April 16 – 25, 2026
We Made It to the Bahamas (Wasn’t Perfect | Some Mishaps & Salty Prayers) —
Three families, three boats, one broken windlass, an engine warning, a waterspout, and the most beautiful water we’ve ever anchored in. This is what it actually looks like to cross the Gulf Stream.
The Night We Almost Didn’t Leave
After two months tucked safely behind the protection of Biscayne Bay in South Florida, we were ready. Our buddy boat crew — SV Orion and SV Chasing Serenity — were game for a Wednesday night departure, targeting a 10pm launch for an overnight crossing that would land us in Bimini by morning.
We fueled up (only our second time at a fuel dock — stressful doesn’t begin to cover it), prepped the boat, lowered the salon table into a big kid-bed for the little ones, hit play on a movie, and waited.
Then SV Orion radioed in: their windlass wouldn’t work.
For those who don’t know, the windlass is the mechanical system that hauls up your anchor. No windlass, no departure. So there I sat at the helm, managing the boat in the dark between wind and current, trying not to bump into neighboring boats while Josh zipped over to help troubleshoot. I mentally wrote off the crossing for the night and snuggled in with the kids.
But by just before midnight? We were moving.
Crossing the Gulf Stream With Kids (The Real Version)
We entered the channel out of the bay and immediately felt it — what sailors politely call “sporty” conditions. The waves were bigger than the forecast suggested. They usually are.
What followed was a 10-hour overnight crossing: dodging cruise ships in the dark, trading watch shifts, and trying to keep the kids comfortable on their improvised salon bed. About two hours from the Bahamas, one of our engines threw a temperature warning. Josh shut it down, and we pulled into Bimini on one engine.
We dropped anchor in the most stunning shade of blue we’ve ever seen in our lives.
Worth. Every. Moment.
Welcome to Bimini: Conch Shells, Tubing, and Island Time
Josh went ashore with the other captains to clear customs and immigration while the rest of us floated in that ridiculous turquoise water and tried to convince ourselves this was actually our life now.
Over the next few days we swam constantly, the kids went tubing with SV Orion’s crew, we collected our first conch shells, and we snorkeled some of the clearest water we’ve ever been in — and we haven’t even hit the reefs yet. We are sunburned, salty, and completely undone by how beautiful it is here.
Josh diagnosed and fixed the engine issue (a bolt and band problem — you can breathe now). And SV Orion’s text when they arrived after us said it all: “Welcome to the Bahamas. You just relax and do your own thing now.”
The Storm, The Waterspout, and the Great Potato
Nothing in this lifestyle stays easy for long, and we knew a cold front was incoming. We moved anchorages to South Bimini for better protection, but the holding there was notoriously rocky, and we were expecting gusts up to 30 knots. After a few failed anchor sets, we found what looked like a promising sand patch, followed all the protocols, and just… hoped.
Spoiler: our anchor held. But before that happened, here’s what we were dealing with:
Thimble jellies. Our anchorage was absolutely infested with them — tiny jellyfish that cause something called “sea bather’s eruption.” No one wanted to dive the anchor to check the set. (Skylar may have discovered this the hard way, though she recovered quickly.)
A waterspout. I’m not exaggerating when I say my childhood fear of tornadoes nearly sent me into full panic mode. We were sitting in the cockpit watching what I casually called “a dust devil on the water” — and then the funnel formed. It moved away from us. Many prayers were said. Our midwest buddy boat mom gave us a full briefing on boat-waterspout protocol, bless her.
A full-send cold front. The winds ripped, the waves rolled, and all three boats were glued to their anchor alarms through the night. SV Orion dragged and reset. SV Chasing Serenity held through the night, then had a big drag Tuesday morning before resetting. The Great Potato — our anchor, affectionately named — held the entire time.
When Josh finally dove the anchor after the storm passed, he came up shaking his head. The thing had buried itself five whole inches into the seafloor. Barely hanging on. Held like a champ.
Saying Goodbye to SV Orion
After the blow finally cleared Wednesday, SV Orion headed south toward the Caribbean. Saying goodbye was genuinely hard. They’ve been our people through the scariest moments of this crossing, and the sailing community is right when they say: the hardest part of this lifestyle is saying goodbye to buddy boats.
They are wonderful, real, imperfect, generous humans, and we are grateful for them.
Where Are We Headed Next?
After the storm, SV Chasing Serenity and the NOBAD crew moved back to our original North Bimini anchorage for better wind protection. We hit the beach, let the kids body-surf the shore break, and attempted to find dinner in a very sleepy Thursday-night Bimini. (Island time is real. What was supposed to be a 20-minute food order took 45. Hungry, anarchic children were waiting on the beach. We made it.)
Saturday morning, we pointed east.
The Berry Islands are calling.
A Note of Gratitude
We genuinely would not be here — not just in the Bahamas, but in this life — without the prayers and support of this community. The crossing was hard. The storm was harder. But every single terrifying and beautiful moment of it has confirmed that we are exactly where we are supposed to be.
Thank you for following along. We’ll see you in the next one.
🌊 Sam + Josh + the NOBAD crew
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