Passage / Delivery - St. Thomas to Miami

A few weeks back, I helped crew on a delivery of a late-model (2023, I believe) Fontaine Pajot Tanna 47, bringing her from St. Thomas to the Miami area, in Florida - 7 days and about 1,010 nautical miles.

This was my first ocean passage, and I felt incredibly fortunate to be asked to join by my friend, sailing instructor, and occasional captain, Brenton. I flew from Boston to Georgia first, did some initial work on Blue Turtle (which we wrote about here), and then drove my rented car down to Orlando and hopped a flight to St. Thomas.

I’ve never been to the Virgin Islands before, and while my stay was short (one night), I can’t wait to come back aboard Blue. It was hot, especially coming out of the cold snap up in Rhode Island, and we settled in, oriented ourselves, and I met the owner and his wife, as well as fellow crew, Tom.

Seaplane landing just across the mooring field in St. Thomas.

Captain Brenton, running through some course planning the evening before departure.

We set off the next morning, motoring out from Charlotte Amelie. The West Gregerie Channel was a bit choppy, with the wind between the main island and Water Island running contrary to the current. The first day or two of any passage is usually where I’ll struggle a bit with seasickness, especially in bouncy conditions, but I was fortunate this time - sitting at the helm and keeping an eye on the horizon staved off any unpleasantness, and I managed what symptoms did arise with ginger and herbal remedies.

While I carry both dramamine and scopolamine, I prefer to not take them, and that can be a gamble.

Setting out from St. Thomas.

The initial few days were some of the saltiest; while the wind was behind us the entire way, we had larger waves and more motion as we set out. The said, it was warm, the wind was steady around 20kts, and with a following sea we just lifted and settled along with the swell.

Birds from the islands kept pace with us, diving and returning (occasionally) with fish in their beaks.

The Tanna 47 is an amazing boat, and we all had our own private stateroom and head, plus the main deckhouse, the seating area just outside of it, a helm station that fit 2 people, and an amazing upper area with sofas.

The view from the upper deck.

Unpacking into my cabin.

With 5 people aboard, we settled into a 1-hour on / 4 hour off watch schedule, which made for an incredibly easy set of overnights. Brenton typically slept on the upper sofas beneath the stars, but I was able to rest in my cabin for most of the trip.

Not Bob. Still, cool to have with us.

I’m not a huge fan of overnight watches, yet, but this was definitely the easiest passage I’ve done - with the trades behind us, we sailed on a broad reach under a reefed main and genoa for nearly the entire trip. One night - the second or third, I believe - a sea bird landed on deck and sat just forward of the helm all night. We think he got too far from land, and used the boat as a place to rest until morning. It was sadly too dark to get any real pictures, but we dubbed him Bob the Bird, and aside from the mess on the solar panels the next day he was a welcome companion.

Enjoying life at sea.

We encountered some wind and chop on the Moana and Windward passages, but aside from the wave slap on the hulls - enough to lift me out of my bunk, at times! - it wasn’t a big deal.

Dawn at sea.

While I really like monohulls, the appeal of the catamaran is in its flatter motion. With two hulls, heel is reduced, and with their lower-buoyancy bows they tend to cut into waves rather than pounding across them. The higher buoyancy in the hulls also contributes to a lower tendency to roll, and the net effect is a flatter, calmer ride.

We switched off on cooking duty throughout the week, but nobody seemed to really offer much of an appetite. I hadn’t been involved in the provisioning, and it was a helpful experience in making do - I did fine with some meals, but my attempt to combine quinoa, sausage, and peppers was a resounding bust, especially in the absence of anything vinegar-y to brighten the flavors.

Can’t win them all…

The most spirited moment of the passage came north of Cuba, just after dawn. I was at the helm, finishing a night watch, and everyone was waking up and starting coffee. I noticed a small skiff over the port side, on the horizon, closing in on us at high speed - I estimated 40+ knots.

Through the binoculars, I could see two men on board, both dressed all in black, with facemasks. The man behind the driver was holding what looked like a rifle, and they were glowering, their skiff bouncing over the waves as they came at our stern.

One generally does not believe a thing like this can happen; pirates are the stuff of movies, not reality, certainly not in these waters. And yet, there they were, coming closer, scowling as they saw me crouching and looking at them from the upper deck. Realizing that I was pretty exposed, I dropped down to the helm. Brenton had come up at this point, and I told the owner to get his wife below as we started the engines and discussed our plan.

The thing about a sailboat - even a big, fast, modern catamaran - is that it tops out far, far below the maximum speed of a planing hull skiff. Even with both engines on and going full throttle, we max out at 10kts - and these guys were clearly doing 4-5x that speed. Our sole option, we decided, was to let them come close, and then cut hard to port and attempt to either destabilize their boat or even hit them, if they started to board. While Brenton prepared to take action on the helm, I went to the stern, and began thinking about how to handle two armed men, if it came to it.

Four armed men.

Another skiff appeared, coming at us from 45 degrees off the port beam. Same all-black, same apparent rifle.

I could feel my hands shaking from the adrenaline as I used the binoculars to track both rapidly approaching boats - and then they zoomed past us, scowling. More boats appeared on the horizon, doing the same.

A few minutes later, we realized what was happening: these were fishermen, likely diving and poaching reef fish off the Grand Bahamas Banks. They left at dawn, likely escaping the notice of the authorities; the rifles were spearguns, the all-black outfits wetsuits. They frowned at us because they didn’t want to be seen or reported.

The rest of the trip went smoothly as we approached Miami, packed with boats for the Miami Boat Show, and then piloted up to Fort Lauderdale. We docked at a mostly-constructed, fancy marina, washed the boat thoroughly, had a delicious dinner, and then turned in. Another delivery complete.

Arriving in Fort Lauderdale.