"You know, we can't get out of here alive!
We can either die in the bleachers or die on the field.
We might as well come down on the field and go for it."
...Les Brown
It was a day we never looked forward to. Shirley drove me to the Vancouver airport and once again parting would be difficult. I knew I'd miss her. I could tell her heart was aching – that she wanted to come – to be with me.
But that was impossible. We were committed to providing our two teenage boys, Trevor and Ryan, the opportunity to have conventional schooling for a couple years before they were old enough to set out on their own. For years Shirley had home schooled them aboard our ship while we sailed the world. Now, however, we felt it was important that their education be finished more formally.
We knew I had to earn a living, skippering Latina, our 110-foot traditional sailing ship, in the Virgin Islands. Unfortunately this understanding did nothing to kill the pain of our separation. Ever since the day Shirley and I met we'd been inseparable soul mates and always yearned to be in each other’s energy or love orbit. Being apart was always painful.
Shirley dropped me off outside the airport and as she drove away I could see her eyes cloud over with tears. I took a deep breath. It's pointless to dwell on it Boris, I thought. Just suck it up and get on with what needs to be done.
My commute to work wasn't a typical one. But after a tedious 24-hours I was back on my ship in the Virgin Islands, buzzing around, preparing for Latina’s upcoming charter. No matter how many times I'd done it before, there was always a last minute panic. Provisions had to be ordered, propane tanks filled, crew organized, cabins cleaned, decks washed and fuel and water tanks topped off. And then there was the machinery to maintain. Besides regular oil and filter changes something always needed fixing. If it wasn’t the generator breaking down, it was the refrigeration.
Complicating things was the blasted humidity, the result of too many tropical showers. I wondered – how in the world are we ever going to be ready in time? With so much moisture in the air how will the bedding even have a chance to dry? There was a washing machine aboard Latina but without a dryer we were hooped if the weather didn't co-operate. Normally we strung a clothes-line across the ship's deck and had to rely solely on nature to do the job.
Luckily there was no need to worry. On the day of the charter the skies were clear, the sun sizzling hot and a gentle breeze blew from the east. Within an hour of hanging up the sheets, everything had dried nicely and the crew quickly made up the beds.
Everything else clicked as well, mainly because most of the crew were seasoned sailors and knew the routine. Doris Bailey, who normally captained our 100-foot sailing ship Maverick, together with her first mate, Gary, joined me aboard Latina. Since they didn't have a charter of their own that week they were free to help me. With two experienced crewmembers, together with Robert, a keen novice, we had the makings for a great team.
Even the provisioning truck, which normally operated on island time, arrived punctually. I got out of the way while the crew efficiently stowed the fresh produce, meat, fish and dry goods. It never ceased to amaze me how they could find a spot for it all. The last job was to stock the cooler with beer and sodas and top it off with ice. Now we were ready for the show to begin.
What a glorious day, I thought. Why had I been so worried? Perhaps that’s when I should've suspected something. There was something different in the air. The weather was just a little too perfect. That should've been a warning flag. I should've known better. But like the saying goes, you snooze, you lose and I had fallen victim.
At noon our eager guests arrived. They were a group from North Carolina who would spend a week with us aboard Latina, sailing through the U.S. and British Virgin Islands. It didn’t take long to discover that one of the women was picking up the tab for everyone. Apparently she had recently inherited a substantial amount of money and decided to treat her friends to a sailing vacation. Needless to say her friends were delighted.
Although this was their first experience aboard a sailing vessel, they immediately were impressed with Latina's generous cabins and deck space. Wow - this is going to be a great charter, I thought. Look how happy everyone is.
After our guests settled into their cabins, we pulled up Latina’s anchor and slowly headed out of Charlotte Amalie's scenic harbor. The guests ooed and awed at the beautiful tropical setting. Colorful pink rooftops speckled the lush green mountain sides circling the bay. As we sailed past a row of giant cruise ships resting against the dock, we spotted many of the passengers lined up against the ship’s railing. They waved and cheered, giving us a heartwarming send off. Amazingly, even after eight years of operating charters out of St. Thomas, I still felt an incredible thrill going to work. Surely I was the luckiest guy alive.
