Katabatic Wind

Wind is everywhere and nowhere.

Wind shapes the lives of humans. Wind is no less determining of our inner lives: the föhn, mistral, sirocco, Santa Ana, and other “ill winds” of the world are correlated with disease, suicide, and even murder.

The Katabatic wind is the most dangerous; unexpected, unseeable, and violently destructive. 

Trade Winds: The eastern flow of warm winds north and south of the equator. 

This story was first published in A Sailor's Point Of View Buy Today

I walked along the Sandy Ground beach in St. Martin, on the French side. The beach is on the leeward side of the island. There was little or no breeze. Puffy trade-wind clouds glided by as if on a conveyor belt in a pastry factory, never a hint of shadow from one. The trade winds were confined to the Dutch side. Leaving the leeward beach hot and oppressive. It was my birthday. The trade winds served as an approximate metaphor of the march of time. I was a follower of trade winds, then the westerlies into the Med with all points on the compass rose with a name for the wind and back again into the trades. My life and my boat followed the same path as the explorers and the empires that followed. My business was the charter business. Memorable vacations sailing around the leeward islands in the winter and the Eastern Med in the summer. I did my best to avoid hurricane season. I had experienced two damaging Category 5 hurricanes and decided I’d rather make the crossing to Europe. Better part of common sense, valor, and economy. 

For my birthday, I planned a walk on the beach, dinner in town, and a nightcap at a local bar. Chances were good I would run into someone I knew. I would casually mention my birthday and buy drinks. I would find my way back to my boat, which was at anchor in the lagoon, sleep off a hangover and get on with living. The getting on part was I needed to find another chef/mate for the boat. My last crew scattered to the wind. Nothing personal “Just time to go back to the real world and start living.” I had a crew agency looking for me, but I seemed to always be lucky in finding the right people when I needed them. Finding Laura, or I should say Laura, finding me was a stroke of luck. 

I am not a beach person, per se. I like the beach and have been going to the beach all my life, but I love diving off the boat into deep cool water and swimming. I saw the beach as any sailor would as trouble. Still, it was a good place to walk and scrape the tough skin off my feet. Walking on teak decks all the time engendered tough soles. A pun if you like.

By this time in my life, I had enough experience with the other sex not to get my hopes up romantically. I hoped I had evolved where my projection and desires toward a woman could be tamed. I was evolving into a man who saw the person inside the persona of femininity. I knew how to be kind, deferential, and respectful. Growing up in a household with two sisters, a strong mother, and even stronger grandmother sculpted my understanding and respect for women. 

I would plead guilty as charged for being noncommittal. I wanted to travel and sail to foreign lands and be that guy with the richest experiences life could offer. Wind is the sailor’s life. 

The polar ice caps have dense cold air and the trade winds light warm air. Cold to warm to cold easterlies closer to the pole’s westerlies closer to the equator. I was the polar air to a relationship and Laura was the equatorial trades. We had movement.

Everything about sailing is about relationships. A sailor’s relationship with wind is the primary focus of his life and success. It is possible that a cautious sailor may never experience more than a strong squall in his lifetime of sailing. A good skipper can choose when to go out, when it is within his or her margin of safety. Sometimes depending on where you live, and sail weather and the wind associated with it can’t be avoided. Therefore, sailors spend a preponderance of time watching and studying the weather. What they are really studying is the wind. Wind is created by a difference in pressures and pressures are created by the temperature of the air in any spot. Watching the America’s Cup, the commentators talk about one side of the course having a deeper pressure, thus more wind. More wind, faster sailing. They have very sophisticated devices to measure the air pressure, direction, and rate of flow. Even with all this technology and crunching of numbers, knowing the unseen is still a guess. Relationships are the same.

Her eyes were black velvet. They reflected her surroundings like a rolling diorama sparkling and shimmering at every variance of light. She was shyly intellectual. Ideas operated on several tracks at once, yet her inherent ease of concentration was always bright, direct, inquisitive. When her focus fell on you…. Oh. You felt that nervous caution that comes when only the precise truth about yourself is required. It’s hard for a rogue character who has curated a personality for the captain in the charter biz to climb out of that blind and be honestly yourself. Self-awareness, awkward boyish embarrassment, a plethora of unused adjectives foreign to this description, but more likely to be used in profound religious exaltation. The fear of losing her gaze for a moment because the light and warmth are so intense and safe you don’t want to cause her to move on. Suppressed desire. I was so sexually attracted to her I couldn’t breathe. 

