Our First Passage - BVI's to Saint Martin
- Tim Rhodes
- Jul 3
- 4 min read
We had a good second week, filled with opportunities to become more familiar with our boat. Early in the week, we enjoyed some well-deserved rest and relaxation, which included plenty of snorkelling. Owen and Aliya spent much of their time in the water, spotting an impressive variety of marine life, including turtles, stingrays, small reef fish, and even barracudas. Barracudas have a slightly creepy presence and seem to like lurking beneath boats or jetties.
Starting the crossing from Prickly Pear Island to Saint Martin at 6 am, June 27th
After some well-earned relaxation, we began planning our passage to Saint Martin. We reviewed both weather and marine forecasts and decided to depart early Friday morning from Prickly Pear Island, the easternmost point of Virgin Gorda.
In preparation for the passage, we took several safety-focused steps. We activated a satellite device capable of sending messages, tracking waypoints, and, if necessary, triggering an SOS. We assembled a ditch kit and reviewed emergency procedures, including how to use the radio to call for help. A jackline was rigged on deck—a safety line you can clip into while moving around to prevent falling overboard. The children would remain in the cockpit at all times.
Once we felt organized, we returned to The Baths at Virgin Gorda for another relaxing beach visit, followed by a two-hour stop at Spanish Town Harbour for a cleanup and final preparations. Michelle checked us out of the country at customs, and from that point on, we were officially committed to leaving.
As an inexperienced mariner, the thought of sailing offshore and being out of sight of land for 20 hours felt intimidating. Still, I trusted our skipper and our boat enough to feel ready for the challenge. In the back of our minds was the awareness that we needed to be in Grenada by August, when hurricanes become more likely and more severe.
From Spanish Town, we set off again, tacking up Virgin Gorda to Prickly Pear Island. The sailing was smooth and enjoyable. Winds of 15–18 knots seemed to be the sweet spot for both speed and ease, allowing us to use the full mainsail and headsail (Genoa). We had lots of tacking practice, and it finally felt like we were functioning well as a team.
We reached the scenic Prickly Pear Island, a small islet marking the entrance to an open bay protected by a reef. Scattered along the shoreline were several small, high-end retreats. We found a spacious anchorage (see drone shot in the video), dropped anchor and settled in. Owen and Aliya were chomping at the bit to get in the water, so we took the dinghy for a quick ride to a sandy beach and enjoyed a refreshing swim.
After a restless night, we raised the anchor at 5 a.m. and motored out of the bay, beyond the reef. It was still dark, but the sky was mostly clear. The North Star was visible just off the starboard bow (slightly forward and to the right of the boat).
Earlier, we had connected the halyard to the mainsail before reaching the swell. Attaching it with a shackle is fairly straightforward when the boat isn’t moving. But once everything is in motion, the task becomes much more awkward. We reefed the mainsail, as the forecast called for gusts of up to 24 knots and seas over two meters. Reefing reduces the sail area to prevent overpowering the boat.
As first light approached, the smooth ride gave way to a jerky movement—each wave rolled under us with a lurching pull, followed by a roll and slow yawl, then another sharp jolt forward. This uncomfortable cycle then continues for 20 hours.
I’ve watched countless YouTube videos of people sailing offshore, but they never give a true sense of the scale of the waves or how the motion feels. What struck me most was how awkward it was to move around the deck. Every step needed careful timing and secure handholds, yet, mistiming was inevitable, usually resulting in bumping into parts of the boat. I experienced some nausea, especially when I had my head down performing tasks. I spent a silly amount of time making a sandwich in the galley, only to hand it to Michelle when I returned to the cockpit.
Owen and Aliya were awesome—no seasickness, no complaints. They took it all in stride like little rock stars. Owen kept a running count of flying fish, which frequently skimmed by.
Aliya happened to be looking out just as a pod of dolphins surfed the bow—a great moment.
After making good progress on a starboard tack for 14 hours, we found ourselves nearly 35 miles south of our intended destination, Saint Martin. Switching to a port tack would have taken us directly into the waves and wind, which were now consistently gusting up to 24 knots. So, we furled the headsail and switched to motoring on a more direct course.
We had been making a steady 6–7 knots and tracking our progress on the GPS chartplotter, but at this point, our pace slowed dramatically, which felt disheartening. Around 5 p.m., after a long day, Michelle and I began taking short watches while the other rested. By midnight, we had only covered another 10 miles and could just make out the faint glow of Saint Martin on the horizon. Six painfully slow hours later, we limped into Saint Martin just after dawn, dropped anchor, and all got some sleep.
After a brief rest, we zipped into town in the Zodiac to check in through customs. The process was more detailed than we’d experienced elsewhere—true to form for French bureaucracy—but in return, we got to enjoy all the things France does best: bakeries, superb supermarkets, excellent restaurants, and top-notch amenities.
After some much-needed rest and good food, we remain anchored near Fort Louis Harbour in Saint Martin. In a few days, we plan to sail to the Dutch side of the island. Everyone is gradually adjusting to the routines and the heat, though we still have a little way to go before this lifestyle feels completely normal.
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