Chapter 3

Passing Barbados

  By the third day out from Jamaica, Dr Hermes, Wild Bill and I had settled into a smooth sea rhythm. Our location was now five hundred nautical miles southeast of Jamaica and slightly below 15-degrees latitude. Now we could tack back and forth in the daytime without fear of the U.S. Air Force planes spotting us and thinking we were a threat.

  The boat had no autopilot, so we took four-hour shifts at the helm. While one of us manned the tiller the others trimmed sails, rolled joints, opened beers, cooked food, read books or slept. Being at the helm in the daytime was fun. The power of this thoroughbred racing craft was incredible. When the wind picked up, the acceleration threw you backward if you weren’t holding onto something.

 This vessel was built in France in 1980 for the Route du Rhum race, the single-handed trans-Atlantic race that starts in France and ends in Guadeloupe, the capital island of the French West Indies. My boat came in second place in its class in the 1982 race.

  I went down to Martinique in 1984 with an old friend from Key West and St. Croix, Jack Petith, to buy one of the international multihull racing sailboats that spend the winter there after the races are over. Jack won the 1982 Route du Rhum and the 1984 OSTAR (Observer Single-handed Transatlantic Race) in his 38-foot Newick trimaran sailboat. He wasn’t involved in my smuggling business, just an old sailing buddy.   

  Jack was a celebrity in Martinique. The French are big fans of ocean racing multihull sailboats, so people recognized him everywhere we went and it gave us incredible access to the racing multihulls that were for sale (also lots of free lunches).

 While Jack and I were in Martinique, we went out for a ride on Jet Services, a fast 60-foot catamaran and also sailed on Fleury Michon, a 60-foot trimaran that was for sale. But when I saw the Newick trimaran it was love at first sight. The lines of the boat were gorgeous. The hull was bright golden mahogany, a natural wood boat with a clear coat of varnish over its shiny mahogany topsides. The owner kept a parachute over the boat to protect the varnish from the damaging rays of the sun.

 The 42-foot Newick was the same price as the 60-foot Fleury Michon but there was no comparison. The Newick was the most beautiful boat I had ever seen, it looked like a low flying bird. Plus, my friend Jack had the same boat in a 38-foot version and he highly recommended it. That was enough for me; I bought the boat and sailed it back to St. Croix with Jack and his girlfriend, the Devil Woman. She wasn’t that bad, but I only met her once. 

 When Jack, his girlfriend and I were fifteen miles south of St. Croix, we ran through a half-mile-wide oil slick. We followed it for ten miles and found that it came out of an oil tanker that was headed for the Hess Oil Refinery on St. Croix. Lots of tankers pumped out their bilges when they approached St. Croix and the South Shore beaches were covered in heavy tar.

 One of the most beautiful beaches on St. Croix is on the South Coast. This is a remote beach where I was chased out of the sea by the biggest manta ray that I’ve ever seen. There’s no road access so islanders had to hike in on foot. Everyone on St Croix knew they had to wear their worst shoes to this beach and then throw them away.

  Jack taught me the fine points of multihull sailing. Learning from him was like studying painting with Picasso. He was in the very top echelons of ocean racing, having just won two of the world’s premier single-handed trans-Atlantic races. He even beat boats in higher classes (larger boats which should have been faster).

  Years later, I found that my new sailboat had an added attraction that I wasn’t aware of when I bought her. It had no radar signature; it was built with stealth technology. Because of its compound curves and low profile in the water, it reflected little or no radar image.

  Now Hermes, Wild Bill and I were taking full advantage of this stealth technology. We were well below 13-degrees of latitude on our approach to the Atlantic Ocean. On the seventh day out from Jamaica I could see the 3000-foot mountains on the Isle of Margarita, only thirty miles north of the Venezuelan mainland. We were now deep in the southern Caribbean where the water is dark green, full of vegetation from South American rivers.

  There was a strong current flowing directly against us down there. It’s created by the infinite force of the Atlantic Ocean being squeezed between the land mass of South America and the southern shelf of the Caribbean Basin. If we were in a regular deep-keel, monohull sailboat, this two-knot current along with strong headwinds would have really slowed us down. But my trimaran was just skipping along the surface so we didn’t lose too much speed.

  In another day, the cloud-covered mountains of Grenada lay abeam of us to the north. This meant that the Atlantic was just hours away, and we’d soon be free from the grip of the Caribbean. When the mountains of Grenada were well to our stern we could turn northeasterly and run free in the Atlantic.

  A different shape of ocean-swell let us know that we were almost there. While slipping from the Caribbean into the Atlantic Ocean, the boat ran into a very steep and choppy sea. The swells stack up because their bottoms crash into the shallow bottom of the Caribbean Basin. It took us another twelve hours to get out into deeper waters where the swells weren’t so steep and coming in such short intervals.

   Once past the steep coastal swells and into the ocean, you know right away that this is a whole different body of water. The color of the Atlantic is a richer, deeper blue and the ocean swells are longer and smoother than the choppy, steep waves in the Caribbean Sea.

