Sir Captain Don
Guest
© AN ISLAND FOUND
May 21st 1962
12.4 X 68.2 deep in the southern Caribbean
May 19th 1962
God, it was dark. Spent lightning over the southern horizon illuminated the sullen squall clouds that dominated the entire southern sky. Traces of blue St. Elmos fire played along the port shrouds. The Valerie Queen had an exposed helm; her dodgers had long mildewed out, but the remains were catching the tops of the oncoming sea. Gaffs slatted and a loose pail hammered the bulwarks somewhere forward. I hugged my coat tighter and pushed back the hood. I was falling asleep, and I needed the full impact of the squall to wake me.
In the confusion I imagined a periscope then the phosphorescent trail of an incoming torpedo. Fish! I screamed and rammed the wheel down; scuppers filled and the deck went awash. Then another wave drove my ship deeper into the sea. I heard Percys body strike hard as it slammed into the high sideboard.
Hey, Concho! a voice rumbled from the engine room where he had been sleeping. Fish? Where da fish? I instantly awoke and spun the wheel back. The bow swung to windward, and the 20 feet of bowsprit resumed its hammering of wave tops. I was awake and felt a fool.
Percy stumbled to the deck mumbling nonsense, looked around, pulled his watch cap down. Then, tightly hugging himself, spoke to me, to the ship, possibly to the wind. Its cold. The glow of the running lights reflected on the pulling staysail. He glanced aloft and listened to the main gaff hammering at the thick copper mast plate,
I glanced at the compass, really not caring what it read as we sailed by the wind, not an old compass card. We had been driving east for several days trying for Trinidad. From there a left turn and the Leeward Islands were ours. It was Nelsons Harbor in Antigua we wanted. A try at chartering, or perhaps even a few sport divers coins to help fill the empty coffers.
My Valerie Queen was a ridiculously large ship for only a two-man crew, yet her size and initial slowness allowed more time to prepare her sail combinations. She had eight big, old, heavy sails. When all laundry was aloft, we looked like a vertical football field, and woe was us if I should ever miscalculate the weather or run into a squall that turned nasty.
This area reeked of history. I told Percy about the Inquisition flotilla that had sailed past here, Henry Morgan's army of plunderers, Black Beard, a Pirates history at every wave top. Percy's eyes grew as I related these yarns. Then he added, "Captain Blood, Douglas Fairbanks, and Errol Flynn." Percy dreamed of being a pirate. Plunder was not his interest as much as the excitement of a sword in hand, the tang of salt air, and fighting men at his command. The boy's eyes were forever searching for the elusive pirates tall ship out there amongst the horizon's billowy clouds.
The following morning May 20 was a blustery day at best with conical white caps in every direction; I was seriously considering shortening canvas when Percy spotted a little fat boat, squat and pig-like off our port bow. It was wallowing its way down the coast, then suddenly changed direction and was heading toward us on a course that would intercept us in about half an hour. Black soot spewed from its short stack, and it came on with green water sloshing over its bow.
Percy, quietly asked, " Coast patrol?"
I put the glass to her saying, "Not when its painted black and with no flag." I recalled another black boat off the coast of Baja California, a memory that jarred me awake. "You just might have your pirate ship now," I hollered at the boy.
They'll overtake us on our present course, I thought, or if we tacked, we would put ourselves in a position with no escape. It became very clear we had to run for it, and I had no intention of running down-wind, losing two days of up-wind progress. That fat boat was coming on as if there were no tomorrow. Of course, if I were right about them being pirates, there might not be any tomorrows for me or Percy.
Now was the time I wished for my old San Francisco bohemian crew. I shouted orders and then ran to make it so, as Percy and I hustled to trim the sails for a starboard reach. The schooner was invented just for such a position to the wind, with it coming over the shoulder so to speak, and the Queen flew. No little fat boat ever built, no matter how large her engines, could ever catch us now. Trinidad and Antigua were forgotten real estate.
My sloppy navigation caused a dilemma because I honestly didnt know exactly where we were. I did have a general idea of 50 miles this way or that so plotted a line that should bring us to within sight of a small Dutch island called Bonaire. Percy, when I told him of our new destination, simply shrugged, saying, fish is fish and all of dem is waiting for my spear.
We were losing light rapidly, and I was becoming concerned about possibly making a landfall in the dark. We had no idea what awaited us. Then Percys young eyes thought they saw a dark smudge on the horizon and was convinced he was looking at our new target. I felt otherwise as there was other stuff sticking out of the ocean around here. We were already bandit bait, and I had no intention of become a shipwrecked sailor too.
