The night was moonless and the oceans were violent—that last stretch of ocean fighting our arrival not wanting to give up the shores of this place that holds so much of my love and fears.  I slept a restless, perturbed sleep.  This was day 35 for us, for my heart to wait, for the boat to traverse and I wasn’t sure if dawn would really come, and I would see the sun rise once again over the shores of this tree stripped island.  Yet as light infiltrated the darkness, there she was…. Haiti.  A word that has aroused such emotions in me since we pulled away 11 months ago- joy, sadness, longing, fear, and wonder- was suddenly a tangible solid landmass in front of me.

No more dreaming, no more voices from across the sea jolting me awake, like a lover whose spell you will never break.  Haiti has haunted me. I had dreamt of this moment so many times, wondering if it would ever happen even while on our way.  And yet, there I was—alone on the bow with the sun and an island knocked down by the earth and by man.  The flat blue seas lying ahead of me were bringing me closer and closer to those that I have missed, dreamt of, and longed for.  With a gleaming sun overhead and a glass sea beyond, we made our way down Haiti’s Southern Tip.

Eight o’clock brought us creeping into the darkened bay of Petit Goave- poking our bow into waters as familiar as the streets of my childhood.  As we laid our anchor down, Ben, Noah, and I strained to identify which lights were what on shore—the UN Dock, the bright lights of the welding shop across from our corner store, the neighborhood of bigger houses where all of the big NGO groups live, our mental landscapes melding with the physical.  We had to wait until day light to break to make our way to shore and clear in, but I couldn’t sleep. I found myself once again perched in the captains chair watching the lights over the bay, smelling the slightly sweaty odors and smoky food smells wafting to the boat, listening to the fisherman sing their way through the darkness to the deep water fish traps.  I was enveloped in the warmth of knowing that only 200 yards from me were Bichara, Evenson, Meyomen, and my little man Cheeks.

The morning was a fury of Ben and me readying our paper work and records, getting the skiff back into the water after the transit, and preparing our new crew for what they should expect.  The first group going in though was Ben, Noah, and I.  It felt like the skiff couldn’t move fast enough.  Immigration was a breeze, and then we were through the gates of the UN dock and back on the streets, our streets, of Petit Goave. We were shocked at how much work had been done- the streets were cleared of rubble, no tents were left, and a lot of building had happened.  What had been blocks that were nothing but tents were now hundreds of one bedroom plywood homes.  It was amazing.  The town square had been cleared of tents and shanty homes and was clean and full of students and people sitting under the shading trees.  We worked our way past the market (not a Ralphs but wonderfully familiar) and up towards Madame Feave and her bakery.  11 months after I was last there everyone recognized us—the workers in the back greeted me with a “hi, Sky’, like I had seen them the day before.  Not overly emotional by any means but brought a lump to my throat.

Next we jumped onto motor Taxi’s and whipped across town to the clinic—I was so nervous.  I prayed Cheeks would still be there—I had heard from almost everyone in Petit Goave since we left and knew that all of them were ok, but nothing about him.  The pink pants orphan that stole my heart on my first day.  Above all, it is him that wanders around my dreams.  We pulled up to the clinic gates and to the huge smile from the woman who runs the small food stand in the front.  We were bombarded with hugs from her and the clinic staff.  Ben whisked right into the clinic checking on the supply rooms to take an inventory of what they needed and to say hello to the rest of the staff.  I on the other hand made my way to the school.  Cheeks’ sister spotted me first—the girl in the ripped turquoise dress—this time in a school uniform.  She yelled my name and made a break for me—followed then by all 30 or so kids that I had spent so many hours with.  I was surrounded, waist high, with little hands and Como Yas (how are you in Creole) but no Cheeks.  After a lot of hugs I asked here Golobo was—Cheek’s nickname at the clinic—everyone pointed down the path and to the tree that he and I had played peek-a-boo around so many times.  With 10 kids in tow I made my way down the dirt path.  And then, just like that, there he was—he turned and saw me, stopped, and then ran into my arms.  If he only knew what this moment meant to me, if only I could explain to this 4 year old little boy that for 11 months and from hundreds of miles of open ocean  I had longed for this exact second, that my mind would be quieted, that it was like hugging a piece of my own heart that I left here willingly.  He scrunched his nose at me and I scrunched mine back.  He put his head on my shoulder and all of those fears quieted.  Here he was  – still orphaned, still dirty, but here alive.

The road I think that I will journey down is rarely mirrored by reality. This “crossing turned journey” brought me to the brink of what I believe I can handle and cemented my understanding that control is merely a delusion.

I could write about a million pages about the twenty-one days since we left Roatan, but I will only start on Day One after leaving Guanaja and its nine days of gale force winds, unsafe anchorages, anchor draggings, and impossible customs agents… some stories should be left untold.

Day One:  We pulled away from the North Side of Guanaja to what was supposed to be four days of amazing weather; enough to get us to Port Antonio, Jamaica and our first resting point.  A huge system had worked its way over the Caribbean Sea for the previous week and a half and the lull was obvious on all weather sites. The seas were flatter and bluer than I had ever seen them and everyone was very excited to be making the “8 Day” trek to Petit Goave, Haiti.  I on the other hand am always suspicious and anxiety ridden once we leave land.  I have seen what an angry ocean can be like, and I never trust a weather report.  But the day was beautiful and the fishing was amazing.  It seemed as if we could get no more than an hour between the mad rush that is “FISH ON”!  Larson and Ben were ecstatic, and Noah’s new addition of the fighting platform on our stern was getting put to use- a sight I never thought I would see aboard S/V Southern Wind.   All was tranquil expect for my growing suspicion that this was way too good to be true.

