Fire Sail: The Journey Continues – Part 2

The forerunner to this book, Fire Sail The Miraculous Attainment of a Family's Dream– Part 1, described the seven years of trials, tribulations, and rewards involved in the Marin family's seemingly endless, and impossible mission of building a 40-foot sailboat (Tribute) from an empty, bare hull in Maine. With very little money, the family struggled toward their goal, receiving help from many unexpected sources, including what would eventually have to be conceded as Divine Intervention because no other answers seemed possible.

Not written as a travelogue or How-To guide, the story follows, instead, the lives and events that finally led to the end product, and then on to a previously unplanned, two-year live-aboard adventure.

Part 2 finds the Marins sailing deeper into exotic areas they had only read about prior to this voyage. Along their way they make new sailing friends and experience new adventures that challenge and reward them. After sailing through the Bahamas chain of islands, they journey, in the company of fellow cruisers, on a 480-mile voyage to St Thomas. Upon their arrival the Marins realize that their financial resources have dwindled dangerously low, requiring them to find income sources. The fun and excitement of cruising has come to an end.

The family spends the next nine months living aboard and working at the west end of the island, an adventure in itself. During this hiatus from cruising, Roger is the first to find work. Initially, as a handyman/bartender, he soon realizes that he 's not Superman as the tortuous heat and a very busy bar test his mettle.

Admitting defeat, he and his family move to Red Hook where they all find work in an non-air conditioned restaurant. Often nearly intolerable, physically, the strange hours, and sometimes stranger couple they work for, prove frustrating and demanding, mentally.

Younger son, Craig, develops a serious physical problem that changes the family's plan for later cruising. Realizing they must return to the U.S., they quit their jobs and opt for a 30-day cruise as far east and south as St. Lucia before heading homeward.

Finally sailing again, the family enjoys their renewed freedom as they visit beautiful and exotic islands and experience new cultures and adventures. They return to St. Thomas where they stock Tribute with enough food and water for the estimated seven-day sail to Bermuda.

After a brief but enjoyable stay in Bermuda, and after checking with captains of large, electronically well-equipped vessels for predicted weather between Bermuda and the mainland, the Marins head east. The predicted nice weather proves a fallacy, and for two days the family and Tribute are pounded by the worst and most dangerous sea conditions of their two-year voyage. Were it not for answered prayers and sons Eric and Craig, who prove themselves to be very able-bodied seamen during the ordeal, this author and his wife probably would have perished at sea.

Except for Roger, everyone soon acclimates to living ashore again. Craig's operation proves a success. Adding credence to the benefit of home schooling, the brothers finish public high school in the top 10 percent of their class and go on to well-recognized colleges. Laurie returns to teaching and Roger to handyman work. However, a new midlife crises for the author soon pushes the couple south and into a new life style and more sailing adventures.

Chapter 1 – The Path Less Traveled

Having arrived safely –but not uneventfully– at Jack Tar Marina on Grand Bahama Island, we learned why Benny, the owner of the boat we and three others had followed through the night from Florida to our present location, had named his boat Harmony and Grits. Benny, a southern boy, proved to be quite a talented guy: in addition to running his boat as a charter vessel, he also sang and played guitar and harmonica to entertain his guests; thus the Harmony, versus Hominy.

It was now January 16th, 1986, the day after our crossing. We decided to take Benny up on his recent offer to guide us into the northern Abacos through the Indian Key Passage, a tricky, very shallow stretch of water, often only six to seven feet deep.

Joyce Babb, having had a chance to recover somewhat from the trauma of her family's boat, Rejoice, being pounded on the shallow coral entrance to the marina, decided she could press on with Benny and us. We’ve come so far, I can’t let myself get too timid and spoil it for everyone else, she said. I’m climbing back on the horse.

All of us were ready to explore, but when we walked over to Harmony and Grits to let Benny know we could leave at any time, we learned he had discovered some problems with his boat’s rigging that needed immediate attention. With our help and that of his very understanding charter guests, Benny eventually got things shipshape, but not before the day was shot; we’d have to wait until the morrow.