Everything seemed perfect. I started to relax and enjoy the sail. As we headed out to the open sea, Latina’s bow pounded against the oncoming waves, sending an energizing shudder throughout the ship. Her stark white sails, contrasted against the cobalt blue sky, fluttered in the soft Caribbean breeze. Tropical emerald islands, dotted here and there, took on the appearance of an oasis rising from the sea. It was a sight that I could never drink enough. My guests’ faces mirrored my excitement, totally unaware that our ecstasy was to be short lived!
After barely setting anchor in Francis Bay on the island of St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands, I happened to pick up a weather warning.
“…HURRICANE LUIS…” the VHF radio blared.At first that was all I heard - but it was enough to catch my undivided attention.
What the hell? I thought. I listened intently. Sure enough, a hurricane named Luis had formed in the south-east Atlantic and it was heading west.
“Oh cripes! That’s all we need,” I mumbled under my breath.
The report continued, “...extremely large and very organized.”
Great I thought. Well at least it’s far enough away and not likely to target us. But I pity those poor buggers in its path.
Feeling that there was no need to alert my guests I just carried on like usual. For the next couple days I inconspicuously monitored the weather reports to track the hurricane’s strength and direction as it silently crept toward us.
Three days into our charter the weather was still picture perfect with cloudless blue skies. However there was one variation – the trade winds had dropped off and we were forced to use engine power to propel us to our next destination - Jost Van Dyke in the British Virgins.
Ashore we visited a casual barefoot beach bar. My good friend Foxy, one of the Caribbean’s most renowned entertainers, dazzled us with his calypso tunes. He personally greeted my guests and poked good natured fun at them. They proceeded to drink strong pain-killers and dance their hearts out. Enjoying the reggae beat, they boogied barefoot in the sand under the moonlight, contorting their bodies backward as they did the limbo well into the night.
Meanwhile it was inconceivable to imagine that close by, out in the open Atlantic, a powerful hurricane raged. But it was true. Within 24 hours our lives would be altered forever more.
The next morning, after listening to the weather update, I decided I had no choice but to alert my guests about the weather system heading toward us. The time had come to change our focus from enjoying their vacation to preparing for a major storm. As much as I didn't want to believe it - it was becoming obvious that we'd be hit. How severely? Nobody really knew. That was the million dollar question.
After breakfast we hauled up Latina's anchor and sailed to the little village of West End, Tortola to seek out shelter. I gathered everyone together on the aft deck to explain our predicament and to propose a strategy for handling what now looked like an extremely dangerous situation. Surprisingly my guests were very receptive to the news. In fact they didn't seem to be the least bit concerned.
Obviously they've never experienced a hurricane, I thought. So far I had survived four of them - and that was more than enough to respectfully fear them. I knew there was no way my guests could conceive that this pristine weather was just the calm before the storm. If they hadn't been in a hurricane before, how could they comprehend the seriousness of what lurked just off our doorstep?
They had no idea of its force - how it could turn the ocean's waves into giant death traps - how the combination of driving rain and ocean spray could easily drown a man - or sandblast him to death. How could they fathom such a thing? They had no idea. And maybe that was just as well - an ignorance-is-bliss kind of thing
West End had a reputation as an excellent hurricane hole. High mountains that towered on each side of the deep cove provided exceptional protection. Over the centuries it was known to be a popular anchorage for pirates, buccaneers and other seafarers to weather great storms - so I felt we were in good company.
