Ancient Mariner Mel

The engine had clapped out in my thirty-nine foot Buchanan sloop Mary Poppins. I was living in Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic when it gave up the ghost. I arranged for a new one to be installed in Tortola, British Virgin Islands.

 

At Cappy’s Bar, I announced my intention to head for Tortola in the hope of attracting a couple of able-bodied hands to assist on the voyage—a thrash to windward of some four hundred miles.* Not many sailors enjoy going to windward—especially at sea with the bow constantly crashing into the waves and sending sheets of spray aft into the cockpit.

Those at the bar who’d had any sailing experience—the ones I wanted—smirked into their beers and politely declined. The only taker was old Mel. Actually, he wasn’t that old, simply decrepit. He’d brought himself to this state by an abominable lifestyle. He smoked like the proverbial chimney and the amount of grog he poured down his gullet on a daily basis shamed my weekly consumption. The only exercise he gave himself was elevating a glass or a cigarette to his mouth.

In short, as a crew member Mel promised to be worse than useless. But he was a friend so I couldn’t reject him. My principal concern was that he might follow the example of the engine and snuff it during the voyage.**

So off we sailed. Mel’s legs were rather flimsy so he spent little time above decks. For most of the voyage he wallowed in his bunk nipping on one of the many bottles of rum with which he’d provisioned himself. When it came time for a smoke, he’d press his legs to their limit by climbing onto the lower step of the companionway and poking his head out the hatch. But he never complained about the violent pitching of the boat, and during the four-day voyage, never once became seasick.

We arrived at the western part of Tortola on a Saturday afternoon. I figured we’d anchor there for the weekend then head to the main port—Road Town—on Monday. The bay into which we were headed is called Soper’s Hole.

In the old days, Soper’s Hole was a hangout for pirates. The wind invariably blows from the head of the bay, funnels through the high sides and out the entrance. This meant that the King’s (or Queen’s) ships would have a difficult time tacking into the bay with the wind on the nose—especially if the pirates were blasting away at them with cannon—while those ships in the bay could run out with the wind behind them.

Approaching the entrance, we came into the lee of the land so the seas flattened out. Under these relatively placid conditions, Mel was able to hoist his carcass up the companionway steps and into the cockpit.

I had only two headsails at this time—a number one genoa (a big bastard of a sail), and a storm-sail (a little twerp), and no roller-furling. The bay is always packed with moored boats and it is deep. To anchor, I would have to tack through this marine parking lot, right up to the head of the bay, race forward to the mast in order to drop the sails then get the anchor over the side.

Mel, I knew, would only be a liability during this operation, so I stationed him out of the way aft of the cockpit with a very tall cocktail. I then disconnected the self-steering and headed into the breach. “This will be a little tricky,” I warned him.

Well, back and forth we tacked. Most of the time I steered with a foot on the tiller while winching in the big sail. I’d no sooner get it fully in than we’d have to tack again and I’d have to haul the sail in on the other side. Sometimes, maddeningly, the position of a moored vessel would make it necessary to lose ground.

By the time we got clear of the moored boats and into shallow enough water for the hook to be dropped, I was lathered in sweat and absolutely beat. Racing forward I dropped the sails, and with my last bit of strength managed to get the anchor over the side.

When I finally staggered back to the cockpit Mel was just tipping the last of the cocktail down his throat. “Well,” he said, “that wasn’t so difficult after all.”

*For landlubbers: Tacking to windward means travelling about twice as far as the crow flies   because the boat cannot go directly into the wind but has angle into it.

**Against all odds, Mel didn’t snuff it until many years later. He was a passenger in a car being driven by Well Dwiller Dwayne (Dwayne’s company dug water wells). When Dwayne asked Mel a question and failed to receive a reply, he discovered that Mel had finally gone to his reward…or otherwise.