Percy wanted to press on, but I became a cowardly Captain and insisted we hove to, meaning we put our nose to the wind. We would harden sails and hang around out here in the open ocean till we got some morning light. The wait was horrible. I was so tired that I was stumbling about like a drunk and just couldn't stay awake any longer. Before grabbing some much needed sleep, I told Percy to stay dark, no beacon for the little fat boat to find us.
First light brought us sight of a distant mountain peak. Assuming it was the entire island, we put it well to the right and moved forward never dreaming that the real island lay far to the right of the peak. The island proper was so low in the water that you would never know you were there until your ship was a dozen yards up on the beach.
I was not prepared for the excitement of fetching the shoreline of this new place. A bathtub had rougher water compared to the lee of this island. I felt as if we were sailing through air. The sea was so clear that fish, coral and white sand patches seemed close enough to grab. Percys nearly wet himself with excitement seeing so many complacent fish just waiting for his spear.
Percy was the hunter. I was the voyeur and ached for the moment I could slide beneath the surface to what I saw as a most magical place. The wind was brisk and the sea was flat as we flew along this lengthy coastline. In the distance we saw the peak that we had first thought to be the island. To the right of the mountain, the land was flat and barren, strewn with bleached corals. Then came dirty little mounds of salt. Tall, colored obelisk-like things appeared every now and then and finally we rounded a point of land that exposed a vast bay which had a small village nestled in on the right. My glass showed an old fort and a stub like pier so it was for this place we aimed.
We cleared customs main pier in center of town at 1430 hours. May 21st. Percy struck the soiled yellow quarantine flag and some of the islanders came on board, eager to meet us and celebrate our arrival. We loved the welcoming carnival atmosphere, so different from other islands that had seemed eager to see the backs of us. With considerable luck we were able to coax a few revolutions out of our old engine, just enough to work our way up along the coast about a half mile, and there we anchored just off the place called Heit's Photo, at the insistence of Jules Heitkoning, a holdover from Bonaire's WW II internment camp. He strongly felt we should have a landing stage for our shore boat. It was only small landing, thrusting only twenty odd feet into the bay and missing just enough pilings to provide a little excitement. We set the hundred and fifty pound stream anchor on half-inch chain, a heavy sentinel of a hundred pounds for added security. The trade winds were constant and streamed across the island from the east.
The township looked neat and clean. I saw a strong Dutch influence and had never met such friendly people. They spoke Papiamento, similar to Spanish. I was told that the village was a former outpost of the Dutch West Indies Company.
The town stood on a plateau half a fathom above high water. The beachfront structures, houses, an old wooden bench, Heit's rickety old pier barely standing on worm eaten legs, a Fort, and the face of the dike were all still very sound and thus confirmed that no serious storms had ever struck this settlement from the West. Possibly this was the very reason the township came to be in this location in the first place. I knew we could sleep at night not fearing a sudden draft of air from astern. This place was a perfect anchorage
The knocking of a block against the tall mast, a call from high in the rigging of a chafing line, the groaning of a strained timber deep within the hull, all of the wonderful sounds of a healthy ship. A light swell gave my Queen an easy roll motion that sent her tall mast gyrating smoothly through the warm evening air where low altitude clouds had long given way to a clear, moonless sky. The chronometer lid was secured; my Queen was now at rest, no longer a free hull racing through deep seas. She fetched at her anchor, then once again settled calmly to a comfortable roll. She was happy in this place with a warm clean and translucent sea. The bay itself was a spectrum of shimmering blues, extraordinarily clear. As I looked down at the carpet of corals, I felt that this bay was truly a field of gold. The place instantly felt like comfortable old shoes. That evening I wrote in the ships log. May 21, 1962, 1430 hours. Latitude 12.10 north, longitude 68.17 west. Kralendijk Bay, Bonaire. Dutch West Indies. Still en route to Antigua.
Then, I decided to do what I call a word painting of our landfall. I had done this before before, but as I looked across the short span of water, I had the feeling that this place was unusual. I felt almost as if I were witnessing the birth of a land, new and pristine. I blinked and started to write.
"This island of Bonaire lies just over the horizon from the mountains of Venezuela. A small sparsely populated piece of land, crescent shaped, barely thirty miles in length, possibly born over 30 million years ago from a cluster of volcanoes rising up from the ocean floor. A buffer to the trades which streams from the east, its massive humpback has made the western shore a protected lee, and here is a magnificent glass like bay, flat and calm, limpid in appearance, a crescent displaying an extraordinary spectrum of shimmering blues.
