Flashback Dom Repub

 

offshore anagada

looks like Smith Island?

Anagada Saturday

Sat Dec 19, 2009

Sailing up from Road Harbor, Tortola,  after checking in with the local government, I originally intended to up to the north west end of Virgin Gorda and anchor in the Gorda Sound.  That would leave the 11 mile tack to Anagada for the next day.  The conditions however were a little more forgiving and after an experimental tack to the North and plotting my course realized that I could probably make it to Anagada before 5 pm.   So I pressed on into the diminishing waves (for a change) and followed some charter cats on the same course northwards.  That in itself was a change; it has been almost a year when I held a course with anything with a 'N' in it.

By noon the wind shifted just slightly towards the NNW and when I was within  6 miles of Anagada I entered the wave shadow of the huge reef that makes up most of the island.  I had a déjà vu moment as I approached the island. It was so much like sailing across the Chesapeake to the Smith Island chain.  The island first becomes apparent on the horizon by a couple of tree tops seemingly sticking out of the water. As you draw near, you begin to see buildings dotting the shoreline, then the white sand of the beaches.

By 2 pm I was negotiating the channel that leads you through the wide sandy shallows of the south coast of Anagada.  I chose to drop anchor just off the well known 'Neptune's Treasure Hotel'.  There were mostly charter cats in the anchorage, but could see a large ketch at the far east end of anchorage.  Within a day most of these boats were gone, probably due to the anticipated passage of a front through the area or the hectic schedules the charter boats seem to adhere to.  Even though there was plenty of light, I chose to have an early dinner aboard, do some boat chores and turn in at dusk, planning to go ashore first thing and check out the island.

Next morning, first light, I was up and heading to the dinghy dock at 'Neptunes Treasure'.  I checked in with the staff, introducing myself and pointing out my boat anchored a hundred yards offshore.  More little blue boat comments.  They have internet and a nice menu, not to mention a back porch with an amazing view, making for a promising base of operations.

I walked out to the main road and headed up to the main square of the hotel/restaurant area next to the ferry dock.  A friend in St John, a chef, had recently secured employment at a small restaurant/bar.  Ok just assume for now on that all restaurants in the Carribean have as part of their business plan, a bar taking up half the space.  Anyway, I found the place, modest by some standards, but since checking out the other restaurants and eateries here its pretty nice.   My chef friend told me he really needed a bartender that could a) speak the Queens english; and b) was a personable fellow.  Anyway, I found the owner, a prominent local businessman it turns out, judging by the number of establishments with his nickname of 'Litl Bit' as part of the sign over the doors.  A very congenial fellow and after a while we were talking terms of employment.  One obstacle remained, you need papers to work in the BVI, and that would require the filing of numerous forms in Tortola, the place I had just left.  'Litl Bit' made arrangements with a representative (what?) in Road Town that I was to report to there, and she would walk me through the process.  Ok.  Guess I'm sailing to Road Town on Monday. 

Back at the Neptunes Treasure, got to know the employees there.  It's a quiet time pending the season starting after Christmas, so I got a lot of attention.  Wonderful, friendly people, everywhere and everyone that I've met so far.  Its so quiet here at night, no sirens, car noise, just the sound of birds, the wind through the rigging.  Did I say It's nice here?

 

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Did a walkabout the island today, coming ashore early.  The main road winds around the island basically staying within a quarter mile of the shoreline.  I saw a total of 3 vehicles the whole 5 or 6 mile walk.  One car came unsolicited to a stop alongside, and the women inside announced that if I wanted to see the flamingos that I should look to the right about a half mile up the road.  Two miles later, after making several detours down rightward dirt roads ending up on the shore of the large salt pond that dominates the interior of this end of the island, I gazed over the top of a small rise on the road to see a group of pink colored buoys in the water.  After a couple of moments one of the buoys raised a long serpentine neck to check me out.  The flock of a 100 or so flamingos were descendents of a small flock transplanted from Bermuda around 17 years ago.  I also checked out the beaches on the north shore, with the soft sand that you would sink to your ankles in.  The offshore reef break stretches all along the north side of the island, showing huge breakers 500 yards offshore on reefs edge. I stopped a couple of times, stripped down and cooled off in the Atlantic Ocean.  Pristine, uninhabited, no footprints.

Walking later on, starting to wonder if the knees where gonna make it, thinking that maybe I should have dosed myself with motrin and some water before departure; I was approached by the other two vehicles that I saw today.  The driver of the first waved as he passed then his tail gate fell off.  This brought the procession to a halt.  I picked up one end and helped the driver reinstall the end of his truck.  Loaded with mangrove branches, they were gonna have a lobster barbeque.  The two drivers seemed perplexed as to why the guy with the funny straw hat was walking out in the middle of no where.

 

 In hindsight, I might have taken the bike, but 5 hours later was taking a taxi to take me and my aching knees back to town.  The island is flat with a large salt pond in the center. The cab driver was working on his roof as I hobbled past his house and called down "you alright mon?"  We negotiated a price and I climbed in his small SUV while he climbed down his roof.

 

 

Back at Neptunes, I surf the web, talk to some of the guests and the bartender that looks like Russell Crowe.  Really.  The cool breeze is on my back, making the candles on the tables flicker, even though there are only a few customers.  Calypso Christmas music softly plays accented by the surf; Natie M. bobs at anchor offshore, in the same place I left her in the morning.  Its good to be here.

 

pictures from BVI

pictures from BVI

Natie M. Blog post

First the question:  Where the hell you been?  My last blog entry had me arriving in Jamaica.  Well, since then I have traveled in a rather bit of a rush along the south coast of Hispaniola; Haiti and Dominican Republic, barely stopping to sleep on the south coast of Puerto Rico and Vieques finally to arrive, back home in the US as it were, in the US Virgin Islands. I did this, in hindsight for reasons not entirely well thought out at the time.  Nevertheless, the race, for that is what it was, was not without interesting experiences and some adventure.  As a flashback I will recount some of this passage.

 

To begin with, now that I was in the beginnings of the yearly onset of the trade winds, my gamble to sail south to Jamaica from Santiago de Cuba paid off in the form of the subsidence of the strong winds I experienced in the aforementioned passage.  Unfortunately the wind was still coming out of the east however light, making for a lengthy motoring session.  I topped off the tank and the 5 gallon reserve and left at dawn two days after arriving in Port Antonio.  What followed was a 4 knot slog where the drone of the motor reverberated in my skull through the following night.  Sometime around 5 am the motor died.  I was in my berth, and rousing myself up to drain the 5 gallons I had in reserve into the tank, restarted the motor and calculated when I would need the wind, miraculously from the west please, to reappear.  This did not come to pass and once my reserve was used up I found myself in rough seas 30 miles from Point Abacour, Haiti.  In 5- foot waves and 10-15 kt east winds I began the trade wind shuffle, tacking eastwards along the southern coast of Haiti in light winds and stiff chop. 

