Transport ships, to be loaded in St. Thomas
Last Tango in Paradise ...
or, Waiting for my Ship to Come In
or, Waiting for my Ship to Come In
 | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  |
toward the end of July and delivered to Ensenada, Mexico, a few weeks thereafter. At that point, we had a loading
window of plus/minus 5 days centered on July 19th, with the ship’s actual schedule subject to the vagaries of weather,
breakdowns, and so forth. So, I’d booked myself a flight home from Tortola on the 24th, and planned to hang around
in the British Virgins before moving over to the U.S. Virgins a few days before the actual loading date.
I’d made these plans months and months before – before we left on the trip, in fact – from the safety and security of
my desk back in Coronado. Knowing full well that Hurricane Season officially starts on the first of July (at which point,
Dakota Rose’s insurance coverage for named storms in “the box” went dormant), I also “knew” that early season
storms were very rare, especially in the Virgin Islands. In fact, the bareboat charter companies in the BVI advertise
aggressively for July and August.
Well, maybe it’s global warming, maybe it was just an unlucky coincidence, but Hurricane Season hit hard and early
this year.
Now, most of our readers will know, by the time this is posted, that we (Dakota Rose and I) did in fact make it through
OK. But that didn’t lower my stress level through that last month of July.
After the family left, I’d planned to stay in Soper’s Hole for a week or more, accomplishing repairs, luxuriating in
shoreside showers and access to virtually unlimited fresh water and electricity. It was crowded, with boats over from
Puerto Rico for the July 4th holiday weekend, and a party atmosphere prevailed. But then, Tropical Depression
Dennis (shortly to achieve promotion to Tropical Storm Dennis then Hurricane Dennis) showed up unexpectedly and
crashed the party.
Dennis the Menace
Dennis was never expected to make a direct hit on the BVI, but he rose up quickly, did come close, and spun off
numerous squalls that screamed through. Soper’s Hole seems protected to the newcomer, but in fact it is considered
one of the worst of the BVI harbors to be in during a tropical storm. It is open to the west, and on the east side winds
are funneled between two headlands to roar into the anchorage. It is very congested, and most of the moorings are
privately owned and therefore of questionable holding strength. The biggest danger is from boats that break loose
from docks or moorings and then go careening through the harbor like bumper cars on steroids. While charter boats
and Puerto Rican visitors were crowding in to ride out the storm, my local, more experienced contacts were advising
me to get out. So, on the morning of the 4th, with sustained winds already blowing over 20 knots, I pulled away from
the dock and motored out of the harbor and across the channel to what I hoped was a better-protected anchorage at
Norman Island.
Late that afternoon and through the night Dennis’ northern bands hit, with winds gusting over 40 knots and torrential
rains. I took the opportunity to shower on deck, rinsed with rain water, then give Dakota Rose a good scrubbing. After
pulling the engine off of the dinghy, I put a second painter on it to make sure it didn’t blow away that night. I hunkered
down below, set the chartplotter to 1/8 mile resolution, and set the anchor alarm to sound off if we started drifting. In
spite of the weather, the lights stayed on at Willie T’s, and between gusts I could hear the shouting of a few diehard
partyers well into the early morning. It could be that they got stuck there when the winds hit, afraid to venture back to
their sailboats in their underpowered charter dinghies, and decided to make the best of a great situation.
The next morning, the rain had passed, but the air was hazy and thick with dust that had been carried in by Dennis.
The wind was clocking around and still blowing gusts of 25 to 30 knots. I decided to leave Norman Island, which is
open to the west, and head to the east end of Tortola, to the well-protected Trellis Bay. I raised the main at the
mooring, dropped the mooring line and sailed out of the anchorage. After clearing the headland of Peter Island, I
sailed a broad reach, 8 knots on mainsail alone through 6’ seas, up the Sir Francis Drake Channel. I was all alone. A
couple of hours later, I rounded the eastern point of Tortola and sailed into the almost total calm of Trellis Bay,
picking up a mooring before I dropped and stowed the mainsail. I didn’t even have a chance to crack open a beer
before three dinghies pulled up, charterers wanting to know “Where did you sail from? … How is it out there? … We
need to turn our boat in to Road Town today, is it too windy and rough to leave the anchorage?” I assume they were
hoping I’d give them an excuse to extend their vacations by a day or two.
