Murder In The Mind

By Scott Dodgson


The sail from the Azores to Gibraltar is approximately 1000nm which translates into three and half days for my CT 72. Janice, my only remaining crew member was locked in her cabin sleeping off her hangover. After ten hours at the helm I was getting tired. I knocked a couple of times on her cabin door and received no response. I returned to the helm. I have sailed solo many times before so I set up a schedule for myself grabbing catnaps every couple of hours. I would sleep longer during the day. This way other vessels would be able to see me more clearly. I set the alarms on the radar so any ship coming within fifteen miles would set off an annoying buzzing. I decided to wait until morning to unlock Janice’s cabin door and see what was going on with her. She could be dead. I thought there is nothing I could do at this point other than take the body to Gibraltar, where they spoke English and since she was a British citizen they could do whatever they do with dead Englishmen. The thought was strangely comforting. The next morning was sunny and windy. I drove East on a reach with main and staysail reefed in a fresh thirty knot wind. The sailing was exhilarating and exhausting. A CT 72 is a big heavy beast. She moves well enough in light winds, but in big winds she seemed to gather a smooth and assertive momentum as if she were coming alive. I got a glimpse of Janice heading to the galley through the salon. I peaked down the companionway and saw her trying to force the liquor cabinet open with a dinner knife. I exploded with anger. “This was no time to go on a bender!” My experience with alcoholics was extensive starting with my father. There is no amount of yelling that changes their behavior especially when they are on a bender. My strategy is put them into a position where they won’t hurt themselves and anyone else until you can get as far away from them as possible. I know it doesn’t sound very compassionate, but at this point racing across the ocean in strong winds and building seas compassion is safety. I made her stand watch hoping against hope the fresh air might sober her up a little. I just needed a couple of hours of sleep downstairs and I would be fine to carry own. Another bit of information, anything that comes out of a drunk’s mouth is not to be believed. I made her stand watch. I checked the galley and found a two bottles of vodka hidden in the freezer. I went to her cabin and found two boxes of wine empty in the shower. I knew there had to be more hidden treasures but I was too tired and too pissed off to look. I threatened her instead. “I will throw you overboard with an anchor tied to your feet if you don’t shape up.” I meant it. The look of fear in her eyes told me she clearly understood I was capable. I laid down on the settee where I could observe her in the cockpit and watch my back. There is a big gap between wanting to kill someone for whatever reason and actually killing someone that is filled with hideous calculations. Could you actually do it? Could I get away with it? Would I be able to live with the moral grief of such an act? I woke abruptly from this insane nightmare and checked on Janice. I had slept for two hours. When I came on deck I found her drinking from a bottle of gin. I took the bottle and threw it over board. She wasn’t upset. She just watched it disappear into the wake. When she looked up at me her eyes told me she would happily follow the bottle if I ordered her to do so. I told her to go back to her cabin until we reached Gibraltar. I wouldn’t be a part of her insanity. Six hours later I could see the lights on the coast of Spain. The Straits of Gibraltar is one of the world’s busiest choke points for shipping. I chose to the hug the coast of Spain to avoid getting run over by traffic exiting and entering the Med. By morning the coast was in clear view. The sky was clear. The sun was very bright and I was motoring into a force ten gale.

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Am I Okay

By Scott Dodgson
Here is an excerpt from my new play Homeless in America. I'm starting production this summer in New York. An Artist's predicament? Comments would be very welcome.
PETER


You ask if I am ok, I don't know what that means anymore. My spirit is low, my heart aches, a depression has formed around me like a thick dark fog and my will is as brittle as a fall leaf. I don't have a desire to bring down more people who profess their love or kindness towards me. This may be my only noble act. There is hope on the horizon, success lies before me like a newly paved road, but I am bogged down in the rutted, stony mud of missed opportunity. My wheels have turned square with despair and my draft horse is sick and wants to lie down. I can only describe myself in metaphors as the truth continues to wield the battle hammer blow after blow against my fragile body. I am not well. Happiness is just an empty word. Despair is my cold rock. No I am not well. I am an artist and my art is the only lifeline to the world around me. The airs of confidence, joy and hopefulness I give only mask all that and more. I am only a man who has deluded himself into thinking beyond his station. Now the station has turned from a gilded dream to an abandoned shack crushed by time, withered and weather beaten and dilapidated. You ask why I don't turn to God. He will give my faith, but I have no faith in him. He has failed all of us to many times. Will he wipe away the fatigue in the legs of my draft horse? Will he rise up and pull straight and strong? Is it fair to give him blinders so he cannot see the sparrows and wrens that dance wildly amongst the summer flowers? What life is this? What hope is this? I am just a man beaten by life's game. It is just me alone on the road. It is just me crawling to my grave. It is just me buried beneath the earth like some strange experiment of futility. The only mark I have left on this world is the tracks of my bloody knees on the ice of my destiny.