The micro low pressures created by my desire could have easily propelled a yacht a great distance. There she stood. She wore a loose-fitting embroidered cotton shirt. The cotton was thin enough I could see the dark areolae around her nipples dance beneath the embroidered tropical flowers.

Her hair was tied up on top of her head and corralled with a brightly colored tropical scarf. She wore pink bikini bottoms. She glided up to me and offered her hand. Signal that we would need to know each other a little better before the ritual French kissing of cheeks. She was expecting me. In fact, many months later, she told me she had a dream that she would meet her lover on the beach. She was waiting for her imaginary lover when I arrived.

We were introduced by our mutual friend, Pedro, who came bounding down the beach, shouting at us to come quick and see the fish. Pedro and a group of friends, including Laura, had traveled from France together and shared a house for the winter in St. Martin. They were French nomads. They would work a little back home save up by living communally, then travel to exotic destinations, mostly French islands, or departments for a few months, then repeat.

I was introduced to Laura by Pedro, who wished out loud to go snorkeling. Others of the nomad tribe joined us standing over a dried and exposed coral reef. Plans were hatched about finding a mask and flippers on the cheap. I had eyes for Laura. I had already concluded that whatever Laura wanted; I wanted. 

I offered to take them snorkeling on a fantastic reef only accessible by boat. We would make a day of it. I pointed across the bay to my boat at anchor. I was everyone’s new hero.

I offered a job to Laura to be my chef and mate. I had a series of charters lined up in the British Virgin Islands and needed the help. She was a bit bored being with Pedro and the group of nomads. The money was very attractive. The lifestyle that appealed to her nomad existence and natural desire for living in luxury. Il faut faire l’expérience du luxe pour connaître la meilleure partie de soi. C’est très français. 

We left St. Martin in the grey light of early morning. I flew my 150. The 150 is a massive genoa which stretches from the bow to cockpit. It is primarily used to go downwind. It is an impressive sail. She stood on the bowsprit, looking up at the giant sail and down at the bow of my sailboat, pushing an impressive wave. The sound of the water rushing along the hull excited her. Dolphins joined us. They frolicked on the bow wave, to Laura’s delight.

Our downwind voyage is 70 nautical miles. Laura was feeling a little seasick. She laid in the cockpit, curled up in the corner and slept. Part of the reality of sailing is not every crew member is going to feel 100 percent all the time. I gave her some ginger snap cookies to munch on. Ginger helps with the symptoms of seasickness, but only frequency and repetition work for really adapting to the movement. 

She regained her equilibrium when we reached Virgin Gorda. The shift in the boat’s motion seemed more appealing to her inner ear and stomach. It appeared the only point of sail that seemed to bring on her seasickness was downwind.  

Running a charter boat is an exhausting business. I am referring to weeklong charters. Lots of food to buy, menus to plan, drinks to store, fuel, water, washing the boat, laundry, cleaning heads, staterooms, etc. etc. etc. And after all that work, you greet your guests with a fresh and enthusiastic smile. 

Laura took on the work, the cooking, and the sailing with enthusiasm and aplomb. 

Now, up to this point, Laura and I just shared looks, held hands, and she occasionally put her arm on my shoulder. The guests all assumed we were a couple, and we believed it as well. On our third charter together, she and I would have to share the forepeak to sleep. While making the bed in the forepeak, she declared we will have to make love tonight quietly. She said this in her beautiful French lilt as a matter-of-fact statement such as “Could you pass me the sugar?”. We spent two hours making love before the guests showed up. They knocked on the hull of the boat and called “Ahoy Delphis!” We scrambled to put on our clothes. We rushed onto the deck, flushed and sweating, to greet the guests. 

For the next three months, we made love every chance we could. If the guests all went swimming, we made love. At night we would take them to go dancing. We would run into the bushes and make love. We were thrilled. We made a commitment to each other. Not quite a marriage proposal, but a pact to follow the winds of love and see where it would take us.

