Sailing through the outlying islands of Venezuela is what I expected tropical cruising to be like. On Saturday morning, I hauled anchor and departed Porlomar. Motorsailing around the leeward side of Margarita until the wind picked up from the north, the overnight passage to Tortuga offered one of the most spectacular night skies that I have ever seen. In the absence of a moon or any artificial light, I spent hours staring up at the stars with the two brightest lights being Mars to the northeast and Venus to the southwest.
On Sunday morning, I arrived in Tortuga and dropped anchor in Playa Caldera. This beautiful anchorage had a mile-long white sand beach that wrapped around the bay. However, the rolly conditions made the anchorage uncomfortable and, after a few hours of sleep, I moved the boat to Los Palanquinos. Los Palanquinos is nothing more than a reef located about a half mile off the north side of Tortuga that creates a calm lagoon. Entering the harbor is done by visual navigation since the charts are completely inaccurate. As a result, I slowly worked my way into the lagoon based on the color of the water. Light blue is shallow – bad. Dark blue is deep – good. Unless dark blue is coral – very bad. There were also waves breaking over the reef, which was a clear sign to steer clear. Apparently, this type of visual navigation is normal in the South Pacific and Western Carribean where coral reefs are common. It helps to have one person slightly aloft to identify the channel while the other person mans the helm. Being one, I get to handle both tasks.
One of the reasons for choosing the anchorage at Los Palanquinos from the many scenic anchorages around Tortuga was a recommendation that I received about good spearfishing. In Margarita, Cheryl and Randy aboard Caribee raved about the great spearfishing and even were kind enough to give me the coordinates for a secret fishing hole. I had to swear an oath of secrecy and do everything short of promising my first born, but I eagerly looked forward to some good spearfishing. Alas, as I sallied forth armed with my handheld GPS and speargun, due to the ocean swells and poor visibility, I couldn’t locate the Shangri-La of spearfishing. Instead, I settled for the well-known coral reef, which offered plenty of targets to pass a couple of days chasing innocent fish. While I was able to spear quite a few fish, they were more of the catch-and-release variety (though it should be noted that releasing a fish with a huge hole in its side isn’t really doing it any favors).
Anyone who has read my book reviews knows that one of my pet peeves is when writers make a story so unrealistic, with so many unlikely occurrences so as to render the story unbelievable. Specifically, for travel stories, I detest when the traveler stumbles from one adventure to the next with each place unfolding itself before him or her. Having traveled a bit, I have realized that although you might hope that the most beautiful girl in the village will notice you and go out of her way to introduce herself, it just never happens. Until today.
Having arrived at a picturesque lagoon in Los Roques, I picked up a mooring and prepared my usual pancake brunch to celebrate another successful passage. The anchorage is extremely remote and I planning to move on quickly to Bonaire since it had been an entire week since I so much as exchanged a single word with another human being. While I was polishing off my pancakes, a dinghy entered the harbor and four gorgeous women, along with two men, proceeded to spend an hour water skiing a distance from my boat. Having given up on subtlety, I broke out my binoculars and ogled the beautiful women. In what can only be described as a shocking turn of events, after they had finished, the dinghy came over to my boat since the girls wanted to flirt (maybe something was lost in translation, but that was actually the explanation provided). I showed them around the boat and shared some of the 28-cent Venezuelan beer I had on board for just such an occassion. Not sharing a common language, the flirting didn’t progress very far, but it was still a pretty nice way to break my week long silence.
As I progress westward, it seems that this is as far from the US as this boat has traveled – at least in the past seven years. In reviewing the ships log of a previous owner, back when the boat was called “Whatever,” it appears that this vessel spent some time in Margarita in 1999 before heading to the Virgin Islands. Prior to sailing to Venezuela in 1999, the boat had made two trips to Chauguramas, Trinidad. On one occasion, in 1997, the boat even resided at PowerBoats, the exact same boatyard where Audentes spent the summer. Since the boat was sold in Trinidad by the estate of the deceased owner, it supports my fear of only a month ago that I would die before I managed to get the boat out of Trinidad. An additional historical footnote is that before being christened “Audentes,” the boat was called “Chico Che” and “Nelly Rose,” in addition to the previously mentioned “Whatever.” Although I admit that the current name tends towards the pretentious and has the unfortunate effect of being mispronounced or forgotten immediately, I have noticed that boats often have absurdly stupid names. A common name is “Forever Young,” which almost certainly means that there is no one under 60 aboard.
Probably the worst boat name I have heard of is “On the Rocks.” While I’m sure the alcoholic who chose the name found it witty, it apparently caused a panic every time they came on the radio. So, as the boat and I plunge forward into new waters, we look forward to the arrival of fresh crew. In only a week, Tom King will be the first of my friends to visit me abroad. We will explore, pillage, and plunder the ABC islands. After that, my parents will arrive and Audentes will once again benefit from some sailors who actually know what maintenance, cleaning, and provisioning really mean. The company is eagerly awaited.