Message On The Rock

Bt Scott Dodgson
By the time the grey light of dawn slipped across the little harbor in Horta I had drunk a couple of cups of coffee. I didn’t shift from or change my constant vigilance of the watch system aboard my boat. By this point in time I had only one crew member left on board, a sixty something drunken chef who locked herself in her cabin. So I gathered my little clay paint pots and set off down the breakwater to find my boat’s logo painted on the breakwater rocks. This was my third trip through Horta; the two previous trips were noted by date and crew list. I considered out of betrayal and anger to just put Janice down as the only crew member. I wanted to practice even judgment when it came to these circumstances. “Stay above the fray” I thought. So I painted their names and made a small notation next to their names “M” for mutineer. To this day I feel good about that “M”. My subsequent trips through Horta (another eight) I march my crew up to the rock to paint their names as a rite and honor pointing out the “M” and its meaning. I have never had a crew member abandon my boat since that trip.


Upon returning I tried to get Janice out of her cabin. She moaned and begged me to leave her alone. So having gained three days on my schedule I decided it was time to shove off. (In previous blogs I describe the goal is to reach Rhodes Greece to pick up a charter) With the aid of a couple fisherman I slid my 72 CT off the wall and into the center of the harbor. This being very tight a man in a dinghy helped push my bow around. He pushed just enough and with little direction to allow me to exit straight out of the harbor. I set course for the Straits of Gibraltar some 950 nm away. I figured I had maybe two or three sleepless nights at the helm ahead of me and once Janice sobered up she would give me a couple of hours of sleep. With little or no wind I motored for the next six hours, before I became very concerned about Janice.

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The Mental Hygientist

By Scott Dodgson
In celebration of my novel The Mental Hygientist becoming available on Amazon.com, Amazon Kindle, Ebook and MP3 downloads I want to share a little of the opening chapter.
The Lava Lamp


"I woke up abruptly in a sweat. I was dreaming about my life. I stumbled out of bed and looked for my gun. I am a smart guy, real smart, some say a little too smart for my own good. I forgot I had pawned it. I really need that gun."

Pete did not have far to go. A twenty-seven foot Ericson sailboat is not exactly spacious compared to his other boat a ninety-foot custom racing cruiser, but that was another time and this was now. He reached outside through a plastic tarp that covered the companionway for his Tupperware pot. Holding the pot with one hand and his dick with the other hand he pissed. He promised himself he would fix the toilet someday. This was the first promise of the day he would not keep. He coughed. His was a deep smoker’s cough. He filled up his electric pot with water and plugged it in. Next, he turned on his computer. After slipping on his jeans, shirt and flip flops, and after filling the coffee filter, he lit up the first one of the day. He coughed and puffed on his cigarette, until he sat in front of the computer with a cup of coffee. Pinned to the bulkhead was the yellow pawn slip. He looked at it carefully. He checked the date. It would have cost him less money just to hide the gun. This was his careful plan that not only respected the deadly nature of the gun, but also kept him from impulsively taking his life.

His dream kept a strong hold on him all morning as he went through his rituals. Middle- aged men are good at rituals. Although people were often surprised to learn his was fifty- three, they often scoffed at the stories of his life. Pete laughed inside when people would say, “That’s a lot to squeeze in.” “How can one person do all that?” It was true he looked younger than he was, and he was careful not to allow the experiences to age him with undo anxiety, yet emotionally he was exhausted and fat. He opened up his email. There was one message from the producers at Universal. He understood immediately why his dream was so frightening and disturbing. It was yesterday’s meeting. In Hollywood, old men like him do not often get a chance to make movies, unless of course they have been doing it for a long time. Pete did nothing for a long time, except dream. His first dream was to be a writer. He had written off and on all his life. Two months ago, he got a break when on of his screenplays was tapped for development. His hiding was over. It was time to face the music.
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Zeke Quesada called it one of the funniest novels I've ever read.
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Tradition of the Sea

