Not So Skookum: A Sailing Adventure (Part Five)

If you must be held at gunpoint in a foreign country, you could do much worse than the Marina del Mar Hotel and Restaurant. There is a large covered terrace that looks out to the Atlantic Ocean across the street. On the eastern side a nice little wetland area attracts a wide variety of waterbirds— roseate spoonbills, black stilts, egrets, and herons. Smiling waiters deliver the Dominican breakfast specialty, mangu, a ridiculous mountain of mashed plantain accompanied by eggs and fried triangles of cheese. The locals are friendly, though clearly hesitant to speak openly with hostages. However, if you ask the waiter quietly you just might be able to borrow his cell phone and fire off a call to the US embassy.

After a restless night on Skookum and one more discussion of where to hide the gun, we had returned to town at the appointed hour of 7 AM.  It quickly became clear that this was only for the purpose of more waiting outside the comandante’s office. We convinced one of his henchman to allow us to relocate to the more civilized prison across the street, where they could still guard us closely.

Circumstances in the past had twice given me cause to call a US embassy. Once in Istanbul, after my employer and friend passed away in his sleep and the authorities made the aftermath difficult; and again in Chile, when civil unrest kept a group of my students trapped in Punta Arenas and delayed our kayaking expedition. In neither case did it prove useful.

But the nice folks in Santo Domingo were already at work, using their local resources and contacts to come to our aid. When a dark SUV pulled up to the hotel hours later and demanded we return to the boat with a slew of officials in tow, the embassy official on the phone assured us all would be fine. Sure enough, as Skookum was being searched and paperwork examined, a phone call came in to the comandante. The effect was immediate. Passports were returned, papers cleared, effusive apologies all around.

Back on land, this time as free men, we were finally able to explore the charming town, collecting some supplies and chatting with the locals. The gringo sailors were locally famous by this point. Everyone knew the story and didn’t hide their disgust with the comandante, a corrupt official whose 6 month posting discourages any accountability. It turned out that Saraya and others had been secretly coming to our aid, making phone calls to people who might be in a position to help. We were amazed by their warmth and generosity and sad that they had to deal with petty corruption all the time.

By evening our ordeal was forgotten and we were enjoying the holy trinity of beer, grilled chicken, and ear-splitting music along with the townspeople. We stayed up late with Santo and Saraya, exchanging stories and sampling Dominican rum.  Since they don’t drink they were intent on us drinking all the rum in their house. Out of sheer politeness we obliged.

That small act of charity was greatly lamented the following day. Good Friday dawned anything but. Determined to make headway towards St. Thomas after our recent setbacks, we fooled ourselves into thinking the storm had past. This delusion was rewarded with an old-fashioned smack-down once we left the protected waters of Monte Cristi. Skookum was slammed by big swell from the north and we struggled to make 3 kt. The beer, the rum and possibly the chicken had taken a terrible toll. Kavour never emerged from below. I buried my face in the cushion of the cockpit, leaving Ben to single-hand the boat, which didn’t matter since we could no longer sail. Even when dolphins came to swim alongside, just a few feet away from me, I couldn’t look at them for more than a few seconds. I finally stumbled down through the pitching cabin to the head, where unspeakable things transpired. The trip had found a new nadir, at least for me.

One hour later I was fine. Ben was not. He’d been brooding all morning and presently launched into his soliloquy. He was worn down by the stress of boat problems. Already weeks behind schedule, we were looking at more 400 miles,  fighting the trade winds with no sails. It was time to drop the anchor for good. Luperon, our next port of call, would be our last.  George, the owner, would come fix her and finish the trip. I couldn’t blame Ben. It was clearly the right choice. But, still a sad one.

The joys of the trip—the swims, the fish, the stars, the absolute freedom of the sea—were going to be hard to let go. We’d developed some wonderful routines within our little community of three. Ben kept us on course and fixed things when they broke. Kavour was the consummate deejay and bartender and ocassionally regaled us with song. I kept the meals coming from the galley all day long. Trivial Pursuit (the original 1982 edition), cribbage, backgammon, and euchre filled the spaces.  When a fish struck the line we dropped everything and ran around like little kids at summer camp.