With little fuel and exhaustion setting in,  I decided to make for the largest port nearby, Jacmal, Haiti and arrived there, exhausted after three days and nights of rough sailing in hopes that I would find both gasoline, and now propane which gave out the night before.  During the night a large wave came over the bow and I found the next morning the Danforth anchor I had lashed to the deck was no longer there.  So that is what the loud clunking noise was.  On April 14, 2009 at 1100 I enter Jacmal harbor in the company of several dilapidated fishing sloops, which eyed me curiously.  I was beginning to sense that this port was not on the 'A' list for cruisers.

Approaching a large concrete dock, eyeing a little cove that looked to be sheltered by the shallow curve of the coast and a small reef broached by a wrecked freighter, a rowboat with two men intercepted me offering anchoring assistance.  This is when I had my first encounter with a boat boy.  Jacques Michel and his associate helped me set my anchor along the municipal dock.  I noticed the prevalence of young boys on the beach observing me along with what I recognized as the blue helmeted, AK carrying United Nations peace keeping force stationed there.  When I finally came ashore to clear in, it was first with the UN.  The detachment of Sri Lanken airborne troops was some comfort as after they inspected my passport and documents, recording the information, and promised to keep an eye on the Natie M. when I was not aboard.  Next was the Haitian customs officer, who seemed more than a little surprised to see a US flagged sailboat anchored offshore. Jacques Michel, the boat boy I mentioned earlier, was helpful in getting me fuel through out the day and even propane and I paid for it.  I did not complain as it would have taken me a lot longer to provision and supply without his help and I would not have had time to explore this interesting city on the southern coast of Haiti.  It was a lot of fun, carrying a gas can sitting on the back of a moped, racing after my boat boy on the back of another moped racing through the chaotic crowded streets to first the gas station then to the propane dealer. 

I also met several ex pat Americans who were making a go of it there, running hotels and small art studios.  The streets were a mess with busted sewers and water mains at the bottom of the hill near the dock, but the architecture and relative absence of litter and debris was surprising.  French colonial is how I would describe it, sort of like New Orleans.  I was informed by a local hotel manager that the town is populated by many people of the Ba' hai faith and it is this that he attributed the relative safety and peace of the city.  I can testify that I never felt threatened or taken advantage of  (besides Jean Michels fees for fuel) while I roamed the streets visiting some historic building and the main market, a sprawling maze of narrow alleys and streets, crowded with vendors and careening motorbikes.  It was curious to see that much of the food for sale, especially dried goods, rice and beans were without exception, dispensed out of sacks labeled as gifts of some country in the form of foreign emergence food aid.  I have read that Haiti is the largest welfare state in the world and I saw much that would confirm this notion.

 

By mid day of the 15^th I left Jacmal in hopes that the weather would improve and I would make it well into the Dominican Republic before resting again at anchor.  NEXT FLASHBACK: Adventure in Dom with the Guerra de la Marina!

 

Ok, I'm back to the present.  I've been working off and on in St Thomas and St john but decided that living there is not why I did this cruise.  Wrapped up things and am now headed to new places, so here goes:

December 12, 2009

I left Coral Harbor, St John on Saturday and moved over to Round Bay to join some other boats (classic Breathe, Buxom and other great boats) in a raft up.  I was a little nervous due to the high wind gusts whipping around the point so I chose to anchor close by.  My little Natie M. sandwiched between tons of creaking wood hulls was a little more than I could take.  Plus I got the distinct impression that sleep was not an option at this particular party.

It was fun and one of the boats captain was a surfer who took turns taking his dinghy and small surf board out for some wake boarding.  It was a little board,barely six feet and I could not get the thing up on plane.  I had the brainstorm of getting the ULI deployed and that was the trick.  It was so much fun!  I surfed the wake of the dinghy, back and forth on its wake.  After an hour I was worn out and it was back to the raft for bloody marys and cold beer.  I did manage to get some things done in preparation for departure though.  I rigged a dinghy I purchased, complete with a 5hp mariner two stroke, for towing and other odd jobs that needed attending to.  On Monday, though the weather forecast was not terribly friendly, weighed anchor and jumped out into the waves.  It was blowing a bit with 20 kt winds and a north swell that made it a slow slog.  By 12 noon I made it to Peter Island and Great Bay.  Pretty spot, but spent the night babysitting the anchor on a lee shore with wind gust whipping the boat about. 

Next morning my paranoia about not clearing in right off induced me to sail over to Road Town to clear in.  It was a rolly anchorage with the most loathsome ferry wakes but I managed to get the anchor set and dinghy in for some incredibly time consuming customs and immigration.  I would stand there at the station that I was directed to, forms, passport and wallet in hand, to watch officials go out of their way to ignore me.  Finally after 20 minutes one of them would saunter over to give me the honor of taking my money.  I kept my cool.  30 day visa in hand I was out of there and back to the boat.

Back into the strong trades and waves, it was tacks all the way to Spanish Town.   I did make a close pass to Ginger Isl and Fallen Jerusalem to check out the numerous wreaks on the rocks there.  Very sobering. 

Arrived on Tues around 4 pm to anchor behind a small barrier reef just south of the main harbor in Spanish Town Virgin Gorda.   I have the anchorage all to myself as many boats, other than locals, do not want to tempt fate by the narrow entry in any sort of sea.  I'd been there before (in a friends boat that time) and knew it was doable with my shoal draft. 

Anchored in some soft sand in 10 feet of water I have the spot.   I'm also in front of this beautiful little hotel on the beach with an accommodating wifi signal and free coffee in the morning.  They apparently think I'm a guest instead of some free loading cruiser.  Its a great spot and the water is clean in the anchorage, a far cry from Coral harbor.  Gonna hang here today to do final provision and some boat work and maybe a walk about. 

Tomorrow heading up the coast to Gorda Sound for final staging for Anagada.