The Calm Between the Storms
After Dennis blew through, the temperature and humidity climbed as the wind died down. With the mosquitoes moving
into Trellis Bay with a blood-vengeance, I fled to Marina Cay for one night, then sailed over to North Sound, Virgin
Gorda on July 7. I stayed there for five days, first near Saba Rock and the Bitter End Yacht Club, then in Leverick
Bay, where I could take on fuel and my last tank of delicious Virgin Island water.
At Leverick, I caught a taxi to the trailhead and hiked up to the Virgin Gorda Peak, which I believe is the highest point
in the BVI, to take in a fantastic panorama of the entire island chain, with the U.S Virgins visible in the distance.
With Dennis safely past, and the days clicking away until I had to be in St. Thomas, I figured it would be an uneventful
couple of weeks … that is, until Hurricane Emily came into the picture.
Emily
Emily roiled off the coast of Africa and was a full-blown hurricane by the time she crossed Grenada into the
Caribbean. She was a Russian woman shot putter of a storm, big and strong and accustomed to going her own way.
This was Grenada’s second hit by a major hurricane in two years, quite a change from the not-too-distant past when
Grenada was considered by the insurance companies to be well clear of the hurricane “box” and a summer haven for
Caribbean cruisers.
The early predictions showed Emily moving northwest and gradually veering northward to make a direct hit on the
Virgin Islands. This did not work wonders with my blood pressure. Over the next week I pulled thrice-daily weather
reports from my Skymate, plotting Emily’s position, speed and scope on my charts and reading the forecasts several
times over to make sure I understood every nuance. I could recognize the different writing styles of Forecasters
Franklin and Avila, of NOAA’s National Hurricane Center. Franklin had more of a sense of dry humor, Avila tended
toward anthropomorphising each storm. Both clearly loved their tropical cyclonic activity!
Luckily for me – but an object lesson for those who put too much faith in our modern hurricane predicting
technologies – Emily didn’t cooperate with the forecasters. Every morning I would wake up, get a weather report
before brushing my teeth, and plot Emily another hundred miles or so due west, while every morning in the same
report the forecaster would say “today’s the day Emily starts to turn north.” She kept to a westerly course and never
did veer north as predicted, ultimately passing several hundred miles south of the BVI. But, the waiting and the
trepidation made me feel as if I were in the path of a buffalo stampede, seeing the dust cloud in the distance, feeling
the earth rumble, but not knowing whether it was better to run, hide, or stay put and hope for the best. Give me
earthquakes any day; I’ll take the minutes of surprise devastation to the stress of a week-long run-up.
(Not that I’ve ever been in the path of a buffalo stampede, but I can imagine what it would be like … kind of like being
threatened by an approaching hurricane, I would guess!)
As Emily started to threaten, I tried making arrangements for safe harbor. I got lots of advice from my friend Pam
Lendzion, who used to live in the BVI; from Bob Cooper, the BVI representative for Doyle Sails (from whom I’d
purchased a new set of sails for Dakota Rose); and from various locals. I tried getting into the better-protected
marinas, but was faced with a Catch 22: if Emily hit, they’d have no room for me because of pre-arranged “named-
storm refuge” contracts … but, if Emily missed us, no problem, I was welcome!
Bob offered the best and most gracious solution. Several years back, the Tortola Marine Association installed
hurricane moorings in one of the best-protected bays on the island, spearheaded by the charter companies who
needed a place to protect their fleets. As a member of the Association, Bob has rights to use one of these moorings,
and since his boat is too big for it, he offered me its use if needed. That helped ease my mind a bit, and on the 12th I
sailed back to Norman Island to be less than a half-day’s sail from Road Town and the hurricane hole.
By the next morning it looked like Emily would stay well south of us, but I was still being warned about the potential for
squalls spinning off. She was much stronger and bigger than Dennis had been at this point. So, on the 13th I moved
into Village Cay Marina, in Road Town, considered to be one of the better-protected marinas. I stayed there for three
days, through the 16th.
We did get hit by squalls, strong enough to knock out power in Tortola for a day, though I’m not sure how difficult a
task that really is. I was treated to the sight of a BVI Power Company worker in downtown Road Town standing on the
ground in a puddle while wielding a long, fiberglass pole with a hook at the end, poking at the transformer and
switching mechanism 30’ above him at the top of a power pole. I’m not sure what he was trying to accomplish, but I
don’t think it was to make the transformer explode, which was, in fact, the fruit of his efforts.
The interesting thing for me through the run-up and ultimate non-event that was Emily is how the locals took it with
such calm aplomb, in marked contrast to my angst. They shared a “que sera, que sera” attitude: they’d lived through
hurricanes before, they'd rebuilt, and they expect they’ll do it again … this may or not be the year.
