West of the Quator

by Cheryl Bartlam DuBois

  Standing on the dock looking at his new purchase, the sailing of which was still as foreign to him as his surroundings, Rob scratched his head confused as to which of the two hulls was actually his. He was still in shock that he had made such an immense investment without even weighing his options or checking the market. Such a poor business decision was totally against his good judgment and his daily business practices. It was indeed the most rash thing that his level head had ever devised and he was still reeling from discovering that the balance of his bank account was lower than a barometer during a gale. Suddenly, the intoxication of the island had worn off and Rob was more sober than he’d ever been in his life. The lure of the enticing fragrance of the island and the exotic fare had instantly become yesterday’s news – some fast fading fantasy that he had breezed past on the roadway of life. Oddly, the infidelitous affair, both with the island and the women, which had been his one and only departure from his faithfulness to Sydney, had all but evaporated in light of the seriousness of his current financial indiscretion. Rob studied the boat with a surge of fear in his heart, realizing that he didn’t have the slightest clue what to do with his half million dollar faux pas.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t think the boat was worth the money he’d just spent. She was beautiful and well built – with no detail left un-addressed. But then that was Joey. He had always covered all the bases. She had six foot-two headroom in her hulls and deckhouse, and she slept fourteen comfortably below deck, not to mention the amount of seating in the deckhouse that had been used on numerous occasions as a place to crash by those so inebriated that they couldn’t find their way down to their bunks. Her deckhouse also housed a gourmet galley (better known to the layman as the ship’s kitchen), a navigation station somewhat resembling the cockpit of a 747, and enough seating in the main salon to accommodate the island soccer team for dinner.

  The Island Fever’s decor was close to that of an upper East side townhouse with plush velvet cushions, Tibetan and Afghani carpets and a gold and mahogany inlaid table – a floating den of iniquity as it were. A chick magnet thought Rob cracking a small smile as he tried mulling over the vagueness of the past week’s activities. But then reality hit him like a ton of bricks. In all his years as a broker he had never once felt any anxiety on the floor. But there he was for the first time in his life experiencing what he assumed had to be the syndrome that he’d sadly witnessed his fellow traders and clients suffer in the past when their investments were waning – his first anxiety attack.

  “What have I done?!” thought Rob. “I’ve just spent my entire life savings on a floating bachelor pad, and I’m not even single. I mean I wanted change in my life, but this is ridiculous. Sydney’s going to kill me. She’ll never understand why I’d spend everything I have on a giant raft with sails.”

  Rob stood there hyperventilating trying desperately to think about what he would do if he were on the floor, which generally boiled down to knowing when to buy and sell. Suddenly, an alarm went off in his head like it might on the trading floor.

  “That’s what I’ll do!” Rob thought, “I’ll sell! There has to be someone who’ll buy my half, it’s a great boat.”

  Once Rob had managed to control his panic and somewhat normal breathing had resumed, he settled into a mild nervous breakdown, and was able to start regaining some sense of reality about his current predicament.

  “What was I thinking?” thought Rob. “That’s just it, I wasn’t thinking, I was drinking.”

  At the time everything had made perfect sense. But now his head was so fuzzy from the hangover that he was still having trouble tracking a coherent thought. Rob had always heard that a Bloody Mary was a sure cure for a previous night’s binge to clear one’s head, so in order to get a better handle on things Rob quickly poured himself a tall, stiff one. If a Bloody Mary was the answer then he would have to consume gallons to wash away the previous week’s fog, he thought. But, somehow one stiff cocktail had calmed his nerves and he’d actually started to regain his wits about him.

  Aside from the terror of the unknown stretching out ahead of him, Rob was strangely quite titillated about this new adventure he was facing. After all, he had never ventured much past his own backyard. When he graduated from high school, Chicago had been a huge step for him since no one in his family had even visited a big city since Canton had brought Lilly back from New York, let alone gone to college. And the farthest Rob had dared to venture by this point in life, prior to his plunge into Paradise, was twice to New York City with Sydney on her yearly shopping sprees, and once to Disneyworld as a Christmas present from her dad. Aside from an oversized mouse and a big apple, Rob hadn’t seen much of the world, and he was still a virgin as far as intercourse with life went. He had by that point, experienced little of what life had to offer.

  As a young boy, Rob had voraciously devoured books in the local library about far away places, Grandma Lilly’s stories about the old country, and television shows on travel to exotic lands. The spark was there from the beginning. But, like most humans who become domesticated by society before they are old enough to truly decide their lives for themselves, the fuel had been diverted into society’s dream, and the spark had never been ignited. Rob had fallen into what had been his parents safety net of security, instead of pursuing dreams of studying abroad. Like most, he had not chosen his life, he had simply accepted what had effortlessly fallen in his path – he had only been courageous enough to venture as far as Chicago for college, which if the truth be known, had even caused concern in Rob at the thought of venturing out of the nest on his own. In fact, Julie Anne’s decision to stay in Iowa City had nearly nixed the idea of Chicago for Rob. For her, he was ready to spend the rest of his life in his own home town working in some sort of farm related business. But Julie Anne had been far more astute than Rob about his longing to experience more about life and the world than corn fields and truck stops. She had been mature enough to realize that no matter how much he loved her, he would always have a longing in his heart for more. That night at the reunion when Rob had told Julie Anne about his plan to visit Joey in the West Indies, he had noticed a little sparkle in her eyes as she nodded and said, “It’s about time.”

