Goodbye Jenny

The next stop after leaving St. Johns were the Indians, a ring of jagged boulders rising out of the ocean and recommended as one of the best snorkeling and diving sights in the Caribbean.  We enjoyed the snorkeling, and climbing up the rocks, but spent most of our time posing for photos all wearing our "Bill" shirts.  Bill was our river boss while rafting this past Summer in Wyoming.  I had had some commemorative t-shirts printed up and we wanted a few good photos to send him of us in our "Bill Wear".

 

 

("Bill Wear" photo shoot)

("Bill Wear" photo shoot)

("Bill Wear" photo shoot)

(Bill Wear)

(Nate atop one of the Indians)

(Tan line check)

(Tan line judge)

(Becca disagrees with the Judge's ruling)

(Mark discusses strategy with his tanning coach after a hard loss)

We spent an afternoon playing in the waters of the Indians and then continued on to Norman's Island in the British Virgin Islands, another recommendation from the friendly information kiosk man in Cruz Bay.  

 

The island is almost entirely wildlife refuge with a huge protected harbor on the west end filled with mooring buoys.  Permanently at anchor here is an old, steel ship converted to a floating restaurant.  There is no bridge and no nearby town.  The restaurant survives entirely on the business of the transient boaters moored in the harbor.  The place is called "Willie T's" and when the sun goes down, there's no where else to go.  So, every night is a party.  We'd been hearing a lot of hype and I was pleased to see it wasn't just hot air.  

 

(Willie T's dance floor at midday)

 

 

I think we made our presence felt on the dance floor.  Mark cut his foot open climbing up the outside of the boat from mid-deck to roof deck and we decided to go to bed. 

 

(Bandaging Mark's bar injury)

(Dinghy docking while underway)

(Bringing the dinghy fuel aboard)

(Success)

From Willie T's we sailed north to Tortola.  Jenny had a plane to catch back to a job in West Virginia.  Her last night aboard we anchored in a quiet cove for a home cooked dinner and an evening of card playing and reliving our recent adventures.  It had been an eventful week .  The next morning we sailed to the airport and I took her to shore in the dinghy.  

 

Perhaps to Jenny's surprise, we didn't take her to a town from which she could catch a taxi.  We didn't even take her to a dock.  We simply sailed along the shore until we physically saw the airport and then dropped her off.  There was no good landing spot but she managed to time her scramble up the rocks with the waves and didn't get wet.  I threw her backpack up to her.  She waved once and then set off, following the chain link fence that bordered the runway.  I watched until she reached the dirt perimeter road that would take her towards the terminal building in the distance.  Strolla's crew was back to four.

(Jenny aboard Strolla)

St. Johns for the Superbowl

We made the short sail from St. Thomas to Cruz Bay on St. John, shouldered our way among the moored boats next to the ferry dock, and dropped anchor.  Now trying to squeeze five into our sorely overworked dinghy, we insisted on as short a commute to land as possible, even if it meant impinging on the ferry right of way a little.

A quick canvasing of the town and we found the perfect watering hole to watch the Superbowl from.  It was a "pour your own drink" bar.  Just like in an old western movie, the bartender set a glass and a bottle on the bar in front of us and we made our drinks as strong or weak as we liked.  We were still pretty tired from the night before and although we made a valiant effort, nobody's heart was really in it.  I don't even remember who won the game.  Mark is the only real sports enthusiast of the group.  Jenny fell asleep in her chair and was drooling into her lap by the start of the fourth quarter.

(Becca at the helm)

(Contemplative Nate)

(Nate and Becca being annoying)

(Mark)

(Thinking about pooping)

The next day, I stayed in town to answer some emails while the rest of the group went for a hike in the national park.  Another evening out on the town followed, this time playing a game Jenny introduced us to called pub golf.  It was a variation of the traditional pub crawl.  At each new bar, the bartender was asked what the establishment's signature drink was.  Everyone in the group was required to order this drink and then a number was assigned for par.  This was the allowable number of sips to finish the drink.  Score was kept similar to golf.  A shot for example would be a par 1.  Someone finishing the shot in 2 sips would have a bogie.  A frozen daiquiri might be a par 4 or 5, because of the potential for brain freeze.