The Westerlies: Known also as the horse trades. The wind flows from the trades turns north and south below the equator, then west toward Europe in the Northern Hemisphere and South then east toward Africa in the Southern Hemisphere. 

The Westerlies are your workman like winds generated between the warm air at the equator and the cold polar air. 

We returned to St. Martin. She was going to fly home to France with her nomad friends, settle some affairs and rejoin me in Italy for the summer charter season in Greece and Turkey. I set sail for Europe on April 5. The conditions of thunder, heavy rain and indifferent wind did not deter me. The lack of initial progress stoked my urgency to get to Italy as fast as I could. 

Compass Rose of Winds:

Zephyrus (Favonius in Latin) is the west wind and bringer of light spring and early summer breezes.

One of the neat weather transitions while sailing from the Caribbean to the Med is the shift from summer in the trade winds to spring conditions. The light grew pale. The warmth was only slim veins between the cold rains. Lovely sailing weather if you don’t have anywhere to be. The boat had an indifferent feeling without Laura on board.  

Eurus: The East Wind

Eurus was the child of Eos and Astraeus (or Aeolus). He is the Greek god of the East Wind, and is brother to Zephyrus, Boreas and Notus. Like his siblings, Eurus was a winged god, the strong wind that brought warmth and rain from the east. 

Reaching the horse trades put pace in my voyage. I peeled off consecutive 250 nautical mile days, making up for our languid pace at the beginning of the trip.  

Boras: The North Wind

By the time I reached 700 nautical miles west of the Azores, a steady cold North wind had set. Sailing fast on a beam reach, I pushed the crew and the boat for greater speed. I was confident she would meet me, and we would pick up where we left off in the trades. I didn’t want doubt to seep into my thinking, but that is the way of the North wind.  

After a two-day stop in Horta, Fayal, where I fueled and replenished some groceries with fresh foods I left under still conditions. The cloud cover hovered barely over the height of the mast. This section of the voyage is 1100 nautical miles, or about six days with the help of Boras. 

One hundred miles from the straights of Gibraltar, I was forced to take down my sails and motor. I was driving directly into the teeth of a force 10 gale of eastern wind. My desire to reach Italy was now buffeted by wind and wave under bright sunny skies. The square waves of the Mediterranean seemed to reach into the Atlantic’s normally smooth round rhythmical waves. The surface was confused and the wind angry. Tons of water rolled over the bow as the bow sprit served as a giant scoop. The cockpit was knee deep in ocean water. The gunnels gushed water like a fire hose. I wore a snorkel mask to keep the burning salt water out of my eyes. Every minute demanded full physical energy. 24 brutal hours, I reached the protection of Gibraltar, soaked, exhausted, and humbled. I construed in my unconscious mind that I weathered this significant challenge for Laura. I knew deep inside I loved her.

I called Laura. Her voice was reassuring. She and a couple of her nomad girlfriends from art school, the Sorbonne University, were traveling together. She invited them to sail with us to Greece. This was new information. I knew at that moment to grow our relation I needed to delve deeper into her background and learn more about her comportment outside the bubble of the boat. I had realized, maybe for the first time in my life, I spent far too much time talking about myself and not listening to her. Had I missed my stays? 

Notus - South or Southwest Wind

Notus is the god of the South or Southwest Wind, which is a very warm and moist wind, bringing with it fog and rain. Being the wind of fog and mists, Notus was dangerous to shepherds on the mountaintops or to mariners at sea, for he hindered visibility. For the same reason, the South Wind was a friend of thieves, enabling them to do their dastardly work unseen.

Another six days and I would be in Palermo. When I talked to Laura on the phone, there was a wariness in her voice that should have told me something had changed. She would meet me in Palermo in 10 days. She wanted to first visit her uncle in St. Tropez.  

Crossing the Med from Gibraltar to Sicily is about 1000 nautical miles. I have been driving myself and the boat relentlessly for a month now to get back into her arms and she wanted to delay joining me. 

The spring offers an inconsistent weather pattern. Notus spread dense fog, low ceilings, flat seas, and very light winds.

