Subject: [The Christmas Winds Charter]
John A. Smith
Caribbean Compass Article

It is a beautiful clear and cool windy wintry morning and anchored here at Sandy Island, Carriacou, I have actually lost track of which particular day it is. I moved here from Hillsborough to escape the election fever and noise that was gripping the country. It is oft-times a good idea to put some distance between oneself and the nearest rum shop. On an island of 13 square miles with over 135 such establishments it ain't easy!

I have actually been on charter for a while, well almost a charter. A gentleman I had met some years before contacted me and said that as the result of a health problem he would have 2 or 3 months off from work and would like to go fishing and of course sailing. He particularly requested that we fulfill a lifetime dream of his and spend at least one night offshore. Seeing no lights. Seeing no land. He knew my rates and my boat, and was in no rush, says he. Well, he sends me a one-percent deposit and shows up 3 months later arguing that my rates are to high and offers me one third.

Now this was so little as to be almost an insult — hiring my ship and fishing gear, my small boats and Me for a daily rate so close to the well-known 40 pieces of silver that I told him Sundays would be free and we settled for $300 a week. My cousin Wayne was right, I could earn more working at a Wendy's somewhere. With salad bar and health benefits thrown in. Now he tells me he would like to go to Panama! This is about 1500 miles to leeward and he has no idea that to return to Carriacou I would have to go through the canal and around the world! Maybe visit relatives in Seattle. So we settled on a week of short passages and inshore fishing while leisurely heading north.

The "Christmas Winds", "les ventes-noel", commenced and settled in at a constant 35-40 knots for a week. Fishing and even short-hopping were a bit sloppy and very wet and with a wall of weather ahead of me that looks a teeny bit too much like Canada, I sought anchorage in one of the Grenadines. Entering the roadstead in Canouan the wind picked up even more, gusting 60 knots and creating miniature waterspouts across the harbor. Boats were dragging everywhere, including the 90-foot ketch Irene which had run aground. While dousing my number 4 jib I dropped my main anchor — a 70-pound Danforth with 1/2-inch chain — and darn if it didn't jam a rock and bend, then begin to drag. Only time now to quickly, and with handy hip-worn knife cut the lashings on Dr. Jekyll, my 350-pound storm anchor carried ready at the starboard cat-head. With this much metal on a strong rode Mermaid came up snug, 100 yards to windward of the reef.

We waited 4 days hoping the weather would moderate, but it never really did, so we tied in the third reef and were off to Bequia to buy a new anchor. Admiralty Bay is very beautiful, very popular and a very crowded anchorage. The crew spent New Years Eve 1999 on deck on duty on fire watch — the threat of falling flares very real. The New Year dawned clear and beautiful but still blowing 35 knots. My guest was unable to appreciate the beauty that abounds. Time was slipping away from him and he was getting more irritable every hour. Anyway, he insisted that we must leave into the north for "St. Somewhere Else". Although I tried to explain that a week of this wind will have kicked up some nasty seas in the island channels, he was adamant that he must get his money's worth. I put on my best sails (a sailor always wears his good suit in bad weather) and we cleared for Dominica.

Within 10 hours we were out of the relative lee of St. Vincent, the seas were 12 to 16 footers and it was wet-wet-wet and quite spectacular, except that my guest was puking in the scuppers and complaining about my cooking, my home-made bread and my dog.

After about 50 hours of this we can make out the vague shape of Dominica off the weather bow, having passed St. Lucia and Martinique well to leeward in the second night. Now he demands to be taken to land. I explain again that the earth is round, and mostly wet and that the nearest land is 2 miles under the keel. It will take at least 24 hours to reach the shelter of les Saintes and another half day to reach Prince Rupert Bay. He is not happy with this, mentions legal action and believes that I have kidnapped him and am holding him hostage offshore to claim my daily silver! The chap was getting a bit you know what I mean, freaked out: sleeping with a flare, an emotional wreck. So I wear ship while he is sulking in the cabin like Ulysses in his tent. Suddenly it is calmer and we are moving south, scudding down the faces of the seas at over 11 knots! Carriacou is straight ahead and I try to explain rhumb lines and curved surfaces and horizon distances et cetera. I feel like I'm on the bench with Columbus arguing with the Inquisition. Well, I finally got the fella to the beach after spending just over 112 hours at sea on this particular jaunt. Not really a passage — after all we never really went anywhere. It was more like a kind of self-imposed initiation rite. Wild water, bitter seas, savage kingdoms and a bit of the food chain. We saw three different types of whale on this trip. These thoughts come so easily in hindsight and I'm sure my friend has had a change or two come over him just as those seas so completely and so frequently came over us both.

For 36 years he had dreamed of his first night at sea, but because he hurried (as was his right) he has grown alienated from his love and mistress the sea, and taken sides with that age-old enemy, the clock. He harbors no desire to continue the relationship. At last word he was living on the beach addressing picture postcards of ideal dreamlike days to people who also confuse fussiness with culture, a well-worn tourist guide with experience, a GPS position with the terrain and financial resources with sophistication.

To "take and keep the sea" means just that. You exercise your skills and take advantage of your privilege. Like the carnival barker explains, you make your choices and you take your chances. Except for turning on the EPIRB and then paying the huge fines for setting off a false signal, there is no quick way back. The sea will cover your tracks faster than the birds ate Hansel and Gretel's popcorn. The difference is that we are adults and should know better.

So if you should decide to "take and keep" the sea for a few days or a few months, look in the mirror first, preferably naked and acknowledge what "poor forked worms" we all are, when caught standing devoid of money, power, access and lawyers. Mindful of life's uncertainties, ask yourself the revised non-rhetorical question: are you a man a woman or a schmuck? You have to decide, and then, assume the responsibility that goes with choice.

jasmith/Mermaid of Carriacou

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