 

Unsurprisingly, things devolved quickly.  Although I don't quite remember how or why but we were joined at some point along the way by Cassie and Scott, two United Airlines pilots in town on vacation.  For some reason, they thought we looked like a good time.  With our numbers now swollen to seven, shenanigans ensued, but the evening ended earlier than expected when Jenny disappeared.  The first place we checked was the dinghy dock.    We didn't actually look in the dinghy.  Its only 18 inches deep.  We looked from shore at it across the length of the dock.  With no sign of her there, our concerned group divided the town into search quadrants and wandered through the streets calling her name in the early morning silence.  When we finally gave up and reassembled at the dinghy, we discovered Jenny just out of view under the thwart, sleeping softly in an inch of standing water.

Scott and Cassie turned out to be an excellent addition to the group.  They had even taken part in our stumbling search efforts.  As we parted ways at the end of the night, I invited them to come sailing with us the next day. Drunken promises were made and a meeting time and place were set.  The next morning, still half asleep, sunglasses firmly in place, I dragged myself ashore for the rendezvous.  Imagine my surprise when they actually showed up.  They seemed equally shocked to find that I'd remembered as well.  Happy reunion.  They'd brought lunch and beverages.

 

With seven aboard Strolla, people were starting to get in each other's way but, the weather was perfect and the distances were short.  We were headed to Carvel Rock, only a couple miles off, where there was an 80 ft jumping cliff.  We'd been told that there had once been a rock climbing company that led climbs up to the top but now was no more.  The jumping spot was a local secret, difficult to get to, difficult to get up.  Mark, Nate, Jenny, and I climbed to the top.  Becca, Cassie, and Scott took a pass.  However, of the four of us, not one had the guts to jump from the full height.  We all chickened out and scrambled down to lower ledges from which to leap in the churning ocean below. 

 

(Standing on top of Carvel Rock)

 

(Carvel Rock, USVI)

  

After we'd each had our initial jump, I left the others on Carvel Rock and took the dinghy back to Strolla and got my camera.  Bobbing in the waves below, I shouted instructions up to Mark and Nate and Jenny, where to stand, when to jump, in order to get the perfect cliff jumping photos.  They weren't jumping from the top, but the the lower ledge we'd selected was still a good 50 feet above the water, high enough to have consequences and worth recording photographically.  Maneuvering the dinghy outboard with one hand and snapping photos with the other, wasn't easy in the unprotected seas.  It took a long time and the patience of the jumpers ran out before that of the photographer.  However, I assured everyone in the dinghy that I'd gotten some good ones.  

Back on Strolla, with everyone crowded around to see the photos, we discovered that I'd forgotten to put the memory card in.  No one was interested in going back for a second round.

In total, we spent three days and nights in Cruz Bay and all agreed St. Johns makes our top five favorite places of the trip so far.  We made our goodbyes to Cassie and Scott and set off along the coast towards the British Virgin Islands.  Halfway along the north shore, just outside the national park boundary, we ducking into a small inlet protected by reefs.  Our own private cove.  Conch hunting, snorkeling, campfire on the beach, hammock in the trees.  Perfect.

(Mark watches a Giant Conch coming out of its shell)

(Strolla at evening anchorage, USVI)

Jenny Arrives

Jenny's plane from Washington D.C. by way of San Juan, Puerto Rico landed early the next morning.  She met us for breakfast and then, needing nothing more in Charlotte Amalie, the five of us loaded into our little dinghy and headed out to Strolla.  We'd cleaned for her arrival.  Jenny was gracious enough to say she was impressed. 

 

(Happy to have a new crewmate)

It was Saturday and we'd been advised that most of the bars appropriate for a wild night out were on the eastern end of the island in Red Hook Bay.  Up anchor, all hands to set sail, and off we went.  Though the wind was even stronger than the day before, we were sheltered from the waves somewhat by the island and conditions felt calmer.  We settled in for a pleasant half day cruise to Red Hook.  Jenny, as the newest member of the crew, took up station on the leeward quarter rail so she could safely give her breakfast to the fishes without getting any of it on us.  She wasn't happy but, she didn't complain and we all agreed is was impressive how much she was able to bring back up.

The big excitement of the day came a few hours later, announced by a loud, gunshot-like bang, reverberating through the hull.  We were sailing hard at the time, close hauled under reefed mainsail and jib, beating our way into oncoming seas.  I was at the helm.  Jenny was still staring bleakly at the water racing by beneath her chin.  Everyone else was down in the cabin.  At the sound of the report, my eyes jerked up to the rigging, searching for something amiss.  They quickly spotted the forestay hanging loose from the mast, swinging wildly with each roll of the boat.  Not good.  

