Today we relive Brian’s dinghy expedition!
It’s day 12 – we have sailed from Cooper Island to Leverick Bay on Virgin Gorda. The crew has gone ashore for supplies and returned minus the captain (still Roe- no mutiny as of yet) who is under a palm tree reading Don’t Stop the Carnival.
After a couple hours the radio crackles to life. The skipper needs a dinghy ride back to the boat. I look at Brian and give the command, “fire up the dinghy – the skip needs you, miboy”
Brian is a “special” tenant of ours and by this time in the trip we have grown accustomed to his bark-like noises, abnormal meal habits, strange hygiene habits, lack of clothing, habit of slapping his chest, Flailing himself with a t-shirt like a cow shooing flies, generally his overall weird behavior.
But the one thing that no one could accept was his indecision. When we said “Brian, pull the red rope” he would look at it and say “well… This one is kinda white with red stripes… I mean I could pull this one but I’m not really sure its red or…”
then he sort of rocks a little bit looking for approval.
“pull in the *&#$ rope!”
He puts his hands gingerly on the rope and stares at the winch around which it should be wound.
“Sit over there! #$@%%^&*&&*^^%$!”
Then someone would do his job as he fidgeted in his seat.
Now he is faced with being alone in a 12 foot boat (with an engine that stalls occasionally) in a harbor where the wind is lightly puffing out to sea. His mind is reeling with possible tragedies.
“Get in the dingy and go get Roe. You’ve driven the dingy with Jack in it. You know what to do. Get in and I’ll untie you when you get it cranked.”
“Ted – do you want to go with me?”
“Get in and go. It’s right there – 200 yards. You swam that far the other day!”
Rock, rock, rock. Nervous grin. Flail, flail.
“I’ll go” said Ted, fearing that his fraternity brother would die of starvation on the dock of a four star resort waiting for rescue.
They get in and, with Ted acting as ballast, they motor ashore.
As the dinghy comes back to the TI-COYO , Roe is standing at the bow (like Ponce de Leon in search of the fabled fountain) and Ted is sitting at attention (big smile on his face) on the center seat as Brian maneuvers the “greeeen moata dinghy” to the stern of the TI-COYO.
I stand to offer any assistance they may need and Roe holds up a foreboding hand. “Brian is doing this on his own – no help from anyone”
He successfully gets to the back of the TI-COYO and all passengers deboat (like how the stewardess has you “deplane”). Congratulations are offered to Brian and everybody settles down to a nice lunch of beans and rice.
Suddenly Roe “remembers” that he has forgotten bait and asks Brian to go back to the store and buy some.
Then he tells Brian to go get some bait.
Then he orders Brian to go get some bait.
“You’ve done it several times, I won’t accept no as an answer!”
Brian slowly makes his way into the dinghy and as he turns around to ask (for the nine hundred and fourteenth time) how to start the engine, Roe tossed him the painter and let him drift.
A look of panic came across his face and he couldn’t decide whether to :
1. Jump out of the dinghy and swim for the boat hoping that a giant tuna with rabies didn’t devour him on the way.
2. Try to throw the line back to Roe so he could hold on to it as he took 45 minutes to crank the motor.
3. Crank the motor and go to shore.
4. Just sit there until he reached Havana where Cuban whores would drag him ashore and fulfill his wildest dreams while sending him straight to hell for fornication.
We got the binoculars out and watched as Brian drifted off into history. There was the very real possibility that the tide would pull him across Blunder Bay and through over the flats by Anguilla point. The current would no doubt take him at 3 knots right into the Drake Passage. It could be days before we see him. if ever.
The wind was our hero that day. It blew from the north and carried Brian straight into the boulders of Blunder Bay. As he neared the rocky shore, some 35 minutes after drifting of our stern, he picked up an oar and used it to fend off the rocks. When he finally stopped he was a quarter mile from the nearest place to safely beach. We had anticipated him wading in three feet of water over the reef to the west Leverick dock.
He surprised us all and cranked the motor. He made it safely past the west dock over to the tie up by the fuel dock. After arriving he spent the next 14 minutes tying the vessel up. Then he rechecked his knot; looked at how the other dingies were tied; double checked his knot making sure that a hurricane wouldn’t blow it away as he went to the market; looked around to ensure no pirates were about; checked the sky for coming hurricanes; checked his knot; smiled, having full assurance that he had done it with no disasters.
As he walked off to the store he swatted himself on the back with his tank top repeatedly. He says it makes him feel “normal”.
A few minutes passed and I noticed the ease with which some young sailor secured his dingy to a different dock, some hundred yards away – funny how I didn’t notice him coming into the harbor.
Another ten minutes passed. Brian sure was taking his time getting bait.
Then Roe, who had been staring intently at the dock, asked “where’s the dinghy?”
A quick search affirmed it was not where Brian had left it. An easy look to the west dock confirmed my suspicion that whoever had tied that dinghy hadn’t come into the harbor with it. It was our dinghy – somehow it had come undone and drifted across the harbor!
to be continued…