Wet Christmas

No-one really dreams of a wet Christmas, but we may be in for one this year. As I write this, rain is pelting down on the steel deck above my head, making a lovely ringing sound—or are those sleigh bells? No, it’s way too early.

Though we had hoped to be in the Bahamas for Christmas, it looks like we’ll be in Florida, waiting for the right weather window to cross the Gulf Stream—and for a new compressor for our fridge.

The compressor is easy—a two-hour drive to West Palm Beach to pick one up (and lunch at my favourite French café there…) then two hours back and many hours of poor Chris with his head in the cabinet beneath the sink while he installs it. I see some skinned knuckles in his future.

The weather, well, there’s nothing we can do about the weather. There is a massive storm system coming through today, bringing heavy rain and a band of “strong to severe” thunderstorms, whatever that means. I’m sure it’s bad. The storm system is dragging a cold front behind it with gale-force winds. The marine forecast calls for “very rough” conditions on the intracoastal waterways, something we’ve never seen before. “Light chop” is the norm in these protected waters. And Chris Parker, our weather savant, is describing the conditions offshore as “horrendous.”

So we’re actually glad we’re still in the boat yard today, up on stands and tied securely to, well, palm trees. For some reason the boat yard workers, who really know what they’re doing here, have untied us from our mafia blocks—huge rectangles of concrete they tie boats to during the hurricane season. But the palm trees look pretty sturdy.

We’ve reviewed our “what to do if the boat starts to tip over” strategy just in case—well, I have. Chris says it will never happen. My plan is to wedge myself into the V-berth where nothing heavier than a pillow or a roll of paper towel will fall on me and to try to remember to point my feet in the direction we’re falling. What do you think? Sound like a plan?

Florida is a weird place to be at Christmas time. The holiday decorations have a decidedly tropical bent—hula Santa is our favourite, outside a motel along the highway here in Titusville. The garden centres have all the usual lush, flowering plants and trees as well as Christmas trees and truly magnificent poinsettias.

Yesterday, the cashier in the grocery store was humming “White Christmas” as she scanned can after can of chick peas, jumbo packages of toilet paper, many bags of pasta and yes, a few bags of nacho cheese Doritos. We’ve been stocking up on non-perishables—there are only a few supermarkets in the Bahamas, and they are in places we try to avoid, like Nassau.

“Have you ever seen snow?” Chris asked her.

“No. Well, yes. On TV.”

Fortunately, we had a bit of white Christmas in Ontario before we left the farm, so much snow the last few days we were there that we weren’t sure we were going to be able to make it out the unplowed road to the highway. But we did.

The weather forecast was right. It’s raining harder now. The boat yard will be ankle deep in water by the end of the day. In weather like this, it feels pretty good to be living in an ark.

With any luck, the weather will clear once the front moves through and we’ll get the boat launched and be at anchor somewhere on Christmas day. Maybe we’ll find some coconuts and play a little bocce on the beach before settling in to a dinner of fresh crab cakes and a glass of prosecco.

However you spend it, may your day be merry and bright, and may your Christmas be white.

Or at least not wet.

Standing room only

Ten to two and the only people at the back of the bookstore where we’re holding the launch are Chris, my sister Brenda, and my friend Charlene. Gulp!

Then my niece Kathy and her husband Rob arrive. While I’m chatting with them, trying to hide my nervousness, people begin to trickle in. Then flow. At five to two all the chairs are full. By two o’clock, there are people standing at the back.

It was like having my whole life spread in front of me. My family. A friend from highschool. My best friend from grad school. Former work colleagues. Old friends. New friends. There were even some people I didn’t know.

Looking at that sea of faces it was impossible to be nervous. I talked about how the book came to be, read from it. There were some horrified faces as I described what it was like to be in a 43-foot sailboat in the middle of a proper North Atlantic gale.

After the gale

Then I talked a bit about how the experience changed me. I’m not the same person I was before I sailed across the ocean. I’m stronger, and braver, and happier now than I’d ever imagined I could be.