The Cruiser Archetype
Shortly after I arrived in Village Cay, a hoping-to-be-long-term cruiser pulled in next to me, in a fairly new, 50’, French-
built Amel Super Maramu. This was a not-very-stylish-but-very-solid-looking craft, center cockpit, bristling with solar
panels and electric winches, aided in its docking by a powerful bow thruster. The owner/captain was English, early-
60s, with an American girlfriend/wife(?) maybe 10 years younger.
He told me his story …
He’d owned this particular boat for less than a year. His previous boat was a Hunter that he’d bought in Florida, brand
new, about a year before that, intending to sail the Bahamas, the Caribbean, and then the world. Note my careful use
of the word “intending.” Imagine his surprise when, on his first ocean-going sail, across the Gulf Stream from Florida
to the Bahamas, he started taking on water at an alarming rate, source unknown. It’s a testament to Hunter’s bilge
system, I suppose, that he was able to make it to safe harbor in Grand Bahama … where, upon hauling, he was
surprised to find that his keel was only a few bolt-threads shy of falling completely off!
According to the surveyor sent by the manufacturer to assess the situation (the boat was still in warranty), this was, in
fact, not a unique occurrence for recently-built Hunters. Apparently, there was an issue with the factory forgetting to
torque up the keel bolts properly after installation of the keel with glue/sealant. (Note also my careful use of the word
“apparently”; all of this story is as related to me by the owner, I have fact-checked none of it, he may have been
exaggerating, I cannot vouch for his veracity though I have no reason to doubt it, I’m sure that Hunters may be fine-
built boats … please don’t sic your lawyers on me!) And, allegedly, after he threatened to sue the manufacturer
because the boat certainly was not, as represented in magazine ads, a capable ocean cruiser, he was told by their
lawyer that what they really meant in those ads was that it was capable of taking day cruises in the ocean, but
certainly not built for open-ocean passages. (Note again my careful use of the word “allegedly”; same disclaimer as
previously).
He had the boat fixed (Hunter did stand behind their warranty) and put back in the water. But then it was getting into
Hurricane Season, 2004, so he left the boat in a marina and returned to England for the summer. He felt secure in the
agreement he’d signed with the marina that, if a named storm appeared on the horizon, they would promptly haul his
boat and install it safely on the hard to ride out the storm. He was, of course, uninsured, being “in the box, in the
season.”
So, esteemed reader, would you be taken aback to learn that Hurricane Jeanne did score a direct hit on Grand
Bahama that year? And, would you be surprised to learn that the marina reneged on its commitment and left his
Hunter in the water? And, finally, does it astonish you that his boat was … well … a total loss?
OK, to be totally accurate, it was not a total loss, he was able to sell it to a salvager for a few thousand dollars.
And, that was when he bought his plain-but-sturdy Super Maramu.
And, now, here he was again, “in the box/in the season,” uninsured, sweating out Emily along with me.
Actually, though, given his recent history he seemed to be pretty blasé about things. His girlfriend/wife(?), on the
other hand, was a bundle of nerves. She would come bounding across the dock at least twice each day, knocking on
my hull to warn me about yet another major squall approaching. She was only right once. To her credit, she would
graciously apologize after each false alarm for worrying me needlessly. I never did find out where she was getting her
weather data from, because it wasn’t from the same source I was using.
The Final Leg
I finally got email verification from Dockwise that their yacht carrier, the Dutch-flagged Dockwise Express 12 (a very
practical name from a very practical country), would probably arrive in St. Thomas on July 20, that they would load us
on the 21st, and depart on the 22nd or 23rd.
On July 16th I sailed from Village Cay to Caneel Bay, St. John, picked up a mooring, dinghied ashore, and hiked over
the hill and down into Cruz Bay to clear into the United States. Afterward I moved back to Hawksnest Bay, which
proved to be as rolly an anchorage as Caneel, so after one night I moved again to Leinster Bay, where I spent my last
couple of days snorkeling and hiking.
On the morning of the 20th I motored to Water Island, St. Thomas, and set anchor across the bay from where the
good ship DE 12 was moored. I spent this last day prepping Dakota Rose for shipment: taking down and stowing the
bimini, dodger and sails; lashing the dinghy to the deck; dropping and securing the boom, cleaning below and taking
ashore all perishables; generally stowing everything that could fly around or break loose during transport; and
hanging all of my fenders. That evening one final squall blew through, as if to give me a gentle reminder that it was
time to go home.