 

pictures on the blog site

www.http://natiem.blogspot.com

 

 

bike ride in Pino del Rio

Some shots of my bike excursion in Pino del Rio province Cuba

Cuba chapter 4

4/6/09 At around 0300, a front came through the area causing a noticeable shift in wind direction, for a couple of hours swinging to the south, allowing me to go into a much welcome gybe.  Just having the boat only slightly heeled over for a period of time was welcome relief.   Unfortunately this only last a couple of hours and began to wan to around 5 knots by dawn.  I was considering deploying the spinnaker during the night, but thought better of it.  Running in the dark with that much sail up is generally not a good idea, especially when single handing.  I usually like to see what's on the horizon when I have that much sail up. 

The next morning (0930) the wind picked up and began to pick up to 5-10 knots out of the southeast, the trades were returning again.  I was able to make around 3 knots until 10 miles from the harbor entrance to Santiago de Cuba, my destination.  It was at this time I was beginning to think that I was not going to get a break at all on this coast.  No fuel, so no engine, now wind coming back on the nose again. The wind gradually built up to 15 knots and soon was coming straight out of the east.  By this time I was tantalizingly close to the harbor.  Tired, frustrated, and just generally ready to get the hell off the boat, or at least be at anchor, instead of tacking into light winds, looking at the same piece of coastline for hours on end.  Needless to say I would have probably given my left kidney for some gasoline.  In the afternoon the wind did pick up some and finally it was 1700 hours when I finally passed the 18^th century stone fortifications at the mouth of the Bahia de Santiago. 

Of course now that I was finally at my destination the wind really started to pick up, after tacking for most of the southern shore of Cuba, I found myself in 15-20 knot winds that seemed to be funneled by the steep cliffs and hillsides of the harbor entrance of Santiago de Cuba.  On a beam reach I cruised, or rather screamed into the very picturesque harbor, with probably too much sail up, buffeted by the turbulence and gust caused by the shear cliffs and fortifications that formed the convoluted shoreline.  Shaped like a hand, it had many side bays.  I was headed for the marina, where cruising boats are required to check in.  As I came into the harbor the welcome site of the marina came into view with four other sailboats tied up.  As I was without the benefit of a motor, I rolled in the genoa, and under main alone, came straight at the dock.  I could see that I was drawing the attention of not only the ever present authorities but the crews of the other vessels at dock.  This is another example of when things are going wrong on a sailboat, they will probably go wrong in a big way, for reasons, whether fatigue, or just oversight, you miss the obvious and forget everything you have learned in the past.  In this case it was all of the above and things were happening fast.   As I sailed closer and closer to the dock, the customs officials and harbor master began to try and wave me to a spot on the dock, or jetty, the required maneuver being a totally untenable tight turn, dropping of sails, setting mooring lines, all with gusting winds and a concrete dock on the lee side.  It would be similar to an automobile (a woody of course) doing a U-turn and parallel park in between two trucks at 25 mph.   In short …it wasn't going to happen.  Without the motor, it would have been difficult on a good day with ideal conditions and not other vessels immediately fore and aft of my slot.  Running the Natie M. into the concrete dock, the design of which seemed to be geared towards inflicting the maximum damage to a hull of any careless captain, was not going to be the way I ended this leg of my journey.   I attempted to hail one of the sailboats, one of them a boat I recognized, with no response.  On top of that my tilerpilot was not working.   I realized later that my batteries were to low to transmit a radio signal much less operate the tilerpilot.  I should have kept a closer eye on their charge state and maybe layed off loudly playing the salsa cds I bought in Trinidad.

 Without the tiller pilot it would be a scramble to bring the boat into the very small anchorage immediately windward of the customs dock and uncomfortably close to an ancient concreted fuel dock but that was my only choice.  I got the boat slowed down to 10 knots and by this time was almost alongside the dock and was getting ready for a sharp turn away and to wind to bring the boat stalled to wind close to, but about 100 feet away from the dock.   All during this time the Cuban officials where frantically waving at me, not understanding why I wasn't coming into dock.  "No tengo gasolina y motor!!" I yelled only seeming to confuse them more.  Racing forward, I released the main halyard, dropping the main, and then to the bow to drop the anchor.  There would be no second chance on this one.  The boat stopped due to the 15 knot wind blowing like crazy on my nose with the concrete dock immediately behind.  I held my breath as I could feel the anchor slip a couple of times but then take on tension and set.  I was wrung out and exhausted and sat heavily into the cockpit to gather my wits.  Thankfully the Natie M. settled into anchor. 

A chorus of shouting greeted me from the dock, as clearly the authorities wanted me to come into dock to clear in, immediately.  Perhaps with a little less patience I shouted again that I had no motor and that I was not going to attempt to dock using ballistics as a drive.

I called over to the vessel that I had recognized during my arrival.  She was a elegant vintage ocean racer named the "Shiver".  This vessel was well known to me.  I had mentioned that an important source of weather information was the SSB.   Chris Parker, a sailboat based weatherforecaster, provides routing and weather information over the shortwave to subscribing sailors, and as in the case with me, those that just listen in.  I had been following the progress of Shiver, a British flagged ocean racer, for more than a month now.  I would listen in as Shiver and her captain, a friendly British chap named Red, would radio in for weather and routing information initially from Key West to Havana.  I was in the Ragged Islands at the time so I figured I was a couple of days behind them.  I sort of used them as the carrot to drive me on, keeping a distance, but closing slowly.  I knew I would need good weather information on the south coast of Cuba, once I start facing the trades head on.  Thanks to Shiver's always reliable transmissions for routing and weather I got the same.  I felt that even though I had not yet met the captain and crew, they were already friends, if not family.

Anyway, seeing Shiver was an exciting moment, along with the anxiety of hoping the anchor would hold while the wind was trying to blow me into the concrete pilings all around the area.  The first thing that went awry; you're probably expecting this sort of thing by now, was that the auto pilot stopped working as I came into the harbor.  Next was my attempt to radio Shiver and the other vessels, whose crews were on the dock enjoying the spectacle of my arrival, since they spoke English better than the harbor master, in an attempt to explain my seemingly simple yet tenuous position.  This was unsuccessful as my radio did not seem to work.