One thing I hadn’t expected was how much fun signing books would be. Fortunately I’d had a chance to warm up my signature the week before at Balzac’s in Stratford, where I signed books for Chris’s ex-wife Linda (starting to see a pattern here?) who bought copies for all her friends for Christmas presents.

Signing books at Balzac’s

There must have been a lot of that going on at the launch. Most people bought two or three copies, some five or six. In no time, the bookstore had gone through all of its stock. Fortunately Karen, my publisher, had the foresight to send me a box of books and instructed me to bring them along, just in case.

Now my book is out there, which feels great. Sales are nice and all that (I say this with a nod to Karen…) but what a writer really wants is to be read. I’ve heard from several people who have finished the book already, some of them in a single day. Their glowing praise is making me quite impossible to live with.

After such a successful launch, I’m really looking forward to our presentation at the Toronto International Boat Show in January. There had to be 50 people at the launch in Guelph. What’s a crowd of 150? Though I may have to recruit some friendly faces to sit at the front.

Any takers??

Countdown to launch day


Writing is a solitary occupation, which suits me just fine. I am at my happiest when we’re rocking gently at anchor and I’m tucked in on the starboard settee, my computer open on the table in front of me, a cup of coffee within easy reach, the oil lamp swinging gently overhead.

Working in my treehouse when we’re at Meadowlark is almost as good—in some ways it’s better: my coffee never slides across the table when I’m not paying attention. And when I’m stuck, I can gaze out the window at cows grazing in the meadow below the treehouse.

So getting myself ready for the launch of Sea Over Bow is a bit of a stretch. It all starts on Sunday, November 25th at 2pm with a reading and book signing at The Bookshelf in Guelph. I’ve already sorted out what I’ll read, and what I’ll wear. I’ve even bought new boots for the occasion: I call them my writer’s boots and will wear them to give myself courage.


I’m feeling better about the launch now that books have finally arrived. Delays in printing have been frustrating, but they’re in stores now. The e-version of the book is out, too. Amazon, Chapters, and my publisher, Signature Editions, all offer it online.

But what’s really making me feel confident are the initial reviews which have begun to appear. Below is my first online review at Chapters. Yes, it makes me blush, but it feels so good to be read—and praised. Who wouldn’t like that?

If you live in the area, I hope you’ll come to the launch next Sunday. I’ll try to be brave, but if it’s too much for a quiet, introverted writer, I’ll just tap my heels together, close my eyes, and say, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.”

Okay. I promise not to do that. I’ll give you a bit of background on the book, read for you, answer questions, sign books, and we’ll have a great afternoon together.

And you can admire my new writer’s boots.

Prepare to be swept along with Sea Over Bow! 

I’m no sailor, but I felt like I was a stowaway on Linda Kenyon’s passage through the storms of the North Atlantic, and through the tempest of her past. Alone on the night watch, with no moorings or landforms, it turns out to be all too easy for her to lose her bearings and let her mind flood with painful memories and self-doubt. The narrative flows from one timeline to another, through multiple generations of women attempting to navigate the shoals of their lives. As well, maternal warnings float up, on ancient waves of fear and vulnerability. Yet, in the present, in the context of her new relationship, Kenyon is awash in the delights of shipboard terminology, food, sea light and wildlife–and the terrors of “proper North Atlantic gales.” This tumultuous immersion in the senses transforms her from passenger in life to sailor: a woman able to adapt, to take risks, to acknowledge her own bravery, and, above all, to find and celebrate the joy of the moment. In the end, she may have buried her past at sea and have her future in sight on the horizon, but I am left becalmed, wanting to know what happened when they sailed the boat back. It seems I’ll have to wait for the sequel…

–M. Jeanne Yardley

Act now!


We were at anchor in the Bahamas, waiting for yet another front to pass through, when the email message came in:

“Signature Editions would be delighted to publish your manuscript. Do let me know if it’s still available.”

I let out a whoop of joy and Chris dove below deck and came up with a bottle of Prosecco and two glasses. My book had finally found a publisher. It was really going to happen.

