On our first visit to Elvis’ bar on Anguilla, amidst the Parrothead excitement a call came on the VHF that a boat had drug anchor in the anchorage and was smashing into another one that had a green staysail up. Well, we were the only boat in the crowded anchorage flying a sail and though ours is a turquoise mizzen, Bruce knew it had to be us.

Our fast walking turned into a full run by the time we hopped over the dock and got to our dinghy. We could see the situation clearly and it wasn’t pretty. Bruce pulled hard on the oars and started spelling out a plan. “You unlock the boat and start the engine, I’ll let out more chain.” As we neared Woody, first one cruiser’s inflatable dinghy appeared, then two, three, four. They’d been looking for us for an hour to alert us to the potentially disastrous situation.

A 38-foot French steel boat, Amzer-Zo, had been anchored in front of us the night before; they left in the afternoon and when they returned near dark, they picked up a government mooring buoy. The mooring rope had parted and their boat, empty of crew, had turned itself sideways and come straight down on Woodwind. Somehow our flying jib boom, a 13-foot pole that looks like a bow sprit extension, had skewered the steel boat right at their mast. Together, we made a perfect “T.” Their boat was being held in place because our jib boom was threaded through their stainless-steel mast pulpit, past the front of the mast, almost touching the other side. Our anchor was holding us both, luckily, because behind us sat a beautiful, newly launched wooden classic.

Boring Alice, the tender to the yacht Aurora, acted as a mini-tug on the bow of the French boat, while another tender pushed hard on the stern. They slowly moved the boat upwind to extricate it from our rig. The boats were apart but the job wasn’t done. Bruce dove in to check our anchor and make sure it was set well to continue holding both boats. The other cruisers had gone aboard the steel boat and dropped an anchor. It was lying worthlessly over our chain, so Bruce dove again, attached a line to it and had the guys in one of the hovering dinghies haul it aboard. They drove it out in front of the steel boat and dropped it. Bruce swam over and down to set it.

The damage we both sustained was minor compared to the potential. We thanked the kind people who had come to help, then watched the dock, looking for the French people returning to their wandering vessel. They arrived just before dark, with shocked, confused expressions. They knew very little English and we know even less French, so Bruce drew a picture to show them what happened. They apologized profusely but we assured them it was no problem and our damage was small and repairable. They untied from us and re-anchored before returning in their dinghy with a lovely bottle of French wine, telling us to think of their Amzer-Zo when we drank it. Then they thanked us again, and again, and again.

After they left, we remembered the last dragging-boat event that came our way. During the weeks we spent in San Diego last October, we procured a permit to anchor off the San Diego Yacht Club … the high-rent zone of the bay. There was a house close by with a beautiful private dock and two amazing yachts. One was a 61-foot Azimuth we figured was valued at an easy two mill. One Sunday we saw the owner, his wife and small child get on the boat as we were rowing to shore to phone home. When we got back to Woodwind, we noticed they were anchored in front of us, hardly half a block from their dock.

Just past noon, the wind picked up until it was blowing a solid 20 knots; the big impressive boat was dragging anchor, heading straight toward us. I was down below when I heard Bruce call, “Janny!” Sure enough, they were on us, their starboard side pressing hard on our bowsprit. We were hooked together like a giant “T” (sound familiar?). Bruce knew the only way to save us both from irreparable damage was to get his boat alongside ours. This was no easy fix, however, because of the strong wind, the force of his boat pushing on our bow and the two anchors, which were beginning to tangle. He did it, though, and we escaped basically unscathed … again. We’re starting to wonder if someone put a sign on Woodwind that says, “hit me!”

Jan

Anguilla has been our favorite island in the Eastern Caribbean for a long time. There’s a whole lotta’ nothin’ happening here; the people are open, easy going, friendly; and the white sand beaches are as sweet as sugar. Sailing in felt like a homecoming. Soon after we anchored in the port of Sandy Ground, we went ashore to clear in and even that was simple … no complicated forms, no charges, just “Enjoy your stay on Anguilla,” from the customs lady.

The first place we went was “The Delicate Bar,” a small, square cinder-block building on the road facing a salt pond. Years earlier Bruce had painted two murals on the outside for Belto and Duda, the aging West Indian proprietors. During the few days it took to complete paintings of the island’s most famous schooner, Warspite, and an underwater scene, “The Delicate Bar” became the place to be. It was hopping.

As we approached the now plain, white building, our hearts sank. There was no outward sign of business. We knew Duda had passed away after two fierce hurricanes whacked the area in the late 90s, but as we passed by, we slowed to look in the open door and there sat Belto behind the bar in his crooked captains chair. “Belto! How are you? It’s Bruce and Jan!”

“Fine, fine,” he said with a smile growing across his face. Belto is a tiny but wiry 89-year-old, with eyes as blue as the sky. He told us about his few ailments, which didn’t seem to be slowing him down much, we ordered two drinks and sat across the wooden bar from him, egging him on to recount his days long ago, sailing on more than half a dozen island cargo schooners. Bruce wrote down their names in a little notebook, with Belto making sure he got them right, as he worked to recall a lost piece of Anguilla’s history. “You got Betsy?” he asked as he looked at the paper. “What yuh got de? You got Industry? Alice? Izme?”

Later that day we decided to stroll the beach to check out the new establishments before returning to Woodwind. The first one was geared for hotel tourists, so we gave it a pass and moseyed further down to Elvis’ bar. Built out of one of the old island race boats, the bar itself is inside the boat and customers sit along the outsides of the hull or at one of the varnished wooden spool tables, all of it right on the sand. The crowd was an interesting mix of locals and visitors. Elvis and his partner, Brett, were busy in the middle. We sat for a while trying to get a feel for the place from the cross flow of conversations. A couple people pulled us in with a few questions and when they found out we’d sailed our boat from Washington State in the past nine months, we were in!