Thankfully the anchor seemed to be holding, with the wind gusting across the harbor, the Natie M. pitching up and down in the waves.  I let out as much scope as I dared and hoped for the best.  I soon realized that the reason for the issues with the radio and pilot was that I had neglected to switch to the fresh battery bank.  The radio up again, I soon raised Shiver and explained my situation.  Of course the harbor authorities had not only increased in number at the dock but in the amount of shouting and waving in my direction.  Finally Red explained to them my situation and they calmed down.  In addition, he told me he had a gallon of gas that I could use to get into dock.  Jumping in the dinghy, which recently had developed a slight leak and was not as firm as one would like, nearly dumping me in the drink,  I rowed in to the dock, where Red, after a brief introduction, handed me the container of gas.  Once back on board, I soon had the motor running, (you were probably expecting not) and bringing up the anchor, slowly approached the little space along the concrete dock.  With the help of at least a dozen workers of the marina, harbor master and guarda, I was finally tied up.  I was, at this time, giddy and maybe a little punch drunk.  The trip along the south coast of Cuba, except for the stops and excursions off vessel, had been quite challenging, even an ordeal, that once accomplished could be looked back only with a rose colored lens.  Not saying that I would be lining up to do it again soon.  I was exhilarating, not to mention a complete relief,  to be finally at a safe port.

The Natie M. was now finally secured to the dock with the usual dock and springlines, fenders, and the use of 125 feet of anchor rode stretched off my starboard side to the concrete fuel dock, so as to keep the wind and waves from bashing the boat into the dock.  The Natie M. was nestled in a spider web of dock lines.  But I had finally made it to the final port of call in my Cuba trip, Santiago de Cuba.

I introduced myself to the harbor master and began the clearing process once again.  Again the authorities were more than helpful and friendly, now that they understood the reasons for my unorthodox arrival.  I could see that this would be the nicest marina that I had yet visited in Cuba.  I mean this in the sense that it was less in a state of disrepair than the others.  The bathrooms were operable, though without toilet seats, and the beer was cold and cheap, and this, dear reader as you know by now is worth a couple of notches on my personal Michelin rating.  Though a little in need of repair and maintenance, the marina was in pretty good shape.  The docks even had reliable water and electric.  It took minimal time to clear in and afterwards I walked over to Shiver to thank them again for the assistance.  I also told Red, tongue and cheek, that I had been chasing them since Havana, explaining how I was monitoring their progress through Chris Parker's transmissions.   I also met the other cruisers, from Canada and Denmark that were in port also.  They all said they enjoyed my arrival and congratulated me for not landing the boat, read: not crashing into their boat, and anchoring right off the dock in trying conditions.   I spent the evening after a long anticipated shower and cold beer, visiting with everyone.  It was a very pleasant evening and I made plans on sharing a taxi with Shiver and crew for an excursion into the city the following day.  Captain Red was accompanied by his charming wife and son along with a close friend.  It was great to visit with them and hear of their experiences and impressions of Cuba   As usual it was an early night after a long, long sail.

4/8/09The next morning, with the help of the harbor master I received shipment of 35 liters of gasoline, the usual ration.  It cost some but it gave me some badly needed motor time.   Maintaining even a small supply of fuel on board was frustratingly difficult at times and being becalmed without auxiliary power even more so.

I busied myself with putting things in order onboard, refueling, etc before joining Shiver at the entrance to the marina to await our taxi. 

The taxi soon appeared and to our delight it was a vintage Chevy Belair, probably a '56 that arrived.  I was hoping it would not be one of the soviet Ladas, cramped, noisy little cars that are typically used by the official taxi services.  This taxi was a private one, permitted by the government.  The roads were kinda bumpy and rutted but the old car with its substantial amount of Detroit steel, took the conditions well.  We were dropped off near the center of the historic part of town and walked around.  The city reminded me of Habana, only a little cleaner and in better shape the further you walked from the tourist areas.  Like everywhere I had been in the cities, the government seems to be trying to keep all tourists in a particular area.  We observed that probably this was so that they could most efficiently extract the maximum amount of your money, especially at the government run stores.  Having none of this, I have always avoided these areas, much to my benefit.  Shiver felt likewise and we walked out of this area, with tour bus parking disgorging tourists directly into a park that was specified as a tourist area only.  There actually signs indicating this posted all around. 

In our discussion the previous night, I had decided to join Shiver and Evolution (the Dutch Boat) to leave Cuba for Jamaica.  My reasoning was that hopefully a southeast wind would come along and make for hopefully easy eastings to Hispanola and then Puerto Rico.  I had plans to rejoin a friend I had met in the Bahamas and she was a good 600 miles to the east of me.   As a result today was the only day I would get to see Santiago de Cuba.  We spent most of it looking into the souvenir shops and drinking beer from the various ornate and historic hotel balconies overlooking the main square.  Although I knew of several sites that I would normally like to see, old building, museums, churches and such, I decided to go along with the flow and let Shiver call the route and pace.  As I had no illusions that I would be able to see even a small part of the city in a half a day, I just decided to go with the flow and relax for a change.  We walked the ancient and narrow streets, popping into some shops to look at the common items on the shelves where average Cubans got their day to day items.  We tried to avoid the parks and areas that were dominated by the tour busses and hotels but they seemed to be everywhere.  I want to visit this city again to spend more time there to explore its culture and history more.

4/9/09

Weather was calling for some seas with wind 10-15 out of the, and not surprisingly…… east.

Early in the morning, as I was preparing for my departure,  a French boat radioed in, and that, like the Natie M. was coming in under sail with no motor.  This event seemed not to create the excitement and attention of the authorities this time, perhaps after my arrival, thinking that western flagged ocean cruisers were commonly in the same state of disrepair as their marinas.

Around 10 am I was the first one to be cleared out, ahead of everyone else.  I wanted a little head start as I would be the slowest boat in the fleet that day.  By noon the harbor, with it imposing Cliffside fort was sinking into the horizon.  The conditions, although a little rocky were reasonable for once.  I was on a broad reach in about 12 knots and 2-3 foot swells heading for Jamaica.  The Natie M. was moving on more or less the course desired and I was beginning to wonder if I should just head over to the Dominican Republic, as originally planned.  I put the thought out of my mind, having made a decision to sail with Shiver and Evolution to Port Antonio, Jamaica, more than 100 miles away.

4/9/09  I was taken with emotion, watching Cuba recede behind me.  I wish I had taken more time to see the island at a more leisurely pace, but the trip was not originally on the itinerary, going with a spur of the moment course correction.  Now I was more than 300 miles west of where I had thought I would be at this time.  It was clear along time ago that I had not clearly planned this trip well, though I was happy about all the time I had spent in Cuba.  With summer coming on, the trades would only become more persistent and constant.  It was going to be a long haul.  I moved forward to take down the Cuban courtesy flag.  I could see that it was starting to fade as I hauled down the pennant.  Holding the flag in one had while securing the pennant it suddenly slipped out of my hand in the wind and went over the side.  Doing at least 6 knots it quickly receded on my stern and sank into the deep water of the Windward Passage.

