A Walk Down Medical Lane

Leaving Sue aboard Chandrika as well off as I could, I rowed ashore with the stripped, rusty-rimmed bicycle we’d bought two years prior from a bicycle mechanic in Belize. The clutch brakes work during the sometimes brief intervals when the chain stays on the spokes. Fortunately Duke of York Island, Papua New Guinea, is reasonably flat. The nearest medical facility is an hour’s bike ride for one of reasonable fitness. I biked hard, enjoying the physical exertion rarely experienced in the recent months of cruising. Coconut grove canopy flew by above my head as I passed many villagers making low incomes from copra production. Light road traffic consists of people on foot and buffalo pulled two wheel carts loaded with forty to fifty kilogram burlap bags of copra (dried coconut meat), which is then sold to both Australia and south east Asia for the production of soaps and other oil based products. Roads constructed during the reign of Queen Emma, as well as the later built World War II Japanese roads are of coral based gravel. Now over half a century later muddy potholes and ruts abound, flinging both myself and the rusty chain off kilter.

Armed with medications for malaria, worms, amoebas, and bacteria, and having paid an above average medical bill of $7, I returned to Chandrika ignoring the monsoon rains. A couple days passed and Sue had healed up from suspected moderate food poisoning when trouble came. My fever spiked to 104.2 as I lay on my back with abdominal pain. I had no appetite. My body shook from chills. My whole digestive track pulsated. Severe dysentery and diarrhea followed as I lost not just concerning amounts of blood and mucus, but what I now think was pieces of the two millimeter thick white walls lining my stomach and intestinal track. Two days on anti-malarial medications and antibiotics passed. It was getting worse. At 2:00 am Sue sailed us twenty miles to the city of Rabaul, East New Britain.

The town of Rabaul lies amidst the ash of this active volcano,

which was unusually quiet when this photo was taken .

Ash strewn from decades of volcanic activity preceding World War II, including two eruptions and an almost constant shower of ash most recently coming to a near stop around December, 2009, it’s a wonder people have stayed. On your car, on your clothes, in your lungs, through your windows, or blanketing your sailboat, the ash goes everywhere. After three months of sun, showers, and no ash, the mountainsides were blanketed with green grass brining a little more life to the land and the people. Has the volcano stopped for good? I have my doubts. Regardless of the hardships, or perhaps because of them, the people are as loving and altruistic as ever. My fever was now consistently below 102. I was slightly dehydrated after drinking rehydrating solution, slightly anemic, and perhaps my blood sugar was low as well. My body ached as I got out of the dinghy. A kind stranger drove us to the health center. I received the standard treatment with medicine for malaria, worms, amoebas, and bacteria. Glucose and saline IVs were also administered. Blood and mucus excretions from the walls of my GI track continued and worsened. My low grade fever continued to fluctuate. Neither time nor medicine had brought about healing. I was starting to get scared.

Nurses care for a patient inside Rabaul's town health center.

After just a couple visits to the health center I am no longer being charged. While treatment here cost pennies on the dollar, compared to first world medical costs, this is PNG where people are thoughtful and caring of others. A truly human component exists to almost all facets of life here. Free of charge we are kindly driven to the nearest hospital in the ambulance, a Toyota Landcruiser, with snorkel. Monsoon rains have eroded this ash strewn landscape due to lack of vegetation. The road soon parallels a river bed. Like a bite out of a sandwich half the road is missing in places where a vertical fifteen foot wall of volcanic sediment goes into the dried up river bed. Nature enforces drunk driving here.

A free ambulance ride takes me to Nonga General Hospital.

The hospital is sparse and slightly run down. Half the building is not utilized. It is clearly underfunded. It is March 17th and a week has passed and with blood and mucus increasing in the stools, it is time to have some tests done. Malaria is negative. Typhoid is negative. E. coli amoeba cysts are detected by microscopy. This is not the commonly known bacteria, but rather amoeba cysts called Entamoeba coli. I am put on more medications but we are not going to wait any longer. I need first world medicine. There are no cruisers around to look after Chandrika for the minimum two weeks we’ll be gone. We have a cat that needs to be watched as well. Our cruising permit expires in eleven days. We make one phone call to the friend of an acquaintance and all the logistics are solved. Within twenty four hours Chandrika is moved in front of a private estate where she will be watched over and the cat taken care of. We have reserved next day tickets to Cairns, Australia. We have a letter from immigration for our one way return flight to PNG and a one month extension on our cruising permit.