Elvis, a tall, thin West Indian, was a skilled bartender. Brett, an American newly transplanted from St. Croix, seemed to run the business end of things. They both gave the place a good feeling. At some point in the comfortable, casual, conversation, Brett mentioned to his friend, Susie, “Parrothead should be here soon.” He picked up a portable VHF radio and called, “Parrothead, Parrothead, Elvis.” With no answer, he put it down and I blurted, “Parrothead? Parrothead, the boat from St. Croix?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “They’re coming over for the concert. They should be here in 10 minutes.” I looked at Bruce. “Did you hear that? Parrothead is coming here!”

Last Halloween, as we motored out of the channel in San Diego, we looked over and saw a boat slowly passing us. On the stern, Parrothead, St. Croix was written, along with, of all things, a colorful parrot. We figured it was a charter boat on its way back to a busy Caribbean season. Two or three days later we heard Parrothead talking on the VHF. Like us, they were headed straight to Panama. A blow was coming, though, so they were going to take shelter on the Baja’s Turtle Bay to wait it out. “Sissies!” we said, pumping ourselves up, brave and tough, thinking we could handle any weather Mother Nature could dish out.

The days of November passed slowly on the Pacific. We’d often say, “I wonder where Parrothead is? Maybe we’ll transit the canal together,” and so on. Thanksgiving morning as we rounded the outlying points of land leading into Acapulco Harbor and approached the anchorage, we spotted three cruising boats. With the binoculars I checked them out. “You’re not going to believe this,” I said. “Parrothead is here. What a small world. I can’t wait to hear where he was for the hurricane.”

But we never had a chance to ask. We missed each other coming and going; they left the next morning in a hurry. We didn’t give up on them, though. They remained the gauge of our progress. When we finally got to Panama almost six weeks later than planned, we imagined they were already on charter in St. Croix.

Parrothead pulled into Sandy Ground after we’d returned to Woodwind. Once they had their anchor down, we called them on the radio, reminding them where we’d seen each other and asking them to stop and see us on their way in. When they came by, the captain turned off the outboard and asked, “Are you really from Gig Harbor?” He looked a bit confused, almost shocked.

“Yes,” I answered. “Do you know the place?”

“I was born and raised there,” he said.

I next asked, “Who are you?” because Gig Harbor is a town thick with Yugoslavian names. If his last name had “ich” at the end of it, we would know his family for sure. He brought his dinghy alongside Woodwind for introductions and explanations. Parrothead was built by his father about 12 miles from where we built Woodwind. Our boats had been at docks just one block apart for years. We told him about our episodic adventures since leaving San Diego. His trip, which ended in St. Croix in late December, was far more uneventful.

The next day at Elvis’ bar, we hung tight together, talking about our hometown, our Gig Harbor boats, the long voyage we’d had. The odd string that bound us together like pearls was yet another reminder of this small world we sail and walk on.

By Saturday morning the seven-mile, eel-shaped island swelled up like a perturbed puffer fish as over 4,000 parrotheads descended on it. Not boats, but crazed Jimmy Buffet fans who flew in, sailed in and ferried over from St. Marten; some may have even walked on water to come see the man who sings about the life they wish they had of sailing, singing and looking for a lost shaker of salt.

Arriving in Anguilla three days before the concert had given us a chance to watch the frenzy in the anchorage, normally a quiet place with assorted local boats, a dozen bareboats coming and going and an occasional cruising boat. Over 30 cruising boats arrived for the concert, flying pirate flags, their crews decked out in loud, tropical attire and Buffet-esqe T-shirts. Jimmy tunes blared through the fleet as the three-day party got underway. Each afternoon, the beach became a parking lot of inflatable dinghies, as crews and their guests went in to float between the half dozen bars on shore. The smell of barbequed ribs and chicken poured out of Johnno’s, Roy’s, Elvis’ and the other establishments, along with pulsing reggae and jazz.

The venue for the concert was at the Dune Preserve, a postcard-perfect property on Rendezvous Bay, owned by Anguillan reggae singer, Bankie Banks. Inside the gates of the Dune are an eclectic collection of small buildings, Swiss Family Robinson style, along with a stage and an upper deck area built for the big event. Gates opened at noon Saturday and security was tight. The concert was being filmed professionally for a video, so only still cameras were allowed inside.

Bruce and I captured two coveted spots in the shade, where we would wait two hours for the show to start. The place slowly filled with costumed revelers, some wearing parrot hats, others shark fin hats or homemade “I love Jimmy Buffet” hats. Half the people were in swimsuits or assorted alluring beach attire. It was peak people watching.

A helicopter full of cameras flew over repeatedly, igniting the fire of anticipation cooking the crowd. Around 3 p.m., with 1,000 people still lined on the beach waiting to get in, Bankie Banks took the stage to welcome the crowd to Anguilla and introduce “the man.” They went nuts. Jimmy Buffet and the Coral Reefer Band came out and got right to work. They didn’t disappoint, playing dozens of their hits.

Some of those songs were about shared memories we had in St. Barts in the late 1970s, when we, Jimmy and dozens of wooden, classic and character boats called the little island home. Bruce painted the first Cheeseburger in Paradise sign there for Fast Eddie at Le Select, along with one that said, “Cheeseburg, Cheeseburg.” The latter, of course, just never made it into a song!

The heat of the day was intense. People streamed back and forth to the beach to jump in and cool off. Some braved a 45-minute line to buy drinks, soggy burgers, dogs and, of course, T-shirts. Two and a half hours after it began, the concert came to an end. Jimmy thanked the crowd and encouraged them to party on, as if they hadn’t already thought of it.

Back at Sandy Ground, the bars and restaurants were overflowing with full-on friendly crowds. It was as if the concert had been the prelude to the real round of parties. We met people who had come from Kansas, California, Wisconsin and every state in between, simply to change their latitude, their attitude and get a dose of island life on sleepy little Anguilla. They played and partied till dawn. We haven’t been to the island’s airport yet, but we’re sure there must be a sign at the departure terminal that reads, “What happens in Anguilla, stays in Anguilla!”

Our stay in Santa Barbara ended when the “weather-light” turned green. Time to move on to our Eastern Caribbean destination of St. Marten, 350 miles away. The wind was mellow in the morning, allowing us to motor out, clearing the reef-spattered islands at the entrance to the bay, then through the buoyed channel. It would be our last chance to spot those elusive whales, up close and personal.

