Eventually, George called us on the three-dollar-a-minute boat phone to tell us that Cathy had been x-rayed, probed and prodded, and finally declared fit for the rest of the vacation. I believe the actual diagnosis was that there wasn’t anything anyone could do for at least two weeks, so as long as Cathy didn’t participate in any nose-endangering activity, she could resume her post as cook on Spice of Life.
When we casually mentioned the news to the folks at the Palm Island Resort, there was great rejoicing. They began to plan immediately for meeting her at the Union Island Airport.
At the appointed day and the appointed hour, a very well dressed staff member arrived alongside our yacht in Palm Island’s "good" launch – the one they reserve for paying guests. Liz and I were helped aboard, and we headed for Union Island at a pace that was considerably more pedestrian than the trip of a few nights before.
As the three of us stood waiting for the plane to taxi to a stop, our new friend from Palm Island seemed almost unable to contain his excitement. When a very bandaged Cathy finally walked off the plane, our friend ran forward and embraced her as if she were a long lost relative. Cathy’s reaction included shock, happiness, and an intense desire to protect her sensitive proboscis - pretty much in that order. We were returned to Spice of Life, where we bid farewell to our Palm Island hosts, raised anchor, and pointed the bow to the sea.
The following week was the idyllic island adventure that we had hoped for. We visited Tobago Cays, a wonderful shallow anchorage surrounded by small islands and reefs. The water was so clear that we could easily see our anchor. There we met the locally-famous Sydney Dallas - part-time boat boy, entrepreneur, tee shirt maker, and general great guy.
We worked our way north to Bequia, where we were allowed an audience with Athneal Olivier, known worldwide as "the last whaler". Athneal regaled us with stories of whaling from a small boat, and showed us the tools of his trade. He even told us about being dragged deep underwater when the line to a harpoon became snagged on his boat. The event was immortalized in a painting entitled "Athneal He Cut the Boat Free", which he proudly showed us. His bravery and quick thinking saved his life and the lives of his crew. All at the tender age of 63.
As our adventure neared an end, we regretfully pointed Spice of Life toward Grenada once again. We estimated that our return trip would take three days. Since we would be returning over the same route that we had taken north, we thought the trip would be somewhat boring.
We were very wrong.
First, you have to understand about sailing in the Caribbean islands. These places are countries, each with a flag, a capital, and bored customs officials. Sailing between islands requires knowledge of country borders, and clearing customs between the various principalities. For sailing between St. Vincent and the Grenadines, and Grenada, a boat has to "clear out" at Union Island, sail down to Carriacou, and "clear in".
Our plan was to sail down to Chatham Bay, a little anchorage on the backside of Union Island, to spend the night. Early the next day we would sail around to Clifton Harbor on the other side of the island to clear out. We would still have time to spend the rest of the day sailing south to Carriacou, where we would clear in Grenadan customs, find a nice anchorage and consume some local delicacies.
We arrived at Chatham Bay to find it empty of other yachts, and there was much rejoicing by the crew of Spice of Life. Everyone's dream of sailing in the Caribbean is to find deserted anchorages, cheap local rum, and conch salad.
Chatham Bay was a bit "rolly" from storms far out in the Atlantic, and as we moved into the anchorage we could see waves breaking on the beach. For safety, we anchored way out from the shore in a place where the rolling would have the least effect our boat. By the time the anchors were set and the bartender had broken out the daily grog, it was late afternoon. We all settled down with our drinks and a rousing game of dominoes.
Anyone who knows George will tell you he can be restless at times. Our game of dominoes left George longing for an exploration of the beach. After studing a map of the island, he announced that there was a small village up the hill, and that he was going to take the dinghy to shore, hike to the village, and return with bread and other delicacies for breakfast. We looked up from our drinks and our game, and wished him a safe trip.