By Scott Dodgson


I entered the Horta town harbor from the east. With the volcano to our starboard and a quaint but sturdy lighthouse to port the entrance is easy to navigate. The island of Fial has a population of 11,000 most of which lives in the charming town of Horta. I went directly to the customs dock. There is a large rather worn sign that is easy to see. The officials came out of their office and helped us tie up. The senior customs official greeted me with a big smile. This was my third trip to Horta and he seemed to remember me. I cleared customs and took fuel at the same time. My crew was very impatient. They already had changed clothes. It is always a pleasure when arriving in a new country, especially by sea when the officials are friendly. In my general and not so scientific study of Customs and Immigration officials U.S. are without a doubt the rudest and most unwelcoming organization on earth. Just my opinion, but a survey of Captains will support my conclusion. The Azores top the list of the most accommodating. We were directed to tie up side by side to the breakwater wall. With the traffic of transatlantic yachts I was lucky to get right next to the wall. I wouldn’t have to cross over other yachts to get to shore. The disadvantage was waking up in the middle of the night by a drunken sailor crawling back to his boat. We were finally secure. I turned off the motor and was stuck by the overwhelming silence. After thirteen days of wind and waves it felt as if I had stepped into a vacuum. I pointed out a restaurant across the harbor were we could all meet for dinner. I’m buying! The crew leaped off the boat a disappeared in an instant. I sat quietly in my salon and wrote in my log book. After taking a shower and changing I set off for the bar. We sailors do like rewarding ourselves. I intended to stay for two nights. I wouldn’t hesitate spending the summer going from island to island. If you are one of those been there and done that travelers go to the Azores. It is a magical place. The beauty of the islands is stunning. The people are warm and helpful. I likened visiting the Azores as stepping back in time to the fifties. The islands are unspoiled by the rampant tourism you find in the Caribbean or the South Pacific. Of course, I’m partial to Yachtie havens and Horta in the transit season is no different. Horta was filled with transatlantic sailors. When I met my crew for diner the bar was crowed and loud. It was perfect. I ordered a couple pitchers of the local tinta roja. By the second pitcher I felt a dark undercurrent in my crew’s mood. By the time our roast lamb and fried potatoes arrived I was experiencing a full on mutiny. David started by telling me that this adventure was a little more than he expected. He rationalized he had crossed the Atlantic even though as I pointed out he was a thousand nm miles short. Paul gave me a lame excuse that his family missed him and he had to return as soon as possible. I gave them a long and rather convoluted speech about respecting tradition which fell on deaf ears. They were afraid and had become tired of their fear. I handed them their passports and wished them good luck. There was nothing I could do as they were paying customers. They abruptly left to get their gear and catch the evening ferry to Lisbon. Mike, my first mate sheepishly announced he wanted his passport also, and that he too was catching the ferry. I was less generous and patient with him. I threatened that I would do everything in my power to make sure he never worked on a yacht anywhere in the world. Janice was leaning against the bar drinking shots. I went over to her and explained the situation. I decided to leave in the morning, out of anger and need to get to Italy and pick up my crew. She said she was ready. That evening as the ferry left for Lisbon I stood high up above the town with its sweeping vistas watching as my mutineers sailed. I questioned my leadership. I asked myself what I could have done differently. I came to the conclusion that without the leverage of military service I was impotent. From now on I would only hire sailors who respect the tradition of the sea.

http://www.azores.com/

Discovered

By Scott Dodgson
I have received several inquiries from people who have recognized my name asking if I was the screenwriter who wrote Anna Nicole Story, Paris Hilton, The Pat Tillman Story, even a few who were aware, I don’t know how this is possible of my work with Louis Malle and Motown. I admit I am that guy. I was asked what I’m working on when I’m not sailing. Truth be told I have my own production company Day Worker Productions which produces feature films. I am also in a number of partnerships with Latin Beat Media, Nasser Productions and Project8films. At this moment I am putting together a four film slate in one investment pool. The films all written by yours truly are Jack Apple, Dirty Movie, The Fisherman and The History of Water all share the same independent/European film sensibility. This series of intelligent films is directed at the smart audience. I have found that there is a large segment of movie goers who have tired with the commercial fare and have stopped going to the theater. Once while in Antibes France on my boat I had a conversation with Luc Bresson a famous screenwriter and mega European Producer about his effort to take the French or European sensibility of film making and lean it toward the American audience. (La Femme Nikita) I being an American writer having lived in France for many years have wanted to make American films that lean toward the European sensibility. The one great advantage to sailing is the fascinating and sometimes powerful people you meet. I could make a list but I won’t bore you I’ll let it come out in my future blogs on my adventures sailing in the Med and the Caribbean. So I’ll add, and humbly so if anyone has interest in making great films send me a note. Tomorrow I’ll return to the Azores.

Knowing the Unknown

By Scott Dodgson
Let’s consider knowledge for a moment. There are three ways of looking at knowledge; those things you actually know, like driving a car, a good recipe for chicken, or baseball. Then there is a rather large category of subjects you are aware of but don’t know, Chinese language, nuclear science or metaphysical poetry. Then there is an even more expansive category of all the things you have no clue exists. Finding an island in the middle of the ocean after twelve days of sailing is a little like experiencing all three categories at once. I know I’ve been sailing to a point in the ocean. At first the crew was confident I would find the island. In the middle of the voyage they spent a good deal of time checking the chart and questioning my grasp of navigation. Near the end was a near panic that we were somehow lost. So on the morning of the twelfth day at sea I spotted what looked like a stationary cloud in the direction of our course. Without betraying my discovery I surveyed the crew. David, my retired businessman seemed to be hunkered down as if he were counting the minutes to go home and escape his cubicle. Janice seemed completely unaware and I suspected drunk. Paul seemed tortured by loneliness and longing for something I was not quite sure and Mike, my so called first mate was brooding. Every conversation I had with him since he fell asleep at the helm was strained and uncomfortable even though I had repeatedly told him everything was cool. I spent a couple of moments privately enjoying my accomplishment of finding the Azores. I quick note the Azores have been called the lost islands for hundreds of years because they had been discovered and lost by the Portuguese, Spanish, English and French. I lifted my binoculars and saw the hazy outline of Mount Pico rising nearly 8,000 feet. One degree to port laid Horta our intended destination. I asked Janice what she had planned for dinner. She replied the last of the salad, soup and fish. I announced it would not be necessary to cook tonight as I would be buying the crew dinner in Horta. With this announcement excitement and relief flooded the crew’s emotions. They had crossed from what they knew to what they were aware of and now stood face to face with an island they really didn’t know existed.








