It shouldn’t surprise me, but it is uncanny how certain people in life never fail to deliver. For me, there’s Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Michael Jordan, and Grampa Jim. As long as I can remember he has been the embodiment of dependability—sure as sweet corn in the summer. So when I sent out an appeal for able-bodied crew (GR #5), it seems altogether appropriate that Grampa Jim should step forward. He sent a brusque reply that he had a few weeks free in mid-June—where should we meet? We agreed to a date and chose an island, and despite the fact that I was three weeks and 300 miles from our agreed rendez vous, we didn’t make contact again until he stepped off the plane in St. Lucia.
His role as the premier crew aboard Gypsy is all the more fitting because he sparked my interest in sailing. The most vivid memories of my childhood include Grampa Jim and his 28-foot E-boat at our summer home in Green Lake, Wisconsin. It’s hard to describe my wonder and amazement as he came careening into our dock with a rag-tag crew, brandishing bumpers and shouting for somebody, PLEASE, to catch their lines. I recall the not unpleasant terror of riding the E in a stiff wind, the boat heeled precipitously as my brother and I clung to the high side, daring each other to lean out, ‘no hands,’ over the churning green abyss. It was Grampa Jim who taught me the rudiments of sailing, long before I cared to learn them, and it is he who invited me to the Bahamas ten years ago, to crew a 45-foot bareboat he chartered.
And here he was again, emerging from the airport security gate with luggage in tow and one of those floppy white hats popularized by Gilligan perched on his head. Thus began our all-too-brief week together cruising the Windward Islands. From our first day—a respectable eight hours cruise from St. Lucia to St. Vincent—he thoroughly enjoyed himself. Whatever the wind or weather he was unflappable. I’d suggest an itinerary and he’d reply, “fine—sounds wonderful.” We’d pound through choppy seas for hours and the smile on his face never faded. A roguish wave would catch us broadside, dumping cold water down his neck, and he’d reach, chuckling, for another fistful of mixed nuts. As long as I kept the boat well stocked with peanut butter and bacon he was happy as a clam.
And it wasn’t as if he joined us for a leisurely jaunt. By my conservative reckoning we covered over 100 miles together in six days—from St. Lucia to St. Vincent, through the Grenadines (Bequia, Canouan, Tobago Cays and Union Island), finishing in Carriacou.
Grampa Jim brought with him a few things Gypsy had been sorely lacking—lively conversation and a refined knowledge of sailing. Within the first few days I realized that I’d been hunting with bow and arrow and he had gunpowder. Where I’d been happy to throw up some sails and watch the water spill past he was constantly tinkering—maximizing our management of precious wind. He’d have me ease the jib, or release the traveler on the main, or point slightly upwind, and then ask “how’s that?” I’d look at the GPS, which registers real-time speed, and say, “6.5—we picked up two tenths of a knot.” Grampa Jim would nod with satisfaction.
He was equally diligent about fishing. Until he joined us, I’d tie on a lure and troll until it broke off or hadn’t produced for a few days. Not so with Grampa Jim. Thirty minutes was his tolerance for an unproductive lure. We cycled through all of my tackle and the box he brought, and still never managed to catch a fish.
I left Grampa Jim on the jetty at Carriacou, an awkward hug before he boarded the ferry to Grenada and I set off on brutal all-night passage to Tobago. That was June 26, and the following day I met Libba, an old college friend, at the airport in Tobago. She joined me for two weeks as we circumnavigated the island and sailed to Trinidad.
Whereas Grampa Jim refined my sailing acumen, Libba revolutionized domestic life aboard Gypsy. Libba is a Bodhisattva— about as close to living in harmony with her world as anyone I know. She’ll curl up with a book for hours, spin stories about her life growing up in Tennessee, or perch on the end of Gypsy’s bowsprit, her face a serene as we flank a summer squall. She is resident chef, masseuse and acupuncturist. She could just as well cure a relentless back injury as dig some wilted vegetables from the bottom of the refrigerator, pull a few jars from my anemic spice rack, muster some magic from my condiment drawer, and emerge in 30 minutes with the most wonderful Thai curry you’ve ever tasted. Sadly, life aboard Gypsy may never be as comfortable as it was with Libba.
Libba also taught me a thing or two about appreciating just how good my life is. She introduced me to the simple pleasure of ice cubes, Cadbury’s chocolate bars, and fresh mango juice. She initiated the cold drink at sunset and the moonlight swim. She helped me understand that every day here is a gift, and that doing nothing is a perfectly fine way of acknowledging it. I will miss her.
But I’ve taken her example to heart. I’ve slowed down, soaking up surroundings and venturing out to interact with the non-boating population. Consecutive days pass when we don’t move and I don’t do a stitch of work on the boat. We have cleared the threat of hurricane, and now have only ourselves to blame for not making the most of every day. I hope I am up to the task.
< < back to gypsy log
July 14 - Sharing the Dream
