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There are three liquids essential for life on a cruising
boat: diesel, rum, and beer. By late July, supplies of these
liquids were running low on Caribbean Soul. When we
arrived in Bonaire in May, the local fuel prices had taken
our breath away: $4.54 for diesel and $6.43 for gasoline.
One last trip to Venezuela for fuel before heading west seemed
like a good idea.
Furthermore, we were 60 days into our 90-day visa for staying
in Bonaire. The word had come back from other cruisers that
Curacao, the next island on our itinerary, is now counting
time spent in Bonaire toward their 90-day visa. Although extensions
are sometimes granted by the governor, generally you must
leave the country for 24 hours to be granted another 90-day
visa. Airfare and hotel make that a costly option. The problem
is we need to stay in Curacao until the October/November weather
window opens for our trip to Cartagena. A trip to Venezuela
seemed the best way to satisfy both our fuel and visa requirements.
Just after midnight on Wednesday July 30th, we slipped our
mooring lines in Bonaire and headed due south for Chichiriviche
on the Venezuelan mainland. With a brisk southeasterly breeze,
we skimmed along under reefed sails on a close reach. Meteors
streaked across the dark heavens on this moonless night. For
several hours our only conversation was "I saw one!"
and "I just saw another one!"
As the sun rose the next morning, the wind gradually faded.
Eventually, even all four sails could not maintain more than
3 knots. Reluctantly, we called forth the iron genny and motored
the last 30 miles to Chichiriviche.
We arrived around 2:00 P.M. with the sun still high enough
for good navigation through the shoals surrounding the area.
The navigation buoys are missing from the main channel, and
we opted for a route behind Cayo Sal and Cayo los Muertos.
Referring to Doyle's guide and Google earth images we had
captured on the computer beforehand, we found a spot to anchor
on the east side of the bay behind the mangroves. Perhaps,
after 34 hours without sleep, we rushed the process. The 55
lb. Delta slid right through the slippery mangrove mud, putting
our stern on the edge of a shoal. This would not do.
Once the muddy chain and anchor were painstakingly cleaned
and back onboard, we decided to try our luck on the west side
of the bay. We needed to be close to town anyway to jerry
jug fuel, but we'd been reluctant to anchor there for security
reasons. Our move was rewarded with a good anchor set in sand.
Fortunately, the wind and seas were calm for the next two
nights since this side of the bay is wide open to ocean swell.
Although no security issues have been reported in Chichiriviche,
we locked ourselves in that night and every night as a precaution.
In the morning we dinghied to the dock at Islas del Sol,
easily spotted by its ornamental lighthouse. Their operation
takes tourists to nearby islands in lanceros (boats).
Standing at the end of the dock greeting passengers was Maria,
a smiling woman with short blonde hair. We introduced ourselves
and explained that friends had told us that she could help
us obtain fuel since there isn't a fuel dock in Chichiriviche.
She agreed to make the fuel runs on her lunch break and in
the evenings. Her fee per trip was only 10BsF, about $3US.
(Note: Maria told us that it is not illegal to jerry jug fuel
in Chichiriviche as it is in Puerto La Cruz.) We handed over
our 11 fuel jugs, which she loaded into a bright yellow, macho
Toyota jeep. She made 3 trips for us, which included delivering
5 cases of beer.
While Maria was taking care of our fuel needs, we checked
out the town. From Islas del Sol, we followed a dirt road
until it became paved and ended at the main street. Chichiriviche
is a bustling vacation spot for Venezuelans and South Americans.
If you forget your sunglasses, you can buy them from a vendor
carrying a display board on his head. If you forget your skimpy
bikini, you'll have plenty of selection here. And of course,
one can always buy shoes in Venezuela. This is a country after
Imelda Marcus' heart. On the main drag, we found several grocery
stores, pharmacies, and liquor stores. A few blocks off the
main street, Byte Quest provides Internet service and can
assist with money exchange. A cruising boat could easily stay
here for an extended period.
We did not stop at the port captain's office. Typically,
cruising boats just making a brief stop in Chichiriviche do
not check in with the port captain. Reportedly, he doesn't
like to be bothered with yachts, and we didn't want to risk
being told to leave before we were ready to go. Chichiriviche
is not a port of entry; therefore, the port captain doesn't
issue zarpes or stamp passports. We would be returning to
Bonaire without any legal proof that we had been out of the
country.
After two days, the refueling was complete. We purchased
130 gallons of diesel and 15 gallons of gasoline for $18.50US
(based on our last exchange of 3.5BsF to the dollar). That
comes out to 13 cents a gallon! We calculated a savings of
$670 over the same fuel purchased in Bonaire. Plus we saved
money on beer and rum--over $700 altogether! With the hard
work done, we said our good-byes and thanked Maria, another
of the many memorable Venezuelans we've had the pleasure to
meet in the past year.
Now that the task of ensuring boat and crew would not be
thirsty, we were ready to relax and do some sightseeing. On
Friday afternoon, we moved to the east side of the bay, behind
the mangroves just to the right of the sand dock channel.