Nonga General Hospital

Amoeboid cysts are detected by microscopy.

First world medicine here I come!

We pass through Australian immigration and customs. “We are here for holiday” is all we need to say. I am even allowed to keep my few slices of bread, exhibiting far less stringent regulations than is pressed upon the incoming sailboat to Australian waters. Rather than skydiving, bungi-jumping, swimming with domesticated dolphins, and snorkeling amongst dead reef with all the other tourists, we head straight for Cairns Base Hospital emergency room. More tests are done. Blood tests reveal a high white blood cell count, including the presence of myelocytes and metamyelocytes (specific types of white blood cells), common with severe infection. My doctor, an intern, advises me to leave the emergency room, go off all medications, and let the pathogen run its course. Some patients never question a doctor’s advice. I’m not one of them so not desiring any more from his overpriced brain I walk out, a few hundred dollars poorer. Now intelligence varies from president to president just as it does from doctor to doctor and you can tell by the way they speak and respond to a given question, as well as their ability to analyze a situation and make sound decisions. We went to the 24 Medical Center to get further advice. She listened to the symptoms, made an analysis, and said it was good I ignored the intern. I was to continue on medication called Flagyl for amoebas but change antibiotics to Cipro. My fever, having been at about 101, broke just fourteen hours after starting on Cipro. It was now March 20th.

Some symptoms were improving but bureaucracy was limiting our ability to properly treat this illness. The Cairns Base Hospital did not allow me to see my own test results, the ones which took a few days, and so I had them requested through the more personable 24 Hour Medical Center. So kind was the 24 Hour Medical Center that the doctor signed a release form without payment of another consultation fee. Still further testing showed high enzyme levels in the liver, along with other concerns. An ultrasound of the liver was required. Medical fees were adding up. The earliest possible ultrasound was a week away. There are drugs in PNG for amoebas not available in the U.S. or Australia. I had learned the hard way that Cairns, though tropical, had little exposure to, and hence little expertise on, tropical diseases. This is where to go to treat heart disease and diabetes, amongst other first world diseases. A private hospital in Port Moresby, PNG, could schedule an ultrasound two days away. We flew to Port Moresby. Port Moresby is of great contrast to almost all else of PNG with higher standards of living, good paying jobs, professional public and private hospitals, and hotels starting at about $300 a night. Wait a minute, where the heck are we going to sleep? We can’t afford that! After all we were sleeping in our car under bridges in Florida when we were shopping for a sailboat. But this is not to say Port Moresby is a haven for those better acclimated to western culture. It’s a city with numerous unemployment-driven thieves running about, commonly referred to as raskols. Ask the majority of compassionate, genuinely concerned Papua New Guineans if a given street or area is safe and you will likely have a personal guide going out of their way to bring you safely to your destination.

Sue’s face lit up. Our friends from the village of Kabatarai (the Rock), on Duke of York Island have family in Port Moresby. Wantok in Pidgin means family or clan. If someone is wantok you love them and take care of them like family. To the village of Kabatarai, we had become wantok. We placed a phone call.

March 25th we walked outside the terminal to meet a woman and her family who had never seen our faces before. They took us in as wantok. In stark contrast to the self indulging, first world culture of Australia, it was pleasant to be back in PNG. Granted it’s not always easy to live and work a nine to five job with the multitude of other distractions, complications, and responsibilities that come along with it. I understand why even friends and family have been slightly reserved at times to lend a hand when I’ve been in need. Yet amongst these strangers I felt none of it. Their compassion to help us was absolutely genuine. For nine days, every day, we were driven to the hospital, pharmacy, grocery store, air port, internet café, bank, etc. Never once in their words, eyes, and actions did they show a lack of desire to help.

Hendrick drives us all over Port Moresby.

The ultrasound showed no abscess in my liver. I believe had I stayed in Australia the conclusion would be just that. Fortunately the technician decided to do some exploring. An abscess was found in my stomach. My left kidney appeared infected. White spots also appeared throughout my entire gastro intestinal track. The amoebas were gone and I hoped the sometimes resilient cysts (eggs) were gone as well. I stopped taking the Flagyl and time would tell. The bacteria was gone as well but with damage done, abscesses cause susceptibility to blood stream infection like an open wound in a mangrove swamp, so I stayed on Cipro.

