Landfall: The Tale of the Solo Sailor

by Lee B. Mulder

island?"

  "I'm really not isolated (she said eesolated). I'm quite well known throughout the islands. I have supplies brought round. I have people over at Beef Island who watch out for me."

  "Where are you from? How did you get here? What do you do?"

  "My past is unimportant,” she shrugged. “Originally from Boston (Bahstun), but that was a long time ago. What I do is make myself a part of this island; I am its living landscape, its caretaker, its guardian. All the creatures on it and around it know me well; they depend on me; we give of ourselves to each other. This meal was a gift gladly given by my friends in the sea. Come. Let me show you my friends in the sky."

  A tingle of fear ran up my spine. I'm not sure why. Maybe it was the way she said, "They depend on me..." how, and for what, I wondered.

  She took me by the hand out onto the terrace, the lanai, the front porch. Above us, the sky was bright with stars, the Caribbean canopy I had come to know by heart as a tiny volume of poetry. Off in the distance, the Beef Island aero beacon blinked green, then white. "There," she said, putting her arm around my waist and, leaning into me, pointing to a shooting star arcing across the southern sky. "And there," she said, bouncing with excitement. "And there," she squealed. "Three in a row is almost unheard of, Ian Dunn, and very, very good luck." She looked into my eyes with that radiant face and those eyes… sparkingling with the reflection of stars. Our lips met in a wondrous, sensuous frenzy. We clung to each other. Our hands started to roam, until finally, I cradled her face in my hands and said, "You are the most intoxicating woman I have ever known. In an instant, my list of questions for her vanished. I kissed her lightly, and looked into her large, soft eyes now catching glints of candle light. I let my hands gently follow the curve of her neck, the width of her shoulders, and swept the sleeves of her blouse off her shoulders. The dress fell away. I picked her up in my arms, she clung tightly to my neck, and I carried her to the platform bed. Any suspicions I may have had of her melted away in ecstasy.

  She was a voracious lover and, after what semed like an eternity of ecstasy, she collapsed on top of me, her hair in my face, our bodies panting together. My heart was stil racing when she murmured into the pillow, "It's been a long time, Ian Dunn."

  I rolled her over softly, still intertwined, and asked in a whisper,"Who are you, mystery lady?" She just smiled secretly in the flickering light, nestled close and laid her head on my chest.

  In mere moments, she was asleep. My mind raced, ticking off still more unanswered questions about this woman, this place, this island. It was somehow all too perfect to be real. In my years at sea, I had developed a healthy respect for nature and an ingrained wariness about what she might throw at me next... such caution keeps sailors alive. I had the same feeling about this woman, this encounter. But why? And I fell into my own deep sleep with more questions and no answers.

  In the morning, I was startled awake by by a warm cloth washing me. "What the..."

  "Relax," she said. "This is your wake up call." I did as I was told. She finished her ablutions with a sensuous, deep kiss.

  "Well, good mornin' mama," I said at last. "You really know how to get a guy's attention."

  "You're welcome," she said with a smile. "My pleasure. Coffee will be up in a minute. The loo is down the hill to the right."

  "Okay. Soon as my heart stops racing." The braid was back, but the attire this morning was less formal. High cut demin shorts and a lopped off white t-shirt just long enough to cover her breasts. And an unbroken tan. The loo. I could use it. At the bottom of the rock steps and to the right was a little clearing by the craggy shore. A board with a hole in it... the loo... was set in the rocks to allow human deposits to drop into the sea. Clever. There was a birdhouse shaped box that held toilet paper in such as way as to keep it out of the weather. Clever again. A few feet away was a rusty 55 gallon drum set on stilts with a shower nozzle underneath. I stepped under it, pulled the chain and had a short douse of rainwater. Lord, I'm human again.

  Back at the grotto, I was presented with a hot cup of good coffee. "Mornin', Sailor."

  I graciously accepted the cup, announcing, "Mariah the magnificent. Can we get married and stay here forever? Raise a dozen children untainted by the outside world?" She laughed.

  "You're going to Charlotte Amalie today, aren't you?"

  "Well, yes, how did you know?"

  "You talk in your sleep."

  "Oh. Well, I do have a date at the boat yard."

  "Great. Take me with you. I need to get into town."

