Destination: Unknown: A Desperate Tale Of Survival

by Larry Dodson

  He knew it was a corny thing to say but couldn't resist. Judy would chalk it up to him watching too many old time sailing movies.

  "Look straight ahead, we’re about 20 minutes away.”

  As the boats approached from the leeward, or downwind side of the island the large outline of the fort began to take form. The fort looked surreal perched on such a small island surrounded by white sand and blue water.

  Maneuvering around the island it soon became apparent they were not going to have the island to themselves. A dozen or more fairly large power boats lay anchored about 150 feet offshore. Curiously, no visible signs of life could be detected on any of the boats. If they were under surveillance the occupants did a good job of keeping themselves concealed.

  As they approached the island they maintained a safe distance from the powerboat anchorage. The crystal clear water helped aid in their decision of where to drop anchor. They carefully avoided anchoring near the beautiful yet dangerous coral reefs randomly growing just below the water’s surface.

  Whether it be a mistake or not the decision to go ashore was made. The calculated risk was based on the fact that they had gotten this close to the island without incidence. As a positive gesture they would fly a small white flag on Mark's dinghy to display their peaceful intentions.

  Brandon, Mark and George volunteered to go ashore. They instinctively arranged their seating positions to balance the dinghy for the short ride to the shore. The trip to the island would take about four minutes. As they closed to within 75 feet of the shoreline, half a dozen men wearing military fatigues and armed with semi-automatic rifles exited the fort. Moving in an orderly fashion they lined up to intersect the dinghy on the beach.

  Brandon in a hushed voice uttered "This doesn't look good", as he and Mark decided to let George do the talking. George concealed his pistol as to not escalate tensions.

  As the dinghy gently beached on the white sand the leader of the group raised his hand making the universal "Halt" gesture. "Hold it right there. State your intentions."

  Their guns were held in a ready position. None of the guns directly aimed at the dinghy’s occupants. The landing party suddenly realize they were unwelcome intruders on this recently acquired turf.

  "We're just passing through on our way south." replied George.

  Brandon, Mark and George kept their hands motionless, as well as in plain sight. This was not a group you wanted to spook by unnecessary hand movement.

  "And your reason for stopping here?”

  "We've been sailing awhile and were hoping to get off the boats and stretch our legs a bit."

  The leader carefully masked any emotions as he spoke, "That's not going to happen on this island."

  Recognizing the benefits of possibly joining this group, George bluntly asked, "You wouldn't be in need of another person who can handle a gun?”

  "No. We’re not taking in strangers. You need to go back to your boats."

  Judging by their paramilitary manner, this group had carefully prepared to take full possession of the island at the first sign of a country in crisis. As Brandon looked beyond the men he noticed more armed soldiers strategically placed along breaks in the wall that once housed cannons. This definitely was a well-organized and equipped small army. You could only pity anyone who was careless enough to try and crash their party.

  "We'd appreciate it if we could stay anchored where we are for a short spell."

  The leader turned to face the other men in his command. After conferring with what appeared to be the second in command, he turned back and stated in no uncertain terms, "We'll let you stay twenty-four hours. Do not try to sneak ashore. If you are caught on the island you will be shot on sight without warning."

  Though the meeting could have gone better, it was apparent they were not the least bit interested in removing what life supporting provisions the little boats carried. At least not at this time. How long could they survive on the small island without acquiring outside food and fuel was anybody's guess, but for now, it appeared safe.

  "No problem, thanks for giving us a day. We’ll be out of here tomorrow morning.”

  As they motored their way back to the boats the island "Welcoming Committee" returned to the fort. Sentries located along the wall kept close watch as the dinghy departed.

  Motoring back Mark brought up the obvious, "Those guys are brilliant. Take a well-armed group of men and take possession of an abandoned fort 70 miles offshore on an island. A fucking fort on an island! Absolutely Brilliant! They don't even have to worry about hurricanes, that fort’s been there for at least a hundred years and still standing.”