It was March 31st. Sue soon flew back to Chandrika for a solo sail to the Solomon Islands, for long term storage at a marina. I flew back to the U.S. for potential surgery, long term lab tests, resting, and healing.

Amongst our housemates in Port Moresby were both the leader and a couple members of the KB Stone Band. Good music was abundant. Norman, a band member, was five years old when his parents divorced. He stayed with his mother. Girl children are more valuable than boy children in PNG because the women inherit the land. The young man his mother remarried had a capitalistic mind and soon gave her an ultimatum. The mother chose her new husband over Norman. Norman after moving in with his mother’s brother was not allowed to leave the property and conversing with other children was punished by twenty lashings. “By the time I was twelve I ran away. I had to leave. When I was found my uncle tied me up and kept me in a fifty five gallon drum so I couldn’t escape.” At the age of sixteen with a sixth grade education he ran away for good. “I stole what I needed to survive.” After being released from jail for the third time he finally found music. Playing with KB Stone has kept him strait and out of jail.

KB Stone practices below the house.

The KB Stone Band

Prevention of tropical diseases infecting the gastro intestinal track includes basic clean living but more importantly knowing that many preventative treatments such as bleach will not kill amoebas and some parasites in drinking water and is therefore not effective in cleaning local fruits and vegetables. If you question the cleanliness of food or water being kindly offered it is best to politely refuse.

Many lessons were learned about dealing with tropical diseases in underdeveloped countries like Papua New Guinea including the following:

1) Upon going to a doctor, request as many tests as possible. Most facilities have the ability to test specifically for Malaria, Typhoid, and Hepatitis. General blood tests are informative on what you are fighting. Also a microscopy will give fast conclusions on the presence of amoebas and cysts in stool samples. Fewer drugs are better for maintaining overall healthy immune and digestive systems.

2) Go to the best medical facility in your region. A doctor, who sees tropical disease patients daily, in my opinion, is more valuable than top notch facilities. Try to find both and don’t keep changing doctors.

3) An online subscription to medical information such as http://www.uptodate.com/ will help keep you better educated and on the healing track.

4) Cruisers are very often in a wilderness setting, defined as over an hour from professional medical treatment. A broad spectrum medical kit and the education to use it are important but should not delay actively seeking professional treatment. Time may be critical so don’t wait around.

I feel of all the lessons I could offer these people, my wantok, on how the rest of the world works it would bear little importance. In PNG there exists a culture that puts the caring of family, the development of friendships, and even a conversation with a stranger, above careers and financial security. I don’t know the limit of how far my wantok would go for me, but I don’t think I even came close. Perhaps they are wiser than they will ever know.

March 2010

PAPUA NEW GUINEA

Papua New Guinea (PNG) is a country like no other. After clearing in the town of Kokopo, in East New Britain, we sailed 20nm to Duke of York Islands, northwest through the cut and southwest deeper into the bay. The water became flat as a lake, shimmering in the evening sun. Children ran to the shore screaming with joy, the momentum of excitement brought some clothed into the water. Dressed in ragged clothes with wild afros of blond, dark brown, and black hair, blessed with careless spirits, kind eyes, and huge smiles, we were overtaken by the scene. We waved back with huge smiles of our own but continued on to our planned anchorage deeper in the bay. We dropped the hook in front of Kabatarai, and received a similar welcome. We knew not the name of where we arrived, but did know of Kabatarai from the invitation we had received by the chief on the shores of Kokopo the previous day. By sheer luck alone we had arrived at the town we had half heartedly agreed to visit.

It was not long before we were visited by John (chief) and his wife Margaret, who gave a very warm welcome. The next day relaxing on the boat, taking care of both ourselves and Chandrika we soon discovered these were not people with whom we’d lack interaction. We changed the oil, cleaned up our home afloat, said hello and chatted with the less shy ones which typically correlated with how well English was spoken. The dirty oil was of course happily received and in no direct correlation what so ever had we already received what was to become an ever flowing stream of fresh fruits, potato, leafy greens, green beans, and so on. We went ashore, to be welcomed by a few adults, and stared at by perhaps 50 young children. After sitting down, and being social for a bit we were off, as promised the day before, guided by not only the chief’s sons, but a motley group of 20 teenage boys and young men, loaded with bush knives and heaps of local knowledge, into the forest to explore the old world war two Japanese long range firing canons, shelters, and integral caves dug by pick axes deep into the limestone rock. When headlamps were needed one ran back to get a coconut husk ember while others made fast work of dead palm fronds for torches.

