Story by Tor Pinney                                              Back to List of Tor's Tales

BIMINI OR BUST

© 1987 Tor Pinney - All Rights Reserved

"Land ho!" called my crew when the tiny island of Bimini first appeared.

"Right on schedule!" I boasted, inwardly relieved. In order to arrive in daylight, we had made our first crossing of the infamous Gulf Stream from Miami at night. The sun now sparkled on the Bahamas-blue water. It was the Fourth of July, an appropriate day to celebrate the special freedom that only a cruising sailor knows.

I was grateful for the steady breeze, particularly since my 40-foot ketch, Autant, had no auxiliary engine. She was a stout and seakindly sailboat, and I trusted her completely offshore. The crossing had, in fact, gone smoothly. But little did I suspect that the real challenge of the passage was yet to come.

Engine-less sailing was teaching me to plan ahead. I knew from talking to other sailors that the entrance to Bimini Harbor is long and narrow and that the tidal current runs through it at up to 3 knots. This meant that we'd have to enter with the flood, since the tree-lined shore to windward would be blocking the breeze. Without an engine to power us in, we'd have to rely on a favorable current to carry us along until we reached the open harbor and regained the wind.

According to the tide tables, the flood would be in full swing by the time we reached the island. Our timing was good. Soon we were glancing from the open cruising guide to the channel entrance, lining up palm-tree bearings for the approach, ghosting in the island's lee toward the harbor entrance. The guide book indicated a spacious anchorage along the main village, Alice Town, just inside. We made the anchors ready at the bow. It was a tranquil moment, the scene a bit of sailor's paradise.

Suddenly, the harbor came into view ahead through the narrow entrance. What we saw was a shock. The anchorage was tightly packed with boats of every description: sailboats, motor yachts, sportfishermen, runabouts, dinghies, native skiffs - it seemed that every boat owner in Miami had decided to spend the Fourth or July weekend in Bimini.

Just then, the current was compressed at the harbor mouth, increasing its velocity to 3, maybe 4 knots. Autant was flung into Bimini Harbor. We cleared the trees, and the fresh 12-knot breeze instantly filled the sails. Into the chaotic mass of boats we flew, under full sail, at a total current-plus-sailing speed of 9 knots!

The next few moments were a blur. Near-panic can do that to you. We were dodging boats, rodes, dinghies and swimmers all at once. I caught glimpses of wide, disbelieving eyes and gaping mouths as we sped by yachts loaded with festive, beer-swilling sailors. In desperation I hailed the tipsy crew in the cockpit of an open fisherman: "Is there anchoring space farther back in the harbor?"

A couple of them waved their bottles vaguely in the direction I was going and slurred, "Just anchor anywhere!"

Anywhere, indeed! There was nowhere to go; no way to turn back. We were hemmed in on all sides, moving much too fast, and the congestion seemed to thicken ahead. I made a snap decision to stop right now.

I headed Autant into the wind, aiming her bow at my amused advisors in the fishing boat. The sails luffed, and I started forward to lower an anchor off their stern. But I had never before anchored in such a strong crosscurrent. To my surprise and utter horror, I realized that Autant was sliding downstream sideways at 3 knots, drifting straight into the open arms of a pair of anchor lines. At their apex was a very beautiful, very expensive sailboat. My life flashed in front of me.

Autant still had way on, just enough for steerage. I put the helm hard over and prayed. The bow shifted ever so slowly to starboard, and I heard the sails luff. Adrenaline pumping, I grabbed the mizzen boom and hauled it out to starboard, backing the sail to push the stern around. Less than two boat-lengths away, down current, disaster awaited us if the jib didn't fill - NOW!

It did. Autant fell off onto the new tack, her sails billowed, and she hung there, suspended in the current. The gleaming yacht's anchor rodes ran along our port and starboard quarters, her bow barely a yard from our transom. But then Autant began to sail - just a hair faster than the current. We inched forward, all sails trimmed and drawing.

Stationing my crew at the helm, I moved to the mainmast and, at the precise moment, let go the jib and main halyards. Down came the canvas, and Autant stopped almost immediately. Quickly, I lowered the 60-pound yachtsman anchor (about one foot astern of the drunkards ahead), donned a face mask, and dove over the side to the anchor to hand-set it.

As I stood on deck dripping wet, my heart pounding, a fellow puttered by in his inflatable. "Nice sailing, skipper!" he called out with a friendly smile. It occurred to me that, to the casual observer, the entire maneuver must have appeared planned and controlled. He actually thought I had done that on purpose!

"Thanks." was all I said, with the casual indifference of a guy who does this sort of thing all the time. 

~ End ~

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