  "Umm, okay... you think you're dressed for the big city?... forget it, you're way overdressed for Charlotte." She laughed. "Give me a piece of that bread from last night, grab your gear and we're off."

  "I'm ready," she said, picking up a small cotton drawstring sack. Clearly, she had been preparing for this. "Bread's in the bag." Odd, I thought... no shoes, no hat, no sunglasses, no... purse. Maybe it's all in the bag.

  "Great. Let's go. By the way, this is no free ride. You're gonna have to work your cute little fanny off if you want to crew with me."

  "Aye, aye, Captain Bligh,” she mocked. “I've been on little sailboats before."

  As I rowed the skiff out to Andromeda, I was in awe of how naturally beautiful this woman was. Maybe thirty years old with the skin of an 18 year-old covering solid muscles in her arms, back and legs. Perfectly proportioned, supremely confident and in control of her world. It would be nice to have company on the eight-hour downhill run to St. Thomas.

  Once aboard, I tied the dinghy line to a stern cleat and puttered around, stowing things, taking the anchor light down from its shackle, and watching my new crewperson explore, stow, snoop and touch. You can tell how much people have been around boats by watching the way they move when aboard. Mariah moved like a cat, glad to be at home at last.

  "Come on, now, let's get this main up," I ordered. Raising a gaff-rigged main sail is no easy task. The gaff, a boom attached to the top edge of the sail, is raised by an ingenious system of blocks and tackle which allow one strong man hauling on one line to lift the whole rig to the top of the mast. But it's easier with two people. The sail ties were off, the main sheet loosed; it was time to raise the main. "Give me a hand with this, will you?" Mariah was there to tail the line. "We'll give this thing three good pulls; I'll secure the line and you keep hauling. Ready? Heave!" In perfect unison, we pulled the boom easily most of the way up the mast. I secured the halyard on the lifting cleat; without my saying a word, the moment it was tight, Mariah braced her foot on the mast and, with both hands, pulled the line back like a bowstring. The gaff inched up. When she let up, I took up the slack. We did it again. And once again. The main was up.

  "Where'd you learn how to do that?" I asked.

  "I told you. I've been on little sailboats before." She elbowed me playfully in the ribs and walked back to helmsman's seat, precisely anticipating my next move. "Wheel to starboard," I commanded gently from the foredeck. "When she drifts back and starts to veer south, haul in on the main and head for St. Thomas." She nodded. Can she really do all that, I wondered? There will be plenty of time once I get the anchor up to save us from washing up on the beach if she doesn't do it right. I’ve done it hundreds of times. Let's see what she knows.

  I hauled in on the anchor line slowly, drawing the little boat forward with each pull. Line turned to chain and I hesitated, letting the boat lose its forward momentum. When the chain was vertical, I gave it one good yank, watched the anchor burst from its sandy nest on the bottom and we were free. "Anchor aweigh," I reported, while quickly pulling the anchor aboard. If she did make a mistake, seconds could be critical. The anchor slipped into its chocks. Which way would the boat drift? Slowly, she swung the nose seaward. I heard the ratcheting of the mainsheet blocks and looked back to see Mariah firmly braced with one foot, holding the wheel against her knee and hauling line like an old sa
lt. She secured the main, turned the wheel to port, the boat tilted as the sail filled and we began to pull neatly away from the little island. Out of the lee of the protecting rocks, Mariah eased the main until we were perfectly trimmed on a near reach. I couldn't have done better myself, and with a certain disbelief, made the anchor line ready for the next harbor.

  I raised the working jib and foresails and trimmed them from the cockpit. I turned to Mariah. "Well done, Mate." She smiled that smart-ass smile again. "I know... you've sailed on little boats before." But, I thought, this is an OLD boat with no engine for backup. You don't learn how to handle one of these things in the local sailing club or in beer can races. She knows so much. She has the balance. She is so good at it. What the hell, I'm impressed... but where did she learn this stuff? It's oh-nine-hundred hours, we're moving at a comfortable seven knots; we should be in Thomas by three, at the dock by four this afternoon. "Why don't you take her for awhile," I said. "Course is 242-degrees. I'm gonna tidy up down below... want anything?"

  "Nay. I'm fine," she said.

  Nay? I checked the bilge, pumped out about a quart of water, put away tools and clothes and wiped up around the galley. You're not alone now, bachelor boy, you don't have to live like a stray cat. But wait.