Stay Interesting

by Jonathan Goldsmith

  As I had discovered so many years ago driving across the country, moonlight was my favorite watch. Alone on deck, tethered to the binnacle if the waters were rough, the shooting stars were so close I found myself ducking at times. It was wondrous to contemplate the vastness, infinity, and my own mortality. These nights were exquisite, and looking at these glowing, brilliant stars, many that had given up their lives centuries ago, always made me think of just how small and fragile I was. Sometimes those night watches caused me much melancholy. I wondered, amid all that beauty, how could one be sad? No matter how encompassing the darkness, it always gave way to the brightness of the morning.

  We made a leg east to Miami via the Virgin Islands. We should never have left the comforts of a marina in Saint Lucia. There was a massive storm ahead. But we had no way of knowing—as usual, our weather fax was not working. But had we not sailed into near doom, I would have been deprived of a chance meeting with a truly most interesting man.

  We were on a good reach somewhere east of Saint Lucia between Antigua and Martinique. The day was clear with a light breeze. We seldom turned on the engine, even if the winds were fair—the grinding sounds of that iron jenny were such an intrusion on the senses. Interrupting the murmuring wind in the rigging was a sacrilege.

  We trolled a line for fish when the going was slow enough, and at midmorning Captain Ed caught an impressive wahoo, which we were looking forward to grilling that evening. Much like the weather fax, the refrigerator was not working, but there was ice in the chest. In went the fish until evening.

  In fact, it would be two days before I saw that beautiful fish again.

  By midafternoon, the air had taken on a more menacing demeanor. Captain Ed checked the barometer. It was starting to drop. Not a good sign. Earlier, we had seen a few thunderstorms on the horizon, but they were small and scattered. The winds were easterly and the clouds to the west were not so much a concern. As the afternoon progressed, we figured, the weather would continue to move farther away.

  We figured wrong. Soon the storm clouds started building, stacking themselves on top of one another like a huge layer cake, obscuring the sun. The squall line advanced, the barometer dropped precipitously, and then an ominous silence fell upon us. We knew what was coming: a dangerous squall. We immediately dropped sail and hoisted the storm jib. We went around the deck, lashing everything down, put on our foul-weather gear, and laid out the safety lines—fore and aft—and attached tethers. It was now time to secure below. But we’d run out of time. We could smell it—that unmistakable electrical odor of lightning about to strike. And then it did, stabbing the building sea with a vengeance.

  It was time to turn on the engine. We’d need to have better steerage in the roiling, directionless sea. The wind then picked up and started to batter us, gusting up to forty knots and then faster. Captain Ed tried turning over the engine. No luck. And then tried again to no avail. Make that three things that weren’t working on the boat that day. Wonderful. We were now running under bare poles and heading downwind with a high sea on our ass.

  Then our electrical went out. We were now a ghost ship screaming downwind, barely under control, and with no instrumentation. We couldn’t get below, the cockpit had taken on water, and we were weary, hungry, and hoping the storm gods would offer us a small respite.

  Two exhausting days later, toward the late afternoon, the wind dropped as if it had fallen asleep. The sea turned calm, and the dark skies above us broke and revealed a pastel tapestry above that drenched us in sunlight and warmth. We were ecstatic and spent. We’d been at the mercy of the wind for days. Our food supplies were running dangerously low. Sleep had been impossible under those conditions, though on the second night I thought I dozed off. Or perhaps I was delusional. Or dreaming. Storms play funny tricks on the mind.

  But we’d been pardoned. With the storm gone, we stretched out on the warm decks, the sun bringing my sore arms and legs back to life better than any masseuse. Occasionally, we’d peel ourselves up from the deck to look around. We were now lost somewhere in the Caribbean. There was no land in sight, no other ship visible. To celebrate such beauty and our survival, we fished out a bottle of rum that we’d kept from our layover in Saint Lucia, chased it down with a can of guava juice, and fell back on the decks, dead asleep.

