I sprang onto deck greeted by the incredulous stares of Brian and Eric. We were in action before words were necessary. The mainsail was torn four feet up from it's attachment to the boom. Eric and I pulled it down to prevent more damage, noting as we did that the tear was only a foot long, not the gaping hole I had expected. We rolled the boom into the sail and stowed them below. With the jib still functional we were continuing to make way, and having stabilized the vessel for the moment we sat down together to collect our thoughts. "No" we decided. There is no way we will let these things beat us. When dawn arrives we will solve our problems. Six hours later the sun breached the horizon and our spirits rose with it. I made a full inspection of the pin that had sheared where the boom meets the mast, finding that by taking apart the roller reef (that�s a feature allowing the mainsail to be rolled onto the boom � one we've never used) it would be possible to flip the pin, drill a hole in it, and reattach the whole mechanism in a manner that would actually increase its strength. But to achieve this would require power. And that would mean getting the alternator to work. There's a hole in the bucket, dear Henry, dear Henry, as the song goes�. The day before I had traced the wiring of the engine backward and forward, never detecting a problem. Today I took a different approach. Remember that scene in The Empire Strikes Back where Han smacks the wall of the Millennium Falcon when its power dies and everything comes back on line? It took one good whack on the alternator coil and suddenly the batteries were showing a positive feed! This facilitated the charging of the power drill, with which I was able to bore the hole in the boom pin. Meanwhile, the batteries regained enough juice to provide us with running lights. Triumphantly we reattached the boom, our only regret being that the sail wouldn't be able to go back up until the rip was sown. This is something we could have done but felt that an expert � presumably in Isla Mujeres � could give us the best possible repair. Seas were fair, wind was behind us, and I retired to the bunk after my evening tiller shift satisfied that things were finally on the mend. I had skipped my sleep shift earlier in favor of making said repairs, and so I slept soundly though one of the most astonishing events ever to grace the Faith. When Brian woke me up two hours into my watch (he and Eric had elected to let me rest a bit longer than would normally have been required) he had a smugly suppressed smile. "Captain," he responded to my inquiry on the ship's status, "we're 65 miles from Isla Mujeres, we're doing 4 � knots, and we're flying wing on wing." The import of this statement dawned slowly on me as I rubbed my eyes, coming slowly to comprehension. "What we've got two sails?" I asked incredulously. "Of course, don't we always?" Was Brian's response. In complete disbelief I crawled through the hatch, Eric's anticipatory grin awaiting my arrival. And I looked up. Rigged to the boom � backwards no less! - was the storm jib, bellying in the wind. Brian and Eric had let me fall asleep, discussed the procedure, tallied the necessary implements, and flown the jib as our back-up main. You read about this sort of thing in books like "Sailing Around the World Alone" by Joshua Slocum wherein a crippled boat is mended with spit and toothpicks. It makes great reading and is good fuel for the imagination. It also comes in incredibly handy when you're sailing off the restricted Cuban shores watching your vessel fall apart and have to rely on your wits (and the adhesive quality of your saliva) to keep things, shall we say, afloat. And so we made the approach to Isla Mujeres restored in confidence and condition. Ahh, the Caribbean. Our motto in effect! Buenos!!!