West of the Quator

by Cheryl Bartlam DuBois

  Thankfully, at the end of each day, when Alex had finished putting away the boat from charter, she would climb into her rubber Avon and row out to her own little boat in the harbor where she lived. As much as she loved the Island Fever she was always excited to row those last few strokes up to the inside port stern of Dancer and climb aboard, experiencing a rush of pleasure at the feel of her decks beneath her feet and the tranquillity of her modest deck house which paled in comparison to the Island Fever’s. But, somehow it offered her a kind of inner peace and homecoming, since Dancer was in fact the closest thing to home Alex had known since she’d left Annapolis ten years before.

  Alex tied the dinghy off between Dancer’s hulls and stepped into the cockpit that night before the first charter. She reached into the port-light3* to her hiding spot, and found the key which hung on the cabinet wall inside the deckhouse, then unlocked the padlock on the back door and flipped on the light switch for the twelve volt lighting in the companionway. She replaced the key and stepped into the house, sliding the side companionway hatches4** open in order to let the fresh sea air in.

  Alex loved laying in the deckhouse on the soft corduroy settee reading the latest novel she could get her hands on, or just browsing through the World Almanac if nothing else suited her. She relished stretching out after a long day in the sun which had evaporated all of her energy, the way it drank up the ocean into fluffy gray rain clouds. Clouds that blew through in ten minute squalls at the end of the day leaving a double rainbow behind as if to offer a gift of apology for crying great tears of rain over the island’s inhabitants below – disturbing the otherwise perfect weather that the long summer days brought before hurricane season. Alex loved the solitude – the quiet of the water lapping at the underside of the hulls and the way it echoed up through the boat – the way a gust of wind would swoop down off the hillside and catch Dancer and spin her quickly sideways on her mooring. She loved the soft undulating motion of the water passing under her hulls which lulled her to sleep every night.

  She hated living on the dock and would avoid it at all costs. The noise of the other sailors and the clanging of their unkempt halyards against their masts all night drove her mad, not to mention the surging and pulling as the boat fought its dock lines like a tethered stallion straining to break free from its restraints.

  Alex was a voracious reader and would gobble up paperbacks, especially stories of adventure and travel which made her mind wander and her soul hungry to sail off to explore the world. She had made numerous boat deliveries since she’d lived in the islands. She had gone several times with racing yachts to Europe delivering them to the Mediterranean for the summer, then traveled around for a time before returning to her own little boat in Antigua in time for hurricane season. A few times she’d been asked to take boats back to the states but she preferred more adventurous deliveries – places to which she had never gone. The year before she’d delivered a sixty foot Swan6* through the Panama Canal and on up to the west coast of Mexico.

  On a whim, Alex had used the money to travel to Tahiti, Bora Bora, and Tonga, and then on to Micronesia to the Caroline Islands. Upon arriving, she had regretted that she had gone there alone, for the beauty of the islands had evoked a need in her to share it with someone. Alex had grown accustomed to traveling alone, but there in the South Pacific, she had suddenly experienced a loneliness she had never felt before. Unfortunately, that feeling had followed her home and as hard as she’d tried, she had been unable to shake it when things got quiet. Especially, when she watched the sun setting under a double rainbow over that magnificent ocean. At times like that, she wished she had someone with which to share it all.

  1*TANYA ROOT — A starchy, type of root that is known as the West Indian potato.

  2**CHRISTOPHINE — A vine grown, pear shaped vegetable with prickly spikes – a Creole staple in the West Indies – known to most of the world as Chayote squash.

  3*PORT-LIGHT — A small watertight hatch or window-like opening in the deckhouse or top-sides5*** of a boat.

  4**COMPANIONWAY HATCHES — The lateral sliding hatches which flip down and slide across the deck outboard to allow one to stand to climb down the steps into the hulls rather than crawl. Usually there is one on each side of the deck-house.

  5***TOPSIDES — The sides of the hulls which are above the water as opposed to the top or deck of the boat.

