Approaching the dock in Nanny Cay Marina was easy; the colourful buildings gleamed in the sunlight, and the sound of happy chatter drifted from the nearby restaurants. They assigned me to dock D3, a bustling hub of activity with the sounds of seagulls and the salty smell of the ocean. With a deep breath, all I needed to do was reverse the boat into its designated slip, the gentle lapping of water against the hull a soothing sound. For optimal control when backing a 51-foot sailboat into its slip, the bow thruster provides the best precision, allowing for subtle adjustments to avoid scraping the hull on the dock. When the bow thruster engages, sending the bow to starboard, the boat pivots on its keel, causing the stern to swing to port, a subtle dance of controlled movement. While it requires some practice, steering into the dock using this technique results in fewer hull scratches and dents compared to using the wheel.
Sailing from Trellis Bay to Nanny Cay Marina
I confidently engaged the bow thruster so the trapdoor would open and the propeller would descend, ready to steer the boat. A high-pitched whirring, like a thousand angry wasps, filled my ears, and to my horror, it was the only sound. Much to my disappointment, the bow remained stationary and did not turn to port as planned. I smashed into the wooden dock; the impact jarring my teeth. With practiced ease, Daniel, the seasoned marina’s hand, placed a fender, its thick rubber cushioning the boat against the dock, preventing any significant damage.
After I effectively tied up the boat, securing it with a firm knot, I dove under the hull, the cool water closing in around me as I adjusted my snorkel and mask. Where the trap door and bow thruster had been, there was only the unsettling emptiness of missing equipment. The housing for the bow thruster was empty of its contents. The bow thruster and trap door were gone.
While drying off in the cockpit, I suddenly stopped. I reflected on the last mooring ball I had retrieved in Trellis Bay. With a 26-knot wind tearing through the air, I could hear the whistling sound of the gale as it whistled through the rigging. We hadn’t even tied the line when a strong wind unexpectedly spun the bow, and the boat floated right over the taut, heavy roped to the mooring ball. Likely, when the boat straightened out, the force of the wind against the thick rope ripped off the bow thruster. Could it be sitting at the bottom of Trellis Bay?
I have a complete set of scuba gear on board, including tanks, regulators, and wetsuits, ready for this kind of emergency. Tossing my bags into the back of the taxi, the worn leather seats cool beneath my fingers, I headed towards Trellis Bay, roughly 30 minutes away. I racked my brain, but no clear strategy emerged. My only hope was finding a sympathetic sailor who might take pity and ferry me in their small dinghy to that infuriating mooring ball. The usually bustling Trellis Bay was surprisingly quiet, almost devoid of sailboats. Only four remained. The docks were deserted; no sailors were around to help me, and the silence was unnerving.
I spotted a lone woman in a bright pink long-sleeved shirt, her voice a sharp contrast to the gentle lapping of the water, as she urged her two sons, ages four and six, to stay off the rickety fishing dock. As I approached her, the boys took off laughing, running onto the dock. I explained my problem to her.
“I have two dinghies, both out of gas,” she said apologetically.
With a sigh, I let my gaze drift from the grey, slightly battered dinghies to the lonely mooring ball, far out in the choppy water. The distance was too great to swim, especially with all my bulky scuba gear.
“I can let you use the kayak,” she continued. “Usually, we rent them at $20 an hour, but you can use it for free. There is no one renting anything today. The bay is empty.”
Grateful for the gentle breeze, I paddled out to the mooring ball and secured my boat. I carefully stowed my scuba tank and gear in the kayak, the straps creaking slightly under the weight. With my fins, mask, and snorkel in place, I surveyed the bay’s bottom, noting the swaying kelp forest and colorful fish darting between the few rocks. Peering into the depths, I judged the floor to be about 25 feet down, a shadowy indistinctness at that distance. Patches of seaweed dotted the sandy bottom, their dark fronds a stark contrast against the pale sand. There, a mere ten feet away, the bow thruster lay submerged in the murky, 25-foot-deep water, its fiberglass surface slightly encrusted with marine growth.
Taking a deep breath, I plunged towards the bay floor, my fins churning, the increasing pressure a familiar sensation in my ears as I cleared them on my descent. When I got to the bottom, my lungs felt they were ready to burst. The bow thruster felt impossibly heavy as I tried to heave it upward. The weight of it was too much, and it slipped from my grasp. I glanced up at the surface, the waves a chaotic ballet of small wavelets, quickly calculating whether I had time to retrieve the bow thruster and still make it up without involuntarily sucking in a lungful of salty seawater. I reached for the thruster and hung on to it as if my life depended on it.
Nanny Cay bustles with activity as skilled workers repair sailboats, the sounds of hammers and saws echoing across the docks, the smell of fiberglass and paint hanging in the air. Lincoln, a man known for his honesty and integrity, offered to source parts and repair the damage, his eyes reflecting a determination to fix the problem. He will search high and low for the necessary parts, his hands already itching to begin the repair. Should his efforts prove successful, I’ll haul the boat from the water in the coming weeks and have the re-attachment done, hopefully before I head towards the Dominican Republic.
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