The next afternoon saw us “dressed up” by five o’clock in a navy blue blazer for me, and an ankle length black dress and pumps with low heels for Birgit. The small harbor was now wall-to-wall sailboats. Most were racers with tall rigs and fast looking silhouettes, with their hulls decorated with fancy vinyl or painted graphics. Some were cruising boats. They had their own division to compete in. There were also a few Abaco’s built wooden boats which had a class all their own. It was to perpetuate and support the Bahamian boat building tradition that this regatta was first conceived. A scattering of bigger powerboats rounded out the assemblage. People who just wanted to enjoy the parties, and follow the races from port to port were their owners. A few belonged to the owners of the larger racers. Wealthy owners seldom want to sleep with their crews in the Spartan accommodations offered by racing sailboats. One power yacht stood out in the crowd. It was a jet black new Donzi that screamed fast at you. There was no class for multihulls like Vamp, so Birgit and I would take turns crewing on one or another racer. Some days, one of us would go solo to ferry Vamp to the next layover harbor. On other days, we might have a girlfriend tired of the racing onboard as a passenger. It was all very flexible.
Green Turtle Cay is one of my favorites among the Bahamian Out Islands. It is a tiny slice of the old British Empire. The Bahamas have been self-governing since 1967. A clique of individuals known as the “Bay Street Boys” now rule the large population center such as Nassau on New Providence. Freeport on Grand Bahama is crassly commercial. A few small islands like Green Turtle remain steadfastly British. Expats still enjoy afternoon tea, and you’ll hear British accents even from the native Bahamians.
We clambered down into the Zodiac nestled between the hulls and headed for the dinghy dock at the club. Hundreds of sailors milled about on the lawn in front of the building. A local reggae band was playing on the porch and caterers hired by the rum distillery that was sponsoring tonight’s party were grilling jerk chicken and roasted corn on barbeque pits to the back. The familiar chatter of racing skippers and crewmembers talking about past and future races filled the air.
We found Clark and AJ by the makeshift bar that had been set up on the lawn down by the water’s edge. Three white-jacketed barmen in bowties were pouring rum drinks as fast as they could turn them out: Cuba Libres, mojitos, rum and OJ, or just plain rum on the rocks. Free food and drink was all a part of the entry fee for the regatta, and sailors are never shy about taking advantage of both. I knew from long experience that this crowd was going to get louder and rowdier as the evening wore on.
Clark was talking to a stocky fellow who looked like the quintessential South Florida powerboat owner, right down to the guayabera, gold chain, boat shoes without socks, and a big emerald pinky ring. He was speaking to Clark, but most of his attention seemed to be focused on AJ’s décolletage. Clark said to me, “Hi, Jimmy. I’d like you and Birgit to meet Felipe. He’s one of the fellows from down south I told you about last week.”
I found my hand grasped in a limp and sweaty handshake. Felipe said. “I understand that perhaps we might be able to do some business together, no? Why don‘t we take a little walk together if your lovely wife will excuse us for a moment?”
Birgit looked at me for a moment and said, “Go ahead, hon. I see that they’re starting to serve food. I’ll get in the line with Clark and AJ to get us a couple of plates. We’ll get a table. Just come find us.”
The Cuban and I wandered away from the crowds. When we were far enough away that no one could possibly overhear us, he said, “Your Vamp is a lovely ship. Perhaps you noticed my Donzi in the harbor?” Yeah, it could only be his, was exactly what I was thinking. “I need product moved to Florida from a place here in the Bahamas, senor. Can we help each other out?”
“Quizás, mi amigo. I need details. Where, when, how much, and what will you pay?”
“Bueno, you have the Español, si? This is good. It will be in twelve days somewhere in the Berry’s. I will have about three hundred kilos of ganja ready for you, and I will pay you twenty thousand dollars in cash on delivery anywhere in South Florida. Just one thing more you need to understand. If you get caught, you will do the time and never say anything that would lead to me. My reach is a very long one, yes?”
“I’ll let you know tomorrow, Felipe. "Now, I have to get back to my wife.” I said, preferring not to correct his assumption that Birgit and I were married.
I found Clark, AJ, and Birgit at a table not far away. The jerk chicken was tender and spicy. After dinner, we all joined the throngs listening to the reggae in front of the club. By that time lots of the people in the crowd had had a chance to get intoxicated. I never even saw what was going on, but all of a sudden the twenty-something blonde guy that had been standing behind Birgit was writhing in pain on the ground clutching his right foot and rolling back and forth. “Rude fucker was humping on my butt so I stomped on his foot with my heel.” Birgit said. “I think it’s time to call it a night.” As the four of us departed in the direction of the dinghy dock, I lingered a bit behind and pistoned my leg down as hard as I could into the arch of his left foot. It was a good bet that he’d not be out racing come morning, and he‘d hopefully learned a lesson not soon forgotten.
