When we officially tied the knot on our circumnavigation in Grenada in early May, Eric and I—wild party animals that we are—celebrated by hoisting Corroboree’s signal flags and indulging in hot showers, clean clothes, and dinner at the marina restaurant. But we still had 1,435 miles remaining to reach Florida and truly complete the voyage. On 19 May, it was time to buckle down and finish the job.
We planned it as two stages, and the first 435 miles to St. John, US Virgin Islands, was easy in the SE trade winds. And what a treat were the Virgins! After all the empty blue sea and sky of the South Atlantic, to glide among green mountain peaks offering an array of sun-kissed, palm-fringed beaches lapped by turquoise water was pure heaven. Two-thirds of St. John is protected National Park land, and we spent a delightful week moored at Honeymoon Beach, luxuriating in the beautiful scenery, swimming in the crystalline water, and reuniting with cruiser friends.
On the business side, we cleared Corroboree into the USA at the St. John Customs Office, ferried to St. Thomas to obtain a US phone number and data plan, monitored the weather and charted our final, 1,000-mile leg up to and through the Bahamas. Like the Virgins, the sandy, low-lying Bahamas abound in picturesque anchorages, some of which we visited on our sail south from Florida in 2017. We therefore elected to bypass them on our return. Along with our eagerness to see our family, the shallow waters and numerous coral reefs of the Bahamas combined with the start of hurricane season on 1 June helped shape that decision. By keeping to the deep water east of the islands, we could avoid the hazards and sail straight through the nights.
The passage began well enough with three days of friendly SE trades, tame seas, and only one 40-minute midnight drenching. If we could maintain this pace, we’d make our destination of Boca Raton in a comfortable 8-9 days. On the third night, four of the five weather models showed light precipitation, while one showed monster storm cells blossoming right, left and overhead. Guess which forecast proved accurate?
The festivities kicked off a half hour before midnight with sheet lightning and moderate rain and rapidly progressed to thunder at boombox volume, crackling lightning bolts, driving wind and torrential rain. Great. Here we were within spitting distance of home, and we were about to be fricasseed by a lightning strike. We let out a sigh of relief when the chaos eased about 0200, the silver lining being that with the wind behind us we’d practically flown along our course meanwhile. But in the space of a minute, the wind did a whiplash 180 degree turn to the NW and a second all-out assault began. The 25+ k NW blast forced us to turn tail and run back SE, and by the time the storm wrapped up at 0600, we were soaked and exhausted. It took until mid-morning to recover all the ground we’d lost.
From there on it was bait-and-switch the rest of the way. Spells of clear sailing raised our hopes, changeable winds and pelting rain dashed them down. You’d think by now we’d be used to fictional forecasts and the caprices of Nature, but we wanted to end our voyage on a high note, not at the mercy of fickle weather. It put us constantly on the defensive, reacting rather than acting, trying to search out safe passages and dodge the next blow. In general, the wind predictions were reliable for 12-24 hours ahead, provided no squalls interrupted. But where the ocean currents app showed only light eddies off the Bahamas, the reality was a relentless 2k current against us day after day.
As for the precipitation forecasts, they’re not worth the pixels they’re printed on, and on the sixth night we got whacked. Five perfectly clear precipitation models, yet at sunset a blanket of blackness draped itself along the entire length of the horizon and began curling toward us. No clouds, just an advancing wall of black, soon augmented by sheet lightning. We lowered the jib in record time as thunder and lightning bolts joined the show. The first band of wind-driven rain hit at 2100, and each successive band grew stronger. In the final wave, the wind and rain went crazy, shrieking through the sails, and drilling us with bullets of water. Eric, at the hatchway to work the lines, couldn’t see the mast 10’ ahead.
At the helm, I watched in disbelief through my rain-splattered glasses as the sea flattened into a sheet of white foam and the wind gauge jumped from 27k to 35k to 43k. I didn’t inform Eric at the time—even shouting, we couldn’t hear each other above the roar—but that 43k gust is the highest wind speed we’ve experienced, ever. At 2300 the storm finally expired. We took turns going below to strip and dry off, but neither of us could manage full watches, and we alternated like zombies at the wheel until dawn.
By now our spirits were pretty much in the dumps, yet there was nothing to do but slog on. We reached our northern waypoint at 0400 on the ninth day and turned westward to cross the 72-mile-wide Great Bahama Bank. Halfway across the bank lies Mackie Shoal. It’s open to the wind but is a convenient stopover for boats heading east or west between the islands at this latitude to avoid sailing in shallow water after dark. We had anchored here in 2017 in 12’ of water and knew it worked. This time, motorsailing into a headwind, we had to settle for a 30’ depth, the farthest we could penetrate onto the shoal before nightfall. The choppy water made for a rocky night.
Come morning, it was back to the grindstone, tacking and motorsailing to the north end of Bimini where a beautiful, calm anchorage awaited. It took all day and then five tries—five!—to get the anchor to set in a sandy patch amidst the sea grass just before sunset. But finally, a peaceful night and a breather to plot the final 54 miles to Boca Raton. Such a short distance, but getting the weather and timing right to cross the fasting-flowing Gulf Stream is crucial, and the next morning, after analyzing the weather models to death, we zeroed in on a brief window of light and variable winds beginning that evening. Go for it!
Thirteen hours later…Success! We still had to motorsail the entire distance, pointing due west to Miami while the Gulf Stream pushed us inexorably north toward Boca Raton. But the water was tranquil, a silvery half moon glowed, and the glittery lights of south Florida soon rose on the horizon. We entered the Intracoastal Waterway at Hillsboro Inlet at 0900, and three drawbridges and three miles of waterfront mansions later we tied up in Lake Boca Raton at 1030 on 11 June 2023, after 13 days at sea. It is with great satisfaction therefore that Eric and I can now complete that prophetic phrase: It’s not over until…it’s over. Because it is over. Though we will eventually move Corroboree to a permanent berth, our world voyage is finished, complete, mission accomplished.
And it did end on a very fitting high note. Having launched “The Old Woman and the Sea” in January 2017 with a post on the kindness of strangers, we owe our homecoming berth to two more. Harold Gretzky, the brother of a colleague of Eric’s, tracked our voyage and emailed us way back in Cape Town that he had obtained an invitation for Corroboree, on arriving in Florida, to lie at a friend’s private dock. He was there to meet us as we pulled in, and he and his wife LaReine have already gone above and beyond to take us shopping, locate services and make us feel welcome. The second stranger, Harold’s generous friend, is away just now, and until we meet him in person, we take this opportunity to thank him for his tremendous hospitality and his trust.
It’s over, and now that it’s real, it feels surreal. How on Earth, given all our mistakes and mishaps, did we ever pull this off? And where do we go from here? Where shall we live? How do we want to spend our time? We’re ready for new adventures, to take on creative projects and contribute our skills. In a week or two, as the ground grows firmer beneath our feet, I’ll write one final blog post with some fun statistics about our voyage and a glimpse of what comes next.
Dear family and friends, you can stop worrying about us now. We’re home safe. Love, Arliss & Eric
