From the moment we set sail from San Francisco last fall, there was something missing on the boat. It was our boy, Kess, who had made Woodwind his home with us for seven of his earliest years. No sooner had the Golden Gate Bridge slipped astern, taking us south, than I looked around expecting to find him playing in the galley. I was sure I would see him, book in hand, looking for one of us to read a story. But when Hurricane Sergio plagued us with gales and storms all the way south in November, missing Kess was replaced with amazement that we’d ever taken a tot to sea. At the time, though, it seemed so easy.

In January, when Panama appeared on our horizon, we were missing the man our son has become. We’d grown use to Kess’ absence until we reached the Eastern Caribbean. Visiting Anguilla, St. Marten, St. Barths and all the other places we’ve recently stopped, his presence has been felt through the many memories we made together in these islands so long ago.

Before returning to Gig Harbor for the summer last week (Bruce will follow soon, after securing Woody), I had set out to walk on “our secret beach” -- a long rocky shore in Trellis Bay on Beef Island, Tortola, near Virgin Gorda. Few tourists visit this beach, and I immediately remembered why. When our son was 3 or 4 we somehow scaled the gigantic boulders that help keep the beach a secret. As I used rock-climbing techniques to scale them this time, I had to wonder how I’d done it with Kess. Sheer will, perhaps, combined with curiosity. Maybe just the lure of a good treasure hunt took us out there again and again.

A “treasure” back then was a bag full of glistening shells, small buoys the size of a pop can, weird cups, newly lost hats or any cool item that fell off a passing boat and was cast upon that shore. Mostly the beach is full of plastic junk; discarded bottles, polypropylene ropes and nets, sun screen bottles, and enough shoes to please Imelda Marcos, except there’s only one of each pair.

We held a scavenger hunt on that beach for our son’s seventh birthday. Four small children and I carefully trudged the long haul to get there, where I handed them water, treats and a list of items to fill their bags with: one flip flop, a piece of rope, something green, the prettiest shell, the roundest rock, the most amazing treasure (to be determined by me, the judge). Before I let them loose, I emphasized, “Be careful not to step in the tar!” Of course, we hadn’t gone far when seven-year-old Hannah stepped in a wad of the naturally occurring goo. Each step she took slimed it further across her foot, then to the other, then up and down her legs and on to her arms. She was a mess. Amazingly enough, though, it missed the pretty pink dress she was wearing. I regrouped the troop, offering a reward to the first child who could find a container of sun screen so we could use the oil from it to soften and scrape off the tar. It worked. Hannah and the party were saved.

As soon as we arrived on Tortola, I knew I needed to make a pilgrimage to that special place. I found two shells, four bleached sea urchin skeletons and a three-inch Lego pirate wearing pink dotted pants. But the treasure I most wanted to find was a head full of memories we’d made so long ago. Luckily, they were all still there, mine for the taking.

Jan

Our mission in Antigua -- set last October in San Diego -- was to deliver paintings to the Harmony Hall Gallery. Since our visit would coincide with the spectacular Antigua Classic Yacht Race, though, we decided to stay, hoping to watch the 20th annual version of the event from the deck of one of the boats in the race.

Four days before the start, the energy in Falmouth Harbor began to crescendo. Big yachts came in -- larger than big … huge vessels, so magnificent they defied description. The marina filled with tall spars and spreaders reaching to the sky. Just as it seemed we were looking at the biggest and best, another would arrive dwarfing the lot, until the granddaddy of them all, Maltese Falcon, tied to the outside dock … all 289 feet of her, with curly carbon fiber yardarms protruding from three unbelievable masts.