While Joyce's husband, Mal, and I worked on Benny’s boat, Eric, Craig, and the Babb's son, David, dove for conch near the marina. When we returned to our own boats, Mal and I were surprised to find that the boys had been successful in their quest. This was our first encounter with this mollusk, and none of us had a clue to removing the meat from the rock-hard shell. On the concrete pier we pounded away on the creatures in vain while two locals looked on in amusement and finally decided to offer some advice. Mon, you go about eet all wrong. You just hov to break into dee end of dee shell like dis, mon, said the older of the two as he proceeded to show us the technique using a hammer. Den you stick dee knife into dee hole like dees and cut around in dee circle to free dee meat, he continued, reaching into the hole and pulling out a white, slimy glob.

"Oh, that looks really gross," said David, curling down his lower lip.

Oh no, mon, dis be delicious after you clean eet off wid dee sand. Den you must pound eet to make eet soft, den you cut eet up eento dee leetle pieces and pop dem into dee hot oil.

Probably even shoe leather tastes good if it’s deep fried, I whispered to Mal.

That evening, after pounding the crap out of our treasures, we followed the cooking advice of our teaching chef and were pleasantly surprised to discover a new, tasty treat.

Gee, these really are yummy, said Craig as he scoffed down his third, scallop- shaped chunk.

Yeah, I agreed. And the price is certainly right.

The following morning, under blue, crystalline skies, a caressing, light breeze, and near 70-degree temperatures, we sailed northward. Over the incredibly transparent, six to 10-foot waters we got the illusion of floating on air above the bed of clear white sand as we followed Benny, like chicks behind their mother. Uncooperative tide and winds foiled our plan to go to Grand Cay (pronounced key); instead, we headed for Mangrove Cay.

A fourth boat had joined us, and they, along with Rejoice and Harmony and Grits, gradually pulled away from us, leaving me longing for a large genoa (genny) headsail for these light winds. Forced to motor sail in order to keep up with the others was frustrating and embarrassing, and having to use our old re-built diesel meant having to worry about the chronically leaky stuffing box, loose alternator bolts, overheating, blah, blah, blah.

However, an interesting thing happened on the way to Mangrove : something the faster boats missed. I spotted a large, rectangular object floating off our starboard side and decided to check it out. As we closed in on it we recognized it, or thought we did.

What a strange place to find a bale of hay, I said, staring at it as we came alongside. Hey, wait a minute. That's weird looking hay, I said. Oh geeze, I think this is marijuana! We all decided that it was probably no coincidence that the stuff was floating there.

Let’s get out of here, Dad, Eric said, nervously scanning the waters.

He didn’t have to say it twice. We had heard stories from cruisers about the active drug trade in the Bahamas at that time, and we had also heard that if you mind your own business, you might live to talk about it.. We turned Tribute back on course, anxiously watching for signs of trouble approaching on the horizons.

Eventually, and with no one in pursuit, we caught up with everyone and followed the patiently waiting Benny over the skinny water into Mangrove to drop anchor. Late that same night, on my way to write my name in the water with bubbles, I observed a lot of activity south of us in the area where we had earlier spotted the marijuana; I could see lights on the water. Apparently the drug runners were busy retrieving their whacky tobaky. I felt very thankful we hadn’t blundered onto them earlier. (I understand that the Bahamian government has seriously clamped down on the drug trade since the days of our cruising.)

When we first arrived at Mangrove I made my standard propeller stuffing box inspection and discovered the packing nut off, so, again, as I had been doing since we launched Tribute in 1983, I screwed it on and tightened it. But the following morning, as we weighed anchor and started to head out, it unscrewed again. Filling the otherwise calm and pristine air with an impulsive hurricane of obscenities, I called to the boys to drop the hook again. This time, in utter frustration, I canned the caution and really cranked the lock nut on, thus risking an overheating situation with the prop and stuffing box. That should hold the SOB for a while, I grunted, pushing myself off the floor from my seemingly most common place of repose.

Weighing anchor again we tried to catch up with the other boats, which were now just barely in sight. Fortunately a nice breeze kicked up, and with the synergy of engine and sails, we closed the gap between the rest of the armada and us.

While Rejoice headed straight for Grand Cay, Harmony and Grits opted to pass through the narrow and shallow channel to Double Breasted Cay. The day was young, so we followed Benny, assuming we’d have time to join Rejoice later.