In the next few days we’d arrive in Luperon and meet lots of cool boat people. We’d have crazy adventures on land and see the site of the first European settlement in the Americas. We would haul Skookum out of the water and bid her farewell forever. But for the moment we had one more afternoon at sea and damn if we weren’t going to fish, storm or no storm. 

Soon enough, as the boat continued to pitch and heave, the fishing line sung it’s sweet song. Fish on! We landed a small member of the tuna family and Ben filleted it just in time to drop anchor at a beautiful cove.  I made a glistening plate of ruby-red tuna sashimi. Kavour opened the last bottle of wine.  The three of us sat in the cockpit and talked and laughed for hours. On the beach and in the water around us hundreds of people were celebrating, determined to enjoy their holiday despite the cold and stormy weather.  We were home.

Not So Skookum: A Sailing Adventure (Part Four)

The boat pitched and rolled in ten foot seas. A big wave pounded us on the port side, sending spray into the cockpit. Ben steadied himself on deck as he trimmed the headsail. Below decks, as things tumbled from shelves and dishes clattered in cupboards, Kavour hunkered down on his bunk with the railing raised to keep him from falling off. It was the kind of day where we wouldn’t see him until it was time to drop anchor and pour cocktails. I was driving hard at the wheel trying to anticipate the rolls and keep us on course. Several times, I corrected hard to starboard when I knew we needed to go to port. This would backfill the sail, which would snap violently as it came around.  Ben cringed. The long awaited frontal system had arrived from the north and we were being pitched towards Hispaniola.

Cruising is famously described as 90 percent sheer boredom and 10 percent sheer terror. I wasn’t ever bored on our trip, and not really terrified, but I can relate to the sentiment.  The trip was a constant series of highs and lows. One moment it was all unicorns and butterflies, the next cockroaches and failing equipment. We had started the day floating aimlessly, hoping for a little puff of wind.  Now we were surfing hard on a jibe, holding 7 kts. and hoping the bowsprit would hold.  Ben altered course to due south, towards a small town near the Haitian border. This would avoid a late arrival at our intended port of Luperon, which has, according to the guidebooks, a tricky harbor entrance.

Like countless mariners before us we thrilled at the first sight of mountains, the first birds and the smell smells that meant we were almost there. After the flat, dry Bahamas the lush peaks of Hispaniola plunging into the sea were a dramatic and welcome change of scenery.  We took visual bearings off a couple landmarks, hugged the coast for a bit and dropped anchor off of a small beach.  We had arrived, thirty-six hours after leaving the Turks and Caicos, in the village of Monte Cristi, northwest Dominican Republic.

The local authorities—two men in uniform and one in jeans with a pistol in his front pocket— motored out in a skiff and boarded Skookum. We went through the standard protocols undertaken upon entering a new country: fees, forms, a cursory search of the boat. The men took our passports and told us that when we were ready to leave we could come by the office to collect them, along with the forms we would need to show at future ports. They introduced us to their skiff captain Santo, a local guide who could help us find diesel and whatever else we might need.

We put on our cleanest dirty shirts and headed for town. Santo along with his wife Saraya greeted us on the beach with waves and warm smiles, and within five minutes they had set us up with drinking water, a plan to get diesel, wifi, and cold Presidente beers on the terrace of a beachfront hotel.  It was just after dark on the Wednesday before Easter and the streets were filling with holiday revelers kicking off the Semana Santa festivities. Music blasted from parked cars, young couples strolled arm in arm, and girls in short skirts sold beer and grilled chicken from tents along the main drag. Despite the uncertain future of the journey, we all felt a great sense of relief to have arrived in the Dominican Republic. The long passage and its challenges were behind us and we were delighted to be back in America Latina, where a guy can live well for a handful of pesos. We grinned and brought our bottles of Presidente together for a toast.
Our celebration turned out to be very short-lived. The blue jeans/pistol guy was standing above our table. "Pay your bill and come with me,” he growled. “Why?” we asked. ”Just come with me.” 

