1981 (7) – Dennis & Gert – A Stormy Couple

Riffraff Reef.  An art quilt, 22" x 31"

To go to the beginning of this book, Tropic Moon: Memories, click HERE.

For most of the 1981 hurricane season, we were pretty busy tracking storms.  It almost seemed that, if you didn’t get a real biggie to clean the air, you were plagued with lots of little ones.  That year, conditions in the south Atlantic didn’t seem to be particularly favorable for development of big storms.  What we would have was, every three or four days over several weeks, reports of “disturbed weather” to the east, with the additional comment that further development was possible.

Hurricane Dennis was the most damaging storm of the 1981 Atlantic hurricane season.  It took almost two weeks to achieve hurricane status, up near the States.  When Dennis reached the Caribbean, it had degenerated from a tropical storm into a tropical wave.  While it didn’t look like Dennis would give us any serious problems in the Virgin Islands, we decided to go to Hurricane Hole on St. John, to wait for Dennis to pass our location.  It was a Monday, and, as Ed put it, it was either go to Hurricane Hole, or go to work.  (Mike, Ed’s boss, wasn’t happy with Ed’s choice.)

This was our third annual pilgrimage to Hurricane Hole.  It was good practice – sort of like a fire drill.  Very few boats went, although the Moorings sent over their whole charter fleet.  Dennis didn’t amount to anything; we got less rain than we would have in a normal week.

Riffraff Reef.  Detail.

We had more excitement a month later, with Tropical Storm Gert.  A depression when it crossed Antigua, upgraded to a storm as it approached St. Croix, Gert passed south of us.  Tropic Moon was moored in Maya Cove.  After setting a third anchor, Ed went to work, leaving me alone on the boat.  The storm was far enough to the south that steady winds seldom exceeded 25 knots.  But when the center of the storm passed our longitude, the northerly propagating swells came right through Salt Passage, breaking 6-8 feet high on our protecting reef.  As the storm tracked westward, and the wind changed direction, Tropic Moon shifted position.  Eventually, she was holding on only one of the three anchors.  Dressed in my foul weather gear, I went up to the bow.  I let out rope on one anchor, and pulled in on the other two, until I had Tropic Moon again balanced on all three anchors. 

The wind and the chop in the harbor were wild; Tropic Moon bounced around like a hyperactive puppy at the end of her leash.  When Ed got home from work, I could see him standing on the shore with the carpenter Ed traveled with, to and from Road Town.  It was obvious to both of us that it was too rough for me to row in with the dinghy.  Ed signaled me to stay on the boat.  He undressed, and gave his clothes and tote bag to his friend for safekeeping.  Ed walked to the head of Maya Cove, near the reef, and got into the water.  He swam across wind and current, while being pushed sideways by the rough waters.  I started breathing again when he reached the boat!

Each year during hurricane season, we seemed to acquire more anchors.  Ed had wanted some extras to set up a mooring in Maya Cove.  That way, when we left the mooring, we’d still have a full complement on the boat.  Ed located a pair of 35# anchors, for $25 each, from one of the charter boat companies.  That brought us to six anchors.  Maybe that would be enough...

1979 (7) - Hurricanes

Hurricane Hole

To go to the beginning of this book, Tropic Moon: Memories, click HERE.

We spent our first hurricane season in the Virgin Islands.  It's a time when people keep a careful ear tuned to the weather reports.  With plenty of warning of a major hurricane making its way across the Atlantic, we left Tortola in the British Virgin Islands to sail to Hurricane Hole on St. John in the U.S. Virgins.  Hurricane Hole, divinely designed with yachts and hurricanes in mind, goes well inland with several small, narrow inlets.  There are no beaches in the inlets.  The deep water goes right up to the shores, which quickly climb into hills covered with cacti, and footed with mangrove trees.  Because of the protection afforded by the bay, the water stays calm; seas and waves are little problem.  Boats need only safeguard themselves against the strong winds, which some people felt were intensified by a funneling effect through the inlets.

We awaited our first hurricane with justifiable nervousness.  Hurricane David, reported on hourly over the radio, was being billed as "the worst hurricane of the century."  Yachts arrived from all the nearby islands.  We estimated over 100 boats sharing the anchorage with us.  On arriving at Hurricane Hole, we followed the example of those who had gotten there before us.  We picked a spot close in to the shore in one of the inlets.  We set out three anchors, as well as a couple of "tree anchors" (commonly known as "lines to shore").  The bay looked like giant spiders had invaded, spinning great white webs, trapping the boats with strands that ran to the shores, and every which way through the water.

