Jenny's plane from Washington D.C. by way of San Juan, Puerto Rico landed early the next morning. She met us for breakfast and then, needing nothing more in Charlotte Amalie, the five of us loaded into our little dinghy and headed out to Strolla. We'd cleaned for her arrival. Jenny was gracious enough to say she was impressed.
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| (Happy to have a new crewmate) |
It was Saturday and we'd been advised that most of the bars appropriate for a wild night out were on the eastern end of the island in Red Hook Bay. Up anchor, all hands to set sail, and off we went. Though the wind was even stronger than the day before, we were sheltered from the waves somewhat by the island and conditions felt calmer. We settled in for a pleasant half day cruise to Red Hook. Jenny, as the newest member of the crew, took up station on the leeward quarter rail so she could safely give her breakfast to the fishes without getting any of it on us. She wasn't happy but, she didn't complain and we all agreed is was impressive how much she was able to bring back up.
The big excitement of the day came a few hours later, announced by a loud, gunshot-like bang, reverberating through the hull. We were sailing hard at the time, close hauled under reefed mainsail and jib, beating our way into oncoming seas. I was at the helm. Jenny was still staring bleakly at the water racing by beneath her chin. Everyone else was down in the cabin. At the sound of the report, my eyes jerked up to the rigging, searching for something amiss. They quickly spotted the forestay hanging loose from the mast, swinging wildly with each roll of the boat. Not good.
The stays were braided stainless steel cables that attached from the top of the mast down to various points along the outside edge of the deck. They kept the mast upright and stable. The forestay ran from the top of the mast forward to bow. If it had broken, there was nothing to keep the mast from falling over backwards. We were in danger of being dismasted.
I yanked Jenny over to the tiller from her perch at the railing and dashed forward for a closer look. The top of the forestay had parted completely from the masthead. In doing so, the loose end had fallen to become tangled up in the rigging farther down the mast so that now the top half hung limply downward, swinging wildly with each roll of the boat. The jib halyard also runs from the bow to just below the masthead, holding up the jib sail. Now, this sun-rotted and slightly slack rope was all the kept our mast upright. Definitely not good. It was easily the most serious equipment failure of the trip so far.
Everyone had made their way on deck at this point and we had the jib furled in short order. The previous owner of Strolla had installed a removable backup fore stay as added insurance during heavy weather. I was exceedingly grateful that he had. It came in quite handy now.
I worked quickly to attached backup forestay and in doing so, pulled the mast back up to vertical from where it had already begun to tilt aft. This removed the rather alarming slack from of the backstay as well. With a sigh of relief over a disaster narrowly averted, I scooted nimbly back along the swaying deck to the cockpit where Jenny sat green and glaring. She had never sailed or even steered with a tiller before. In her current state of seasickness, she was in no mood to learn. I returned to the helm just in time for her to stick her head back over the side, another disaster avoided.
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| (Keeping a tight grip with my feet while working on the masthead) |
We pulled into Red Hook Bay with no further mishaps. Arriving later in the day as we were, the best anchorages deeper into the bay and closest to the bars were already taken. We selected an open area out near the mouth to drop our hook. In the now calm waters, the color returned to Jenny's face. She was even able to eat an early dinner with us, always important before a night of drinking. Just after dark, Mark, Jenny, and I clambered over the stern rail into the dinghy and headed off for an evening ashore.
The wind was still howling, kicking up small whitecaps in the bay but, it was blowing with us, pushing us down the bay towards the bars. The farther we traveled in our soft-bottomed dinghy, the farther we'd have to fight our way back at the end of the night, against the wind and waves. It would be a slow, rough, and wet ride and, if we ran out of gas, we might not make it back at all. There was little chance we'd be able to row against such conditions.
Taking this into consideration, we decided not to take the dingy all the way up-bay to the bar. we opted, instead, to head for the closest point of land, only about fifty yards away. There were no visible lights in this area but, just visible in the moonlight was a small stretch of sand overhung with trees, a likely beaching point. When we we close to shore, we made a quick pass to scout the spot before heading in.
The waves inside the bay were not big but, they were big enough to break over the transom of the dinghy and fill the boat if we timed our landing on the beach poorly. No one wanted to get wet before a night out. We would have to make our move between waves. Speed while exiting the dinghy would also be key. We needed to make our landing immediately behind a breaking wave, disembark ,and then pull dinghy up out of the surf zone before the next wave broke.
The plan formulated, the importance for speed understood, we turned our nose in and rode the waves into the beach. Jenny
and I were perched at the stern, on either side of the outboard motor.
As a counterbalance to our weight, Mark was crouched at the bow, ready to
leap ashore with the rope. When the bow touched sand, we all stood. Mark, in front, was supposed to wait half a second for Jenny and I to shift our weight forward. He did not. In his hurry, he leaped ashore with Jenny and I still standing at the stern. All the weight was now in the back 6 inches of the boat. The bow now unweighted, it immediately popped up into the air. The stern correspondingly plunged down under the combined weight of Jenny and I. Unbalanced, Jenny began to fall back, flinging an arm out to catch herself as she went. That arm found me. My arms similarly shot out, searching for something to stop my fall. Holding each other tightly, we toppled backward into the dark water.
There was no way to slow or protect ourselves. Clutching each other in slow motion disbelief, we landed flat on our backs in the shallow water. Mark watched spellbound from the beach as the next breaking wave washed over us, soaking anything we'd managed to keep dry in the fall. We struggled to our feet, dripping in the moonlight and splashed angrily ashore.
We helped Mark pull the dinghy above the high tide line and then Mark led the charge into the night blackened underbrush, searching for the nearest road that would take us to town.
I'll admit to a moment's hesitation at this point. Standing there on that dark strip of sand watching Mark disappear into the bushes, the idea of continuing into town soaked in salt water and sand was not appealing. If I'd been able to do so gracefully, I would have happily headed straight back to the boat to change and to stay put. Before my doubts could be voiced and, not missing a beat, Jenny crashed into the underbrush after Mark. I had no choice but to bring up the rear.
After a few seconds of bushwhacking, we stumbled across a dirt trail winding its way through the woods. Once we'd passed through a low, marshy area, the trail spilled us out onto a dirt road heading in what seemed like the right direction. We eventually found our way to a ramshackle marina bar and restaurant called "Latitude 18". It was cheery and brightly lit. The band was playing a mix of Bluegrass and Jimmy Buffet. The place was packed and people were dancing. No one seemed to notice the puddles we left on the floor. I slapped a few soggy dollars down on the bar and bought the first round.
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| (The crew of Strolla relaxing in the salon) |
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