Loading for Transport
The morning of the 21st was sunny but very windy, and I was concerned about loading by myself in the wind. I
shouldn’t have been. The Dockwise ship is a large, floating dry dock, with a deckhouse forward and a gate at the
after end. She was already ballasted down to flood the cargo deck. At about 0800 the captain of DE 12 started
contacting all of the boats that were being loaded that morning, about nine in all, running down his list and assigning
each of us a number in the loading order. I was number eight. I raised anchor and started slowly motoring back and
forth, greeting the others who were doing the same thing.
When I was notified that I was “on deck” (using baseball parlance at this point, soon to be so also in the maritime
sense of the term), I motored to the stern of the DE 12, which was a perfect wind-break. I drove slowly into the ship,
with the high wingwalls on either side of me forming a completely protected lagoon. The ship was full of boats, from a
20’ sailboat to a 70’ motor yacht, all rafted together tightly, mooring lines running every which way, fenders
compressed between hulls. I was one of the last boats in. It was like boarding a crowded bus, the ship’s crew kept
exhorting the earlier entrants to move forward, move forward, to make room for me and the one sailboat that came in
after me.
Once all of the boats were in, the DE 12 raised its stern gate and started deballasting, slowly raising the ship and
draining the water from the cargo deck. A team of divers worked feverishly to position temporary braces under the
boats as their keels settled on the ship’s deck and they were raised out of the water.
My last crisis of the cruise: As all this activity was going on around me, I went below to close the through-hull valves
for transport. One of the big valve handles was stuck … I put some muscle into it … and I snapped it off right at the
hull. AAARRRGGGHHH!!! Talk about a sinking feeling – water was pouring in – Dakota Rose was in danger! I stuffed
a rag into the hole, which slowed but didn’t stop the flow, then turned on the housekeeping bilge pump.
(Having lived through this experience without loss of life or property, I now feel qualified to offer unsolicited advice to
boaters in a similar predicament: If you’re going to start to sink, I suggest that you try to do so in a dry dock with
divers already in the water!)
I shouted my somewhat embarrassing predicament to the ship’s crew’s loading chief, a very gruff but helpful Dutch
woman. Remembering the story about the little Dutch boy stopping up the hole in the dike, I was confident she
wouldn't panic. She immediately dispatched one of the divers to Dakota Rose, where I handed him a wooden plug to
pound into the hole from the outside, staunching the leak. Of course, this was not a situation that the crew would let
go of lightly … they spent the rest of the loading process shouting back and forth about “that sinking boat.”
The local Dockwise agent was also most helpful, contacting the boatyard across the inlet on my behalf. They came
over as soon as Dakota Rose was high and dry, went back to get parts, and installed a new through-hull fitting and
valve before the end of the day. I'd like to report that they didn't take advantage of my in extremis situation to
overcharge me for the work and the parts, but that would undermine the veracity of my account.
Once the ship’s cargo deck was dry, the crew rebraced all of the boats with heavy steel beams, welded to the deck of
the ship and chained together, to secure the boats for the voyage. I took my bags, climbed a ladder to the ship’s
deck, and headed for a hotel, my first night sleeping on land since May. I flew home from Tortola a few days later.
Epilog
DE 12 arrived in Ensenada on August 11, after a few days delay getting clearance to transit the Panama Canal. My
friends Dave Udell (faithful readers will remember him from our voyage from Ft. Lauderdale to Nassau many months
earlier) and Jim Mebust accompanied me down to Ensenada to help unload.
It was a milk run. We boarded DE 12 around midday on the 12th. After taking care of the necessary paperwork on the
Bridge, we climbed the ladder from the cargo deck to Dakota Rose, to start a several-hour wait as the ship was
ballasted down and divers removed the bracing. The stern gate was lowered, and we motored off at about 1400,
crossing the bay to the Hotel Coral Marina, where we secured a slip, clearing into Mexico the next morning.
We kept Dakota Rose at Hotel Coral for two weeks. We spent some time there as a family, and Dianne spent a long
weekend there with her friends. On the 25th, Dianne drove me and my friend Frank Hafner down to the boat. On the
26th, Frank and I left Ensenada at 0710 and sailed home to San Diego, clearing U.S. Customs on Shelter Island at
1650, and pulling into Dakota Rose’s new home in Sunroad Marina, Harbor Island, at 1810.
