Caribbean or Caribbean . . . Whatever

With a destination dead into the wind, we motored out.

Fewer than four nautical miles later the engine gave up. Of all the times for a fuel pump to misbehave!

Skip then had to alter course to catch the wind right for tacking. As a result, we weren't too far off Vieques, another island, when it became obvious that the tropical storm had been badly predicted. For one thing, she was eleven hours ahead of schedule, which meant that we could never make it to Culebra in time. For another, the radio was blaring that gusts were already above hurricane force on Vieques... that all craft was ordered to remain in port.

Now you tell us! The waves were more than whooping it up between the islands, and a well-meaning Coast Guard helicopter circled above us in case we needed help. That only added to the turbulence, and, regretfully, we motioned them away.

A particularly violent gust tore out our jib, which left us trying to tack with only the main. Not easy! If you think it can't be done, though, you haven't counted on the force of such winds against our rectangular, wooden masts.

However, we had no control over when we could perform the maneuver – had to let nature pick the time for us. Once swooped to the crest of a monster wave, with a ninety-some-mph gust blasting us simultaneously, we'd swerve precipitously forty-five degrees in another direction.

Experts always advise heading for the open ocean if caught under such circumstances. You can see the logic; even as terrifying as those waves are, it's less disastrous to crash into a wall of water than to be driven full speed onto solid ground, or more likely, jutting rocks.

Lack of predictable steering, though, left us no way to thread between islands and make it the mere ten miles to the Atlantic.

Our reefed main ripped next, and absolutely the only steerage left was the wind on the Aguila’s masts; aesthetics aren't the only reason to prefer Sitka spruce over polished aluminum.

What about our storm sails? Man! I can tell you haven't been out there under such conditions. There is just no way Bob could safely have clipped himself to a life line, sloshed his way forward through the ton of water pounding on deck, unbagged canvas from the locker, and hoisted it. The wind would have ripped it from his hands. Several husky young shipmates working together might, or might not, have handled it, but this old crew? No way.

And thank St. Elmo, we didn’t try. Two days later, with our heads finally on straight, we realized that the storm jib was back at Rosy in the dock box.

Oops!