500 Miles To Trinidad

The new "Marlin" of the ex- "Iron Lady" crew

"Mom, when will the water finally turn blue?", Maydie sums up the longing of all crew members. 20 nautical miles in the muddy brown water of the Suriname River are already behind us after we loosened the lines at 7:30 in the morning, but we have to refuel before the coveted color change.

The Shell petrol station is just before the sandbanks at the entrance to the river. It is normally closed on Saturdays, but Walter, the Indian owner, lives right above the pier and comes running to the water on a call. We maneuver the "Marlin" to the dilapidated narrow wooden walkway, where Walter is already waving happily and holding the tap in his hand.

That's a difference, our old "Iron Lady" and the new "Marlin", 14 tons more to handle - without a bow thruster, ten big steps more to get from bow to stern and back again, a few more decibels of voice to give information to the skipper.

We urgently need a sophisticated sign language, I think to myself, meanwhile the children act as silent mail, sit happily at the mast and pass on commands. Walter taps and taps, I count money, convert US dollars first into Suriname dollars and then into diesel liters. 335 liters is my last bid, then the cash is used up.

"Is the money correct?" Asks Walter when I offer him my bundle of mixed currency. "I guess so." - "Okay, then I don't have to count, have a good trip!" Speaks it and loosens the lines for us. Caribbean serenity.

The ocean calls

Now let's go, the ocean is calling. Almost nine months of driving, shipyard, island life and work are behind us. It's unbelievable how fast the time flies and how much we missed the great blue.

The flowing current takes us with it. The engine purrs, another bend, another change of course, then the Trinidad course is on. Out with the big and in with the idle. On the horizon there are blue spots in the white sky, the water is still the color of milk coffee, but the "Marlin" sails.

Slowly it picks up speed, the rushing of the water can still be heard hesitantly, then more vigorously. 5 knots, 6 knots, 7 knots, 8 knots, the light breeze is enough to set the 26 tons of aluminum in motion. The big one is battened like a one, and even if Julian, Mich and I have to gasp for air after the sailing maneuvers, because only one of the two electric winches works, we shine in competition.

The sails have not been set for six years, this darling lay in the dirty river water for six years, and now a new course is finally on the way. We have not yet four meters of water under the keel, but the horizon is ahead of us. Engine off. Splendid.

inventory

It's time to take stock: the only drawback to the sails is the mold, Northsail advises against all mold removal measures because of the delamination. If the financial situation does not provide a new set of sails at the moment, we start to gloss over the situation.

Photo gallery: The first miles of the "Marlin"

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"Look, they look a lot better now in the sun." "Yeah, I think they're actually getting lighter," I mumble as I crawl across the deck to find the best possible angle for a photo where the least amount of mold can be seen.

Next inventory: autopilot. His name is currently Julian, and in two hours Nathalie and another two hours later Michael. Ray, who was paid for the job a few years ago, is on strike. We had already suspected, but not really spoken out loud. Well, that's the way it is.

Here, too, the law of glossing over applies: The best way to get to know a new ship is to be at the helm yourself. Exactly, day and night, every four hours, with the teacup in hand, the soup bowl balanced on your knees, alone at night when everyone is sleeping, in the midday heat when everyone crawls inside because the bimini is still missing. Steer every wave, feel how the ship picks up the waves, how it reacts to small course changes, how it approaches - a good school.

Back in the blue

The first night at sea is now behind us, the coffee brown has disappeared, we are surrounded by deep blue. Terns make themselves comfortable on the Furuno radar above the stern, and flying fish jump out of the water next to the "Marlin". Mays sits on a leash at the stern, dangles his legs over the mirror and watches the wake for hours as if hypnotized or builds huge Playmobil landscapes in the pilothouse, which do not fall over despite the inclination. Nobody gets seasick, everyone is happy.

Happy and busy around the clock. The satellite phone is making a mess, the drinking water is suddenly very cloudy, and we find a couple of buckets of fresh water in the bilge. Where from? Shower? River water? Fresh water tank? With increasing heel, the contents of the spice rack fly around our ears, the refrigerator door is leaking, and there is no storage space in the kitchen for oil and vinegar bottles, salt shakers and other utensils.

You'd need four arms, or better six. Oh no, how was that? Glossing over. "Water in the bilge, come on, it's an aluminum boat, and at least it's not salt water." - "Look honey, how great, at least we can furnish the kitchen according to our very own system!" Please go.

The 200 meter depth line has been reached and with it the deep ultramarine blue that is addictive to anyone who has ever had several thousand meters of water under the keel. A quick look at the log, 8.4 knots, a quick look at the foaming wake. With the "Lady" we would now make 5 knots in the breeze and probably hold on to the bathing ladder and let ourselves be pulled through the water. I prefer to do without that here.

Engine failure

Inventory number 3: the power supply. We urgently need solar panels or a wind generator or a repair of the Fischer-Pand or all three together. The alternator delivers a ridiculous 35 ampere hours and eats eight liters of diesel. Any unnecessary use of electronic devices on board has been prohibited from the very first night.

But as soon as we have our travel energy management under control, the last power plant dies. Shrill alarm whistles, overheating, no more engine. No more glossing over it helps. Another attempt the next morning to run the engine ends after 15 minutes. This is bad. It is not possible to enter Trinidad under sail, the channel between the islands is too narrow and the downward winds that whistle around the cape are too unpredictable. Tobago should go, we think.

But I wouldn't be Micha if he let the matter rest. The next morning he takes on our diesel again, armed with everything that the still sparse tool case has to offer. We hear cursing and scolding, but all of this happens in the engine compartment, not in the middle of the companionway between the galley and the chart table as it used to be.

After an hour the skipper emerges from the depths of the "Marlin" with a black lump of plastic in his hand. "That was the impeller," he says dryly, and the search for a spare part begins. The "Lady" gave it for everything replacement, often in triplicate, but here we do not yet know exactly what we have on board.

Seeks me and actually finds the part I am looking for in one of the closets. Another hour goes by and the Yanmar is again spitting out the fresh lake cooling water, what luck. Of course we go to Tobago anyway, for safety and because the beach is nicer and the water clearer.

We don't need three days for the almost 500 nautical miles long route with family-friendly beginner sails. The north-setting current has cheated a bit, so that we drop the "Marlin" anchor for the first time in the middle of the night in Milford Bay. The next morning the crew falls into the water, wearing diving goggles, around the last point of the inventory tick off - the underwater hull. We don't need to gloss over ourselves here, tons of stones plop down our hearts and shoulders into the Caribbean sand. The underwater hull is in perfect order. No electrolysis, no bare aluminum, primer and antifouling intact everywhere.

Stage goal reached

Correspondingly relaxed and exuberant, we sail the remaining 60 nautical miles to Trinidad the next morning, the wind is turning, freshening up strongly, and so we fly under butterfly sails and full gear towards Port of Spain.

Me and I take turns at the helm, the "Marlin" surfs the waves, it gurgles and gurgles under the ship and in us. Yes, we made the right decision, bought the right boat, hunted at the right moment.

While we are entering Chaguaramas, Trinidad, the crew of the "Skua" comes towards us in the dinghy. We know each other from "Iron Lady" times in Buenos Aires. "Look good on you, the new boat!" They say. Then we want to work on it, that it stays that way and turn the "Marlin" in Trinidad into a real cruise ship.