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.