And it’s happened fast. Six months later, Sea Over Bow: A North Atlantic Crossing is at the printer, scheduled to be shipped to bookstores across the country on October 31st.

I’ll admit that lately I’ve been googling my book each day, watching with amazement as the number of hits keeps growing. It’s on The Nautical Mind bookstore’s site, and on Chapters and Amazon. It has started popping up in other countries: in England, in Australia. Listings have begun to appear in other languages: Swedish, Italian… Chinese.

It’s described variously as a travel story, a memoir, a love story (I’m not entirely sure how it’s characterized in Chinese.) But see for yourself. I’ve added an excerpt from the book to this site.

If you like it (and of course I hope you do), please consider pre-ordering it. When you place a special order at your local bookstore, it brings the book to the attention of a real live bookseller. And I’m told that advance orders have a big impact on a book’s rating on online sites like Amazon. You may want to order extra copies for Christmas presents!

Ugh. I’m great at writing, I like to think, but very bad at this selling stuff.

Buy my book. Just buy my book. (There—how’s that? Too subtle?)

From sea to sea

first fragments

“There it is!”

Chris points to what looks to me like the remains of a foundation. I had imagined something much larger, wide enough for four horses to ride abreast, like the Great Wall of China.

“Are you sure?”

I’ll admit we were a little underwhelmed, but what the wall lacked in width, we discovered, it more than made up for in length.

Begun in AD122 by… wait for it… the Roman Emperor Hadrian, it runs—or at least ran—from the banks of the River Tyne near the North Sea in the east to the Solway Firth on the Irish Sea in the west. We were attempting to walk the path from sea to sea, a distance of roughly 120 kms. In five days. This meant that at least two of the days, we had to walk 30 kms, even though I have never managed to walk more than about 25 kilometres without collapsing.

matfen house

Though it was cold and raining lightly, the first day was easy. We walked along the River Tyne for a while then climbed up out of the river valley through the suburbs of Newcastle to Heddon on the Wall, where we discovered our first wall fragment. It was a short walk from there to our bed and breakfast in a farm house surrounded by grazing sheep, where we slept under the watchful gaze of the portrait of some 18th-century lady.

forest walk1

The next day’s walk was a little longer, through relatively flat countryside, but we started seeing more and more of the wall. The path wound through wooded areas and through rolling pastures of soft green grass. By dinner time we had reached the village of Wall, not to be confused with Heddon on the Wall, or East Wallhouses, or Wallsend, or… are you starting to see a theme here?

The third day was to be our first 30km day, and it started out well, but soon the terrain became much more challenging, the scenery more breathtaking. There were long, continuous stretches of wall now, some along the tops of cliffs. We shook our heads at the effort it must have taken to build it. We thought mortaring a small stackwood shed was a lot of work. Of course we didn’t have an army of legionaries at our disposal.

wall rising

There were the remains of forts to explore, and milecastles which guarded gateways through the wall, even the remains of a Roman temple dedicated to the sun god, who had actually treated us pretty well so far. For a brief time, we were permitted to walk on top of the wall, which barely had room for a person at this point, never mind a horse. Or four.

view from the top

Around four o’clock we reached the summit of a very steep hill—but not as steep as the next one.

“I’m done,” I told Chris. I called the innkeeper at our bed and breakfast and he kindly came and collected me. Bush Nook Guest House just outside of Gilsland was my favourite stop. The room was cosy, the breakfast amazing, and the innkeeper, Malcolm, was just so kind. He even drove us to the pub across the village for dinner that night, knowing that I was too weary to walk another step.

Day four and another 30kms to cover, most of it through farmland and open country. Soon the wall disappeared, much of it “repurposed” for one thing or another, and the only traces left were earthworks and the wall ditch, dug to discourage incursions from the northern wilds. Though the walking was easy enough, I only made it until mid-afternoon, when I called a taxi to take me into Carlisle. Chris soldiered on and reached the bed and breakfast just before dark.