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The Captain of Time

By Scott Dodgson
Long before time ruled our modern life, dicing it into seconds, minutes and hours; commuting, train schedules, appointments, lunch dates and meetings. Before clocks became standard household items, before wrist watches, pocket watches and bell towers, even further into the past when church bells and the call to prayers became the increments to measure our life by, our ancestors measured their time by day and by night. Time as they experienced it was a matter of distance. “Today I will plow the field.” “At dawn I will start and at dusk I will stop.” “After plowing twenty rows I will eat lunch then finish the final twenty rows and come to dinner.” Life was measured in distance. On board, except for the chiming of the ships clock the crew slipped into this strange and unfamiliar way of living. They would check the chart to see how much distance we covered. They would ask what I estimated our time of arrival was. Those who started the voyage standing watch in the dead of night were now rewarded with an evening and morning watch. For the crew there was ritual and watches. Four hours on then eight hours of rest, marked by three well cooked meals and a variety of snacks, personal hygiene time reading time, movie time (I owned a large collection of movies) and the occasional strike of fish on the fishing line we had been trolling with across the Atlantic. For me as the Captain I was in a hurry. I want to plow the field before noon. I have a greater distance to travel. There was not a moment to lose. I am the force of commerce. Time is money. Distance is an obstacle to be conquered.

Of Joy and Triumph

By Scott Dodgson
The struggle between body and mind was never more apparent after four straight days, no 96 hours of pitching and rolling. When you find a secure position lodged between a bulwark and hull you hang on. For the last few hours the wind clocked from the abaft to beam as the low pressure raced relentlessly past us. The roar of the wind in the rigging was deafening. The rushing sound of the ocean passing over the vessel’s hull was thunderous. These epic sounds were occasionally punctuated by a rogue wave slamming against the hull as if someone were driving telephone poles against it. It was startling. Thirty-five knot winds, twenty foot swells and six foot waves wind waves made every second of those hours a test of stamina. I was very happy to be making good way. In fact my overt cheerfulness led the crew thinking I might be little nuts. Truth be told I love this kind of sailing. These are the hours of joy and triumph. My confidence in my vessel was unshakeable. I am constantly reminded when standing at the helm, the sails full and straining from the wind, the great rise of the vessel as if the sea were lifting it to the heavens, that in this place thousands of miles from land that other mariners had passed from Columbus, to the Jack Aubrey’s, to the modern ships of commerce. I was free and in control of my destiny.


As morning broke the darkness with its dissolute grey, the sea laid down as quickly as it had risen. The crew was relieved. Our foul weather jackets came off as the sun struck through the haze. A reminder of the cathedral we call earth. Flying fish littered the decks. Seagulls passed over head curious to see this moving island. We spotted a couple of merchant vessels on the horizon. Everyone was tired, but assured we had come through the worst. I was not so sure I longed for another low pressure or a really deep high pressure. I wanted wind and plenty of it. I might have made up two days on my schedule; however I could lose them just as easily. I was happy to on the sea.