  6*SWAN — An elegant, expensive, production monohull which could be likened to the ‘Mercedes’ of mid-size yachts.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dead to Weather

  “You can sail across the ocean of life or

  you can drown in it.”

  Ian

  The Island Fever’s first week of charter had been initiated with their first happy troop of ‘greenies’ – meaning a boat full of tourists whose closest experience to sailing had probably been a trip across the Upper Bay on the Staten Island Ferry. And, of course, as luck would have it, the little bay to which they were instructed to deliver these disciples of the canvas was a three and a half hour ‘beat to weather’1* – around the southern end of the island. During which, at least half of the boat succumbed to the ‘domino effect’ – it only takes one to heave their breakfast over the side, and before you know it, you’ve got twenty passengers whose complexion had changed to a rather interesting shade of chartreuse with their heads thrust into plastic ten gallon garbage bags. The worst part was always finding yourself downwind from someone with poor aim.

  Of course, their first day out had to be a tough one, thought Alex as she watched even Rob toss his cookies over the stern of the boat. It was days like this that Alex was glad Hefty had created the ‘Cinch Sac,’ which enabled them to trap those god forsaken contents until they could be carefully disposed of. There was something about watching a boat load of tourists chucking up their morning orange juice and bacon, not to mention the three Heinekens they had already managed to down before the queasiness took hold of them, that made Alex wish in secret that she could just pull the drawstring tight around each of their hopelessly un-seaworthy, land-lover heads until they gratefully reached the shore. Alex even had thoughts about how practical it would be to just simply remove the cockpit tables and replace them with troughs, so as to save on garbage bags. Overall, she was relieved that due to the mass sedation from the Dramamine, she didn’t have to answer too many stupid questions, since on the way there, they either had their heads buried in a bag or they had the fear of God instilled in them from the bouncing and heaving of the boat. Not to mention the fact that they were nearly drowning in bow spray, which due to the heavy salt content of the Atlantic and the aeration process left one feeling and looking quite like a Cony Island pretzel – with salt.

  The one thing about sailing that Alex never quite understood was, why the moment anyone felt sick, instead of being thankful for the fresh air on deck, they immediately made a bee-line for the cabin, thinking that somehow being down-below deck would make them feel better. But, as Alex well knew from experience, even the most well seasoned sailors can turn green in that stuffy bouncing, confined compartment below deck. So, Alex became the cabin monitor, making certain that no one entered the deck house next to her station at the helm, even if they were pleading their case to be a head break. Alex was relentless on this measure, resorting to dragging anyone out by their collar who had managed to sneak past her watchful eye. This was not totally a selfish act on her part, since she was sparing those poor unsuspecting bastards the added agony of retching their guts out below deck. Alex also knew, all too well, how Joey would react if he found their presence left on his antique carpets.

  Unfortunately, Rob’s seasickness and uncertainty of what was going on did not help instill confidence to a great degree in his passengers, but somehow Raymond’s calm, confident demeanor and the routine way in which he went about his duties – primarily handing out beers, bags, and suntan lotion – seemed to help both Rob and the tourists settle into a kind of uncertain resignation to their fa
te. Rob was so nervous the morning he awoke before his first charter, he had pretty well worked himself into a frenzy by the time they had tied up at the dock to load up their thirty-five passengers for the day’s sail. He wasn’t certain if he was feeling queasy from the motion of the boat or from the fear of his first trip to sea with the lives of three dozen people in his hands. By the time Raymond had passed out the second round of beers and soft drinks, Rob had already been the first to be dragged by Alex from the deck house by the collar and redirected to the back of the bridge deck. Alex had seen it in his face as he had raised his head from the cooler in the cockpit with two beers in his hand for Raymond to pass to a couple of tourists on the foredeck. By now Rob’s sunburn was really starting to peel and the multicolor hue of the white flaking skin and the red beneath, mixed with his present shade of green made Rob’s face somewhat reminiscent of the Italian flag.