A few nights earlier at “the shacks,” eight of us were sitting around a table, testing the local beer, talking about the whale watching industry in Santa Barbara, which was pretty impressive. Each day we saw a dozen or more boats head out, loaded down with eager customers. Through years of sailing we’ve had our own whale encounters. One time in Mexico we sailed close to two playful gray whales, until we realized they were mating. That was the fastest reciprocal course change ever made with Woodwind! Years later, upon our arrival home to the Straits of Juan de Fuca in Washington State, we anchored in 12 feet of water off the roadstead of Sekiu, a tiny fishing town. We were in the cockpit eating dinner when a 30-foot whale rolled out from under our boat, one eye focused on us. Now that was a welcome home!

The second day out of the Dominican Republic found us 40 miles off the north coast of Puerto Rico, motor sailing in winds so calm they were almost non-existent. It was a gift and it was my birthday, the first I’d ever spent at sea. An “un-birthday” really, unless something exciting came our way. I was expecting to see the U.S. Coast Guard … hoping for them to come by, actually. Based out of San Juan, they do a thorough job of checking passing yachts.

Years ago, on our first non-stop crossing from Panama to St. Marten, we were sailing along the southern coast of Puerto Rico when we saw in the distance a Coast Guard cutter growing larger the closer it got. We were 18 days out of Panama’s San Blas Islands, tired and weary from the long beat, hungry for something fresh, lonely for some company. After approaching us from the stern, the cutter contacted us over the radio. We gave them our last port and explained our intentions. Some minutes passed as the three of us – me, Bruce and Kess, who was two at the time -- sat waiting in the cockpit. The radio came to life, a voice saying, “Thank you, skipper. Is there anything you need?”

After pausing briefly, Bruce answered, “Yes, fresh fruit. We have a two-year-old on board and we’ve been out of fresh food for a while.”

“We’ll see what we can do.” After a few minutes, several men came on deck, bearing a coiled rope and a large half-full garbage bag. One man tossed us a monkey’s fist and Bruce pulled in the line attached to it, which held the bag. We waved and yelled a hearty, “Thank you!” Bruce brought the heavy bag into the cockpit and opened it. Crisp, cold apples and juicy big oranges tumbled out. We cut open several, feeding pieces to Kess. The cutter slowly turned away then put it into high gear. After eating a belly full of fruit, Bruce looked at me and said, “Shoulda’ asked for some chicken.”

No chicken on my birthday. No apples, oranges or visitors. And none the next day, either. The dying wind, a rarity in the Eastern Caribbean, had allowed the seas to calm. St. Thomas appeared on the horizon and by mid-afternoon we were passing it on the south side. Around 5 p.m., Bruce hooked a small mackerel, just in time for dinner. I cut some garlic and he went to work, turning it into a delicious meal.

After dinner, the sky was growing dark, the wind picking up. St. John came and went, then Tortola, Peter Island and Virgin Gorda. I crawled into the bunk to bank some sleep, knowing I’d be “on” at midnight. The water between the Virgin Islands and St. Marten is called the Anegada Passage. Local sailors call it the “Oh-my-godda Passage,” for good reasons. Before I fell asleep, Bruce, now very excited to be so close to St. Marten, said, “This will be the easiest crossing of the Anegada we’ve ever made.” I thought, but didn’t say, “Careful. It’s not over yet.”

Around 8 that night I began to feel ill. By midnight, whatever was ailing me hit the “violent” zone on the sick-o-meter. Each time I tried to get up, I’d nearly pass out. I had symptoms of shock, numbness and my lungs weren’t doing their job at full power. I laid on a mattress on the sole, worthless for the crossing and worried Bruce would be next.

We were making good progress until 2 a.m., when the engine started cycling and threatened to cut out. Motor-sailing was our only hope of getting to St. Marten the next day, and without it we might be out another night. Bruce diagnosed the engine’s symptoms as a jammed fuel filter, but after putting in a new one the engine ran smoothly for a short while before resuming the noise. Around 4 a.m., sleepy and totally fatigued, he announced we had a rope wrapped around the propeller shaft and he’d have to go overboard at daylight to clear it, a risky but necessary maneuver at sea. At 6:30, after a fresh cup of coffee, Bruce took the sails down, grabbed a knife and mask and jumped in to clear what turned out to be a piece of poly-propylene netting that came off with a few pulls. Good news just when we needed it.

I slept off and on for hours, until Bruce called, “Honey, we’re just going by Simpson Bay. Do you want to come see it?” I was so out of it, I thought we were still 20 miles from reaching St. Marten, but here it was, passing by. I crawled into the cockpit and looked out at the island. St. Marten ... we had thought about it and talked about it for so long. It meant the end of the long hard sail; the triumphant finish to a grand challenge. We were there.

Before I went below again I told Bruce the symptoms I’d had in the night and still felt. “Sounds like ciguatera,” he said. Fish poisoning. I crawled back onto the sole while Bruce brought Woodwind into Great Bay, home to Phillipsburg, where his Caribbean connection began over 30 years before. He anchored us a half-block off the white beach, lined with lounge chairs for the cruise ship tourists, then rowed ashore, headed to the pharmacy for advice and information on ciguatera poisoning and a half gallon of Pedialyte.

An hour later, after setting me up with everything I needed, Bruce went back in to take a walk down memory lane. Somehow he managed to find several people, now in their 70s, who remembered him as “De yung fella paintin’ signs at night, workin’ on dat bote all day.” Bruce had learned to build boats on the very beach before us, while launching his career as an artist.

It was in St. Marten that Bruce once drew a T-shirt design for his older brother, John. The drawing was of John’s island boat, Mermaid of Carriacou, sailing off the wind, a giant dorado leaping out of the water behind it, hooked on a line towed from the boat. Around it was written, “GONE FISHININ.” We decided it might be time to freshen up that design and give it some new life, this time it would say, “DONE FISHININ!”

To reach the town of Santa Barbara in the Dominican Republic province of Samana, we had to sail past several jutting points, each turn allowing us to slack the sheets a bit until we were actually sailing dead downwind. It felt like a sinful pleasure! The coastline was a breathtaking display of lush green, jagged cliffs, a vertical carpet of wall-to-wall palms touching the sky and sea.

