Rob and the Bottle of Bourbon

My friend Rob could be a contrary sod at times—merely for the sake of being so I suspect.

It was my birthday and we were half way across the Atlantic in the twenty-six foot westerly Centaur sailboat. The wind had died to almost nothing and the sails slapped around as the boat rolled languidly on an undulating sea of bright blue.

“Why don’t we have a celebratory drink since it’s my birthday,” I suggested.

Rob and supper

“What have you got?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Nothing. But you’ve got a bottle of Bourbon.”

“I don’t feel like a drink.”

“Then how about shouting me one,” I said, hoping to stoke some sense of camaraderie in the crew.

But my effort was in vain. “It’s a new bottle,” he said. “I’d rather not open it.”

“Then I’ll buy it from you—how much?”

“A hundred dollars.”

“WHAT? You only paid forty for it.”

“Mid-Atlantic price,” the rotter replied with a grin.

I wasn’t about to back down at this stage so I bought the wretched bourbon, poured myself a good slug and offered him the bottle. “I told you I don’t feel like a drink,” he said stubbornly. “And besides,” he added self-righteously, “you’ve always maintained that it’s not a good idea to drink at sea,”

“It’s a pond,” I said, downing the glass and pouring myself another. I’m not particularly fond of bourbon but having just forked over a hundred dollars I determined to get my money’s worth. In short order I managed to get through over half the bottle and was overtaken by a sense of euphoria.

Westerly Centaur

It was a hot day so I decided to cool off with a dip in the ocean. “There could be sharks,” Rob suggested gravely with a shake of his head.

Ignoring his warning, I plunged over the side and began thrashing away from the boat. Rob pulled the sails down, started the engine and came after me. “Get back on board,” he yelled, repeating his warning about sharks.

But did I care about sharks? With a gut-full of bourbon I was invincible - I could have ripped the fins off them. “You’re only worried because you can’t navigate,” I shouted back before turning and ploughing away once again. This was before the advent of GPS so navigation was by sextant - Rob didn’t know one end of a sextant from the other.

This time he simply followed me until I ran out of steam, then helped me aboard wearing a smug grin.

Back on board, I collapsed into my bunk and slept through the afternoon and night, awaking the following morning with a head full of hammers. Rob spent the day smirking at my discomfort.

Throughout the remainder of the voyage I lived in hope that he’d ask me for a nip from the remainder of the bottle…but the bastard never did.

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.

Flash, Crash & Splash

I lived in Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic off-and-on for some eight years. As a tourist you see one side of the place—as a resident, it’s totally different. Odd things occur….

But then again, maybe it’s not so much the place but rather in the makeup of those who move there from other countries. As the saying goes, the ex-pats who live there are either, ‘wanted or unwanted’.

Perhaps because most of us slotted into this category we tended to behave rather carelessly—drinking way too much, riding our motorcycles too fast and generally having a cavalier attitude toward life and death.

All of us had nick-names because surnames were not always known. As in old English times, these generally had to do with a person’s occupation. I was Pepe Pete because I ran a chain of donut stores called Pepe Postre. There was Tile George, Carpenter Pete, Lettuce George and many more.

Three of the lads managed to acquire new ‘aka’s’ over the course of one week. Here’s how it happened:

The first came by his new moniker because he worked for American Airlines. Whilst sheltering from a storm under the wing of a plane it was struck by lightning, knocking him unconscious. Otherwise none the worse for wear, he was subsequently known as Flash!

Crash was Jim Hastie. He didn’t suffer any personal harm but his Volkswagen Beetle was demolished. The vehicle was innocently parked on a wide road when a drunk driver walloped into it. And because Jim had parked facing the wrong way, he was charged with something or other. The drunk who slammed into him got off with a modest fine.

Donuts in D.R.

Splash had previously been referred to as Zingara Joe. He lived on, and occasionally ran, an old rust bucket of a freighter called Zingara. His mode of land transport was a BMW motorcycle which he parked beside a stack of timber on the dock. This pile of wood had, for whatever reason, remained where it was for a number of years.

