Virgin Passage

The Virgin Passage is probably the most traversed body of water around here. And it almost always sucks. A huge river of Atlantic floods the strait between Culebra and St. Thomas twice a day, and fiercely on a new moon exacerbated by Florence as she passes well north of us en route to her inevitable landfall in the Carolinas.

We ended up motoring it, happy that I spent time to clean the prop in Culebra before crossing. We left late this fall and now there is little wind except what a passing squall or larger storm can afford us as they sweep by in mid-September. Isaac churns along to the East and appears to track well south of us as a small storm. Still, we keep an eye to weather and are ready to hole up in Ensenada Honda de Vieques to our south, or reach for Virign Gorda should Isaac curve north toward us.

St. Thomas bore Irma last year before we saw Maria. There are still boats along Water Island, but wrecks too, and many dismasted hulls. Honeymoon Beach still has dinghies running to and fro though. The bay is just as rocky and untenable to anchor as I remember, although we did make a casual acquaintance under our hull…

Flamingo Bay to the south is quiet and calm, aside from the surprising amount of motor traffic coming in and out of the pond waking us. But overall it’s peaceful and just somewhat more buggy from being here two years ago.

Max is improving his swimming in this clear water, as well as his patience and calmness, with some punctuated exceptions. He sometimes makes startling breakthroughs for a five year old. He has few distractions from his new environment and it molds him in unexpected and profound ways. His travel reminds me I was not born to this life, and I wonder what potentials he will achieve that are barred from me, if he so desired. Sara instructs him academically in the mornings. We get done whenever we feel ready to be done. This is how school should be. I vaguely remember this from my early childhood as my mother taught me literacy. I feel for her difficulties overcoming my obstinate childhood. So it goes.

We made for Benner Bay to replace a mizzen shroud and find out who was left. Capt. Alex turned up, working on a Wharram Cat. He’s planning to work the boat out of St. John when they’re done.  I gave them a couple hands stepping the mast. The lagoon has changed a bit. Compass Point is stretching their tendrils out farther, adding another dock of wood pilings and pushing the anchorage out tighter. The Triangle is more shoaled. The bars still open, and the yard is much the same. Skip the rigger set me up with my wire, properly sized bronze turnbuckle and a new sta-lok swedge, and aloft I flew pulled up by Sara. The bottom block on our bosun’s tackle is tight and hot at the sheave pin, ready to be replaced and squealing in protest, but whatever. Perhaps that’ll be my epitaph: I’ll deal with it later. We gave Max a go at the bosun’s chair to the Mizzen spreaders with an overall positive reaction from the little man. We promoted him to Bosun’s Mate on the spot. It’s like there’s nothing in the chair when he is up. Eyeballs with fingers, he has the perfect physique for a rigger.

I walked the boatyard with a certain amount of indifference. Last time I hauled here it was pretty miserable, requiring me to practice my EFR technique twice in one day, with the second round of first aid attending a horrific automobile crash, ending with a liberal covering of blood and red paint, mixed and drying with variable degrees of permanence dermatologically and psychologically. This visit was quieter, thankfully. I am not eager to haul out here again though. I still stop at crossings to remember aloud to look to the right, as they drive on the left, albeit with American cars, so the driver can hardly see the middle of the road.

I try where I can to turn a blind eye to the leftover havoc left by Irma as it enrages and amplifies the shrill internal screaming I hear that seems to have my voice in all matters since we were hit by Maria… and ignored for weeks. I know USCG has been busy here as in PR hauling away beached hulls. Things are different though. A year later and I trip over the changes, so evident once outside the cruise-ship compound and busy avenues of Charlotte Amalie. 104.3 “The Buzz” and NPR were the first radio we received in Vieques after Maria, their operators elevated to a certain heroism in their frantic efforts to power their transmitters with generators hauled up Crown Hill. Perhaps listening to them 30 miles away from home over the past year has endeared me a little more to this place. But it’s different from before.

We sip our Carib (or juice for the little swab) and play dominoes and become impatient to get out of the mosquito laden nights in the lagoon, peppered by noseeums that are oblivious to our bug spray. Our stalwart 12V fans can only dissuade their thirst for blood so much. Fortunately Sara and Max are much sweeter meals than me.

Water, provisions, and we’ll be under way again.