More Friends

 Friday 26th February 2010. 8,331 miles, day 497.  Carlisle Bay, Barbados.  13 deg 05'.35 N, 059deg 36'.68 W
Friday 5th March 2010.  8,475 miles, day 504.  Prickly Bay, Grenada.  11 deg 59'.96 N, 061deg 45'.68 W

Do you remember those wonderful friends of ours, who took an apartment in Barbados last year, to give us a surprise Christmas lunch after our Atlantic trip? They have come back to the island, so it was our turn to sneak up on them. This meant a bit of a detour off our route from Dominica to Bonaire – but what’s 500 miles between friends?

(This, by the way, is the reason the blog has been so out of date, we were trying to cover our tracks.)

We waited for a weather window before leaving Dominica, and were rewarded with a good sail for the last 24 hours, with the wind giving us a close reach all the way to the island. The current was against us, but that just seems to be a fact of life around here. Surely it’s not possible that our log is over-reading? Just as we left Dominica we came across a small pod of dolphins grazing in the shallows; one left his colleagues to join us for a way, apparently because we could give him a better back scratch than they could.  (Sorry, can't get the video to load.)

We managed to explore Barbados a little more than on our previous visit, getting away from the mega-rich developments on the coast into the beautiful central hills, covered with rolling sugar cane, and with spectacular views down to the surrounding ocean. Over towards the east of the island is St Nicholas Abbey, not, in fact, a religious establishment, but a marvellously well-kept Jacobean house, in the centre of its sugar cane estate. The house, which dates back to 1658, was bought a few years ago by a Barbadian architect, and the restoration of the gardens and the distillery is clearly a labour of love, overseen by two fine Moluccan Cockatoos, Lance and Baby.

We travelled up there by bus, a rather more organised and calm experience than the rambunctious free-lance minibuses of the other islands, noticing on the way that all the little bus shelters have girls’ names. Why girls only, we wondered, and who chooses them? The bus shelters are tidy and uniform little structures, painted white, picked out with the blue and gold of the Bajan flag.

Tomia anchored again in the beautiful clear waters of Carlisle Bay – not that we had any choice, as the only other place where yachts are permitted is the berth-holder only marina at Port St Charles. The whole of Barbados is a bit like this: stunningly beautiful, but largely exclusive. The surf crashing onto the beach gave us our usual wetting as we tried to come ashore to drink at one of the beach bars – at least we have learnt from our previous visit, and the mobile phone is securely in its waterproof pouch.

And then, after only five days, it’s off again, a further 130 miles to Grenada, a convenient stop off on our way to Bonaire, where Anthony’s son will meet us. To our delight, several friends from our previous visit are there, and we make the most of our time in a sociable way, as well, of course, as stopping off at the local chandlery to cosset Tomia a bit – no chance of her taking a back seat for long. The main expense this time is charts for the east coast of the US; after Bonaire we will be on our way north, leaving the Caribbean sunshine. While life will become easier there in many ways, and we shall be overwhelmed with culture and history, we shall leave a part of ourselves behind here with much regret.

Meeting friends

Friday 5th February 2010, day 476, 7,910 miles. 18° 01’.97 N, 063° 05’.11 W Simpson’s Baai, St Maarten.

Monday 15th February, 2010, day 486, 8,124 miles. 15° 17’.19 N, 061° 22’.65 W. Roseau, Dominica.


Meeting friends.

We leave Saba with all the usual regrets, but we have to go to St Maarten, for our other habitual occupation – spending money on Tomia. St Maarten as an island has little to recommend it (well, apart from the usual white sandy beaches, constant perfect weather, blue sea) but it is a centre for yachts, and a good place to kit Tomia out with the various parts and charts she needs.

It is hard to believe the island is under 30 miles from tiny, remote little Saba – as we approach we see hotel tower blocks lining the coast, the peace is shattered by jumbos taking off every half hour or so, there are jet skis, speed boats, themed bars, traffic jams and duty-free shopping malls. Just our sort of place.

A week whizzes by deciding how to spend money, organising people to spend the money, and getting the money spent. A big plus is the presence of a couple of boats with friends on, and several more with new friends – St Maarten is the yachting equivalent of the Hotel Georges V in Paris – sooner or later everybody you know ends up there. We have met some really great people on this trip – you don’t hear much about them because I don’t like posting stuff about other people on the web – but it is such a joy to come into a harbour and find them there.

