April 11, 2020
Well, it's safe to say the past month aboard Flo has been different from planned. We had intended to spend the rest of March cruising the islands of St. Barth’s, St. Marteen and Anguilla, then spending April cruising the rest of the BVI and USVI archipelagos before moving onto Turks and Caicos and the Bahamas in May. Alas, it looks as if we won’t be doing any of that. Which puts us figuratively in the same boat as much of the rest of the world, adjusting to this alternate reality while trying to stay safe and positive.
Upon returning to Flo in the BVIs from our shortened trip to Boston, we decided to make tracks and get our boat and ourselves checked into US territory before it was too late. We have decided to get Florence shipped from the USVIs back to Southampton before hurricane season hits the Caribbean, both to ensure the safety of the vessel and to avoid invalidating our insurance by staying in Hurricane Highway past a specified date. With so much changing so quickly, who knew what the picture for international travel by private vessel would look like in even a few days? We couldn’t wait around and risk being refused entry to the US and therefore missing our shipping date. So we wasted no time checking out of Nanny Cay marina and the BVIs, doing a big provision, filling the boat with fuel, and slipping the lines for St. John in the USVIs. Although in different countries, Tortola and St. John are so close we could practically swim from one to the other. We made it to Cruz Bay, the only port of entry on St. John, that afternoon. We quickly dropped the hook, grabbed our documents, dinghied to the Customs house, and had Florence and her crew checked into the US by 5 PM that evening, mere hours before the US ban of travellers from the UK went into effect. What a relief.
Although things in Cruz Bay seemed to still be pretty much in full swing, that all changed in a matter of days. Now the island is pretty much on full lock down, with mandatory shelter-in-place laws applicable to both those on land and on the water. While there are currently only a handful of confirmed COVID cases on St. John, it’s good to see the USVIs taking the virus seriously. As with many other places in the US, local rules dictate that you are allowed out only for essential provisioning. Cruz Bay turned from a vibrant holiday town teeming with live music and beach bars packed with tourists to a ghost town within 24 hours. The neighbouring BVIs have gone full throttle on this thing as well, officially closing their borders to anyone going in OR out, validating our decision to leave when we did.
Given the shelter-in-place laws, we no longer have the freedom to move Flo around and needed to find a place to stick her where she would be secure for the foreseeable future. There are very few places in St. John to anchor, as around 70% of the island is designated a national park with heavy fines imposed for anchoring. What they do offer within the park are mooring balls where you can tie up for a nightly fee. We sailed Flo around the north side of the island looking for a protected bay. After spending a few nights in a place called Francis Bay, we decided to move on, as the bay got rolly at night and was fairly exposed to fierce wind gusts coming through the valley. We weren’t sure how protected we would be in the event of a big blow so didn’t want to risk being stuck there for weeks on end. We continued our search further along the north coast and found a smaller bay called Waterlemon tucked behind a tiny island. It looked well-protected and quiet, though it appeared all the mooring balls had already been snagged. We wove our way in and finally located a free one right at the front of the bay, mere meters from the shoreline. As we inched towards the beach, eyes glued to the depth sounder, we seemed to just have enough depth to swing it, with at least ½ meter under the keel at a minimum. We tied up to the ball and let Florence settle in, so close to the beach we could practically step onto it. This little spot would be our home for the foreseeable future.
We have been in Waterlemon Bay for over 2 weeks now, dealing with challenges and changing regulations as they arise. The local authorities have been vague on their guidelines for private vessels during this pandemic, both in terms of what’s allowed and what resources are available, if any. Basically they’ve said that it is illegal to move your boat from its current location except for occasionally emptying the holding tanks and that you are only allowed to leave your boat to provision. Whether or not leaving the boat for occasional exercise is permitted is still unclear, though Stephen and I have decided that as long as we are sensible and until someone stops us, it should be OK. We have the benefit of being in a national park where there is no one around, which makes social distancing pretty damn easy. We are seriously isolated here. Stephen and I have gone for 12km hikes through the trails of the park without seeing another human being. I went for an evening paddleboard last night and made friends with a pelican and a stingray, which is about the extent of the socializing I’ve done on St. John. Just to be on the safe side, I maintained a safe distance of at least 6 feet from my new aquatic friends.