On shore, event sponsor’s tents went up and hospitality centers opened. Banners for Mt. Gay Rum and Panerai watches blanketed the grounds of the Antigua Yacht Club. No doubt about it, a party was coming to town. We sailed past the docks in our skiff, Funny World, checking out the yachts and crews, hoping for an opener that would get us a ride. Five of the smallest but, to our eyes, most beautiful sloops were our first choice. Unlike the polished splendor of the mega-yachts, these roughly built work vessels from the island of Carriacou, painted bright as Easter eggs, are the real deal. Having spent time in Carriacou years ago, we had witnessed these boats being built right on the beach and out working the sea for fish. Twice, Bruce and our son Kess raced Funny World against other small boats in the Carriacou Regatta. The current owners of the vessels are some Antiguan men who love them so much, they’re willing to pour bank accounts of money into restoration and upkeep.

Since Bruce’s brother, John, has owned and sailed the matriarch, Mermaid of Carriacou, for over 30 years, we had a link to the boats that might facilitate an introduction. Over a few days and several trips ashore, we met each of the owners. An Italian, Georgio, owned the smallest, Sweetheart … the very boat that has appeared in many of Bruce’s paintings. Bruce told him, “We’d like to sail in the race if you need crew.” Georgio replied, “Check back with me. I have crew but some of them might not show up.”

Two nights before the first race we sailed Funny World to shore, hoping to turn our “maybe” into a “yes.” Bruce tacked up to the docks, now crowded with the biggest accumulation of glistening wood and brass we’d ever seen. I hopped out to grab cold drinks for the ride. As I came out of the store, I spotted an old friend busy talking to a crowd. I ran to tell Bruce, “Crawfish is here!” He tied up Funny World and we melted into the crowded dock scene, bumping into familiar faces, one after another. It was like a high school reunion without the name tags, which would have helped, considering how many years it had been since we’d been together as young sailors.

One of those people was Ira Epstein. In the mid 1970s, Bruce’s brother John captained a chartering trimaran, Tane Manu, and Bruce was his crew. Ira appeared on the beach one day and joined on as well. Less than a year later, he left for the Pacific as a mate on Lord Jim, and was never heard from again. Then last fall he traded in a long career as a commodities trader in San Francisco and bought the charter boat, Lone Fox, which was now tied stern-to behind us.

Bruce came past and when I introduced him to Ira, he was speechless. Hugs and handshakes were followed by a quick review of the 30 years that had flown by. When we told him we were hoping to crew for the race, he smiled and said, “I’ve got lots of people coming, but I’ve got to have room for family, right?”

The next day we all met on Lone Fox for a practice run. Seventeen of us were on board, representing seven nations. Introductions were made and assignments given. I joined Julie and Marcy on the tiny back deck to handle the mizzen, mizzen staysail and running back rigging. Bruce was given a wet job on the foredeck, working the staysail and setting the chute. Lone Fox is a 68-foot ketch built in Scotland in 1957 as a personal yacht for Colonel Whitbread, and she has a treasure trove of awards from a long racing career. We only had a few hours that day to figure out the systems and hone our skills as a team if we were going to bring home the next shiny bauble.

The practice proceeded, sailing on and off the wind, setting and dousing sails, reefing and making a few mistakes we didn’t want to repeat during the race. As we sailed toward the harbor, we passed Sweetheart, also out for a practice. I eyed her longingly, knowing her sailing simplicity compared to the technical rigging we were handling on Lone Fox, hoping we’d made the right decision.

Regattas in the Caribbean have two defined components: competitive races and raucous parties. The skippers meeting that evening launched the five-day event into a fever and the Mt. Gay Red Hat Party that followed (buy three rum drinks, get a free Mt. Gay hat) set the pace. The smart racers bought the drinks, passed them to rival crews and kept the hats; a brilliant strategy.

Nine a.m. sharp on Friday, 19 of us clambered aboard Lone Fox after espresso and croissants. We’d picked up one new crew and a photographer, and thankfully only two people were sporting red hats. Ira passed out Lone Fox T-shirts and we set off for the triangular course set on the south coast. Ira drove, Randy and Mark called the shots, the rest of us sweated and grunted, pulling on sheets, cranking winches, setting and reducing sails, all the while jumping out of the way of trouble. These big boats, though remarkably fast, present a constant threat of danger.