  As far as really living life and enjoying oneself went, Rob hadn’t taken more than three weeks off in the past nine years since he had graduated and gone to work immediately in a broker’s office and then on to the stock exchange. But, he was finally awakening to the reality that he was letting life pass him by like most humans caught up in the race to gain success, money, and power. Suddenly, Rob was starting to realize that maybe there was more to living than conforming to societies measure of success for him.

  “Why do I have this guilty sensation in the pit of my stomach?” he wondered as he walked back on deck and purveyed his new holdings. “I feel like I’m not doing what society expects of me, especially Sydney’s society. But then what do I really owe society? For nearly a decade I’ve put in the expected eight hour work day in order to support my future wife, my future family, and my future grandkids and I’m not even married yet,” he suddenly realized. “I’m considered successful by most of society, especially for my age. But am I happy? What if I want more out of life? Or am I just being selfish and childish? Forget society, that’s the least of my worries. What I’ve really done is to give up the security of knowing where I’m going to be ten years from now, or a year from now for that matter, and it’s kinda scary. I’m stepping off the crowded ferry into a one man row boat and I don’t even know how to row, let alone sail.”

  Rob had never really considered himself afraid of anything. As a matter of fact ‘fearless’ was one of the adjectives used daily to describe him on the market floor. But this was very unfamiliar territory in more ways than one for Rob. His heart was racing the way it did on the floor when he had only seconds to make a multi-million dollar decision and he was starting to realize that it was less fear and more exhilaration about what the future might hold that w
as surging the blood through his body at what felt like twice its normal rate. Of course, on the floor it was different – there, it was someone else’s money he was gambling with. This time Rob had placed his bet and had to go double or nothing or he’d lose the hand, since it didn’t take him long to find out from the local boat brokers that his option of selling his half to some other sucker was extremely slim, since practically every boat in the harbor was already for sale. Rob unfortunately had no job to return to and no money to speak of, since the check to Joey had emptied out his entire bank account, except for enough to cover maybe a month’s bills at home. Of course, he had his credit cards, but how far would they go between his expenses in Chicago and his new responsibility here, and how would he pay them when the bills started to flow in like the high tide? So Raymond, who had no explanation for Joey’s disappearance, and who’s loyalty lay with the Island Fever regardless of its owner since it had been his home for the last five years, suggested the tried and true means of earning a buck for every professional sailor at some time or other in their career – charter.

  It seemed that Rob was faced with the plain simple fact that he had no choice at this point but to fish or cut bait. He had to dive into the deep end head first and hope he could tread water well enough to at least keep his head clear. How could it be that bad, he thought. Why, living in Paradise and sailing this great boat around with pasty white tourists on board every day didn’t sound that tough, reasoned Rob. And, look at the going price of a charter these days, I might even come out ahead and have a hell of a lot of fun doing it.

  But no one had let Rob in on the big secret about the islands. He didn’t have a clue what the West Indies was really like or what it had in store for him – but he was soon to find out. No matter how much I, or anyone else, might try to warn him, I was well aware that he’d only believe it once he experienced it for himself. Yes, of course I realize the West Indian islands seem like exotic, tropical Bali Hai’s floating in the midst of a glistening turquoise sea, with swaying palms, naked girls, and tall rum and Cokes. But you see, life in the islands is kinda like marriage. It keeps you fooled through the honeymoon, and maybe even through the first few months – then reality starts to set in, along with the dreadful inevitable disease known as ‘island fever.’2*

  It’s not the islands themselves that make life here interesting – it’s their inhabitants. I should know this fact all too well since I was once one of them, even though I was of mixed European and African decent. You see, today’s West Indies are inhabited by a people that Columbus named the West Indians thanks to his geographic disorientation – thinking he was on islands off the coast of east Asia. However, the indigenous Indians, the Arawaks,3* were eaten by the Carib Indians4** and the Caribs, well, they’re almost extinct now. Columbus and the rest of the Europeans saw to that. The West Indies now belongs to the African ancestors of the slave trading days and, Indians as they are known in America, they’re not. The Indians only hated the white man. Today’s West Indian loathes the white man. Yes, they may smile at them politely as they take their tips and watch them race around their island under de hot sun in a frivolous attempt to accomplish nothing – but the West Indian knows, that like all the others they will at some point give up and go home. But, not before they have parted with a generous amount of American dollars which are widely accepted in the Caribbean as preferred currency. For the few expatriates who do manage to stay, chances are they have nothing more pressing in a days work than making certain that they walk to the corner store to fetch a new bottle of Mount Gay Rum. The true West Indians were smart. They got the hang of survival in the islands a few hundred years ago – they simply learned to “Live and die in three-quarter time,” as the song goes. What else would any fool want to do under de hot sun?