Day Two: We arrived at the first land we’d seen in about 30 hours, the famous fishing haven Swan Island.  This is a small slice of land 137 nautical miles from Roatan whose waters are crystal clear and full of fish and sharks—Ben and Larson were in total bliss.  We spent the morning exploring the reefs around the island catching fish and admiring the birds.  For me it was very nice to be near the solidity of land knowing that once we pulled away from its shores we had 367 miles of ocean to cross.  At about 10 am, I pulled the latest weather report seeing that our weather window was not as long as had been the day before…the weather gods were closing in on us.

Day Three:  I felt the first buck at about 3:45 am near the middle of my watch. The stern of the boat kicked for a minute, a momentary lurch but definite. I slid out of the navigators chair and walked onto the back deck, straining to see the sea state through the moonless night.   The seas looked dark to me, for I believe I knew what was waiting.  Eight AM brought fun house hell to us.  It’s hard to explain what a 5 – 7 foot confused sea state is like… imagine your house on a pivot point being tossed in every direction possible.  It’s like a roller coaster that doesn’t stop with noises never ending.  Up and down, side to side, forward and port, sideways and starboard, far away from land and a total loss of control of the ride you are on.

I was lying on the floor of the main salon doing all that I could to baby my back, which, for those of you who don’t know me well, has been a huge source of problems for me while on this voyage, when I thought I heard the engines accelerating and then decreasing RPM’s.  Now I am always the one to worry on the boat and am always asking questions about if something ‘seems right’ or not, so I decided that I was going to say nothing and that it was just in my mind and all would be ok.  Right.  Over the next 30 or so minutes the noises and RPM difference became very noticeable until… sputter sputter sputter and the horrifying silence of no engines.  The situation suddenly went from uncomfortable and nerve wracking to the reality of true danger.

Everyone sprung into action… Ben, Larson, and Ed ran to the engine room.  What was the problem?  What are we going to do?  How long until we roll?   The boat in a matter of minutes was turning so that our broad side or “beam” was face to face with the oncoming huge swells.  The likelihood of us rolling over grew with every second we were in that position, but we were left adrift.  The engine room was like something out of a nightmare, up top the rolling waves were taking their toll quickly on the boat and on the crew.  The vomiting started soon after.  Pretty much everyone was growing greener and greener by the passing seconds.  While Ed and Larson were feverishly trying to figure out what was wrong with the engines, Ben and Noah were tying line to our deck chairs to use them as sea anchors with the hope of pulling the bow into the wind, but the help that they were providing was minimal.  I was on the VHF radio hailing the US Coast Guard or anyone that was out there.  Randy and Holly and Noah at that point decided that it was time to deploy our main sail.  In the midst of my radio hailing my stomach reached its breaking point and the little that I had in me decided to come up for a visit.  After my bout of sickness, now covered in my own throw up, I was back on the radio.  It was then that Ben ran upstairs and got sick himself… at this point I knew it was bad.  In my 29 years of being on the sea with my brother and through some ugly weather, I have never seen him sick before–from this point on I was entering into uncharted waters.

Ed, Larson, and Ben came to the realization that the problem was bad fuel, and that our tanks had been filled with very dirty and watered down diesel.  Worst nightmare, as there is no immediate fix for this.  I had finally gotten connected with a navigator from a passing cargo ship who was hailing the US Coast Guard for us—the voice over the radio was surprisingly comforting—someone, over the vast expanse of angry blue, was there.

Noah, Randy and Holly got the main sail up, and, although the wind was not blowing in the direction that we wanted it to, our bow was being pulled into it, and the ship was starting to steady a bit.  But now what?  Jamaica was still 36 hours away.  We opted for the nearest land, Grand Cayman, 68 nautical miles to the North.

First, only by sail, and, then, a bit later when the fuel filters had been changed with the engines, we started our transit through the stormy night towards land.  We trudged through the growing swells getting tossed and beaten for the next 12 hours praying that the engines would hold.  I have never prayed so hard in my life, nor have I ever actually truly been that full of fear.  I had no control, not even the illusion of it.  I had spoken to the US Coast Guard, the Jamaican Coast Guard, and the Cayman Coast Guard, all of which were on the ready for us, but, other than that, there was nothing that I could actually do to help the situation.  I held fast, praying to get to the faint glimmer of light on the horizon that would bring safety. Never once did our crew stop working toward a solution.

At 4:30 am we limped into George Town harbor and tied to a mooring buoy.  I have never been so happy to see land in my entire life.  At 8:30 when we pulled onto the customs dock I nearly kissed the solid ground… the crew and the ship had made it.

Or so we thought.  What was coming to us on our next transit to Jamaica was double the fear… but at least for two nights we slept above the blue waters of the Caymans.

My next entry will tell the tale of what happens in rough seas, bad fuel, dangerous reefs, and one compete engine failure.