There were times when I felt it a rather ominous place, especially when Ed went into shore by dinghy to set our tree anchors, and disappeared into the bushes for what seemed an eternity.  Once he stepped on a spiny sea urchin that imbedded two of its quills into Ed's ankle.  We followed some advice we had heard, and treated it with a home remedy - urine.  Despite dire warnings, his foot didn't swell, and gave him very little pain.  Another time Ed returned to the boat with his back covered with scratches.  I asked him if he had met some wild woman in the bushes.  He attributed the scratches to a run-in with a cactus.

Hurricane David passed 110 miles south of us with winds at the storm center of 150 mph.  We had gales in our area with winds of 70-80 mph.  David was due to be its closest to us at 2:00 a.m. - naturally it would be in the middle of the night - so we stood watches during the night to make sure we didn't drag anchor, or get into any other trouble.  I stayed up till midnight, alternating between two good viewing spots, and eating a bag of Hershey's chocolate kisses to help keep me awake.  Ed got up at midnight and stood watch till 5:30 a.m.

With David moving off to the west, everyone tuned in to the weather station for an 'all clear' - only to learn that Hurricane Frederick was on his way.  We all stayed put, did some visiting between boats, and waited expectantly for our second hurricane in less than two weeks.  Hurricane Frederick did most of its damage as it passed over St. Maarten.  Philipsburg, the capital of St. Maarten, is a long, narrow town of three streets, bordered in front by Great Bay, the principal anchorage, and in the rear by the Great Salt Pond.  During Frederick the two bodies of water merged, flooding out Philipsburg with water, mud and sewage.  The situation was worsened by the fact that the Salt Pond was the local garbage dump with landfill as an aim, and all the garbage moved back into town.

Sunnie, a friend from home in Ann Arbor, who had visited us in Grenada, was living and working on St. Maarten at the time of Frederick.  She later told us how she and a friend, Joanie, abandoned the houseboat where she lived, and moved up to a house in the hills belonging to a fellow named James.  In the middle of the night, at the height of the hurricane, after several Bloody Marys, when the electricity and water had both stopped working, they decided to test the phone lines and called James, who was in Antigua.  The phone connection was excellent (a rare occurrence), they passed out after the call, and James stayed awake the rest of the night worrying about them.

Hurricane Frederick, by the time it reached the Virgins - while it apparently went by right overhead - was a weakening storm that got degraded from "hurricane" to "tropical storm."  It was carrying 65 mph winds.  Balancing the strength and distance of David, with the nearness and lesser strength of Frederick, they both had pretty much the same effect on us.  We had gales with heavy gusting winds, the storms themselves followed by a couple days of torrential rains.

Kalizma (the fancy motor yacht we knew in Grenada), showed up at Hurricane Hole.  Kalizma had to stay out in the larger bay because she took up so much room.  We monitored the doings around the anchorage by listening to our VHF radio.  Kalizma had more trouble with the winds where she was.  She was also having trouble with one of her engines, which she had kept running to avoid putting too much stress on her anchors.  She left after David; we don't know where she was for Frederick.  The only damage we heard about was one boat, Arabelle, who must have broken free.  She was across the bay on the rocks, a total wreck.  She went during David.

When the last of the bad weather had passed, we took a day to dry out before returning to Tortola.  Tropic Moon looked like a floating laundry with carpeting draped over the cockpit table and wheel, foul weather gear swinging from the mizzen boom, and towels and clothing pinned to the safety lines.  It was a relief to be able to open ports and hatches again, and air and dry out the boat after being cooped up for so many days.

1979 (5) - St. John

Sunset from Caneel Bay, St. John

To go to the beginning of this book, Tropic Moon: Memories, click HERE.

August 1979
After Ed's parents flew home, we spent a couple months anchored in the same spot in St. Thomas Harbor.  We accomplished quite a bit on the boat, working on the paint, chipping the rusty scuppers, varnishing all the teak on the outside of the boat, replacing the alternator, and doing some "interior decorating" in the form of new carpeting and bedspreads.  They were a peaceful two months, but finally the work was done and we were getting the urge to go sailing.  One day we hauled up a rather murky anchor and headed out of the harbor for the very first sail by ourselves.  It was hard to believe we'd been living on Tropic Moon for eight months and this was the first time we'd sailed her without anyone else aboard!

During the next two weeks, we explored the small island of St. John.  St. John is one of the U.S. Virgins, and most of the island is a national park.  The island was beautiful and wild and very sparsely populated.  Our first anchorage was at Hawksnest Bay.  We had a book picturing the Virgin Island anchorages (courtesy of Tony who missed it when he packed to go home), and I looked up Hawksnest Bay.  I knew that it would be a bad anchorage because, although it was pictured with a big anchor, the bay wasn't discussed in the text of the book.  My other clue as to what it would be like is that Ed had a penchant for picking rolling anchorages, and, sure enough, this was one of them.