One house appeared on shore, then another. Tiny clusters of local dwellings filled the spaces between a handful of castle-sized houses and two jaw-dropping hotels. Our binoculars were busy scanning the shore and looking ahead, trying to spot the reefs and make sense of the buoy system.

Frank, on Raffles Light, had told us that the Bay of Samana was one of only two mating grounds in the world for migrating humpback whales. Just like snowbirds, they play in the Caribbean for three months before making a northward journey. When I asked Frank if he thought we’d see some, he said, “Oh, you’ll see whales.” But not for us that day.

Within minutes of anchoring Woodwind inside the causeway of Santa Barbara Bay, an inflatable dinghy arrived filled with four people -- two uniformed men, a local fellow who spoke some English and Harvey, a cruising sailor who owned the dinghy and had been asked to bring them out. These officials were wasting no time. They climbed aboard and wanted to go immediately below to check it and our papers out. I stayed in the cockpit with Harvey, trying to make sense of the situation. Bruce told them our last port, Monte Cristi, and why we had been there. They’d heard about the rescue.

After the officials filled out the necessary forms but collected no money, Chichi, the translator, said, “It is customary to give a tip.” Bruce joked, “They want to give me a tip?” Bruce then explained that since we were two weeks out of Panama, we’d consumed all the fun stuff on the boat and had little to offer. Chichi said it was no problem … money would be just fine. Of course.

There were two hours of daylight left, so we headed ashore to find an Internet café and some food. We found an Internet/phone shop -- one of five in the town -- that had minuscule wooden booths offering privacy and a sauna while surfing the Web. Our e-mail told us the rescue had made more news. It filled us with relief that the world cared.

As promised, Chichi, the cruiser’s friend and jack-of-all-jobs, came to collect our empty fuel jugs and sail bag of laundry at nine the next morning. I rowed to the neighbors -- a sailing yacht called Blackberry Ramble -- to introduce myself and glean tips on the town. They didn’t know much more than we did, having arrived just hours before us, but we set up a rendezvous for dinner that night.

We met the neighbors -- Richard, Jean and their 13-year-old daughters Ella and Judy -- at Mi Restaurant Terraza Bar, a two-story palappa-roofed eatery decorated with local murals and blaring loud American 50s pop tunes from the bar. We ordered a variety of tasty meals, including conch, spaghetti, chicken and mystery meat. As with all cruisers, the conversation meandered through stories of great anchorages, bad weather, local color and future plans. After dinner they told us they had agreed not to bring up our rescue experience unless we did, afraid it was too painful to discuss. They wanted to hear it all, though, and by the end of the evening our friendship was cemented and we knew it would be hard to say “so long.”

The next two days filled themselves with assorted chores: cleaning, repairing, stitching. Around five each evening we rewarded our efforts by joining the crews of several other boats at “the shacks,” an area of mobile eateries and bars that specialized in chicken carbon, Presidente beers and raucous games of dominos. Since we had plans for Friday and wanted to leave Saturday morning, we put at the top of our to-do list for Thursday taking care of the one-month $15 port fee we were told we needed to pay, and a despacho for our next port. It wasn’t easy, but we got it done.

For our last full day in the DR and Bruce’s birthday, we rented a dirt bike and went to check out the scenery on the east coast, which had looked alluring from the sea. Outside of town, the traffic thinned and the road ran up and down through the hills like a black ribbon. It squeezed into tiny villages that seemed colored by a child with a box of crayons. The people of the Dominican Republic are, hands down, the friendliest people we’ve ever encountered. Just riding past elicited a smile, a wave and a friendly, “Hola!” On one bluff we stopped to watch the sightseeing whale boats getting their money’s worth from several whales, spouting and surfacing close by.

After several hours of clinging tight to Bruce on a seat meant for one, we came to signs pointing to “Playa Rincon.” The paved road turned to red hard soil, then segued to craggy rocks sticking out of sucking mud. The bike jumped around, but it was worth it. Playa Rincon just might be the most spectacular beach we’ve ever seen. Two miles long, with no hotels or houses. Just three rough beach shacks, sugary white sand, blue water and white crests breaking over reefs. The smell of roasted fish and lobster poured from a wood-fired grill.

Behind us, on the other side of the dirt road, was a crystal-clear lagoon of sweet water running down from the mountains into a mangrove-lined pool. We stripped down to swimwear and dove in, yelping from the cold.

Refreshed, the return trip to town passed quickly. Though we were both a bit sore from gripping the machine, we decided to squeeze the last hours from the day and headed off in a new direction. At the end of the line we stopped at a cluster of comida buildings for a drink and some food. With ear-splitting merengue blaring from next door, we sat eating yet another plate of chicken carbon and patacones -- squashed, cooked plantains.

We rode the final miles back to Santa Barbara and dropped off the bike. As we walked toward the “shacks” to meet the other cruisers, we felt a bit sad. This gigantic island had been one wonderful surprise after another. Leaving it and the people we’d met would be the only downside to our unplanned, unscheduled, unforgettable visit.

Jan

Hello from the Eastern Caribbean! We arrived here, in St. Marten, two nights ago ... days faster than we thought, due to a lack of wind. Our celebration at finally reaching our destination has been postponed, though. The last night at sea we caught a fish off St. Thomas and had it for dinner. That night I became very ill with ciguatera (fish poisoning). Luckily, it's a "mild" case. Hard to believe, since it was the sickest I've ever been.

Bruce had no symptoms that night ... which was fortunate, because the engine gave us some trouble, we ran out of fuel and a piece of poly-pro rope wrapped around the shaft and he had to get in the water to cut it loose. Once again, we feel lucky.

Despite the fact that it's been raining and squalling since we got here, and I've been stuck on board poisoned, we are sooooo happy to be back in the Caribbean! It's just that good here. Bruce has been ashore, exploring the place where he started his art career some 30 years ago. The changes are good ... more on that later.