He lead us through the street party and into a small building that held the office of the harbor comandante and military and police officials. The comandante, an imperious man in a khaki uniform embellished with epaulets, eyed us from behind a desk . Various other officials, including the ones who had boarded Skookum, were milling about.

We were told that we were in the country illegally and would not be allowed to leave. Furthermore, Skookum would have to be towed immediately into the boatyard. This was an absurd proposition given the darkness, the storm, and an entrance too shallow for our boat’s six foot draw.  The problem? The boat’s name didn’t appear on the title. Never mind that the serial number was clearly marked on the title and matched the number engraved on the hull. The registration paperwork was in order, and all of the Bahamian paperwork as well. It made no difference. We tried to explain that boats change names all the time, that the serial number is the one consistent identifier.

“All boats have names, “ the comandante replied. “this boat has no name.”

Things became weirder and whole thing descended into a bad Laurel and Hardy routine. We would say one thing, they'd reply with something unrelated. Reasoning was clearly futile. Even Ben’s perfect Spanish was no help. Hours passed. All we wanted after our long journey was food and sleep.  It was decided that the boat wouldn’t be towed, but perhaps a military official would spend the night on the boat with us. “For your protection,” they said. What the hell was going on? In the end they let us return alone to the boat, after parading us through town and watching from shore as we left in our dinghy. I guess since we had no fuel or passports we weren’t too much of a flight risk. On the way out of town we managed to blast off a couple quick emails to family just in case things got worse.  The situation was both a bit scary and a bit comical. And there was no telling how far it would go. Had we survived the trials at sea only to end up under house arrest in a backwater banana republic? Meanwhile back in Nevada, unbeknownst to us, Kavour’s proactive girlfriend was phoning the US embassy.

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.

Not So Skookum: A Sailing Adventure (Part Two)

Georgetown, Grand Exuma, is known in the yatchie world as "chicken harbor". Heading south towards the Caribbean the passages become longer, the seas bigger, the islands more remote, the services fewer. Many boats elect to turn around and head back to Nassau or Florida. The intrepid are rewarded with deserted tropical islands rich with maritime history, crystal blue waters, and gorgeous beaches.We had lots of cockroaches aboard Skookum, but no chickens.

This stretch turned out to be the best of the trip. We made our way from Georgetown to the northern tip of Long Island, then hopped to Conception Island, Rum Cay and Mayaguana. After Rum Cay we began the night runs with each of us taking a turn at the watch while the other two slept. This was a chance to curl up in the cockpit with a good book, check that the auto-pilot was doing its job, and every so often scan the horizon for lights that would indicate the presence of another ship. Since a ship might not pick us up on radar it was imperative that we stayed out of their way, or risk Skookum being sliced in half. Most of time  the only lights were a  beautiful dome of stars above and maybe some phosphorescent phytoplankton lighting up the water peeling off of Skookum's bow. I especially liked the pre-dawn shift, as the stars faded and the eastern sky began to light up again. There was always a slight nervousness that accompanied a night watch. Even nestled safely in the cockpit, I still had a persistent mild fear of falling overboard. At night of course, there would be no heroic rescue. With first light that unease would fade and thoughts would turn towards that standard Skookum breakfast— organic Guatemalan coffee grinded by hand and quinoa with dried cranberries and maple syrup.

Approaching Mayaguana just before dawn some small low islands appeared just off of starboard. This must be the Plana Cays, small deserted islands that have been suggested as Columbus' first landing point. The islands are apparently overrun with an endemic population of rabbit sized rodents called hutia. As we cruised by I pictured thousands of furry creatures returning to their dens after a night of foraging.