Wind and Will

By Scott Dodgson
There are two great forces on the ocean the wind and the Captain’s will. Taking a line from Captain Jack Aubrey in the great historical fiction series by Patrick O’Brian, “There is not a moment to lose.” The Captain drives the crew and his vessel to one purpose moving forward to the next port. “… not a moment to lose” serves not only as a mantra to everyday discipline on board but supports the bulwark of faith and discipline in the Captain’s leadership. Those crew members who lack their own inherent will and question the Captain’s goal of a safe passage will fall prey to their fears and short comings as citizens and men to jeopardize the vessel when rough seas and foul winds pose the obstacles to success and safety. We spent three days with fair weather and calm seas. With nothing more to do than stare at the horizon and record our progress in the log book I learned a great deal about my crew members. I must note that I as a Captain do remain guarded when discussing my life or psychology preferring to communicate with stories and parables to imply lessons learned and failed with the hope that even a mildly perceptive person will get the gentle message. Unless you are in military structure people bristle at being ordered to do something. To successfully accomplish molding a modern crew that listens and obeys without hesitation, the Captain must let it be known that his will and security is their will and security. It was apparent very soon after we left Antigua why Mike my first mate was the last man standing in English Harbor. He was an inciter. An inciter is a gadfly whose sole purpose in life is to create conflict and doubt in authority, no matter how kind and gracious that authority may be. His sailing competency was average, but his social skills excellent; unfortunately he had begun his inciting with David my charterer/club sailor. David was in his early fifties and had received an early retirement from a large chemical company. His sole purpose for making the passage was to test his mettle. Through my observations and over hearing hushed conversations, I sensed Mike was sowing doubt in David about his safety on board. David was an office man who slid through his working career by keeping his head down and allowing the natural attrition of other employees to aid his advancement. I have to give him credit for taking on an adventure of this difficulty, but in retrospect he made a foolish decision. I countered Mike’s political moves by teaching him as much about navigation and ocean sailing with the hope he would gain a new found respect for the knowledge. It was not to happen. Mike took the knowledge and became more emboldened in his perfidious plan. An unconscious plan I might add. It was just his nature. Paul the other charterer/club sailor was quiet and consciousness man in his early thirties. His purpose for being on this crossing was to give him something to talk about with his father and grandfather who apparently had many sailing adventures. I suspected he was disappointed by the three days of uneventful sailing, beautiful sailing. Janice, elderly chef seemed right at home and cooked us some great meals no easy task given the vessel’s natural pitch and rolling. However I did notice one problem with Janice. My wine supply seemed to be disappearing rather quickly not from the front of the rack but from the back! At two in the morning I was fixing a coffee when I heard a change in the sound of the rigging. I dropped my cup in the sink and run on deck. Mike was asleep on watch and the autohelm had turned off and we were floundering. Worse yet, the wind was starting to pick up velocity. With a full moon rising in the east and turbulent angry clouds racing overhead the moon was soon lost above the deepening cloud cover. I quickly set the course and engaged the autohelm. Mike was apologizing profusely, but I would have none of it. Now was the time for action and seamanship. It was time to bend the will of the wind to the will of the crew. We dropped the 150 Genoa and replaced it with the normal 100 Genoa. I reefed the main and the mizzen. This was all tough work requiring we be attached with safety harness. The remainder of the crew came on deck and helped where they could. I give a quick succession of orders which the crew executed flawlessly. In the dim light of the cockpit, I surveyed the faces of my motley crew. Their doubt was replaced by confidence. Once my boat had gained her legs and was running before a freshening twenty-five knot wind and rising seas, I explained this is the reason you are here.

The Watch

By Scott Dodgson
Having made two round trips from San Diego to French Polynesia by way of Peru and Hawaii, four round trips to Hawaii, one round trip from San Diego to Australia and this being the beginning of my third round trip from the Caribbean to Turkey I have settled on a watch system of two over lapping four hour watches per crew member. The first hour of their watch they will be accompanied by a crew member serving the last hour of his watch. The middle two by themselves and the last hour with a new crew member just coming onto watch. As the Captain I don't stand watch but always rise and sit with each crew member during their middle two hours. The ritual is when a crew member comes up for watch he fixes the watch captain something to eat and relieves if he needs to go to the head or just walk around. The activity and conversation keeps both crew members sharp. My visits in the middle of their watch help break the long two hours and it allows me to check out our position, trim the sails if necessary and other wise keep an eye on the entire process while teaching them about ocean sailing. During the daytime hours most of the crew is up so the two hours alone really never happens. It's during the night hours from midnight to morning that most problems occur for some unknown and mysterious reason. So I tend to rest more during the day than at night. Once the routine is established it is just a matter of covering the miles and in this case 2500 nautical miles as quickly as possible. I am four days behind schedule. These precious four days are my cushion days, so I can still make it on time to pick up my charter in Rhodes Greece. I still have five rest days built into the schedule and with an inexperienced crew they will definitely need them.
I set the main, mizzen, staysail, and my magnificent 150 Genoa in search of the Westerly's some 600 hundred nautical miles NNE. The crew's mood was happy with a touch of trepidation.

Crew

By Scott Dodgson
I woke early to the clammer of suitcases being closed and dragged over my deck. My loyal mate/girlfriend was hurrying to catch a flight to London. As a Captain I was familiar with the constant turn over, but watching her leave left me a empty. She was going to London to join friends fo a month of European back packing. I put her in a cab and that would be the last I would see her until Italy. I checked the message board and found that my trusted first mate Tim, left for London the day before to attend to his sick mother. He wrote a long and apoligetic letter promising to join me as soon as possible in Greece. The other two crew members left on another boat. I went to the Nicholson Yact charters to find a replacement. They have always been kind to me. Since the Antigua race week was over the pickings were slim. I hired a 60 year old woman, Janice as chef. She had spent years sailing with her husband. She was not my first choice, but my only choice. I found one experienced sailor, Mike who seemed kind enough, but my "Don't trust him" meter was going off with a flashing yellow light. When I returned to my boat I found my two charter crew member, club sailors waiting with their sea bags and anxious to go. I checked out with the customs house and took the boat to the fuel dock where I would top off. While my inexperienced and unfamiliar crew were settling in I got a coffee in a little cafe off the fuel dock. I sat at an outside table and studied my boat and comtemmplated the next fifteen or so days at sea. This was not what I wanted, but I felt I had enough skill and experience to get us safely across. My thoughts were interrupted when I was asked where I was going? Eric Clapton sat down beside me and introduced himself. He was my idol since Cream. It was the very first concert I had ever seen. I told him I was going to Greece. He smiled and wished me luck. Wow! I finished my coffee and boarded my boat. "Let's go!" The crew looked at me with surprise as if they weren't expected us to ever leave.