What a neat spot, Laurie exclaimed, surveying our new anchorage. Indeed it was. A large, gradually descending sand bar jutted out from the white, palm tree-lined beach into ultra clear water, and once ashore, the boys and I used the bar as a swim platform while Laurie chose to walk it, looking for shells.

We three boys had a ball. Unlike the cloudy water at the marina, this appeared unadulterated by man’s polluting hand. Although the air was cool, the water was pleasantly warm.

Snorkeling gear donned, I issued a caveat. Let’s stay in shallow water just in case there are some sharks or barracuda we need to get away from in a hurry. I didn’t really want to discourage the boys from enjoying these gorgeous waters, but my childhood fear of sharks wouldn’t let me ignore the potential danger.

Once in the water, we spotted myriad species of colorful fish we had never seen except in books. As we cautiously swam along the sand bar, awed by the beauty of the corals’ varying colors and shapes, Eric suddenly popped to the surface. Dad, Dad, he shouted, waving madly at me. There’s a barracuda over here!

A big one? I asked worriedly.

A couple of feet.

Is he threatening you?

No, he’s just staring at me, and when I poke at him with my spear, he backs off but comes right back and stares at me again. It’s spooky.

Maybe you’d better come in closer to shore.

I think I’m okay, Dad, but if any of his friends join him, I will. I’ll keep an eye on him. Isn’t this neat, though?

It really is.

How are you doing, Craig? I asked as he swam by me. No response. Craig, I shouted, realizing his deaf ear was toward me. (He was born deaf in his left ear.)

Finally, popping upright with a worried look, and glancing nervously from side to side, he responded, What’s the matter, Dad?

Nothing, I just wanted to know how you were doing.

Great.

Your brother just spotted a barracuda.

A big one?

It must be. It just hauled him out to sea.

C'mon, Dad. How big, really?

A couple of feet.

Is it still around?

Ask him.

Hey, Eric, Craig yelled.

Eric popped up. What’s the matter?

"Is the baccaruda. (Craig’s new name for the critters) still there?"

Yup, come on over.

Can I, Dad?

Sure, just keep your eyes open in case he has big bully buddies.

An hour later, with all our appendages still intact, the three of us called it quits. Although the water felt warm for a while, we had finally begun to feel chilled.

Back aboard Tribute the boys excitedly relayed their experiences to their frowning mom. Wasn’t that dangerous? she said.

Na, replied Eric. He was just curious I guess because he just followed us around and didn’t try to bite.

Yeah, chimed in Craig. And we didn’t have anything shiny on us to make him think we were food.

Laurie didn’t pursue it, but she gave me one of those looks that said, They’re your responsibility, and you’d better watch over them.

Later in the afternoon we decided to join Rejoice and crew at Grand Cay. We discovered the shallow entrance a bit tricky, but with the boys guiding us from their perch on the bow, we made it in without a problem and were surprised at how populated and busy the settlement appeared.

The wind was beginning to kick up, prompting us to set two anchors before going ashore to find the Babbs, assuming that they had had time to scout things out. When we caught up with them, they raved more about the local bread than anything else they'd discovered. Knowing the usual fare they faced aboard, we were a little dubious about their hearty recommendation and assumed anything freshly baked would taste wonderful to them. As it turned out, the Babb’s taste buds apparently still worked just fine. They gave us a loaf of the local delicacy, and we fully agreed that it tasted elegant.

Laurie, who had gotten very frustrated with our slow and low heating oven, said, "Even if I had this recipe, I couldn’t bake bread like this; not with my play oven. My breads never rise the way they should."

We’re not complaining, Mom, Eric said, trying to reassure her.

Yeah, Mom, said Craig with a grin. Low bread is better than no bread.

Good one, Craig, I chuckled. My juvenile humor is rubbing off on him. But he is a juvenile, Rog.

Late that evening, I commented, It seems we humans have a way of spoiling the serenity of nature no matter where we go. It doesn’t appear that the residents here are big partiers, and there’s no noise coming from any of the boats, but somebody on the dock thinks everyone else in the world wants to listen to his blaring disco music.

Eventually, whoever provided the racket, tired around midnight—or somebody wrung his neck—because the noise ended and blessed silence arrived. Although neither Laurie nor I were averse to working up a good sweat on the dance floor, we were never crazy about having our eardrums ruptured in the process.

