The Cove - 2018 by Mark Farenbaugh

 

The Cove - 2018 

by Mark Farenbaugh

"We’ll take shelter over there," Arnie said, peering through a pair of old binoculars. We had just come through a couple of long nights, taking turns at the helm of his forty-two-foot sailboat, and we all needed a break from the rough seas and unrelenting wind. The easterly winds were strong, holding us to barely a knot of progress.

We had departed from the southern tip of Cuba two days earlier. Our destination was the eastern side of the Dominican Republic, where whales arrive to mate. At first, we tried to beat the wind by skirting the southern coast of Haiti and the Dominican Republic, planning to then ease up the east side and find a good place to anchor.

Arnie and his wife, Mona, have been my friends since my college days. I’ve visited them in Norway several times, and they’ve visited us in the States often enough. They had decided to circumnavigate the Atlantic—again. I had joined them before, sailing from Funchal Island (Portugal) to the Canary Islands. It was an adventure: my first storm at sea, and at night. I was thinking this trip would be calmer—and convinced my wife of the same. “Don’t worry, it’ll be calm and restful. A quick trip without many delays,” I told her. So, we planned it out. We would fly to Cuba, board their sailboat, and cruise to the Dominican Republic. Unlimited wine, no complaints, and no politics were the rules of the boat.

48 hours earlier

My wife, Jenny, and I flew to Cuba on American Airlines. There were no delays—until we stepped up to the immigration window. Apparently, their database still had me listed as an attaché. Yep, a spy. Probably from my time in Nicaragua. They had me step aside and questioned me in a small room. Just a slight delay, I thought, since I was much older now. It was 2018, and I had been at the Managua embassy in 1996—twenty-two years earlier. Still, they kept asking what I did for a living, and I kept giving the same answer: nothing. I’m retired. The officials would make a call to someone, then ask me the same question again. I spoke to them in the best Spanish I could muster and repeated the same thing over and over: “Estoy jubilado, gracias a Dios.” (I’m retired, thank God). Finally, they gave up and let us move on.

The Cuban taxi driver wouldn’t answer any questions until we arrived at our destination port on the southern coast of Cuba. However, once we stopped and he was out of the car, he told us all about Cuba: a poor country with a broken economy that doesn’t allow business ventures unless they’re fully controlled by the government. Communism. No surprise.

We processed out of Cuba with the port immigration representative and boarded our home for the next few days: a sailing boat named Venture. Firm hugs were exchanged as our Norwegian friends welcomed us aboard. They had already been at sea for weeks, having sailed smoothly south from Norway to the west coast of Africa, then across the Atlantic and onward for a few more days to Jamaica. Once somewhat rested, they pressed north to rendezvous with us at this port in Cuba.

For them, it had been a stormy couple of days with rough seas that snapped the forestay (the wooden bow mast that holds the front sail, called the jib). Arnie had to crawl forward and cut loose the jib sail. He lost a sail but saved the boat. Exhausted, they made it to a Cuban port and miraculously found a carpenter who built a replica of the broken forestay hanging from the bow — a Cuban version. It looked like hell, but at least it provided some support for the main mast.

The next day, they had to reposition (in the same rough seas) to the port where we were — another tough ride against strong easterly winds. Especially hard without the front sail.

That night, Arnie and I caught up on all the activities of the past few days and the years since we had last seen each other. We stayed up too late and celebrated our reunion with a few shots of aquavit and more than several beers. Morning came early.

The next day’s plan was simple: sail from Cuba to the Dominican Republic, a short two-day journey. First, we would sail directly from Cuba to Haiti, then round the southwest corner of Haiti and skirt the island until we passed the Dominican Republic’s capital city, Santo Domingo, and find somewhere to rest. It was too dangerous to sail close to shore at night.

First delay.

In the morning, Arnie discovered that we needed fuel. They had used more than expected pushing the sailboat against the easterly headwinds and current. I was ready with some Spanish to negotiate for help, but it was Sunday. Worse, there was no fuel pump in sight. It took some time to locate someone besides the lone immigration officer, only to discover that the pump was farther away than expected — and there was no way to relocate the boat closer to it. We had to carry the diesel in five-gallon jugs over three hundred yards to the boat.

Thus, the most hungover slugs (Arnie and myself, in case that wasn’t clear) turned to the task. Hours later, we were finally ready to cast off. Four hours lost. No bueno. We had missed the calmer morning winds that usually followed a cool night.