This level of isolation on a boat in the middle of nowhere has both its benefits and its challenges. One challenge we have realised is that we have very little in the way of support should something go wrong. This was brought home on Day 3 of our quarantine in Waterlemon when our generator decided to give up the ghost. We had it running in the morning per our usual routine to charge our batteries and to power the watermaker when it suddenly shut down. We had it serviced less than a month ago, so we couldn’t figure out what the problem could be. After searching for and calling a few marine repair shops should we need them, we learned that all marine support businesses in the USVIs were closed for the foreseeable future, as were all marinas in the vicinity. If we wanted this generator to work again, we would need to fix it ourselves. Thankfully, the problem turned out to be nothing more serious than a knackered impeller, for which we had a spare and were able to replace relatively easily. The incidence regardless was a bit of a wake-up call, as it highlighted that if anything more serious were to go wrong with the boat over the next several weeks (or months?) of this quarantine, we would be without support and potentially in deep water. So I guess we are only OK as a self-contained little universe until we are not… Another potential challenge is the weather. If a storm were to blow through, shelter options are limited, as the marinas are closed and not available as a flight to safety option. The weather so far has been fairly benign, and we think we have managed to snag the most protected mooring ball this side of the island, but if this year afloat has taught us anything, it’s that Mother Nature does what she wants, when she wants. We just have to take it one day at a time.
Aside from these outside risks, the other challenges of our isolation have so far been manageable and even fun. Provisioning is a good example. Being in the middle of a national park, we are miles away from anything resembling civilisation. The closest village with a small grocery store and trash disposal facility is a 3-mile hike away, up and over the crest of the island to a bay on her eastern shore. Every few days, Stephen and I pack our trash into a large duffel bag, paddle to shore on our paddleboard (dinghies have been prohibited from landing on the beach, which is an added logistical challenge), then begin the 3-mile hike up and over the island to Coral Bay. The hike is steep, the trash is smelly and heavy, and the sun is beating down overhead, but we chat and play silly games to keep morale up. Once in town, we dump the rubbish before stocking up with as many provisions as we can carry on our backs before hiking back up through the forest to the other side. Stephen and I joke we have future careers as sherpas if nothing else. The mission takes up most of the day, and by the time we finally get back to Flo, sanitise all the groceries and put them away, we are completely spent. This must be what it was like in the olden days when you had to hike miles just to get a bucket of water. It’s great exercise though, and we always find something interesting to chat about during the hike. And the mission complete makes that cold drink in the cockpit at sunset taste that much better. Nothing makes you appreciate a cold beer as much as having to hike 6 miles over steep terrain for it! We’ve both come to enjoy our little survival routine. So often in our daily working lives we’d slog 10-12 hour days at the office, unsure of precisely what the end goal was. By contrast, a day’s mission of hiking for our survival supplies is satisfying in its simplicity.
And despite these few hurdles associated with our isolation, it is not lost on us how comparatively lucky we are. I spoke to my younger sister yesterday in New York City, currently Ground Zero of the pandemic, who is for the most part unable to leave her apartment and risks infection every time she does. Stephen and I know that being here in our isolated bay where we have the ability to swim and hike and watch sunsets from our cockpit makes us very fortunate indeed. And while we are disappointed not to get to explore the rest of the Caribbean as we’d planned, we recognise that being forced to stay put presents different opportunities. Our trip thus far has been a mad dash from country to country, island to island, harbour to harbour, in an effort to see and experience as much as possible during this year afloat. And while it’s been incredible, it has also been at times exhausting, and we for the most part haven’t taken time to slow down and appreciate where we are for longer than a handful of days at a time. So instead of bemoaning missing out on the rest of our Caribbean itinerary, we are taking the opportunity to appreciate the pause and to enjoy certain things our whirlwind schedule didn’t necessarily allow for. Since we legally cannot go anywhere, we might as well make the most of where we are! When life hands you lemons, hang out in Waterlemon Bay and wring all the juice you can from it.