The following day, another truly lovely day in paradise, was Sunday, so we decided to attend the Shiloh Baptist Church service, and it proved to be an interesting and unique experience. Being the only whites in attendance, we worried that we’d be shunned, but the locals, all very friendly, welcomed us like family (much more welcoming than members of some of the white congregations we’d met on our voyage). Everyone was nicely dressed, and that struck us as a bit paradoxical, since most of the houses lay surrounded by trash. (More about that later.)

The beautiful voices of many of the female parishioners surprised and impressed us. There was no formal choir, and no need for one with so many people having outstanding voices. The animated service was not what we staid New Englanders were accustomed to. But, since this was their environment and their method of reaching to God worked for them, we didn’t feel uneasy being part of it.

I mentioned the trash in the dooryards. The smell of freshly baking bread drew us like the proverbial flies to doo-doo. With some trepidation we entered the home of one of the local bakers. If the yard looked so trashy did we dare eat anything that came from her kitchen? However, once we were inside, the spotlessness of the house amazed us! Clean tile floors glistened and everything appeared shipshape.

Apparently, trash pickup and disposal was a difficult problem on islands with so little topsoil to allow burial. We were embarrassed to ask the friendly and portly woman what the people did with their refuse. We assumed that at some point it got collected. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have been able to see the houses for the heaps.

Another thing that surprised us was the fact that the locals left mayonnaise out in the heat (but covered). Noting that fact, I queried our brightly frocked baker about it, and she told us that mayo doesn’t need to be refrigerated, as long as it doesn’t get contaminated by an outside source. We are always careful to use dee clean utensils when we deep into dee container, she assured us with a wide, bright smile of perfect teeth. I guess she was right because none of us got sick despite the many loaves of the elegant manna we consumed there (and elsewhere as we later journeyed through the Bahamas).

That same Sunday afternoon, the Babbs and we said our goodbyes and sincere thank-you’s to Benny for all his help, then we headed back to Double Breasted Cay. Since we had been there earlier and the Babbs had not, Mal was willing, this time, to follow us through the tricky entrance. Their recent trauma at West End probably weighed heavily on his decision, not to mention Joyce’s threats to his well-being if he didn’t follow us this time.

The Babbs were as impressed with the beauty of this anchorage as we had been on our earlier visit. Eric, Craig, and David went snorkeling, hoping to spear some fish with our Hawaiian slings; a slingshot type of spear gun. (Regular spear guns were illegal in the Bahamas, at that time.) The Babb twins, Kristina and Karen, and the moms, beach-combed while we dads stayed aboard and worked on our respective boats.

Eric managed to spear one fish, but later, after perusing our guide to fishes, we decided it was not an edible species. The boys did find dozens of conch shells but none with anyone at home, so there'd be no feasting off Mother Nature’s bounty that evening. The guys also had their second encounter (David’s first) with barracudas—this time with a small school of small specimens. However, no problems arose, again reminding us of the information about barracuda that we had gleaned from our cruising guide: that most barracuda attacks take place in murky waters where the fish mistake the shiny, flashing objects naively worn by swimmers, as prey, and strike at them.

Late afternoon the wind began whipping up from the northwest. Uneasy with Rejoice’s location and anchor set, Mal decided to move her in closer to the lee of the island. Since Tribute was pretty well dug in, we opted to stay put.

A cool night of star-spangled skies followed that afternoon’s gorgeous, pink and violet sunset. Soon, without the dampening effect of city lights, the stars appeared vividly visible to us as we sat in the cockpit admiring the display. Craig, using our binoculars, oohed and aahed as he gazed upward. It’s like looking into a wall of sequins, he said, handing the glasses to Eric.

Wow, awesome!"

"It’s hard to comprehend the vastness of this galaxy, to say nothing of the universe, I interjected. Without God, what significance would we puny humans have in this vast realm?" With that bit of spiritual philosophy to ponder, we all turned in for the night.

Dawn broke, treating us to another clear day with diminished breezes. As the sun eased the chill from the early morning air, we all rousted ourselves from the warmth of our cocoons and breathed in the island’s fresh, vegetative aromas. "Maybe it will get warm enough today to heat the water in our sun showers (plastic bags left in the sun). I could use a freshwater cleaning, I commented, quickly burying my nose in my armpit then exhaling with a big ah, How sweet it is!"

"Yuck," said Craig , bending over deeply and holding his stomach.