St Maarten is also a mecca for many of these vast motor yachts. The one thing that strikes me when I look at them all parked up next to each other is that, to want – and to be able – to own several million pounds-worth of gleaming fibreglass, you probably have to be a pretty competitive, coming second is for losers sort of person; someone who thinks that their character is determined by their possessions, and the one who dies with the biggest toys wins. But when you fly down to join your yacht, glowing with the admiration of your family, and bitter envy of your friends, what do you find? Something even bigger and swankier and more gold plated parked next door. Why keep them all together, when everybody bar one is guaranteed to have their nose put out of joint?

We had a couple of trips across the virtual border to St Martin, the French half of the island, to stock up on wine, saucisson and smelly cheeses, and then set off for our next appointment in Dominica, 195miles to the south..

Two lovely sets of people awaited us there – one some Americans who are running a small charity to help schools on one or two of the poorest islands. They work really hard, putting up bookshelves, painting classrooms, giving guidance and support to teachers, as well as channelling thousands of donated books to places where they are needed. They are also excellent company, so it is just splendid to sail into a bay and find them there.

The other people we met came all the way from Waldringfield, travelling in the civilised surroundings of a cruise ship. What glamour and luxury! We are duly impressed, but sorry that their intention to smuggle us aboard for a bath doesn’t come off. How nice to catch up with all the really important gossip about our friends at home – and get an update on The Archers from another aficionado.

Carnival is in full swing – it is Shrove Tuesday, and everybody is saying farewell to the pleasures of the flesh with gusto. We watch the glittering costumes going by, and the floats with troupes of dancers behind, and later in the evening take to the streets ourselves to have our ear drums blasted, and our feet exhausted as we follow our chosen mobile sound system. It is such a good-natured crowd; everybody intent on having a good time, with no aggression or obvious drunkenness. [Though some of us, says Anthony pointedly, dance with an exuberance that is inexcusable if not alcohol fuelled.]

Our time in Roseau is enlivened by one of the boat boys and guides, Pancho, the Rum Tum Tugger of Rastas. He is on a one man mission to make the world a less boring and predictable place, with a cheerfully irreverent attitude to time, plans, speed limits (not that that marks him out around here) and any minor laws that stop him having a good time. While guiding he is endlessly patient and good, light-hearted company, though a little vague on any but the most common birds, but his favourite occupation is chattering away with a can of our beer in his hand, telling stories and screaming with laughter at his punchlines, which normally find him being caught out in some misdemeanour. Not even writing off his car seems to dampen his exuberance – he is a one-off and we shall miss him.

Diving

Sunday 17th January 2010, day 457, 7,823 miles. 17° 14’.96 N, 062° 39’.50 W. White House Bay, St Kitts.

Thursday 21st January, day 461, 7,863 miles. 17° 28’.71 N, 062° 59’.32 W. Oranje Baai, Statia

Thursday 4th February, day 475, 7,910 miles. 17° 38’.29 N, 063° 15’.41 W. Ladder Bay, Saba.

Our sail across to St Kitts from Antigua took us past Montserrat in the morning light, in the middle of one of its periodic eruptions. A thick roiling of smoke and ash pours out of one of the vents as we pass, and becomes part of the miasma hanging at a few hundred feet downwind of the island. At the north of the island, what looks like a veil of rain is actually ash and dust falling down on the remaining inhabitants. It is only a couple of days since the tragic earthquake in Haiti, so the whole region is clearly having an geologically active time.

The ash shadow from Montserrat stretches for over 50 miles, giving us wonderful diffuse scarlet sunsets. When it’s not raining. Which it is in St Kitts. The rain comes slanting down from a slate grey sky. The green fields on the lower slopes of the central volcano are soaking up the rain. The wind has roused the sea into large relentless heaps. If we were in England, it would be a day for crumpets and log fires. We have our first attempt at putting out a kedge anchor to steady us against the ferocious rolling (in the pouring rain, with visibility fading in the quick tropical dusk) – well, it was certainly a learning experience, and we are still married, so it can’t have been that bad.

[Sailors can skip this next bit: What is a kedge anchor?

