The Anegada Passage: Sailing from the Virgin Islands to St. Martin

When the sun rose above our bow we were already sailing between the low lying sandy strip that comprises Anguilla and the mountainous green mass of St. Martin. We’d come 95 miles as the crow flies from Nanny Cay, across the Anegada Passage. This was our first overnight passage with Paradox. Cat’s first, period. Once the anchor was firmly set in sand at Anse Marcel and the diesel was silenced, I sat back in reflection, almost in awe, of how smoothly the passage went.

The stretch of the Atlantic Sea between the Virgin Islands to the west and St. Martin to the east is the Anegada Passage, a name shared with the massive reef on the passage’s western edge that has claimed countless vessels over the centuries. Sailing east to west across it, with the brisk tradewinds and heavy swell from behind, is regarded as an exciting but pleasant sleigh ride. Sailing the opposite direction, however, into those same winds and seas, has led to a nickname implying a different sort of journey – the “Oh-My-God-Ah Passage.” Fabled to be a task endured rather than enjoyed at absolute best and outright terrifying at worst, this is one of which the guide books love to write warnings and sailors on the dock groan about as they unearth repressed memories of misery at sea. Having never done this sail before, I had built this thing up in my mind. I did not look forward to it, but it had to be done in order to unlock the charms of all the islands in the rest of the Eastern Caribbean and the rigorous but beautiful off-wind reaches that come with inter-island sailing.

From the time that we bought the boat we knew that our first task of consequence, beyond making sure the boat floated, would be to prepare her to go east and south. The islands are the only real plan that we ever came up with. And to put a little pressure on, we booked our flights to Cat’s brother’s wedding to fly out of SXM. St. Martin by December 7th or bust. That destination and date framed all of our preparations in the Virgin Islands. Make sure that the boat kept water out, could be sailed hard without breaking, the diesel would run reliably, and have the right equipment and procedures in place to deal with emergencies at sea. We had 6 weeks from the time we first laid eyes on her to do it. So that’s what we did. Recounting indiviual repairs and parts and trips to Budget Marine makes for dull writing, so I won’t attempt it, but suffice it to say that it was hard work and almost always frustrating, but the Virgin Islands make for the finest place to shake down a boat that I can think of. Even when I was at my wit’s end trying install a new fitting in some deep recess of the bilge or break a siezed bolt, I could uncontort myself and crawl out of the lazarette and find azure 80 degree water to rinse me of the grease and grime and 15 knots of breeze to remind me of why I ever thought sailing was a good idea.

By November 24th there was no excuse left to hold us back – the final piece of necessary safety gear had arrived after 3 weeks of delays (a replacement manual bilge pump for the old one with a broken socket), I had gone over my extensive check list twice, the forecast was holding steady for light SE winds, and we were already cleared out of customs. At noon we said “good enough,” bid farewellto our friends at Nanny Cay, slipped the dock lines, and headed out of Drake Channel via Round Rock. It’s difficult to tell from inside the almost land-locked confines of the Channel how things will actually be offshore, but the forecast proved correct. Once we got outside the waves got bigger, but still only 3-5 feet and well organized. There was a shorter period ESE swell and a long period N swell, but it wasn’t sloppy and didn’t impede our forward progress. The wind did as forecasted, starting at 5-10 knots SE and slowly clocking around to the NE at 10-12 knots through the night. Hoping for this, we tacked north of the rhumb line for the first 10 hours then sailed the last half, more or less, on a port tack. And by sailed, what I mean is motored unceasingly with a reefed main up for stability and a little extra oomph. From the time we pulled out Nanny Cay to when we pulled into Anse Marcel, the motor never shifted from it’s 2500rpm sweet spot. Yea yea, we’re not real sailors. Fine – but we’re here.

It was entirely uneventful. Not harrowing in the least. Any anxiety I had about the journey was left at the dock and there was nothing to provoke it’s return. A full moon led the way, thunderstorms stayed far off on the horizon, and we never even got sprayed in the cockpit. I had all my foulies laid out for naught. The only thing of note was when, about half way throught the night, I saw a ship on the southern horizon begin lighting up with rapid but inconsistent orange flashes. Not little flashes, like that of a blinking light, but big ones, followed long after by dull rumbles. I thought I’d somehow stumbled into a live firing drill by the Dutch Navy. What the hell?! Don’t they have to mark those areas on the chart?! I swung the wheel to port, figuring I’d write a strongly worded letter to the chart makers later, but I ought to focus on dodging artillery in the mean time. Moments later I heard a crackle on 16 on the VHF followed by “SECURITE, SECURITE, THIS IS THE CRUISE SHIP AT 18*5′ NORTH 63*40′ WEST CONCLUDING OUR FIREWORKS SHOW. OUT.”

Oh. Fireworks show. I suppose that makes more sense than the Navy cracking off rounds willy nilly in a heavily trafficked body of water. Back on course, steady as she goes.

And that was about it. We kept a roughly two hour watch schedule and slept like babies in the cockpit in between. The sun came up as quickly as it went down and there we were, in St. Martin, our first major goal of this trip complete.

In retrospect, I don’t know why the miserable Anegada Passage was so remarkably pleasant for us, but a couple of possibilities come to mind:

•  We got lucky. Thanks to a small cold front to our north, we got an unusual break from typical tradewind conditions and we stumbled blindly into the best weather we could hope for all winter.
• Because we have a small, light displacement, untested boat, we were more cautious about the weather window we selected than many of the sailors of larger, heavier boats that feel more confident about going into heavy wind and sea.
•  Sailors enjoy talking up the bad experiences. Maybe our experience was fairly normal, but no one bothers to tell stories about all the times when everything goes right. They tell stories about waves breaking over the bow, green water in the cockpit, bowsprits cracking, sails tearing luff to leach, and vomit spraying from the noses of the most seasoned crew.

Now we’re in French St. Martin, sipping Ti’ Punch and eating ribs at the lo los. We’ve got no more plans and no pressure, but the adventure has finally begun in earnest.