With this last trip, Frank Hafner becomes the Official Bookend of the Voyage of Dakota Rose … he was with me
on both ends of our trip, from the first leg from BVI to Florida two years earlier, and for this final leg from Ensenada to
San Diego. I should get him a remembrance one of these days.
window of plus/minus 5 days centered on July 19th, with the ship’s actual schedule subject to the vagaries of weather,
breakdowns, and so forth. So, I’d booked myself a flight home from Tortola on the 24th, and planned to hang around
in the British Virgins before moving over to the U.S. Virgins a few days before the actual loading date.
I’d made these plans months and months before – before we left on the trip, in fact – from the safety and security of
my desk back in Coronado. Knowing full well that Hurricane Season officially starts on the first of July (at which point,
Dakota Rose’s insurance coverage for named storms in “the box” went dormant), I also “knew” that early season
storms were very rare, especially in the Virgin Islands. In fact, the bareboat charter companies in the BVI advertise
aggressively for July and August.
Well, maybe it’s global warming, maybe it was just an unlucky coincidence, but Hurricane Season hit hard and early
this year.
Now, most of our readers will know, by the time this is posted, that we (Dakota Rose and I) did in fact make it through
OK. But that didn’t lower my stress level through that last month of July.
After the family left, I’d planned to stay in Soper’s Hole for a week or more, accomplishing repairs, luxuriating in
shoreside showers and access to virtually unlimited fresh water and electricity. It was crowded, with boats over from
Puerto Rico for the July 4th holiday weekend, and a party atmosphere prevailed. But then, Tropical Depression
Dennis (shortly to achieve promotion to Tropical Storm Dennis then Hurricane Dennis) showed up unexpectedly and
crashed the party.
Dennis the Menace
Dennis was never expected to make a direct hit on the BVI, but he rose up quickly, did come close, and spun off
numerous squalls that screamed through. Soper’s Hole seems protected to the newcomer, but in fact it is considered
one of the worst of the BVI harbors to be in during a tropical storm. It is open to the west, and on the east side winds
are funneled between two headlands to roar into the anchorage. It is very congested, and most of the moorings are
privately owned and therefore of questionable holding strength. The biggest danger is from boats that break loose
from docks or moorings and then go careening through the harbor like bumper cars on steroids. While charter boats
and Puerto Rican visitors were crowding in to ride out the storm, my local, more experienced contacts were advising
me to get out. So, on the morning of the 4th, with sustained winds already blowing over 20 knots, I pulled away from
the dock and motored out of the harbor and across the channel to what I hoped was a better-protected anchorage at
Norman Island.
Late that afternoon and through the night Dennis’ northern bands hit, with winds gusting over 40 knots and torrential
rains. I took the opportunity to shower on deck, rinsed with rain water, then give Dakota Rose a good scrubbing. After
pulling the engine off of the dinghy, I put a second painter on it to make sure it didn’t blow away that night. I hunkered
down below, set the chartplotter to 1/8 mile resolution, and set the anchor alarm to sound off if we started drifting. In
spite of the weather, the lights stayed on at Willie T’s, and between gusts I could hear the shouting of a few diehard
partyers well into the early morning. It could be that they got stuck there when the winds hit, afraid to venture back to
their sailboats in their underpowered charter dinghies, and decided to make the best of a great situation.
The next morning, the rain had passed, but the air was hazy and thick with dust that had been carried in by Dennis.
The wind was clocking around and still blowing gusts of 25 to 30 knots. I decided to leave Norman Island, which is
open to the west, and head to the east end of Tortola, to the well-protected Trellis Bay. I raised the main at the
mooring, dropped the mooring line and sailed out of the anchorage. After clearing the headland of Peter Island, I
sailed a broad reach, 8 knots on mainsail alone through 6’ seas, up the Sir Francis Drake Channel. I was all alone. A
couple of hours later, I rounded the eastern point of Tortola and sailed into the almost total calm of Trellis Bay,
picking up a mooring before I dropped and stowed the mainsail. I didn’t even have a chance to crack open a beer
before three dinghies pulled up, charterers wanting to know “Where did you sail from? … How is it out there? … We
need to turn our boat in to Road Town today, is it too windy and rough to leave the anchorage?” I assume they were
hoping I’d give them an excuse to extend their vacations by a day or two.
The Calm Between the Storms
After Dennis blew through, the temperature and humidity climbed as the wind died down. With the mosquitoes moving
into Trellis Bay with a blood-vengeance, I fled to Marina Cay for one night, then sailed over to North Sound, Virgin
Gorda on July 7. I stayed there for five days, first near Saba Rock and the Bitter End Yacht Club, then in Leverick
Bay, where I could take on fuel and my last tank of delicious Virgin Island water.