Eager to help us, my guests got into the spirit of things. They cleared the decks and stowed away anything that could potentially become airborne – windsurfers, cushions and chairs, and even a full-sized barbecue. Taking every precaution, we took off the sails and hauled one of the dinghies up on board. I was blown away by how supportive my guests were. This was their vacation and it was being totally interrupted. But not once did I hear a complaint about the inconvenience. Instead they assisted in any way possible and enjoyed themselves in the process – all in a spirit of cooperation. Truly this was an exceptional group of people.
In our preparations to secure Latina, we set three anchors off her bow facing west and tied her stern to solid moorings on the beach facing east. Ashore, I searched for extra rope to be used to triple her mooring lines. While I was on the beach I happened to bump into another charter yacht captain. Surprised to hear that my crew and I were planning to stay on board to ensure the ship's safety he sneered, “What’s the matter Boris? Can’t you afford a bottle of rum and a hotel room for the night? Why are you worrying about your ship? Forget it. Join us for a hurricane party!"
I just stared at him and then walked away. I had work to do. There was no way I was going to abandon my ship. I couldn’t comprehend that kind of thinking. I loved Latina. How could I leave her? To me that was like deserting a wounded friend on the battlefield, while the troops were in retreat. I felt we were taking a calculated risk and my crew agreed with me. They all had the option to leave any time they wished.
As the hurricane crept closer, tension began to build on board. The charter guests decided to take my advice after all and seek shelter ashore. Predicting that would be the case, I had a back-up plan. I previously arranged accommodations for them in a concrete building. Quickly they gathered their personal belongings and left the ship. One guest, however, was too stubborn to leave. Fritz was determined to ride out Hurricane Luis with me. His ancestors had been seafarers and even though he was a landlubber himself, he was compelled to stay on board. He felt he owed it to the memory of his deceased grandfather.
Maverick’s Captain Doris was also an exception. With her steadfast determined character shining brightly through, she chose to remain on the ship. She was a strong, salty, hard working woman, the kind that Boston breeds - and nothing was going to change her mind. Meanwhile Robert, our green deckhand, opted to leave the ship after I explained the dangers of staying. Not wanting to desert us in our time of need, but knowing it was the best thing to do, tears rolled down his cheeks as I rowed him ashore. Gary being a loyal long-time mate, agreed to take the last ferry back to St. Thomas harbor where he would fight the storm single-handedly aboard Maverick. After the shuffle, only three of us remained on Latina – Doris, Fritz and I.
Dusk set in and with it - a magic moment of peace before the storm. Magnificently the sun slipped over the horizon. Glorious pink and purple hues feathered across the sky and silhouettes reflected in the smooth mirror-like water. Crickets sang to their heart's content. The scene was one of tranquil bliss, an enchanted moment in time. And yet, in a few short hours, life as I knew it, so comfortable and secure, would be drastically altered.
Originally it was expected that Luis’ eye would pass south of us. Aware of that, I hadn’t been too concerned, but as the winds built up and new weather reports came in, it was obvious that the storm had changed its course. Believe it or not the worst case scenario was about to unfold as we were directly in the path of the eye!
Oh God! Not now! Not ever! I thought. I got that sick feeling in the pit of my gut, as if someone had cold punched me. I had every right to feel sick. Shirley and I had worked so hard to restore Latina. When we bought her she was in dire straits and in need of much repair. After all she wasn’t a young ship. She was built in Italy during the Second World War. Yet when I first set eyes on her I knew I was a goner. It was love at first sight. I could see her potential to be an excellent charter boat. She was big and spacious and gracious and elegant. And she had history - she was once the private yacht of Enzo Ferrari. How could we not want her?
But not everyone agreed with us. People warned us, “You’re crazy to even think about owning a WOODEN ship - and 110 feet? Forget it. It's old! Say good-bye to your marriage. It'll be ruined for sure. In fact say good-bye to your life as you know it. You don't know what you're getting yourself into. That ship will to drain you dry in every way you can imagine.”