   Barbados was the last island we had to get past. Our course would take us to the east side of this lonely Atlantic island. I wanted to stay well clear of this landmass because of an incident that had happened there in 1984 when

 I sailed to Barbados with a few friends aboard this same vessel for a vacation. My buddies and I packed up our windsurfing gear and cruised down for the high winds and continuous surf that the island is famous for. Upon arriving in the waters off Bridgetown, the capital city of Barbados, I checked in with Customs and Immigration on the VHF radio.

  We were directed to come alongside the commercial cruise ship pier. There was a big swell that day and the waves were pushing us fiercely into the massive concrete dock. I was focusing more attention on securing the boat from getting damaged against the pier than to the words of the Immigration Officer.

 He told me, “Proceed to Carlisle Bay to anchor and if you want to go anywhere else, you must call the Signal Station on the VHF radio and ask for permission.”

  After a tense half hour we shoved off for Carlisle Bay. The guys weren’t impressed with this bay and wanted to do a little exploring before setting the anchor for the night. The next bay to the south looked much better so we dropped our hook in Oistins Bay. There was a long wooden pier where the local fishermen unloaded their catch and the women cleaned and sold the fish. Fishnets draped from the pier’s wooden trestles, conch shells and colorful fishing boats added to the tropical charm. This bay had a more Caribbean flavor than the sterile Carlisle Bay. 

  We had a rough windward beat from Martinique so now it was time to relax with lots of beer and Reefer. We washed away the salt and put clean clothes on, consumed more beer and Ganja and discussed plans for going ashore for dinner. Just as we were getting ready to get in the dinghy, I remembered the immigration officer’s words. I had to call the Signal Station to ask permission to anchor in Oistins Bay.

 The Signal Station officer said, “Request denied, return to Carlisle Bay.” I told him I didn’t understand. I had checked in with Customs and Immigration and had obeyed all their laws. And if they went to the U.S. or even the U.S. Virgin Islands and checked in with the authorities they would be allowed free access to all ports and anchorages without having to ask for permission each time they moved. Wasn’t this a free western style democracy where people were not subjected to this kind of scrutiny?

 The Signals officer wasn’t convinced by my argument and again told me to return to Carlisle Bay. This time I told him it would be dangerous to return because the storm that had been threatening all day was now a full gale with winds over fifty miles an hour and my crew was drunk and in no shape to sail anywhere. I said I would hold him and everyone else in his government responsible for any damage or loss of life if they forced me to move.

 That got his attention and he put me on hold for ten-minutes. When he came back on the radio, he told me the Coast Guard was in charge of this operation now. If I could convince them to allow me to stay put, it would be all right with him. He told me to call the Coast Guard on another frequency and said goodbye.

  I called the Coast Guard and spoke to an officer who said they were, “Very busy right now with rescues of several fishing boats that were caught offshore in this terrible storm.” He said I would have to wait to speak to anyone with authority until they had this emergency situation under control. I took that as a victory. We jumped in the dinghy, went to shore, had dinner in a nice local restaurant and proceeded to drink seriously.

  After dinner, we were approached by two plainclothesmen while walking back to the boat. They flashed badges and said, “Come with us.” We followed them out to the pier in Oistins Bay where there was a Coast Guard Patrol boat tied up. The captain came out of his boat and ordered me to get in my dinghy, go out to my boat, hoist up the anchor and return to Carlisle Bay or he would cut my anchors and tow the boat away.

   I looked at him and then looked at the big, storm-driven swell rolling in and crashing on the beach. I told the captain that the waves were too big now to use the dinghy, and, for the safety of my crew, I had decided to stay on land in a hotel until the storm passed. The captain ordered me again, this time at gunpoint. I told him that the waves hitting the beach would swamp the dingy, that my crew was drunk and could possibly drown and I would hold him and his government responsible. That didn’t work this time and we were marched to the dingy and forced to obey his orders.

  It only took a few minutes for a big wave to hit us, just as I predicted, and flip the inflatable dingy upside down. Now I was mad. We all had to swim back to the boat, towing the upside-down dinghy, and the engine was now waterlogged and worthless. I grabbed the VHF radio and let the captain know how I felt about his so-called free country of Barbados. I told him that I had been to Cuba and had more freedom to sail around that island than here. If he went to any other free western style democracy he would only have to check in once to get free, unfettered access to any port, harbor, bay, beach or whatever. I told him if I lifted my anchor now I wouldn’t go to Carlisle Bay, I would leave his fascist country and go back to the U.S. Virgin Islands where you could check in with Immigration and Customs in St. Croix and sail to St. Thomas or St. John without asking for permission. The captain put us on hold for twenty minutes and when he came back he said we could stay for the night but the boat must return to Carlisle Bay the next day.

  The next day we followed orders and returned to Carlisle Bay; I didn’t want to fight with these people anymore. After anchoring, I left the boat to shop for food and supplies with one of the guys. When I returned from shopping, my crew told me that six customs officers had come aboard and searched the boat and asked lots of questions.

 They didn’t do such a great job since they hadn’t found the rifle and pistol and a couple of ounces of Pot that were aboard. This contraband wasn’t even hidden very well. I thank God they didn’t find it. This was only a few months after the Grenada invasion and the Barbados Defense Force was heavily involved in that operation. They would have hung us from the yardarm if they found those weapons. I kept guns aboard ever since an incident in the Bahamas that convinced me that all sailors were not as friendly as we were. There were really violent pirates out there that had no respect for life, only firepower. 