But during the fatal week, while Joe was guzzling rum at Cappy’s Bar, someone decided to move the pile of timber closer to the edge of the pier.

When Joe left the trough he was on automatic pilot. He weaved his way to the pier, pulled up beside his woodpile and flipped down the kick-stand. When he leaned the bike over the stand juuust missed the edge of the dock. Joe and the bike plummeted ten feet to the surface of the water—where Joe was dropped off—then the bike carried on for another thirty-odd feet to the bottom.

As he bobbed around in the filthy water of the harbour, somewhat disorientated, Joe felt a weight on his shoulder. He turned to find a huge water rat perched there looking similarly bemused. It was subsequently determined that the rodent had made its nest in the seat of the bike.

Joe told me later that he’d been amazed at the quality of the wiring on the bike. When he finally managed to clamber back onto the dock, he looked down to see his headlight still shining.

The Knotty Boys & Rum - Mutiny in the Air

The Knotty Boys are a loosely formed group of friends from Toronto, Canada. Every year, when snow lay thick on the ground, they would drag their fish-belly-white carcasses south to somewhere in the Caribbean for a couple of weeks on a chartered sailboat. My impression was that they were in it more for the rum and story-telling than the wind on canvas bit.

Nine Knotty Boys on one of their voyages-Pat in green shirt

As a prelude to the voyage I’m about to relate, on one of their adventures I’d arranged to meet up with them in Antigua. I was somewhere down in the Leeward Islands aboard my thirty-nine foot sloop Mary Poppins at the time, and they’d chartered a boat in Tortola. Antigua was about the half-way point.

I was monitoring their progress by phone-calls to one of the wives as I sailed north. According to her information, a storm had brought winds of near hurricane force to the area and the Boys were holed up in Virgin Gorda, some twenty-five miles from their starting point.

So I was forced to battle my way some four hundred miles up through this ‘hurricane’ to Gorda. By the time I got there a few of the lads had abandoned ship and were comfortably ensconced in a hotel—most of the time gulping down rum punches at the Tiki Bar.

Cut to a couple of years later when I was living in Coconut Grove, South Miami: I get a phone-call from Pat, one of the Knotty Boys. “Can you find us a cheap boat near where you are?”

There were not many charter companies operating out of Miami, but I managed to find one in Biscayne Bay. After looking at whatever pictures I sent up, Pat and his parsimonious friend, Paul decided on the Viaven, a 45 foot motor-sailer owned by an outfit called Easy Sailing. She was not the best-looking vessel at the marina, but then you get what you pay for.

By the time I picked up the five Knotty Boys at Miami airport, the rum consumed during the flight had transformed them into ‘Old Salt’ mode. Lots of ‘Arrrrrs’ and other vaguely nautical expressions being bandied around freely.

The boys were not overly impressed with the Viaven. Her picture proved far more alluring than her reality. Kind of like a blind date as Pat put it. But after some grumbling from the rest of them they threw their bags aboard and headed for a nearby bar.

As more rum went down, disenchantment with their ‘date’ increased and someone organized a switch to a 51 foot Beneteau berthed alongside the Viaven. Late that night, they staggered back to the dock and moved their bags and bodies onto the new vessel…in the nick of time as it turned out!

Next morning they awoke, bleary-eyed to discover that the Viaven had gone to the bottom. All that could be seen of her was a mast poking out of the water.

Late that day they cast off and set course for Nassau. Being a democratic bunch, all aspired to be in command simultaneously. This particular voyage would highlight the inadvisability of such an arrangement.

Well, the wind piped up that evening and remained gale force for two days, unfortunately blowing from the direction in which they were heading.

After the first night, the engine gave up the ghost, leaving bits and pieces of itself scattered around the bilge. Then the headsail blew out. Shortly after that something happened to the mainsail, rendering it all but useless.