 

The stays were braided stainless steel cables that attached from the top of the mast down to various points along the outside edge of the deck.  They kept the mast upright and stable.  The forestay ran from the top of the mast forward to bow.  If it had broken, there was nothing to keep the mast from falling over backwards.  We were in danger of being dismasted.

I yanked Jenny over to the tiller from her perch at the railing and dashed forward for a closer look.  The top of the forestay had parted completely from the masthead.  In doing so, the loose end had fallen to become tangled up in the rigging farther down the mast so that now the top half hung limply downward, swinging wildly with each roll of the boat.  The jib halyard also runs from the bow to just below the masthead, holding up the jib sail.  Now, this sun-rotted and slightly slack rope was all the kept our mast upright.  Definitely not good.  It was easily the most serious equipment failure of the trip so far.  

 

Everyone had made their way on deck at this point and we had the jib furled in short order.  The previous owner of Strolla had installed a removable backup fore stay as added insurance during heavy weather.  I was exceedingly grateful that he had.  It came in quite handy now. 

I worked quickly to attached backup forestay and in doing so, pulled the mast back up to vertical from where it had already begun to tilt aft.  This removed the rather alarming slack from of the backstay as well.  With a sigh of relief over a disaster narrowly averted, I scooted nimbly back along the swaying deck to the cockpit where Jenny sat green and glaring.  She had never sailed or even steered with a tiller before.  In her current state of seasickness, she was in no mood to learn.  I returned to the helm just in time for her to stick her head back over the side, another disaster avoided.

 

 

(Catching my breath on the mast spreaders)

 

(Pausing my climb on the RADAR reflector)

 

(Keeping a tight grip with my feet while working on the masthead)

 

 

We pulled into Red Hook Bay with no further mishaps.  Arriving later in the day as we were, the best anchorages deeper into the bay and closest to the bars were already taken.  We selected an open area out near the mouth to drop our hook.  In the now calm waters, the color returned to Jenny's face.  She was even able to eat an early dinner with us, always important before a night of drinking.  Just after dark, Mark, Jenny, and I clambered over the stern rail into the dinghy and headed off for an evening ashore.  

 

The wind was still howling, kicking up small whitecaps in the bay but, it was blowing with us, pushing us down the bay towards the bars.  The farther we traveled in our  soft-bottomed dinghy, the farther we'd have to fight our way back at the end of the night, against the wind and waves.  It would be a slow, rough, and wet ride and, if we ran out of gas, we might not make it back at all.  There was little chance we'd be able to row against such conditions.

Taking this into consideration, we decided not to take the dingy all the way up-bay to the bar.  we opted, instead, to head for the closest point of land, only about fifty yards away.  There were no visible lights in this area but, just visible in the moonlight was a small stretch of sand overhung with trees, a likely beaching point.  When we we close to shore, we made a quick pass to scout the spot before heading in. 

 

The waves inside the bay were not big but, they were big enough to break over the transom of the dinghy and fill the boat if we timed our landing on the beach poorly.  No one wanted to get wet before a night out.  We would have to make our move between waves.  Speed while exiting the dinghy would also be key.  We needed to make our landing immediately behind a breaking wave, disembark ,and then pull dinghy up out of the surf zone before the next wave broke.  

 

The plan formulated, the importance for speed understood, we turned our nose in and rode the waves into the beach.  Jenny and I were perched at the stern, on either side of the outboard motor.  As a counterbalance to our weight, Mark was crouched at the bow, ready to leap ashore with the rope.  When the bow touched sand, we all stood.  Mark, in front, was supposed to wait half a second for Jenny and I to shift our weight forward.  He did not.  In his hurry, he leaped ashore with Jenny and I still standing at the stern.  All the weight was now in the back 6 inches of the boat.  The bow now unweighted, it immediately popped up into the air.  The stern correspondingly plunged down under the combined weight of Jenny and I.  Unbalanced, Jenny began to fall back, flinging an arm out to catch herself as she went.  That arm found me.  My arms similarly shot out, searching for something to stop my fall.  Holding each other tightly, we toppled backward into the dark water.   

There was no way to slow or protect ourselves.  Clutching each other in slow motion disbelief, we landed flat on our backs in the shallow water.  Mark watched spellbound from the beach as the next breaking wave washed over us, soaking anything we'd managed to keep dry in the fall.  We struggled to our feet, dripping in the moonlight and splashed angrily ashore.  

