In Which our Heroes Tackle Cooper Island and North Gorda Sound.
From Charles:
The wind continues to howl, making it unseasonable weather for the kind of upwind sailing we’d need to do on this leg. I’ve clocked winds in our most recent squall en route to Cooper Island to be in excess of 32 knots, so the canvas, sadly, remains down.
But our engine, faithful companion, has kept us chugging happily along, first to Cooper Island and then to the Bitter End Yacht Club in North Gorda Sound, where we have received a much-needed injection of civilized treats, the first in three days: garbage pickup, air conditioning, and a shower.
Life on a mooring ball is an odd one: first in The Bight and then on Cooper Island, we swung on moorings each night, shuffling open and closed hatches along with the alternating heat waves and rain showers, listening to the wind lash at the boat’s bones, and rolling in the swell. They weren’t bad nights, but you have to get used to them.
On a ball, contact with others comes infrequently, either with trips to shore with the dinghy for meals or shopping, or with the occasional boat-bound vendor that pulls up alongside to hock ice cream, booze, and trash pickup. Other than that, it’s you, your boat, and the weather. About a quarter of the waking day is spent listening to the engine thrum as it recharges the onboard batteries. We’ve spent the remainder of the time reading, tending to the boat, eating, and hunting out good swimming and snorkeling spots.
The conditions are making for difficult snorkeling as most spots at the least suffer from cloudy, churned-up water, and at worst are off-limits altogether, as the bright red flag flown above the Baths at Virgin Gorda indicated today. To remedy this, we’ve signed on with a snorkeling tour here at the Bitter End tomorrow afternoon, which promises three good spots.
We have to stay another night on the docks here in North Gorda Sound to accomplish this. We’re surrounded by date palms, white sands, kiteboarders, and sailboats stretching out on miles of moorings. We’ll manage.
Alicia:
Our boat groans and howls like all of Dickens’ ghosts put together. She is also full to the gills with secret compartments and hatches, more cubbyholes and stowaway spots even than you’d normally expect on a boat. It’s very Victorian, somehow, the wailing and the secrets.
We have decided we must miss the Baths on this trip, as the weather thwarts a safe approach and grounding the boat doesn’t sound like much fun. On the upside, we get an extra night here in the Bitter End Yacht Club, which is so — it’s just — listen, the best way I can describe it is with a question: Have you ever seen “Swiss Family Robinson”?
Now imagine that treehouse as built by Donald Trump.
The heart of the Bitter End is a long path that extends along the beach, gently paved and lined with coconut and date palms, mangroves, and flowers the likes of which I’ve never seen before in my life. East of our dock, the resort’s small rooms are piled high on the hill and reached by labyrinths of wooden stairways that climb upward from the path’s lush greenery. West of our dock are the cottage rentals, whose pyramidal roofs weirdly evoke the Egypt of pharaohs and long slave galleys on the bulging Nile. Everywhere are cushioned deck chairs, hammocks, shaded benches, and always the curve and sweep of the ocean.
Oh yes, and this central area where we are moored is full of restaurants, gift shops, sailboat/kiteboard/kayak rental places, bars, and even an English pub (!), all with balconies open to the tropical breeze and the sunset views. It’s idyllic, is what it is. It makes me glad the wind kept pushing our boat away from where we intended to put her, at nearby Saba Rock. Clearly, we were meant to end up here.
After two days, even without putting up the sails, Charles and I have evolved a chain of command that suits us both. He mans the helm and keeps us on course; I take charge of deck lines, the dinghy painter, fenders, and anything else that needs fixing or grabbing or tying. It means he gets to steer (which I don’t envy), and I get to clamber around the heaving, bobbing deck, or venture below to retrieve something from the navigation table. It’s a challenge we both enjoy. We’ll see how this plays out when we start our sail westward to Trellis Bay and Sandy Spit on Wednesday.