Barely saying goodby, George grabbed a knapsack, jumped in the dinghy, started the outboard, and headed for shore. I picked up the binoculars just in time to see him riding the surf to the beach, where he lept from the dinghy and tied it to a nearby palm tree. Just as I was thinking that he needed pull the boat out of the surf, George appeared to think better of his mooring job, pulled the boat up on the beach, and retied his line.
As our first mate disappeared into the woods, the crew of Spice of Life settled down to enjoy the rest of the day. Visions of breakfast omelets danced in our heads. Outside of the bay we could see a small line squall forming and moving our way. As we closed hatches and moved our domino game below decks, we hoped that the brief shower wouldn't dampen George's spirits as he climbed the path to the grocery store on the hill.
As afternoon gave way to dusky evening, our enthusiasm for dominos waned and gave way to concern about George's return. Between rain showers I stood on deck with the binoculars, trying to see any sign of our friend on the beach. Finally, in the dying light he emerged from the woods, backback obviously full to the brim with local delights. As he strode down the beach he appeared content and happy.
Then he stopped. He appeared to utter words, and then ran to the dinghy. The tide had come in, and the stern of the small boat was riding in the water. He waded into the water, and appeared to utter words again. He moved around to the stern of the dinghy, and then looked up. Our eyes met through the binoculars. He pointed to the stern of the dinghy.
The outboard was gone.
George reached into the surf and picked up our waterlogged outboard. The bouncing in the surf had caused it to drop off its mountings and sink into the sand. No amount of pulling would start it again. George would have to find another way to get the dinghy back.
The oars, of course, were safely tied to the deck of Spice of Life.
As darkness fell I got one last view of George through the binoculars. The meaning of his look was unmistakable: Come and Get Me!
There are many examples in history of ship captains being called to greatness. Ernest Shackleton saved his crew by sailing a small boat across the wild Southern Ocean, Capt. Bligh took his crew across thousands of miles of Pacific in an open lifeboat...
All I had to do was swim to shore with a couple of paddles. A long way. In the dark. Through rain squalls.
Bravely I donned a life vest and flippers. We tied the oars together to make them easier to handle. I slipped into the water and the oars were handed down. I struck out for shore.
You have to understand that while I love the water, I'm not the worlds strongest swimmer. I marvel at people who go down to their local pool and swim "laps". I would probably marvel at myself if I swam a "lap".
I'm sure my swim was only 15 minutes or so. It seemed like hours. Somewhere between Spice of Life and shore, a really heavy rain squall came through the bay. What little visibility I had of my destination was obliterated by heavy rain. I started wondering if I was swimming in circles (I do it on clear days, why not now?). I started wondering what my waterlogged body would look like when it was found floating somewhere offshore, still bravely grasping a pair of oars. I could see the headlines, "Dead Man Found With Oars, Coast Guard Baffled About the Whereabouts of His Boat".
I was awakened from my swimming delirium by the sound of surf and the scrape of my knees on the sand. I'd made it! I'll live a clean life from now on! I'll never drink again! Until tomorrow. Well, maybe this evening as a little celebration. Anyway...
George and I quickly baled the water from the dinghy, mounted the oars, and pushed into the surf. The rain squall had finished, and we were anxious to get back to Spice of Life before the next one. It was not to be.
Another rain squall roared through Chatham Bay. Visibility was reduced to zero. We had no idea where we were, and more importantly, where Spice of Life rested at anchor. In the excitement, none of us had thought to turn on the anchor light. Our yacht was hidden in the darkness and rain, somewhere in the bay. I thought about shouting, but the rain was so loud that there was no way that voices could've been heard.
And then...LIGHTS! Like they were reading our minds, Liz and Cathy turned on every light on Spice of Life. Red, green, white, our yacht was lit like a Christmas tree, and shone through the rain, guiding us home. We enthusiastically rowed the remaining distance.
Finally, the crew of Spice of Life was reunited. We joined below decks for a celebratory glass of rum. Everything was right with our little world. Except for our waterlogged outboard, which stared at us forlornly from it's new perch on the rail.
And breakfast the next morning? It was superb.