View from Leinster Bay, St. John

With the wind holding the boat in one direction and the swell rolling in against our beam, Tropic Moon rocked from side to side.  Things fell off counters.  The remedy (partial at best) was to set both bow and stern anchors and point the bow into the swell.  Then the boat more resembled a rocking horse, rather than a drunken sailor, and I'll take the rocking horse over the sailor any day.  It's a kind of seesaw effect - the ends of the boat move up and down while the center stays stationary, making comfortable places of the galley and saloon, which are amidships.  Sitting out in the cockpit eating dinner was another story - we went up and down, up and down....

Despite the rolling, we stayed for three days at Hawksnest.  It was a spectacular bay, fringed by five sandy beaches.  The water was clear and nice for swimming, and we found some interesting coral for snorkeling.  It was a busy place during the day with people coming by car through the park to the beaches, and boats coming in to anchor.  But, by sunset, all the people would go home and, thanks to the rolling, all the boats except us would leave to find other overnight anchorages.  We'd have the whole beautiful bay to ourselves.  The quiet and the total darkness were in great contrast to St. Thomas where, in the middle of the night, we could still read the clock on the wall by the lights from the city.

View from St. Francis Bay, St. John

When we decided to move again, we simply motored around the corner to the next inlet, Trunk Bay.  This was definitely only a day stop - the rolling was so bad it made Hawksnest Bay look calm by comparison.  Trunk Bay was a popular day stop because it's the sight of an underwater trail - our first experience with this phenomenon.  People snorkel the trail.  There were signposts underwater explaining the different types of coral.  My favorite sign was the one that read, "End of Trail."  There I was, floating facedown in the water.  I looked around because I never actually saw a trail, only a bunch of signposts.  The coral off to the side was impressive.  I spent most of my time off the trail looking at the fish swimming among the coral formations.  Their intense colors, their size, and their faces fascinated me.  Some fish swam right up next to me, but would dart away when I reached out to touch them.  The only species you had to watch out for was a large, white-bellied fish, Genus Tourist.  They tended not to know where they were going, and could bump into you.

We left Trunk Bay to motor around another corner to a very good anchorage at St. Francis Bay.  The trouble with good anchorages is that everyone goes there.  The bay, besides being crowded with sailboats, was invaded by a fleet of noisy powerboats with hordes of people aboard.

Annaberg Sugar Mill, St. John

When we had chartered in the Virgins Islands on Fine Feather, in 1976, we had anchored one night in Leinster Bay on St. John.  We had hiked to the ruins of the Annaberg Sugar Mill.  This time, we found a sign that said we could also get to the mill from our anchorage at St. Francis Bay, by following a 1/4-mile trail that led out to the main road. The sign neglected to mention that once we reached the main road, we would still have to walk a mile uphill before reaching the turnoff for the mill.  After navigating a muddy trail, and gingerly making our way past the cows that were blocking the path, we hit the main road.  We hiked along, eventually passing a tourist bus that was stopped by the side of the road.  The busload of people were standing around, admiring the scenery, and drinking large cold drinks.  I was very tempted to try and bum a drink.  The bus was obviously going to the mill, as that was the only place the road went.

The bus passed us as we were climbing the last hill.  We arrived as the passengers were disembarking, and Ed spotted a fellow who had worked down the hall from him at Ford Motor Company!  I asked which one, but Ed wouldn't tell me because he said he couldn't remember the man's name.  Likely story from an antisocial hermit crab!  I decided I wanted to meet these people.  I knew the man couldn't possibly recognize Ed with his full beard, bushy hair, and tattered shorts.  So we joined the tourists, half-listening to the guide, and carrying on the argument in an undertone.  We walked ahead to the lookout at the top of the hill.  I shed a few tears (ineffectual).  I threatened to go up to each man and ask him if he worked at Ford.  Ed was getting angry, and I was working on a good pout when the group reached our spot.  A woman approached Ed, asking him to take a picture of her and her husband.  When Ed was returning the camera, he asked, "Are you the Lovelace's from Detroit?"  I got to meet them after all.  We had a nice chat through the rest of the tour.  They even took a picture of us.

We stood and waved as everyone climbed back on the bus.  As Ed turned and headed back up to the ruins, the tour guide looked at us, pointed down the hill, and said, "Home is that way."  I gave him a big smile.  I'm sure people wonder about us as we wander around with no vehicle, no group of people, and no guide.  We then had the ruins to ourselves, with the exception of one workman with a shovel, who was cleaning the cow dung off the trails.  Cows obviously have no respect for historic sites.

St. Francis Bay was followed by a few days at Leinster Bay.  Though it was, once again, only a short hop from our last anchorage, we felt like sailing.  We went by way of a circumnavigation of Jost Van Dyke, a large island to the north of St. John.  It was an eight-hour trip, and we anchored in Leinster Bay just before dark.  In two weeks, we had managed to work our way around about a quarter of the small island of St. John.