Once again, we found anchoring in the mangrove mud to be an
exercise in optimism. So we emptied the chain locker, turned
on the anchor drag alarm, and figured, what the heck, there's
a mile of open water behind us.
After a tranquil night we awoke on Saturday morning to find
the boat still in her spot. With the morning sun at our back,
we weighed anchor and headed for the west side of the Golfo
de Cuare to see the ancient Indian caves. As we motored slowly
with me on the hardtop looking for shallow spots, one of the
lancero captains came near and warned us to stay off the shoals
on the southern shore. This is so typical of Venezuelans,
always eager to help strangers. The most shallow spot we found
was 10 feet, but most areas were 15 to 30 feet. We anchored
just past the caves, where a constant stream of lanceros were
delivering tourists. This was a beautiful spot below the towering
white cliffs.
In the afternoon, the tourist traffic at the caves slowed
down and we set out in the dinghy to investigate. The Caquetios
Indians used the cave as a burial site back in 3400 BC and
carved petroglyphs into the rock walls. Sadly, a more recent
civilization has spray-painted their "artwork" onto
the walls too. To the east of the caves is a quiet grotto
where a small freshwater spring flows out of the rocks. Statues
of Catholic saints are perched on ledges around the grotto,
giving the quiet enclave a sacred ambiance.
Dark clouds had been forming all day, and with darkness came
a series of squalls with rain and lightning. We were up and
down all night checking our position. In the darkness, the
white cliffs looked spooky as the dark storm clouds passed
overhead. At daybreak, the boat was still in the same spot,
and the rain had finally washed all the Bonaire dirt off the
boat. That alone was worth the trip!
Sunday was a blustery day, and we could only muster enough
motivation to read our books. Meanwhile the lanceros had added
a new stop on their tour: the Caribbean Soul. All day,
boats of tourists circled around us, gaping at what was apparently
an unusual sight and giggling at the fuzzy dog doing his Doberman
imitation. One boat came near and the Colombian tourists on
board chatted with us. When I told them we had been living
on the boat for two years, the woman's mouth fell open in
shock. Live on a boat for two years? Unimaginable! Well, sometimes
it is that. I have to say we enjoyed our minor celebrity status.
Virtually every place we've been is well-traveled by cruising
boats, and the locals are not impressed by sailors in their
midst. Here we were a novelty, and that made it fun for us
too.
On Monday, we discussed whether to stay through the week
and visit the Morrocoy Park 15 miles away or just go back
to Bonaire. Without a buddy boat, we felt a little nervous
about being in the park alone, so we weighed anchor and followed
our bread crumb track on the chartplotter out of the Golfo.
Once again, a lancero stopped and advised us not to get close
to the shoals on the southern shore.
For the night, we anchored behind Cayo Sal, just off a festive,
sandy beach dotted with colorful umbrellas. It was a lovely
spot, but the boat rolled in the swell all night. During brief
episodes of sleep, I had nightmares of towering waves and
howling winds.
At 6:00 A.M. on Monday morning, the anchor was up and we
pointed the bow north to Bonaire. As the sun illuminated the
sky, we were distressed to see storm clouds blanketed the
mainland. To the north, things looked better, or so we hoped.
We motored with reefed sails trying to outrun the squalls
bubbling up over the coast. On the radar, we could see their
orange and green fingers reaching north toward our little
blinking triangle. We spent the day dodging squalls, reefing
and unreefing sails, starting and stopping the engine, and,
just for variety, avoiding a collision with a ship. (Our new
AIS system made that task much easier.) At the end of the
day, we had managed to stay dry and get in some great sailing.
As we approached Bonaire, Nick's fishing rod went "Weeeeee!"
When he checked it, the 100 lb. test line was broken, leaving
him to fantasize about the big fish that got away.
We picked up the mooring line at 6:00 P.M., a successful
journey concluded. Oh, but there was one more thing to do.
We launched the dinghy and headed into town to visit Customs
and Immigration. No zarpe was requested. No questions were
asked about the missing Venezuelan stamp in our passports.
We laughed when the Customs officer noted that my name "Deanna
Lynn" rhymed with his name. And so a tall, bespeckled
black man named Errol Flynn checked us back into Bonaire.
Mission accomplished: we have fuel, booze, and 90 more days
in the Netherlands Antilles!
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Beach at Cayo Sal, a popular place for South
American tourists.
We made three trips with 11 jerry cans of
fuel. The next time you zip
into a gas station for a quick fill, remember this picture!
Nick poured each jug of fuel through a Baja
filter and into
our tanks. At 13 cents a gallon, the effort was well worth
it.
Deanna and Maria. The owner of Islas del
Sol allows her to assist
cruisers from their dock.
Local men find a shady spot along a dirt
road in Chichiriviche.
Under a tree on the waterfront, an old car
and two horses.
Shoreline off the town where we anchored.
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