A New Year's to Remember
Part Two.
By Dave and Jaja
(to read Part One of this story, click here)

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When the last of the surf was well astern, I hooked a lure up to the fishing pole. We made our own lures using feathers, or aluminum foil, or strips cut from potato chip bags, or pieces of material. A combination of red and white, or red and silver seemed to work best.

Within minutes we snagged a wahoo. While I played him Jaja doused the jib and turned us head-to-wind. When the brute was alongside, Jaja took a length of quarter-inch rope, made a large slip knot around the fishing line, then slid her make-shift lasso over the head of the fish. She worked it over the fish's body, then cinched it tight around the nub of the tail. A gaff would have been a much easier way to land the fish but we did not have a gaff. We hauled the fish aboard by its tail then wacked it on the head with a winch handle. The wahoo was five-and-a-half feet long and weighed about the same as our 6-horse Johnson outboard.

We continued downwind towards Boa Vista's south shoreline. We were not sure what sort of protection we would find there. There was the ground swell rolling in from the northwest and the trades were still honking out of the east. We hoped the small indentation on the south shore would provide protection from both.

A few hours later DIRECTION hove into the wide, southern bay. The wind had piped up to 25 knots and was ripping off the beach. We nosed our way closer and closer to land in order to find moderate depths for anchoring in. Near to shore the depth was 25 feet with clean sand, but after our previous night's experience we were now the epitome of caution. We had no intention of getting close to shore, no matter how good the bottom, or how ideal the depth. It occurred to me that caution can sometimes be a greater hazard than boldness, but doing a dumb thing twice (such as anchoring in the surf line) would place us even lower on the evolutionary scale than we already felt. Jaja recited a jingle her father often told to her: "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me."

We turned around and anchored wwwaaaayyyyy, way out.

The depth was 45 feet and the sandy bottom was littered with staghorn coral. We found a clear patch for the anchor and let the rode fly. It wasn't a great anchorage, but it would do. There was a long, low swell rolling into the bay. It was reminiscent of a Pacific swell; almost undetectable unless you watched the horizon. Sitting in the cockpit, the horizon dipped behind the surge every half minute.

Going to shore was out of the question. For one thing, we'd never survive the violent shore break. Even worse, if for some reason we got blown past DIRECTION on the return trip from shore, we'd be blown out to sea. Safer to stay on the boat.

It was our first New Year's Eve together. We sat below out of the wind and made drinks using Cuban rum purchased on Isla Sal. We set up the backgammon board, rolled the dice, ate some fish, and drank some rum. Later, I went on deck to dump the fish scraps overboard.

I hollered below. "Jaja, you had better come on deck." The sky was gray and overcast. But directly to windward a black cloud was moving quickly in our direction. "Could be a squall," I said. "We need to be ready in case we drag."

The longer we watched the cloud the less it looked like a squall. Without preamble a three-inch long, red grasshopper landed on the furled mainsail. Then another. And another.

"Locusts!" We dove down the companionway and swung the doors closed. Grasshoppers rained down. Millions of them. As the wind carried them past DIRECTION, they banged against the rigging. I looked out the hatch. The mast was a tower of squirming legs and twitchy antennae. The aggressive ones clung to the shrouds. Others were trying to hop into the companionway. The assault went on for over a half hour.

We made repeated trips to the rum bottle and speculated how it would be if we were sailing. Night was falling. Had we kept sailing, it is possible the creatures would have landed on us in the dark. What a sailing story that would have made! When the air finally cleared we went on deck to shoo away our unwanted guests. Many still gripped the shrouds and rested on the mast. By "twanging" the wires they took to flight. When night fell completely, the clouds parted, revealing the half moon. It was bright enough to see the shadowy blue-and-black coral beneath the boat. The wind held steady. The swells lifted and lowered us and the bow roller squeaked--a reminder that I still needed to lube it.

That night on BBC radio they played the old version of "Peter Pan" with Mary Martin as Peter. We dutifully clapped our hands at the end. At midnight, when 1989 took over the watch from 1988, we kicked the last of our grasshopper-party-guests out of the cabin, turned off the lights, and listened to the wind.

It was difficult not to imagine that grasshoppers were crawling under the blankets, and skittering around on deck, ready to pounce.