The Trades, as if on cue, began to make their dominance felt, as the wind began to freshen and swing from the north east towards the east.   The waves too begin to pick up and by sunset I was still 70 miles to the southeast.  The wind by 2100 was pretty consistent at 20 knots and close to 18 knots, the waves off the port quarter, picking up my stern with the surfing surge of speed.  I reduced sail to keep the boat at a more manageable speed.  I was still doing 7 knots.  It was a 100 mile passage to Porto Antonio, Jamaica and I was hoping to make the passage as quickly as possible.  Behind me was the Danish sailing Ketch and the Shiver.  Shiver was well reefed to keep everyone comfortable but the Danish ketch was flying.  About halfway along they passed me about a mile off my port beam, reporting speeds of 9 plus knots.  Shiver stayed behind me, but was within VHF range.  I sat in my rigged little cockpit seat, catching naps and dealing with the large waves that occasionally would overcome the tilerpilot.  The night was windy and wet.

The Danish Ketch meanwhile was quickly surging ahead and where almost so far ahead that I almost could not hear their hail on the radio around 3 in the morning.  They were having problems with their helm, apparently having damaged the linkage to the rudder by the high speeds they were maintaining.  I was worried for them and as I was almost equidistant between them and Shiver, hailed Red and advised them of the situation.  The two ships soon were discussing the problem over the SSB with me listening in on my receiver.  Although the malfunction serious, they were able to shorten sail and continue on fortunately.

It was a long night of hard and fast sailing but the Natie M. made it through and with the dawn light I could make out the lush shores green shores of the Blue Mountains and Porto Antonio, Jamaica. I planned to rest and reprovision here for a couple of days before setting out for Hispagnola.

 

please disregard previous message

opps Computor sent msg before I could fact check.  Note correct new email address and blog address.  Sorry for my bad. blog address:  natiem.blogspot@google.com   NEW EMAIL: mgnatiem50@gmail.com   yahoo still sucks will monitor only gmail after 30 days   hope you like the blog Mark

hi everyone, recently free of distraction will be writting more .  The past couple of months been hanging with my daughter sailing the islands with her and other friends. If you have a chance check out the second to last chapter of Cuba.   I will be posting again in a couple of days.   Please note new email address:  mgnatiem17@gmail.com yahoo sucks blog address is the same:  naitme.blogspot@google.com

Chapter 2 Cuba finally!