End Part 1 of 2
May 21st 1962
12.4 X 68.2 deep in the southern Caribbean
May 19th 1962
God, it was dark. Spent lightning over the southern horizon illuminated the sullen squall clouds that dominated the entire southern sky. Traces of blue St. Elmos fire played along the port shrouds. The Valerie Queen had an exposed helm; her dodgers had long mildewed out, but the remains were catching the tops of the oncoming sea. Gaffs slatted and a loose pail hammered the bulwarks somewhere forward. I hugged my coat tighter and pushed back the hood. I was falling asleep, and I needed the full impact of the squall to wake me.
In the confusion I imagined a periscope then the phosphorescent trail of an incoming torpedo. Fish! I screamed and rammed the wheel down; scuppers filled and the deck went awash. Then another wave drove my ship deeper into the sea. I heard Percys body strike hard as it slammed into the high sideboard.
Hey, Concho! a voice rumbled from the engine room where he had been sleeping. Fish? Where da fish? I instantly awoke and spun the wheel back. The bow swung to windward, and the 20 feet of bowsprit resumed its hammering of wave tops. I was awake and felt a fool.
Percy stumbled to the deck mumbling nonsense, looked around, pulled his watch cap down. Then, tightly hugging himself, spoke to me, to the ship, possibly to the wind. Its cold. The glow of the running lights reflected on the pulling staysail. He glanced aloft and listened to the main gaff hammering at the thick copper mast plate,
I glanced at the compass, really not caring what it read as we sailed by the wind, not an old compass card. We had been driving east for several days trying for Trinidad. From there a left turn and the Leeward Islands were ours. It was Nelsons Harbor in Antigua we wanted. A try at chartering, or perhaps even a few sport divers coins to help fill the empty coffers.
My Valerie Queen was a ridiculously large ship for only a two-man crew, yet her size and initial slowness allowed more time to prepare her sail combinations. She had eight big, old, heavy sails. When all laundry was aloft, we looked like a vertical football field, and woe was us if I should ever miscalculate the weather or run into a squall that turned nasty.
This area reeked of history. I told Percy about the Inquisition flotilla that had sailed past here, Henry Morgan's army of plunderers, Black Beard, a Pirates history at every wave top. Percy's eyes grew as I related these yarns. Then he added, "Captain Blood, Douglas Fairbanks, and Errol Flynn." Percy dreamed of being a pirate. Plunder was not his interest as much as the excitement of a sword in hand, the tang of salt air, and fighting men at his command. The boy's eyes were forever searching for the elusive pirates tall ship out there amongst the horizon's billowy clouds.
The following morning May 20 was a blustery day at best with conical white caps in every direction; I was seriously considering shortening canvas when Percy spotted a little fat boat, squat and pig-like off our port bow. It was wallowing its way down the coast, then suddenly changed direction and was heading toward us on a course that would intercept us in about half an hour. Black soot spewed from its short stack, and it came on with green water sloshing over its bow.
Percy, quietly asked, " Coast patrol?"
I put the glass to her saying, "Not when its painted black and with no flag." I recalled another black boat off the coast of Baja California, a memory that jarred me awake. "You just might have your pirate ship now," I hollered at the boy.
They'll overtake us on our present course, I thought, or if we tacked, we would put ourselves in a position with no escape. It became very clear we had to run for it, and I had no intention of running down-wind, losing two days of up-wind progress. That fat boat was coming on as if there were no tomorrow. Of course, if I were right about them being pirates, there might not be any tomorrows for me or Percy.
Now was the time I wished for my old San Francisco bohemian crew. I shouted orders and then ran to make it so, as Percy and I hustled to trim the sails for a starboard reach. The schooner was invented just for such a position to the wind, with it coming over the shoulder so to speak, and the Queen flew. No little fat boat ever built, no matter how large her engines, could ever catch us now. Trinidad and Antigua were forgotten real estate.
My sloppy navigation caused a dilemma because I honestly didnt know exactly where we were. I did have a general idea of 50 miles this way or that so plotted a line that should bring us to within sight of a small Dutch island called Bonaire. Percy, when I told him of our new destination, simply shrugged, saying, fish is fish and all of dem is waiting for my spear.
We were losing light rapidly, and I was becoming concerned about possibly making a landfall in the dark. We had no idea what awaited us. Then Percys young eyes thought they saw a dark smudge on the horizon and was convinced he was looking at our new target. I felt otherwise as there was other stuff sticking out of the ocean around here. We were already bandit bait, and I had no intention of become a shipwrecked sailor too.