According to Pat there was a good deal of sea-sickness, along with considerable dissention over navigation—perhaps a contributing factor in their ending up in Freeport (a hundred miles east-north-east of Miami and a long way from Nassau) and it taking them three days to get there.

Apart from the stench of sea-sickness during much of the voyage—the rank odor of mutiny also hung heavily in the air. But what had perhaps been the Knotty Boys’ undoing now came to their rescue—with five captains and no crew, mutiny was out of the question!

On the second day, the ominous form of a ten foot shark was spotted riding the waves, apparently eying them hungrily. I suspect however that he was simply paying his respects—Pat being a lawyer.

So, three days after their exuberant departure, a battered and subdued ship-full of Knotty Boys arrived at Freeport. But in their haste to put feet on dry land, they missed the harbor entrance and had to be plucked from the jaws of a coral reef by a tug.

According to Pat, “Several attempts were made by mechanics to repair the engine but to no avail, so we abandoned ship in Freeport. We didn't charter with Easy Sailing again.”

The return voyage to Florida enjoyed greater success. The Knotty Boys took a cruise ship.

A Scoundrel in Uniform

My buddy Captain Clam called one evening to announce that he’d just delivered a fifty-five foot sport fisherman to its new owners and been offered the job of permanent captain. “They’ve got another boat—a seventy-foot gin palace—and they’re looking for someone to run it. I’ve arranged for you to meet the owner tomorrow.”

“I’ve never driven anything bigger than a fifty foot sailboat,” I protested. “I don’t have a clue about power boats.”

Clam--the good-looking one is Lobster

“They’re easy,” says Clam. “We’ll take her for a spin tomorrow. You’ll get the hang of it.”

I wasn’t really looking for a job at the time—I’d made a bunch of money on the futures market and considered myself semi-retired. But I figured this thing might be a bit of a laugh with Clam and me working together.

So the next day I showed up at the address he’d given me in Boca Raton, a ritzy enclave on a network of canals north of Miami. I always considered it an odd name for such an upscale location—Rat’s Mouth in Spanish.

To me, a sailor, the boat I was supposedly taking over seemed like a floating house. Fortunately Clam was there to assist in the starting of engines and other stuff powerboats required.

As we cleared the dock with me at the wheel, I was flanked by Bill—one of the owners—and Clam. The canal was narrow with huge houses and expensive boats on either side. A lot of damage could be done here.

Up ahead, the canal dead-ended. Obviously the vessel had to be turned around. I spun the wheel and very little happened. Clam leaned into my ear and mumbled. “Use the throttles.”

This gem of enlightenment saved the day. With reverse on one engine and forward on the other, the thing turned easily on its own length.

Having changed direction, I frowned professionally and spun the wheel a few times to show that, prior to the turn I’d been merely testing the rudder system.

So I got the job. Bill and I went to his tailor who made up a snappy uniform for me.

Most of the time, the work involved steaming up and down the intra-coastal waterway ferrying a bunch of drunks from bar to bar. At times, I must confess, I wasn't far behind them.

One time when Clam and I were headed up the intra-coastal to West Palm Beach where we were to meet a bunch of freeloading bankers and their wives, I spied a familiar dark blue catamaran up ahead. I looked through the binoculars and who should be at the helm but my old friend Rob from Gibraltar. I quickly changed into my uniform.

Towering above the cat, I began to crowd my old shipmate to the edge of the canal as I leaned on the horn, occasionally darting out to the bridge wing to scowl at him from under the peak of my hat.

Camera-shy Paul and Rob

Poor old Rob didn’t know quite what to do. Being a bit of a scoundrel himself, he was always a trifle nervous around uniforms.

I finally let him off the hook when Paul, who owned the cat, emerged on deck. Once they recognized me there were hoots of derision directed at my mode of dress—neither of my old shipmates had seen me looking so ridiculous.

Rob came aboard for a couple of beers and a bit of a catch-up then Clam and I had to scoot so we could tie up and get the boat ready for our cruise.