At Leverick, I caught a taxi to the trailhead and hiked up to the Virgin Gorda Peak, which I believe is the highest point
in the BVI, to take in a fantastic panorama of the entire island chain, with the U.S Virgins visible in the distance.
With Dennis safely past, and the days clicking away until I had to be in St. Thomas, I figured it would be an uneventful
couple of weeks … that is, until Hurricane Emily came into the picture.
Emily
Emily roiled off the coast of Africa and was a full-blown hurricane by the time she crossed Grenada into the
Caribbean. She was a Russian woman shot putter of a storm, big and strong and accustomed to going her own way.
This was Grenada’s second hit by a major hurricane in two years, quite a change from the not-too-distant past when
Grenada was considered by the insurance companies to be well clear of the hurricane “box” and a summer haven for
Caribbean cruisers.
The early predictions showed Emily moving northwest and gradually veering northward to make a direct hit on the
Virgin Islands. This did not work wonders with my blood pressure. Over the next week I pulled thrice-daily weather
reports from my Skymate, plotting Emily’s position, speed and scope on my charts and reading the forecasts several
times over to make sure I understood every nuance. I could recognize the different writing styles of Forecasters
Franklin and Avila, of NOAA’s National Hurricane Center. Franklin had more of a sense of dry humor, Avila tended
toward anthropomorphising each storm. Both clearly loved their tropical cyclonic activity!
Luckily for me – but an object lesson for those who put too much faith in our modern hurricane predicting
technologies – Emily didn’t cooperate with the forecasters. Every morning I would wake up, get a weather report
before brushing my teeth, and plot Emily another hundred miles or so due west, while every morning in the same
report the forecaster would say “today’s the day Emily starts to turn north.” She kept to a westerly course and never
did veer north as predicted, ultimately passing several hundred miles south of the BVI. But, the waiting and the
trepidation made me feel as if I were in the path of a buffalo stampede, seeing the dust cloud in the distance, feeling
the earth rumble, but not knowing whether it was better to run, hide, or stay put and hope for the best. Give me
earthquakes any day; I’ll take the minutes of surprise devastation to the stress of a week-long run-up.
(Not that I’ve ever been in the path of a buffalo stampede, but I can imagine what it would be like … kind of like being
threatened by an approaching hurricane, I would guess!)
As Emily started to threaten, I tried making arrangements for safe harbor. I got lots of advice from my friend Pam
Lendzion, who used to live in the BVI; from Bob Cooper, the BVI representative for Doyle Sails (from whom I’d
purchased a new set of sails for Dakota Rose); and from various locals. I tried getting into the better-protected
marinas, but was faced with a Catch 22: if Emily hit, they’d have no room for me because of pre-arranged “named-
storm refuge” contracts … but, if Emily missed us, no problem, I was welcome!
Bob offered the best and most gracious solution. Several years back, the Tortola Marine Association installed
hurricane moorings in one of the best-protected bays on the island, spearheaded by the charter companies who
needed a place to protect their fleets. As a member of the Association, Bob has rights to use one of these moorings,
and since his boat is too big for it, he offered me its use if needed. That helped ease my mind a bit, and on the 12th I
sailed back to Norman Island to be less than a half-day’s sail from Road Town and the hurricane hole.
By the next morning it looked like Emily would stay well south of us, but I was still being warned about the potential for
squalls spinning off. She was much stronger and bigger than Dennis had been at this point. So, on the 13th I moved
into Village Cay Marina, in Road Town, considered to be one of the better-protected marinas. I stayed there for three
days, through the 16th.
We did get hit by squalls, strong enough to knock out power in Tortola for a day, though I’m not sure how difficult a
task that really is. I was treated to the sight of a BVI Power Company worker in downtown Road Town standing on the
ground in a puddle while wielding a long, fiberglass pole with a hook at the end, poking at the transformer and
switching mechanism 30’ above him at the top of a power pole. I’m not sure what he was trying to accomplish, but I
don’t think it was to make the transformer explode, which was, in fact, the fruit of his efforts.
The interesting thing for me through the run-up and ultimate non-event that was Emily is how the locals took it with
such calm aplomb, in marked contrast to my angst. They shared a “que sera, que sera” attitude: they’d lived through
hurricanes before, they'd rebuilt, and they expect they’ll do it again … this may or not be the year.