Normally, in non tidal waters, a yacht on a mooring or at anchor would “lie to the wind” – that is, lie with her bows pointing into the wind, falling back from the anchor or mooring, and swinging gently with any change in the wind direction. In calm water this is fine, but when a swell comes into the harbour, the boat can be affected by this more than the wind, which makes her very uncomfortable, as the swells catching her on the side make her roll heavily back and forth. The answer is to set a kedge anchor – a second anchor from the stern, which you use to pull the boat round so that she lies at right angles to the swell. The boat then “pitches” – rises up and down with the incoming waves – but this is much easier to live with than being rolled from side to side, like a jelly bean at a funfair, when you’re trying to sleep.]

We had meant to go to the races – a big St Kitts tradition, with everyone dressed up in their finest – but it was rained off, so we went down the coast to White House Bay, where the hills are covered in a heather-like scrub. With the lowering clouds and driving rain, it is like being in Scotland. Apart from the troop of monkeys scampering and screeching along the rocky beach. This whole southern end of the island has been sold off for development, so it won’t be so empty and barren and beautiful next time we come by.

From St Kitts, we drop down for a couple of days to its sister island, Nevis, the birthplace of Alexander Hamilton, one of America’s founding fathers; and also the place where Nelson met and married his wife, Fanny. Snorkelling off one of the little reefs, there is a school of tens of thousands of six inch long silver fish. They move as one, like starlings massing for roost, but if you make a lunge for one, they split away from you into two separate groups, whisking away, reforming behind you. No way I could catch one, even armed with Barracuda-like teeth.

And then on to Statia (St Eustatius if you’re being formal), one of the five islands in the soon-to-be-disbanded Netherlands Antilles. Being part Dutch, it is quite different to the other French or English ancestry islands in the chain. The houses are mainly one storey, with lots of pretty white painted fretwork (known as gingerbread) some with those Dutch shutters painted to look like gathered curtains, some of the streets are paved with neat, regular bricks, the shops sell every colour of de Kuyper and Bols liqueurs, the fort is beautifully preserved, and the whole has an air of neatness and organisation. The vibrant, noisy, cheerful hurly-burly of the other islands is missing – not that Statians aren’t friendly, our arms get tired from waving to every passing car which greets us – just a bit more, well, planned.

Our main reason for being here is to do our PADI course, and become able to dive. The cost has put us off up till now, but Tomia hasn’t been too demanding for the past couple of months, and we feel it would be daft, having spent so long here, not to take the plunge (ouch).

Diving turns out to be utterly fabulous. The teaching is excellent, just calmly getting us to do all sorts of unnatural things so often that they become second nature, and when we first go down, after three days of studying theory, and an afternoon shivering in a swimming pool practising the basics, we are so absorbed in the fish and the coral that we quite forget we are under 30 feet of water.

Most of the fish we saw were those we had spied on from above, while snorkelling, but down in their world we can swim among them freely, apparently unnoticed. When we are on the surface, I suppose we look like predators, but down here we don’t match any known recognised danger, so they just ignore us. What a variety of fish there is: colours from silver to royal blue to scarlet and emerald green, every size from the minute ones that live in larger fishes mouths to big ugly groupers that lurk under rocks, every shape from spherical to flat to the two foot long, one inch wide needle fish.

There is a great calmness down on the seabed, even when the waves are pounding up at the top. The peace amongst all the piscine activity is what impressed me most strongly. A stingray dozed on the sandy bottom, and we could get right up close to him, and lie, nose to nose, watching him breathe in and out. Of course, we swam around, but I would be quite happy just sitting cross-legged on the bottom, letting it all flow around me.

Over the next days, we do five more dives, going down as deep as 100 feet; we dive around the wreck of a ship, with a giant barracuda lazily patrolling the interior; we see a spotted eagle ray, and learn how to breathe from each others’ tanks, and at the end of it all, are qualified to dive anywhere we want in the world.

On land, we meet Dutch friends of my sister’s, last seen at her wedding, who have retired out here, and explore a bit, climbing up and into the crater of The Quill, the dormant volcano, filled with a lush vegetation that has thrived on the volcanic soil including magestic Mahogany and Silk Cotton trees, and where we spot a Lesser Antillean Iguana (iguana delicatissima, which may explain why they are almost extinct) immobile on a moss covered rock. An ancient scaly head with heavy hooded eyes; stumpy legs on a boulder-shaped body, attached to a two foot tail, it is the nearest we will ever get to seeing a dinosaur.

