I stuck my head up out of the water, spit the mouthpiece of the snorkel away and ripped the mask from my face. I could hear shouting from somewhere behind, but had to duck away from Faith�s careening stern and shake my head to clear the water from my ears. My feet found a stable hold on the sandy bottom. Now the words flying over the miniature harbor surge formed themselves into something sensible. It was Jorge, and he was excited: �Capitan Juan! The water�s going out! Mas problemas for you!�
Mas problemas for me, I thought, what�s new?
But Jorge was right � I�d come up from under the hull where I�d been working to restore reliable mobility to the rudder. The fact that the keel had suddenly been resting on the bottom before my eyes had prompted me to duck up into the air for a quick evaluation of whatever situation might be brewing. The situation was simple � the tide was going out fast and the mooring spot in the near-beach shallows we�d picked was rapidly getting shallower. If we didn�t get into deeper water in the next ten minutes it might be a very long time before we�d be able to without the assistance of a crane. �Brian!� I yelled to the First Mate up on the bow, �we�re on the bottom! Pull the bow line! Eric!� this directed to the Second Mate, back in the cockpit, �let the anchor lines go!� I put a shoulder into Faith�s side, struggling to rock her far over, straining to take some of her weight from the keel. �We have to do this just like Florida!� A shudder ran through the three of us: we�d not forgotten the tribulation of our five hour grounding outside Sarasota. Thankfully, we�d learned some tricks that might help us now�if we�d noticed our plight in time�if we could use the swell to ride our vessel to floating depth.
The harbor swell amounted to only a foot, and rather than picking the keel up off the bottom and dropping it back down it was rocking the boat back and forth. A good thing because we weren�t being tossed further up onto the beach, a bad thing because we weren�t making any headway away from shore, either.
Eric was in the water with me the instant the two anchor lines had been freed from the stern cleats. The anchors themselves would likely be safe where they were stuck, just below the break line, until we could retrieve them � later.
Brian hauled with all his might at the bow line tied to the long gas dock fifty feet beyond us. That line now represented our connection to safe water, possibly to the continuation of the voyage. But even though the First Mate was heaving until he left skin on the nylon, we gained only two, maybe three feet at best.
I wondered if Faith could weather being lain on her side in a small surf for a few hours. Then I pushed a little harder.
* * * *
Ahh, Bahia Tortuga! An oval-shaped bay, its name may derive from its resemblance to a sea turtle: the protected, natural inlet the neck and head, the circular bay itself the carapace, the town along the eastern shore the swishing feet and tail. Morning light poured across the rippling water of the cove, illuminating a bearded sailor still crusty with dried sea salt reclining in the cockpit of a little blue sailboat. From his expression, one could tell he was supremely satisfied to be relaxing on the deck of the gently rocking bark. His manner spoke of tensions released, of harrowing days on the ocean�s salty brink come to safe end in a friendly port of call. His eyes were half-lidded: no need to scan a distant horizon, no obstacle of impending disaster lying low ahead. Shoulders that had tightened during nights of chilly apprehension now sagged luxuriantly, soaking up the healing balm of honeyed sunshine. At last no pressing matter demanded his undivided attention. It was a good half an hour.
The wirring of an outboard barely preceded Brian�s hushed call from the cockpit: �Sean? Jorge is on his way over�for the second time. I told him you were sleeping before��
�Mmmmphrrrgg,� somewhere in the dim catacombs of dreaming I�d registered the approach of a panga, but had made the stubborn subconscious decision that it was definitely not connected to the outside world. My eyelid was a stone, grinding as it slid back to open my ocular sarcophagus. Light like a burning brand seered the comfortable darkness; up from the Valley of the Dead Asleep rose awareness. That damn panga was real.
�The other boat is gone,� Brian pointed out as I plopped down on the cockpit seat, �they must have seen us come in and pulled anchor at first light.�
�No doubt,� I replied, squinting at the empty water where the sleek cruiser had been moored the night before. I mimicked a possible reaction: ��Look, honey, Pirates! Let�s get out of here!� Or maybe they just smelled us.�
Jorge piloted his long runabout up against Faith�s port side as we chuckled. The First Mate and I greeted our smiling host. I handed him a cigarette to forestall any immediate need to get things moving. �Where you guys come from?� he asked.
Brian and I gave him the rundown of our adventure, adding that we�d heard of Jorge�s family � our guide books made mention of Gordo�s Gas Dock and Maria�s restaurant. Jorge was Gordo�s son, Maria his sister. Instantly, we were fast friends. �My father died several years ago,� Jorge sadly informed us, �now I run the dock. My sister is still here, too � maybe you want to meet her?� Absolutely.
We explained to our concierge about the rudder problem, asking if he knew a place where we might find some scrap metal. �Yeah, yeah! I�ll take you. You need gas, water also?� �Yes.� I woke Eric to let him know the First Mate and I were being ferried into town. �Good,� he said, �it�ll give me a chance to clean the mess out of my galley.�
Brian was just handing the last of the jerry jugs into Jorge�s panga as I stepped aboard.
We were shuttled to the south end of the hundred yard long gas dock. Jorge brought his craft up to a small landing at water level where Brian tied it off, then I climbed the ladder to receive the fuel containers as Brian hucked them up to me. Gordo�s Gas Dock stands well above the water to accommodate tides and the occasional large swell that rolls in with heavy westerly weather. We were thankful that in August conditions were likely to be calm.
Jorge led us onto the dusty streets of the town, greeting everyone we passed. While he chatted with an acquaintance a truck pulled up, the occupants wanting to know if we needed water. Jorge had explained that all the drinking water in town was trucked in in five gallon containers which could be bought on the street, just like this. The sellers offered us the twenty gallons we needed at eleven dollars a container. They would meet us on the beach in an hour to make the deal. Jorge scowled as he watched them drive away. �Too much,� he shook his head, �I can get it for you for seven.� Oh. Well, too late, and we don�t mind. Jorge just mumbled �too much, too much,� and led on. We stopped at a corner store to get cokes for ourselves and a beer for Jorge, then on to the gas station on the edge of town � all in all a half mile hike. While the fuel containers were filled a procession passed us, music blaring from a roof-mounted speaker resembling a tornado warning siren. The word �agua� was repeated over the music. �Water?� I asked. �Yes,� Jorge took off his hat to wipe sweat from his forehead, �those guys are the good ones. Maybe the other ones won�t show up? I can get you a better deal�� I smiled, having an inkling that Jorge must receive a kickback for dealing with the competition.