sorry this had take so long, to many distractions, rather distraction the past couple of months now now more so I'll be writting more. hope someone is still out there love and best wishes to all, Mark 3/30/09 1630 Cayo Blanco Marina de Trinidad  After sailing all night, it was a relief to see the mountains surrounding Trinidad to come into sight.  Rounding the point that leads into the nearby Bahia de Casilda, the nearby port to the famous city, I radioed into the Harbor master as to where I should clear in. The pilot guide indicated the 'dilapidated' dock crowded with fishing boats as to where the guarda were located.  I should point out the word dilapidated and dock are frequently associated with each other in Cuba.  Just one more piece of the infrastructure that is in badly need of repair or upgrade.  Anyways the generic guarda in green fatigues waved me away, to my relief, after observing the rebar sticking out from the broken concrete of the dock, and over to the Cayo Blanco Marina across the harbor behind the mangroves.  Nigel Calder's Cuba cruising guide, which is dated, but was invaluable for this trip, indicates that the word marina  as applied to this particular facility, is stretching the use of the word.  The approach is a little tricky, with some shoaling impinging on the narrow channel through the mangroves.  Once past some doglegs and a sharp turn the channel opens up into a small bay a hundred yards across with the marina at the only point of dry land.  Again, I was waved over to one of the docks, and with relief, I tied up, alongside a covered dock behind a large tourist catamaran.  The dock contained what appeared to be a snack bar with a couple of picnic tables, inhabited by four people huddled around a rum bottle.  The official that greeted me told me that I would need to wait till tomorrow for the formal clearing in as everyone had gone home for the day.  He was able to get through some of the formalities and I was cleared to leave the boat and use the 'facilities'.  Tomorrow morning the rest of the welcoming party would be able to complete the full clearance.  I took it stride, happily tied up and in port, having gotten used to the usual parade of customs, guarda, immigration, and whatever official had a piece of paper that needed to be filled out in order for me to enter port.  The guy was friendly enough and we had a nice conversation, me in my halting Spanish, and likewise his English.   I did not find it that bad though there was no electricity and water.  Later on I was to find out that in order to take a shower, much like elsewhere in my travels, you had to ask to have the water turned on, as there were so many leaks throughout the water system they generally keep the water to the bathrooms shut off.  In addition one had to borrow a set of pliers, as the knobs to the shower valves are missing.  Why they gave me two, I don't know as only the cold water was operational.  If I sound a little whiney  its just that after 24 hours of sailing and getting hit for $.45/ft  whether I anchor out or tie up next to the giant tourist catamaran, a shower, cold or hot was something that I really looked forward to.  That and a cold beer of course, which involved one of the marina employees doinig a hour long bike trip to get two luke warm beers, for alas the marina bar was closed. Anyway, clearing in was a breeze to my relief.  The reason being that no on was there, just a young guarda who did the paper work and said in the morning I would need to sign a contract with the marina manager and speak to his boss in case he or I had any questions.  Fine, par for the course.  So after my shower and the boat squared away, I broke into some of the Havanna Club rum I bought earlier, made myself a drink and sat down with two Quebecois tourists and a local Cuban for some conversation.  They were already 5 sheets to the wind so I believe I was missing most of the jokes probably at the newly arrived gringo's expense.  The women spoke English though, and that was nice.  I'm finding that my meager Spanish is not cutting it.  First of all my Spanish was never all that good, no matter how many computer courses so books that I study, and two; it very hard to get a Cuban to slow the hell down when he or she speaks.  They seem to subscribe to the solution that some of my countrymen use, that if you speak your language over again, only louder, it will be understood.  Guess it's a universal human trait.  By dark, I was done.  Got the bike set up for the morning ride into Trinidad and made a simple meal and went to sleep.   3/31/09 After talking to the officials of the marina and guarda, I took off on the bike for Trinidad.  Thinking I would find a Casa Particular again, if I decided to spend the night, I packed for the night life.   I had heard that the music and art scene there was incredible and that, being a World Heritage Site, the old downtown was in great shape, with a lot of intact architecture, much dating from the 17th century. The bike ride was short but with a lot of headwind.  You have to ride along a causeway around Casilda Bay from the Marina and hotel areas to get to Casilda, which forms a peninsula,  and then on to Trinidad which is at the foothills of the mountains.  The view was pretty impressive, but one thing that I had a question about was the amount of burning that would usually spring up in the hillsides and mountainsides.  Coming in along the coast yesterday I watch a pretty extensive brush fire eat up a good amount of a large hillside.  I could even see the flames from 4 miles away in a fire line as it moved up the slope.  I'm beginning to think that slash and burn is still used a lot in Cuba.  The mountains and foot hills where still beautiful, even with the occasional plume of smoke rising at various spots.  It was the dry season still and much of the vegetation was brown and arid looking.  I could see that fires could easily get out of control, maybe. It took about an hour and I found myself in the outskirts of Trinidad.  When I say outskirts, I'm not talking suburbs or the occasional strip mall.  Just a sign indicating that you were there, and beyond that, a dense concentration of houses and factories, where before you where passing pasture and farmland.  The gas station did have a convenience store air to it though, to my surprise, complete with a little meat pie alcove and cold drinks.  I turned onto Jose Marti Street.  Every town has one named after the revered founder of Cuban nationalism.  I rode my bike into the center of town.  What was asphalt roads, in good biking shape with minimal potholes or storm grates suddenly turned into cobbles.  Those of you that ride know this type of road surface can easily lead to a dental appointment, with a bone jarring vibration that can separate vertebrae.  The cobbles originated from the ballast stones of early trading vessels that replaced them with molasses and rum.  The streets, like almost every city in Cuba, were crowded with pedestrians, kids going to school, couples walking, taxis and the ever present Soviet era stake truck.  The town was beautiful; the architecture was very colonial Spanish and the homes very neat and ordered.  The streets where narrow and the pavement was mostly cobble stones the further I got towards the historic section, forcing me to walk the bike.   The building were in pretty great shape, with hardly any modern architecture, except from the glass and steel bank,  and with just a little difficulty started to find some of the sites my guide book indicated as must see.   One thing I was having a little trouble with was that if there were any street signs, usually a plaque or painted on the corner of a building, the names were pre revolutionary.  I needed to check the cross reference every time in the guide book to make sure where I was.  Nevertheless, I was frequently lost, which is not a bad way generally to get the layout of a city.  I was starting to see more evidence of the tourists that flock here, mostly from Europe, mostly young people.  Since I didn't fit the look of the average tourist or for that matter the average Cuban cyclist, I was approached by several young men asking if I needed a place to stay.  These guys get a commission from the casa particular owners and can be a pain, always asking if you need a place or if you need a tour guide.  A middle aged woman passed me on a street later on, when I had just decided that in order to do this place justice I will definitely need to spend the night.  In the few hours that I had walked the narrow, cobbled streets of Trinidad I came across numerous arts and craft being displayed both by street vendors and in little shops.  Plus the music was everywhere, coming out of the doors and windows of almost every building.  The woman passed me, saying hola, then turned and asked the question.  I agreed to check out her place and if it was ok, and the price was certainly so ($10/night), I would stay, grab a shower and really check out the city that night and the following day.   I remember following her as she turned right then left and across the park that I was using as my geographical perspective, to turn up a narrow street to a non descript green door partially blocked by street vendors.  She opened the door and within was a small sitting area with a high roof and opeing onto an open air alleyway, with plastered walls and planters.  She showed me a small room with lattice work to provide privacy from the rest of the area with high ceilings and a comfortable bed.  Now I could explore Trinidad without wearing bike togs and pushing the bike around.  I took a quick shower and headed out to walk around.  The Parque Major is the major center of old Trinidad with extensive and intricate latticework and rose bushes everywhere, along with the prerequisite Cuban revolutionary monument.  