Matthew Town, Bahamas ➜ Luperón, Dominican Republic – 168.9 NM / 33 hours
Leaving Matthew Town felt big. Really big. We were officially heading to the Dominican Republic — our first international landfall beyond the Bahamas.
But I’ll be honest… the back of my brain was buzzing.
Haiti was just over there.
Cuba? Closer than ever, only 42 nautical miles away.
And the biggest thought pressing on my mind: would the fuel issue we’d been having decide to haunt us now?
Our diesel stop in Matthew Town had been… let’s just say “unconvincing.” No one to call, no coast guard, no friendly port, just open water ahead.
The Calm Before the Clouds
We pulled out of that small Bahamian town with 2–3 foot seas and a gentle roll, nothing we couldn’t handle. I went below for some rest while Rodney took the night shift.
Around 4:00 a.m., I woke up to calm seas, the kind of sailing we all dream about. Light breeze, blue water, and the boat moving with that perfect rhythm. We fell into our groove: sailing in shifts, quick meals, short debriefs between watches, then rest.
Long passages aren’t about sightseeing, they’re about making miles and staying sharp. While Rodney kept an eye on AIS and radar (this route is cruise ship central), he also slipped in a couple of movies he’d been saving for just such a journey.
Company on the Horizon
By midday, we spotted our friends on Sailing Tova off our starboard side. Seeing familiar faces, even just as a blip on the horizon, is pure gold on remote passages.
That evening, as the sun dipped low, we had a quick dinner… and then noticed the clouds. The weather apps weren’t calling for much, but the sky was telling a different story. On radar, a storm began building.
The Storm and the Freight Train
We buttoned up the cockpit. Rain poured, wind picked up, and the sea got grumpy. That’s when it hit me, seasickness, and bad. Rodney looked at me and said, “Go lie down in the back.” I didn’t argue.
I told him to wake me in a couple of hours. If you know Rodney, you know that didn’t happen. He kept sailing through the pitch-black night, no moon, just endless water and sky.
Then, just before dawn, something strange happened. We started picking up speed… a lot of speed. We normally cruise between 5.5 and 6.8 knots, but the Garmin was showing 8.5. We’d caught an uncharted current, not a bad surprise, but it made us both a little uneasy.
By morning, the storm had fizzled and the sea had calmed.
A Careful Approach
We were eager to arrive, but we’d never entered Luperón before. The stories we’d heard were enough to make us slow down: floating fishing lines, mystery nets, and buoys made out of Coke bottles.
We decided to wait for daylight.
Just after sunrise, our cruiser friends, who had been in Luperón for a month waiting for a Puerto Rico weather window, called on the VHF, urging us to keep going with them. But Kismet needed fuel tank attention, and that couldn’t wait.
Our friends on Sailing Tova had already called a local guy named Papo, kind of the unofficial mayor of the mooring field. He had a ball for us at $70 a month. And for $70? Well… it was exactly what you’d expect. But it floated.
Yellow Flag and Landfall
We watched Sailing Tova enter on AIS, then followed their track about 45 minutes later. The yellow quarantine flag went up, the universal sign we hadn’t yet cleared customs, and we eased into the channel.
Papo was there, waving us in and pointing to our mooring. We tied up, took a deep breath, and looked around.
We had made it.
Bahamas to the Dominican Republic.
Overnight storms, surprise currents, lingering engine nerves, all behind us.
Ahead of us: a quiet bay, a yellow flag waving in the morning breeze, and the start of a whole new chapter.
If you’ve ever made a big crossing, you know, it’s equal parts nerves, exhaustion, and exhilaration.
We can’t wait to share what happened next in Luperón.
Fair winds,
Patrice & Rodney