We set off under power through the narrow inlet, exiting the protected harbor and heading out to sea until we felt the trade winds. Surprisingly, it was still calm, and we were able to hoist a full mainsail. Arnie and I thanked the gods!

Second delay.

The winds strengthened sooner than Arnie and Mona had anticipated. It was clear we would be sailing through the night and would see land (Haiti) by morning. Jenny and I were in good hands — Arnie and Mona had been sailing since they were young, as most Norwegians do. This was just part of what happens when “cruising.” Besides, down below deck, one could sleep well. So, we ate and had some wine until the shift sailing began, around nine that night.

In the early morning, we could see land. We were still on the leeward side of Haiti, meaning we must have drifted a bit north. Arnie turned the boat to the southeast. However, once we cleared the corner of Haiti, we were hit by the full force of the trade winds.

As this happened, I turned to Arnie. We had known each other for years. All he said was, “Global warming. It wasn’t like this years ago.”

Of course, I thought, it had to be environmental.

Within an hour, it was clear even to me that we had slowed in our progress and would not be able to continue on this course. The waves were repetitive and growing larger. Arnie and his wife began discussing what to do in their native language. After they finished talking, Arnie turned to me. We both nodded. I knew what he was thinking — we were coming about.

We turned hard to port and headed north, staying on the leeward side of Haiti. We would have to try to go around Haiti on the north side.

As soon as we had a full mainsail and a steady course northward, I noticed Jenny gripping the safety lines on deck. Her eyes were wide, and I could see the fear in them. Venture was taking the hard wind at about a 20-degree heel, with the port side close enough to the water’s surface to scare anyone unfamiliar with such a sight. I calmed her as best I could.

“Sailboats are made to do this,” Arnie said. He could see her fear as well. At this point, I joined Arnie and Mona in taking the helm through the night.

By noon the next day, we were approaching the northwestern tip of Haiti. Then the full force of the easterly winds struck again, driving rough water against us. There was no escaping it. We had to press onward. Hours passed slowly...

Third delay.

Just as we were about to round the northwestern corner of Haiti, the winds grew feral. Waves slapped the hull, and the sail groaned like a wounded animal. We were almost within sight of a long island just north of Haiti. Once we reached it, sailing would be ideal; the island would break up the shifting wind and current, allowing us to zigzag our way east.

But we couldn’t attempt it at night — and Arnie, Mona, and I were completely exhausted. We needed to stop somewhere.

Then I saw Arnie pick up his binoculars. I knew what he was looking for: shelter from the wind. We needed to drop anchor somewhere and rest.

Once he focused on an area and took a quick look at the map, he signaled for Mona to turn Venture toward a cove inlet. I turned to my wife and told her we were headed into a cove for the night. She was thrilled at the thought of calm waters. I was not. I had never liked getting even remotely close to Haiti.

Haiti’s history is scarred by decades of political oppression, violence, and corruption — all at the expense of its own people. Brutality and instability became deeply entrenched through years of authoritarian rule: the regime of Papa Doc Duvalier and his secret police (1957–1971), the dictatorship of Baby Doc Duvalier (1971–1986), and a subsequent turbulent era of military coups, assassinations, and fragile democracy (1986–2009). President Jean-Bertrand Aristide’s troubled terms (1990–1991, 1994–1996, and 2001–2004) further reflected the nation's ongoing struggle to achieve any form of lasting political stability.

Then came nature’s brutal force

In 2010, a devastating 7.0 magnitude earthquake struck Port-au-Prince, killing over 230,000 people, injuring hundreds of thousands more, displacing over 1.5 million, and unleashing further chaos as prison populations spilled into a broken society. With infrastructure shattered and governance crippled, the country faced an even greater humanitarian crisis when a deadly cholera outbreak swept through months later, killing thousands more.

Since I had been working in Santo Domingo one week after the earthquake hit, I heard firsthand from witnesses that were moving supplies to Haiti how the violent Haitian gangs were controlling the streets. I wanted no part of Haiti.

It was nearly 5 p.m. when we slowly entered the calm, shallow cove. The water was a beautiful turquoise and remarkably peaceful. Unfortunately, the locals had set out lobster traps all throughout the entrance and well into the interior of the cove. If the trap lines tied to the many floating water bottles got entangled in our propeller, we would lose the ability to use the engine — no bueno.

My wife and I stood on the bow, calling out the floating gallon-sized water jugs, while Arnie steered us toward an open spot where we could drop anchor.

