Author: Juan

We’ve done this business of sailing from one country to the next a dozen times. Entry requirements and procedures vary widely: some countries will want only the captain with the crew’s passports, others want to see every crew in person. Some will happily accept pets—no questions asked—others will make it so complicated with requirements impossible to fulfill that you’d think twice before bringing Garfield. Some charge a cruising permit, some don’t. Some want to see your clearance papers from the previous port, some couldn’t care less. By far the easiest ones are the French islands: you fill in a form in a computer terminal that’s hosted at a souvenir shop, and voilà, you’re done. The more complicated ones require you to stop at three places: customs, immigration and ports authority, but even with the more complicated ones we never had a problem… until Curaçao.

The problem actually brew in Bonaire. When we arrived in Bonaire it was three of us, so our inbound clearance form lists three people. Paula joined us there, and when we all went to immigration before leaving, they just put a departure stamp in the inbound form to convert it into the outbound document. No one noticed the discrepancy: we handed four passports, but the form listed three people. Curaçao is among the countries that want to see your exit papers from the previous country. I was already concerned that the timestamps would make it fairly obvious that we made an unauthorized stop in Klein Curaçao, because it doesn’t take you two days to sail from Bonaire, and there aren’t any other places to stop in between. I was prepared to say that my kids wanted to have the experience of sailing overnight under a full moon, or some such. Instead, what the officer saw was that our exit papers listed three people leaving Bonaire, and four of us trying to enter Curaçao. We became instant suspects of human trafficking! Paula’s passport had the proper exit stamp, but no amount of explaining made the officer bulge. “It’s not that I don’t believe you”, she said, “but I just can’t let you in.”

It was a bit Kafkaesque. We were already anchored in Curaçao. We took a taxi across a quarter of the island to the capital. We walked to customs and then across the bridge and through the entire town to immigration. You don’t get much more “in” than that, yet she wasn’t allowing us “in”. Having the extra passenger fly to Bonaire to sort things out wasn’t an option either: she wasn’t letting any of us, not even the boat, stay in Curaçao. She said our only option was to sail back to Bonaire. I was making plans to sabotage my own boat to disable it, because there was no way I was putting my boat and family through the ordeal of sailing straight against those strong trade winds only to resolve a bureaucratic detail.

She had us waiting for one hour. Then she said she was trying to contact authorities in Bonaire. It was Sunday. Not just any Sunday, but Sunday December 23rd. Late in the evening. I had no hopes, yet she came back a long while later to say that all is good, and welcome to Curaçao. Did she really talk to somebody in Bonaire? And if so, what did they say? “Oh, Paula, yeah, she’s alright”, perhaps?

We were still not done, though, since we needed anchoring permits from Ports Authority. So, the next day we went there to fill in more forms, this time with the strangest questions we’ve ever been officially asked. They wanted to know what anchorages we were going to be in, and exactly which dates in each (we’re cruisers… we have no idea where we’re going to be the day after tomorrow, let alone a month from now!). They wanted to know how much diesel, water and food we had. We asked for clarifications, which only made things worse: it wasn’t how much we had, but how much we were going to have when leaving the country. The agent seemed sympathetic: “what happens is that you cruisers do things differently”. Clearly! The icing on the cake was on the last page, which was blank except for the prompt “draw a picture of your boat”.

So, yeah, our initial impression of Curaçao wasn’t very positive. The contrast between the crystal-clear waters of Bonaire and the murky waters of our anchorage didn’t help. When Kathy “volunteered” to dive in order to check if the anchor was well set, she simply couldn’t find the anchor. I had to apply reverse with the engines in order to get the chain taught above the sea bottom, so that she could visually follow the chain to the anchor, and even then it wasn’t easy.

And then, the fireworks. Oh my gosh, the fireworks! What is it with Curaçaoans and fireworks? Yes, it was the end of the year, but a constant barrage every night for weeks, at any time and from every corner, was a bit too much. For new year’s eve it was Armageddon: an almost 360-degree spectacle from our boat that started hours before midnight and continued well into the new year.

Curaçao is geographically very similar to Bonaire, but it has more than 5 times the population density. That shows in way too many cars and too many Burger Kings.

We spent six weeks in the island. It took a little while, but ultimately Curaçao grew on us. We just had to overcome the shock of leaving Bonaire.

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Spanish Water

Historic Willemstad

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Rest of the island

I’ve been in the 27°C (81°F) water for a while now, floating absolutely still, face down, breathing through the snorkel. Even though I’m wearing the same thick wetsuit I use to windsurf in the San Francisco Bay, where the water is 15°C (59°F), I’m getting cold. I’m trying to relax and minimize my energy expenditure as much as possible. It’s the second day of our intermediate freediving workshop, and I’m trying to get ready for a deep dive.

I have to conjure up in my mind a scene of happy serenity and utmost peacefulness where there’s nothing to worry about. Ideally, absolutely nothing in the mind. No to-do lists, no goals, no written test after this workshop. Except that, what’s ahead of me is a complicated sequence of maneuvers that I have to execute reasonably well to succeed—a multitude of details I’m still far from performing without thinking. It’s not the moment to think about that, but it’s very hard not to.

