by Erik Orton
Everyone wanted to hike the Quill, the 2000-foot tall dormant volcano that formed the island. It involved a dinghy ride to shore, a 300-yard hike up the steep road ramp to town, a walk through town out to the base of the volcano, and then the hike itself started up. It was a tough proposition for Lily.
“What if we take turns?” Emily proposed. “You go on this one and I’ll stay behind with Lily.”
“But you hiked with her last time.”
“I know. But just having a plan in place helps me feel better. I want you to go on this one.”
Once at the top, I have to admit, it was cool to see a cloud pouring over the rim of the volcano into the tropical jungle inside. I took lots of pictures to share. On the way down an afternoon squall soaked us, and the kids splashed down the roadside gutters as we walked past cows back into town. It was a good outing but probably a good idea Lily had sat this one out. I would stay with Lily on the next one. Emily and I were learning better balance.
EMILY
I didn’t want Eli to miss out. I persuaded him to leave the iPad and come snorkeling. We were anchored forty feet from the best snorkeling I’d seen. Erik and I swam it that morning. The older girls had snorkeled with their friends and were all playing on one of the other boats. Lily played in her “pool,” a large storage bin full of water, on the back deck, and Erik was clacking away on the laptop nearby. “I’ll tow you over in a float. You don’t even have to swim. Just put your face in the water,” I said. “Please.”
“Fine, I’ll go,” he said, setting the iPad down.
He slipped into the water behind me.
“Do you want me to tow you over there?” I asked. I already had the floatie attached to a line tied around my waist.
“Nah. I’ll swim,” he said. I put my face in the water and he followed. Immediately, a large sea turtle swam ahead of us. I looked back at Eli pointing toward the turtle. He gave me an underwater thumbs up. He’d seen it. We both swam after it. We swam against the current all the way to the reef. He was a much stronger swimmer than he had been when we first arrived. He was also more experienced with the mask and snorkel tube. We explored the reef up and down. Besides colored fish, sea snakes, coral, and colorful marine plants there were old cannons, anchors, and various parts of sunken ships. Eventually, Eli gave me the thumbs up that he was ready to head back. We both surfaced.
“That was fantastic!” he said. “Can we do this every day?” Oh, honey. Welcome to the Caribbean. He climbed into the inner tube I had tied to a rope around my waist and I towed him home.
I met a local at Fort Oranje who embodies how friendly and peaceful the island is. This slim, dark gentleman stopped his bicycle next to me and said, “Guess how old I am?” He was spry but appeared to have no upper teeth. I was stumped. “I was a police officer for thirty years and I’ve never been in a fight,” he said. He was seventy-six. His retirement job was to sound the fort bell morning, noon, and night. This timekeeper didn’t wear a watch. He showed us around the fort, asking every few minutes, “What time is it?”
Statia also holds the distinction of providing our first access to a library in the Caribbean. We hadn’t seen the inside of a library since January, six months earlier. At home we knew all the librarians by name, went up to three times a week, and sometimes maxed out multiple library cards carrying our books home in a rolling cart. We had made do with marina book swap shelves. In Statia, I walked in like Alice in Wonderland. I felt the cool blast of air conditioning. The World Cup was playing in a room to the right. On the left, two beautiful, smiling women greeted us from behind a low desk. I waved. Behind them were bookshelves, tables, and local schoolchildren reading. Lily and Eli sat at a low table in the children’s room with a green basket full of crayons and a stack of paper. Eli picked out a crayon and started drawing. Lily flipped through a picture book. Sarah Jane, Alison, and Karina were already respectively thumbing through books, perusing titles, and sitting on the tile floor reading. Getting inside a library was a respite from intellectual cabin fever. I was in heaven. After finding the library, all the boat kids went at least once a day.
By the time we left Statia for the last island in our tour, we knew we liked our traveling home. We didn’t know if we would head north or south. Racing sailors use the weight of the bodies of crewmembers as ballast by leaning far out on the weather side of the boat to reduce heeling. It’s called hiking out. Our hearts were hiking out on the south side of that decision, and our brains were hiking out on the north side. We weren’t getting anywhere.