Percy wanted to press on, but I became a cowardly Captain and insisted we hove to, meaning we put our nose to the wind. We would harden sails and hang around out here in the open ocean till we got some morning light. The wait was horrible. I was so tired that I was stumbling about like a drunk and just couldn't stay awake any longer. Before grabbing some much needed sleep, I told Percy to stay dark, no beacon for the little fat boat to find us.
First light brought us sight of a distant mountain peak. Assuming it was the entire island, we put it well to the right and moved forward never dreaming that the real island lay far to the right of the peak. The island proper was so low in the water that you would never know you were there until your ship was a dozen yards up on the beach.
I was not prepared for the excitement of fetching the shoreline of this new place. A bathtub had rougher water compared to the lee of this island. I felt as if we were sailing through air. The sea was so clear that fish, coral and white sand patches seemed close enough to grab. Percys nearly wet himself with excitement seeing so many complacent fish just waiting for his spear.
Percy was the hunter. I was the voyeur and ached for the moment I could slide beneath the surface to what I saw as a most magical place. The wind was brisk and the sea was flat as we flew along this lengthy coastline. In the distance we saw the peak that we had first thought to be the island. To the right of the mountain, the land was flat and barren, strewn with bleached corals. Then came dirty little mounds of salt. Tall, colored obelisk-like things appeared every now and then and finally we rounded a point of land that exposed a vast bay which had a small village nestled in on the right. My glass showed an old fort and a stub like pier so it was for this place we aimed.
We cleared customs main pier in center of town at 1430 hours. May 21st. Percy struck the soiled yellow quarantine flag and some of the islanders came on board, eager to meet us and celebrate our arrival. We loved the welcoming carnival atmosphere, so different from other islands that had seemed eager to see the backs of us. With considerable luck we were able to coax a few revolutions out of our old engine, just enough to work our way up along the coast about a half mile, and there we anchored just off the place called Heit's Photo, at the insistence of Jules Heitkoning, a holdover from Bonaire's WW II internment camp. He strongly felt we should have a landing stage for our shore boat. It was only small landing, thrusting only twenty odd feet into the bay and missing just enough pilings to provide a little excitement. We set the hundred and fifty pound stream anchor on half-inch chain, a heavy sentinel of a hundred pounds for added security. The trade winds were constant and streamed across the island from the east.
The township looked neat and clean. I saw a strong Dutch influence and had never met such friendly people. They spoke Papiamento, similar to Spanish. I was told that the village was a former outpost of the Dutch West Indies Company.
The town stood on a plateau half a fathom above high water. The beachfront structures, houses, an old wooden bench, Heit's rickety old pier barely standing on worm eaten legs, a Fort, and the face of the dike were all still very sound and thus confirmed that no serious storms had ever struck this settlement from the West. Possibly this was the very reason the township came to be in this location in the first place. I knew we could sleep at night not fearing a sudden draft of air from astern. This place was a perfect anchorage
The knocking of a block against the tall mast, a call from high in the rigging of a chafing line, the groaning of a strained timber deep within the hull, all of the wonderful sounds of a healthy ship. A light swell gave my Queen an easy roll motion that sent her tall mast gyrating smoothly through the warm evening air where low altitude clouds had long given way to a clear, moonless sky. The chronometer lid was secured; my Queen was now at rest, no longer a free hull racing through deep seas. She fetched at her anchor, then once again settled calmly to a comfortable roll. She was happy in this place with a warm clean and translucent sea. The bay itself was a spectrum of shimmering blues, extraordinarily clear. As I looked down at the carpet of corals, I felt that this bay was truly a field of gold. The place instantly felt like comfortable old shoes. That evening I wrote in the ships log. May 21, 1962, 1430 hours. Latitude 12.10 north, longitude 68.17 west. Kralendijk Bay, Bonaire. Dutch West Indies. Still en route to Antigua.
Then, I decided to do what I call a word painting of our landfall. I had done this before before, but as I looked across the short span of water, I had the feeling that this place was unusual. I felt almost as if I were witnessing the birth of a land, new and pristine. I blinked and started to write.
"This island of Bonaire lies just over the horizon from the mountains of Venezuela. A small sparsely populated piece of land, crescent shaped, barely thirty miles in length, possibly born over 30 million years ago from a cluster of volcanoes rising up from the ocean floor. A buffer to the trades which streams from the east, its massive humpback has made the western shore a protected lee, and here is a magnificent glass like bay, flat and calm, limpid in appearance, a crescent displaying an extraordinary spectrum of shimmering blues.
End Part 1 of 2