These people take their history very seriously.  One end of the park is dominated by the immense Trinidad Cathedral, dedicated to some saint or another.  To the side of the cathedral is a series of wide steps that lead up the hill and end with a couple of cafes and discos.  This wasn't its original purpose of course, though it's quite dramatic as I was later find out at night, with people dancing on the steps and landing that are spaced as you go up the hill. Anyway I'm getting ahead of myself.  I found myself walking in ever widening circles around the park and coming down one of the side streets I could hear the sound of a band behind the high motar and stone wall on the sidewalk.  There was a small doorway, and poking my head in, saw a large shade tree in a mostly dirt courtyard.  A couple of modest shacks were in the back and two vintage Chevy's were parked along the back wall, one of which the subject of heated discussion between two older men.  Under the shade tree were a couple of benches set up with stumps and rough hewn planks and at the head, a 5 piece band was playing the balladic music of Cuba called 'Son'.  I had grown to love this style of uniquely Cuban music since  first exposed to it in the Buena Vista Social Club series produced by Ry Cooder.  Now I was watching the real thing, live.  I was one of two people in the audience, being slightly off the tourist beaten path, down a side street from the main areas.   During one of the breaks in between sets, two of the band members engaged me in a conversation.  They were quite interested in the fact I was an American sailor who took my small sailboat to visit the birth place of my grandfather.  The next set I was honored with a improvisation, that featured lyrics extolling the voyage of Natie M. having come to Cuba to see the Revolution and witness the spirit of Che.   It was quite an experience to be the only one sitting there listening to these guys play some of the great songs that I  was starting to recognize having accumulated cds and listening to the Cuban radio since before I arrived in country. As I am of the habit of sleeping whenever the notion or fatigue strikes, I returned to the casa for a nap before dinner, in anticipation of seeing and experiencing the nightlife of Trinidad.  The owner of the casa offered to make me dinner for only $5 so I agreed and after waking was seated at a large wood table in the dining room while she served me a heaping plate of rice and beans, pork and fruit.  It was simple but delicious.  After finishing I headed out into the evening.  Returning the main park area next to the cathedral in the historic section (rather the more historic section) I found myself heading back to the dirt courtyard where I had heard the fantastic 'son' bands earlier in the day.   This time the courtyard and its benches were filled with tourists and the band was racking it in, selling CDs and playing many of the songs I had heard earlier  I was sympathizing earlier with me and two other people listening to them play, now they had an audience of at least 30, all throwing coins and buying CDs.  I also noticed the music was a little more tailored to the tourists, less Son music and more songs familiar to the western ear.  The band recognized me and waved me over to play the sticks.  As I have about as much inherent rhythm as a tap dancer with epilepsy I declined faking a severe hand injury.  No really there plenty of volunteer percussionists in the audience, some of them quite drunk on Cuban rum being passed around.    I moved on to hang out in the beautiful park with its rose covered archways overlooked by the colonial era cathedral.  By 8 I headed up the wide staircase of alongside the cathedral to grab a table and wait for the band there to start.  Around 9 the music began and so did the dancing.  I was surrounded by German, French, Spanish tourists, mostly young and much dancing while black and white formal waiters wound through the crowded tables serving food and drinks.  The music, again, was tailored to the crowd, and after a rousing rendition of 'The Girl from Epinema' I walked off to a side street to some other cafes and art galleries. By Midnight I was ready for bed, and soon discovered that I had not idea where I was.  The narrow, cobble stone streets all looked the same and the only difference was their orientation to the hill side the city was located on.  After asking several people on the street finally found No. 75 and my key worked.   The owner greeted me and asked if I still intended to spend another night.  I decided I was ready to move on, having seen much of the city.  Another place I will return to some day.  The following morning at dawn departed on the bike for another ride around town.  The streets were packed with school kids, all in their uniforms, walking and riding bikes to school.  It was surprising how many kids there were, the streets were crowded with them all heading to their repective school building.    After a half mile or so was finally into the area of town with asphalt roads and not the bone rattling cobblestones.  By mid day I was riding back into the marina.  I decided to see how quickly I could get clearance for departure from the harbor master.  Before the final clearance and the reissue of my despacho, I needed to settle my marina bill.  This turned into a bit of a problem when I turned in what I thought was my copy of the marina contract I had signed the day before.  What follows is typical of the bureaucratic logjams that can occur, especially when you are trying to do something in an other than 'manana' mindset.  I had unwittingly turned in the wrong marina contract.  Mind you my Cuba file was getting rather filled with the numerous papers and receipts that I had been collecting.  I was sitting in the office with the harbor master on duty while he pondered the contract that I had given him.  He engaged in conversation with several people that would come and go from his office, occasionally asking me a question about other Cuban marinas I had visited.  He would also get on the phone while I sat there.  I had accepted that I was not going to get out of there any time soon.  One phone conversation went on for 15 minutes while I sat there.  I couldn't understand what was the problem.  Finally after almost 45 minutes he finally showed me that I had given him the wrong contract.  I was a little taken aback, thinking "why the hell didn't he just tell me that I had given him the wrong contract???".   It was my fault yes, but why wait almost an hour before telling me what was the problem?  I told him to wait and I would go back to the boat and sure enough found that I had misfiled the correct paper.  Another 20 minutes and finally I had a bill.  A little steep I thought considering the marina was in so much a state of disrepair, but no arguing with the marina manager.  And, of course, they had no change for the 20 peso bill that I paid with.  By 1000 was underway and heading for the long chain of islands called the Jardines del Reines, on the last leg to my final Cuban port, Santiago de Cuba. 4/2/09  N20o 48.735' W78o57.000'  Cayo Ancilitas After more than 24 hours of tacking in a really snotty 15 kt wind out of the SSW I tacked into the lee side of a narrow cay.  Exhausted and frustrated with the poor progress I dropped anchor in this rolly anchorage for some sleep at around 2 pm.  The weather forecast was not going to get any better so I just accommodated myself to being stuck here for awhile.  Nothing but water and beach and mangroves. 4/3/09 Was visited by some fisherman who seemed to appear out of nowhere, motoring at high speed around the point and passed the Natie M. within a 100 feet.  They revisited the area about an hour later, and this time, came alongside.  Two fisherman, friendly enough, asked me if I wanted any fruit.  Fearing the possible advent of scurvy, not to mention my dwindling provisions, I said sure.   They had a garbage bag with a couple dozen oranges, grapefruit, and pineapples.  Great, I'll take three of each!  They promptly handed the whole bag over, insisting it was a gift.  A little while later they showed up again, only this time asking if I wanted to buy some lobster.  Taking a look at the impressive catch they had on board, I told them four would be fine.  The smallest denomination that I had was  $10 CUC, or about $12 US.  It was way above what you would typically pay for lobster straight from the boat, but I was remembering the 2 weeks supply of grapefruit, oranges, and  pineapple they had given me earlier.  Pretty happy with the 10 spot, they handed over 8 lobster.   Now I had to clean them, cook them, and of course since I was without any refridgeration, pretty much eat them all in quick sucession.   After steaming them in the pressure cooker where they can keep for a while, I ate lobster straight through breakfast the following morning. In the afternoon, hoping for an evening shift in the wind and waves, I raised anchor and continued on.  No luck in the department, the trades were, although not to big, were right on my nose.  I broke down and started the motor with the main up, doing a reasonable 4 knots in a roughly easterly direction.         4/4/09 Ran the motor most of the night and by 2300 finally made Cabo Cruz, the small fishing town on the western most point of the southern shore of Cuba.   At this point the shore runs almost directly east to Santiago de Cuba, my next destination and Guantanamo.  At least that was my plan. Durning the night, I ran out of gas, confirming my suspicion that my gas guage was less than accurate.  I spent most of the night tacking my way from the northwest and across the Bahia de Guanacabo.  