That’s not entirely true. We were getting to Saba.
From a distance, Saba looks like a giant volcano rising straight up out of the ocean. The island itself is only about five square miles, but it boasts the highest point in all of the Netherlands: 2,910 feet, more than 1,000 feet taller than the Quill on Statia. Other Caribbean islands were hilly, but nothing like this. The water along its coastline was sixty feet deep, way too deep for our anchors. We hoped to nab one of the few mooring ball in Wells Bay on the west side of the island. We followed Discovery and Day Dreamer to the mooring field, but our necks craned upward. As we rounded the perimeter, we saw a massive rockslide. Unsettling. The Dutch check-in official did not alleviate our concern. He informed us the rockslide was forty-eight hours old. Sometimes you think things will stay a certain way forever, and then they change.
That night at our mooring ball we saw no lights from the local population, no beachfront restaurants, no beachfront. Above us rose a steep, forbidding rock face. Below us, the cliff continued down to the ocean floor. Our anchorage was a stopover for migrating humpback whales. They were long gone this time of year, but knowing large sea creatures could fit below our hulls didn’t reassure us. All around us was the pitch-black expanse of the Caribbean Sea. A sliver of waning moon was the only light in the sky. The darkness felt darker than usual. Karina stood on the deck seat, steadying her hands against the bimini. None of us wanted to get too close to the dark and deep. She looked outward.
“Hey!” She shouted, “Look!” We all stepped in closer and looked too. “Nothing,” she said. She was right. We could see absolutely nothing.
It was dark, but we weren’t alone. We constantly radioed back and forth with the other two boats. We joked. We wondered what they were having for dinner. We stayed in touch about the smallest things. It helped us feel better. In the morning, we made our plans for Saba.
Sabans seemed even scrappier than the inhabitants of the other three islands we’d visited. They had the longest, steepest roads we have ever had the white-knuckled privilege of driving on. Erik did the driving. We both preferred it that way. He cruised down the forty-five-degree-angled roads of serpentine switchbacks. We’ve never taken our kids to ride a roller-coaster. Saba more than made up for that.
Imagine building those roads. The Sabans wanted roads, but nobody was willing to build them. So, one determined local signed up for a correspondence course in engineering. Once he completed it, he designed the roads and the Sabans built them. It’s kind of like doing your own electrical work at home: slightly frightening, but impressive. I wouldn’t have been eager for the task, but I admired the Saban spirit and felt encouraged to be more tenacious.
It was my turn to explore while Erik cared for Lily. The pamphlet said I’d be hiking through five different biomes. It all looked like overgrown, giant-leaf, dark-soil jungle to me. The muddy trail was veined with gnarly tree roots.
“Just be careful,” the park ranger had told us. “A couple of people have died on this hike.” I didn’t know exactly what I was getting into, but with five adults on board I was sure we could handle it. I knew I wouldn’t be held back or slowed down. I saw wild banana bushes, deep green vegetation, huge leaves and vines. The Middles painted their faces with the deep red mud, and one hiked barefoot because her flip-flops broke.
“Have any of you guys ever read Lord of the Flies?” I asked.
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br /> “No,” Jaci and Anna said together. It was just as well. The trail ended unexpectedly at the entrance to a white five-star hotel. We walked right into the outdoor restaurant—all sixteen of us. While we were waiting for our small order, one of the muddy Middles slouched back on the white wraparound couch and began cleaning her fingernails with a toothpick meant for appetizers.
“This is a fancy place,” she explained. I wished Erik could’ve been there, but I was grateful he had shared it with me by not being there. I love that guy.
The next day I stayed in with Lily while he took the kids snorkeling. We were working the plan, and the plan was working.