Hearing the sound of the anchor chain flowing out from the bow was like music. Once the anchor was deployed and set, we all gazed out over a beautiful cove, its shallow, crystal-clear waters glowing a brilliant blue. The shoreline was outlined by white sand, backed by wooded hills that rose gently around the edges. Finally, we could rest.

Serenity interrupted.

Within an hour, we spotted several small canoes and people assembling on the beach. We weren’t close to shore — maybe 400 yards away. Not too far for a strong swimmer, but none of us could have managed it.

"Arnie, you’ve sailed throughout the Caribbean before. Have you ever encountered pirates?" "Nope."

"Please let me take a look with your binoculars." I grabbed them. There were a couple of canoes already in the water, moving in our direction.

No way, I thought... I could see the tattoos I had only heard about — and never wanted to see.

I didn’t say anything. Not yet. Maybe they are peaceful, I dreamed.

Arnie and I agreed that we should keep the ladies down below while we dealt with the visitors. A small canoe carrying an older man reached our well-anchored boat first. He started with a smile but quickly began asking for items. As he scanned the deck, he noticed the various knives placed along the safety guard cable. He started asking for them.

Then the next small raft arrived. It was made of four logs tied together enough to hold the weight of three persons. That wasn’t as surprising as the three very fit triathletes on it. Not an ounce of fat and they weren’t smiling at all. Each had the same tattoos. No bueno.

“Cell phone,” one of them said sharply. “Knife. Rope.” Another man pointed at the life jackets. “That. Give that.” Their tone wasn’t desperate — it was entitled.

While Arnie kept offering candles, matches, and hard candy, I sat motionless in the center of the boat, a towel draped over my lap, my hands hidden beneath it. My right hand gripped nothing but my 4-inch knife, relying on stillness, a cold stare, and the illusion of the towel to plant doubt. I wanted them to think I had a weapon. All I had was hope. My mind was racing. “What if the young bucks attack?” I could only barely wound their hands or face before the enraged gang- pirates overtook the boat.

I kept thinking: This is how it ends.
After a long period of time, they all departed. Somehow the bluff worked! Time for a new plan.

When all four of the locals returned to the beach, we tried to discuss what to do. My wife was too scared to speak. Mona and Arnie had cruising experience, but they had never faced a problem like this. They had no experience with violent people.

It was too dangerous to sail out of the cove, and staying seemed just as risky. We all stared at the beach, searching for a solution.

I finally broke the silence with a suggestion. “I hope you all realize that we are far away from any police protection. Whatever can happen here will not be investigated if they come out at night while we are asleep.”

“What do you suggest?” said Mona. I think Arnie already knew. “Do you have any guns?”
“Only a flare gun.” Arnie presented it and its four cartridges.

"Good enough. I recommend you all go below and get some sleep. I’ll stand guard. We have a full moon. If the winds die down below 5 knots, I’ll wake everyone. If they come at night and I have to shoot, we’ll need all hands on deck. Agreed?"

Everyone nodded. None of us were hungry.

“We can't stay here,” Jenny said softly, eyes moist with fear.

I gave her a hug and whispered for her to get some sleep.

"I’m sure they’re too scared of us to come back," I lied, watching her disappear below deck. Once she was out of sight, I motioned for Arnie to come over for a quiet conversation.

"Arnie, if I have to shoot someone, we’ll need to head for Florida. We can’t fight the wind going east. If we go west, the wind will be at our backs, and even if we lose the engine, we can still make it."

He agreed. “It’ll be a high tide, and we’ll motor out with lights off. There should still be some moonlight left to keep away from the reef.”

Then, he went down below.

I can honestly say I had never been so tense in all my life. I don’t remember feeling scared, but I knew that I was — and that fear was the only thing keeping me awake. Thankfully, the moon was full, and I could see in all directions. Even through the water, I could clearly see the bottom.

But then I thought: They can see me too!
No bueno.
All night, the moon watched silently. The beach remained still.

The hours crept by. Finally, around three in the morning, as I watched the wind velocity drop below four knots, both Arnie and Mona climbed up from below deck. We whispered our good mornings, then reviewed our escape plan, trying to recall where most of the crab traps were. It only took a couple of minutes to decide where to take Venture.

“Mark, go up front and raise the anchor. Mona, please look out for floating crab trap markers.” We safely departed the cove under moonlight.
I will never do that, again.