Nearing the light house of Cabo cruise and knowing there was a very substantial barrier reef I restarted the engine with the last gallong in the outboard tank,  for the final couple of miles to Cabo Cruz.  Dropped the hook and when to sleep.  I'm finding that if the wind is at my back, I can sail almost indefinitely without much fatigue.  But in a tack situation, it's a different story.  After about 48 hours of tacking, healed way over 20 degrees, so that it's a physical effort to move around the cabin and cockpit, my fatigue level rises significantly from the difficulty in getting a decent amount of sleep.  The bad news is that I could expect a lot more of these conditions all the way to the Windward Islands. 4/5/09  N19o50.391' W77o44.198' After a decent sleep, I was up at dawn and shortly thereafter took the dinghy the quarter mile by oars, as the outboard was out of gas also, to the landing just outside of town.  I was greeted by a fisherman and two kids who were really excited to see me.  They said no problem, gasoline was available here, and not only that his two young sons would be more than happy to carry it for me.  Somewhat relieved that fuel was not gonna be a problem I tied up the dinghy to a stump on the shore and started to disembark.  Along comes a young guy, not in uniform, but seemed to have some degree of authority there, judging by the deferential treatment from the fisherman and his sons, stating that not only was there no gasoline in town but that I could not even come ashore.  I tried to explain that my boat was out of gas and I was anxious to at least get 5 gallons.  No dice.  I was in a foul mood rowing that dinghy back to Natie M.  Before leaving the guy suggested that I head north up the coast to a larger fishing village.  Niquero is 20 miles up the coast (the wrong direction from my intended course) through several shoal areas, minimally marked.  It would be a tricky trip, requiring a lot of tacks.  Thinking the prospect of a full tank of fuel before I tackled the long coastal trip up to Santiago de Cuba, probably with head winds, I mad the prudent decision to make the detour in the quest for fuel.  So back to the boat and raised the main, pulled the anchor and headed north west, tacking my way toward Niquero. After about 5 hours of sometimes harrowing tacking through the shoals of the Golfo de Guanacayabo, I rounded the last cay and beheld the fishing port of Niquero.  I spotted the guarda station, and knowing they are going to want to talk with me, I sailed over, rounded up in front of the dilapidated concrete jetty, and dropped the anchor.   I was hoping this all would not be for naught, as the wind would be directly on my nose if I needed to sail back out of there.  As I pulled up, and deployed the dinghy I notice the welcoming party of three fatigued officials at the end of the dock.  As I rowed up, one of them, after a courteous greeting informed me that I must leave immediately and would not be allowed to anchor there overnight or for that matter for the next 15 minutes.  Keeping my cool, I tried to explain that I just needed some gas.   His reply was that there was no gasoline here for sale.  He was apologetic, but I'm sure he could see my frustration as I struggled to keep my cool.  I was definitely at the point in my trip to this lovely nation of bureaucratic saturation.  I made it clear that I was not happy and that I was going to have to tack my way out of this little anchorage, complete with abandoned pilings as an obstacle course.  To say the least I was pissed.  As much as I really loved Cuba, the people, the culture, the optimism and pride; the utter intransigence of the bureaucracy was on more than one occasion, really a pain in the ass.  In my simmering rage, I tacked back to Cabo Cruz, with the intention of once reaching there, if there was any sort of accommodating wind and sea state to head around the point and continue east to Santiago de Cuba, fuel or no fuel.  It was 3 hours later and dark when I approached, after 4 tacks, in a freshening breeze, the point.  At about 7 pm, I rounded the familiar light and immediately encountered a stiff east wind and waves into the mix.  I gave it a try for an hour, but tired and the attraction of the nice sheltered anchorage behind the reef at Cabo Cruz, I came about and with not too much difficulty was able to sail into the harbor.  Once in the harbor however, I discovered that my depth sounder was not working.  On top of that, as I came within 2 miles of Cabo Cruz, the lights of the small town and the light house were extinguished.  If not for the solar powered red and green navigation lights at the entrance to the harbor, I would have had to rely on my chart plotter with its 15 year old charts and temperamental gps antennae to guide me in.  It was a totally dark harbor that I came into and I could barely make out the mangroves to the north that bordered the anchorage.  I was able to beat to wind and come within what I thought was sufficient water.  That's when the untimely sequence of events occurred.  My plan was to sail as close to the mangroves as possible and drop the anchor out of the wind and waves.  This I did, unfortunately the spot that I dropped the anchor shoaled almost immediately so that once the Natie M., sails dropped and anchor set, settled into the wind, it swung around and into the turtle grass shoal.  I was a lot closer to the mangroves and even the landmark hulk than I intended.  I could feel the keel settle in to the bottom.  Once I realized that I had indeed run aground, I started the engine, hoping that a timely burst of thrust to get me back into deep water before I really got stuck.  I had about 5 minutes of gas and the motor soon sputtered off.  It was almost on cue that the electricity to the town and the light house came on sending the rotating beacon of the powerful light to intermittently light my predicament.  I had to laugh at the situation.  Using the main winch, I attempted to put enough strain on the anchor to hopefully drag me out of the shallows.  I could soon see that the only thing I accomplished here was to drag the anchor towards the bow.  The next thing was to take my backup anchor in the dinghy and row, (remember no gas for the outoboard) and set it a good 150 feet in the direction of the deeper water.  This was an ordeal in itself, as one of the oar locks would not secure the oar, and in addition, the stiff 15 knot wind to row against.  I'm sure I hurled a couple of epithets at the weather gods.  Once the anchor, after an exhausting paddle was set, I blew, literally, back to the boat in less than a minute and once on board, wound the new anchor rode onto the main winch and began hauling.  Once I had tension in the line, I raised the main and fortunately the boat being oriented perpendicular to the wind, for once, the Natie M. healed over to gently pivot the keel off the bottom, all the while I was furiously cranking on the winch to take up the slack.  Slowly and over a half hour and with every gust of wind, she slide off and was floating again.   I tied off the anchor line, and in a complete exhausted funk, tied off the line, made a cursory effort to sort out the tangled mess of lines on the deck, and went below to make a meal and go to bed.  Not my best day in Cuba.  All for want of a few litres gas. 4/6/09  0000 About an hour ago, after two hours of sleep, I headed out again.  The wind had settle a bit and seemed to be giving indications of adding a little more north to its persistent eastward compulsion.  I set off from Cabo Cruz ,, and was heading east along the coast.  I gradually pulled away from the rocky coastline, both for safety, but mostly because the east wind forced me into yet another beat to wind.    With no gas, thus no motor, I was completely unable to take advantage of the still wind that met me most of the following day.  I intermittently dropped the main, and ran jib and jigger, and finally deployed the the spinnaker only to watch it hang limply from the mast.  It was very frustrating not to make any way only for the want of a little gasoline.  I drifted more than sailed along the south coast of Cuba, in the sweltering heat, with only the dramatic view of the rocky coast and the Sierra Maestra mountains of Cuba to give some return for this ordeal.   One can look at mountains only so long before wishing for a change of venue.  I continued this way into the night.  Alone, frustrated, and probably a little depressed at the poor progress I had made in the past 48 hours, sitting in the dark with only the light of the compass in the cockpit and the stars above, I suddenly saw, or at least I saw an object fly into the main sail.  Thinking it was yet another hallucination, I ignored it, until it happened yet again.  I thought it was a bird and sure enough, a small wren like bird suddenly settled and perched onto the life line on the opposite side of the cockpit.  I was down below checking the plotter and wolfing down some rice and beans I had made earlier.  Something about having another living thing aboard, out in the middle of nowhere, made me want it to stay.  I kept my movements below to a minimum and slowly came back on deck only when it was necessary.  The bird would occasionally change its perch, but seemed determined to, what I assumed, was a badly needed respite from the exertions of flight.  I estimate that I was at least 15 miles offshore at this time, so the Natie M. was the only rest stop before the next exit.  My guest stayed with me for almost 2 hours, when during an unintentional tack, I was forced to attend the winch on which it was perched.  That was apparently enough rest for it and it took off, for the last time.  I hope it made it ashore.  I could relate to the longing for a calm perch.