Landfall: The Tale of the Solo Sailor Read online

  A Tale of the Solo Sailor

  Lee B. Mulder

  Copyright 2014 Lee B. Mulder

  OSC Publishing, Inc.

  “To the Sirens first shalt thou come, who beguile all men whosoever comes to them. Whoso in ignorance draws near to them and hears the Sirens' voice, he nevermore returns.”

  The Odysssey, Volume 12

  Landfall

  It had been a long, rollicking run, sailing since dawn down the Anegada Passage from Saint Martin. The small sloop swayed to the song of the blue Atlantic swell, pushed at a steady eight knots by the vigorous winter trade wind. With Virgin Gorda still just a bump in the distance and the sun rampaging for the western horizon, I began to worry that I would not make it into protected waters by nightfall. If I did not, I would need to drop all canvas and drift under sea anchor, waiting for the sunrise, for only a fool sails alone at night amongst the Virgin Islands.

  I must have caught a current, for the Fat Virgin rose up faster than anticipated, and as I rounded its northern tip, I spotted three small lumps of islands, stubby thumbs of rock sticking up out of the water. I sprinted for the lee side of the largest one and was rewarded with the sight of a tiny, protected cove. The sun just dipped behind Tortola as I anchored in fifteen feet of water under the day's afterglow. The baylet was so clear, my little boat seemed to be floating on air. I watched as the anchor dove to the sandy bottom, landed with a soundless puff and immediately buried its flukes for the night.

  Twilight in the Caribbean is majestically ethereal. Everything becomes calm. The wind eases to a whisper, the ocean waves flatten, and the rattling palms give sway to a hush interrupted only by the cry of an occasional laughing gull. The skin tingles under its new sunburn and, after two swallows of warm Mount Gay Rum, the body turns sublime. So it was, I stripped off my shorts and T-shirt and dove over the side with a bar of Ivory to wash away the sweat of the long day's work.

  And then it was gone. Twilight turned to black.

  I lit a kerosene lamp in the cabin and made a loosely assembled concoction called dinner... peanutbutter and jelly sandwich, gooey Dutch cheese, sliced apple and another half glass of Mount Gay. Surely this sounds ghastly to a gourmand, but it works for me... high in carbohydrates and low in dishes. Under a canopy bright with stars and by the dim glow of the cabin light, I bundled the sails, tidied the deck and ran the brass anchor light up the forestay for the night. I found a light blanket, doused the cabin lantern and fell into a deliciously deep sleep in the open air.

  In the morning, I cracked open one eye to find it unbearably bright. I buried my head beneath the blanket, but it didn't help. Damn the rum. I really should take it with water ... it's grog but at least you don't get a headache. And then a sound, a fwsssssh... like a porpoise clearing its blow hole. I clambered for a look over the side to find not a porpoise at all, but somebody swimming by, breathing through a snorkel tube. Wait, not just somebody, a lithe female body with long, flowing hair clothed only in mask, snorkel and fins, completely tan from head to toe, paddling toward a cluster of boulders that sheltered the cove from the Atlantic swells. Darned if it didn't feel like it was time for swim.

  I found my own mask, snorkel and fins at the bottom of a cockpit locker and jumped over the side. Holding my breath in the buoyant salt water, I put the gear on, cleared the mask and began to swim leisurely toward the rocks. Not particularly interested in the scenery below, I craned my neck watching the subsurface, searching for the naked swimmer. As I neared the boulders, a carpet of sea fans spread out like a giant umber doily at their base and schools of bright yellow and turquoise fish darted in unison from one coral cluster to the next. Needle-nosed gar about a foot long paced me as I kicked and a curious barracuda followed tenaciously behind. I must have swum for a half an hour, thoroughly at home in the warm water with the morning sun on my back and an incredible panorama of life below. But no girl. Where could she have gone?

  I left the garden behind and headed back to the boat. It's always curiosity for me to see my vessel from under water, some of it meant to be in the water, some of it meant never to be in the water, but at harmony both in and out. And even though I understand the laws of displacement, I am still in awe that boats float, and planes fly, and that men kill other men. Oh, brother, my mind is starting to wander. It must be time for breakfast. I doffed my fins, threw them into the cockpit and muscled my way up the rickety boarding ladder, until...

