Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
tally kicked myself for being so slack in my duty. I reminded myself most sternly that that
was how I could kill myself. Little slips like that could turn rapidly into big disasters.
The sail to St. Maarten was not easy. The squall incident had reminded me of the complex-
ities of solo sailing and its associated dangers. I dreaded the nights and the long, boring
hours of having to remain awake. My first night saw me with good intentions, but in the
late graveyard shift I failed hopelessly by falling asleep, only to be awoken suddenly by
my inner alarm clock. I would jump up and fearfully look about for any lights at sea in the
blackness. Once I saw a large tug towing a string of barges. The navigation lights were in-
stantly recognized, and the vessels passed silently and eerily close to my little sailboat, so
close that the deep throbbing of the tug's mighty engines could easily be felt.
In instances like that I would shine a flashlight up into the bright whiteness of my sails, thus
bringing attention to anyone on passing vessels. I would also leave my radio-telephone on
and at times would even call out to any vessels that were questionably close, warning them
that there was a yacht in their neighborhood.
I would reduce sail in the evening as I had noticed that winds at night tended to increase in
strength. The wind would also die out with maddening results. The steering system failed
to work in weak winds. All steering would then have to be done by hand, a tedious and of-
ten exhausting chore. I would awake some nights, with great irritation to my already frayed
nerves, only to find the wind had died down, and the boom was rocking back and forth list-
lessly, causing the main sail to slat noisily.
At times like these, I would remember that I had several cartons of cigarettes bought from
Martinique. I would light up and feel more relaxed.
Completing a fix one afternoon, I was pleased to put my position a score of sea miles from
St. Maarten. Keeping a sharp lookout in the evening, I began noticing the light loom of
Philipsburg, the main harbor town. I turned on my VHF radio and began hearing the local
radio traffic between the cruisers. It was the usual social interaction between the various
crew making plans for visiting and so forth. I turned it off, preferring the silence. Plenty of
time for all of that, I thought.
By first daylight I saw the beautiful, green silhouette of St. Maarten. The sun was behind
me, and the yellow light highlighted the fringe of whiskery coconut trees that adorned this
Caribbean destination. I made out the forest of masts of the cruising boats and was able
to motor over to an available space. Without ceremony, I quietly dropped anchor over the
side, digging into the sandy bottom by reversing the engine. When I was quite sure I was
well-anchored, I turned off the motor, went below, and stripped down. I fell exhausted into
my bunk and slept the sleep of the dead for the rest of the day and night.
