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What Fresh Hell Is This? by Richard Salkin |
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What
Fresh Hell Is This? by Richard Salkin |
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Of all the toddlers I’ve encountered on an airplane, Angelina is about the worst behaved . And I sat within 2 rows of her—and her oblivious doting parents—twice last month. Once on the way to Provo, and again on the way home. Unlike Angelina’s family, I wasn’t going to Breezes. This was my 3rd trip to the Turks and Caicos Islands, my second to Provo, for a week on the T&C Aggressor II. By bracketing my vacation in her uniquely Angelinic way, she provided an unwitting lesson in perspective. Things can go to shit in an instant when events beyond your control go wrong. And whether we’re talking about an obnoxious toddler or, say, a freak squall, sometimes—if you’re lucky—you can still control whether unforeseen events ruin your day or merely add some color to the experience. If given the choice, you’ll live longer if you choose the latter. On the plane, I dug in to my David Sedaris book and ordered a cocktail. In the squall, fortunately, I had my friends with me. Following all-D2D trips late last year to Curaçao and Saba, these were my first dives in months. And instead of controlling the whole boat, it was just me, JudyG, Papa and Chrism (rhymes with…) plus 14 other passengers none of us had ever met. All but 2 arrived uneventfully on April 16—the holdouts were brothers who’d been unceremoniously bumped before they ever left Los Angeles and showed up the next day. In command of TCA2: The justifiably well-regarded Cap’n Piers, assisted by the more-than-fabulous Christopher, Amanda, Lucie, Dave and Gary. And I’ll say this at the outset: as a unit, this was the most cohesive and excellent crew I’ve seen on a liveaboard. We spent the first night in port—Turtle Cove Marina in Provo, which is home to a land-based dive op as well as the new and stunning Turks and Caicos Explorer II. Five years ago, my last time here, Turtle Cove was also home to Sea Dancer, which now operates as the Caribbean Explorer II out of St. Maarten and St. Kitts. Small world. I remember back then, Sea Dancer captain Nigel spitting nails as he guided the boat gingerly through the marina’s hairpin turns and too-shallow channel on the way out to our first destination. Things have not improved as far as the channel is concerned, though Piers is more the kind of guy who keeps his opinions to himself. He was awfully focused, though. The diving. After a stuffed chicken dinner Saturday night, we left first thing Sunday morning and spent several hours looking for a suitable first-dive site. Seas were a-kickin’ as we rounded Provo’s Northwest Point, and eventually we settled on Rock Garden Interlude. You know things are going well when your first dive of the trip involves a life form you’ve always wanted to see. In this case, a manta ray, just hanging there at the surface. A little standoffish but serene and beautiful. Scratch another animal off the must-see-before-dying list. Other than the manta, dives at RGI were pretty typical of all the diving this trip: Viz in the 75-150-foot range, water temps between 79 and 81F, current darn near non-existent. Topographically, there’s sand and coral at about 50 feet and a steep, often sheer, wall that’s too deep for any meaningful measurement. Some of the wall structures are so massive, it’s worth your time to just swim out over blue water, turn around and just take it all in for several minutes. Other times, you want to be in close and look in every crevice. Most notable sites, IMHO, were Driveway and Gullies, both at West Caicos, and G-spot at French Cay. All three were so impressive I remembered them from the last trip. Lots of garden eels that lay down like a carpet as you approach, plus yellow-headed jawfish, juvie spotted drums, eels, stingrays. The gorgonians at G Spot are world-famous. And did I mention sharks? This wasn’t the most shark-infested trip I’ve ever done. Not like, say, the Galapagos where the hammerheads were too numerous to count. But there were some really cool encounters. In fact several people did see a lone hammerhead. At one spot, 2 resident Caribbean Reef Sharks cavorted with us for several dives, accompanied by schools of jacks that cozied up to them hoping to befriend them pre-emptively. Not unlike the class nerd hanging with the football captain. We got buzzed by the curious, gorgeous 4 and 5-footers repeatedly, and then later fed them from the sundeck with scraps of Dave’s cooking. I dove all but one site, the last one (known as The Crack. No comment), but sat out quite a few repeat dives. Not because I didn’t enjoy them but because I managed, no lie, to get cold in 79-degree water wearing 12.5 mils of neoprene. That’s a half-mil steamer (a new one!), 5-mil hooded vest and 7-mil full hyperstretch. Actually, it wasn’t the dives themselves that chilled, it was the minutes immediately after the dives that were getting to me. Wind was whipping through the dive deck on even the sunniest and warmest days. So I averaged 3 dives a day and many visits to the hot tub upstairs. I should say here that TCA2 has 2 hotwater showers right on the dive platform, both in excellent working order. More boats should have that. Amenities. TCA2 was built in 2003, according to the Aggressor website, and refurbished this past January to Piers’ own specs. In addition to being the captain, he’s also the owner of this particular Aggressor franchise. AL80s are filled via whips. Nitrox for the week is $100. The