We leave Statia with regret (as for every island) and go up to Saba, where the diving is also excellent. Saba is a tiny island, so small that it feels more like a pause in the ocean rather than a complete entity. It rises almost vertically from the sea bed, with the two little towns nestling, Shangri-La like, in valleys 500 feet up. Again, the Dutch influence produces an orderly, white-painted, fret-worked neatness – and great community spirit – the island is too small for buses, so every body hitch-hikes up the near-vertical hills.

We manage two dives on the lava fingers that flowed out to sea from the last eruption of the volcano. On our last dive, we meet two reef sharks, totally uninterested in us (we are too big to eat, too small to be a threat), hovering patiently while they wait for something toothsome to come just that bit too close.

That is all we have time for on Saba, with one visit to the interior – we are totally free, and have all the time in the world, to do whatever we want, but are due in Bonaire, down near the Venezuelan coast, in six weeks’ time, and have lots to do before we get there. What a rush it all is!

How the other 0.001% lives

Tuesday 12th January 2010, day 452, 7,772 miles. 17° 00’.85 N, 061° 46’.49 W. Falmouth Harbour, Antigua


Sailing is one of the few places where the lives of normal people come up against those of the hyper-rich. Falmouth Harbour in Antigua must have a higher average net worth than any other place on earth at this time of year, even allowing for us scruffy yachties lowering the tone. The squillionaires are always with us, of course, but I guess most of the time they swish past in dark-windowed four-wheel drives, and unless we have a job turning down their sheets or selling them derivatives, we and they pass in our different worlds.

In Antigua here they are, though, in their Gucci-loafered hordes. We counted 20 boats over 100 feet long at Christmas. Sleek super-fast racing machines; gentlemen’s motor yachts, all shining varnish and gleaming brass; J classes and their mother ships; vast motor boats with three decks, gyms, discos and a wood-panelled library. To think we used to find the little white Essex gin palaces on the River Deben pretentious.

We have seen yachts with sailing boats bigger than Tomia stored on one side of their aft deck – and a 40 foot motor launch on the other. As we putter into the dock, we gaze in amazement at the 3,000 cubic feet “garages” that open on hydraulic hinges at the side of the boats, with space for tenders and dinghies, jet skis, windsurfers, waterskis … one ship carries a perfect little 26 foot Herreshof as a toy for the guests.

A bit like computing the number of grains of sand in the universe, measuring the wealth of these yacht owners leaves our brains feeling soggy, and limp as a piece of over-stretched elastic. To put it in perspective, we count among our friends many who have dailies, quite a few with nannies or au pairs, a couple who get a cook to come for the summer holidays, and one or two with a live-in housekeeper, which seems to us the utterly giddy heights of luxury. These yachts have a permanent staff of anything from five to forty. For a boat that the owner may use for three or four weeks a year.

We were in DesHaies, Guadeloupe, the night after Lionel Richie had given a concert in front of several thousand people. A 150 foot boat was anchored there, and just before dusk its tender started ferrying people over to a bar on shore – “closed for a private party” we had read. After they had all been got ashore, and enough time had passed for champagne cocktails to be drunk, the crooner’s tones wafted out across the bay …just a little private concert for twenty or so of the owner’s closest friends. Cool or what?

But there’s one place where these pampered lives (jealous, moi? Not really, honest) and ours cross: the dock. No matter that, on board, they swan around in ankle-deep carpeting, with their personal masseur or tame ghazal singer constantly on hand. No matter that they can sit in a hot bath whenever they want (yes, I admit it, there the green-eyed monster has got me), or that the toughest decision they have to make is whether last season’s Chanel can be given just one more outing – they still have to get from the land to the boat. And (short of a helicopter, and actually only a tiny few of these ships have heli-pads, shame, huh?) we take a certain sneaking pleasure at the thought that every single gilded person at that private concert in DesHaies had to get to the yacht using the same crumbling, stinky fishermen’s dock as us; their Jimmy Choos got entangled in the same ropy pieces of fish-encrusted netting; they also had to take a gasp of fresh air to see them through the worst smell when their tender passes the fish gutting area.

Bet they don’t have as much fun as we do.

Thoughts from a warm country

Sunday 10th January 2010, day 450, 7,772 miles. 17° 00’.85 N, 061° 46’.49 W. Falmouth Harbour, Antigua

Here I am, back in the sunshine, back to our life of simplicity and pleasure. The contrast between life here and that in the UK is accentuated this time by the weather conditions – a few hours separating shivering in five layers of wool and down from basking in a bikini; a monochrome palette from one bursting with colour – but in a way they only serve to mark the even greater distinctions between two different ways of life.