Back aboard Vamp, I filled Birgit in on my conversation with Felipe and told her we’d have to let him know what our decision was sometime tomorrow. I fell asleep marveling at just how tough this lady could be when confronted with a situation that would have left most young women in tears.
The skipper’s meeting the next morning was held in the club’s big living room at 0800. I left Birgit sleeping and took the dinghy ashore, preferring to have my own transportation rather than wait for the club launch. I found Filipe sitting in one of the old leather armchairs to the rear. He said, “Hola, senor. Buenas dias. That rude young man who was bothering your wife last evening found that pressing business in Miami required his immediate departure. He took the early boat over to Marsh Harbor to catch a flight. When last seen he was hobbling very uncomfortably down the dock. Your wife, she is very formidable, yes?”
“That she is, Felipe,” I replied. “We’ve decided that we can deliver your belongings to Florida for you. All we need to know is where and when to collect them?”
“Nothing could be simpler, mi amigo. Just drop an anchor a week from Friday in the northeast corner of the bight about fifty yards from shore on Little Stirrup Cay. You’ll be met around one in the morning by a few of my associates. Here’s a phone number to contact me in Miami.”
“Done!” I replied, turning my attention to the briefing being given by one of the race organizers. Skipper’s meetings are pretty dry affairs. They cover what the race course for the day will be, locations of the start and finish lines, and what signals will be used to communicate with the various classes of racers. All the skippers attend, and are sometimes accompanied by their tactician in the case of the larger boats. I’d be racing today as Clark’s tactician. He was new to sailboat racing and needed all the help he could get with all the often confusing instructions from the race committee, and how to effectively sail a race.
Clark had been bitten by the bug after crewing in a race held down in the Turks and Caicos several months earlier. He and AJ had gone out and purchased ¾ Time the next week and named her after one of their favorite Jimmy Buffet tunes. I’d met the two of them when they entered one of the Friday evening “beer can” races staged out of Dinner Key. Their first foray into small boat racing was pretty funny. They’d wrapped the spinnaker so tightly around the headstay that we all thought that it might have to be cut free with a knife. To Clark’s credit, he realized that he needed a little tutoring. Over drinks at Monty Trainor’s after the race, the four of us had hit it off, and I offered to help them out. We’d sailed in several races since then and he’d been slowly getting the hang of it. This race series in the Abacos was going to be much more seriously contested than the few we’d done together in Miami, so in actuality I would be the skipper in everything but the title as he had agreed to this arrangement long ago. I jotted down all the particulars from the briefing on a notepad I’d brought along. I said goodbye to Felipe, and joined up with Clark as we all filed out to head out to our boats. Birgit and AJ would sail Vamp to Man O’War, and meet up with us at the end of the day. Clark had enlisted one of his pals from Miami who went by the name of Ratso to sail with us, so he’d make up our crew of three for the day.
We found “Ratso” waiting for us down by the docks and learned that his name was really Richard without ever discovering the origins of the nickname. I recalled seeing him crewing on some of the Miami based race boats, and remembered someone telling me that he was a competent trimmer and foredeck man. He was going to be an asset to have along today.
The three of us piled into Vamp’s tender and headed for Clark’s boat. The three of us began squaring away 3/4 Time for racing and AJ took the dinghy over to Vamp to join Birgit for the day trip to Man O’War Cay. Clark worked down below in the tiny cabin securing all the stuff that would fly around if it were not stowed away once we were sailing. Looking down into the small cabin, I marveled at the recollection that I’d once spent one whole snowy winter living in an identical cubby at a dock in Boston Harbor. It had been cozy enough, with a color TV hooked up to a cable service and an electric heater, but I’d spent way too much time in the waterfront bars. Ratso and I dumped all the sails out on deck and repacked them in their bags. When we finished, what little breeze there was seemed to be blowing directly into the harbor, so I hailed a local passing by in a skiff and begged him for a quick tow out into the sound. It was lots easier than dragging the little outboard from storage below, mounting it, and starting it up for the quarter mile it took to clear the harbor. He gave us a friendly wave as he dropped the towline and we hurried to raise the main and the working jib.