ERIK
Saba was our last stop. In a couple of days, we’d return to Saint Martin, fix our alternator, and decide which way to point Fezywig. Discovery would wrap up their business and consider their next move. Day Dreamer would circle back to Sint Maarten to wait out the north vs. south decision because it was safer and more fun to travel with friends. Emily and I, with the kids, considered every idea we could think of to make this last. Our friends suggested ideas and proposals. We’d thrown out and shot down multiple business ideas. But so far, we hadn’t cracked the code.
This trip was our Intermission. Emily and I had both turned forty. We assumed while on this trip, we would figure out what we wanted the second act of our lives to look like. We couldn’t even decide whether to go north or south.
We had anchored in Marigot Bay on the French side of Saint Martin when I received an email. I told Emily, “The Andersons want to lease Fezywig later this year.”
“Really?” she asked.
The Andersons were a family we’d met online. They’d hoped to cruise with their kids the same time as us, but the timing hadn’t worked out. We knew what a pain it was to buy a boat, so we’d previously proposed the idea of them leasing our boat when we were done instead.
We couldn’t keep Fezywig unless we found a mobile source of income. Our savings hourglass was steadily draining as we fixed up the boat and paid for internet, fuel, and groceries.
“That would buy us some time,” I said. “We can sail back to New York, lease out the boat, and figure out what we want to do.”
“Maybe come back out?” Emily asked. “At least we don’t have to decide about selling her. I’m feeling sentimental. This is the only home we’ve ever owned.”
“Maybe. Or something else. They want to know where to wire the deposit.”
“So, we’re going north.” Emily said.
“I guess so. What do you think?”
It doesn’t sound dramatic. We got an email. We got a bite. But it affected everything. Emily and I made a plan. We knew where we were going. We would head north. We knew what would happen to Fezywig. She’d stay at sea while we went back on land and considered how to keep or sell her. But that was still months away. We’d already spent five amazing months aboard. We couldn’t think about the end of our trip now. It was too emotional. Fezywig was our home. Two days later we would pull anchor.
Fortunately, the kids didn’t need to pack. All they needed to do was say goodbye. Emily and I had plenty on our plates. We filled our fuel tanks and our extra fuel jugs. We filled water tanks and our extra water jugs. I spent a couple of uncomfortable hours at the top of the mast installing a new VHF antenna and running a cable through the mast to the new radio I’d installed. Peter helped me run the cable. I was gonna miss that guy.
We double-checked everything onboard. We provisioned. At the last minute, Emily and I decided to tear out the old refrigerator and install a new one. John convinced me a 12V fridge would be easier to power than the 220V power hog we had aboard. It would probably make the boat easier to sell. I hated thinking about that possibility.
Tearing out a fridge is a hot, messy business. Peter knew how to help. He lent me his Dremel saw, left me alone for a couple hours, and dinghied back over with a pineapple smoothie. He’d been treating all the kids to a smoothie party on his boat, but would never forget a fellow dad. I gratefully drank it down and returned the cup, and he left. Together, Emily and I maneuvered the new refrigerator into place.
“That will do for now,” I said. We’d add the finishing touches along the way.
Emily and I took Eli and dinghied to shore for a few last-minute items at the chandlery. Joachim from Sunsail walked into the shop. He looked at me as if he were seeing a ghost.
“Don’t worry,” I laughed.
“I thought you were gone,” he said.
“We just got back from Saba. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine. We leave for the BVI tonight.”
He smiled, I smiled, and we shook hands. “I wish you well,” he said. I believed him.
Emily and I walked outside and found Eli kicking a soccer ball back and forth with the cashier’s son. He didn’t speak a word of English, and Eli didn’t speak a word of French, but they were having a great time together. It struck me as beautiful. We sat and watched them play for a few minutes. I was postponing the inevitable. It was time to go. Some people were happy to see us leave. Some people wished we could stay. We were both of those people.
We finally went to Discovery to collect our children and give our final hugs goodbye. It was a slow, gentle process. There were a lot of tears. Lisa knew we were proud of our Finnish heritage. My mother is from Finland and the kids and I are all dual citizens, so she made us a Finnish flag to hang with our colors. Those guys really knew what they were doing, making smoothies and sewing things at sea. We felt ready for this trip, but we still had a lot to learn.
