Glowings, Gales & Glazed Ribs: More Chaotic Cruising - Vieques & Culebra

We arrived in Vieques after another stomach-churning four-hour passage from Isla Caja de Muertos—both technically “by Puerto Rico,” though my stomach didn’t so much as blink. I have the constitution of a Nordic sailor; I once ate a slice of moist cheesecake in a Force 8 gale on a hovercraft crossing the English Channel-much to the disgust of the other queazy passengers... This "gift" could possibly be why Captain Silver Fox keeps me around.

Vieques is best known as the US Navy’s old bombing range, but these days it’s more wild horses and beach fiesta than controlled detonations. We anchored in Sun Bay, Esperanza—a two-mile crescent that looks like someone designed it in Photoshop after a margarita or two. I think I read somewhere that scenes from "Lord of the Flies" was filmed here - fortunately now there are only happy kids splashing in the ocean. Wild horses wandered around like the disinterested local celebrities they are. Gypsy regarded them as either majestic beings or very large, smelly dogs...either way she fortunately did not ask them for an autograph.

Next to Sun Bay is the legendary Mosquito Bay, one of the brightest bioluminescent bays in the world. I once chased the Northern Lights to Alaska in mid-winter on our first anniversary—Ken chased a cold-weather helicopter test flight, and I chased romance. He got aviation data; I got frost bite and a black sky. So naturally, the weather refused to cooperate again and we didn’t get to kayak into the glowing waters.

But when you can’t go to the glow… sometimes the glow finds you.
That night, the water around Moonfleet suddenly shimmered with neon blue sparks. No photos exist because I didn’t fancy donating my iPhone to Poseidon, so I borrowed one from the internet like any respectable documentarian.

It was magical—especially because I was already in my pajamas and didn’t have to go anywhere. That’s my favorite kind of nature encounter: one with no additional effort accompanied by a nice cup of tea.

We hiked to Media Luna Beach, another perfect crescent where you can camp if you’ve ever thought, “You know what my vacation needs? Ants and giant land crabs.” Lovely spot, though.

All too soon, it was time to pack up Moonfleet’s flopper stoppers. This confusion of poles and ropes hanging off either side of our boat are allegedly meant to reduce rolling in rolly anchorages - which seems to be most of them - (featuring in a video soon as the implementation process is as complex as a Japanese tea ceremony) though I suspect their true purpose is to make us look more intimidating to catamarans. Catamaran owners pretend not to notice us, but you can just tell they have added flopper stoppers to their Christmas list.

The next day we set off for Culebrita, Puerto Rico…but this lifestyle is entirely weather-dependent, and apparently we are in a full on front of gloomy clouds, gusty weather and irritated waves. I keep thinking I should Google “calm-weather dance,” and give the ocean a show of my dancing skillz (only matched by my singing skills) but in truth I suspect Neptune only recognizes offerings of rum.

Culebrita is just 18 miles from Vieques, but 18 miles feels like a one legged marathon when crockery is flying and the dog is glaring at you like you personally arranged this - I guess we did. So we diverted to Culebra, Culebrita's big brother, instead—and what a treat. Ensenada Honda is a huge protected bay framed by colorful houses, tiny hotels, and exactly the kind of restaurants that convince sailors they should not go back to their boats for a dreary ham sandwich.

So we complied and ate fresh mahi tacos and costillitas BBQ (glazed ribs), and quwaffed tamarind margaritas until the boat tilted slightly to starboard from our collective body weight.

Now we’re chugging into the wind over the Virgin Passage toward St. Thomas, where we’ll finally stop long enough for my daughter Elsa to fly in from London on the 13th (must buy vats of sunblock since Elsa has gone the color of the Gollum since being in an English winter) and for Ken to fix everything we’ve already managed to break. For those following the engine-room saga: the mysterious smoke was apparently from loose exhaust clamps. So yes—more clamping. More splicing. And no doubt more tools called odd Victorean names and useless unless you possess the strength of Popeye.

And that, friends, is the cruising life: magical glowings, pissed-off dogs, weather tantrums, fresh mahi tacos, and endless repairs performed in scenic locations.