Unfortunately, it looks like Kess won't be coming down here due to a high-paying job he can do over spring break, so we're just waiting to get back on our feet health-wise and figure out our next step. We'll update you as soon as we know.

Jan and Bruce

Sailing to Samana

On Saturday, March 3rd, Bruce jumped out of bed at 7 a.m., running straight to the anchor. I heard the windlass come to life; we were heading out now. Getting an early start is crucial along the north coast of Hispaniola. The easterly winds blow hard all day, but kindly lay low at night. The cruising guide -- another one we don’t have -- suggests running along the coast by night, anchoring and sleeping by day. That would be a perfect world we don’t live in!

Once outside Punta de la Granja, the sails joined the engine, moving us east. Our intentions were to pass Luperon. Frank of Raffles Light said the water in that mangrove-lined bay was foul, and the last thing we needed was bottom-growth slowing us down -- it can attach itself in a matter of days. He suggested Samana on the east coast of the Dominican Republic for a beautiful sail and a safe stopping point.

Woodwind was making hay until 10 a.m. when the wind turned on, sending us north-northeast. Waves were crashing off the bow -- an old familiar story that just keeps repeating itself on this trip. I climbed in the bunk, contemplating sea-sickness, while Bruce dealt with the non-stop nuisances bad weather brings.

By 7 p.m. that evening, Bruce announced we were going to anchor at a spot five miles ahead, where two rivers enter the sea. “Oh, great,” I thought. We rarely enter anchorages at night, even ones we’re familiar with. And here we were coming into a strange, dark place for the second time in a week … this time without guidance.

“Look at that moon,” Bruce called. It was a dark, almost brownish color … spooky-looking, like on a Halloween card. “Is it hazed over?” he asked. We stared at it and realized that only the moon was covered with haze; the rest of the sky was clear. A tiny line of bright light began to show near the bottom, like someone peeking through a window shade. “Is it an eclipse?”

“Not again!” I yelled. Years ago, while sailing from Antigua to Nevis, we were minding our own business, sailing with a bright, full moon. As we rounded a very dark Nevis, the moon was rapidly snuffed out, leaving us in the dark and in a tough spot without its navigational help. It took the two of us plus Kess, our son, to figure out what was going on. It was a full lunar eclipse. Several months after that, it happened again on the same sail. At least that time we’d heard it mentioned on the local radio!

Now, the radar and GPS indicated we were two miles from shore. We slowed the engine, staring into the black night. When we got to a point with 25 feet of water under the keel, Bruce dropped the hook. It had been hairy coming in, but a worthwhile escape from the thrashing sea. I whipped up a quick dinner, the first food we’d eaten all day.

Four a.m. came fast. The wind was down and we left Bahia Isabela without ever seeing it. We were able to motor east, two miles off shore. Just past dawn we passed a row of 20-foot cut-out letters yelling, “OCEAN WORLD.” Behind them was a mega yacht marina, surrounded by the homes of the rich and famous and some pretty impressive scenery. We passed Puerto Plata, an industrial town pumping out stinky fuel fumes.

The wind filled in pleasantly at 11, allowing us to short tack along the coast. Our chart indicated the 20-mile stretch ahead, one long beach of white sand and palms, had good water. We enjoyed the scenery on our “Sunday drive,” a half-mile from the beach, tacking out to sea, then back to shore.

At one point, while we were both below, the jib backed, making an annoying rattling sound and bringing the boat to an upright position. Bruce went out to adjust the course and came below again. Within minutes it happened again, and this time we both went on deck. While Bruce handled the tiller, I looked ahead to see breaking waves just minutes away. “Bruce, reef!”

He looked up, studying it for a few seconds before throwing the tiller hard to starboard. Woodwind would have hit for sure, ending our cruise. It was as if she had called to us, saving herself from destruction. Tacking further along the coast we came upon dozens more offshore reefs that weren’t on the circa-1988 chart. Coral doesn’t grow that fast, so someone made a huge mistake!

Around 4 p.m. we arrived at the west side of a huge point, hoping for protection and to spend the night. We sailed into an area near Rio San Juan, checking out the buildings on shore and the anchored local boats. One sailboat, anchored far to the north, was rolling like a pig in mud. We were thinking he’d chosen the worst spot until, again, we saw a reef ahead. We altered course, took down sails and tip-toed ahead. More reefs and course changes, breaking waves beside us.

“Are we trapped?” I asked. We didn’t know, because our detailed chart was missing the very thing we needed from it. Bruce climbed high into the rigging to watch for brown spots, an indication of coral. He pointed, I steered, keeping an eye on the depth sounder. We moved through the area like a steely in a pinball machine and ended up next to the rolling yacht we’d seen earlier. Now we understood. The shore was unlike any we’d ever seen. It was a moonscape of coral. The land was coral, the islets were solid coral and, after our anchor went down and Bruce dove on it, we discovered the bottom was coral, too.

Bruce transferred fuel into the tank while I cooked the last fresh veggies we had: an onion, two yams, garlic and a cabbage salad. Four hours of sleep was our total allotment. We wanted to get going at midnight to maximize the night calm, but once we made it around the point it wasn’t calm … nor pleasant. We motored into hefty seas, some bringing us to our knees. There were no more stopping spots and we had to make 80 miles to get to Samana before dark.

Conditions improved around 10 a.m. Bruce, who’d been up all night, fell asleep, while I sat in the cockpit, staring at the water, hoping to see some strange white seaweed. I’d been looking for it ever since we came upon Djenson, Julie and the wreck … I had been on watch outside as we sailed through a sea full of surface floating seaweed; beneath it, sheets of a white substance eerily floated everywhere, some of it small, some large. Woodwind glided through that mystery area for a long time, and it just went on and on. When Bruce woke up, I described it as looking like human skin. It was the weirdest looking seaweed I’ve ever seen.

Since finding the survivors, I’ve wondered about that substance. Had we sailed through the area of the explosion? I’ll probably never know, but the picture of it haunts me, and as we sailed to Samana the certainty of what I’d seen settled in. We had sailed through the graveyard and I, alone, witnessed it. The difficulty of processing that has been mixed with the joy that we were able to rescue Djenson and Julie.