How do you focus on not focusing on anything at all? Oh, right, bring that worry-free scene to the mind. Problem is, being the obsessive perfectionist that I am, I can’t decide for one among the three candidates I have, because none of them is truly perfect. I guess I’m failing at this relaxation business… but, wait, no, the instructor said that it’s best to only have positive thoughts and I’m going negative already! Let’s think of something else… I’m getting cold (no, not that one)… maybe I should blow my nose since mucus can get in the way of equalizing the ears, but that would require interrupting this whole relaxation thing and start over… let’s try not think about it… oh, I know, one technique was to feel every part of your body… let’s see, there’s my right feet, which is slightly smaller than the left one, so the fin is a bit too big and that’s causing a blister that hurts in every kick… wait, negative again! move on! alright, what’s next… my bladder is calling my attention as it’s starting to feel tight, since—one of the things I’ve learned in this course—diuresis is one of the physiological responses of the mammalian diving reflex… should I empty it? It wouldn’t be the first time I pee in my wetsuit, but I think I’ve taken a long time already, and there’s three people waiting for me: the instructor, Kathy, and another student (who, by the way, takes an annoyingly enormous amount of time for himself, which is in part to blame why I’m so cold now, so, no, I don’t want to challenge that particular record). Okay, I think I have to accept this is the most relaxed I’ll manage to be. So be it. Whatever. One more slow diaphragmatic breath before the fast sighs. No, wait, two more. Let’s make it three. Okay, fast and deep sighs now, to rid the lungs of CO2 and start with a full load of pure air. You don’t want to do too many fast sighs, because then you’d hyperventilate. Among other things, hyperventilation removes CO2 from your blood, which sounds like a good idea, but it isn’t. That’s another thing I learnt: the respiratory reflex, that irresistible urge to inhale, is not caused by lack of oxygen, but by excess of CO2. If you hyperventilate before diving you’re making a blackout more likely, because your oxygen level may go down beyond the threshold at which you lose consciousness, while the CO2 level has still not raised high enough to trigger the alert that warns you that you need to breathe. If you do blackout, it’ll just happen with no warning. And blacking out underwater is… well, not recommended. If I really need oxygen I’d rather know it, so, yeah, only three deep sighs. On the second one, after a full exhalation I naturally sink a bit, just enough for a wave to flood my snorkel. The inhalation attempt for the last sigh just brings salt water to my mouth, and I have no air in my lungs to force the water out of the snorkel. So much for relaxing. Okay, start over, but I can’t take two more minutes, lest I steal the honor of the longest relaxation time ever from our fellow student. So, more or less predisposed to fail, I take only a few more seconds, do the sighs again, this time tensing my neck muscles in order not to get my snorkel too low (needless to say, tensioning and relaxing don’t go together), and do one last, slow and very full inhalation.

And here we go. Still grabbing the buoy with my left hand, bring the right hand to my face to remove the snorkel from my mouth and pinch my nose to preequalize my ears. Do the Frenzel equalization maneuver. At least that one I can do without much thinking, because if I had to think then all bets would be off.

Equalizing the ears means to force air up the Eustachian tubes to build up pressure in the middle ear and equalize it with the environment pressure; if you don’t equalize, pain and misery will come to your ears. The Frenzel maneuver consists of using the air in your mouth, not your lungs, for the equalization: you lock a pocket of air with your tongue against the palate, open the soft palate, and push the air up to the nasal cavity with the back of your tongue. You pinch the nose to prevent the air from escaping to the mask and force it instead to the Eustachian tubes. Voilà.

Where was I? Oh, right, use the right hand to preequalize while still at the surface, then bring the right arm forward, let go of the buoy and bring the left arm forward as well. Do a couple of kicks to gain a tiny bit of forward speed and position myself slightly ahead of the buoy and the dive line underneath the buoy. Do the “duck dive”: arms pointing down, execute a breast stroke to put your body vertical, extend legs to the sky to sink faster. That one breast stroke should be enough to get all of you, including the fins, underwater; start finning then. Okay, so far so good. Or moderately good, since that wasn’t the smoothest of my duck dives. But at least I see the line right in front of me. On my first several attempts I would perform a beautiful duck dive but wouldn’t start forward enough, so I always ended up with the line (which acts as a guide and you are supposed to follow) on my back, desperately looking for it left and right. All those were aborted attempts that must have looked quite funny. Now I’m too close to the line, as I’m pushing it with my mask, but I don’t care. The important thing is, I see it!

Continuing with the sequence then: bring right hand back to the mask to pinch the nose and equalize frequently (don’t wait for pain in the middle ears to remind you to equalize). Keep the hand there. Tuck the right elbow against the chest to reduce friction against the water. Streamline your body by sticking your left arm against your body, hand against thigh. Use the fins and only the fins for propulsion, with more emphasis at the beginning, slowing down the kicks as you go deeper. Kick with your legs straight, only barely bending your knees.