 

We helped Mark pull the dinghy above the high tide line and then Mark led the charge into the night blackened underbrush, searching for the nearest road that would take us to town.  

I'll admit to a moment's hesitation at this point.  Standing there on that dark strip of sand watching Mark disappear into the bushes, the idea of continuing into town soaked in salt water and sand was not appealing.  If I'd been able to do so gracefully, I would have happily headed straight back to the boat to change and to stay put.  Before my doubts could be voiced and, not missing a beat, Jenny crashed into the underbrush after Mark.  I had no choice but to bring up the rear.  

After a few seconds of bushwhacking, we stumbled across a dirt trail winding its way through the woods.  Once we'd passed through a low, marshy area, the trail spilled us out onto a dirt road heading in what seemed like the right direction.  We eventually found our way to a ramshackle marina bar and restaurant called "Latitude 18".  It was cheery and brightly lit.  The band was playing a mix of Bluegrass and Jimmy Buffet.  The place was packed and people were dancing.  No one seemed to notice the puddles we left on the floor.  I slapped a few soggy dollars down on the bar and bought the first round.

 

 

(The crew of Strolla relaxing in the salon)

Culebrita

Our last port of call on the puerto rican main island was Puerto Del Rey Marina in Demajagua Bay.  From there we pushed due east to the island of Culebra where we enjoyed microbrew beer for the first time months, discovered that we'd lost our tolerance for alcohol, and then headed on to Culebrita, our jumping point to the U.S. Virgin Islands.  

 

We were fishing all the way and caught two little Bluefin Tuna in close succession, our first of the trip.  Mark prepared and pan seared the steaks which he served with rice.  Becca suggested we use the leftover smaller pieces of raw tuna to make sushi bowls with more rice, veggies, and wasabi paste.  High living.

 

 

(Celebrating our catch)

 

(Our little tuna did not turn into a prince)

(Chicken of the sea)

Culebrita is Culebra's smaller eastern sister and was hands down our favorite of the two.  It was pristine, uninhabited, and part of Puerto Rico's national park lands.  The complimentary moorings were convenient, if a bit exposed to the swells.  The sea turtles swimming lazily around us as we tied up were fantastic, but what really sold us on the place were the "jacuzzis".

(A wave surges into one of the "jacuzzis")

As one of the eastern most islands in Puerto Rico, the coastal cliffs of Culebrita bear the full brunt of the Tradewind-whipped ocean swells.  Breaks in the rocky shoreline lead to large, protected tidal pools.  The waves, chased by the winds, crash through these natural funnels, erupting into the tidal pools in a roar of white, frothy water.

 

(Cliff jumping into a jacuzzi inlet with the last of the evening sun)

We spent the whole afternoon playing, climbing, and cliff jumping.  The best sport to be had turned out to be throwing ourselves into the middle of the surging inlets and seeing how long we could tread water, holding place in the foam covered ocean waves before being dashed up on the rocks.  A few scraped toes and bloody knees resulted but no real injuries to speak of.  Mark lost a contact lens and spent the rest of the day rock scrambling with no depth perception.  Becca chose not to partake.

(Nate doing some free climbing)

(Mark has an "accidental" wardrobe malfunction)

The next morning broke gray and stormy.  Even in the protection of our rolling little harbor, the wind whined through the rigging.  I was tired and sore from the previous day's activities and we had left much still to to be explored on Culebrita but, we had a date to make on St. Thomas.  With a sigh and a slow start, we creaked out of our bunks and began the process of weighing anchor.  Our mutual friend from our summer in Jackson Hole, WY, Jenny Durham, was flying in to join us for a week and we had to be there to pick her up.

 

The trip to St. Thomas was a bit of a slog, slow and rough, bashing our way headfirst into the same waves we'd had so much fun playing in the day before.  I felt a little queasy. 

(A break in the clouds as we work our way to St. Thomas)

Late that morning, while Mark was in the cabin reading, Nate, Becca and I were up on top, braving the driven spray that swept the deck.  Gazing idly out at the horizon, I spotted a plume of white mist suddenly rise out of the water on our port bow.