Sweet Antigua

After a rather uneventful journey from Grenada, the site of Antigua on the horizon was a welcome relief. There are two harbors, Falmouth and English harbor both provide an excellent anchorage and are close to services, I choose English Harbor because at the time this was where the only fuel dock lay. If you never visited Antigua you will quickly realize this is the capital of yachting in the Caribbean and formally the way station for the British fleet during Lord Nelson's time. I'll dedicate a blog to Antigua at a later date when I share my experiences on Antigua race week and the Antigua Charter boat show on my return to the Caribbean. For the moment, my story is filled with urgency to cross the Atlantic! I need to top off my water, fuel and food. Most importantly I need to find my crew and my two club sailors who will pay my expenses. But first an aside about Med mooring. America sailors are generally clueless about dropping an anchor and backing up to a quay and docking their boat. I have witnessed more than one calamity watching an inexperienced sailor crash into million dollar yachts, fouling anchor chains and generally pissing off everyone on the dock. So please practice where you won't do any damage. A couple of notes on how to achieve a smooth docking and impress your neighbors with your boat handling skills. Be prepared! First secure your sails before you start this maneuver. I can't tell you the number of times I've seen a crew member racing around the deck in a panic only to trip over the sails. Put fenders out on both sides of your vessel, especially where the boat is at its widest. Prepare your lines. You will be passing the loop end to the dock. Don't expect the person standing on the dock to be able to tie a knot for you. However, some quays only have heavy iron rings and no bollards, don't worry, you will have to get the person on the dock to pass the line through the ring and toss it back to you on the boat. It is a bit more complicated but I'll get to that in a moment. He or she could be a tourist walking off three bottles of wine in the fresh night air so don't expect much and don't yell! (Been there done that). With your dock lines coiled on the aft deck and the loop passed under the rails, tie a Monkey's paw (fist)to the loop. What you say? A Monkey's paw is a three inch round ball of line attached to a light throwing line. It gives it weight to toss the line. Now I've always taught my mates to coil the line in their left hand in a counter clockwise way making a loop of about eighteen inches making sure to give the line a quarter twist as you set it into their palm. Coil about thirty feet of line with the Monkey paw on the outside of the coil, then divide the coil in half the Monkey paw in your right hand, now you are ready. To throw the line mimic a golf swing. Turn your shoulders and follow through. The line will drop out of the bottom of the coil while the monkey paw reaches the dock. Now the mate is prepared but what about the Captain? First no yelling, it shows you don't have confidence and will only confuse the mate. If you have a remote anchor switch at the helm life will be so easy! You can control the vessel as it makes way to the stern, if not your mate will have to operate the deck switch. Hand signals are perfect for this situation. "Thumbs up. Thumbs down. A fist to lock the winch" Now moving parallel to the quay pick a spot where your dock lines will run straight off the corner of the stern to the bollard or rings. Drop the anchor. English harbor is about twenty feet deep so I let out about a two to one ratio roughly 35 yards from the quay. When you feel the anchor hit the bottom let out a another fifteen feet and stop. Turn the boat and start backing up. A note: most sailboats have props that will pull you to one direction either left or right, take the prop out of the equation. Once you begin moving backward feather the prop just to keep you moving. I find it is easier to steer in reverse if I turn my back to the helm. While backing up you will feel the bow pull a little. Use this to keep the boat on course. Signal the mate to drop a little more anchor chain. The weight of the chain will stabilize the bow. When you think you have sufficient rode out to reach the dock with out the rode rising out of the water and stopping you dead signal to your mate to lock the winch. You should be about ten feet from the quay. They can walk back pick up the tossing line and launch. The person on the dock can reel in the line and place it on the bollard. In the event you are dealing with rings they can pass the line back through the ring and toss the line back to the boat. At this point you should be eight to ten feet from the quay. If they are completely incompetent use a boat hook to reach the line. If the line falls helplessly into the water, calmly pull it out. Captain don't panic and don't use the prop! Now with the line tied off to the dock and the boat go back to the winch and tighten the chain. The boat will be perfectly aligned. Put out your passerail, jump off and kiss the ground. Now using two more lines make a cross left to right and right to left for your spring lines.
Make sure to thank your crew for the good work and to immediately forgive any transgressions, it will make life easier in the future.
Tomorrow more.....

