The Other Side of St. Martin/Maarten

Not a bad office, eh?

For the second time in just a couple of months, I find myself on the island of St. Martin. I use “Martin” as opposed to “Maarten” because for the first time in four visits I am staying on the French side of this split-in-two Caribbean jewel. I usually stay aboard a boat over on the Dutch side, the Sint Maarten side, with friends, and I will join them again shortly, but I wanted to experience a different side of this island. And by “side,” I don’t just mean nationality.

Over here, I’m staying in a small, comfortable home befitting the tropics: stucco walls; high, framed ceilings; a veranda surrounded by a bushes exploding in red flowers, a few coconut palms, and a cactus or two thrown in for good measure. There’s a breeze blowing from the sea below as I sit on that veranda, shirtless and wearing only shorts, typing and taking in a view from Tintamare to St. Barth over the colorful roofs of the village below. If I close my eyes and imagine having talent, a big barrel chest and a good, stiff drink in front me, this could almost be Cuba and I could almost be Hemingway in my own version of Finca Vigia. Alas, it’s not and I’m not. But it’s a damn good substitute.

A finch-sized version of a meadowlark just alighted on the bush beside me. It pains me to be so uninfor

When I’m staying in the marina on the Dutch side, it’s somewhat like being in a border town in Mexico: garish lights, lots of Americans and a whole lot more hustle and bustle. Over here, things slow way down, and not just because my school-level French is so atrocious. It’s a resort over here as opposed to a town, so even the locals making a living on this side are doing so within the context of vacationland. Over in St. Maarten, it’s business as usual in a town that just happens to be on a Caribbean island so there are scores of tourists wandering around. That, and I’m usually working with my friends on whatever yacht they’re running at the time.

No surprises, then, that I prefer the vibe over here. Hard to believe I’d prefer sitting in the breeze looking out over where the Atlantic Ocean and Caribbean Sea meet to scrubbing the grime and barnacles off the bottom of an inflatable dinghy or sweating in the interior of the boat as I wipe antibacterial solution over all the walls.

This, too, shall pass. Tomorrow, as a matter of fact. I’ll check out of this sleepy, hillside community with a view and taxi back over to the Dutch side of things. But no complaints. It will still be paradise and I’ll still be tan and we’ll still be preparing for a passage to Bermuda in a few days. La vie est belle.
med on the local flora and fauna, but that comes with time, I suppose. And it’s time that seems to have been created just by taking a taxi over to this side of the island.

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It’s My Party: The 2013 Heineken Regatta

It was damned nice of the organizers of the Heineken Regatta to honor my birthday by launching the 2013 event on March 1. Damned nice of ’em. Thanks, guys! But it would have been even better if they’d delivered some wind for my birthday.

The annual three-day event — billed as “serious fun,” it’s more than just a sailing race — takes place on St. Maarten, and for the second straight year I was in town for the festivities. In 2013, I arrived from Antigua and the Grenadines aboard the 70-foot luxury yacht my Dutch friends, Boogie and Marlies, were running. The yacht was brought to Simpson Bay for some repairs in advance of its owner’s return a few days later. That meant I had to find another ride if I wanted to take part in the racing.

And fortunately, I found just the ticket: a J-46 owned by a fellow New Englander (from Maine) and sailed by a crew of Rhode Islanders. Added to the crew was an English woman the Yanks had met on Antigua; she was friends with Boogie and Marlies, and on Thursday night asked if they knew anyone looking to crew. Yes, I lead a charmed life.

So I hopped aboard Seabiscuit Friday morning with Nathan (the owner), husband-and-wife team Chris and Damian (sailmakers from Newport, R.I.), John (in sales in the yachting industry in Newport and the de facto leader of the boat), Dave (another Rhode Islander) and Claudia (the Brit), and off we went.