Entrance to a WWII Japanese tunnel

Inside the tunnel, our local guides light the way

A WWII cannon aimed towards the sea

We explored through the scrub where many soldiers had once died and were fed wild nuts off the coast, all new to our taste buds. Half way through we stopped in the forest, sat atop freshly chopped banana leaves, and watched as the younger boys climbed the 60 foot tall coconut trees. With feet opposed side to side and hands opposed front to back, their bodies moved from the squat position to one almost standing upright while still maintaining a firm opposing grasp with both the hands and feet. In fact the only body surfaces to ever touch the sheer tree trunks were hands and feet, as the feet then quickly scrunched up in a three foot increment back into the squat position. Done by some in a fluent motion it looked natural, effortless, and almost identical to how an ape or primate would climb the same tree. For the less confident a one and one half foot loop of soft, fiberous, strong tree bark was placed under tension between the feet to help maintain grasp. Fresh green coconuts were thrown down and nature, combined with local assistance, provided exactly what the body needed. We headed down to the coast, eyed the rusty frame of a WWII jeep, and swung from a perch, vine to vine below the overhanging limestone cliff. The coconut husk ember had been saved as most smoked a single dried tobacco leaf rolled tightly with newspaper. No filters here.

The remains of a WWII jeep

Monkeying on the vines

Our final sight was the deep, cavernous sacred cave of Kabatarai. Stepping up the steep slime coated sea splashed rocks our eyes fell upon a perfectly circular one foot diameter level hueco like a skillet in the ledge. Within it, guarding the cave, perhaps, were two black and white striped sea snakes inter-coiled together. The snakes are in fact seen as a bad omen by the villagers. Women are not allowed to enter the sacred cave but without explanation an exception was made for Sue to approach the entrance. Within its greatest depths lay a depression partially filled in with sea tumbled coble stones where legend says the Japanese soldiers crawled in and died. Both of us and a few of our guides lay sick in bed just days later. The witch doctor came to our boat for treatment through drinking lime in the water, spreading it on our bodies, and a talk with the spirits. The witch doctor hypothesized that the spirit in the sacred cave had been angered by our presence and had made us sick. We sought treatment with western medicine in Rabaul, some 25nm distant, but no scientific explanation ever came to be. Returning to Kabatarai felt like returning home from a journey, back amongst family and friends. The energy of a place resonates through the air. Singing bounds from ones mouth to the hearts of others. Smiles are reflected from one face to another. Kind acts become common, enriching the lives of both the giver and the receiver. A society can operate on money based exchanges. Direct trades can also work and is perhaps a little more heart felt. Gifts or favors can be done and returned at a later date. Perhaps, however, at the top of the altruistic spectrum of societies are places like Kabatarai where not always, but most often, a gift is given with no expectation of return, and because everyone operates in this mindset indebtedness is rarely felt. This way of operating allowed us to quickly grow connected, enrich each others lives, and share a very genuine sense of happiness and love with much of this community. The packed dirt clearing had been swept. People began to gather in two distinct groups under opposing giant mango trees. Many men, especially elders wore sarongs and sat cross legged, topless on the earth, their skin leathery and weathered, yet erect in an upright posture. Toned bodies showed the product of over 70 years of a low stress, high exercise lifestyle. We sat with the bride’s family and other members of our village while the family of the groom gathered across from us. To the side lay an elegant assortment containing clusters of sweet and cooking bananas, bags of rice, a woven basket filled with potatoes, and huge stalks of fresh sugar cane. The crowd settled down into silence. Elders stood up, while making strong hand and arm gestures, they talked of the importance of tradition.

Members of the village gather together along with the bride's family.

An introduction and words of welcome

(note the ceremonial lime painted on the speaker's temple)

Shell money is traditional currency of exchange and is still used today, though mostly for bride ceremonies such as this one. A basket is carried towards our side containing 400 fathoms of shell money. One fathom equates to six feet and so it is that a six foot thin strand of cane is strung with about five hundred pieces of shell money and closed upon itself into a large loop. This fathom is worth five kina. Groups of ten are laid down before us to create four rows each ten long. Bows are made as these acts receive the highest of respect. The parents of the bride were being offered about $800US, a relatively low bride price considering that in other parts of the country brides can go for as much as 10 times this amount. The groom’s family also paid 2 fathoms (or $4US) in taxes to the local government.