  "Good mawnin’," she said.

  "Well, good Lord and a good morning to you," I replied, stepping aboard. She sat on the cockpit seat facing me, a towel wrapped around her middle, knotted and draped like a pareu over her crossed legs. She wore nothing else. Dark hair the color of fine, polished walnut hung in crinkled strands to frame a well-tanned face with large brown doe eyes. The mouth was smallish, but quick to smile. And a pair of breasts, well-rounded but not overly large, stood at attention in the slight chill of wet skin in the morning breeze.

  "Permission to come aboard?," she asked rhetorically.

  "Fine time to ask. Of course. I'm Ian."

  "Mariah." She pronounced it MAH'-ria, with the emphasis on the first syllable. She stuck out her hand as though she wanted it kissed; I took it lightly. Our eyes met. There was mischief in hers and I’m sure a large questionmark in mine, probably colored with a tinge of mistrust. I just wasn't used to anchoring in a remote cove and finding a lovely young woman in my boat.

  "Welcome aboard. Can I get you something? Breakfast?"

  "Sure. What do you have?"

  "Well, it ain't the Ritz, but I've got some fresh black bread and a tin of sweet New Zealand butter that I found over in 'Martin, a fresh orange, some coffee. That do it?"

  "Sounds grand to me."

  Grand? She had a strange accent, with broad A's and slightly rounded R's. "Ghrawnd." Not southern. Not Canadian. Definitely not New York. But not midwest or California either. As I rummaged in the tiny galley, she basked with her face turned to the morning sun, humming an odd, Bach-like tune and it struck me that it had been probably over six months since I'd had company aboard while not in port. It felt good. The coffee water perked on the alcohol stove and I handed platters up through the companionway.

  "I love this boat," she said.

  "It is different," I admitted. "They don't make 'em like this anymore... probably because no one but me would be crazy enough to own one. Besides, the craftsmen who built her are all dead and their sons are stockbrokers."

  "It looks old."

  "I suppose it is," I said, “as far as modern sailing craft go. It's called a…”

  “Friendship Sloop,” she said. “I know it.”

  I stopped mid chew. How could she know? But I continued. “Well, yes. This one was built around 1920 in Maine. It's wood which requires constant maintenance, but I don't mind. I'm on my way now to St. Thomas to put a bottom on her. To me a boat isn't a boat if it doesn't smell like a boat... the varnish, the paint, the wood. It's a living thing. Officially she's a gaff-cutter which means she carries a couple of headsails and a big square main.” Mariah nodded, seeming to understand the jargon. “She's a little heavy and so requires a good bit of sail to get her moving. With the heretical modern addition of a self-steering vane, she does alright. Am I boring you?"

  "No, no," she said. "It's a work of art. I'm glad I'm here."

  "Umm, why are you here?" I asked.

  "You might say I'm the welcome wagon,” she replied with a coy smirk. “You've landed at my island."

  "No shit? I didn't think anybody owned these islands."

  "I don't own it, silly," she said, "I inhabi
t it." I nodded as though it were perfectly natural to live on a giant rock covered with scrub brush. "And now I must go. I thank you for breakfast. You must come to my home for dinner. Rounds of rum at six? Over there, next to the large Casuarina, do you see it? Will you come?" I nodded, feeling a little cut off, but duly noted the wispy pine tree that marked the west end of the cove's little beach. "I'm off. See you." She dropped the towel into my lap with a coquettish little smile and dove over the side. Through binoculars, I watched her swim in long, easy strokes fifty yards or so to where she could walk onto the rocky beach. With a wave, she disappeared behind the old pine tree. And then I noticed... she'd left her snorkeling gear behind.

  Well, hell, I hadn't planned on spending a day at anchor. I really should get on to St. Thomas; it's a long day’s sail down Drake's Passage and I'm sitting well within the British Virgins without passport clearance. But