  At twilight, we woke and undertook a brief inventory of the ship. We’d lost a man-overboard ring and pole, the water-activated strobe attached to it, two jerry cans, and, perhaps most important, a sea chart that covered our area and alerted us to any foreign objects like shipwrecks and fluctuations in depth, which this part of the sea was known for. Where we were, it was not unusual to sail the reefs with only a few feet of water below at one moment and a few hundred fathoms the next. That missing sea chart would have done us no good anyway, because we had no idea where we were. Our instruments were still out of whack, and it was still so rough we couldn’t keep a running fix.

  But we were alive.

  On the horizon, we were able to make out what appeared to be a cay, or small island. The Caribbean was dotted with cays—hurricane holes, they were called—places where sailors could seek refuge from fierce storms. Some had docks and room for a few boats.

  We had to dock. We needed to rest up and make a few repairs. The winds were picking up again, so we put up a light sail and ghosted over to the small island. It was not wise to drop anchor without a proper chart, but ours had been snatched up by the storm. Our best hope was to find a resting place in the lee of the island. If we were lucky, perhaps we could find an access point to the interior. If there was one.

  It was dark now. By flashlight, we scanned the coastline of the cay and cautiously entered an opening on the jungle shore—no easy feat in unknown waters without an engine. From time to time we were bumping the bottom. Soon the shoreline opened up and we spotted a run-down quay with a place for us to dock. Getting close would be hard. We figured we’d have only one pass at it, because if we missed the dock, there was no room to tack about or maneuver to safety.

  I dove into the water and, with a quickly thrown spring line, managed to stop our momentum. Onboard, Captain Ed put the bumpers down. At long last, this phase of our journey was over. But where were we? We rocked turbulently in the ghostlike port. The moon was rising, and we thought we saw a dim light winking through the dense jungle foliage not too far away.

  “Anybody there?” I called out.

  Nothing. Then:

  “Hello, my friend.”

  I looked to Ed, wondering who was coming for us. My mind was spinning from fatigue and hunger, my face tight and dry from saltwater. I remembered a book from my childhood about a handful of stowaways who were picked up by islanders who turned out to be cannibals. Would Captain Ed and I suffer the same fate? A pirogue was now heading our way. Inside, a tall, lean man was paddling, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

  “I am Jarmin,” he said proudly, carefully tying up alongside us. Inside his skiff I could see our friend was barefoot, and his ragged T-shirt flapped in the wind like clothing on a line. He was uncharacteristically tall, his height accentuated by his slim stature and long black hair tied back in an island version of a chignon. His height, he later explained, was due to his Masai ancestry, his father having been a great warrior. He was not alone. Standing tall in the bow of his boat was his sole companion: the General, a red-tailed rooster that was as scrawny and disheveled as Jarmin was.

  We thanked Jarmin for his kind welcome and explained the events leading up to our arrival. We were very hungry and asked if he knew of a local restaurant or perhaps a store where we could purchase provisions. We had our doubts—the island itself was pitch-black and looked uninhabited. Jarmin appeared deep in thought as he considered our request, then announced that he knew of a very fine place for us, and not too far away. There was no sense in changing into dry clothes, as we were in an open boat and it had started to rain anyway, so we gingerly boarde
d his narrow, beamed canoe with the ancient little outboard motor and the General crowing into the night wind. We slipped out through the mouth of the island as Jarmin steered us to our next destination.

  Soon enough, we were again on the open sea, tossed about in large rollers, remnants of the storm. We were now at the mercy of our new friend, who fortunately was a fine seaman and kept his humble skiff upright. After an hour or so at sea, Jarmin announced that we were close. It had started to rain when another island appeared. Jarmin steered on through the mouth of a small river and started to whistle as we glided through the jungle. The rain stopped, the wind abated, and the stars blinked open again.