Dusk was just coming on when the guests began to arrive. I stood on the dock by the gangway greeting them as they boarded.

Much as I detested this part of the job, I tended to give it my best. I could usually manage to dredge up a compliment for the wives and something vaguely ribald for the fat, balding husbands.

As fate would have it, my old buddies on the cat had chosen this particular marina to spend the night. As soon as they saw me—again bedecked in full uniform with a smarmy smile pasted on my face—a bray of coarse laughter erupted.

The bastards manoeuvred in close so there was no mistaking who Paul was pointing at when he shouted out, “Lawson, you f-----g wanker!"

Being Americans, the well dressed group of bankers and wives clustered around the gangway at the time probably didn’t understand the meaning of ‘wanker’. But the preceding expletive made it abundantly clear that I was not being complimented.

Disaster Dick at the Helm

Many, many years ago, while supposedly being educated in Australia, I had a classmate by the name of Richard Burt. We did a lot of stupid things together.

Richard lived in a huge old house overlooking Little Sirius Cove in Sydney Harbour. It was a great place to hang out in—because of its size mainly. We could get up to all kinds of mischief without close proximity of adults. And being on the water, it had a dock…and boats.

Richard didn’t need me around to get into trouble. Earlier on, he’d taken one of his parents’ cars for a joyride and managed to hit a power pole. The car was still driveable, so he slipped it back into the garage with the faint hope that the blame might fall upon other shoulders.

Me and Richard in a school photo

Alas, his hopes were dashed within minutes of the damage being discovered. In his haste to distance himself from the vehicle, his wallet had slipped from his pocket and onto the floor of the car.

Not long after this incident, the neighbour’s dinghy was sent to the bottom when a large boulder landed in it. Richard told me later that he’d been in the vacant lot adjoining his house and had simply wanted to roll the boulder into the bay. But as soon as he dislodged the thing, it found its way into a groove and went trundling over to the neighbour’s dock.

After each of these little adventures, Richard was allowed no visits from friends for a few weeks.

Once his privileges had been restored however, he was soon back to his old tricks.

I was at his place one afternoon when we found the spare keys to the second car and decided to put them to use. Neither of us saw too much risk in messing around with the vehicle as long as it remained within the garage: back it up a little, go forward—practice our clutch-work.

How could any harm come of this?

With the house being situated on such a steep incline, the garage—supported by concrete pillars—protruded out over a courtyard. The street was a cul-de-sac so there was virtually no traffic, and the stairs leading up from the house to street level were clearly visible from beside the garage.

While one of us stood watch, the other was free to hone his skills with gears and clutch. Before long though, we began to broaden our horizon by reversing the car to the far side of the road then driving forward into the garage—nice and slowly of course, taking no chances.

But youthful exuberance led to competition. The challenge was to pass through all the gears, accelerating in each in an attempt to get into fourth before reaching the wall of the garage.

After several unsuccessful attempts, Richard finally managed to get into fourth. A triumph!

But his achievement was not without cost. He was a tad late with the brakes and into the wall of the garage he went. By sheer luck the car stopped before plunging into the courtyard below—and by luck again, no one was in the courtyard when half a ton of bricks went crashing down.

I legged it up the road while Richard took off over the fence into the vacant lot next door. His plan was to get down to the water, climb back over the fence to the boathouse and engage in some innocent aquatic activity.

Unfortunately for Richard though, as he leapt over the fence, his father—who’d been summoned by an urgent phone call from the main house—was exiting the boathouse and the two of them met.

After this one, it was some time before Richard was allowed to entertain guests. But as before, when his time was done, things went back to normal.

A sunny Saturday afternoon some weeks later found Richard and I whipping around the cove in a little wooden runabout with an outboard engine. Richard was at the wheel when he spied his father on the dock, dressed in a pair of shorts.

“Watch me soak the Old Man,” he chirped gleefully. And with that, he zoomed up toward the dock as if to pass it by a couple of feet. But as we approached, he threw the wheel hard over, intending to produce maximum spray.