  Brandon had once read there were probably a thousand or more private paramilitary type compounds in the United States, the majority tucked away in hilly or mountainous terrain. It never crossed his mind one would be located on an island, let alone one offering the protection of a former fort.

  "I think we should definitely avoid this place on the way back."

  George and Mark shook their heads in agreement.

  Mark adding, "If we ever come back.”

  Re-uniting on Richard's boat they retold in detail what had just transpired. The opportunity to scavenge the island for resources was soundly denied. The only comfort afforded by the island came in the form of a brief respite from sailing and a short window to relax in. As if that were truly possible under the circumstances.

  As strange as it felt, a calm did fall over Brandon realizing not every outsider or group was evil or out to plunder. The fort represented a form of order and protection for the small population within its walls. If it existed here, there was hope. The only challenge was finding it elsewhere, a society willing to take in refugees.

  As Brandon reflected on the day’s events he felt uneasy thinking how easy it was for George to volunteer to abandon the group at the first perceived opportunity. Could he be relied upon if things got tough? Probably not. Would he stay with the fleet if he felt they had nothing to offer? Again probably not. The real question was what was important enough for him to want to tag along with the group. The obvious answer was food. Brandon knew sooner or later they would have to deal with George and his crew. It would give a whole new meaning to the phrase "food fight".

  The monotony of standing watch that night was broken by the sound of music and laughter emanating from within the fort. The boats were anchored downwind of the island. The distinct aroma of bar-b-cued meat intermingled in the mild offshore breeze. Brandon found it hard to scan a dark ocean that night. His thoughts eventually drifted in and out of happier moments in his life.

  Shortly after midnight Brandon's sleep was interrupted by Judy lightly shaking his shoulder.

  “Brandon get up."

  He groggily replied "Don't tell me it's my watch already?"

  "No, but it's starting to rain. Let's rig the water catch."

  Their water catch amounted to a triangular piece of waterproof material with a hose type fitting in the middle. The catch was attached by short lengths of rope at the corners allowing it to form an upside down belly, funneling water to the center. The device was a simplistic way to harvest life sustaining liquid. The couple knew they could only survive about 3 days without water. In this warm climate, maybe less. As conservative as they were, Brandon and Judy had depleted about a quarter of their water supply. The unexpected rain afforded them the opportunity to top off their tank.

  With the morning light, the small fleet prepped their boats for departure. The island appeared as uninhabited as Brandon's first sighting. Sails were raised and as they slowly sailed away Brandon knew there would be no farewell party from the islanders wishing them good luck. From the reception they encountered on the beach it would more likely have been good riddance!

  Chapter 9

  Wicked

  The previous night’s rain proved to be the vanguard for wicked weather ahead. Wind and waves continued to build in intensity as the barometer steadily fell. Not knowing if this was just a passi
ng tropical storm, or worse, the forefront of a hurricane, the intrepid sailors configured their boats for battle against Mother Nature.

  The sea had transformed yesterday’s sparkling blue water into shades of green and white as the wind continued to whip the water into a relentless legion of steep cascading waves. This was sailing at its worst. There would be no “time out” until the storm subsided.

  At first sign of deteriorating conditions, Judy and Brandon followed time tested procedures as they readied Sparrow for the upcoming fight for survival. Jack lines were secured fore and aft. The rugged jack line straps minimized the danger of detachment from Sparrow. The last thing you wanted to see was your boat sailing away without you. One end of a short strap or tether attached directly to the jack line. The other end attached to a ring on Brandon and Judy's life jackets. In the event they fell overboard the tether would keep them securely attached alongside Sparrow until they could be safely pulled back onboard.