White Squall and Greasing the Wheels

About twenty miles North of Trinidad the water turns from a deep green to blue. The green is from the Amazon 900 miles away. A factoid of amazement! After a sail of some seventy miles I guided my beauty into St. George the capital of Granada for fuel. At the entrance stood bombed out buildings from the Reagan invasion as it is refereed to here. The Colonial buildings are all black and grey built from volcanic rock. I followed the buoys into a very shallow lagoon which my charts and guide books assured me I would go a ground. I don't trust them because most of the surveys were done in the nineteenth century and a lot has changed. I was reassured when I spotted a very large brig tucked in the corner of the lagoon where I surmised the fuel dock lay. "Surmise" is the right word as I have been fooled before by the large ship in shallow lagoon before. Let's say if you haven't grounded your boat you probably haven't sailed enough. Eventually it will happen to you. Just ask Dennis Connors. More on running aground and the fire drill that accompanies that disaster later. In any case I saw a man standing on the foredeck of this great ship and bellowed in my best seaman's voice, "Where's the fuel dock!" He frantically began crossing his hand across his throat. Was some sort of pirate skulduggery going on? I bellowed again and this time he put his finger to his lips and shushed me. Not very friendly I thought. I called the St George Yacht club on my vhf and got nothing until a taxi driver answered and guided me into a slip. A slip I might add was ten feet too small for my boat. My new bow sprit pointed ominously over the deck of a new power boat inches from his glass doors. Five dollars later I was standing in front of the customs official to check into the country. This went well until he informed me the fuel dock was closed until four o'clock and I would have to see the official minister of fuel and get a paper before I could buy fuel. You have to love it or you will go insane. When I returned to my boat I found a crowd of Hollywood types huddling. I knew what they were from my work on two films before I decided I needed to get some air. They wanted to shoot on my boat for their movie, White Squall. Sorry, I'm late. After several attempts to change my mind by increasing the price to rent my boat, which by the way I was surely tempted. They left to tell the director the bad news. While I was waiting for the Fuel Minister I drank a couple of beers. I should note my appearance. I wore a raggedy pair of shorts stained with grease and teak sap, a ball cap and ponytail. I hadn't shaved in a week and I couldn't remember the last time I took a hot shower. I was still covered with yard dirt and sawdust from the yard. A man walked up to the boat wearing a big Plantation hat, shorts, flowered shirt and shades. "This your boat?" I initial response was to grab my money clip. "Yeah." "We're shooting a movie over there and I thought it might be a good idea if your boat was in it." "I'm busy and late. Sorry I can't help you." "Where are you going?" "Turkey." He gasped a little looked over the boat from stem to stern. He took off his glasses and I recognized it was Jeff Bridges. "You're the real deal?" Just then my mate wearing a bikini top and a sarong popped out of the companionway with two beers. He took one look at her and nervously lifted his jaw off the dock. "Dude, carry on!" "I will and with alacrity." I tossed him a beer. We sat in the cockpit for the next hour swapping stories about Hollywood and sailing, before I had to go see the Minister of Fuel. I left him talking and drinking with my flattered mate never to see him again, except in the movies.
As it turns out the Minister of Fuel and the customs agent were the same guy. He could have told me! I took a seat in his other office in front of a big desk. On the desk was a little church bank with pictures of the congregation and a little sign reading "Donations Accepted. God Bless!" By the time I had seen the donations sign he was telling me it would be impossible to get fuel today or any other day in the foreseeable future. Now! This is very important information! Don't plead. Don't get angry! Don't curse his piss pot country! Don't bring up Reagan! Just smile and say I'm so sorry I was misinformed. The start stuffing that little church with bills until you hear the pounding of a stamper on your documents! Keep smiling! Wish him well and get out of the office before he realizes you only put ones in the bank!
We left St. George about 7 o'clock passed the outer bouy and turned North for Antigua full of fuel, a freshly painted bottom, dazzeling bright work and a rough looking but sturdy bow sprit. A note when sailing the windward islands stay in the lee of them. In the lee you'll enjoy smooth seas and a steady wind making the experience of sailing euphoric, but once you reach lands end be prepared to reef as the wind is funneled around the island and the seas are angry for a little while until you reach the next island.