Well they weren't too far off. That just about happened! We worked ourselves almost to death. Massive amounts of blood, sweat and tears went into rebuilding Latina. Our finances were stretched way beyond their limit. It was virtually an impossible uphill battle – nevertheless a labor of love. And now the thought of losing her was too much to bear. It made me nauseous to think about it, but it was beyond my control. All we could do was wait and see what fate destiny had in store for us.
Dusk fell. As a blanket of dark clouds crept over us, we experienced the first bands of storm squalls from the north-east. Soon howling winds, exceeding 75 miles-per-hour, dominated the anchorage. Strong gusts laid smaller boats flat over on their sides. It didn’t take long for the storm to knock out the power and the stage was set. Total darkness created an eerie ominous feeling. My body was tense with anticipation, but at the same time, I felt charged – excited like a kid about to experience his first roller coaster ride.
“OK Luis – don’t think you’re going to get the best of me!” I taunted. But he just ignored me. His fury didn’t subside.
In fact as the night progressed the wind intensified and shifted to the north-west. I found it difficult to move around the ship. It blew a steady hundred miles-per-hour with gusts packing much more. But so far we were holding our ground. I was pleased with the way Latina headed up into the wind, even though squalls hit us from different angles causing us to rapidly shift direction. We’d barely recover from one gust before getting blasted by another.
Giant waves swamped the decks. I wondered how much abuse this grand old ship could handle before she’d start leaking between her planks. I wondered if the bilge pumps would be able to keep up. Don’t even go there, I thought. It needed to stay focused.
I went forward to check the anchors. Rain drops pelted my face, stinging me like swarm of bees. A couple of days later I thought I was going through puberty again – my skin was breaking out. At first I thought it was a case of acne. Then I realized that tiny bits of sand and debris, driven by 150 mile-per-hour winds, had actually embedded my skin.
Latina rode the storm like a bucking bronco. Everything seemed to be under control. Then suddenly in the darkness I spotted a white hazy swirling in the air. There was a horrific howling noise that got loude24
r and louder. It sounded like a jet revving its engine just before take-off. It was deafening and frightening and I thought it would drive me mad if it didn’t stop. A force blasted Latina broadside and she swerved sideways. We were no longer secure. Obviously the three anchors set to the west were dragging.
Hastily I ran to the engine room to start the engine. Without it, there was no way to regain control of the ship. I ran back to the poop deck to the exposed helm, shifted Latina into forward and = steered her directly into the wind. If I can just manage to hold her bow steady, I thought. But violent gusts shifted direction so erratically that it became virtually impossible. I knew I had to keep her away from the beach. Adrenaline flowed through my veins. The fight was on to save her!
For hours the three of us – Doris, Fritz and myself, took turns running the engine and spinning the massive wooden wheel from port to starboard, trying desperately to point Latina’s bow into the wind. Working the wheel, located high up on the poop deck on the stern of the ship, we were totally exposed to the elements and were becoming exhausted in our battle against nature.
The wind was so strong it tried to blast us off the deck, and the driving rain so dense we had to wear snorkel masks in order to protect our eyes and faces. We had to turn sideways just to be able to breathe. At this point, I don’t think we could even see Latina's bow.
All along I feared the danger of other boats breaking loose and dragging into us. In the flash of lightning strikes, I was able to make out boats in the distance, some belonging to my friends, being helplessly dragged towards shore.
Suddenly within the spume of ocean spray and pouring rain, I spotted a boat, loose and out of control, being dragged at the mercy of the wind. My stomach did a double flip when I realized – it was heading directly for us.
“Full port! Steer full port!” I screeched into the deafening wind. The drifting boat charged toward us like a loose cannon.
Charged with adrenaline, Captain Doris vigorously spun Latina's wheel to port. I tried to jump from the poop deck down onto the main deck in an attempt to make my way forward. I didn't get far. A powerful gust stopped me dead in my tracks, held me up and suspended me in mid air - then tried to fling me back onto the poop deck. Eventually, I managed to land on the main deck. Dropping on all fours I quickly crawled up to the bow with hopes of fending off the oncoming torpedo. Fritz was close behind.