"Thar she blows!" I shouted gleefully into the wind before racing forward to the shrouds for a better view.  Everyone hurried to join me, crowding the port rail, staring hard across the white capped waves.  Then, I saw another plume, and another.  We all saw them.  The black, glossy backs of three whales slipped in and out of the steely gray waters.  They expelled two more huge breaths each and, with a final flip of their tails, dove back beneath the waves.  It was our first whale sighting of the trip.  We were still excited hours later.

The clouds burned off by lunch and the sun resumed its blazing fury.  Mark stayed on deck with us to take in some rays.  We were all very excited about Jenny's impending visit, Mark especially.  He had determined that the best way to welcome her to the crew was to present a evenly bronzed backside.  He'd been working on erasing his tan lines since Salinas and limited results are finally appearing.

(Buns bronzing time)

I'll admit, I'd joined him in sporadic sympathy sessions, primarily while snorkeling.  The other boaters at the reefs seemed to appreciate my efforts as well.  Naturally, with both of us racing to put color on our cheeks, a healthy competition arose.  My butt was the bronziest of the two, without question but, Mark was not about to take my word for it.  Nate was conscripted as our unwilling buns judge and color critic.  Becca took to studying clouds.

(Mark summons Nate for an official judge's ruling)

 

In Charlotte Amalie, on St. Thomas, we left the boat at anchor and headed into town to look around.  Nothing but jewelry, watch, and liquor stores (yes, all in one store) catering to the cruise ship crowd.  We didn't make any purchases.  No one needed a $4,000 watch, and we had stocked up on liquor and beer in Puerto Rico.  We spent a lot of time inside anyway.  The stores were air conditioned.

 

(Mark finishes his fruit hammock in time for Jenny's arrival)

 

Fun with the Navy

The stretch from Salinas eastward along Puerto Rico's southern shore was fairly uneventful.  We picked our way along a series of pretty harbors and secluded anchorages, working our way to windward.  Each dawn we motored out to take advantage of the temporarily weakened wind and slightly reduced waves.  We motor-sailed a for few hours against the light breeze, hugging the coast.  As the rising sun caused a rising wind to whip up rising waves, our progress slowed to a crawl and we ducked into the next area of coastal protection to wait for the next dawn lull.  These short legs were more motoring than sailing and quickly became a bit tedious.  We longed some clean sailing.

 

The island of Puerto Rico is approximately rectangular and once we rounded its southeast corner onto a heading north by northeast, we were able to shut the motor off and enjoy some fast and pleasant sailing.  That afternoon we arrived at the mouth of Roosevelt Roads.  We planned to pass our last night in Puerto Rico there before heading into the U.S. Virgin Islands to begin our exploration of the Lesser Antilles.  

 

Roosevelt Roads is one of the finest natural harbors in Puerto Rico and the site of a former United States naval base.  I was sure I'd read somewhere that the base was decommissioned a year or two prior and as such, was now available for transient use by passing cruisers like us.  With no other protected anchorages to choose from before dark, we decided to find out.  

 

 

 

(Cruising into Roosevelt Roads)

 

The harbor itself is large enough to comfortably accommodate a full naval fleet.  But, what is considered protected for a battleship is not necessarily so for a small pleasure craft.  In recognition of this, there was a marina tucked away at the far back of the harbor for use by retired naval personnel and their private vessels.  We hoped Nate's past service in the Marine Corps would allow us to take advantage of the marina's amenities and even speculated that his military ID might allow us to pick up some cheap provisions at the PX nearby.  If not, no problem, we'd anchor outside the marina, still within the larger protection of the harbor.

 

As we entered the mouth of the harbor, pushed along on a light tailwind, not another ship could be seen stirring.  The harbor was empty.  No patrol boats guarded its mouth, no helicopters circled its skies and, no navy gray warships lined its now crumbling concrete piers.  Not even a fishing boat or dinghy broke the silence or cut the waters with their wake.  Through the binoculars we could see the marina across the harbor.  A couple small sailboats on moorings marked its location but, we could discern no signs of life there either.  The place felt abandoned.

 

 

(Sunset in Roosevelt Roads)

 

 

We set our anchor among the moored boats near the marina docks and went merrily about the business of tidying up the boat and readying the dinghy for an adventure ashore.  Close to land now, we could see that there were in fact some people about, old men mostly, puttering around the docks.  

 

I also noticed a shiny, white Dodge Durango parked up near the marina buildings, facing the water.  The late afternoon sun was reflecting off the windshield but, through the glare I could see a small portable blue police light flashing on its dashboard.  Two men leaned against the vehicle, arms folded casually, lost in conversation, one dressed in blue, the other in black.  Theirs was not the demeanor of men on pressing police business and I paid them no more notice.