With our whole crew finally in our dinghy, we motored back to Fezywig. I checked the weather for the fifth time that day. Everything looked good. The kids cut up the refrigerator box and made a house out of it. John was now wearing the house like a box-troll. He had his arms through both windows and his face at the door. We were going to miss that guy. He was our Fairy Godfather. We were going to miss them all: Michelle. Lisa. Peter. Emma. Kate. Anna. Jaci. Sara. Jenna. Jack. Even the dogs. I was glad we had somewhere to go right away, because leaving was really hard.
The sun was setting. We’d decided to cross at night so the kids could mostly sleep. The western sky provided a stellar display of orange and pink. As we pointed our bow into the sunset, we noticed Discovery getting into their dinghy. Life moved on, and they had other things to do. We continued waving. Alison and SJ sobbed. Day Dreamer got into their dinghy too. Both dinghies full of what now felt like family were silhouetted against the sky. They turned their dinghies, following us out to sea as far as they could. It was a tiny farewell flotilla. They floated, watched, and waved until we couldn’t see them anymore.
Chapter 11
Some Things Can Wait
Marigot Bay, Saint Martin, French Antilles
4 Months, 25 Days aboard Fezywig
ERIK
We’d hoped for an uneventful crossing. That’s not what we got.
We left Saint Martin under beautiful skies, calm winds, and a clear forecast. Emily made a simple stir-fry with peppers, onions, and black beans. We ate while looking at the stars. The Milky Way lit up the sky. The kids settled into a movie on the laptop, and Karina and I took the first watch. Eli pulled himself away from the movie, sat down in the cockpit, tilted his head back, and looked at the clear night sky.
“Whoa. That kind of looks like outer space,” he said.
“Yeah. It is outer space,” I replied.
He sat there for a while and got quiet. “Thousands . . .” he said, and his voice trailed off. Yes, son, there are thousands of stars.
As we pulled away from Saint Martin, the wind and seas picked up. I started to feel nauseous, so I lay down on the salon floor. Karina’s place of choice when she wasn’t feeling well was at the helm. So that worked out. She took the wheel. Eli fell asleep in the cockpit. Lily fell asleep in the main salon, but she woke up a little before midnight. I helped
her below to her bed. Going below made me seasick. When I came back up, I had time to pull out the large stainless-steel bowl. I threw up, dumped it down the drain, and rinsed the bowl. I went back to the salon floor and stayed there until the end of our watch.
12:00 a.m. We turned over to Emily and SJ. I stumbled below with my bowl in hand. I’d put on a scopolamine patch by now, but it was doing me no good. We hadn’t tidied up too much before casting off, so our bed was covered with dirty clothes, books, and a dry bag.1 I pushed it aside, flopped down, and promptly decided I needed to use the bowl again. My bowl of puke lay beside me as I dozed off. I felt like I’d just fallen asleep when Emily called for me, a sense of urgency in her voice. “We’re spinning in a circle,” she said.
I stuck my head up through the hatch. “I’ll be right there,” I said, and I was at the helm in seconds. As best I could figure, the autopilot had disengaged. Weird. There was another vessel within site off our starboard stern, but other than that nothing else was visible. The lights of Saint Martin were long gone. Within half an hour, the other boat passed and disappeared ahead of us into the darkness. The sky above alternated between star fields and shrouds of blackness. Clouds. With the boat back on course, I went back to bed. Going below felt like a tumble into a large, dark, undulating, creaking pit. This time I didn’t need to throw up. I was too tired.
3:00 a.m. My alarm went off. Time to be back on shift.
The night had cooled. I pulled my windbreaker from the back of my closet, stumbled above with my puke bowl, dumped out, and went to the helm. The boat pitched in the waves as we headed downwind on a broad reach. We originally left using just the head sail. We were making four knots2 but I wanted to make six, so we turned upwind and raised the mainsail. I put on a preventer to be on the safe side.3 Emily and SJ went below. They woke up Alison and sent her up on deck.
