In the "Sailors confess" series, we confess our stupidest sailing mistakes. But we are also looking forward to your confession. Send us your text, if possible with pictures, to mail@yacht.dekeyword "sailor's confession". If desired, publication will be anonymised.
The plan was actually a good one
It was a perfect day in the Caribbean: we set off from English Harbour, in my opinion the most beautiful harbour in the Caribbean, in the morning in perfect conditions with blue skies and a nice stable north-easterly trade wind. The cat, a 42-foot Lagoon, cut through the turquoise water towards Green Island, a small island on the eastern side of Antigua. An offshore reef promised fantastic snorkelling and - more importantly for me: great photos for the YACHT travel report we were producing!
But the reef was disappointing on site: the trade winds had washed up huge amounts of Sargasso seaweed, the yellow stuff was floating everywhere and looked really bad in the photos, both on the water and from the air with the drone. So change of plan: move to one of the deep bays on the west side of Green Island, which are said to be very beautiful and have lee protection. So without seaweed. The chart already said: "The crews must navigate the passage between the corals carefully by sight." No problem, a fellow sailor on each bow and we felt our way in under engine.
The perfect bay
A lonely, tiny beach with three palm trees, a bright white beach. A single mooring buoy as a safe stop in front of the campsite. Avoidably perfect. But then we realise that we actually set off too late: The sun quickly gets so low that it becomes a blatant backlight shot and, on top of that, the motif doesn't really work. And only then do I realise that the swell has changed: a long swell is gradually making its way around the island and there are waves coming in. Not a good prospect if it's going to get any bigger. So we set off without further ado. As we cast off, I realise I've made the cardinal mistake in the Caribbean: we have to leave the bay against the low sun. Anyone who has ever been to the Caribbean knows how quickly this can happen from 3 or 4 pm.
Driven over the reef on sight
All of a sudden, "eyeball navigation" is no longer reliably possible. And the reef heads are no longer clearly visible, often the two guys at the bow only see them a few metres in front of the ship. I'm getting hot. Turn round and lie in the swell, even if it gets higher? I orientate myself as closely as possible to the old plotter track. I slow down further and further. My forehead is now covered in sweat, coral can be seen under the boat and even a huge ray and a turtle are diving under us, really close enough to touch. Damn, they weren't so clearly visible earlier!
Then this one thing
At that moment, the realisation comes like a hammer: the swell! By now, the ocean must be "breathing" three quarters of a metre in long amplitude into the bay, which you can barely see - but feel. But we're only about 150 metres away from deep water! Almost there - but then there's a bump on the rudder. We hit a coral head with it in a wave trough. And almost at the same time, the water colour changes: from dark to light, we are out and over the sandy entrance.
How bad is it? The boat can be manoeuvred normally, no noticeable difference in handling. The sun is now quickly moving towards the horizon. We decide to take the shortest route back to English Harbour so that we are close to a service centre. We arrive in the last light.
Confession to the charter company
And I realise: I have to call the charter company. Oh God, how embarrassing. But never mind, in my articles I always preach that the best thing is to be ruthlessly open with fleet operators. I can't preach water and then drink wine or rum. So I make a call. The base manager is of course not amused and says we have to go to the service centre in English Harbour tomorrow to have the damage assessed. Then the flash of inspiration: "I've got my Go Pro with me, is it okay if I send you photos and videos of the damage tomorrow?" There is no functioning, waterproof torch on board for a dive. The base manager agrees. It's going to be a sleepless night at anchor for me, even Painkiller won't help.
The next morning under water, it turns out that the rudder has only touched down at the furthest corner. What felt like a heavy blow to the rudder only caused a piece of chipped laminate, about the size of an apricot. The rudder stock is as straight as a die. The foam core is not exposed! Whew! The next hurdle: there is no mobile phone network in the bay to send pictures through. On land at the yacht club there is a Wi-Fi network, which is probably the equivalent of an old 56k modem. The upload to the base station fails countless times. After two hours it finally works. He calls back straight away: it's not so bad, we can carry on, but we should be there by midday on the return day so that the diver can rinse, dry and smooth the sheet. Uff again. Done, we arrive before 12.00 noon.
The "tree of shame"
Going to the base manager was still difficult for me. But it goes very differently than expected: he thanks me for my honesty, says it happens, and while we're talking, the shore team has pushed the rudder out of the bearing with a broomstick and brought it ashore. Like a well-oiled machine, it slips smoothly. They remove another loose piece, which the base manager takes. "This goes on my 'How to lose your deposit' tree:". Also known internally as the "tree of shame". This is a tropical bush on which dangles cheerfully bent railing supports, dinghy propellers, demolished bow lanterns and much more that gets broken in everyday charter life. I could live with that and the 180 euros per hour for the repair.
More about anchoring:
And her confession?
Have you also made stupid or avoidable mistakes that resulted in funny, dangerous or expensive situations? Then please write to us at mail@yacht.dekeyword "sailor's confession". If desired, publication will be anonymised.