Well, he not only managed to drench his father, he also flicked the stern of the vessel into the corner of the dock, causing the transom and outboard to part company with the rest of the boat. Under the searing gaze of a dripping Mr. Burt, Richard and I, still seated in what was left of the vessel, slowly submerged.

Mr. Burt didn’t say a word. With a firmly clenched jaw he just shook his head, turned and jogged up the steps toward the house. Perhaps fleeing the temptation to whack the two of us over the head with an oar before we made it to the dock.

An Odd Pair

I’ve forgotten the exact date, but it was a few years ago: I happened to be in London when I heard through the grapevine that there was to be a re-union over Christmas of a number of my friends from Canada who’d begun their lives in Wallasey, a suburb of Liverpool in Northern England .

Bondy

About a week before the mob was due to descend, I discovered that my old mate Bondy (from the fiasco at Club Arroyo Hondo in the Dominican Republic - related in a previous blog) was already in Wallasey—his home town. So I headed north.

We hadn’t seen each other in a while so we had a bit of catching up to do, an activity which invariably involved lengthy sessions at various pubs.

Well, by the time the rest of the lads began to filter in I was beginning to show signs of fatigue. But my old mates from Canada—who I also hadn’t seen for years—couldn’t be neglected. I had to keep stepping up to the plate.

At this point we were all bunking in the rambling expanse of Dukey’s attic: He’d been brought up in this huge, kind of run-down place and the Ducal manor was the inspiration for the Duke’s nick-name.

Anyway, as soon as the local pub opened at midday we were there. When it closed around three, we’d head back to Dukey’s attic for a nap.

We’d wake up, eat a huge meal; prepared by Mrs. Duke and ‘Aunt Jude’—a mysterious woman reputed to have worked with the French resistance during the war—then head back to the trough. It was a rigorous daily routine.

I’d been in Wallasey perhaps two weeks when I decided I couldn’t take this punishment any more. So one night, during the height of the revelry, I quietly slipped away from my friends and made my way to the railway station.

“I want a ticket on the train going the furthest distance from here in the next half hour,” I told the ticket-vendor. Peering at me rather oddly, he sold me a ticket to a place called Fishguard.

I fell promptly asleep on the train, waking up a couple of hours later to observe stations with names like Tywyn and Aberystwyth.

The next morning we stopped a mile from the town of Fishguard so I had to walk through the pouring rain until I found somewhere to stay.

“Ahh,” I thought. “Peace at last,” when I’d checked into a B&B. I dried off in front of a radiator and plunged into bed where I luxuriated until around seven that evening.  After supper I thought, “I’ll just slip out for a pint, have a brief chat with the locals, then head back for an early night.

Dukey, Simon, Paul, Me

Of course, as the mythical ‘they’ might be inclined to quote, “The best laid plans…” the ‘pint’ inevitably led to another and I met a bunch of interesting locals.

The point of the story is that the two landlords of this particular pub were best friends despite the fact that they’d fought on opposing sides during WW11.

I don't recall the British partner’s name, but he’d been a naval captain. The other was Heinz, who had been a Stuka pilot. Heinz spoke perfect English but with a strong German flavor.

On the walls of the pub were pictures of the British captain—his ship—his crew, mingled among photos of Heinz—beside his Stuka—with other German pilots.

Chatting with the British partner one afternoon, I learned of an incredible coincidence. A couple of weeks previous, Heinz and a traveling customer were talking about the war and it turned out that the customer had been a ship’s captain in the Med.

When he told Heinz the name of his ship, Heinz had replied, “Ah. I vos the vun who sunk you.”

Rather than taking a swing at Heinz however, the captain shook his hand. Apparently, once he’d disabled the ship, Heinz had circled around in his Stuka until everyone had left in the life-boats before dispatching the vessel to the bottom. The two ex-adversaries ended up the best of friends.