  The inlet grew larger as we glided along in silence, in a quiet so welcome after days of howling winds and on water that was finally flat. In the moonlight, against the remains of an old fuel dock that was leaning against the shoreline, we could see a few boats. Civilization! The smell of kerosene lamps and blooming night jasmine all blended together on this warm tropical evening, and we heard the sounds of dogs barking and voices in the distance. With Jarmin at the helm and the General keeping watch, our skiff moved toward the sounds in the darkness. We passed a beach with small fishing boats resting against the sand and shacks that had seen better days.

  A creaky dock appeared, and behind it we could hear the beat of music. Jarmin beached the boat near the others, and we followed him and the General (conveniently perched on Jarmin’s shoulder) for a few hundred yards. The moon was now out, full in the starry sky, casting a light bright enough to read a newspaper by. The beach gave way to a slow-moving stream. We waded through the water, which carried us between large outcroppings of rock, mountains coming out of the shoreline. We kept following the river, which flowed from the entrance of a large cave, and arrived at our destination. It was a magical place.

  The grotto had a waterfall tumbling down the large rock face, and the cave revealed itself like a cathedral. The rooms and outposts all glittered with candlelight. Tables and benches surrounded a luminescent pool of crystal-clear water. In it were the reflections of flickering candles and moonbeams, which found their way through little fissures in the cavernous rock and sparkled. The ceiling stood fifty feet high, perhaps higher.

  The cave had been converted into a first-class restaurant of sorts. Our fellow diners sat at different levels on the rock, some in first-class yacht finery, some in shorts and bare feet. The acoustics were wonderfully kind to the ears. I looked for the kitchen, which was built half inside the grotto and produced the most wonderful aroma of roasting treasures from the sea, fresh bread, and pork. The grill was open to the air, and three cooks were lined up at the hip and turning out masterpieces on what looked like an old laundry stove. Above them, hanging on spikes that had been anchored into the stone, was an odd assortment of pots, pans, and utensils. Like the patrons, nothing matched.

  A handsome fellow with the look of a pirate appeared and waved us to a table of stone. Down below, sitting in the water, a few folks sipped cocktails.

  I turned around to thank Jarmin for showing us this truly wondrous place, but he and the General had held back.

  “Come and join us,” I said, waving him on.

  He politely refused.

  “Wait a second, my friend. We will not eat without our captain,” I said.

  Jarmin let that sink in a moment and, liking his new billing, agreed to join us.

  We put in our orders, and Jarmin told us a little about the history of the island. It didn’t have an official name, though it went by many, depending on who you were asking. It prospered with very little: a small marina, a fuel dock, a few mechanics whose skills were legendary, and, outside of a few restaurants and the local fishermen who supplied them, nothing else. In total, the population was in the hundreds.

  It was a safe place to ride out bad weather, and some knowledgeable mariners left their boats there throughout the hurricane season. Years later, that sadly all changed, when a devastating storm hit hard. The only place left was the grotto.

  Our dinner came out slowly, like everything else in the tropics, but the diversity of flavors and a combination of French, Portuguese, Spanish, and Creole were well represented. Like everything else in that place, none of the dishes matched: Eggplant and salt fish, baked bread (buttery and light), mangoes, guava, and the tiny very sweet Antiguan pineapples. Then came goat stew wrapped in palm leaves and drenched in warm coconut milk. We were given samples of local cheese, thanks to the goats, and the pièces de résistance: conch fritters, grilled red snapper, and huge lobsters. The island beer and rum were served in tin cans of various sizes. Much was salvaged from debris left from past storms and shipwrecks. The whole island was like that, jerry-rigged together with shards of others’ misfortunes, dreams picked over in their resting place and left behind for salvagers here to uncover. Gifts from the storm gods.

  We made a toast with our tin cans and laughed at our predicament. We’d reached this most magnificent place and had no idea where we even were. Tucked away in a hurricane hole somewhere east of Saint Lucia was our best guess. We had been without navigational instruments for days, and we were so hungry—and so taken with our new friend Jarmin—we hadn’t bothered to plot our new position once we’d landed. We’d been taken to this magical place we didn’t know, and could likely never find again without the help of our new friend and his pet rooster. It was wonderful, too wonderful to be true. But it was true. I proposed another toast.