  Having rigged the jack lines, they now turned their attention to reducing sail. If there was one golden rule on Sparrow, it was drop the mainsail in strong winds. Sparrow, being a cutter rig ketch, could easily maintain hull speed with just the two small head sails and rear mizzen. Dropping the mainsail also gave the added benefit of considerably reducing the amount of heel or tilt. Speed at this point was not a consideration. Keeping just enough water moving past the rudder to maintain steerage was. The rest amounted to just holding on for the ride.

  The wind driven saltwater started to sting Brandon’s eyes. He had to shout to get Judy's attention over the howling wind. "I've lost track of everyone, do you see them?”

  "You’re kidding, I can't see anything."

  In addition to violently rolling side to side, Sparrow was now beginning to hobby horse fore and aft as she crawled up the incoming waves and slid down their backsides.

  Judy now had to shout over the fury of the storm, "This is the roughest weather I've ever sailed in!"

  Brandon didn't say anything. He continued tending to the foresails as Judy did her best to keep the boat on course. Keeping on course now defined as "Path of least resistance". They did everything they could think of to lessen the strain on Sparrow's rigging as she violently forged forward.

  At a certain point fatigue starts to set in. The constant strain of maintaining your balance takes its toll. Stiff muscles coupled with relentless motion eventually brings you to the point of wanting to scream “enough”, but you know you’d be shouting at deaf ears. Your only comfort was knowing it would eventually come to an end.

  Brandon decided it was time to relieve Judy from the stress of helming the boat. She had been fighting the wind and water for the last 2 hours.

  "Let's trade.”

  "Are you sure, I can steer a little longer."

  Brandon had to smile as he thought back on Judy earning the nickname "Helm Hog". She could steer a boat for hours on end and always seemed reluctant to share the duty. He knew under these conditions she had to be tired and admired her resilience. Knowing her, she probably felt more concerned with his welfare than her own.

  "I'm positive, let's trade!"

  Normally, relieving her on the helm would have been an easy task. Trading places in this storm now required careful timing and balance. Never was the saying, "One hand for the ship, and one hand for yourself” more applicable.

  Having successfully switched positions, Judy placed her back against the cabin trunk which offered little protection from the wind driven rain. She held on to the jib sheet ready to release tension should Sparrow violently start to broach. On a small boat with a two person crew there is no go down into the cabin and rest, you only traded one miserable job for another miserable job.

  The storm lasted approximately seven hours. Sparrow sailed out of the melee in one piece. Judy was finally able to enter the cabin and whip together something for them to eat. She reappeared ten minutes later bearing chicken noodle soup and a much appreciated cup of hot coffee.

  The wind and the rain may have passed but the steep waves left behind would continue to toss Sparrow around for the next couple of hours. Judy insisted on taking first watch, and after a few minutes of back and forth discussion, Brandon conceded and went below for a couple of hours rest. As far as Brandon and Judy were concerned what they had just endured was as close to their definition of a "Perfect Storm" as they ever wanted to know.

  The gulf slowly settled into her typical picture postcard looking image. The waves were still larger than normal, but beautiful just the same. From their original position and heading before the storm hit they carefully plotted a course that would hopefully reunite them with the fleet.

  Twelve hours later the tranquil setting gave way to excitement as Judy announced, "We've got company!", as she pointed in the direction of a sailboat some distance from their position. "Think it's one of ours?”

  Brandon exited the cabin with what he calls his U-Boat Commander binoculars. "I can't tell from here, but it could be George. Yeah, it looks like a 32 footer."

  Judy took a turn but like Brandon couldn’t make a positive identification. "It doesn't seem to be moving. Maybe they’re going slow to give us a chance to catch up."

  That sounded reasonable to Brandon as he slightly altered course for the drifting boat. As they closed the distance it soon became apparent it was not one of their party.

  "Check it out. The mast is bent pretty badly. No wonder it's not moving. The storm must have played hell with it."

  Judy carefully inspected the boat from the safety of the binoculars. Slowly passing the transom she informed Brandon, "The name of the boat is “Sanity". It's says Key West under the name.”

  Brandon couldn't help but comment, "Great name for a boat in an insane world."

