Crossing to Port Lucaya: Radar, Rain, and Radio Silence
We pulled up anchor and left Lake Worth just before sunset.
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.
Chris and I were both too excited to sleep.
Until we were both too exhausted to function.
We finally started taking short shifts at the helm — twenty minutes here, thirty there — the kind of sleep where your body rests but your brain refuses to.
Somewhere in the dark, during my shift, a freighter crossed our stern within a half mile of us!
He was not on radar, which we still can't figure out. One minute, the horizon was empty. Next, a dark shape with one dull red and one green light was sliding behind us. Far enough to be safe, but close enough to remind us who really owns the ocean at night.
That moment will stay with me.
When first light broke over the water, the Bahamas appeared like a promise kept.
We reached the West End channel at daybreak and turned toward Bell Channel, aiming for Port Lucaya Marina and the long nap we had been dreaming about for twelve hours.
We’d intentionally kept our speed around 5–6 knots through the night to time our arrival after sunrise.
Except… not quite.
One boat was already waiting at the channel entrance. He’d been there since 5:00 AM.
We called the marina, and they told us to hail the dockmaster on Channel 16.
We did.
No answer.
Tried again.
No answer.
Another boat arrived and hailed.
No answer.
Then another.
No answer.
Soon there were five of us circling politely like sharks with very good manners.
For three hours.
Then a calm, sweet voice came over the radio: “Hi, this is Little Mermaid calling Port Lucaya.”
Immediate response from the marina. “Yes. Come on in.”
You could feel the tension ripple across the water from the awaiting captains.
Chris nudges me toward the radio to get me to chime in quick. We were told to stand by, as were the other boats.
So we all stood by for another hour.
Then another half.
Chris and I debated hailing again. We waved at the other boats — a silent floating support group of tired captains trying to stay patient.
Finally, I called.
No answer.
Ten minutes later:
“Come on in.”
We eased down the channel, hailed again on approach, and were directed to a slip.
It was too small, but we tried.
We slid in just enough to realize we couldn’t actually get off the boat. The fixed dock didn’t reach our stern doorway.
Which meant poor Chris had to back her out, pivot around a ferry, avoid other boats, and reposition into another slip.
Turns out the dockmaster assumed we would all “follow the leader” in order of arrival. Except every single boat had been told to stand by. Miscommunication at its finest.
And perhaps a gentle lesson for us in being just a little more assertive on the radio. We are learning that southern politeness may not work in cruising reality.
Once finally secured in a proper slip, we shut down the engine and promptly crashed.
We had crossed the Gulf Stream.
Navigated rain-blind radar.
Avoided invisible freighters.
Survived radio silence.
Docked twice.
We'd finally done it, so close to our ultimate ten-year goal of anchoring in an exotic location, swimming around our boat, and watching the sun rise and set over the water.
Stay tuned — because our next “simple plan” didn’t exactly go according to plan either. 🌊⚓️
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