The Cruiser Archetype
Shortly after I arrived in Village Cay, a hoping-to-be-long-term cruiser pulled in next to me, in a fairly new, 50’, French-
built Amel Super Maramu. This was a not-very-stylish-but-very-solid-looking craft, center cockpit, bristling with solar
panels and electric winches, aided in its docking by a powerful bow thruster. The owner/captain was English, early-
60s, with an American girlfriend/wife(?) maybe 10 years younger.
He told me his story …
He’d owned this particular boat for less than a year. His previous boat was a Hunter that he’d bought in Florida, brand
new, about a year before that, intending to sail the Bahamas, the Caribbean, and then the world. Note my careful use
of the word “intending.” Imagine his surprise when, on his first ocean-going sail, across the Gulf Stream from Florida
to the Bahamas, he started taking on water at an alarming rate, source unknown. It’s a testament to Hunter’s bilge
system, I suppose, that he was able to make it to safe harbor in Grand Bahama … where, upon hauling, he was
surprised to find that his keel was only a few bolt-threads shy of falling completely off!
According to the surveyor sent by the manufacturer to assess the situation (the boat was still in warranty), this was, in
fact, not a unique occurrence for recently-built Hunters. Apparently, there was an issue with the factory forgetting to
torque up the keel bolts properly after installation of the keel with glue/sealant. (Note also my careful use of the word
“apparently”; all of this story is as related to me by the owner, I have fact-checked none of it, he may have been
exaggerating, I cannot vouch for his veracity though I have no reason to doubt it, I’m sure that Hunters may be fine-
built boats … please don’t sic your lawyers on me!) And, allegedly, after he threatened to sue the manufacturer
because the boat certainly was not, as represented in magazine ads, a capable ocean cruiser, he was told by their
lawyer that what they really meant in those ads was that it was capable of taking day cruises in the ocean, but
certainly not built for open-ocean passages. (Note again my careful use of the word “allegedly”; same disclaimer as
previously).
He had the boat fixed (Hunter did stand behind their warranty) and put back in the water. But then it was getting into
Hurricane Season, 2004, so he left the boat in a marina and returned to England for the summer. He felt secure in the
agreement he’d signed with the marina that, if a named storm appeared on the horizon, they would promptly haul his
boat and install it safely on the hard to ride out the storm. He was, of course, uninsured, being “in the box, in the
season.”
So, esteemed reader, would you be taken aback to learn that Hurricane Jeanne did score a direct hit on Grand
Bahama that year? And, would you be surprised to learn that the marina reneged on its commitment and left his
Hunter in the water? And, finally, does it astonish you that his boat was … well … a total loss?
OK, to be totally accurate, it was not a total loss, he was able to sell it to a salvager for a few thousand dollars.
And, that was when he bought his plain-but-sturdy Super Maramu.
And, now, here he was again, “in the box/in the season,” uninsured, sweating out Emily along with me.
Actually, though, given his recent history he seemed to be pretty blasé about things. His girlfriend/wife(?), on the
other hand, was a bundle of nerves. She would come bounding across the dock at least twice each day, knocking on
my hull to warn me about yet another major squall approaching. She was only right once. To her credit, she would
graciously apologize after each false alarm for worrying me needlessly. I never did find out where she was getting her
weather data from, because it wasn’t from the same source I was using.
The Final Leg
I finally got email verification from Dockwise that their yacht carrier, the Dutch-flagged Dockwise Express 12 (a very
practical name from a very practical country), would probably arrive in St. Thomas on July 20, that they would load us
on the 21st, and depart on the 22nd or 23rd.
On July 16th I sailed from Village Cay to Caneel Bay, St. John, picked up a mooring, dinghied ashore, and hiked over
the hill and down into Cruz Bay to clear into the United States. Afterward I moved back to Hawksnest Bay, which
proved to be as rolly an anchorage as Caneel, so after one night I moved again to Leinster Bay, where I spent my last
couple of days snorkeling and hiking.
On the morning of the 20th I motored to Water Island, St. Thomas, and set anchor across the bay from where the
good ship DE 12 was moored. I spent this last day prepping Dakota Rose for shipment: taking down and stowing the
bimini, dodger and sails; lashing the dinghy to the deck; dropping and securing the boom, cleaning below and taking
ashore all perishables; generally stowing everything that could fly around or break loose during transport; and
hanging all of my fenders. That evening one final squall blew through, as if to give me a gentle reminder that it was
time to go home.