  "I don't think we should get to close to it. I don't see anybody moving around." Thirty feet from the lifeless vessel Judy cupped her hands around her mouth as she shouted, "Hello, anyone on board....hello....hello." Her hail was met with silence. Not a good sign. It looked like the storm had claimed one or more victims.

  Brandon slowly circled the boat thinking out loud, "Looks bad, bent mast, torn sails. Beat up yes, but unless they went overboard definitely survivable.”

  As they neared completion of the circle Judy in a puzzled tone asked, "What happened to the hull? It looks like chunks of fiberglass are missing on this side.”

  As the now derelict boat no longer appeared to pose a threat Brandon suggested they tie-up alongside and try to piece together what had taken place. Judy reluctantly agreed as she tried to hand Brandon their flare pistol.

  "You gotta be kidding. If I thought there would be trouble I wouldn't be going aboard."

  Brandon cautiously climbed onto the disabled boat. After slowly scanning the topsides he entered the cabin. Minutes passed as Judy anxiously awaited Brandon's findings. Unlike his cautious entry he suddenly bolted out of the cabin and back onto Sparrow.

  "Untie the boat. Let's get out of here."

  Judy sensed Brandon's findings weren't storm related.

  "What happened?”

  "The people aren't missing because of the storm. They were shot."

  "You saw their bodies?”

  "No, but with all the blood splattered inside the cabin what would you think. Those chunks in the hull were made by bullets. The boat has been completely ransacked. They probably looked like sitting ducks with a bent mast. Easy pickings for scavengers.”

  Judy remained silent as Brandon continued. "The sooner we find the group the better. This is looking real scary. We’re getting to close to land. What are we, 25 miles from Key West?”

  "If that. The keys have a big boating population. We're lucky we haven't seen more boats."

  They quickly resumed pursuit of their now illusive companions. They realized they were totally on their own. The prospect of making contact with any of the fleet after the storm was next to none.

  Judy and Brandon had just witnessed with their own eyes the severe penalty a
single boat could face on the high seas. They knew the only difference between Sparrow suffering Sanity's fate, was Sanity being in the wrong place at the right time.

  Chapter 10

  Choice Point

  Sparrow now faced the most daunting leg of the trip. The final destination, Bight of Acklins Island lay about 494 nautical miles south east of their present location. The route they were taking was sure to be traveled by an armada of boats fleeing the United States.

  Dark blue water now paved their way forward. Dolphins swimming alongside Sparrow gave a false sense of peace and harmony by masking the brutal reality that loomed just beyond the visible horizon.

  The once pleasurable act of crossing paths with another adventure bound boat now induced fear and anxiety. There would be no exchanging of waves or hailing each other over the radio. Survival now depended on creating as much distance from other boats as possible.

  As anxiety waned, Brandon and Judy settled into the more mundane chores aboard the boat. Studying the chart plotter, Brandon estimated it would take at least five days to reach the island. Judy had spent the last thirty minutes reviewing the state of their food and water supplies. Satisfied with her findings she reported, “We're doing excellent. Twenty-three gallons of water left and we've hardly put a dent in the food. What do you want for dinner?”

  Brandon was not a picky eater, "Make it easy on yourself. Fix whatever you’re in the mood for."

  As Judy went below Brandon knew she would have no problem coming up with a delicious meal. Brandon on the other hand only dealt with cooking on the most elemental level. Judy found cooking the meals rewarding, especially when the alternative was letting Brandon loose in the galley.

  The late afternoon sun slowly revealed the unmistakable form of a sailboat some distance off. They had spotted three boats earlier that morning but unlike the previous encounters, this one didn't vanish into obscurity. Brandon took evasive action pulling the tiller toward his hip as Sparrow tacked hard over. The abrupt change in direction now sent Brandon tracking away from his intended course. He planned on returning to the original heading as soon as the shadowing boat lost interest. The game of cat and mouse was full on.