Plot Twist Yacht

  Riding It Out in Rock Sound After learning a few lessons the hard way, we made our way to Rock Sound , determined to find a spot that would give us the protection we needed for the next blow. We nudged our way into some of the shallowest water we’d dared to take Plot Twist, inching forward carefully until we found a place we hoped would keep us tucked in close enough to shore to block the worst of the wind. And to our delight, it hooked and remained in place for days with zero dragging.   The wind came, just as expected, along with an unexpected party at a restaurant ashore Apparently, they had their own plans for the evening, ones that involved music, laughter, and a full-on party that carried across the water like we’d been invited… whether we wanted to attend or not. And by “evening,” I mean until 2:00 a.m. I was lying there in the dark, listening to the bass thump across the anchorage, asking ourselves if we’d chosen the right spot. Thankfully, the next day, Sunday, bro...

After watching the weather and picking our moment, we made our way to Alabaster Bay in Eleuthera, looking for a place to tuck in for a few nights. The ride in? A little sporty. Not the kind that makes you question your life choices—but enough to keep you on your toes and remind you that the ocean always has a say.  I found it invigorating and fun. We arrived, scoped out our spot, and dropped the anchor, but it didn't bite. So we tried again. Alas, still nothing. Third time? Finally. She held. We exhaled, settled in for the evening, and let the boat gently rock us into a well-earned rest. The next day brought one of those moments that reminds you why this lifestyle is so special. We met a couple on a monohull nearby—kind, easygoing, the kind of people you instantly feel comfortable around. In the course of conversation, we mentioned we’d blown a 200-amp fuse. Without hesitation, they offered us two of theirs, and wouldn’t take a dime for them. That’s boating. It’s a community built ...

Once the weather finally calmed down, and our anchor began dragging despite holding through 37-mile-per-hour winds, we ventured out in search of our next stop. What we found just south of Glass Window was the kind of anchorage you dream about when planning a trip like this. Fluffy white sand beneath the keel. Crystal-clear water stretching in every direction. And just a short dinghy ride from shore. But the real highlight wasn’t just the anchorage. It was what waited on shore. After securing the dinghy (very securely, thanks to our earlier Disappearing Dinghy episode), we started our excursion along Queen’s Highway — the same narrow road that runs the length of Eleuthera. Calling it “pedestrian safe” would be generous. Cars zip along at surprising speeds, but drivers are quick to give friendly honks and waves as they pass. It’s equal parts nerve-wracking and charming. Our first stop was the famous Glass Window Bridge , where the deep navy Atlantic crashes against one side while th...

Hatchet Bay made us work for it. Dropping the anchor took three attempts before we finally got a solid hold in the gravel and sand. Each time we thought she was set, the chain shifted, and we had to try again. But eventually the Mantus dug in, and just in time. The blow arrived not long after. At its peak, we clocked about 37 mph winds , the strongest we’ve experienced at anchor so far. Thankfully, Hatchet Bay offered excellent protection. There was no swell, and despite the wind howling overhead, the boat sat comfortably in the water. It was one of those moments where you feel deeply grateful for a well-chosen anchorage. After a few days aboard, we were ready to stretch our legs. We took the dinghy ashore so we could explore town. Hatchet Bay itself feels like a place caught between what it once was and what it might become again someday. The people we met were incredibly friendly, but much of the town is quiet now. There’s still a haul-out facility and dry storage, but the pier ...

  Sugar Beach at Great Harbour Cay was everything I had imagined — turquoise water, soft sand, and the quiet satisfaction of finally anchoring in the Bahamas by choice, not necessity. Our plan was simple: leave Great Harbour Cay, make a stop at Rose Island near Nassau for one night, and then push on to the Exumas. It felt clean. Efficient. Adventurous. And for a while, it worked. The run to Rose Island was beautiful. Clear skies. Calm seas. That deep Bahamian blue stretching endlessly in every direction. We dropped anchor in what we assumed would be a brief pause before heading south the next morning. But the weather, once again, had opinions. The wind began to increase — not dramatically at first, just enough to catch our attention. Then it shifted. And then the radio chatter started. Reports trickled in from fellow boaters who had already experienced the last blow. Anchorages were overcrowded. Boats had dragged. Some had ended up far closer to their neighbors than intende...

When I woke up and saw empty water behind the boat, my brain refused to process it. The dinghy was gone. “Chris. Our dinghy is gone,” I cried out in a calm, cold, confused tone. "What?" He ran out to inspect then bolted up to the pilot house, grabbed the binoculars, and scanned the horizon while I lifted the painter line. In that moment of adrenaline, it looked cut. Clean. My stomach dropped. I tossed the line down, raced up the cockpit stairs to the pilot house, and grabbed the radio. “Uh… any boats in the anchorage… this is Plot Twist… has anyone seen a dinghy drifting?” Nothing. No response. The silence screamed. Our brand-new dinghy — the price of a used car. Our transportation. Our freedom. Gone. I started calculating wind drift, current, money. How far could it have gone be by now. I'd been resting int he salon only feet from where it had been tied up, and I'd heard nothing. I debated inflating the paddleboard and going boat to boat asking in person if a...

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...