At Mayaguana we arrived at a beautiful anchorage between the island and a ring of coral reef. The natural harbor is about 20 feet deep, with lots of queen conch crawling along the unbroken white sand. We dropped anchor and headed out with spears to get dinner. A narrow passage through the ring of barrier reef brought us out on the ocean side and into a magical aquarium. The deeper water was a much more brilliant shade of blue and beautiful heads of coral were loaded with reef fish. We found a very old, very large anchor in the classic hook shape, and daydreamed about the story it held. Maybe an old Spanish galleon, lured to the deadly reef by pirates, wrecked and looted. A young sea turtle allowed a very close approach, finally gliding away with little effort. Big grouper cautiously peeked out of holes 20 feet below, a spear-fishing challenge heightened by the nearly constant presence of nurse sharks and reef sharks. We didn't relish the thought of wrestling a shark for our dinner, so we crossed back to the shallow side and bagged some small snapper and grouper.

On the way "home" to Skookum we visited the neighbors—a young family from Colorado on a beautiful catamaran. Their main cabin was carpeted and decked out in leather furniture and track lighting. A big Macbook was open to some high tech weather and navigation software on the massive chart table. The setting couldn't be much different than our floating camping trip on Skookum. But the sea is the great equalizer. These folks were dealing with the same questions we were. When was the best window to make the run to Turks and Caicos? Would it be better to cross the Caicos banks towards the Dominican Republic? How much rum should be kept on hand? We were amazed by their array of electronics; they couldn't believe how many fish we caught. Thanking them for the weather info and cocktails, we motored back to Skookum and cooked the grouper and snapper by headlight before we pushed off for the overnight run to Turks and Caicos.

These lovely islands are a geographic continuation of the Bahamas but due to some post-colonial machinations they exist as a separate county. Many of the 30,000 residents are descended from a single group of slaves, freed by luck after the illegal slave ship Truvadore wrecked on a nearby reef  in 1841. These days, diving and tax evasion are the big draws, and with good reason. The waters are impossibly clear and blue and the financial regulations are loose.

To the south lie the Caicos banks, a 40 mile wide shallow shelf studded with coral heads. The crossing is treacherous but the tiny islands on the east side are rumored to be amazing, and from there it's only another 70 miles or so to the Dominican Republic, our next goal. We decided to give it a shot.
Avoiding the coral heads was manageable, as long as someone stood up on the bow and tried to discern the subtle color variations between the dark patches of turtle grass and the dark patches of coral. The fishing  was excellent and soon the boat was restocked with barracuda and snapper. Unfortunately we were bucking straight into the wind, and it became clear by early afternoon that we'd end up well short of our day's goal. Dropping anchor out on the banks was not an option, so we turned around and headed back to West Caicos and tied Skookum up to a mooring buoy at a dive site.

Here, at the edge of the coral wall, the ocean depth drops from 60 feet to 5000 in a very short distance. The water is a wonderful shade of blue and visibility seems unlimited. It was a great place to test free-diving skills and marvel at the wonders of the ocean. Big schools of jack circled below us and a huge manta ray cruised by, flapping its wings slowly like a monstrous underwater bird. Back at the boat the crew dined on fried barracuda and made plans for the crux move of the journey- a 135 mile swing to the south and east that would skirt the Caicos banks and bring us to Hispaniola, the large island shared by Haiti and the Dominican Republic.
The alarms chimed at 4 AM and groggily we started the engine and tossed the lines from the mooring. Swinging Skookum around to the south, we set the throttle at 1500 RPM, turned on the auto-pilot and settled in for what was looking to be a 32 hour trip. With luck we would catch the leading edge of a storm front, make the sails, and enjoy a nice push all the way.
All day we cruised in open ocean, out of sight of any land or other boats. In late afternoon we throttled down just long enough for the crew to cool off with a quick dive into the crystal blue abyss. Under way again, we dried  off in the late afternoon sun. A dozen dolphins joined us, taking turns surfing the bow wake in groups of four or five. We stuck our heads over the bow and watched in amazement from a few feet above, making eye contact as they turned on their sides. It was  one of those sweet moments where you forget all problems. In our case that meant forgetting our minimal fuel reserves, the boat's increasing structural problems, and the huge stretch of ocean between us and the Dominican Republic, never mind St. Thomas.