  For Rob, sea sickness was the newest in a list of adjustments he’d have to make to island living, but he’d quickly come to the conclusion, as do most, that he’d much rather be dead than live with this miserable sensation on a daily basis. Indeed, I’ve seen many a sailor try to jump overboard in order to bring a quick end to their torture. In fact, I’ve even found it necessary to lash a few on deck to save them from that fate during my life as a sailor. But what truly baffled Rob, was that he had in excess of twenty passengers aboard who had just paid him fifty dollars each to experience this very misery. By the time they arrived at Green Island, appropriately chosen for the day’s journey, Rob was only slightly greener than the frozen margaritas Raymond, the Twelve Volt Man,2* was serving.

  It’s important to remember the first rule of thumb on a sailing vessel – no matter what luxuries one must do without, a blender, although a tricky accessory on a boat with no generator, is always an absolute necessity. But leave it to Raymond’s wizardry to be certain that there was always an ample supply of that frozen concoction on board.

  Somehow, Alex had managed to make it through the morning with no major mishaps. Once on Green Island, snorkeling went smoothly, even if there were little or no fish to see – thanks to the local fishermen’s lack of concern for the environment and the islander’s voracious appetite for fish. And, while Alex was off dragging overweight tourists through the water to look at sand and coral, Raymond was preparing lunch on the shore of their little anchorage. Grilled chicken and rice was the standard picnic charter fare and Raymond had quickly gotten it honed to a science by pre-roasting the chicken the evening before and pretending to cook it over the hot coals of the bar-b-que that he’d built on the beach.

  It was time for lunch, but Rob was still recovering from his morning purge and was floundering around on the boat, pretending to look busy doing something unimportant in order to avoid having to assist Alex and Raymond play nursemaid to thirty-five mainlanders. Of course, this did not sit well with Alex since she was hired to captain the ship, not baby-sit tourists. She would have to speak with Rob about defining their roles aboard the boat, or at the very least, hire another crew member. But, for now she would just have to get through the day without him. Luckily, her passengers were nice enough, especially in light of how rough their two hour, upwind sail to Green Island had been. They loved Alex it seemed, and found the idea of a female skipper quite novel. She only wished that she could find a way to spare her future passengers such discomfort by somehow lowering the casualty count of greenies on the way there.

  Alex had been sea sick only once as a young girl when she had delivered a boat to Florida with her dad, but that was enough to make her appreciate the misery those unsuspecting novices were suffering. Her and her father had decided to venture outside of the safety of the Intra-coastal Waterway on their delivery south, and had run into some bad weather off the coast of the Carolinas on Frying Pan Shoals. Even though Alex was dying from seasickness, she had refused to abandon her father’s side at the helm, and had braved it through the night with hardly a complaint. After that, her father had nicknamed her Skipper which had stuck. From that point on he’d barely even used the name he’d given her when she was born, since he told her she was braver than most sailors would have been under the circumstances.

  “So Skipper,” said one of the men as she was loading the last of her passengers onto the dinghy from shore that afternoon. “I’m quite impressed with your sailing ability. Can’t say’s I’ve ever sailed with a woman at the helm before, but I’d be quite comfortable to sail with you again anytime. I was in the navy for twenty years and I didn’t think I’d ever hear myself say such a thing but there you have it.”

  Alex looked at him and smiled, and when he smiled back, it fondly reminded her of her father – the way he smiled at her the morning after that horrible night at sea when the sun rose and the storm blew over. It was a smile that told her he was proud that she had helped to pull them through it – they had done it together.

  “Well, thank you,” answered Alex taken a little off guard by his uncanny resemblance to her father, not to mention how moved she was by his confession. “Thank you, that means more to me than you know,” she said warmly as she swallowed hard against the lump in her throat and fought back the flood of tears she’d never allowed herself to weep for her father. One day she was afraid, that the dam would break and the reservoir she had been storing would surely flood the island.

