There's nothing to do in Isla La Blanquilla, and we've been spending all our time doing it. Mornings are for listening to the news on shortwave, maybe a cruiser net or two, and of course the weather. We fix a nice big breakfast, do a few boat chores, then we're off in the dinghy for some snorkeling and fish-hunting. By the time we get back to the boat it's well past one in the afternoon, so as soon as Britt filets our catch I'm cooking it up for a late lunch. Eating up, washing up, and resting up leaves us only an hour or so to stroll on the beach or work on projects before it's time to join Kajsa for sunset cocktails. More seafood for dinner, a little star-gazing at the incredible dome above us (we always spot at least one meteor, every night), a little phosphorescence-gazing at the water alongside, and it's time for bed.
Six hours later: someone remind me never again to tempt fate by writing things like the above paragraph. Today was a little different. Kajsa left late this morning; before breakfast they had trolled a line off their dinghy and caught a bunch of fish, some of which they left with us. With that plus yesterday's lobster in the fridge, snorkeling wasn't as much of a priority. Instead we decided to check out the beach by the more-crowded anchorage just south of us, so after our morning routine (Britt did some work on his latest sewing project, making cockpit cushions; I installed some software on my computer and wrote that cheery we're-in-paradise paragraph) we dinked out there. After a stop at Sherpa, who arrived yesterday, we went for a lovely walk, then returned to the boat with lunch on our minds. I guess our stomachs were growling so hard we didn't notice what we should have noticed as we got back on board. I am not quite sure how we managed to be so unobservant.
I started working on lunch while Britt did something or the other. It's been windy since we got here, and a particularly strong gust whistling through the rigging caused Britt to comment on it. I reached over to the battery control panel to see just how many amps we were making from our solar panels and wind generator, since it's fun to see the big numbers on sunny, windy days like these. But what's this?
"Only two amps!" I flipped our monitor switch to check on the voltage coming out of the wind generator, and it read 7 volts. It needs to be over the battery voltage, at least 12.5, to charge the batteries, and in this kind of wind it's usually way high. "Better check the wind generator. It must be hung up on something."
Britt went out to the cockpit and came back immediately. "The wind generator isn't there any more."
I was flabbergasted. Did someone steal our wind generator when we were off the boat? A close look at the arch showed what had really happened. The welds on the socket holding the wind generator pole onto the arch had failed. The generator and pole had toppled over, smashing the nearest solar panel. The wires had parted at the disconnects that Britt had installed in case we wanted to remove the pole, and the whole assembly had fallen into the drink.
Fortunately, we were at anchor in 20 feet of clear water over sand. If it had fallen in a deep, dirty harbor like Chaguaramas we would have been in trouble, and if we'd been underway it would have been hopeless. But Britt pulled on his mask and fins and found it quickly. He tied on a line, and I hoisted it up to the cockpit.
Then began the laborious work of rescuing the mechanism from the evils of saltwater immersion. Britt disassembled the wind generator all the way, even taking the motor apart, and I rinsed the pieces in freshwater. One blade had come off and was partially shredded, and the metal arm which holds the blades was broken, but other than that it appears (knock on wood!) that the generator is still in good shape. We will need to get a new blade assembly shipped in somewhere, probably Bonaire. We will need to find a welder to re-attach the pole. We will need to get a new solar panel -- the broken one is still working, barely, but it's probably going to start to corrode quickly. With no windpower, and our solar output decreased, we'll have to run the stupid engine more frequently to keep the batteries charged. At least we're full of that cheap diesel.
Well. Back to my original topic -- this beautiful island. It's a soothing, relaxing place (at least when parts aren't falling off the boat) and a huge contrast to Margarita. The water clarity is better than we've found anywhere else in the Caribbean, and in some places it's as good as the Bahamas. We're anchored far from the one small village, and as we are in our own cove a bit north of the main anchorage we feel pleasantly isolated.
The island itself is an odd combination of granite and limestone, with embedded maze-patterns of petrified coral. Shallow caves line the coast, and there's one really spectacular natural bridge over a stunning snorkeling spot. A few trees grow along the shore -- manchineel, which is poisonous, and some other hardy species with a twisted, misshapen trunk like a full-sized bonsai. It must be tough being a tree out here, in the constant wind and salt spray and unrelenting sun. The beaches are fine white sand, and above them is scrub and cactus, all sorts of prickly pear and cholla and other nasty stuff.
Below the water are terrific coral formations, canyons and caverns and arches to match those above. The usual collection of fish wander through; we've seen more angelfish and filefish than we have in a while, and of course there are a few yummy fish as well, blue runners and snappers and margates and goatfish. In one cave lurked four huge tarpon, as big as dinghies. We finned our way through a dense school of silvery scad, the swarm parting in front of us and rejoining behind us, so that it seemed as though we were swimming in fish and not in water.
I haven't been enjoying the snorkeling as much as I would like. During our first few days here, my cold was too bad for me to even think about submerging. Britt went off with Patrick and Theresa, while I reclined in the cockpit, reading (among other things, Jimmy Buffett's autobiography A Pirate Looks at Fifty, on which you can blame the title of this log entry), waiting for my hunter-hubby to bring home the metaphorical bacon. And bring it home he did: we have been dining well on grouper, permit, margate, and a couple of big honking lobsters. Even though he's still using his pole spear, he's out-hunting Rick and Patrick, who have spear guns. It ain't what you got, it's the way that you use it. (Patrick and Theresa are fast learners, though; the other day Theresa got a big permit, bigger than Britt's, and Patrick came home yesterday with a truly impressive lobster.)
I finally got in the water on day 3, but my stupid sinuses wouldn't let me submerge more than five feet or so. The next day I was able to do a little diving at first and went down to 15 feet a few times. Then my head started feeling like it was going to explode, and on the surface Britt pointed out that I had a bloody nose. Grr. It's so frustrating to be surrounded by gorgeous reefs and tasty fish, unable to do anything other than float on the surface.
That's why we're hanging out in Blanquilla after Infidien and Kajsa have moved on -- I want to get wet, darn it! But in a couple of days we'll sail down to Tortuga, and check out the snorkeling there. Then it's on to Los Roques, which will be a brief visit because it's a no-take park (and also because you need a permit, which to get requires the paperwork showing you are legally in Venezuela, which we aren't anymore), and then Los Aves. We expect to get to the ABC islands (or, in the order we will visit, the BCA's) in early December. Hopefully we can get our wind generator back on the boat and buy a new solar panel there.