We'd burned a lot of fuel on our failed attempt to cross the Caicos banks the day before. With no easy way to refuel, we checked the tank and ran the numbers and estimated that we had just enough to make it. A more serious problem was a rotten bowsprit which was getting worse by the day. A huge block of wood that extends from the front of the boat and anchors all of the rigging, the bowsprit is an essential part of any sailboat. It's always under tremendous strain, from the sails while the boat is underway and from the anchor chain while moored. Skookum's was cracking and shifting and Ben was increasingly fearful that it would totally crack apart, possibly de-masting the boat in the process.

But all this was forgotten for the moment as we gathered on the bow to toast another beautiful sunset. Just as the sun dipped and the full moon rose in the east, the fishing line began to sing its merry song.  Soon  there was a gorgeous mahi-mahi onboard, sparkling golden in the fading light. As darkness fell and moonlight twinkled on a sea still glassy calm ahead of the front, we tucked in to another seafood feast. I imagined Skookum from above, a tiny warm glow surrounded by miles and miles of ocean.

 Ben and Kavour turned in while I gathered supplies for my night watch —blanket, pillow, water, snacks, herbal smoking blend, plus Shackleton's account of his misadventure in Antartica. The lights of a distant vessel twinkled on the horizon off our bow, the only boat we'd seen all day. No problem, it would pass well in front of us. I curled up and began to read about men stronger than we fighting off starvation, frostbite, and insanity. And then the engine sputtered, and died.  Our fuel had run out.  It was 11 PM on March 26, 2013. We were floating 65 miles from the nearest land, which just happened to be Haiti.

Not So Skookum: A Sailing Adventure (Part One)

     Sometimes crisis requires fast action, a nearly unconscious response. Other times a situation offers the luxury and curse of a long period of reflection. I've often imagined falling off a boat out at sea, the initial shock and fear quickly giving way to resignation as the boat fades into the distance. Recently in the Bahamas this terrible vision became reality. So there I was, two days into a sailing trip, calmly watching my boat fade slowly into the distance. The boat wasn't moving, but I was, caught in a rip current and pushed farther away minute by minute.  I was swimming hard and making no headway, just losing more ground. There was plenty of time for reflection. First, the things in my favor: the boat was at anchor, with my two friends  on it. Also there was land nearby. A small island sat just a few hundred yards off to my side. I wasn't going to drown. Then the cons- I had jumped in the water to relieve myself, and as such was buck naked, ill prepared to traverse this island far enough to get up-current of the boat. The islands of the Bahamas feature a topography straight from Dante's Inferno- an eroded limestone known as iron shore that resembles the surface of a fossilized English muffin. Crawling naked across it would have reduced me to a bloody, howling, sun burnt husk of a man. I had to get back to that boat!
     The trip was not going smoothly. When Ben, an old friend from Alaska, had called and said he'd like help moving a sailboat for a friend of his, from Florida to St. Thomas, I jumped at the chance. Just pay for food he said. We'll catch fish and snorkel and sail and drink rum. When a work obligation during that time period had been cancelled, the choice was easy. I tossed mask and fins and plenty of sunblock into my bag and headed to Nassau.
    Unfortunately, I also packed bedbugs from a dodgy hostel in Guatemala, and spent my first day in town putting everything I had into a commercial dryer and turning the knob to the "grilled cheese" setting to try to smite the beasts before I brought them aboard. As it was, the weather was terrible, so we weren't going anywhere anytime soon. The trip from Florida aboard S/V Skookum had been a tough one for the original crew, and morale was pretty low. Also, one crew member also joining in Nassau had recently become pregnant. She and her husband had made the trip to the Bahamas, but were questioning the wisdom of  a trip that would  entail amplified morning sickness and lack of access to definitive care.
     Skookum— named after classic native Alaskan word meaning "strong"— is a 36' Hans Christian,  a legend in its day but now a project boat with a bunch of problems large and small. We were a week behind by the time our trimmed down crew of three finally pulled anchor and headed for the Exumas. Now, just a day later, I was watching my floating home slowly fading into the distance.
   The stereo was cranked when I left, and my two compañeros, Captain Ben and his college friend Kavour, were just settling down for a siesta. A naked torture scramble was looking more likely by the minute. I yelled anyway. I hollered, and shouted and yelled again. I swam, harder this time and yelled again. Treading water to rise as high as possible, I looked at the hateful island and screamed with all I had. A few seconds later Ben popped out on the deck and jumped in the dinghy to fetch my sorry bare ass. By luck, he'd turned off the tunes just moments prior in preparation for nap time.