  It was well after midnight when we finished. We found our scrawny canoe and returned to our ship. We were feeling no pain. That night I slept as never before on the deck, in a fragrant tropical breeze. It was one of the best evenings of my life. I didn’t even hear Ed’s snoring, which was reminiscent of the entire San Diego Zoo during mating season.

  The next morning I felt humbled. There was so much about sailing I loved in those days: the beauty of the skies, the texture of the wind, the solitude so far from shore. Wherever we were. I liked to greet each day with a simple affirmation, written by a dear friend.

  I wish to honor the miracle of life within me and around me

  To promote the bounty and beauty of creation.

  Help me to be a faithful servant and witness to the light of love, freedom, joy, equanimity.

  To always search for truth and forgiveness

  For myself and all others.

  I had had the pleasure of learning much from that friend in my pursuit of truth and wisdom on my personal journey. Or at least I tried to learn. The sun was just rising; all was still. Just sitting on the warm deck surrounded by the jungle and tranquil sea, I quietly repeated the affirmation. And then I dove into the water. What a glorious way to greet the morning.

  Meanwhile, Captain Ed had opened the hatches and the sunlight poured in. After the storm, it was great to dry out at last. Down below, he’d found our problem in the engine room. At least one of them. It was the usual diagnosis: contaminated diesel fuel. The filters were cleaned and replaced. The air-conditioning unit, bilge pump, and water maker were not such an easy fix, however, and we’d need more time to repair them.

  As we worked to repair the boat, Jarmin, our savior, appeared in his skiff and greeted us again with his laughter, along with the General, whose mangy feathers were rather dazzling in the morning light. We enjoyed a breakfast onboard of local bread, butter, and freshly picked papaya. Even though we were strangers, we spoke with Jarmin as if we were old mates.

  After coffee, Ed returned to the various repairs we needed to make and Jarmin volunteered to show me his home. We walked along the jungle path. In the distance, he pointed. It was humble, to be sure. It was a shack, a collage of flotsam that had been blown up onto the beach. Driftwood of varying sizes. Boards of all shapes. If these puzzle pieces didn’t fit together and create protection against the elements, he simply placed another over the structure’s irregular seams. Tarps of various colors were placed among this odd assor
tment of debris, and in unique formations.

  “Why are there gaps?” I asked.

  “To let the big winds pass through,” he said.

  I remembered a trip to Hong Kong, where I’d seen how architects had designed modern skyscrapers with upper floors that were entirely open, allowing the heavy winds of typhoons and monsoons to pass through. And here, on this little island, thousands of miles away, Jarmin had done the same.

  He ushered me inside his shack. The interior was a good-size room that had been divided into quarters by tarps. On the wall, there was a crucifix hanging between faded pictures of John Wayne (who had shot me in the head several times) and John F. Kennedy. Along one wall was a bookshelf of sorts, and the bed was an eclectic assortment of cushions that looked as though they’d been plucked from old yachts. Hanging above us was a once beautiful ship wheel, and swinging in the breeze throughout the yard was a collection of ship bells that chimed over the sound of gentle waves with an ethereal loveliness. Jarmin showed me the kitchen, another graveyard of reclaimed items. There was an old refrigerator, though how it ever ran was unclear considering there was no electricity or generator in sight. It was not needed, as he revealed the smoker he had built inside. Whatever washed ashore that had some value seemed to make it into Jarmin’s home.

  He had no running water, which was fine because he had arranged his incredible tarps to capture the afternoon downpour so common in the tropics, allowing him to fill his fifty-gallon drums. He never ran out. The floor was dirt, with the ubiquitous tarps arranged over whatever area was muddiest. He had chickens as well—the General’s harem—but they were allocated to an outside coop, which stood next to his marijuana plants. The chickens seemed very happy.