  Aside from the inherent difficulties with island life, there was only one small problem with Rob’s idea about chartering the Island Fever – Rob didn’t know how to sail. So Raymond, the cook, suggested that Rob hire Captain Alex for the job, insisting that Alex was just the person experienced enough to drive that overgrown raft called a catamaran around with sunburned, seasick, but paying tourists. But most importantly, Alex was the only available Captain on the island who knew about catamarans. There was only one small detail that Raymond neglected to mention to Rob – Alex was a woman. Boy was Rob surprised to find out that the attractive, young, one hundred fifteen pound person of the opposite gender whom he found in his cockpit the next morning was soon to be his boss.

  Still slightly hung over, Rob ascended from his bunk in the starboard hull expecting to find Raymond alone on the foredeck finishing up his morning mantras.

  He stood in the cockpit rubbing his eyes and scratching himself when he suddenly realized that there was a woman busy at work disassembling his port5* jib6** winch.7***

  “Hope I didn’t wake you,” said the attractive, but slightly tom-boyish, woman, who wore her hair tightly swept back from her face in a French braid, no make-up, cut-offs and a tiny bikini top which covered just an adequate amount of her firm but modestly proportioned breasts. She studied Rob from behind a mirrored pair of tortoise shell, sailor’s Vuarnets, “I wanted to get an early start.”

  “On what,” queried Rob looking at her somewhat confused by her presence.

  “On putting the boat in order for charter,” Alex said with a wry chuckle. “I know Joey all too well. He’s never been one for high maintenance.”

  “So you work for Joey,” Rob questioned.

  “No actually, I work for you, or should I say you work for me now. I’m your new Captain, Alex, short for Alexandra,” she said as she confidently extended her hand, which was covered in packing grease.

  Dumfounded, Rob returned the gesture withdrawing his hand equally covered in grease, which he stared at as if it were some type of disease, quite uncertain where to wipe it.

  “You’re, Captain Alex? I ah… but,” he said, “But you’re aaa…”

  “Girl?,” said Alex finishing his sentence for him

  “Well, yeah,” stammered Rob, scratching his head really studying her for the first time.

  “I’ve been a licensed captain for fourteen years,” said Alex as if she’d been through this before.

  “But you look so….”

  “Young?” answered Alex unable to resist doing it again. I’m thirty-two same as you,” Alex said without looking up, eliciting a look of surprise on Rob’s face.

  “Well, but you’re so…”

  “Petite?” continued Alex, getting quite good at reading Rob’s mind by this point.

  “And this boat is so…”

  “Big?” said Alex, starting to get the best of Rob.

  “Well, yeah,” Rob said uncertainly referring to the length of the boat as he attempted hopelessly to qualify his fears to her.

  “I grew up in Annapolis with my dad. I was sailing the Chesapeake before I could walk,” Alex offered as she squeezed more packing grease into the ball bearings.

  Rob just stood there shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, uncertain what to say next.

  “I could sail her in my sleep,” replied Alex casually as she nodded her head, gesturing to the Fever’s modern staysail schooner rig8* which sported the newest of every work saving devise that money could buy. “Joey was never known to like work. He’s got this cat rigged so she could almost sail herself. This rig’s a piece of cake, even a novice could sail her with a quick lesson or two.”

  “So you know this boat well?” Rob queried anxiously.

  “Oh a little I guess…”

  Rob nodded relieved.

  “…I built her,” finished Alex.

  Uncertain whether to be impressed or embarrassed, Rob was now standing there looking and feeling like a total schmuck. He realized he’d reached the intersection in this conversation and it was time for him to make a quick detour and take an alternate route, or just pull over and park it. “So, does this mean I take orders from you?” Rob said, hoping h
e’d chosen the right road.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure that compared to your girlfriend, it won’t be too painful. I promise I won’t make you walk the plank or anything, however, I do demand a clean deck,” chuckled Alex in an attempt to lighten Rob up.

  Rob attempted a smile, however fear, or maybe even intimidation, made him feel like he wasn’t exactly in the smiling mood. After all, this tiny little woman was exactly his age and knew so much more about the object he’d just blown his life savings on than he. The big question in Rob’s mind right now was, could he accept a girl as his mentor in this new endeavor on which he was about to embark? He’d never worked directly with a woman as his superior before. Oh why had Joey deserted him? This was not the way he had dreamed it would be. He loved the idea of women on board, albeit in a slightly different capacity. Now he found himself in an immense quandary. Keep this obviously qualified woman on to dig him out of the mess he’d made, or hope that he could find another available captain now that race season was over and everyone had already headed off to Europe for the summer months.