Life on a boat in the Caribbean is interesting, to say the least. There are issues with weather, of course … good and bad. Anchors holding and dragging. A neighborhood that changes all day and night. Little stays the same, allowing plenty of opportunity for the unexpected.

Old friends sail back into our life now and then, surprising us like post cards in the mail. Just last month we dropped anchor next to a small wooden boat and on board was the old Dutchman, one of Bruce’s most memorable Caribbean connections. Since we last met, he has sailed around the world alone before losing the boat on a reef in the Bahamas. That story alone kept us busy for a day.

Often we meet new sailors to share a chunk of time with. Most memorable this winter were Fred and Connie, a retired couple fresh from Boston who were dodging a string of bum luck and wondering what they‘d gotten themselves into. We met when Bruce was summoned to help free their anchor from a sunken water tank. During sundowners that night, he diagnosed the problem that had been filling their bilge with oil, amazed they hadn’t blown the engine. Over several weeks we shared more anchorages and more of their troubles, but each meeting we found them fitter, tanner; their shoulders more relaxed; smiles broader. They were winding down to island time and it was a joy to watch.

Getting ourselves to shore in the dinghy is usually a long, boring row, yet even that can be spiked with surprise and alarm. We’ve been dive-bombed by pelicans, splashed by leaping fish and rays (that’s a cousin to a shaak, mate!) and amazed by surfacing turtles we could reach out and touch. Giant barracudas like to follow our small boat, which always brings on the “nuh nuh … nuh nuh,” soundtrack from “Jaws.”

The unexpected finds us just as often on land. Like last week, when I rowed ashore and saw a group of youngsters with garbage bags running at high speed toward me. I stepped aside and watched them jubilantly fill the bags with beach debris, the first mission of their class field trip. That accomplished, they charged into the
sea for a playful swim before gathering at Elvis’ Beach Bar for a celebratory lunch of burgers and fruit punch. Their teacher was returning to the States and wanted to thank “the best group of kids ever.” No one had a camera, so I collected photos to record their special day together.

After lunch, a local fisherman hauled a hand-made trap as part of a science lesson. The catch was counted, recorded and released and the kids skipped down the beach, back to school. Days later, my story and photos of the occasion ran in the Anguillan paper, some local good news, for sure.

Another unforeseen event I stumbled into recently was a full and fancy wedding. While minding my own business, waiting in a hotel lobby in St. Marten, I noticed a bridal party coming and going from
a room off the open-air bar. Suddenly the ear-thumping reggae that filled the air stopped, replaced by a soft jazzy tune. Tiny flower girls wove through the lobby, past the bar, down steps leading to a canopy on the beach. Bridesmaids and groomsmen followed, passing a throng of uninvited gawking guests. As a proud Dad escorted the bride to the altar, the drinkers at the bar rose to their feet, smiling approval as if they were giving the woman away. Bikini-clad sunbathers on chairs beside the canopy stood to the sides, cameras clicking away.

It was like a tropical version of the interactive audience play, “Tina and Tony’s Wedding,” and we were in it! As they reached the altar, I slipped out the back way, wondering what I might encounter next. When it was a close call with a funeral a few days later in St. Barts, I decided I’d better watch my step!

One of the more predictable tasks of Caribbean cruising is clearing in and out with customs and immigration. It is a necessary ordeal that involves mounds of official forms, carbon paper and serious, no-nonsense uniformed workers. Somewhere in the last year I was promoted to “captain,” thus placing the clearance job in my lap. Though the drill is rarely the same, I know my part and follow it well … stand quietly in line; wait patiently; give a kind greeting and follow all verbal answers with “sir” or “ma’am.” “Please” and “thank you” help, too.

But one day last month, five noisy Americans were in line ahead of me as the Anguillan officials opened their door for business. The rowdy people were part of a group of over 100 from a Manhattan sailing club, having way too much fun on 12 charter boats. Like a teacher’s pet in school, I tried to ignore their raucous behavior, fearful I’d be blamed. The guy in front of me turned and asked, “How long you think this’ll take, five minutes?” I shrugged, thinking, “in your dreams!” I figured an hour, at least.

The immigration lady was busily stamping papers, but customs had yet to show up. Outside, the other 95-plus New Yorkers were loudly gathering for a group photo. The five waiting inside paced, anxious to join them. Miraculously, the customs officer flew through the door and got right to work. She cut through their clearance forms and mine in a record-breaking five minutes and shot back out the door. I’d never seen anything like it! By the time I stepped onto the beach, she was poised in front of the scantily dressed crowd, camera in hand. She was taking the job they’d given her as official photographer seriously, when the crowd began to
chant her name, “ANITA, ANITA, ANITA!”

Someone directed her, “Get in the picture! Come on. Get in the picture with us!” Despite her protests and the fact that she was holding onto a male co-worker, several guys ran forward, scooped her up and carried her toward the crowd. They placed her in the middle on someone’s knee for the final photo op of the morning.

“Go figure,” I mumbled to no one. “I get in trouble for not pushing hard enough on the triplicate forms and these guys get away with shanghai-ing the customs officer.”

Bruce stumbles into the thick of it now and then, too. In early March he took his steel pan drum ashore to play “Happy Birthday” for a 90-year-old friend. On the way back to the dinghy he passed a band playing at a local bar. The non-acoustic group, led by the
Mighty Springer, was playing jump-up music with a washtub base, banjo, conga drum and a metal grater played with a stick. Bruce wrangled his way in to join them for one song with his shiny tenor pan. Days later, Springer saw him and said, “Hey mon, we like ya style! You can play wid us any time. We aksin you!” Bruce didn’t hit the road with them, but he joins them when he can and now he’s known around the island as, “da fella wid de pan.”

As I type this, the wind is blowing far too hard, the boat is rolling side to side from seas that are uncharacteristically wild and a pile of laundry is calling my name. I can’t imagine that another unexpected, interesting event is about to happen, but I certainly hope so. I’d do anything to get out of doing the laundry.

Jan