dive deck is spacious with plenty of storage and hangers. Two ladders take you down to the platform (descend the stairs backward or risk looking like an idiot as your tank bottom bounces on each step), from which you stride into the water. No 6-foot jumps off the side, although that would’ve been possible if they chose to use the side gates. Fins are generally stored in on the back using metal bars along the transom—like the barre that runs along the wall in a dance studio. The salon was not too crowded, though I’ve seen bigger ones. It includes full audiovisual equipment plus 2 PCs. You can open an email account if you absolutely must check in with the babysitter or your co-workers, but it’s not cheap. To send 2 paragraphs at the end of the trip to Gianna and receive her reply used up about a third of my $10 prepaid card—the smallest increment they have. It’s a good system. There’s a cool coffee machine that lets you choose regular coffee, or single or double espresso. Upstairs, the entire top deck is open and about two-thirds covered. There’s a wet bar stocked with sodas, fruit juices and beers (including Corona!), a CD player, a hottub, a permanent barbecue grill and lots of comfy seating. The first night, I played my La Boheme CD as we drank Patron and listened from the hottub. When my Drum Major entrance came on, I was just drunk enough to step out of the tub—in my underwear—and re-enact the role on the deck. Throughout the trip, two very nice older gentlemen sat in the shade up here a lot, reading books about the Iranians and the economy and commenting on life in general—like those 2 characters making snide remarks in the box seats on The Muppets. Anyway, compared to leisure decks on other liveaboards, the top deck on TCA2 was spectacular. Our cabins were not so spactacular. Admittedly we were in cheapo cabins but they were still a little small considering the $1895 we paid. The 4 of us shared a bathroom, which housed both a toilet and a shower all in one unit. Plastic curtains let you protect drying bathing suits and towels from the spray. We were alerted that this particular bathroom sometimes gets a little overflow of harmless “grey water” discharge from the washing machines, which explained the occasional wet lint and slippery feel of the shower floor. It also explained the occasional sloshy, gurgly, near-human-sounding noises coming from the drain. At one point, I had to ask Judy if she was feeling OK. (She was.) The room had some storage space under the bunk beds and a small closet, a vanity and an alcove above the sink in front of the window. And even with all this, the amount of space in the room didn’t seem adequate. The only place for Judy’s large wheeled suitcase, which a person could fit in, was at her feet on the bed. If you make this trip, either pack extra light or upgrade to a bigger cabin. On a scale of 1 to 10, the food gets a 6, and that’s at least partly because Dave, the cook, was such a nice guy. There was nothing intrinsically wrong with the food. It just wasn’t especially imaginative in concept or execution. It was the kind of food you’d get on a Blackbeard cruise—reliable, hearty, filling and unpretentious. Breakfast and lunch were served buffet-style, dinner by the crew. The wine selection kinda boiled down to red or white. Snacks were basically sheet cakes from boxes with frosting. One time we had scones, which were good. Overall, though, I’ve had much better on other Aggressors, so maybe I’m spoiled. Speaking of sheet cakes, one of the divers, Beth (cool lady!), celebrated her 300th dive during one of the shark dives. The next day, after completing what was probably her 305th, a ceremony was held on the dive deck: Piers doused her with the ingredients for a chocolate cake: batter, eggs and such, then sprayed her with chocolate sauce. Had they performed this ceremony on her actual 300th dive, the sharks would literally have fed on her when she jumped back in the water to clean off. Thrilling conclusion. Following a couple of dives Friday morning at The Crack (Still no comment), we kept to the schedule and headed back to Turtle Cove. The plan was to get there early afternoon, wine and cheese party at 5ish, dinner on our own in town, and spend the last night on the boat, then go home on Saturday. All exactly the way most Aggressors do things, and all spelled out in Piers’ methodical and thorough briefing. The outbound crossing had been rough, so many of us took to our darkened cabins for the ride back. As soon as I heard the engines slow, signaling the edge of the channel into Turtle Cove, I was awake and in the salon. Judy, whose flight home was leaving that afternoon, a day early, hit the shower. In the distance was a dark cloud but you could see land, maybe half a mile away. Ends of trips, with gear bags suddenly reappearing out of storage, are always depressing. Some of us rinsed our gear and let it dry in place on the dive deck, others waited till we got to the dock. I was in the salon when we lurched hard to the right and came to a grinding stop. We’d hit bottom in a sudden windy squall. Piers tried to back the boat out a few times, each time causing it to list a little more to starboard. Glasses and silverware started hitting the floor. Stacks of plates in the galley fell over. After a minute or 2 we knew not to try and keep up with the mess that was being created as Piers continued trying to right the boat. I was still incredulous and just knew this was nothing more than a temporary embarrassment in his boat-driving career. Christopher suddenly burst in and hightailed it purposefully downstairs toward the engine