Our Bermuda Experience: Part Three
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 3 of 4 )

The marina at Dock Yard is a pocket of sanity within the kingdom of confusion. The surrounding environs are filled with gardens, and the scanty vehicle traffic moves slowly; we could let Chris and Holly wander on shore without worrying about them getting knocked down by a suicidal moped or squashed by a kamikaze taxi. They spent a good deal of time wandering barefoot on the docks wearing life jackets, or else flying kites on a grassy patch near the end of the jetty.

We loaded the dinghy with provisions and sailed through a clear blue morning to a "desert island". We drifted south along Ireland Island, short tacked under the main hi-way bridge, then sailed to a rocky islet surrounded by pure white sand. The kids hit the beach like experts and waded confidently through the invisible water, finding hidden coves under the green casuarina trees. The sun blared down, cooked our skin pleasantly, and it turned the salty wet-patches on the dinghy's red sail white and powdery.

A slight breeze filled in during the late afternoon and we took advantage of it to sail back toward Dock Yard Marina. Chris and Holly trailed their sleepy hands in the water while the rough wood of the tiller vibrated gently in my palm. Jaja sat on a cushion, one foot propped on the gunwale, the other hooked under her. In one hand she cuddled a sleeping Teiga and in the other she held the main sheet. Chris informed us that the local, inter-island ferry was going to run us over. I looked over my shoulder and laughed: the boat was over a quarter mile away.

"He'll miss us by a mile," I said.

Minutes later, Chris reiterated his observation. I had another look behind us and involuntarily altered coarse--toward the shoreline.

"Can you believe it?" I said in amazement. "What's he doing?"

Jaja looked up. "What the..."

We were moving too slowly for our change of heading to have much effect, but it moved us out of range of an imminent collision. The next problem was how to avoid getting swamped by the wake.

As the ferry drew near, hoards of people on deck squeezed up to the rail and pulled out their camcorders. Just seconds before the cresting bow wave upset our peaceful afternoon, I turned us perpendicular to the wake to take it square on the stern. The wave approached, people on deck shouted joyously, the captain of the ferry gave a toot on the horn, then all at once the wave was under us and we shot off--surfing the face of it at top speed.

After the ferry sped away in a cloud of black diesel exhaust, oblivious to having disturbed our serenity--not to mention nearly capsizing us--Chris and Holly both began talking at once, full of excitement.

"Do you think he saw us on radar?"

"What if he really hit us?"

"How many horse power is his engine?"

"Would we have been chopped up by his propeller?"

While listening to the barrage I couldn't help thinking that, as adults, we never stop asking questions: Would our passage to Iceland be OK? What if we had gear failures? What if we struck a shipping container and put a hole in the boat? What if one of the kids gets sick days from land?...What if, what if, what if...