Between Havana and The Deep Blue Sea

by Darrel Bird

He pulled up at the dock. Everyone at the docks knew his truck, so he planned to just leave it there until he got back, if he did get back. He stood looking at the Dancer. She sat low in the water, but he knew she would lighten up as he consumed the jugs of water that he had stowed on her. He climbed aboard, sat down at the dinette, and started ticking off his list one last time. He thought of the sails in the sail locker: one extra main and one extra jib, the storm jib, the spinnaker, and the drogue. The sails were all original to the boat, but they were still in good shape.

  The Dancer was Dan Morgan’s old boat, which Jim was fortunate enough to snag in a drug sale from the Feds. He bought her for a cool five thousand. She was a sloop-rigged boat with a tall mast to support a large Genoa, and she was fast. Morgan had beefed her up for his personal safety, and Jim felt that fortune had smiled on him the day he got her. He bid for her against a couple other yokels, but they hadn’t been serious buyers.

  The Dancer had three-quarter-inch thick glass port lights, and the hatches could be sealed airtight. She sported a full lead keel. She was fully self-righting, and if the sails hit the water, she would eventually pull them loose, providing the hatches and port lights were dogged down. She also had a self-steering system of Jim’s own making, so he figured he could single-hand her, and then use the little Perkins diesel to sneak her through the tight places.

  He went over his course again on the charts, then rolled them up and put them in the chart locker. He thought he had better pray, so he knelt down by the aft berth and as usual, got straight to the point. “Lord, I am fixing to get myself into a bad place. I can’t refuse to go, so if you don’t help me, I will probably be in an even bigger fix. If I don’t live through this one, please forgive me my faults and failures, my drinking, and my carousing and chasing women. Oh, and forgive me for that woman I knocked up and didn’t claim the kid; she was just too ugly. Amen.”

  As Jim climbed into the cockpit and started removing the sail covers, he heard a voice call to him. It was old Sam Hunter, the dock tender. Sam was about 80 years old, and he no longer took his boat out. He mostly sat around the docks in his strait-backed chair, and he would see you off or welcome you in, then pass the news along. At times he would putter on his boat, but the sides were turning green and the chain plates were leaking long rust streaks down her sides. Jim guessed that her sails had long since rotted.

  “Where you off to, Jim?”

  “Out for a couple weeks; maybe down to the Bahamas.” Jim didn’t dare tell old Sam where he was going; the news would get to Cuba before he did.

  Sam came down and loosened the lines from the dock’s bollards as Jim cranked the diesel from the pedestal. He turned the large stainless wheel hard over, and pulled astern as Sam threw the lines onto the boat.

  “Good luck, Jim.” Sam waved.

  “Good luck to you, Sam.” Jim returned the wave.

  He followed the same course as the fishing boat he had seen earlier. He turned the wheel hard over to starboard to get her into the narrow channel under the causeway, which would take him out to sea. As soon as he passed under the causeway, he set the helm and started unfurling the sails, turning the handles on the Lewmar winches with an expert smoothness that showed long familiarity. Jim thanked God that Dan Morgan had built this boat for extreme seaworthiness, with the extra lead in her keel, waterproof hatches, and extra thick port lights.

  The wind began to catch the sails, and the boat heeled over under a stiff onshore breeze. He set a southeast tack for the lower tip of Florida. His course would take him within five miles of Key West. It was only a 90-mile run to Cuba from Key West, but because of a series of reefs, he set a dogleg course, which would take a little longer. He wasn’t stopping in the Bahamas, because he didn’t want to risk a run-in with the Bahamian police over the weapons he had on board. He planned to miss Andros Island in the Bahamas by twenty miles, and then set a course west that would take him to the island chain where the prison was. The land was not classified as an island, but was instead a finger of land that ran north from Nuevitas, Cuba. There was a cut through it, and that was where he had to go. The lagoon lay inside that cut.

  The sun was bright, and there weren’t many clouds in the sky. After he got well out to sea, he reset the southerly tack. At about noon, he set the self-steering and went below to fix himself something to eat. He opened a can of beef stew and sliced off a chunk of the fresh bread he had bought at the bakery. He headed back up top. He ate the stew out of the can and washed the bread and stew down with sips of water. Tossing the can into the trash, he lay down on the cushions in the cockpit to take a nap.

  Jim awoke about 4:30 and checked the compass; it was off course a couple points, so he reset the self-steering. So far it had been easy sailing that first day out. Then, about sundown, a squall came marching across, and he had to reduce sail and take the helm. He snapped the lifeline onto the rail and worked his way forward to check everything out before dark, and found everything to his satisfaction. He held his course through the squall, and broke through two hours later, just as the sun dropped below the water.

  About 10 p.m., he ran his binoculars over the horizon, looking for ships’ lights, but saw none, so he set the self-steering and went below. He fixed himself a cup of hot tea and checked the radio for the weather. He was thankful there were no hurricanes out there, and if he were lucky, he would be back before any showed up.