The last leg of our journey was a short 25kms, through the outskirts of Carlisle along a river then through some pretty wet cow pastures. We were tired and muddy by the time we reached the village of Burgh by Sands and I convinced Chris to walk through the church yard in hopes of finding a bench.


We found much more than that. A woman appeared at the door of the church and invited us in. It was impossible to say no. We both eyed the upholstered bench just inside the door but decided it would be churlish to sit down without taking at least a cursory look around.


I’m very glad we did. The woman explained that stone from Hadrian’s Wall had been used to build the fortified church and showed us one of the reclaimed stones with Roman carvings on it in one of the defence towers.

“And this is an old gravestone,” she said, pointing to the lintel over the doorway to the steps that led to the bell tower.

“When raiders were spotted, the women and children and farm animals would crowd into the church and the men would climb the tower and defend them.”

She showed us a narrow hole in the thick wall with a clear sight—and arrow—line to the front door of the church.

church women“Tea?”

Another woman appeared from nowhere with a tray and offered us two cups of hot tea and a plate of biscuits.

“Do you mind if we sit,” I asked?

“Of course not.”

We plumped gratefully down on the upholstered bench, our tired feet sprawled out in front of us, and enjoyed the best cup of tea I’ve ever had in my life. And a chocolate biscuit. Or maybe two.

We set off grudgingly with 10kms to go. The longest 10 kms I’ve ever walked. In fact, we had no choice but to stop in at a pub and fortify ourselves with a pint of beer. Around five o’clock we got our first glimpse of the Solway Firth. Not long after we saw our friends Mick and Jenny, who had come to pick us up, walking towards us.

We were foot weary but feeling very proud of ourselves for walking all (well in my case, most) of the way across England.

raising a pint


Map compliments of Matt Underwood at bookmytrail

Summer in the meadow


I was looking forward to seeing the bluebird chicks fledge this year. Last year, we left for the summer just as they were ready to fly. This year I’ll see them, I thought. I was wrong. Although a pair of bluebirds checked out the nesting boxes in our meadow, in the end it was a pair of tree swallows who moved into the middle box, chasing all other comers away.

It was fun watching them build their nest in the box I had carefully cleared out for the bluebirds, one beakful of grass, one twig at a time. Then eggs were laid, apparently, and the long, patient incubation period began. The parents would take turns sitting on the nest and soaring around over the meadow snatching bugs out of the air. Swallows are such accomplished fliers. The little ones did fledge, finally, and suddenly the tree swallows were gone. House wrens moved into the boxes, and we got to watch them fledge one or two broods before they too flew off.

But there was another treat in store for us. In early May I heard sandhill cranes flying overhead.

“Just passing through,” I told Chris.

IMG_4603 copy

And I thought they had, until one morning in June I heard them in the meadow next to us. I raced out of Meadowlark in my pyjamas (not a sight you ever want to see) with my binoculars slung around my neck, climbed a big rock in the fenceline between our field and the neighbours, and there were two long, skinny necks rising above the grass, calling wildly to the parents, who were circling overhead, calling back to them, trying to coax them into flight, perhaps? It didn’t work. The young birds slunk over the crest of the hill and out of sight as soon as they spotted me.

“They do nest here!” I told Chris. Turns out they are no longer in decline—in fact their population is stable and increasing. I hope this pair comes back next spring. Sandhill cranes like to nest in marshy wetlands, and goodness knows we have lots of that.

IMG_4549 copy

We have spent the summer working on our own nest box, Meadowlark, the boat we’re building in the meadow on our farm south of Owen Sound. You would hardly recognize it now. Remember the picture from last winter?? Plywood floors, plastic vapour barrier on the walls? Here’s what it looks like now.

Sure, the bedroom, which is behind the wall you see, isn’t finished yet. Maybe next year. Chris has moved on to another project.

He’s building a woodshed/garden shed down at Brenda’s cabin, and if you think this means whapping up some two-by-four studding and slapping on a roof, you don’t know Chris. He started by cutting down trees.

Then he milled them into 6 x 6-inch timbers using a chain saw.

After that, he put up posts and beams then recruited some help building the walls.