Things turned around for the crew after my rescue. We jumped off the boat that afternoon and found scattered coral heads teeming with reef fish. Learning to use the pole spear took some time, but eventually Ben and I headed back to Skookum with several fish, including a prize grouper killed instantly with a perfect head shot. For the next two weeks we enjoyed the freshest, most delicious fish every day, either from spear-fishing or trolling behind Skookum while we were underway. We would jump around like excited kids when the line started peeling out, fight the fish from the port side deck while rolling with the boat, and when we'd dragged one aboard, give thanks to the creature for it's sacrifice. A piece of driftwood Kavour found at Allen's Cay was propped up on stern pulpit as a wonderful makeshift filet station. Soon we had a constant supply of fresh fish in the fridge. The crew gorged on sashimi, ceviche, and all manner of grilled and fried filets. It's an amazing way to live and eat and one of the best parts of travelling the sea.

Skookum poked it's way down the Exuma chain, holding five mph on a good day. Sometimes we ran under power, more often under a combination of power and sail. On blissful occasions we killed the diesel engine and travelled by wind alone, the forces pulling and pushing our 20, 000 pound floating home effortlessly through the crystal waters. With music wafting from the cabin we'd toast our tremendous good fortune.
On Hawksbill Cay a simple hike up a mangrove slough and over to the other side of the island provide escape from the dozens of other boats moored in the bay. Here we found a dazzling white sand beach without a soul, with gentle rolling surf and the most amazing spectrum of blues. We stretched our boat-bound bodies and wandered around on the beach in a psilocybin daydream. Stretched out on a limestone bench worn smooth by many years of surf,  I let the sea foam envelop me with each breaking wave. As the shadows grew long we returned to the boat to watched, as we always did, for the mythical green flash. I've never enjoyed a failed effort as much as my years-long search for this phenomenon.
We checked out the swimming pigs at Staniel Cay, as well as the Thunderball Grotto made famous by James Bond films, then high-tailed it out of there as fast as we could, anxious to trade the country club yachtie atmosphere for more remote environs.
Crossing through the Exuma chain meant the more exposed Exuma Sound on the windward side of the islands. The sailing was wilder and the fishing much improved. Close to Georgetown we battled several mahi-mahi, stocking up food rations for an unexpected layover while we waited for the repaired auto-pilot to arrive via Fed-Ex. I had been filling the machine's role since Nassau and loving it, but Ben pointed out that the auto-pilot holds a straighter course and requires a smaller energy input than I do. Soon I appreciated the ability to run around the boat— catching fish, cooking meals and watching dolphins, all while a small machine held our precise course. We travelled for many days this way, only scanning the horizon from time to time to ensure we weren't on a collision course with a big tanker.
Skookum's problems had not disappeared and Captain Ben was constantly fixing some things and worrying about others throughout the trip. It's amazing how many different systems one relies on during a sailing journey- the boat rigging that keeps the mast and sails in place, the sails and related gear, the anchors and related gear, the engine and propeller and related gear, the electronics, plus all of the things that allow a boat to be a house, e.g. batteries, inverter, refrigerator, water pumps, toilet, plumbing, and on and on. In a best case scenario, constant vigilance and routine maintenance is required. But Skookum was not best case. A very well-made boat built by an acclaimed boatwright in the early 1980's, she had fallen victim to neglect in the 90's. Abandoned in a Florida boatyard for many years, she was mere days from being chopped up when Ben's friend traded an old Harley for her seven years ago.  Like an animal rescued from euthanasia at a shelter, she had been nursed back to health and made a tremendous recovery, but still had some intractable behavior issues. A few weeks past Nassau we were still many hundreds of miles from St. Thomas and the odds seemed stacked against us. Still, all that tended melt away as we served up heaping plates of sushi while slowly bobbing on a secluded anchorage, dripping from a swim in perfectly clear water and watching the sun dip below the horizon. The green flash remains elusive, but life, for the moment, is perfect.