As the pressure increases, don’t forget to occasionally equalize the mask as well (blow air through the nose into the mask, to prevent the mask from acting as a suction cup and rupture the blood vessels around your eyes). Don’t overdo it, because any bubble of air that escapes the mask is wasted precious oxygen. Don’t look down on the descent. Don’t look up on the ascent. Oh, and if all that wasn’t enough, there’s one paramount little thing: relax! Fucking relax! (Tension and anxiety increase the heart rate and oxygen consumption like nothing else). Relax? Yeah, sure. What if I can’t relax because I’m afraid I will fail at relaxing! Okay, let’s try at least. Mmmh, that seems to have been the 10 meters mark. Relax. I’m feeling good. Relax. I enjoy the lack of sensory input. Relax. It’s silent here. Relax. I feel my body and I’m reminded of the tantra work we have been doing; the overlap with freediving is remarkable and that’s part of the appeal. Relax. I only see tones of blue, plus the line, which looks so friendly and helpful now, indicating the straightest path to the abyss. Relax. I feel far from needing air and I enjoy my brief meditative state. Relax. At 15m the extra atmosphere and a half of pressure reduces the volume of my lungs and wetsuit enough that I’m not buoyant anymore. Relax. 20m. Relax. At this depth I should stop kicking and just fall freely, saving precious energy. Relax. This is supposed to be the most enjoyable part of the dive but I forgot about that and kept using the fins, because I was of course focusing on relaxing. Speaking about that: relax. 22m. Can’t relax anymore because I feel water leaking into my mask. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s not a big deal. Except that it takes me abruptly out of my zen zone. Let’s try to continue anyway. But wait, dude, are you sure? Fresh air is way up there, the equivalent of a 7-story building. It’s almost half a minute away, do you really want to make it even farther? Relaxation is now entirely gone. I hesitate… do I continue down or abort? I try to equalize my ears and fail, possibly because in the confusion I waited too long since the previous equalization. Or perhaps because I forgot to equalize the mask. Either way, that’s the perfect excuse to abort. Up we go, Sir! I turn around and start kicking frantically. I now feel the urge to breath, and start panicking because it’s a long way up. Then I remember to ration my energy expenditure, relax, and not look up. Keep calm and carry on. Safety will come to me. I can’t avoid glancing up occasionally, but otherwise I succeed at summoning coolness and composure. Once I surface I feel I still had plenty of reserves. It’s all in the mind.

I keep my dignity and manage to look as if everything was always under control. A week before I would have been ecstatic if I had reached 22m. Now I’m frustrated. But at least I feel there aren’t many technical details to correct. That sentiment only lasts until I recover my breath, because my instructor disagrees and talks me through a list of things I could do better.

The next day I do improve and reach at least the depth that’s required to pass the class, but fail to reach my personal goal of 30m (100ft). I feel both elated and frustrated. I can hold my breath longer than Kathy, we have similar technique, yet she managed to reach 3 or 4 meters deeper than I. That shows that it’s all in the mind, and that’s why I like the challenge of freediving.

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More about freediving here.

Klein Curaçao is a tiny island—less than 2 square kilometers—whose only structures are a few huts and an almost absurdly photogenic lighthouse. It’s downwind of Bonaire and upwind of Curaçao, which means that, if you want to visit it, it makes a lot of sense to do it before reaching Curaçao… otherwise you’ll have to backtrack upwind. Since we, lazy sailors, like to follow the wind and not fight against it, we made an overnight stop in Klein Curaçao, on our way from Bonaire to Curaçao. Please don’t tell anybody though, because it’s technically not legal: since the island belongs to Curaçao, you are supposed to first do the paperwork in Willemstad, Curaçao’s capital, to check into the country.

We didn’t have any issues, although checking into Curaçao ended up being an adventure by itself, for unrelated reasons. We discovered that the system is really, really, not set up with us cruisers in mind, so I don’t feel too bad about not following the rules… but that’s the topic for another post. For now, I’ll leave you with these images of tiny, desolate, beautiful, and worth-bending-the-rules Klein Curaçao.

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Bonaire is the least developed and most laid back of the ABC islands: 19,000 inhabitants, zero traffic lights. It is one of the island we’ll be most interested in visiting again, because of its incredibly pristine waters. In Bonaire turtles have been protected since 1961, spear fishing was banned in 1971, and the entire shore of the island was declared a national park in 1979. To protect the coral, anchoring is strictly prohibited, so if you arrive by boat you have to either dock at one of the two marinas, or tie to a municipal mooring buoy. We did the latter, and ended up with a beautiful and lively underwater garden of coral and fish as our backyard.

In the spirit of the laid-back atmosphere, we had a proper, deeply and almost religiously laid-back time. Snorkeling became a daily activity, followed by a visit to Gio’s to get a scoop of extra-dark chocolate ice cream—which is a lot to say from someone who doesn’t really like ice cream (and, no, I didn’t even try the other flavors). The only exceptions were laundry day, and when we rented a car for three days and brought ourselves to exhaustion because we crammed too many things in those three days to make good use of the car.