He’s made great progress, but the project is on hold for now because we leave for England in a couple of days to hike across the country. The narrow part of the country—we’re walking the path along Hadrian’s Wall, ran from the banks of the River Tyne near the North Sea to the Solway Firth on the Irish Sea, a distance of 120kms. Which is a bit of a stretch for me—there will be a couple 30km days—but it’s just a stroll between pubs for Chris. With his new drone hovering along behind him. He’s out in the meadow training it right now.

Keeping a sharp eye out for awkward young Sandhill cranes flying overhead.

IMG_4698 copy



It’s a Grand thing!

DCIM100MEDIADJI_0010.JPGThe only thing a writer likes better than writing is being published.

I’m thrilled to announce that an article I wrote on sailing in Cape Breton is featured in the May/June 2018 issue of Grand magazine. Here’s a link to the story online:


Chris’s photography is awesome. What a difference a drone makes! This photo of us sailing in Bras d’Or Lake with our spinnaker up was our first attempt at “droning” while underway. Chris launched the drone from the aft deck without incident, then took some incredible footage while I kept an eye on the helm. Of course the wind began to gust and build as soon as the drone was in the air. Chris brought it back and tried to land it on the now lurching and rolling deck. No luck.

“You’re going to have to catch it,” he said.


“Just stand in the scupper, hang onto the handle on top of the bimini, and reach out as far as you can. I’ll bring it to you.”

All I could think of was the pitcher who had to leave a big game because his hand wouldn’t stop dripping blood–the result of a drone injury. I put on a leather glove.

In the end, it was easy to catch the drone, and now we have a new, smaller drone that will be even easier to catch (don’t ask what happened to the first one….) So you can look forward to more great photography, here and in print.

Hope you enjoy the article. It’s some of our best work.

Loft apartment

IMG_1640It all happened very quickly. Or at least that’s how it seems. It took us a few days to travel up the intracoastal waterway to Titusville then there we were, back on the mooring ball we had left just three short months ago. A couple of days bobbing in the river then just as the sun was rising, we motored into Westland Marina and our date with the travel lift.

Now we’ve had the boat lifted out of the water in a lot of places but never has it been handled this professionally. Dave, the travel lift guy, asked all the right questions beforehand—how much does your boat weigh, is it a full keel, where exactly is the prop—then when we arrived, he inspected the rigging carefully, took a couple of measurements, and decided that we could leave the backstay up but we needed to back into the travel lift.

Like most full-keel boats, ours doesn’t back up straight. At all. So Chris rigged some lines and we hand-bombed it around, something we’ve done many times. The yard workers were very impressed.

Then straps under and up in the air it went. Boats should not be up in the air. Especially 20-ton steel boats. I try not to watch, but of course I can’t help myself. As the travel lift drove away, the well we’d been lifted out of filled with manatees.


“They love the well,” Angie, a yard worker, told me. “They always hang out here.”

One, two, three, then more, nosing around, loafing in the sun. One fell asleep lying on its back, floating just beneath the surface. Another swam over to a leaking tap to get a drink of fresh water.


They drink salt water, Angie explained. They can filter the salt out somehow, but it’s so much easier to drink fresh water when they can get it.

And now we’re on the hard, nestled in among palm trees. Preparing the boat to spend the summer in Florida is a new experience for us. No need to put antifreeze in the engine and hoses, but we do have to install a dehumidifier, plug all the through-hulls so creatures don’t climb into the boat, and cover it with some kind of netting so we don’t come back to a boat slick with bird droppings.

The derelict boat beside us, which has been here for at least fifteen years, has a resident osprey at the top of its mast. We find fish (well, what’s left of them anyway, after the osprey is done with them)—on the ground around the boat, and a half-grown black kitten has taken up residence next door, peeking out at us through the missing windows. Oh well, at least he’ll keep the rodent population down. And the snakes, I hope.


