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We've enjoyed our summer at the Bahia Redonda Marina in Venezuela.
Being below the hurricane belt has made this the most relaxing
summer since we put a boat in salt water. This log is an assortment
of stories and pictures that we've collected over the past
few months.
How changing the oil can sink your boat
How does one define a successful cruising experience? At
the optimum end of the scale, your boat is anchored off a
secluded palm-fringed beach and you're lounging naked in the
cockpit sipping a fruity rum drink. On the opposite end of
the spectrum, as a minimum standard for a successful cruise,
your boat didn't sink and the crew survived. Any given day
of cruising typically falls somewhere in between these extremes.
So, how does an oil change turn into almost sinking the boat?
More easily than one might imagine. With a haulout scheduled
for the following week, Nick decided to go ahead and change
the oil in the generator and the engine. This required running
them both to warm the oil. The generator ran great and, with
the new water pump installed, no longer slung oil and water
into the engine room. Success! Mark that problem off our list.
Next came the engine, which hadn't been run in two months
while the boat functioned as a dockside condo. Nick turned
the key; the engine started and ran smoothly. Next he shifted
into gear to test the transmission. A few moments later, the
bilge light came on and didn't go out. Uh-oh! Nick hurried
below to investigate and discovered water rushing in through
our so-called "dripless" shaft seal. He called for
me to shut off the engine.
Now, I should mention for the benefit of our land-based readers,
that one of the more unnerving aspects of living on a boat
is the fact that a boat is full of holes, many below the water
line. All of these holes have the potential to sink your boat
at any time and without prior notice. Several of our friends
have experienced unexpected water incursion at inopportune
moments, usually during a storm at night. These situations
make good cocktail hour stories, but I prefer to hear them
told by someone else.
So back to our shaft seal, which is supposed to keep water
out of the boat at the point where the propeller shaft enters
the hull. The water was now flowing into the bilge at a rate
comparable to a full-blast water hose, but the bilge pump
was keeping up for the time being. Nick discovered that the
rubber bellows had come off the shaft tube. He jammed it back
on, but still the water flowed unabated. A closer look revealed
a tear in the bellows, so the leak continued even though the
prop wasn't turning. As I peered over Nick's shoulder, I could
hear the "whoosh" of water rushing into the bilge
and committed this sound to memory--along with "whump,"
"clunk," and "crunch"--as one of those
you never want to hear on a boat.
I must say Nick remained calm and only slightly testy as
he attempted to stop the water geyser entering our home. After
many painfully long minutes and the hasty dumping of several
lockers into the floor in search of parts, he stopped the
leak by clamping some rubber gasket material over the tear.
"You kept your wits and stayed calm," I said later
while we sipped strong rum drinks.
He replied, "I'll panic after the boat sinks when we're
sitting in the life raft."
"Ah, but you're assuming the life raft will actually
inflate," I retorted, playing devil's advocate as usual.
So that's how an oil change can sink your boat. We were fortunate
to be in a marina with a haul-out just a few yards away, so
we knew the boat wasn't in imminent danger. Thus we continue
the cruising dance, one step forward and two steps back. Mark
one project off the list and add another one. That secluded
anchorage awaits us, but first we have to fix the boat.
A stereotype confirmed
Among the cruising community, boaters from a certain European
country have a reputation for being rude, unfriendly, and
anchoring too close. We haven't personally had any unpleasant
encounters with these folks, but most of them don't speak
English or, if they do, choose not to. As much as I hate to
promote a negative stereotype, the following story shows why
it is so widely held.
The boats on the other side of our dock face the main fairway
leading to the dinghy dock. On a number of occasions, I've
observed our neighbor Harold, a fellow Texan, yelling and
waving at dinghies that speed by causing the docked boats
to rock violently in the wake.
On one particular day as the dock tossed up and down in a
wake, Harold cried out to the speeding dinghy to "please
slow down." About 15 minutes later, the same dinghy came
by again, full throttle throwing a large wake. Once again,
Harold calls out to the dinghy's driver to slow down. This
time his entreaty was not ignored. The driver turned his dinghy
around and motored over to Harold's boat. Idling his motor,
the driver looked up at Harold and in a Clouseau-cool accent
stated simply: "Fuck you! We're French." The driver
then sped away leaving Harold dumbfounded and speechless in
his wake.
