Overnight sail

I breathed a sigh of relief as we lifted our anchor and pulled out of Leverick Bay. We had stayed there fifteen days, waiting for the right weather window to make our journey to St. Maarten.

We definitely could have been stuck in worse places - the anchorage was calm, and free too! We had access to showers and decent wifi, but I was definitely ready to move on. “Farewell Virgin Gorda!” my dad said aloud, echoing my thoughts. From the reading I had done and photos I’d seen of our next destination, I suspected that St. Maarten might become a personal favourite. But getting there wouldn’t be easy.

It‘s 80 nautical miles and about 30 hours to reach Marigot Bay, on the French side of the island. We decided to motor on course and directly into the wind instead of sailing, as it would have taken much longer to tack the whole way, especially with our size of boat.

The conditions were extremely rough, and steering directly into the wind didn’t help. For the first time in my life I became sea sick. As I lay in the cock pit, my body thrashing around with each wave, my appetite disappearing, the remaining 26 hours seemed an eternity.

I passed the time discussing movies and sharing stories with my dad. I tried to nap but it was futile. The only relief came as I looked up at the horizon hours later. My nausea was temporarily disarmed as I enjoyed the beautiful sunset.

Starstruck by the night sky, my dad and I took turns keeping a lookout for other boats in the darkness. I had never seen stars so bright, with absolutely nothing competing with their light. I felt incredibly small, yet somehow entirely safe.

My nausea subsided just in time for my turn to sleep, and I awoke to a beautiful sunrise. The waters had calmed overnight and we were finally able to raise the sails and kill the motor. I began to feel myself again. Only eight hours to go.

The boat was scattered with evidence of our rough night: an open bottle of Ibuprofen, my half eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the sweatshirt I’d put on for the first time since coming to the Caribbean. I remember, somewhere between sunset and my first watch, feeling chilly out on the open ocean. It was a feeling I hadn’t experienced in almost 40 days.

Despite a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep, I was exhausted. I’d never missed land in the way that I was experiencing that morning. But as I sat up and looked out past the bow, I could see the beautiful island in the distance. The almost turquoise water was sparkling in the morning sun.

French wine and cheese were nearly in reach. With each passing moment the island became clearer and my excitement grew.

It had all been worth it.