Loading for Transport
The morning of the 21st was sunny but very windy, and I was concerned about loading by myself in the wind. I
shouldn’t have been. The Dockwise ship is a large, floating dry dock, with a deckhouse forward and a gate at the
after end. She was already ballasted down to flood the cargo deck. At about 0800 the captain of DE 12 started
contacting all of the boats that were being loaded that morning, about nine in all, running down his list and assigning
each of us a number in the loading order. I was number eight. I raised anchor and started slowly motoring back and
forth, greeting the others who were doing the same thing.
When I was notified that I was “on deck” (using baseball parlance at this point, soon to be so also in the maritime
sense of the term), I motored to the stern of the DE 12, which was a perfect wind-break. I drove slowly into the ship,
with the high wingwalls on either side of me forming a completely protected lagoon. The ship was full of boats, from a
20’ sailboat to a 70’ motor yacht, all rafted together tightly, mooring lines running every which way, fenders
compressed between hulls. I was one of the last boats in. It was like boarding a crowded bus, the ship’s crew kept
exhorting the earlier entrants to move forward, move forward, to make room for me and the one sailboat that came in
after me.
Once all of the boats were in, the DE 12 raised its stern gate and started deballasting, slowly raising the ship and
draining the water from the cargo deck. A team of divers worked feverishly to position temporary braces under the
boats as their keels settled on the ship’s deck and they were raised out of the water.
My last crisis of the cruise: As all this activity was going on around me, I went below to close the through-hull valves
for transport. One of the big valve handles was stuck … I put some muscle into it … and I snapped it off right at the
hull. AAARRRGGGHHH!!! Talk about a sinking feeling – water was pouring in – Dakota Rose was in danger! I stuffed
a rag into the hole, which slowed but didn’t stop the flow, then turned on the housekeeping bilge pump.
(Having lived through this experience without loss of life or property, I now feel qualified to offer unsolicited advice to
boaters in a similar predicament: If you’re going to start to sink, I suggest that you try to do so in a dry dock with
divers already in the water!)
I shouted my somewhat embarrassing predicament to the ship’s crew’s loading chief, a very gruff but helpful Dutch
woman. Remembering the story about the little Dutch boy stopping up the hole in the dike, I was confident she
wouldn't panic. She immediately dispatched one of the divers to Dakota Rose, where I handed him a wooden plug to
pound into the hole from the outside, staunching the leak. Of course, this was not a situation that the crew would let
go of lightly … they spent the rest of the loading process shouting back and forth about “that sinking boat.”
The local Dockwise agent was also most helpful, contacting the boatyard across the inlet on my behalf. They came
over as soon as Dakota Rose was high and dry, went back to get parts, and installed a new through-hull fitting and
valve before the end of the day. I'd like to report that they didn't take advantage of my in extremis situation to
overcharge me for the work and the parts, but that would undermine the veracity of my account.
Once the ship’s cargo deck was dry, the crew rebraced all of the boats with heavy steel beams, welded to the deck of
the ship and chained together, to secure the boats for the voyage. I took my bags, climbed a ladder to the ship’s
deck, and headed for a hotel, my first night sleeping on land since May. I flew home from Tortola a few days later.
Epilog
DE 12 arrived in Ensenada on August 11, after a few days delay getting clearance to transit the Panama Canal. My
friends Dave Udell (faithful readers will remember him from our voyage from Ft. Lauderdale to Nassau many months
earlier) and Jim Mebust accompanied me down to Ensenada to help unload.
It was a milk run. We boarded DE 12 around midday on the 12th. After taking care of the necessary paperwork on the
Bridge, we climbed the ladder from the cargo deck to Dakota Rose, to start a several-hour wait as the ship was
ballasted down and divers removed the bracing. The stern gate was lowered, and we motored off at about 1400,
crossing the bay to the Hotel Coral Marina, where we secured a slip, clearing into Mexico the next morning.
We kept Dakota Rose at Hotel Coral for two weeks. We spent some time there as a family, and Dianne spent a long
weekend there with her friends. On the 25th, Dianne drove me and my friend Frank Hafner down to the boat. On the
26th, Frank and I left Ensenada at 0710 and sailed home to San Diego, clearing U.S. Customs on Shelter Island at
1650, and pulling into Dakota Rose’s new home in Sunroad Marina, Harbor Island, at 1810.
With this last trip, Frank Hafner becomes the Official Bookend of the Voyage of Dakota Rose … he was with me
on both ends of our trip, from the first leg from BVI to Florida two years earlier, and for this final leg from Ensenada to
San Diego. I should get him a remembrance one of these days.