Sprit from Hell

To reset the scene, My yacht is resting on the hard, while a crew of painters work on the bottom paint and a crew varnishes the top sides. Sitting on four horses is my great log waiting to be fashioned into a beautiful new bow sprit when a message came to me that I received a wonderful three week charter in Turkey for top dollar! The problem was I had to be in Rhodes Greece to pick them him in 33 days. A quick calculation if I may. I had roughly 6000 nm to cover. My vessel covered approximately 350 nm in 24 hours making a straight trip 18 days. That is if everything including the weather was perfect. However, I would have to make a couple of stops. 2 days in Antigua to pick up my crew and supplies, 2 days in the Azores to resupply and rest, 2 days in Gibraltar at the mouth of the Med, then 2 days in Palermo Italy for fuel and supplies leaving me four days of leeway before the guests stepped on board to begin a three week cruising vacation. I'm tired just thinking about it! First I had to get the old bow sprit off the boat, fashion the new one then replace it and tune the rig! I had just three days to do it before the window closed and I would be late and anger the guests and the broker. Ouch!
This was a time before cellphones and the internet so we relied on a message board system. I called the crew agency in Antigua and had them post a notice for my crew that I would be arriving a couple days late but not to worry. I had also arranged for two new crew members/Charterers actually to join me on the crossing. I always booked a no frills adventure charter for sailors wishing to get a crossing under their belt so they could brag to their yacht club members that had crossed the Atlantic. They paid to be crew and were treated as such. The money covered my expenses for the crossing. Smart? Yes and no.
I employed a forklift to take down the old bow sprit. I idea was in spite of my extensive measurements I would have the original as a template to copy, but when the forklift went to turn the old bow sprit fell off nearly killing the bottom painters and shattered into three large pieces. All the king's men couldn't but this rotten stick together again! Undeterred and feeling reinforced in my decision to change the bow sprit, imagine if this broke in the middle of a storm in the Atlantic and my rig came tumbling down, I forged ahead still confident I could make my deadline.
With every bargain comes some kind of problem. Those of you that have worked with teak know it is a very hard and oily wood, but what I didn't know was green teak was nearly impossible to work. Armed with a chainsaw, circular saw, a full compliment of awls, scrappers, chisels, drills and 1.5 hp router I was impotent in the face of green teak! With the clock ticking and my window closing I cut, chipped, scrapped and cursed my way to fashioning a workable sprit for two and half days. I fore swore rum and lived on coffee, roti chicken, fried plantains and candy yams while I worked into the wee hours of the morning.
Finally on the third day, I had reassembled the bow sprit onto my yacht, even adding a couple of extra turns on the port spider stay to compensate for sun coming from the South as the next month sailing would be east and I didn't want the sprit to look south. Rushing around like a mad chicken, which I might add roam the shipyard with impunity, the lift dropped my baby into the water. It was time to leave Trinidad. I only wished I could have spent more leisure hours on the island. I thanked the guys in the shipyard, who were wonderful and set off for the fuel dock to top off with some cheap diesel fuel before making the run to Antigua, but the fuel dock was closed for repairs! I would make a quick stop in Grenada for fuel and be on my way!
Tomorrow White Squall and greasing the wheels.

Good Friday, or any Friday is a great time to tell a sailing story. Easter always marked the end of the Caribbean chartering season. The season runs from Thanksgiving to Easter. I was based for many years with my CT72 in the British Virgin Islands, I eventually moved to Saint Martin because of the incredible hassel from the US Coast Guard. (More on that in other posts.) After completing a mind boggling 12 to 15 week long charters, (More on chartering in other posts) it was time to prepare my yacht for the Atlantic crossing to Europe, sort of my vacation time since when I would arrive I would do the summer charter season in the Med, primarily Greece and Turkey. Although there are many fine fine shipyards (Tortola) and Chandeliers (Saint Maartin) and skilled craftsman in the Caribbean I was driven because of cost to curiosity to sail to Trinidad. Trinidad provided low cost labor, inexpensive parts and expert craftsman. I'm sure it has changed but a day laborer cost twenty dollars a day, a whole chicken 27 cents and a full glass of rum for the cost of a coke. However the year I'm thinking about I had a very good reason to go to Trinidad, Teak! For sometime I had been watching my bow sprit deterorate. On the CTs the bow sprit is a solid twenty feet long and a foot square. It is made of furniture grade Mahagony. It was painted so I couldn't see the extent of the dry rot. I checked the prices in Miami usually the cheapest place to buy lumber and discovered to my chagrin a piece of lumber that large would cost me $15,000 to buy and ship. Ouch! So after waving bye to my new best friends after giving them the vacation of their life and the scattering of most of my crew I set off for Trinidad with at least one loyal crew member. I always enjoyed the trip of roughly 550 nm. The boat was quiet. It is an easy reach. Set the sails turn on the autopilot and sit back and enjoy the journey. Usually I was under a bit of a time constraint so stopping was out of the question. If you want to have fun you need to get your work done first.

Being Easter, the shipyard wasn't fully staffed. I got the boat on the hard took a deep breath and caught a taxi to the Teak Mill in the mountains. I'll write more about Trinidad, but if you want a facinating and beautiful vacation don't hesitate. After about an hour ride into the mountains I came to the largest teak forest in the western hemisphere. With the blistering hot South American sun beating down I talked the forman into letting me buy my log. I searched through piles of cut logs and finally found the perfect one fro my bow sprit. We stepped behind a shack and began negotiations. It would be a cash transaction with the proceeds going into the forman's pocket. I was reminded this was illegal several times as he furitivily looked over his shoulder. He agreed to mill the log into a one foot square and arrange for a truck to bring it to the shipyard later that afternoon. The cost $600 dollars and $25 for shipping. Beautiful!

Tomorrow I'll continue with the story.