Today we finish packing then remove the canvas covers and everything else above deck that could blow away in a hurricane, install heavy-duty strapping which the yard workers will secure to “mafia blocks,” as they call the heavy concrete anchors they use here. And tomorrow we’ll leave our boat, which is now really a loft apartment in Titusville, and head to our other boat, the one in the meadow, just in time for the bluebirds to come back.

Run for it!


We started watching for a weather window to cross the Gulf Stream a couple of weeks ago. Our crossing to the Bahamas was perfect; we wanted our return trip to be just as gentle. But the weather was anything but settled—big bands of squalls were spinning off the coast of Florida each afternoon, intensifying over the Gulf Stream. Not good. And conditions were going to deteriorate over the next week.

Then suddenly we saw an opening: a 48-hour period without squalls and with gentle winds from the south. Maybe a bit too gentle. We knew we’d have to motor all the way across but if we didn’t leave then, we’d be pinned down in the Bahamas for who knows how long. So we decided to make a run for it.

Now Monark is a slow boat at the best of times—6 knots is about our top speed; under motor, we’re lucky if we can hold 4—but we couldn’t get it above 3 knots as we motorsailed west through the Northeast Providence Channel. Turns out that a current runs through the channel, which we never really noticed before. Clearly it was against us. But by late afternoon it had reversed and we were making a steady 4 to 5 knots.

The night sail was incredibly beautiful. The moon was almost full but the sky was full of witchy clouds which would drift in front of it, then clear again. Not that we had much time to watch the moon. So much ship traffic! Rarely were we tracking fewer than a dozen ships on the AIS–cruise ships, oil tankers, cargo ships. No other sailboats, curiously, though we could hear them chattering on the radio from time to time, bored I think—where are you now? and where are you?

Around midnight we left the Northeast Providence Channel and headed out into the strait between the Bahamas and Florida. Suddenly the cruise ships bound for Miami were crossing our bow, leaving a respectful distance though, so no problem. The 1,000-foot cargo ship heading straight for us was more of a problem. It’s the first time we’ve ever seen both the port and starboard running lights of a big ship.

Chris grabbed the mike and hailed the captain.

“This is the sailboat Monark, off your bow. I just wanted to make sure you saw us.”

A long pause.

“Yes, I see you.” Had he seen us before we called? “I’ll alter course to pass your stern.”

Slowly the green light disappeared leaving only the red light visible. We watched as an enormous boat, empty so riding high, passed behind us. Not very far behind us, but far enough.

Then we entered the Gulf Stream and the winds picked up. We spanked along at 6 knots much of the night—with the engine running. We wanted to get across the Gulf Stream as quickly as possible. And as it turns out, every minute gained was a good thing. And I mean every minute. They were wrong about the 48 squall-free hours.

By noon the next day we were out the other side of the Gulf Stream and pretty much on target for Lake Worth Inlet, a bit earlier than we’d expected, in fact. We had to stand off, waiting for the current flowing out of the inlet to slow a little, but around 2:30 the skies to the south of us started to darken and we decided to make a run for it.

We had no problem with the current, but being bounced around by the wake from all the power boats running for shelter was a challenge. What’s going on, we wondered. Then we switched our phone on and it emitted a loud siren sound and flashed a big red alert—TORNADO WATCH. Yes, watch, not warning. We ran for the safety of the anchorage, which was a couple miles in, at our top speed under motor…which isn’t very fast at all. By the time we got there, we were the only boat moving on the waterway. We dropped the hook and closed up the canvas, and then the squall was on us.

The torrential rains weren’t the problem—it was kind of nice getting the salt washed off the boat. But the wall of wind that hit us was stronger than anything we’d ever experienced, greater even than the 60-knot winds we survived in the big gale in the North Atlantic. The boat lurched to port and heeled so far the rail was almost in the water. We had to brace ourselves to keep from falling over. Of course the anchor, which had barely set, couldn’t withstand that kind of force and started to drag. Chris started the engine and turned us into the wind, enough to take the sideways pressure off the poor Rocna, which immediately reset.

Fortunately, it was over as quickly as it came up—the wind, anyway. The tornado watch was lifted but the heavy rain continued for some time. We sat in the cockpit getting drenched as water found its way in every seam and opening, dribbled in, actually.