I can certainly think of worse places to be stuck. Waterlemon Bay is the epitome of peace and tranquility. It’s a nationally protected area, so the water is clean and clear, which is made evident by the thriving local ecosystem. The bay is teeming with a wide variety of birds, fish, and sea creatures. We also have a family of dolphins – a mother, father and a pup - who have made this bay their home. They come out to play each day at sunset and will happily frolic around with you if you jump in with them. My favourite part of my daily routine is my evening paddleboard where I do a lap of nearby Waterlemon Cay and the surrounding coral reef which is very much still alive and home to so many sea turtles it blows my mind. I have found a favourite whom I can always identify by a big yellowish spot on his back. I’ve lovingly named him Cecil B. Turtle and have on more than one occasion been caught red-handed by Stephen having full-blown conversations with him. Quarantine can do strange things to the mind…
Our social interaction hasn’t been entirely limited to tortoises however. We’ve gotten to know a handful of other boats in the bay fairly well, as everyone else is stuck here as well. We’ve formed a little Waterlemon Bay Community Association where we keep each other abreast of changing regulations and offer support where we can while still respecting quarantine. Stephen and I will sometimes paddle over to neighbouring boats to have a chat, though as much as we’d like to invite our neighbours over for sundowners, we are keeping the quarantine and restricting socialising to floating alongside their boats. Stephen and I are actually the only cruisers in our bay. The rest are charter operators who now find themselves out of work for the foreseeable future. We are trying to do our part to help by lobbying the local government to offer them support during this challenging time.
Waterlemon Bay is surrounded by great hiking trails which are accessible by either a quick swim or paddle to the beach. Stephen and I try to go on a long hike each day and rarely see anyone else on the trails. These trails take you to several different parts of the island, past various ruins of old sugar plantations, estates and schoolhouses. From up on the cliffs, you can see islands in every direction – Tortola, Jost Van Dyke, Virgin Gorda, Great Thatch, Little Thatch, Frenchman’s Key – the list goes on.
In our bay, we get zero internet or cell service, which can be frustrating when trying to communicate with family or keep up with important news, but can also be a blessing if framed the right way. If we hike about a mile down the beach over to this rock formation that sticks up on a bluff, we can climb up and get decent enough service to make a phone call, download the news, send an email or pay a bill. This forces us to be intentional about when we need service and when we don’t, so we don’t waste time on the boat scrolling or streaming mindlessly. Ironically, with less service, I find myself speaking to my family and friends more often. I designate times in advance to speak with them, hike or paddle to our little service perch, and really honour those timeslots. The other day, I paddled to our perch, or “the office” as we call it, to participate in a 4-way call with my mom and sisters for my mom’s birthday. They were all laughing at me as they sat tucked in their living rooms while I looked like some contestant on Survivor, crouching on a rock in the middle of nowhere, the sound of waves crashing around me, and darkness closing in fast. I’ll admit my paddle back to the boat in the dark in somewhat rolly seas while trying desperately to grip my iPhone between my teeth was a bit of a challenge, but well worth it for the opportunity to sing happy birthday to my mama and to help her blow out her candles.
Less service also leaves more time for reading and conversation - although after 11 months on a boat together, you may wonder what on earth Stephen and I have left to talk about! I’m surprised myself that we aren’t sick to death of each other and still manage to find interesting things to discuss. I’m sure other people in quarantine are now experiencing this as well: without the typical fallback chat of asking how the other’s day was and what they did (the answer now being, “You know exactly how my day was, you were right here the whole bloody time…”), the discussion is necessarily steered towards other things: topics you are passionate about or projects you want to tackle. This forced slow down in quarantine has given both Stephen and me more time to think about goals and creative pursuits. We have both said if we don’t come out of this quarantine with a new skill or having embarked on a new project, it would be a waste. I finally broke out my guitar again (which has regrettably spent most of the trip corroding in the pullman cabin) and am practicing everyday. I’ve also finally put pen to paper on a novel I’ve been wanting to write for nearly a year now but had yet to make the time to actually sit down and do it.
So while we aren’t doing the exhilarating island hop we had planned for our final two months in the Caribbean, we are making the most of the options we have, social distancing with sea turtles included. Being forced to slow down has given us more time to appreciate where we are and time to reflect holistically on this incredible year we’ve had at sea which is soon coming to a close. It’s also given us time to appreciate each other and to be thankful that we get along as well as we do! Getting married then immediately setting sail together was definitely a bit of a gamble, and one that has seemingly paid off. Meanwhile, we are doing our best to stay safe and healthy in quarantine and taking very good care of Flo, as she is our lifeline in isolation. We speak with family and friends whenever we manage to find a scrap of service and remain endlessly thankful that they are still safe and healthy. And I of course leave time for my daily catch-ups with Cecil :)
