TALES FROM THE CARIBBEAN

After all the Amsterdam clients were on board and safely situated, Dave (everybody called him Shark Boy) removed the cover on the mainsail, made ready the sheet lines and the roller reefed headsail, and positioned himself by Dream Weaver’s bow cleat and mooring line. Jini (Dave’s mother) engaged the gearbox and slowly motored toward the mooring ball; Dave removed the mooring line from its bow cleat and signaled the Weaver was free from her mooring.

Jini had paid her dues and earned her captain’s license under Dave’s dad, and she too was an experienced and respected captain in her own right. Whenever Dave crewed for his mom, it was like a well-conducted symphony orchestra; no words were needed to communicate and things got done without delay.

As soon as Dream Weaver had cleared her anchorage, without saying a word, Jini rounded up and pointed the bow directly into a fresh 25 to 30-knot trade wind, while Dave quickly raised the main and unfurled the headsail. When Jini fell off the wind, the sails filled with wind and Dave quickly trimmed them as the Weaver heeled hard over.

The clients’ eyes bugged out with fear and anxiety.

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“Relax,” Jini re-assured them, “Everything is OK, we’re not sinking, and if the rail dips under the water don’t worry about it, it goes with the territory on a day like today.”

Dave had on his best poker face and was careful not to let the clients see he was laughing at them. Above the sound of rushing bow and quarter wakes, wind and creaking tackle, he heard Jini’s usual safety spiel, “Don’t remove your life vests, keep your hands and fingers away from the winches, don’t sit on the sheet lines, and if it gets any rougher please go below decks and hang on, if you’re getting seasick stand by the stern pulpit and hold on with both hands,” and bla-bla-bla. It reminded Dave of the same monotone voice airline stewardesses used during their spiel about seatbelts, flotation devices and other routine safety instructions.

Dave’s mind drifted back to the last plane trip he took with his dad on their pilgrimage to where his father was born. Each fall the two of them traveled back to Indiana for their annual deer hunt. These trips provided Dave with a chance to hear his father talk about what it was like when he was a kid. Dave’s dad was a man of few words, and when it came to his past, his words were fewer still. One of his dad’s childhood buddies usually picked them up at Chicago’s O’Hare Field and while he quietly sat in the back seat on their way to Fort Wayne, his dad and his dad’s buddy would forget that he was there. The two old friends would reminisce at length and Dave would get to overhear stories that he had never before heard.

Dave’s dad once told him, “Me and John sailed together for many years, and he has more gaps in his memory than President Nixon did on his White House audiotapes.” And, like Nixon’s tapes, they were convenient gaps.

Whenever anybody asked him about the old days, he followed President Nixon’s lead and said he didn’t recall. His favorite reply was, “I don’t know about that because I wasn’t there and if I was there, I was asleep.”

Suddenly the wind shifted, the main threatened to jibe, and it snapped Dave’s attention back to the present.

Jini wondered what could’ve distracted him because, like his dad, he was a stickler about proper sail trim, and it was not like him to come that close to a dangerous unwanted jibe. She rounded Sandy Spit while Dave reset and trimmed the sails for a course back to Great Cruise Bay. The clients were already talking about more cocktails and a seafood lunch at Boss Penny’s Bar.

Dave was glad that his mom went below to mix more drinks, and he hoped she stayed there for a while so she wouldn’t see the Flying Circus approaching them. His dad had a new understudy with him named Jenny who was a well endowed young lady working on her captain’s license. Dave’s dad was showing her the finer points of sail trim and how to put money in the bank (gain windward ground) by pinching up on the puffs. Jini, unfortunately, returned topside just as the Flying Circus passed them in the opposite direction. Dave’s dad and Jenny were headed for the British Virgin Islands, and even though Jenny gave them a friendly wave and a cheerful hale his mother gave her the Italian version of the fickle finger: her left hand slapped her right bicep with a raised, clenched right fist.

Dave wished he had his own sailboat and dinghy so he could come and go as he pleased, but for now, he couldn’t afford it. Dave asked his mom if she had scheduled any more charters today and was delighted when she said, “No.” As soon as this trip was over, he would at last be able to find passage to Lovango, check on the hungry monk, and perhaps take a hike to the island’s highest bluff to investigate the source of his recurring dream.

But at that moment, he noticed Big Jessie and the sheriff headed towards Lovango. He did not want either of them knowing his business on the island. On several occasions when he was night fishing Dave had seen Big Jessie’s powerboat returning from Lovango with the sheriff on board. Dave’s dad once told him that if somebody was running an illegal scam they had to “pay to play” and kick lots of cash up to the top cop and his political boss, in order to insure a smooth running operation. Dave suspected the Japanese cook at the Chicken Ranch on Lovango was in reality a Yakuza whoremaster, gambler and drug dealer who was “paying to play” by buying off Big Jessie and the sheriff, but when he confronted Jessie about it, Jessie vehemently denied any wrongdoing, and claimed that he and the sheriff were there instead to check up on the cook and make sure that he was in fact staying honest, and was not involved in any kind of criminal activity of any sort. They were “making sure that the moral integrity of the island was not being undermined.” To be continued …