Can you love a plastic bag?

These days plastic bags don’t get much love. If you look out the window of your car or bus, you will see plastic bags stuck in bushes and trees along almost every road in the world.  Right now, sitting on a dock in Nassau, I watch them float by constantly.

 A tangible symbol of a wasteful modern society, plastic bags have been replaced in some places by their reusable cousins, a sort of small tote bag made of canvas, or cotton or hemp or anything that is not plastic. These bags have found their way into our vehicle trunks and our kitchen closets, if not into everyday use. Some towns have even enacted laws banning plastic bags altogether.

Given all the understandable animosity, I must take a moment to sing the praises of a plastic bag. Not plastic bags in general, but one that I came to love.

It all began on a sunny afternoon in January 2009, in La Paz, Mexico. I was about to lead my first sea kayak guide training course around the islands near La Paz and needed a way to keep my sleeping bag dry. I purchased a roll of 15 white trash bags, heavy duty, designed for trash compactors.  One was destined for greatness.

I used the bag to line the stuff sack of my sleeping bag. With this system, you put your sleeping bag into the lined sack, squeeze out the air and twist the top of the trash bag tightly. Then, tuck the tail down in the stuff sack and cinch the stuff sack tight.  You have now created a nearly full-proof dry bag for something that needs to stay dry no matter what happens out there. It worked well on that 24 day Mexico trip, but that was just the beginning.

The trash bag traveled to Alaska, where it kept glacial water away from my sleeping bag even when a kayak hatch flooded. It went on backpacking adventures in the mountains of northern Canada, and made many return trips to Mexico. It went to the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro, not once, but eight times, ensuring each day that no matter what was happening outside, I have a cozy and dry nest to climb into by bedtime.

Once, in the wilds of Patagonia it was missing one morning after a ferocious wind the night before. “You’re missing your trash bag?” my companions asked, clearly not getting it. After a frantic 45 minutes I found it lodged in a tree (of course) none the worse for wear and tear.  Over the four- year period between 2009 and 2012, I spent more time outside than in. My work took me to four continents and too many amazing and wild places to count. Stuffing and un-stuffing my sleeping bag day in and day out, the humble trash bag never let me down. It actually outlasted two of the sleeping bags it was charged to protect, and several stuff sacks, with never so much as a tiny hole.

This winter I new the end was near. A bad smell had permeated my faithful servant, and then the first dreaded hole. After one last trip to the islands in Mexico where the great odyssey began, it was time to say goodbye. Not knowing what else to do, I threw my beloved bag in the trash It’s gone now, replaced by another compactor bag, but the lessons I learned from it live on. Recycling is fine, but lets not forget the part about reusing and reducing. If a simple trash bag can last four years and travel the world, what can this morning’s plastic iced coffee cup sitting on your desk do? How about bringing it home and starting a tomato plant in it?