By the time we were ready to go ashore, the man in blue was gone.  The man in black had moved out to the end of dock closest to us.  He shouted something at us we couldn't make out and motioned in an abrupt, military fashion for us to come over.  Finally sensing that something was amiss, we gathered for a brief and concerned huddle in the cabin.  It was decided that as captain I would go over to see what was up.  Nate, as our military liaison and best excuse for being there, would go too.  Becca and Mark would work on crossword puzzles, trim cuticles, and be ready to cut and run if things went south.  

 

With growing dread, I grabbed the ships documents and Nate and I climbed into the dinghy.  As we drew closer to the dock, the man pointed meaningfully at us and then at the dock under his feet.  He then made the motion for us to slow down.

By this point it was almost evening.  We were the only people visible in the marina.  His was the only dock.  We were moving at less than three miles an hour.  I interpreted his wholly unnecessary and condescending instructions as a childish assertion of authority.  He was giving orders because he could and because he wanted us to know who was in charge.  I felt my temper begin to rise.  

 

We tied up next to him, remaining seated in the dinghy and he stood silently for a few seconds studying us, blocking our exit onto the dock.  He was a lean man about in his 50's, with graying, military hair.  He wore a black polo shirt tucked into black cargo pants with matching black belt and steel toed boots.  The only thing that wasn't black about his ensemble was brown leather underarm holster and the nickel plated sidearm it held.  Looming over us, hands on hips, boots at eye level, he asked what we thought we were doing.

My temper rising a notch higher, I opened my mouth to give the sort reply that probably would have earned a kick to the face.  Nate, perhaps because he was more familiar than I with military rules and the sort of men who enforce them, perhaps sensing my immediate and growing dislike of this man, perhaps grasping the true powerlessness of our situation, spoke up before I could.  He explained our situation and that we were just looking for a safe anchorage for the night and would be gone in the morning.  He apologized profusely and repeatedly for our temerity in entering the harbor without permission.  Most importantly and without being asked, Nate handed the man his military ID.  Still angry about our impolite reception, I asked if we'd done something wrong. 

 

"I'll say you have," the man spat back at me.  "You've broken onto an active naval base."  I opened my mouth to point out some obvious inconsistencies with this statement but, Nate shot me a look equal parts pleading and warning, and I bit my tongue.  

 

"If you'd been a few minutes longer getting over here," the man continued, "I wouldn't just be talking to you.  You'd have been handcuffed and then maced."  I bit down harder on my tongue.   He seemed mean enough to do it.

Nate continued to sprinkle apologies as he reiterated and elaborated on his past service credentials including former rank, unit, and deployment details.  Meanwhile, I sat silently stewing beside him with snarky, sarcastic questions running through my mind.  If this was an active base where was everyone?  If what we'd done was such a big deal, why hadn't we been stopped by a patrol boat on the way in?  Why hadn't anyone made any effort until now to let us know?  If he was such a big deal, why had he had to sit on the dock for half an hour waiting for us to come to him?

The man warmed visibly to the recounting of Nate's active service record and announced that he was going to cut us a break.  Not only would he let us stay but, we could use the marina services free of charge.  He even offered to loan Nate the use of his truck to pick up groceries on account of Nate's being a "warrior".  

 

Nate admitted to me later that he knew right away what sort of man we were dealing with on the dock, even before tying up.  He'd dealt with men like that his entire enlistment in the marines and knew how to handle them.  I thanked Nate for his hard won knowledge and his quick thinking in interrupting me.  Had Nate not been there or had I been allowed to say what I wanted to say, I likely would have spent some time in a military brig.

 

That night, outside the showers, we ran into an elderly navy vet living on his boat in the marina.  He explained things to us.  The base was in the process of decommissioned and was in function if not yet in fact.  That's why there was no one around, no ships in the harbor, no patrol boats to stop us at the mouth.  That's why the only security was one egomaniac in a Durango.  But, yes, technically it was still government property.

That night, guests of the U.S Navy, we cooked a big dinner, drank up the rest of the beer aboard, and had a dance party in the cabin.  The next morning, we left at first light.

 

 

(Becca shows us her moves)

(Mark and Becca get wild while Nate DJs)

(Dancing)

 

(Nose picking)