Our Bermuda Experience: Part One
By Dave and Jaja

On May 4th 1998, we arrived in Bermuda, aboard DRIVER, after a boisterous 8-day passage from Fernandina Beach, Florida. On the 20th of May we set sail for Iceland. The following is our Bermuda Experience (Part 1 of 4)

By lunch time, the rain and strong winds had petered out, leaving us drifting in the sloppy aftermath, about 30 miles from Bermuda's St. Georges Harbor entrance. I'd entered St. Georges on several occasions over the years and knew that the sequencing of entrance buoys could be confusing, even in daylight. We started the engine, relieved that we would be safely anchored before nightfall.

We try to avoid entering harbors at night--even familiar ones--because mental fatigue can play mean tricks with judgment. Being extra cautious (when the dry-eyed symptoms of exhaustion are acknowledged) uses up precious energy, which in turn accelerates exhaustion. It's a vicious cycle. After experiencing a week of 25- to 35-knot winds between Florida and Bermuda, we questioned our perceptions: Were we making our observations APPEAR sound by unintentionally distorting them? Filtering erroneous input is a skill acquired through experience. But overconfidence, that dangerous ally to fatigue, is a curse that experience often fails to suppress.

Later, as the light was failing, we tied DRIVER to the customs jetty on St. Georges Harbor. Exhausted, I staggered into the main office with our passports and ship's papers. Going from the ocean's wide-open spaces straight into a fluorescent-lit room, where everyone is moving at the speed of light, can be extremely disorienting. My mind became over-stimulated, which caused me to act irrationally. (In Third World countries, officials move in slow motion but the disorienting effects are similar). I have often wondered if customs officials think that yachtsmen are the stupidest people on the planet.

While fighting to regain balance and composure at the customs counter, my mouth was tricked by my mind. The official glanced at my documents, took out a stack of forms, then asked the first of many questions.

"Mr. Martin? What was your last port?"

"Cockburn's."

"EXCUSE ME?"

"Oh, sorry...I mean, Fernando Beach. No, wait! I mean, Fernandina Beach, Flornando. Sorry...I mean Florida!" I was sweating, convinced the official was going to order the drug dogs down to the boat at any moment. To make matters worse, the immigration cards threw words at me like DISEMBARKATION. Does that mean coming or going? I can never remember. With five passports it took forever to fill in all the numerical data, at the end of which time my hand was dripping with sweat.

"Enjoy your stay in Bermuda, Mr. Martin."

"Thanks. I sure you will!"

Back out in the fresh air, my pulse slowed and my head cleared. Jaja sauntered over with the kids who were spinning like tops. "How'd it go?"

"No problem!"