When it was over, the temperature had dropped 10 degrees and the air was crisp and clear, the smothering humidity of the afternoon completely gone. Most of it was in our cockpit, I think.


Over the past couple of days, the weather out in the ocean has deteriorated as predicted, big winds from the northeast and huge seas, rip currents along the coast. So now we’re motoring peacefully, tediously north in the intracoastal waterway.

But I’ll tell you one thing: we keep a close eye on the sky in the late afternoons.

Weiner soup

white cay (1)We don’t really mind being stuck here, in one of the prettiest anchorages in the Bahamas. We’re the only boat tucked behind White Cay in The Berry Islands, pretty much where we started this winterlude, waiting for the squally weather to settle down and the winds to calm before we move on. We can look out past the coral reef and check the sea state each morning. Still looks a bit rough out there. One more day.

But our provisions are running a little low. Fresh food is hard to find in these islands. Really hard. Unless you’re lucky enough to be near a settlement when the mail boat comes in. Even then meat is scarce and the produce is in pretty rough shape, travel worn and wilting fast in the heat. Much of it comes from the United States—Romaine hearts from California, what are clearly the “B” oranges from Florida. But a huge amount of it comes from Leamington, Ontario, the tomato capital of Canada. Also, obviously, the greenhouse capital. Not many tomatoes, peppers, and cucumbers being grown in Ontario in April.

pot au pot

I think longingly of last summer, as we sailed the Bras d’Or Lakes, truly the land of plenty when it comes to provisions. I worked happily at perfecting my recipe for pot en pot, inspired by a scrumptious meal we had in Îsles de la Madeline. It’s essentially chunks of seafood swimming in a creamy sauce and topped with flakey pastry.

Most of the essential ingredients were easy to come by—a fish truck came to St. Peter’s Inlet every Tuesday, selling bags of fresh scallops, beautiful pieces of halibut, fresh shrimp. No lobster, though. The season had closed. And lobster is what makes pot en pot so special.

Ah hah, I thought when we arrived in the Bahamas. Chris will be able to spear us a big juicy lobster.


I was wrong. The seafood cupboard is bare here, some say a result of the hurricane but given the number of boats crowding into the anchorages, I’d say overfishing is the real cause. Chris has tried diligently, but apart from the fish head he caught on the way here, the only thing he’s landed is a barracuda—a nasty, skinny fish with razor-sharp teeth. After carefully extracting his hook (I’m happy to report that he still has all his fingers) he threw it back in.

Oh wait—he’s also caught an impressive amount of Sargasso weed. And a plastic grocery bag.

We’ve seen more sharks than fish here—way more. Nurse sharks loaf on the bottom near docks where the local fishermen come in to clean their catch (how do they find fish?) Along with enormous rays, and needlefish, for some reason. And the occasional sea turtle. Don’t worry. I didn’t even think of turtle soup.


We even had a family of lemon sharks take up residence under our boat in Black Point Settlement, a sure sign that we had stayed too long. I first noticed them when I tossed an apple core over the side and a large, strange looking “fish” darted out from under out keel to check it out.

“Look at this, Chris.” I tossed some carrot peelings over the side and not one but three lemon sharks swam out to investigate. For the record, sharks do not like apple cores or carrot peelings.

nurse sharks
Nurse sharks milling around, waiting for handouts from the fishermen.

Now that we’re on our way back to Florida where we’ll store the boat for the summer—we’re heading home to work on Meadowlark, our other “boat”—I’ve stopped looking for fresh provisions and we’re trying to use up our canned goods. Last night I made corn chowder with our last potato, our second-last onion, and a can of niblets corn.

“This needs something,” Chris said, spooning up the thin, mean soup.

Yes, I thought. Some carrots or celery.

“Maybe some fish,” he suggested, reaching for his tackle box.

We’re definitely having weiner soup tonight.

wiener soup
Weiner soup. It’s more delicious than it looks. Yes, those are toasted hot dog buns on the side.