Not So Skookum: A Sailing Adventure (Part Three)

 As we absorbed the situation at hand, thoughts turned to the boat on the horizon. Looking at its light configuration we realized to our amazement that it had changed course. The only other vessel we'd seen in 20 hours on the sea was headed right for us! Radio contact was made and a tense negotiation ensued in Spanish. It was a Dominican fishing boat, returning to harbor after some mechanical difficulties of their own. They were tight on diesel, but would see what they could do. As they approached our relief and gratitude was tinged with anxiety. We were sitting ducks out there, floating helplessly as a mystery boat rolled up in the darkness. Should we bring the gun? Like many cruisers we had a loaded .357 magnum at the ready in case of pirates. Ben asked me if I would shove it in the waistband of my pants. "Ummm.. no," I would not. "OK, I will" he said. We quickly talked it through. All  of us were a bit nervous, but we had called them. If anyone should have weapons at the ready it should be those guys, right? In the end, Kavour stayed onboard with the sidearm and Ben and I took off in the dinghy with a gift bottle of wine to greet our saviors/captors. As we pulled up alongside the old boat what we found was a dozen fishermen standing on the deck, smiling warmly in the moonlight. They had filled a water jug with five gallons of diesel— all they could spare— and refused to take any of the cash we'd brought along. The camaraderie of the sea is strong. "Gracias amigos! Muy amable!"
Underway again, we noticed two black birds circling Skookum. They must have been traveling with the fishing boat and decided for some reason to hitch a ride with Skookum instead. Silly birds.  As they circled the boat, flashes appeared in the moonlight in front of the boat. The dolphins were back! Fifteen or more this time, surfing the bow as if to pilot our wounded vessel to safety.  Already we had a thriving ecosystem aboard Skookum. Thousands of ants had gained a hold while the boat was tied up at dock. A gecko, dubbed "Sir Lyndon O. Pindling," had stowed away at some point in Florida as well. Sightings of this brave traveller were rare and exciting. But it was the cockroaches who ruled the roost. There were thousands of them. A flashlight pointed at any dark place in the cabin at night would send dozens or hundreds scurrying. Any food left out would have big holes bored in it by morning. One night I grabbed my toothbrush and discovered three of them crawling around the base of the bristles. Our menagerie (now with dolphins and birds!) chugged along in the darkness.

 The gifted fuel provided five hours of headway before the engine sputtered and quit again. For awhile after that we floated and slept. I awoke at dawn and climbed up on deck to an eerie and beautiful scene. The GPS showed us slowly drifting away from Hispaniola, now 30 miles to the south. The bird visitors were perched on the bow, a tern variety known as a brown noddy. The sea was perfect glass without a breath of wind. We were becalmed. I sat on the bow and read Shackleton.  The trials those men suffered 80 years ago really put our problems in perspective. We  were in a fix, but for the moment perfectly content. Ben woke up and readied the mainsail just in case. Where was the northerly blow we were expecting? Maybe, like many fronts this time of year it had simply petered out somewhere to the north of us. We made coffee and breakfast and scanned the horizon for boats. Nothing, and no one answering our radio calls. The terns, probably realizing their error in judgement, finally flew off. We were floating alone, again.