The groom's family arrives with a basket full of shell money.

The shell money is laid before the elders of the bride's family.

(Each "loop" is 10 fathoms long, or 60 feet)

After receiving the shell money, the bride’s family reciprocated by giving the groom’s family 40 fathoms of shell money, as a gesture to show that they were happy with the agreed price and had received more than enough. The bride’s family also presented them with the huge assortment of bananas, rice, potatoes and other goods that they had brought to the ceremony, as a gesture of goodwill.

4 fathoms of sheel money are given to the groom's family,

along with loads of bananas, rice, sugar cane and other goodies.

The ceremony concluded with various speeches given by the village elders. These speeches were mostly given in Pidgin English. The topics varied from the importance of maintaining tradition to reminding couples not to use physical aggression to solve frustrations. We learned that on a neighboring island after a woman threw a potato at her husband’s head for his failure to catch any fish, the husband kicked his wife in the spleen, which ruptured and led to her immediate death. With official law enforcement being absent on this remote island, we doubt if the husband will ever face jail time. We witnessed only the 1st part of the bride ceremony. The second part will take place on another date, when the bride’s family will officially give the bride to the groom’s family along with pots, pans, building materials and other supplies that the young couple will need to build a home and raise a family. In modern times, couples also have a traditional Christian ceremony in a church. Most villages in Kabatarai consider themselves either Catholic or fundamentalist Evangelical, although widespread belief in spirits is still prevalent from the times before Christianity was adopted about 100 years ago. During our 2 month stay in Kabatarai, we developed many strong friendships. Communication was mostly in English, although occasionally locals would speak in Pidgin English while we responded in English. The languages are close enough that with a little practice one can mostly understand the other. PNG’s Pidgin English with its roots in English, German, and a variety of local languages is the universal language of the country. With some 1000 different native languages in PNG, the residents of Duke of York speak their own language with each village having its own dialect. While in Kabataria, we learned some of the basic words and phrases in their native tongue. For many English is their 3rd language. However, only those with a high school education (mostly men but some women as well) can speak it.

Lucy

Rose, in her early 20s and a single mother, would cook for us every time we walked past. Local cuisine consists primarily of sweet potatoes, cabbage, spinach-like greens, eggplant and bananas in various combinations, cooked in a coconut milk broth, or occasionally using a Ramen noodle seasoning packet. Villagers would also treat us to their fanciest and most expensive foods of coconut rice with canned sardines in tomato sauce or on occasion would cook a chicken for us.

Although Kabatarai is filled with kindness, we did experience some adversity. One night while we were fast asleep, an engineless fiberglass skiff (which usually takes an engine) was paddled silently to our boat by some villagers from a neighboring island. Our friend, Kit, from Kabatarai was out in his canoe fishing. Distrusting their intentions, Kit fired his slingshot, chasing them away. Another situation we encountered was with the local teens. They would come by our boat after school in canoes and also swimming in the water. We were distrustful but civil, until we realized that they were carving their names and writing things into our bottom paint under the water. We yelled and screamed at them, hoping that this would end the problem. One day we discovered that someone had written on the side of our hull (above the waterline) in permanent marker. We informed the chief, but without knowing who the culprit was, there was little that could be done. One day while relaxing in the shade on the beach with some villagers, we saw the teens swimming out to the boat with their goggles. Graham immediately rowed out and caught them in the act. The entire village came to the beach and began yelling at them from shore. Not having anywhere to flee, they swam to shore to receive their public shame and punishment. We watched as an old woman beat a 12 year old boy with a thick stick on his back and chest. We did not have any other problems again. Overall, however, we found the happiness and friendship of the children to be intoxicating. We saw the kind of openness and free-spirited nature, lost upon a parent’s first telling to not trust strangers. Their eyes were filled with loving kindness, or sometimes that deep and fearless gaze of curiosity, culturally non-prohibitive. With that less self-conscious nature, combined with an upbringing of love and community, came children every evening as darkness fell, singing songs in native tongue while paddling around and past our boat.