  The next morning he saw a Coast Guard cutter about a mile away, and he wondered if they would want to board. It turned out they were more interested in the fast drug runners than they were in a lone sailboat. They passed to his port. He waved, and the lookout waved back.

 

  Except for the drug runners, people tended to be friendly at sea, because they knew they depended on each other. Even drug runners had been known to stop and give a hand, but not often. They usually would go around a boat in trouble. Of course, if the troubled craft had a radio, they would alert the Coast Guard, who, in turn, would obviously know why any boat would circle a vessel in distress.

  Idiots, Jim thought. He heard the VHF radio squawk to life as the Captain on the Coast Guard vessel hailed him, using the hailing frequency. He reached around the hatch and picked up the microphone.

  “This is the sailing vessel, Dancer,” he replied.

  “What is your heading, sir?”

  “Andros,” said Jim.

  “Seen anything out of the way?”

  “No, you are the first vessel I have met.”

  “Fine. Thank you, and good luck. Out.”

  “Thank you, sir, and good hunting. Out.” Jim reached in, hung up the microphone, and sat back down. The weather was still with him. He was thankful that he had worked out an accurate, yet simple self-steering for the boat. That meant he didn’t have to take long hours at the helm, except in bad weather. He also depended on his radar reflector.

  He didn’t use the standard tri-fold radar reflector sold in the ship’s chandlers. He had become friends with an old fisherman, who had told him, “Go down and buy two big round stainless steel salad bowls, like they use in commercial restaurants. Bolt them together back-to-back, and you will look to radar like a large ship.” So he did, and he did.

  Thank God for old fishermen, thought Jim, smiling as he glanced fondly up at his salad bowels tied to the mast. One sailor had moored next to him one day, and smirked.

  “Are those salad bowls ya got there?”

  “Yep, couldn’t afford a real radar reflector like yours, so I hung my salad bowls.” The sailor of the sleek-looking vessel just at looked at him in pity.

  What a jerk, thought Jim. They are proud of their money yachts, till they get run over by a freighter.

  About four o’clock, he had to take the helm again and work his way through another squall. These squalls came marching across the Devil’s Triangle, a harbinger of hurricanes that time of year. About six, he broke through the squall, looked at
its backside, and saw a waterspout form. “Bad news that,” he mumbled. He set the self-steering and went below.

  The next day he was nearing his waypoint twenty miles off Andros Island, The Bahamas, so he began a southwesterly swing toward Cuba. He used the sextant to get his position, although he had a GPS. He knew he needed to keep his navigation skills sharp.

 

  “Thank you, Mr. Sun,” he muttered. He had gotten into the habit of talking to hear his own voice, since his was the only human voice out there. He figured his own company was better than most anyhow.

  A day and a half later, he looked at the chart and checked his position. He was only thirty miles off Cuba, so he pulled down the sail and threw out a sea anchor. It was about 3 p.m., and he set out to wait for dark. He scanned the horizon for Cuban patrol boats, but didn’t see any.

 

  He went below and took out the charts. He then plotted his course to the cut that separated the island. His present position had been his only unknown until now, so he could finally work the course in fine detail. He planned to make a run for the cut under full sail, and using the big Genoa for speed, arrive at the cut about 1 or two o’clock in the morning.

  He would feel his way into the lagoon, using the depth sounder, and at first light find the cutback that lay inside the lagoon. The Cubans in Florida thought he could get the full-keeled boat back into the cut and be at least partially covered by the overhanging jungle.

  He pulled out black pants, shirt, shoes, and boots, and laid them on the table. He took out his survival knife, which had a wicked ten-inch blade. He left the AR-15 and the Glock 9 in place under the forward berth.

  He was watchful as the sun sank below the waves. He kept glassing the horizon, but didn’t see anything except a trawler off in the distance, just above the horizon. The trawler made him nervous and he kept close watch of it, but it came no closer. Soon he could catch only its deck lights above the waves, and he knew it was heading the other way.

  As full dark fell, he pulled in the sea anchor, raised the jib and then the big Genoa, and raced for the cut. The wind caught the Genoa, and she heeled over until the water was swishing along the edge of the scuppers, and the Dancer leaped through the waves.

  He set the self-steering, went below, and quickly pulled on the long black pants and shirt. He applied camouflage to his face, neck and hands. He strapped the knife to the top of his leather boot and pulled out the AR-15 and Glock 9. He shoved in a clip, and he was ready. By that time, he was sweating profusely in the get-up.

 

  He looked around the cabin, then turned out the light and went topside. He released the self-steering and adjusted his course slightly. He swept the horizon with the powerful binoculars in one hand, while he kept his other hand on the wheel. He didn’t see any boats as he neared the coast of Cuba.

  He got closer to the finger of land, and he saw the cut in the moonlight. It was a little off to starboard, and he adjusted the course. He set the self-steering and quickly lowered all sail. He reached the entry of the cut.

  He cranked the little diesel and glanced at the depth sounder as he entered the cut, but there was still fifteen feet of water under the keel. The boat puttered along, hardly making a sound, and he spotted the opening of the lagoon to starboard. He felt his way into the opening slowly, then cut the engine and let her drift, trying his