Then I saw it. A sloop rushed toward us out of the darkness. It was an eerie ghostly sight, captured in short bright flashes of lightning strikes. Its mast was broken and dangling. A huge chunk was missing from its bow. It came so close I almost touched it but before I could, it darted by us past our starboard side and disappeared within seconds out of sight.
I stood there shocked in disbelief. Holly shit, this is serious stuff, I thought. When is this frigging storm ever going to end? I've had enough already! Hurricanes usually pass quickly. It’s their only blessing. But this one seemed to be playing out in slow motion. It must've stalled, I thought, and we have no choice but to endure it.
Remembering my past experience with hurricanes, I knew by now the sea would be over-loaded with tons of debris from battered boats, ship wrecks and land floods. It was one of the dangers associated with violent storms. And Luis would prove to be no different.
Around two a.m. just when I thought we were holding our own, I realized we were in grave danger. Without warning Latina's engine suddenly stopped. I guessed what happened. Snapped anchor lines from other boats had wrapped around our propeller and stalled the engine. Without it, Latina would be lost.
What could I do? My mind was racing. My heart was pounding. There had to be something I could do. I just had to free that prop.
With not a minute to spare I dashed into the engine room to restart it, but each time I re-engaged the transmission, she stalled again.
There was only one thing left to do. The crew watched in horror and disbelief as I grabbed my dive tank and hacksaw and leaped off the ship’s deck into the darkness. I don’t know how, but I felt my way through the black water to the stern of the pitching ship. I couldn’t see a thing. How I found the propeller is beyond me. It was totally jammed with rope. Frantically, I tried to cut through it, but the hacksaw just wouldn’t do the job.
The ship pitched so hard that I could barely hang on to the giant rudder and hack at the same time. One minute I was flying high out of the water exposed to the vicious waves, only to be plunged deep under the next. Each time Latina’s monstrous stern fell down, I felt sharp barnacles slice my head, back and shoulders.
Forget the hacksaw. It wasn’t getting me anywhere. It was a tool better suited for steel. It just barely ruffled the rope. I cursed myself for bringing it. What a bird brain, I thought. What I really need is a sharp knife!
Fritz and Doris helped drag me back up on board and I scurried off to the galley in search of a better tool. In seconds I leapt back into the water – this time clutching the largest knife I could find.
Blinded by the darkness I closed my eyes and let my sixth sense guide me. This time, lady luck was on my side. As I slashed away at the tightly wound ropes, I felt one layer after another give way. I got such an adrenaline rush that I hacked away with the rage of a wild animal.
Suddenly a sharp pain shot up my right arm as one of my muscles tore. But I didn’t stop. I was too close. Then another blow of Latina’s 132-ton hull slammed down on me, knocking the air supply regulator out of my mouth.
I couldn’t hear the rage of the storm anymore. Confused and barely conscious I managed to jab away at the rope, but my mind started to wander off.
My first thought was of Shirley. If she knew what I was doing right now she'd be furious. If I were to die, she would kill me.
Then I started to ask myself. Why am I doing this? Where do I get my drive – my passion for life? Where does it all come from? Why don't I - or why can't I care less?
Perhaps the guy on shore was right. I should let go and not be so committed. But why can’t I?Where does my survival instinct come from? Why do I have such an adventurous spirit?
Perplexed, I shook my head and wondered what in the world a prairie kid from a small farm in Croatia was doing in the middle of the Caribbean under a 132-ton ship in a raging hurricane. How did this all happen?
The Unsinkable Spirit series, a compilation of true sailing adventures, is perfect for anyone who loves to read. The stories are fun, inspirational, motivational, heart-warming and will entertain the whole family - whether young or old, sea mariners or not. "In Search of Love, Adventure & Riches" and "To Sea With Fear" are the first two episodes of The Unsinkable Spirit sailing adventure book series authored by Boris and Shirley King.