  I thought this incident was over now; they had forced us to comply with their insane demands and should have been happy. Unfortunately, I found out that they weren’t finished with us yet.

 We had met some local island girls and invited them out for a sail. It was a beautiful day and we were all aboard ready to hoist the anchor and get underway. This time I remembered to call the Signal Station and ask for permission. The officer said, “Request denied, you need written permission to leave Carlisle Bay.” I asked him what this was all about and he said this was a special condition put in place just for us. I went into my free access speech but he didn’t want to hear it. He told me not to move without written permission and I would have to get it three days in advance of any sailing date. I felt very special; they had gone to a lot of trouble just for us.

 So, I went to the Immigration office and got my special permit to take a day-sail. I had to tell them where I was going, for how long and the number of people on board. I’m glad they didn’t ask for the names of my passengers because I only knew the girls’ first names.

  The day of our approved excursion, the weather was horrendous. The girls all got seasick and we had to come back early. I was afraid there would be a gunboat waiting for us since we hadn’t followed our government-approved schedule. That didn’t happen, maybe they didn’t want to treat their own citizens the way they were treating us.

  Our vacation in Barbados wasn’t ruined by these unpleasant encounters with the government. The windsurfing and wave riding were tons of fun. We met some nice people and ate some delicious food. We stayed in a resort on the beach where we could launch our windsurfers right into the surf. But now, we had to return to St. Croix.

  Before leaving the island, my buddies and I stopped in one last pub to drink our last few beers on Barbados. This was a sailor’s bar on the waterfront with a dinghy dock and lots of nautical stuff hanging on the walls. Drunken wharf-rats were shooting pool and throwing darts.

 The bartender was friendly and asked us about our boat. After describing the boat and talking to him for a while, he asked us if we were the sailors who were having all the trouble with Customs, Immigration and the Coast Guard. I sheepishly told him, “Yeah, that was us.” He shouted out to all his customers, “These are the blokes that have been fighting the bloody government bastards on the VHF radio.”

  The sailors came over and patted our backs, shook our hands and bought us drinks. The bartender, who was also one of the owners of the bar, told us that lots of sailors and even regular folks on the island monitor the VHF radio. He explained that the government was tough on cruising sailors that visited because they wanted to discourage them from staying. They restricted the freedoms that sailors take for granted in most other so-called free countries.

 I suspected the reason for this might be the relatively easy downwind sail from Europe for any wharf-rat with a derelict boat that floated. I’ve seen a lot of less than seaworthy vessels from Europe in my travels throughout the Caribbean and I think the Barbados government was trying to keep those low-budget sailors from feeling comfortable there.

The sailors in this bar all had stories of harassment at the hands of the government and were happy that we stood up to the “fascists” and didn’t take any crap.

   The bartender also filled us in on the background of what transpired on that stormy, night-time confrontation with the Coast Guard. He told us that the Minister of Tourism was among the people that were monitoring their radios that night. This gentleman was appalled at the way we were being treated and possibly afraid of the consequences to tourism on the island -- as if we were some important or influential people who could ruin the reputation or the tourist economy of Barbados.

He called the Commander of the Coast Guard and asked him to give us a break. That was apparently what was happening when the Coast Guard Captain put us on hold. We had a friend in high places helping us that night. So I can’t say that the entire government of Barbados is against free-living, free-sailing yachtsmen and I take this opportunity to thank the Minister for his kindness.

  Now Dr Hermes, Bill and I were giving the island of Barbados a wide berth. Our course would take us 100-miles east of the place. Once we were abeam of Barbados, it was safe to steer directly towards New York.

  This was our final tack. We had the wind on our starboard quarter with a following sea and a current that was pushing us along instead of working against us. Gone were the days of beating through the Caribbean with crashing waves stinging our salt-caked faces.

 The boat really flew in these conditions. We were about a week away from our unload destination. Everyone aboard was happy that we made it out of the Caribbean safely.

  Out in the Atlantic, fishing was spotty except for the free flying fish that pelted us and landed on deck at night. There were still dangers — ships streaming along at twenty knots with no one at the helm on lookout, floating trees, containers, whales, storms and hurricanes. But we weren’t thinking about that now. The only thing on our minds was getting to our off-load position.

  There were 1700 nautical miles left to sail. Our destination was the Hudson Canyon, a popular offshore fishing ground 100 nautical miles southeast of New York City. Hudson Canyon is the geological continuation of the Hudson River into the depths of the Atlantic Ocean. A fast tuna boat running out of Sonny’s Marina in Seaford, Long Island would meet us there. We made our course north by northwest and held on while the boat surfed the long ocean swells.

  Ocean surfing was my favorite tack on this incredible vessel. We would catch a wave and ride it for miles with speeds reaching over twenty knots. Then we’d catch up to the wave in front of the one we started on and ride that new wave until we caught the next one. We were hitchhiking on waves and then outrunning them. We made good time that way and were right on schedule.