room. Ruh Roh. When we first hit bottom Judy was done with her shower but was still in the cabin downstairs and now appeared in the salon. The alarm was sounded and we were summoned onto the dive deck, with Christopher handing out life preservers as soon as you stepped through the bulkhead. I put mine on under official protest, as I was already wearing red sweatpants and a maroon fleece jacket, which clashed with the bright orange life preservers. Most of us assembled on the high side, perhaps hoping our combined weight would cause the boat to right itself. The wind, we later heard, topped out at 65 knots, and between this, the high seas and the engine-gunning, we somehow got turned around 180 degrees. There was no view of land anymore due to the storm. After several tense minutes, it was determined we would need to abandon TCA2. I heard someone jokingly say “Women and children first,” which of course provoked my standard response, “Outta da way, bitch.” This did not go over so well among people who didn’t know me. Amanda, very much in character, appeared on the deck looking like she’d stepped off the express elevator from the executive suite and asked how we were all doing. “Fine,” we said, a little tentatively. “You?” The tanks on the high side were now looking not-so-secure sitting in the shallow indentations that had held them just fine when the boat was upright. If we listed any more the tanks might fall out and fly across the half-vertical deck and smash the few passengers who insisted on staying on the low side closer to the water. Amanda told us chase boats were on the way. We were listing 40 degrees to starboard, I heard later. Sure enough a small flotilla of zodiacs started appearing out of nowhere. One couple somehow managed to jump off the dive deck into one of them but it was soon decided that the seas and wind made that particular maneuver unsafe, not to mention ungraceful. So one by one, we would all need to jump in the water and swim to a chase boat. Call me crazy but my first thought was to grab my fins, which fit snugly over my topsiders. Christopher was coordinating all this from the dive platform, and he was really good at it. When it was our turn, Chrism and I slipped into the water and swam for a zodiac, whose driver waited politely while I removed my fins and handed them up, then climbed up the small ladder. We were taken to a boat normally used for parasailing, which was waiting in deeper water, for the ride in to shore. I could see Judy, swimming with one hand above the water, holding a zip-lock bag with her passport and other essential papers in it. Such a smart goil. All my stuff, including my wallet and passport, were still in the cabin. At the dock, the rain had eased to a drizzle and we started hearing reports, which later proved false, of whole resorts—Breezes? What of Angelina? —being blown to bits by waterspouts and catamarans being hurled up into trees. Actually there really was at least one waterspout sighted at sea. We were met by Annette, Piers’ wife, who very capably coordinated the efforts of several people to get us dry towels, food, liquor and hotel rooms. Half of us stayed at the Turtle Cove Inn, half (including me) at Miramar, formerly Erebus Inn, on a hill overlooking the harbor. From my patio I could see TCA2 in the distance helplessly showing her tender underside. Unfortunately, all I had were my mismatched still-wet clothes and a few clean bath towels so I tried to nap. By 5ish I was back at the Turtle Cove Inn feeling bitchy, headachy and wet and refusing repeated offers of free beer. Within an hour, Papa motioned us toward the dock. TCA2 had made it in and tied up and I was in a better mood. We collected our things from the cabins. Despite the strong odor of engine oil everywhere, most of our clothes were dry. In the crisis, the crew, especially Gary, had thought to go into the cabins and take anything that people had stored on the floor and move it to the bunks in order to keep stuff as dry as possible. This helped a lot, because the carpets were wet. Our bags were delivered to the hotel rooms and we cleaned up for dinner. A couple at the next table heard us recounting the day and with a careful throat-clearing, asked “Excuse me, you’re not by any chance talking about the Aggressor are you?” They were booked to leave on TCA2 the next day. As it turns out, damage to the boat was a lot less than it could’ve been. The prop and rudder needed to be replaced but the hull was inspected and found to be structurally sound. The plan was to eliminate the engine-oil smell and then use the boat as a hotel for a few days while the passengers hooked up with day-boat operators, then do a shortened cruise starting early in the week, once the needed repairs were complete. Epilog. I'd hoped to actually post a few pics taken during the grounding incident but the guy who took them never responded to my request for permission to use his pics. If he ever does, I'll append them. The last we saw of Judy, she was still drenched and had no clean or dry clothes but left for the airport anyway on Friday. A stop at a local store got her into duds suitable for flying. The rest of us hit the airport Saturday, where we saw Angelina and her family. I boarded the American flight to Miami hoping they would sit far, far away, which they didn’t. For some reason I’d been thinking of Dorothy Parker all day and suddenly realized why. The title of her biography happens to be "What Fresh Hell is This?". I ordered a cocktail, sank deep into my seat, and started reading. © Richard Salkin 2005 |
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