Life in the barrio
Sometimes as the sun begins its evening retreat and a cool
breeze brushes away the day's heat, I like to sit at the barbecue
pavilion that overlooks the barrio outside our marina. On
the other side of a concrete wall topped by an electrified
barbed-wire fence, the people in the neighborhood settle into
their evening routine. Just off the beach, colorful pirogues
bob on their moorings while squealing children splash in the
surf. A couple strolls down the sidewalk; a stray dog discovers
a tasty scrap in the gutter. Pulsing Latin music blares from
the open-air restaurants lining the beach where the locals
have gathered to drink cerveza and share a meal. The
neighborhood seems so quaint and peaceful, a snapshot of the
laid-back Latin American lifestyle.
Alas this scene is deceiving. This barrio is poor and crime
here is high. In daylight, gringos from the marina will walk
down the beachfront street to eat at the popular "Chicken
Shack," where a chicken plate costs about $3, or to buy
some produce from the fresh market at the end of the block.
But when the sun begins to set, all gringos retreat behind
their aquatic fortress where shotgun-toting guards patrol
the grounds.
Friends of ours who cruised down here a few years back tell
a story about this neighborhood. At that time, the owner of
the Chicken Shack would escort cruisers back to the marina
after dark. One night, as the gringos enjoyed their cheap
cerveza and pollo, armed robbers entered the
restaurant. The owner pulled out his weapon and a gunfight
ensued, with gringos scrambling for cover under the tables.
Several participants in the gunfight were injured, and from
that point the restaurant was called the OK Corral.
Fast forward to this year. Nick relates this story to a taxi
driver, who tells us that just last year there was a gunfight
on the street near the Chicken Shack and three people were
killed.
Freddy, our carpenter, was a victim of crime while in our
employ. One week he didn't show up for several days. When
we saw him next, he said a robber had broken into his house
and stolen his cash and cell phone among other items. Just
two weeks later, the same robber broke into Freddy's home
again. This time, the police apprehended the robber and promptly
dispensed street justice. In my limited Spanish I asked if
the bad guy was muerto. Si, yes, the robber
was dead and would not bother Freddy and his family again.
Life in the fortress
Inside the guarded walls of our marina, it's easy to forget
these troubles exist. The grounds are carefully manicured
by friendly workers who smile and say "Buenos Dias"
as we pass. We have a lovely pool, a restaurant, and plenty
of social activities to occupy our time when we aren't working
on boat projects.
But I was reminded of the ever-present danger early one morning
as Dakota and I headed down the dock for the morning doggy
business. Dakota suddenly stopped short and looked back at
me, uncertain. At the end of our dock, a guard was seated
in a white plastic chair, a stainless steel sawed-off shotgun
casually draped across his lap. Seeing the startled gringo
and her dog, the guard stood up, smiled, and let us pass.
Nick frequently takes Dakota out for a late night doggy pit
stop. He no sooner steps off the boat and there appears the
guard for our dock, a shotgun held casually by his side. The
guard smiles broadly and greets them, "Dakota, Dakota!"
On another occasion, Dakota and I made our way down the dock
and again stopped short. Just ahead about six men, brandishing
real guns and dressed in army fatigues, were playing a game
of Cowboys and Indians. They ducked in and out behind the
palm trees shouting "muerto" at each other. I noticed
one taking a clip out his gun. Didn't their mothers tell them
it's dangerous to play with guns?
Charades
Very few Venezuelans speak English, and most American cruisers
know only a handful of critical Spanish phrases, such as cerveza
(beer), baño (bathroom), and la cuenta
(the check). Even when speaking to a Venezuelan who knows
some English, communication can require patience and creativity.
One day as we pulled up our chairs to a table at the Bahia
Redonda restaurant, we asked the waiter to describe the lunch
special. In English, he described meat with rice, but he couldn't
think of the word for the vegetable accompaniment. Finally,
in a moment of inspiration, he exclaimed, "You know,
like Bugs Bunny." Then he pantomimed Bugs Bunny crunching
on a carrot stick. As the waiter ate his imaginary carrot,
Nick and I nearly fell out of chairs laughing.
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Caribbean Soul, tied alongside a dock
at Bahia Redonda. In the background, the blue water of Pozuelos
Bay.
Chavez slogans on a wall near Los Altos. Being pro- or anti-Chavez
is a divisive issue for many Venezuelan families.
View from the road to Los Altos
The "Chicken Shack"
Celebrating Deanna's birthday at the Babilonia
restaurant high atop the El Morro peninsula.
The pool at the Babilonia restaurant
Nicks takes a group guitar lesson at the marina
Our carpenter Freddy and his son
Boaters at Bahia Redonda built a new playground
for the neighborhood children.
Three muchachos from the barrio
Cruisers fold bandages for the Fundamigos
charity. Every year, doctors from Venezuela and the US perform
free operations on poor children with harelips.
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