February - March 2010

From the Solomons to Papua New Guinea

It would break the back of a snake following in our wake from the Solomon Islands to Papua New Guinea (PNG), but there’s more to it than that. Northwest monsoon season came out of hibernation a little late but with a roar this year. Hung over our shoulders, impeding unbiased and sound judgement, was a visa for PNG expiring soon. We huddled down and waited as it dumped dinghies and dinghies of water. One morning we found our dinghy still tied to the boat but fully submerged, saved by the built in flotation we had added. Overhead the wind whistled and screamed through the trees, while we lay in our protected bay receiving only a periodic 40+ knot gust. First you hear it and then it hits. Chandrika’s bow falls off lying abeam to the gust. Once the anchor chain is straight, she turns to face the wind. While trying to sleep, a half conscious mind has already asked, “Are we dragging?”. The squalls and wind kept coming while all local knowledge, books, and SSB weather forecasts, evaded the question, “How long will it last?” A hike to the top of the hill brought little additional insight and so, with the weather having lightened slightly, we headed out to sea. I curse all things that impede thy judgment! It started out with 15 – 20 knots on the nose. We had an open sea and were free to choose the most beneficial tack from which to forereach. Forereaching demands a lot of sail while heavy squalls demand very little. In fact, if we really wanted to, we could have run around like two chickens with our heads cut off, which we sometimes did. The dance went something like this: 15 – 20 knots forereaching with full main and jib. 0 – 5 knots and the sails are flogging, so we furl in the jib. Then, 10 knots from a different direction, but still on the nose, so out comes the jib. The wind increases to 15 – 20 knots again, which is great for forereaching, but we’re headed right towards a squall, so we put in one or two reefs in the main (to reduce the sail area). Now we don’t forereach so well, but it’s still okay with the jib. The wind keeps increasing to a wet 30 knots and it’s time to furl the jib and raise the staysail. Once over 40 knots, the staysail is dropped and we’re slightly forereaching and almost hove-to with just the main, waiting for the powerful gusts to subside and basically making no forward progress. This is depressing to the chickens, so once below 40 knots, the staysail is raised and then dropped 10 minutes later to bring out the jib. Now the chickens are tired, so the double reef stays in, as Chandrika beats into the waves and wind with the jib once more. Blackened sky surrounds and there’s plenty more dancing to come. After all, that was just one squall. As it would happen, the weather worsened and squalls became more frequent. The rain was heavy and filled our 5 gallon bucket in a mere 12 hours. As the seas built, Graham filled the ocean with bile, and Chandrika dove like a dolphin, filling her forward bilge with saltwater through the gaps into the chain locker. We rarely used the jib and were mostly trying to wait out the weather, with or without the staysail. At 10 pm, we were hove to with a lee shore and wind in the 40s to low 50s. The squall was not easing as we crept towards land we could not see through the blackened night sky. Due to an estimated 3 knots of current pulling us backwards and also closer to shore, we could not do much better with the engine assisting, so we turned around and ran, losing all precious miles gained, we could now control the boat and avoid land. This call was made in stressful conditions with the additional knowledge of a cyclone to the SW. We were bound NE for Bougaineville Strait so as to place Bougainville Island between us and the prevailing weather. Bougainville Strait is both a constriction between 100+ mile islands and where a 7000 meter trench shallows to 20-30 meters. Here contrasting ocean swell and current formed 15 foot waves standing strait up and breaking just on the top. Instinctively this felt suicidal but knowledge said otherwise and proved to be true. We had been warned, we had, that the wind was light, variable, on the nose, and hence it was only possible to motor to Papua New Guinea. As days of patient waiting and slow sailing had proved this was not enough to get us using our D-sail (sailor speak for diesel engine). “How are we doing on the GPS?” “Don’t even look at it. Lets play a game.” Our required daily mile quota was 50nm, thanks to the PNG visa but even that required some motoring. Still the weather was improving and motoring had been kept minimal. We had 20-25 knots and Chandrika was happy. Our port tack windward was getting worse so we went on a starboard tack. Now when your tracking over 180 degrees between tacks something is wrong. We tried to motor our westerly course but instead of the usual 4.5 knot speed we were creeping along at 0.5 knots. We cut south to escape such restriction conditions but only to find a slight ease to 2.5-3 knots of countercurrent. The motoring and motorsailing began and did not end until we made landfall a couple days later. Nature did well stacking her cards against a small sailboat. January 2010