  As tough as the morning had been, there was one part of the day that Alex did in fact enjoy – the peaceful sail back around the coast to English Harbor. She welcomed the reach home, since by that time the passengers were so spent from their morning’s wretch, passed out from too much beer and wine, exhausted from their snorkeling expedition, or just plain grateful that their white knuckling had subsided thanks to the calmer water, that they were all like abandoned jelly-fish washed upon the foredeck by the sea which had given them up as sacrifice. The trip downwind was likened to the disparity of riding the roller coaster at the state fair as opposed to the sky ride – converting all of the previously ‘sworn to never sail again,’ passengers back into, ‘can’t wait to sail again ones.’

  To Alex, sailing had always been somewhat of a religious experience – her substitution for church – a place from which she could commune with GOD. In my last life, I had found the sea to be that same comforting presence, and I had always relished the rare opportunity to experience it alone. Alex, like myself, had never been at sea before with a mass congregation such as this, and somehow in a strange way, we found it hard to share this sacred space with so many unenlightened souls. If only someone could make them understand, make Rob understand the sanctity of sailing. The solace of being out on the open ocean alone with no one other than yourself and that Great One Source, with no one else knowing for certain where you were on the planet. Would Rob ever reach that point with sailing? Somehow, both Alex and I had our doubts. Rob, it appeared at present, was more the congregational type – the type that fit right into the masses of the unenlightened.

  As the days wore on into a week, it was becoming more and more evident to Alex that Rob, although quite adept at handling people, was not exactly an experienced or even a promising sailor. Let’s be realistic, Rob still didn’t know the difference between an out-haul and hauling out, and that a winch wasn’t an old English word for prostitute, let alone knowing his aft from his beam or his head from a hole in the deck. I mean a ‘ketch’ was a game played in the back yard with a ten year old wasn’t it? Not to mention how many Southerners there seemed to be down in this neck of the woods who kept saying ‘yawl.’

  For some strange reason, all of Alex’s experience in teaching sailing went out the window where Rob was concerned. Her enduring patience which she had always found for children, became frustrated impatience every time Rob would perform some new calamity like forgetting to tie down the spinnaker pole before raising the spinnaker, or dropping the anchor and chain overboard with no line attached. It seemed that every other day Alex was having to dive down and retrieve some lost piece of hardware s
uch as winch handles, anchors, and buckets. And unfortunately, the more impatient Alex got with Rob, the more sensitive Rob’s ego got. In fact, Rob was still having trouble taking orders from an attractive member of the opposite sex and unfortunately, the more he learned, the more he realized how little he knew compared to Alex. It was beginning to take its toll on his confidence level which was at that point, floundering below sea level and in risk of drowning. And unfortunately, Rob was still utterly dependent on Alex for his livelihood and the sum total of his worldly possessions.

  “As long as he doesn’t kill anyone we’ll be just fine,” thought Alex. “Luckily, that guy that he dropped the boom vang4* on the other day didn’t seem too pissed off, even though he probably won’t father any more offspring. I’ll just be sure to keep him busy with little jobs that are safe, like barf bag duty or coiling sheets.”5**

  As far as Rob’s sailing acumen went, there were many things he was not, and would likely never be – like – handy, mechanical, dexterous, or knowledgeable about anything requiring physical labor, use of tools, or things that required being tied up – seeing that Sydney had just never been the type. Luckily, Rob recognized and understood most of his shortcomings in this department and was beginning to realize that maybe the physical side of sailing may just not be something he was cut out for, regardless of how hard he was trying to prove himself wrong by Alex.

  Attempting to justify his lack of knot tying proficiency, at least to himself, Rob reasoned, “What if I don’t know how to tie the perfect knot? Hell I never even mastered the art of tying my own ties. I mean tying the perfect bowline is not exactly my life’s ambition. Okay, so it’s necessary to learn how to tie knots in order to sail a boat… I’ll learn eventually. If she just weren’t so damn petite and innocent looking maybe it would be easier for me to take her seriously at this Captain thing,” agonized Rob watching her at the helm as she steered the boat by the sails’ telltales7****