Morning came too quickly the day after the rescue, and another round of uncertain events lay before us. As he promised, Frank had his Raffles Light crew fetch us at 9 a.m. while he tried to arrange for our clearance. He said we might have to meet with the Red Cross to file an incident report and a local newspaper might want to speak with us. He had news that the two survivors, Julie and Djenson, were doing well. “They’re thriving,” were his words. Exactly what we wanted to hear!

On our first visit to Raffles Light, I had commented on a memorable black-and-white photo of John and Jackie Kennedy sailing in Massachusetts that was tucked in a corner of the galley. Frank had explained how he had acquired it a long time ago. On this visit, as Monica graciously delivered coffee to us in the salon on deck, I noticed Frank was busy writing on something. When he finished, he turned and handed us the framed photograph of the Kennedys. The look on his face told us it was a gift. “We can’t take this,” I said. “We know how special it is to you.”

“I want you to have it,” said Frank. “If it doesn’t hurt when you give a gift, it isn’t worth giving.” Tears streamed down my face. On the back, he’d written:

To Jan and Bruce,

“The higher generalities rarely receive any accurate verbal expression, rather they are hinted at through forms appropriate to the age in question.”

The risk the two of you took and the result you produced are beyond accolade.

All our Love
Frank and crew
Raffles Light
February 27, 2007

Over coffee, we reviewed the events from the day before and discussed a potential problem if the local authorities thought we illegally brought Haitians into their country. It would be important for them to understand we found Julie and Djenson 25 miles offshore in international waters. The radio squawked, telling Frank that Commandante Guerra and two other officials were on shore.

Raffles Light crew members Coyou and Tito took us to Woodwind, then fetched the officials and brought them to us. Once on board, the Commandante glanced at our papers then wrote down our names, boat name, last and next port in his Superman notebook. Through Coyou and Tito a few questions were asked and answered concerning the rescue, then all three officials began making cell phone calls … to whom, we weren’t sure. After 45 minutes of phoning and waiting, they seemed satisfied and left without giving us one piece of official paper or collecting a fee. They told us immigration would be coming from a nearby town and radio us soon.

Frank and crew were cooking up a 30-lb. dorado they’d caught and kindly invited us to join them. Cooked food and great company were perfect medicine for our emotional wounds. The dorado, camaraderie and laughter filled us inside and out. After the meal, Frank suggested he could deal with immigration for us if we wanted to go to the hospital with crew members Tito and Julian to visit Julie and Djenson. It was exactly what we wanted to do, so Coyou sped the four of us a half-mile across the shallow bay, under the tiny bridge, into the mangrove-lined estuary where the Club Nautico sits and where we could get a taxi to town.

In the West Indies, the day after every official holiday is always another unofficial day off. We jokingly call it “National Hangover Day.” Since the day before was National Independence Day in the Dominican Republic, we shouldn’t have been surprised to find the Club closed and no taxis around. The guard at the gate, the sole occupant of the place, suggested we take a scooter taxi -- Julian explained that everyone in the DR rides scooters and piles them sky-high with people and goods. I didn’t quite believe him until we ended up riding to town with two drivers, three people on each scooter!

The driver sometimes drove on the left, sometimes the right, and only slowed at blind corners to make sure no one hit us. Miraculously, we pulled up to the two-story block hospital without incident. As we headed in, Julian excused himself due to “hospital phobia,” so Tito led us through the crowded doorways and offices. We eventually entered a six-bed room, the walls painted a sad shade of yellow, and made our way to the corner where Djenson lay sleeping, his head resting on the green parka. He was hooked up to an IV, his many burn wounds covered with bandages.

Tito gently put his hand on Djenson’s shoulder and he slowly opened his eyes, greeting us with a smile, obviously pleased to see us again. Tito talked to Djenson in Creole, and translated his story for us. Words poured out of him, Tito’s face wincing at times. We asked when the explosion happened … 3 a.m. How long had they been out there? Twelve hours.

They and 46 other migrants had left Cap Hatien bound for the Turks and Caicos on a 20-ft. boat with six tanks of gas. They stopped to transfer fuel and when they turned on the ignition, the boat blew up. Djenson’s lyrical voice tumbled out words to Tito, urgent to tell the horrific ordeal he had witnessed and survived.

Sobered, we followed our guide up another flight of stairs to the women’s ward. Julie was propped on one elbow, eating small bites of food from a plastic container. She was dressed in a pink nightgown, wearing the same devastated expression from the day before. Tito asked her how she was doing. She placed her hand on her abdomen, indicating pain, then grew quiet and we left her to eat and rest.

We slipped back down to Djenson’s room to say goodbye. I held his hand and asked Tito to tell him, “We’re special friends now.” Djenson shook his head, saying, “No, family,” pointing to Bruce, “Papa,” and to me, “Mama.”

Just wanted to share with you some more of the coverage of our "rescue mission." Thanks to our friends at Bahama Breeze, we were interviewed by Jon Katz of the Associated Press last week for a more detailed story about the tragic accident and our efforts to help the two survivors. Here's the story as it appears on CNN's Web site: Click Here

Also, thanks to Kathy Woodruff, KIRO-TV in Seattle did a story about the rescue that included a phone-interview with our son, Kess. Here's a link to a video clip of the story: Click Here.

We're happy that the lives of these poor people may have some meaning to the people of our country and can somehow help the plight of the people of Haiti. It is so grave. This has been very emotional for both of us, but your support has helped us get through it.

Click Here to view the story by the Miami Herald

Dear friends, family and interested bloggers … you may have seen a tragic story in the newspapers today about a boat carrying 54 Haitian migrants that caught fire and blew up off the coast of the Dominican Republic, leaving only two survivors who were rescued by two Americans aboard “a U.S. yacht cruising from Panama.” That yacht was Woodwind, and Bruce and I are the two Americans! Here’s the story:

One night some time ago, in the cockpit of a friend’s boat, the after-dinner conversation was around the question, “If you came across a small fishing boat miles offshore and they needed water, would you give it to them?” Human compassion stood on one side, pitted against personal safety and the threat of piracy. Someone knew a cruising boat that had faced the question head-on. Debating it was food for thought for all of us who venture offshore.