Slowly. Very slowly. Racing on day one is a counter-clockwise circumnavigation of the island from Simpson Bay to Phillipsburg, and while there was enough wind to get started, by the time we’d rounded the corner and were off Marigot on the French side of the island, we (and most everyone else) were becalmed. To say it was a boring, shitty way to spend one’s birthday is an understatement. Bobbing around on the sea baking in the sun surrounded by strangers wasn’t what I had in mind. But it was still better than not being at sea so like the Monty Python’s Brian, I tried to look on the bright side: I was getting tan, I was aboard a sailboat on turquoise waters, there was a northerly swell running that made a wave break out of nowhere on a reef near the island of Tintamare, and when the wind did manage to come up things were fun.

We finished in Phillipsburg (in ninth place) within the allotted time which was an accomplishment. Several boats, including some serious racers, retired in order to make it back to Simpson Bay in time for the final bridge opening of the day. Seabiscuit was tying up in Phillipsburg for the night so that wasn’t an issue. And when we did tie up, I hopped in a taxi back over the hill to my friends’ yacht. Why? Because I wanted to spend my birthday evening with friends and also because I had a private, air-conditioned cabin waiting for me, rather than being crammed into a small boat with five strangers right beside what would become a raucous stage for that night’s regatta party (I guess I’m mellowing with age finally).

On top of all that, despite it being my birthday it was also a somber day: my mother and I shared a birthday. It’s true. She spent her 38th birthday delivering me, the best birthday present I’ve ever received (thanks, Mom!), and this was the first year I’d be celebrating just one birthday on March 1. And it would have been a big number for her in 2013; she’d have been 85.

So instead of drinking too much and hanging out with strangers (half of whom smoked, no less), I opted for a mellow dinner at Jimbo’s in Simpson Bay with my friends. Afterwards, I sat in the cockpit of their yacht watching the stars and drinking beer. It was a nice celebration.

On Saturday, I hopped one of the impromptu buses that run all over St. Maarten ($2 fare!) back to Seabiscuit for two races. There was wind this time and the sailing was fun and energetic. We’d also picked up two new crewmembers — Massachusetts native Becky and Welsh surfer Abbie — who enabled us to have a full crew for the final two days of racing.

We finished the two races (fifth and ninth) in Marigot and, through some aggressive finagling, wound up on the dock in the marina there. Boogie and Marlies had come over to see a bunch of their friends on other yachts in the race and I hopped a ride back over to Simpson Bay in the dinghy for another peaceful night of sleep.

I almost stayed in Marigot Saturday night. I love that side of the island. It’s the French side and being there combines the best of two worlds: it’s like a small Mediterranean village where the restaurants are out of this world and the party scene is as festive as you’d expect in the Caribbean. Walking through the village to head back to Simpson Bay, the smells of the food wafting from the stands set up for the party was almost enough to entice me to stay. But the lure of peace and quiet, and air conditioning rather than cramped cabin space, was too strong.

Sunday featured quite a bit of wind and the sailing was great. Seabiscuit had a great start and we held off the faster boats really well until the offset mark near Grand Case beach. We struggled getting our spinnaker up for the downwind leg and those speedier boats, crewed by people who race together regularly, blew by us. To complicate matters, we wound up in the wind shadow of a much larger yacht and couldn’t get away much before the leeward mark.

When we did round the rock off Anguilla that marked the start of the final upwind leg, things got sporty. The trade winds were up and that upwind leg was right into the teeth of the seas those winds had kicked up. It was a long, wet ride, tacking frequently and trying desperately to hold on to the faster boats.

Seabiscuit rounded one more mark and coasted into the downwind finish line in ninth place, good for an eight-place finish in her class for the weekend (46th of 79 overall). And I managed to take home a souvenir of the Sunday racing. Against my normal protocol, I opted to sail like most of the others on Seabiscuit: barefoot. During one tack, while stepping over the cabin top, I managed to gouge the pad below the big toe on my left foot. I didn’t realize it until a few minutes later when, with my feet dangling over the rail, I noticed blood running over my right foot. Fortunately, Becky had some medical tape so I bound the flap of skin back into place and carried on. But walking has proved difficult even a couple of days later.