Our start was perfect. By the time we reached the first turning buoy, we’d left the rest of our class far behind. As Lone Fox crossed the finish line, someone on the grandiose committee boat aimed a stainless steel shot gun toward the heavens, firing a blow, declaring us first-in-class over the line! We answered back with hoots and whistles, then everyone swiftly doused sails and coiled lines, dressing the boat to return to the dock. The foredeck crew dropped the anchor and Ira skillfully brought the boat stern to the pier, announcing, “Red Stripes for everyone!” Ice cold beers passed out of the hatch, bucket brigade style, and we toasted our success.

One by one, boats filled in every inch of the marina, people spilling from them towards the next event, the Owners Party and Concours d’Elegance prize ceremony, followed by the wild and crazy Crew Party. It was turning out to be an impossible schedule to keep ... sail, party, party; sail, party, party … but we vowed to give it our best shot.

For Saturday’s race, the course was longer and the wind had slipped away, making for a long, hot session in the sun. From the fourth mark to the finish line, silence hovered over Lone Fox’s deck until the gun on the Committee Boat went off, indicating we were first over the line again … and, we hoped, leading the class.

Sunday morning, Ira passed out Panerai watch sponsor shirts and hats. New clothes seemed the only way to clean us up, since who had time for laundry? The crew change that day included the inclusion of a former charter guest who had flown from New York for the race -- Ira’s college friend and famed photographer, Dana Jinkins.

With the trade winds blowing a perfect 15 knots and the course set for a repeating reach, it was a spectator’s dream. All the boats passed each other repeatedly, 60 vessels ranging from 27 to 147 feet in length. It was like a history book sailing by, the pages turned by the wind … When and If, commissioned by General George S. Patton before the war; Tomahawk, a Sparkman & Stephens design; the legendary 71-year-old Ticonderoga; Gli Gli, a dugout canoe built from one tree on the island of Dominica by the Carib indians. Every boat on the course had a fascinating story.

Our start that day had been clumsy, costing us 10 precious minutes when we crossed the line two boat lengths early. To reduce the penalty, Randy yelled, “Luff her, luff the sails!” Ira brought the boat head to the wind, the noise of rattling Dacron exploding in our ears, until every boat in our class could pass. Neverthelesss, at the end of the course we again got the gun! Everyone knew, though, that with corrected time, our chances of winning were too close to call. Ira, Randy and Thorpe went to plead with the race committee concerning our screw-up that morning, but the officials showed no mercy. It was all on film. We would just have to sail perfectly during the forth and final race. Instead of attending another party, most of us went home to grab some missing sleep.

The final race began with yet another crew change. Dana Jinkins was replaced by her daughter, Jordan Mitchnick, also a photographer and editor of Boat International. The last time we’d seen Jordan she was a babe in her mother’s arms. Also on board was a representative of Port Luis, the mega marina under construction in Grenada. We headed to the course, determined to sail our best, hoping to beat out our closest competitor, Long White Cloud. For three hours, not one mistake was made. Our teamwork was flawless. For the fourth day in a row, we crossed the finish line with a gun shot and line honors!

That evening at the awards ceremony, Bruce and I found some of our crew sitting at one of the picnic tables. Marcy had placed a folded card on the table that read, “Ira’s Angels.” During the week, seven women had remained steadfast crew. All of us had traded in our grimy sailing attire for “dress up clothes.” Proud captains climbed the stairs to the stage claiming prizes, some of them accompanied by well tanned crew. Then the winners of the Classic Class C were called out, beginning with 6th place. When the announcer heralded, “In 2nd place, the lovely Lone Fox,” Ira headed to the stage with his seven angels prancing behind him. The crowd went nuts; hoots and whistles interrupted the flow of the show, giving Ira a chance to explain to the announcer, “We had the most women on our boat.”

“Jolly good!” the man said to the crowd. Ira collected his 2nd place trophy, along with one for Best Charter Yacht, and a second round of “we love girls” noise took us off the stage. When the last award was handed out, our tight crew hugged and said goodbye. Ira told us, “I hope I can have the same crew next year.” I replied, “I hope so, too.”

Jan