Plot Twist Yacht

Leaving Port Lucaya felt different this time. The wind had finally eased, the dock lines came off without drama, and instead of bracing for the next blow, we were pointed toward something I had quietly dreamed about since before we ever crossed the Gulf Stream: Great Harbour Cay. More specifically — Sugar Beach. I had this picture in my mind of us anchored off that stretch of sand, dinghy tied off, hiking into Shark Creek, and finally — finally — settling into our first real Bahamian anchorage. Not just dropping the hook out of necessity, but because we chose to. We were still a little nervous. That never fully goes away. But we weren’t the same wide-eyed rookies we had been weeks earlier. Experience — even the humbling kind — builds confidence. As we made our way south, we passed Disney and Carnival, their floating cities heading toward their own private islands scattered across the Bahamas. It felt surreal to glide by them in our steady trawler, no schedule but our own. Closer ...

Our plan was simple: arrive in Port Lucaya, rest for a few days after the crossing, and move on. I was looking forward to our first Valentine's on our boat at a beautiful anchoage. The weather had other plans. A line of 40+ knot blows stacked up on the forecast, one after another, and what was meant to be a short stay quietly stretched into a full week at the dock. And honestly? We loved it. There’s something unexpectedly sweet about being “stuck” somewhere beautiful. The pressure to move disappears. The to-do lists quiet. Instead of planning routes and studying weather windows, we found ourselves settling into marina life. Evenings turned into docktails — folding chairs appearing along the pier, stories flowing as easily as the drinks. We shared dinners with fellow cruisers, wandered to nearby restaurants, and lingered longer than we would have if we were chasing the next anchorage. During the day, we explored the market, chatted with shop owners, and took long walks throug...

We pulled up anchor and left Lake Worth just before sunset. There’s something cinematic about departing at golden hour — navigating through traffic, cruise ships towering in the distance, radios crackling, and that final push out of the inlet. The current gave us a generous shove into the Atlantic, and for a moment, everything felt easy. Too easy. A few miles offshore, our AIS went down. Again. Apparently, our “fix” wasn’t actually a fix. Which meant our first real overnight crossing just became a little more… vintage. No AIS. Just radar. And eyeballs. At first, it felt manageable. The seas were cooperative, the sky clear, and the big ships were lit up like floating cities — Disney, Carnival, Royal Caribbean — glowing against the night horizon. But then the rain showed in the distance. If you’ve ever used radar in the rain, you know what happens next. The screen lights up like a Christmas tree, and suddenly, distinguishing weather from steel hulls becomes a guessing game. ...

We left you last time with a bit of drama. Specifically: water geysering out of the kitchen sink like we’d accidentally installed a decorative fountain where the dishes should be. Nothing quite spikes your heart rate like saltwater erupting inside your boat while she’s still in slings, only partially submerged. Cue careful problem-solving. Chris and John Williams worked their way through everything that could be responsible—engine work that had been done, the generator, all the through-hulls. Heads were scratched. Theories were floated. Meanwhile, I stood there wondering if this was how boats quietly inform you they’ve had enough. Then John paused, looked around, and said with absolute confidence, “I know what it is.” He disappeared outside, leaned over the side of the boat, and called back, “Yep. It’s the lift straps. They’re covering the sink drain.” Of course they were. The straps had been positioned just right to block the drain outlet, forcing water to take the only available path...