Fast-forward to just a few days ago. Six days out of Panama, we passed Jamaica on our port side sailing on a direct course for the Windward Passage. Thirty miles off the southwestern peninsula of Haiti we talked about the politically volatile area we were entering. Four very different nations: Cuba and the U.S.; Haiti and the Dominican Republic, occupying two large islands, their backs turned against each other. I’d been thinking about the possibility of seeing a Haitian vessel, wondering if people were still feeling the need to escape their homeland. It had been years since such activity hit the news.

Those thoughts caused me to change my routine watch. Normally we rely on the radar as our main “eyes,” to tell us if vessels are approaching. Now I found myself staring in Haiti’s direction, sweeping the horizon. It was more compulsion than expectation; a bit of “just in case.”

Just before dark that day, Bruce pulled out our three flare-guns that had been tucked away and untouched for years. He laid them out, taking stock of the stash before loading each and firing once into the water, just as he would if we were about to be boarded by unwanted guests. It sobered us and made us think about a possibility we didn’t want to acknowledge.

As I slept that night, Woodwind slipped along an invisible line that ran 10 miles off the northwest point of Haiti, passing between two troubled nations. Bruce was “running dark,” navigation lights off, not wanting to advertise our presence. I took over around two a.m., with explicit instructions to stay outside the 10-mile line off the Haitian coast, carefully drawn on our chart. Plotting our position hourly, I altered course with each wind shift, not wanting to stray near the point.

Our intended destination was Luperon, an anchorage on the north coast of the Dominican Republic. Without a cruising guide, our only knowledge of the place was what we’d read in a book and magazine. It would provide us a place to stitch sails and fuel up … all we needed to continue on our way.

In the morning, with calm wind and seas we were making such positive progress Bruce suggested we pass up Luperon and just keep going. Having never been to the Dominican Republic, though, and looking forward to a visit, I offered an argument for the other side. A wind-shift that afternoon settled the debate, as we sailed off the line, farther north.

At 11 a.m. the next day, the wind clocked again and we were headed still further north, toward the Turks and Caicos. After days of laying on our port side, we tacked to the southeast, laying a line to the dividing border of Hispaniola. Three hours later the wind shifted in our favor, allowing us to motor-sail due east at six knots. What luck.

Somewhere in that hour, I spotted an object off our starboard side and yelled, “Bruce, you need to see this.” It was standing high out of the water and at first I thought it might be one of those mysterious weather buoys that dot the coastlines of the world. We both grabbed our binoculars and what we saw intensified the mystery. “What is it?” asked Bruce.

“Oh no,” I shot back. We thought we were looking at the front of a high-riding fishing boat coming straight at us, people waving in the bow. Woodwind’s unsteady movements made it difficult to maintain a visual grasp with the binoculars. We maintained our course to keep a safe distance from the still unexplained craft, buying time to make sense and decisions. Why were these people here, what did they want and what would be our response?

As we neared their position, the image of a fishing boat disintegrated. It was too high out of the water and too small. Finally, we could see we were looking at the bow of a boat standing six feet out of the water, pointing skyward; the rest of it was obscured by the sea. Clinging to it was what looked like several people … two or three.

We verbalized every thought that popped into our heads. We acknowledged the wreck and the people and wondered aloud how this might have happened, 25 miles offshore. Were they Haitians? If we picked them up, where would we take them? Would we be safe? There was no way we would attempt to enter a Haitian port, and Luperon was now 40 miles away.

After we passed them, we took the engine out of gear and Bruce went below to make a Mayday relay call on the VHF. A ship had passed our stern an hour before … maybe they or the Coast Guard would hear our call. Almost immediately a British voice answered. Bruce carefully explained the situation, gave our position and requested assistance. The vessel, Bravo II, would relay the call to expand the search for help and get back to us. Back up on deck, Bruce scanned the sea but lost sight of them. “There,” I yelled. I spotted them behind us, still waving.

“Bring her around,” Bruce shouted, as he went below to answer the next radio call. Bravo II was telling us that Edensong in Luperon had a satellite phone and four numbers for Haitian search-and-rescue. Edensong would place the calls and radio us.

Woodwind was slowly coming closer behind the wreck, giving us the best look yet at who and what we were dealing with. We could see there were two souls flung over the underside of the jutting bow, a man and a woman. I took down the mainsail and Bruce doused the foresails.

“We’ve got to pick them up now,” I said. “We can’t leave them there any longer.” “I agree.”

Bruce radioed Bravo II to tell them our intentions. The couple was yelling the name of our boat, we thought, with their arms outstretched, hands motioning us on. As we came closer still, Bruce muttered, “This may be the best thing we’ve ever done.” Still scared, I murmured back, “Or the worst.” Their boat, a dirty beige hulk, had obviously been on fire. Giant angular chunks were missing from the section standing out of the water and the underwater part showed charred sides, holes and shreds throughout. The stern seemed to be missing. The woman was thrown over the top of the boat wearing tiny shorts and a cotton T-shirt; the man, holding himself and her tightly to what was left of the craft, had on only a pair of white briefs. It was a heart-wrenching, horrifying scene.

Thirty feet from them, the radio called again. “Woodwind, Woodwind, this is Bravo II.” I grabbed the mike and put them on hold, while Bruce carefully brought us along side the wreck and shot forward to get them on board. He grabbed the woman’s outstretched arms and pulled her weak body under the hand rail and between the rigging onto our lurching boat, while the man pulled himself aboard. We cautioned them both to hang on while guiding them to sit on the empty cabin top.

Woodwind slowly backed away from the wreck, an ominous sight that’s etched itself deep into our minds. Again, the radio called. Bruce went below while I stayed on deck, making sure the survivors stayed put. Having little to work with, our safety was still a concern. Bravo II, which was on the way from Luperon to Cuba, told us they would come to help if needed. Their boat, though -- a 32-foot catamaran -- could do little more than ours. We needed a fast boat that could get to us soon.