"Ha! You should talk, Craig," I replied, pinching my nose.

All right you guys. Enough, already, Laurie interjected.

Ah, come on Mommy; can't we little boys have some fun? I grinned.

She just shook her head.

About 9:00 a.m., the two boats and crews wound their way cautiously out of Double Breasted’s entrance and headed for Carter Cay, motor sailing.

Arriving two hours later, we set the hooks, and I then offered to take the Babb kids, along with Eric and Craig, to the east side (open ocean) of the island to do some fishing, hoping to find some live conch in the waters less frequented by divers.

Rounding the north end of the island, we encountered placid seas and eventually found a spot that seemed suitably shallow for safe snorkeling. Dropping the dinghy anchor, we slipped over the side. Although the water temperature felt reasonably warm, we decided to wear t-shirts and pants to help keep us a little more comfortable; especially when getting out of the water and into the cool air.

Craig and I actually found an abundance of spiny lobsters, our first encounter with these strange looking creatures, and we managed to spear three moderately large ones. The rest of the group found and gathered many live conch. We felt like pioneers living off the land. Even without snorkeling gear, the Babb kids had proved to be proficient divers.

Excited with our bounty, we returned to our respective boats. We kept two of our lobsters and gave the other to the Babbs, and then split the conch catch. Back aboard Tribute, and excited by the fact that we had free lobster, we fired up the gas stove and began heating water to boil the nippers. Actually, that’s not a good term for the southern spiny lobsters, since, unlike their northern counterparts, they don’t have claws. We would soon discover that claws were not the only thing they lacked.

When the water reached boiling, I tossed the two critters in and within seconds noticed that they gave off an odd odor; not like Maine lobsters. Not to worry; I’m sure they’re going taste better than they smell, I said reassuringly. Wrong! These things tasted terrible, not at all what we expected. Unlike Maine’s sweet crustaceans, these were bitter. What a disappointment! I should have known that anything we got free would have to have something wrong with it, I said as I tossed them overboard. Maybe the ‘baccaruda’ will enjoy them.

About an hour later, a local who had been diving near us came by and wanted to sell us a couple lobsters. Despite the taste still a bitter and fresh memory, I decided that rather than insult the man and his native treats, I would explain that we couldn’t afford to buy them. However, he was quite insistent, so, hoping to send him off, I offered him the dregs of a bottle of whiskey we had aboard, assuming he would not feel this pittance worthy of his product. But I got no argument, and he gladly accepted my offer.

Geeze, I feel like a Spanish explorer offering a native his first firewater, I said sheepishly, still surprised that he had accepted such a seemingly inequitable trade.

I doubt that the man is naive. He knew what he wanted, Laurie offered, trying to make me feel less guilty.

We gave the recently acquired arthropods to the Babbs. Since they had yet to be spoiled by lobstah from Maine (and didn’t know what they were missing), they were happy to take them off our hands. Much later in our travels we would learn to make these things more palatable by masking them with a good sauce.

January 22 proved to be a sad day for us. We said our last goodbyes and best wishes to the Babbs. They were on a much tighter schedule than we were and wanted to move on. Fortunately for us, we were on no schedule at all. That fact hadn’t really hit us until then. For years, we had been on one race course after another, and now, finally, we were unchained from the frenetic pace. It was a pretty exciting epiphany.

Although we were alone in the Bahamas for the first time, that too was a nice feeling. As fond as we were of the Babb family, we no longer had to be concerned that we might be holding up their progress; there was no one expecting us to meet them at a certain time and place, no one relying on us for our limited knowledge and advice. Freedom! We’d probably tire of it after a while, but for the moment, we were going to relish it.

That same morning, I decided to forego the boat maintenance and just relax by doing some rod and reel fishing for barracuda. I knew that we shouldn’t eat them because they often carry Ciguatera, a toxin they pick up from preying on coral eating fish, but I just wanted the thrill of catching something with a pole. However, despite being able to clearly see the fish lurking in the water near our boat, I couldn’t get the buggers to strike. C’mon you guys, I pleaded. I thought you liked shiny objects, or would it be more appealing if I put the lure on my big toe? I eventually gave up and decided to go ashore with our jerry cans to get drinking water; at least that was something I could probably accomplish.

Ashore, we would meet one of the