The oddest thing about coming back here is that it is so different from England, and yet now feels so known. A Caribbean lifestyle is no longer exotic or alien, not something that exists only as a day dream on the walk to the tube, or a two week holiday cut off from real life. It has become, for us, a perfectly normal way of existing.

Living with heat and colour, and greeting strangers with warmth, and pacing ourselves to the heat of the day; running a rhythm of life that makes the most of the cool fresh hours of early morning and sunset; pausing to chat with someone who hails us from the side of the road. Grabbing a roti from a roadside stall, hopping on a pulsing bus, twitching our noses away from the scent of drains, heading over to the supermarket when we see a container off–loaded at the dock; all just part of everyday life. We know the vegetation well enough to recognise it cycling through the seasons, and bananaquits and frigate birds have taken the place of robins and gulls. We are not, and will never be, locals, but we can slip into the local way of living like putting on a well-worn coat.

We still carry round with us, tucked away, the knowledge of how to live in a cold, crowded country. When we return, may we not forget the way of life in a warm and spacious one.

When we first started planning this trip, it was going to be a quick jaunt, taking almost two months away from career and responsibilities, sailing across the Atlantic, and seeing a palm tree or two as a bonus. That was a pretty big adventure. Then it expanded into a year out – how exciting, how risk-taking, how brave – and having got here the urgency of a return to our previous lives has just gradually faded away …

I had supper with a school friend before coming back, and she (quite rightly, and very tactfully) wondered that anyone could find a life of such relative ease and lack of mental challenge satisfying. I agree, and two years ago would have argued the same. From her point of view, with four sparky, fun and intelligent children being guided on the path to university and beyond, with a crowd of clients who are grateful for the work she does, and a husband doing useful work in the national interest, how could she think otherwise?
By rights, I should be pacing the deck with frustration, snarling at one and all because of forced inactivity – the reality is, as you know, a long way off that, and largely suffused with contentment.

And yet, and yet …

It is not that we are bored or run out of things to do. Far from it. There is always a long list, quite apart from the routine of keeping the boat going. There new friendships to make, old friends to greet and exchange tales with, Spanish to learn, and various musical instruments to play around on, clothes to mend and make, books to read and emails to write, and, foremost and always, the islands with all their varied attractions to explore. We leave each island with regret for all the beauties we haven’t seen.

But … there are nagging and growing voices that mutter that this is all very well, and if one wants a life of pure pleasure and little responsibility, apart from the day to day boat chores, it can certainly be found. And enjoyed. However, continue the voices, is this really a life? Creating nothing, contributing nothing, is this really what you want to look back on?

Up until we left, it seemed that our choices were relatively circumscribed: of course we had to get on, achieve, make money, save money, advance in our careers. Breaking away from that way of thinking – or rather, breaking away from that way of life while still living with that way of thinking – was terrifying. Walking away from a respectable job felt like walking straight off the edge of a precipice, with just a steep drop into nothingness to come.

The complication now is that our choices have increased. Ways of living have opened up to us which were previously outside our ambit. No longer “which job in order to further my career and make as much money as possible” but “how do we want to balance off money, family, peace of mind, time, and that wonderful commodity, sunshine?”

And back we cycle to the question of what makes a truly satisfying, well-lived life. Success? Service? Achieving one’s full potential? Or is just waking up each morning, happy to be alive, enough?

All the really important stuff

A change of voice - this is what is top of Anthony's mind as we drift through turquoise waters.

TOMIA her systems and her maintenance
Part 1 – Electrics and engine

I thought it might be interesting for some of our blog readers to understand a little more about TOMIA and of the systems and equipment that we have on board to enable us to live relatively comfortably afloat. There is the vast difference in maintenance requirements between a boat kept afloat, most of the time swinging on a mooring, for the average season of 6 or 7 months in northern Europe, and one cruising full time in warmer climates.
Admittedly TOMIA is a very different yacht from BOOTLEGGER, our previous boat, and here size does matter because there is just so much more boat to maintain, topsides to polish, sails to look after, larger engine to service. In addition she is much more complex especially when looking at the electrical systems, battery bank, outlet pumps, battery monitoring system, and battery charger. Then, of course we went and fitted all the extra equipment that we decided we needed, such as watermaker, generator and Duogen, which was mainly to give us as much independence as possible. We know that much of this kit is now standard on many modern yachts but it was not on BOOTLEGGER!