In Oaxaca, on the hunt for mezcal

Many years ago I worked at a wonderful restaurant in the mountains of Colorado. It was a great job, with many perks. One was the sublime joy of skiing to work just as the lifts were closing, and stepping in to a cozy dining room filled with wonderful aromas and good friends. Another was the chance to learn about all manner of delightful food and drink.  The maître’d was a man named Stu, a charming, irascible, lewd, hilarious southerner with an encyclopedic knowledge of wine. One snowy Sunday evening Stu produced, with typical fanfare, three bottles of mezcal.  I knew the stuff vaguely, when someone came back from a trip to Tijuana or spring break in Mazatlan this was a typical souvenir. A yellowish, vile liquid with a resemblance to tequila, its only charm it seemed was the presence of a worm at the bottom.  But, this was completely different. The liquid was clear, the bottles had cool folk art paintings on them, and it was delicious! A really interesting beverage, kind of like a single-malt whisky from Islay- smoky, almost a touch oily, with deep flavors and a pleasant finish.  Moreover, each bottle was slightly different, supposedly reflecting the subtle differences in terroir and production methods between villages near the Mexican city of Oaxaca. I was hooked. Well, not exactly hooked, but I took notice and would seek out a fine mescal from time to time when the opportunity presented itself. I also resolved to one day track them down in their villages of origin.

Seventeen years later I finally made it to Oaxaca, and along with the moles, the tamales, the chocolate, and the fried grasshoppers, I was ready for my mezcal experience. 

Mezcal has come a long way since then. It’s been written up in food columns and travel pieces and is probably available in bars in Omaha and Biloxie. This has not escaped Oaxaca’s notice. All over the city center there are little shops dedicated to individual mescal producers. They resemble fancy clothing boutiques, with only a few bottles artfully displayed on shelves. My gateway mezcal, Del Maguey, probably took the cake, occupying a tiny, modern space between a fancy restaurant and an art gallery, where a fashionable woman sat behind a Mac book next to a table displaying all of their varieties available at the same hefty price they fetch in the US. One sunday we took a bus out to the village of Tlacolula, and after gorging ourselves at the wonderful sunday market, made our way to one of the mescal producers on the outskirts of ton. Despite what the tourist offer had said, there wasn’t much to see on a Sunday. A gruff woman poured a few samples of mediocre product and sent us on our way.

I had to be missing something. I was sure locals drank this stuff, and I was also pretty sure they didn’t buy it in a boutique. I scanned the shelves at one of the ubiquitous corner stores, appropriately called “miscelanea” in Oaxaca: Nothing. Then another, and another. Had the boutiques cornered the market? On the way back to our hotel I decided to check one more place, a little store just like the rest. I didn’t see any alcohol at all, so I asked the woman behind the counter: 

“Ustedes tienen mezcal?”

 She shot a glance at her husband, then back to me, and nodded slightly. 

“Cuanto quiere?” she whispered. 

No way! I’d found it, a mescal speak-easy.

 I kept my cool and asked “Es muy buena? De donde es?”

 She told me the name of the village, one well-known for producing fine mezcals and assured me it was very good. Her husband even fetched a sample from somewhere in back. It was delicious, just smoky enough, and very smooth. A liter was produced in a plastic water bottle, and the price was right. Soon I was sitting on the roof terrace of the hotel, sipping my elicit mescal and munching fried grasshoppers as the sun set over the distant Pacific.

On our last day in Oaxaca I found something of a combination between the corner store speak easy and the tourist boutiques.  A dilapidated old building near downtown the housed the Union de Palanqueros de Oaxaca”, the mescal makers union. Part museum, part enoteca, Kristin and I sipped a dozen different varieties of mezcal from traditional gourd cups, and had a lovely chat with Carmen, daughter of the union’s president., and a mezcal expert in her own right. We learned a bit about mezcal’s pre-columbian, history and the advent of the copper stills brought by the Spaniards. We tasted mezcal infused with various fruits and herbs and two rare gems: la olla, made in the ancient style using a clay still, and “pechuga” a famed, almost mythical mescal that is made using a raw chicken breast hung in the still. I’m not quite sure what the raw chicken does, but the stuff is really delicious. We tottered away into the afternoon sun with a few samples in tote.

So tonight I raise my gourd to Stu, to the mountains, to the resourcefulness of people everywhere who ferment whatever is nearby, to beautiful Oaxaca. Pass the grasshoppers. Salud!