Old Man's Cove

New Bill came to the neighborhood about a year ago. A former Hobie sailor and instructor, he is of otherwise obscure occupational history. Well educated, well read, and well traveled, his knowledge of remote Caribbean anchorages is as extensive as his acquaintance with tropical beverages.

Personable and likable, New Bill is not without fault. He is a powerboater, though he operates his center console fishing boat at an uncommon level of skill and courtesy. I suspect that his skills were acquired among the islands, his manners as a boatman from his sailing days.

New Bill enjoys fishing, and although he takes others along, there are no reliable reports of a fish ever having been brought aboard, except as bait. Though I am no fisherman, I accepted his offer to join him on a beautiful, almost cloudless day.

We launched and made for Old Man’s Cove, a two hour sail aboard Elsie with favorable winds, and arrived in less than twenty minutes. New Bill worked us into about ten feet of water, dropped the anchor, and set it firmly. At his instruction, I cast toward the shallows, a hundred yards or so southwest, and began teasing whatever lay below. There were a few tugs on the line, and my catlike reflexes snatched up grass, weeds, and the odd twig. If fish laugh, they must have been rolling, especially when a backlash in the line produced a monofilament reminder that B. Frank Franklin is no pescadore.

The wind freshened, and a grumbling drew my glance to the northeast, and the entrance to the cove. The seas outside were already businesslike, and New Bill’s decision to keep fishing brooked no protest.

Presently the wind built and shifted, followed by a hammering rain, and we stowed the rods, no doubt sparing some fish. What unfolded next is better told by camera than words, but no such device was at hand.

The storm beat a small boat on a vacant shore, a taught line keeping the two apart. Rain punished all in its path, teasing as a scene of unique beauty faded in below the rumbling above. The shore, with its marsh and trees beyond, steamed, weaving masks of grays and greens, framed by dark water and clouds. Trees and grass, water and clouds and the boat all danced to slightly different beats, the odd thunderclap providing emphasis.

It was a wet and cool place, with no words to describe it. It is perhaps to our credit that we did not try, but were absorbed by those moments. Nature provided the commentary.

The storm passed, the scene changed, and we spoke with a reverent enthusiasm for what we had seen. This fading, fleeting jewel cannot be found on a clear day, or in comfort. But we were lucky enough to see what smarter people—those who would have fled before the storm—may never see.

In flattening water, we hoisted anchor, leaving the fish for another time. We arrived at Burning Still Creek, named for an industry of a distant era, in a half hour, having bashed through unsettled waters to get there. I was again struck by how much ground we had covered in so short a time, as this is a three hour sail on a good day.

This speed advantage allowed plenty of time to not catch fish. I was getting pretty good at that, and New Bill was consistent, as always. We did not stay long, but decided to explore a waterfront neighborhood several miles to the south.

On the way, we ran through a rain squall, a remnant of the storm which had painted the stunning picture north of us. But it delivered a stunning experience of another kind, as powering through rain is far more painful than sailing through it. It was not unlike the experience of riding a motorcycle through a rainstorm wearing a tee shirt and shorts.

The waterside community was new to me, but New Bill was familiar with it. He idled through narrow channels and canals as we took in the homes and boats. In one dead end canal, he turned the boat in its own length, deftly backing, turning, coming ahead, pivoting the boat around its centerline. Now, I have sailed Elsie for a long time, and often handle her adequately. But in these confines and conditions, I probably would have hit something.

We talked about heading towards home, but decided to look at an area to the west, and eased through the maze toward open water. Ahead, the seas were lumpy, with few boats in sight, and fresh squalls on the horizon. One boat was barely moving, possibly fishing the deep waters there. They are, I thought, more dedicated to not catching fish than I, or maybe actually catching some.

We stayed well clear of the fishermen out of courtesy, though coming closer could not have bothered them in that sea state. I tried but failed to avoid looking to see if they were actually catching fish. It was then that I saw them waving, and one of the wavers produced an orange thing which turned out to be a PFD, perhaps the only one aboard.

As quickly as I told New Bill, he eased the throttle, looked over his shoulders, and started a gentle semicircle toward the bobbing boat. He took us within hailing distance, but no closer, and it was then that we saw that the boat was crowded, perhaps overloaded, and dead in the water. There were children aboard, but not a towline.

It was difficult to hear and understand, but they wanted a tow to the ramp east of us. It was within sight, but not close. The wind was rising, and there were two hours or so of daylight left.

We asked them to put PFDs on, and quickly got a line to them, putting as much distance between us as the line allowed. It was tricky, as they had little control over their boat, and the seas were rising. But before the next squall arrived, they were at their ramp, and we were headed toward ours.

There was one more stop to make. We wound through a narrow channel to Lazy Island, not far from our ramp, but hard to get to, and lightly used. We found shelter there, and relaxed. There was talk of the day and tropical beverages, and we may have had one. We stayed until the sun touched the horizon, and idled toward home. •SCA•

First appeared in issue #68