Bravo II relayed a message from a boat in the Dominican Republic town of Montecristi. Raffles Light, an 80-foot boat, would take his dinghy to the Club Nautico and try to find a sport fishing boat or the Guardio National to join in the rescue. He would get back to us in 20 minutes. Bravo II continued to stand by and relay messages, since we couldn’t hear Raffles Light ourselves.

In the meantime, we checked the condition of our new passengers. The man’s body was full of fist-sized burns. The two of them were talking and we listened carefully, hoping to hear Spanish. Though neither of us remembers much from high school French, we immediately recognized it and knew they were Haitian. Even in a state of shock, the man tried to introduce themselves. Her name was Julie, his Djenson, and he wanted to know ours.

Bruce grabbed sheets off our bunks and told me to get out the first aid kit. As Bruce tucked sheets around Julie’s shaking body, he told them our names and used hand gestures to try to get any thread of information that would allow us to understand their tragedy. I went below and collected water, Ibuprofen and a bottle of Pedialight, which we had jokingly put on board in case of extended seasickness. I gave them each some Ibuprofen, hoping it would dull some pain.

Bruce brought out the sprayer we shower with and demonstrated it on himself before spraying water on Djenson, hoping to wash the salt from his wounds. He recoiled from the cold, and we could see he was in shock. To warm him up, Bruce pulled out a cold-weather parka from our son, Kess’, childhood that had been stuffed around the engine controls as noise insulation. As Bruce laid it around his shoulders, Djenson worked his arms into the sleeves and managed to get it on and zippered, hood and all, but it still wasn’t enough. Each time we gave him something, he looked in our eyes and said, “Thank you, thank you. God bless you.”

We used Spanish and English, fingers, arms and the tidbit of French we could remember to get as much as we could of their story. After several attempts, we deduced their boat had blown up three days prior and there had been one other person on board, a 48-year-old man. They were remarkably alert for having survived three days out there.

On the radio, we could hear Raffles Light talking to Bravo II, telling them it was a national holiday in the DR and he was unable to find us help. Everything was closed. He suggested we bring them into Montecristi Bay. We were three hours away and it would be dark by the time we arrived.

With the mainsail, jib and mizzen up, the engine running wide open, Woodwind raced through the water, the speedometer hitting 7 and 8 knots. Bruce kept plotting our position, keeping us on a direct course for Montecristi Bay. We could hear Djenson talking to Julie, her weak voice occasionally answering back. Not knowing the full extent of their injuries, we first fed them only crackers and water, then hot tea. Seeing that they were handling the food well, we later gave them some dried fruit and nuts. I wanted to place a feast before them … anything that would remove the painful memories painted on their faces.

Raffles Light continued to monitor our position and the situation. He assured us we were doing a great job and that he would guide us into the bay with his dinghy. Arrangements had been made for an ambulance to meet the survivors at the Club Nautico dock and take them immediately to the hospital. Using hand-signals, we told Djenson “Three hours, ambulance, hospital.” His smile indicated he understood. He pointed to the clouds, to us, to them and said, “Dio. God.” There was no question that these were loving, good people and we ached for the circumstances they were in.

Bruce had earlier rigged up the awning to protect them from the sun and strung a sheet between them and the wind. I worked one of my sweatshirts over Julie’s head and they were covered in layers of our bedding and towels. Finally, after several hours they seemed to be asleep, hopefully free from pain.

Darkness and clouds filled the sky, blotting out the light of the moon. Fortunately, we were sailing off the wind and the decks were free of spray. Bruce located a more detailed chart of Montecristi, which showed two bays, divided by a small mountain. We assumed we’d enter the westward one, since it appeared to offer the most protection. He readied dock lines, checked running lights, our masthead strobe light and pulled out backup flashlights.

When the radar showed we were three miles from land, we radioed Frank in Raffles Light for further instructions. Through the conversation, Bruce learned Raffles Light was in the other bay, the one with all the lights. We altered course and slowed down, scanning the darkness. The radar affirmed we were on course. Frank told us to look for his spreader lights and masthead strobe, which we finally found, nested among the lights of shore. Near him, a green light appeared, then a red, as his high-speed dinghy came to guide us in.

Frank directed us to anchor on his port side; he would collect and transport the survivors to shore. He then came alongside with two crew members. One, a fellow from Haiti, jumped onto our deck to help Bruce put Julie into the boat. Djenson was now seized with pain and nearly unable to move himself, so Bruce and the crew member lifted his burned legs, laying them over the side before sliding him carefully into the boat. Frank looked at us and, again, said, “You did good.”
“Will you come back and check with us after you drop them off?” I asked. I was anxious to hear what the French speaking fellow would learn. “You bet. You can come over. We’ll make you tea. Whatever you want. We’ll take care of you. You did good out there.” And off they sped to a waiting ambulance.

Our boat was trashed. Loose bits of clothes were everywhere, numerous charts scattered across two bunks, soiled bedding lay on deck. We’d had a long, hard day, on top of a 12-day passage from Panama, and it wasn’t over yet. Frank returned quickly to collect us, taking us over to his beautiful yacht. As I stepped down into his dinghy, the tears that had pushed on the back of my eyes all day finally made their way out. “It’s been a long day,” I apologized. Bruce got in behind me.

“46 people died,” he said.

“What?” He went on. “They were refugees. Forty-six people died when their gas-powered boat blew up. They were headed to Providencia. These two were the only survivors. They’re going to be OK, thanks to you.”

“And you,” I added. More tears fell. Shock was filling us from the inside out. We climbed aboard Raffles Light, awed by its glamorous beauty. Frank directed us to sit on the aft deck settee and introduced his international crew. They had arrived in the bay the day before, on a circumnavigation of the island, gathering information and photos for a DR cruising guide. They offered us scotch, beer, ice … whatever we wanted, then listened as our story unfolded.

Frank explained that yachts rarely visit Montecristi. “It’s the town the Dominican Republic forgot.” The immigration office is in another town, but he’d made arrangements and would help us clear in the next day. “What else will you need?” he asked.

What else would we need? What we needed, we got. Seven of the warmest, most humorous, loving people we’d met in ages, sitting on a classic wooden yacht, sitting still for the first time in two weeks.