I have totted up the number of nights we’ve spent in marinas since we left, and the total comes to 85, out of the total days since we left England of 465. That sounds quite a lot, but in fact, only 24 of those have been this side of the Atlantic, and of those, 21 were spent in Grenada while we replaced the teak in the cockpit and the aft coachroof. In Europe there are many places where it is impossible to anchor so a marina is the only option.

In other words we love the freedom of being at anchor apart from any financial considerations! When we want to go ashore we jump in the dinghy which is a 3 meter inflatable with an inflated V shaped floor and with the 8hp Honda outboard enables us to travel at about 15 knots. Because it is totally deflatable we can stow it in quite a small space for long sea passages.
Celia, in our blog, has kept you all up to date with vivid stories of some of the problems that we have encountered and which we have mainly been able to deal with ourselves. These could arise at any time on any boat, they may just be unforeseen breakages or be a lack of basic maintenance but that is one thing we cannot ignore.
The main engine is a 60 hp Perkins Prima M60 diesel which is the same engine block used by Volvo Penta for their 55hp unit. It is an excellent workhorse, has a heat exchanger so is internally cooled by fresh water which in its turn is cooled by saltwater. I check the oil after every 20 hours use plus the header tank, both simple jobs that take a few minutes. The oil probably needs a small top up after 50 or 60 hours – all easy to get to so no need to put it off. Perkins has been around for a long time and generally spares are available in most places. We set out with all the usual spares such as filters, fan belts, impellers, water pipes, injectors etc. but have built up the kit along the way with things we should have started with such as a spare raw water pump, not just impellers, fuel pump etc. The engine was installed in 1991 when TOMIA was built with an Aquadrive which is a flexible link between the engine and propeller shaft and cuts out all vibration and having been well insulated is very quiet. We try and cruise at 1800 revs which will push her along at 5 to 5.5 knots depending on wave and wind conditions and at that will consume about 2 litres an hour. At 2500 revs she will run at about 7 to 7.5 knots but will consume about 4 litres.
While the engine is running it charges the battery banks through an alternator and an Adverc battery management system which means that it detects which bank is charged and will adjust the voltage accordingly to ensure that the bank still charging is at full voltage, and the full bank is not overcharged.
We have three other means of charging which are the generator, Duogen and shore power. As we do not do marinas except when necessary the third is little used. There was a 40 amp battery charger onboard when we bought her but we replaced that with a new more efficient 60amp unit which can take either 240 or 110 volts (for when we visit the eastern seaboard of the USA). The shore power and generator are both linked to this to enable the battery bank to be charged at 12 volts.
The generator is a Fisher Panda 3.8KW enclosed in an acoustic enclosure and installed in the aft lazarette. It has a small single cylinder diesel running at a governed speed of 3000rpm. It is however really quiet and we have no problem in running it in a crowded anchorage. It is controlled by a remote panel which also monitors the running hours so it is quite easy to keep a note of the maintenance intervals, but the three main things are oil, water pump and drive belt. We generally run the generator for between one and two hours a day.
The Duogen is both a wind and water generator, so at anchor we put on the wind vane and when underway for any distance fit the impeller and trail it behind. It is a well engineered piece of equipment and will put in between 2 and 5 amps in a 15 knot wind and about 5 amps when sailing at 6 knots. This is all very useful.
We estimated that we would be using up to about 240 amps a day when sailing with autohelm and navigational instruments on, plus the usual things such as fridge, lighting, outlet pumps etc. In fact at anchor we are probably not using more than 70 to 100 amps. The Duogen on an average day for wind may put in 30 so the rest we put in with the generator trying to keep the batteries as fully charged as possible.
The Duogen needs very little maintenance, an occasional grease and check that no screws or bolts have come loose. It is spinning rapidly in anything above 10 knots of wind and as that is the norm over here, it is working very hard.
We have a fairly standard battery monitor which tells us the battery voltage, how many amps are being drawn at that moment and a cumulative amp reading which tells us the battery state. The bank is made up of heavy duty 240 amps 6 volt units linked in parallel and series to give 480amps at 12 volts. We try to keep the battery up to within 5% of full.

Next instalment: Navigation, security and creature comforts

Tomia is busy!

We are doing a dive course here in Statia, and studying some theory. Anthony says aaargh, he thought he would never have to do an exam again.

More to follow soon, including ash plumes from Montserrat, surge warnings, and mountaineering goats.