It was a good time racing and the crew on board Seabiscuit was made up of the most serious racers I’ve ever sailed with. Still, we weren’t THAT serious and the experience was truly what the regatta promotes: serious fun. No, I didn’t partake in the parties as much as I might have, but to be honest, I was still reeling from a winter that was brutally long emotionally and psychologically. Boogie and Marlies may well have saved my life by getting me out of the dark places into which I’d descended in January and February, and for that I’m grateful. Racing on Seabiscuit was an added bonus (thanks to Nathan for letting me join the crew). Now, in March, I’m optimistic that I am actually going to make it back.

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Confessions of Rail Meat

I’m in the Princess Juliana Airport in St. Maarten. It’s Monday afternoon and my flight to Newark is delayed three hours. Coming AND going, my experiences with airlines this trip have been less than stellar: Jet Blue lost my baggage on the way down and now this. I’m hopeful I’ll still make my connection to Boston although I’m kinda skeptical.

The view from the airport terminal makes up for the inconvenience somewhat: on the far side of the lone runway, the light-green-and-teal-blue waters of Simpson Bay taper to the darker blue of the Caribbean Sea, and all the water is capped by the snow white of wind-blown waves. Yes, Roman Abramovich’s obscenely large motor yacht (and Luna is Roman’s small boat) lying at anchor mars the Simpson Bay scenery somewhat, but the fact remains that it’s still paradise outside the airport terminal.

I’m leaving paradise after three days of racing in the Heineken St. Maarten Regatta. It was an interesting, entertaining weekend, despite our boat’s poor showing. We were DFL, although one (or two, I forget which) boat in our class retired. And the boat that finished just ahead of us failed to round the farthest-out marks in Friday’s course; had that boat been disqualified or done the honorable thing and retired from that race, we’d have finished another spot higher. No matter. It was a fun weekend of racing, partying and getting sunburned; I’m quite sure I’ll be back for this event again someday.

My job aboard Lady Ann was actually a variety of jobs. I was responsible for the port side running backstay. What that means is that I was in charge of sheeting in and letting out the block-and-tackle system that extends from the left-rear corner of the boat to the top of the mast. There’s a similar arrangement on the right (starboard) side too, and the systems alternate depending on which tack the boat is on (which side of the boat the wind is coming over) in order to help stabilize the mast and rigging.

Whenever we would switch from a starboard tack (the wind coming over the right side of the boat) to a port tack, I’d crank in the backstay as soon as the front of the boat passed through the wind. Going the other way, I’d loosen the backstay when we went from a port tack (wind coming over the left side) to a starboard tack, and pull the whole pulley-and-cable system forward of the sail and secure it to a cleat on the deck.

Once the running backstays were set, I’d hustle to the windward side of the boat and plop my ass down on the rail, alongside everyone else on the crew who wasn’t steering the boat or trimming the main sail.

In other words: my role was largely to get my ample body weight to the windward side in an effort to prevent the boat from heeling over too far. So my principle assets for crewing this weekend are one, my aforementioned size, and two, my ability to move that rotundity quickly and smoothly around the boat.

I’m exaggerating a bit, of course. I did a lot more than just crank in and out on a winch and serve as ballast. Given my strength and size, I wound up doing a lot of the chores that others in the crew (two 60-something Dutchmen, one 40-year-old Dutchman, and one small Scottish woman) couldn’t do: hoisting heavy sails and anchors; controlling things on the heaving, wet foredeck of the boat; moving heavy things such as anchors around; etc.

The other members of the crew were trimming sails using electric winches since the forces involved were too much for them to be able to do much else. This was my first time on a boat with electric winches and I have to say: they’re a pretty nice feature. I’ve never been interested in them personally but it sure was nice to hoist a mainsail or crank in on a wind-filled headsail with just the push of a button. I’ll have to think about an electric winch (just one) on board my boat-of-the-future if only to raise the mainsail quickly when I’m out there on my own.

So once again my sailing experience was broadened largely through osmosis: watching Boogie and Marlies and how they managed the myriad different tasks required to run a boat. The next step really is to do more helming and sail trimming, and that can really only be done on my own boat, since anyone else I crew for is going to put me to work on brute-force chores rather than on tasks requiring finesse and judgment. It’s that age-old quandary: how do you get the job? By having experience. And how do you get experience? By having the job.

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