Thursday, September 06, 2007

Pittstown Point, Crooked Island, Bahamas

0 nm
Wind: W 5-10 knots

Karl abandoned our car woes today and focused instead on the house. He finished cutting the concrete and finished putting in the plywood that had been torn out in the plumbing repair. That is why we’re here, after all, and the sooner we get the house job done, the sooner we can leave. I’m worried about the situation with the roller furler, though--we have all these measurements to take and all this prep work to do, and I don’t know if that or the house should be the priority. Actually, the furler should be the priority, but I can’t go up the mast by myself, so it’s Karl’s job to make the decision and he’s falling on the side of the house. He feels like he’s made a commitment to Nappy that he needs to follow through on, but I feel like getting the furler in the works is the most important thing. Even Nappy said we should do that while he was gone. We can always do house work while the furler’s being shipped.

The wind keeps blowing from the west, even though it’s forecast for the east. It’s freaking me out, and I don’t have my hurricane books to study. We went by Frenchie’s yesterday evening, where we were entranced by his flat-screen satellite television, where the weather guys mentioned the low-pressure system to the north that NOAA’s been saying could turn into a tropical cyclone. It’s supposed to be trending northwest, so I’m not too worried about a hurricane. I just didn’t think it would suck all our wind to the west for this long. It makes it comfortable at the house, where the breeze blows unceasingly off the water, but increasingly miserable at the boat. The longer it blows from the west, the bigger the swell gets, pushing Secret’s bow up and down relentlessly. I’m so sick of this anchorage. I can’t even begin to express it. We couldn’t have picked a worse place to anchor for a month solid. I never thought this is where we’d end up for the heart of hurricane season.

Ashore, the power’s out and the sand flies are merciless. My legs look like I have the measles. It’s hot inside, with no fans, and worse outside, where there’s breeze but bugs. We don’t have a way to get groceries, so we’re living off bread and peanut butter. Life in a tropical paradise, huh?

I don’t mean to complain. I still love it here, despite all my angst. Crooked Island is a great place, and now we’re getting to know the ex-pats, too, who are pretty friendly to us, despite our divergence from them in the socioeconomic spectrum. They’ve been super helpful to us, and tonight even gave us some fresh lobster, conch, and grouper. It makes me jealous, though. We should be out there diving and fishing and beach-combing. They’re here on vacation, though, not for work. We’re living on the edges of their fun, just watching from the outside, repairing and using their houses. Things’ll get better. If I could only steel myself to spend more time at the boat and get work done there, it’d get a lot better.

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