I was concerned about not seeing ship traffic. My biggest worry was a submarine that kept popping up from time to time along my route. To this day, I believe they were using us for exercises. A couple of nights, the fog was so dense I couldn’t see the bow. I flew the 150, which stayed full most of the time. When it luffed, the sail would snap moister all over the cockpit. The main and mizzen remained stalwart with the light breeze on the beam. I kept the motor running slightly above idle. We turned just under 1000 rpm. I could motor for most of the trip, but I needed the wind for at least two days to make it. 

I never measure miles per hour like you would with a car. I measure nautical miles per gallon, per hour. If I travel at 7 knots and use two gallons an hour and I have 300 gallons on board, I have a range of 150 hours at 1000rpms. The math says I can safely motor 1000 nautical miles. However, the reality is wind and sea make the sea miles much longer. I would take a chance to make it the necessary 900 nm. I was obsessed. I needed to see Laura and dispel the madness in my head. I needed to understand. Being committed to her was driving me to make poor decisions. I took the chance to go all the way. Notus would have to help me.

Notus gave way to his brother Boras. The summer was setting up to be warm and gentle. According to the almanac, this summer would more warm than usual with less noise from the meltemi. Boras graciously provided 15 knots of wind, guiding us into the industrial port of Palermo.

I waited for Laura to arrive. When she stepped off the train carrying her backpack, I saw a different person. She was warm and gentle as before, but she seemed much more assertive and angrier than before she left. 

Her friends were artists, and we formed a little band of creatives. Much like the Periodic Winds: These winds change their direction periodically as there is a change in the seasons.

We sailed across the Ionian to Greece. We dropped the girls off on Ios. They would continue to party for the rest of the summer. Going wherever the wind took them. I think Laura was on the fence about this style of life. I think there was something in her that was ready to get serious, have a baby, find the right situation to pursue her art. She spoke of Paris. We still enjoyed love making. We laughed even harder than before. I had offered to change my life for her. I was ready to get back to writing full time. I had some movies I wanted to make. She didn’t believe me. She believed me to be this captain. A captain she loved, but to take him out of his element would be wrong. I told her she was being too deferential. 

I offered a plan which I think she tacitly agreed. After our summer, she would go to Paris, and I would cross back to the Caribbean. She would join me in Antigua. We would do one more season. Sell the boat and move to Paris. With one more season of earnings and with the sale of the boat, we would have enough money to get off to a comfortable start in Paris.

Meltemi Wind: A northerly wind predominates in the summer months in the Aegean Sea. Hot and dry, the Meltemi blows three to four days straight, clocking 30, 40 even 50 knots per hour without dying at night for three to five days straight. Then the meltemi dies off for a short period. The wind starts again, repeating the event from May until September. Wind waves of three to five meters make sailing a hazard for small boats.

Delphis’ 29 tons and full keel handled the choppy seas with a smooth confidence not found in traditional lighter fiberglass vessels. The meltemi had its effects. Howling threw the rigging day and night at a pitch exhausting your very fibers. With the wind came a fine dust. A whirling cloud of fine pinkish particles undetectable to your skin. After a few moments working on the deck, your clothes would have a pinkish tint. Laura was growing more and more irritable as the days passed. The wind pressured your internal comfort. There was no escaping. No shelter from the wind’s voice. It was beginning to be maddening. Even the varnish on the boat, hard and shiny by normal standards, resistant to everything except the UV light from the sun was rubbed dull by the talc like fineness of the dust.

The island of Rhodes sits in the very heart of the meltemi as it sweeps down the Dodecanese islands. We talked about going to Marmaris. We thought about hiding up in Pedi harbor on the island of Symi, but the wind this strong would produce howling freight train like winds down the mountain pass, easily driving the boat onto the rocks that surrounded the bay. We were hanging around because our agent, Makis, asked us. He was working out the details of a big charter for us. It would be the last charter of the season if it came through. Laura was anxious. She longed for home. I wanted a day of quiet and peace without worry of dragging my anchor and the ingratiating hum vibrating through my boat and body.

Makis called us to bring the boat to the quay in Mandraki harbor. He controlled the slips and the dockage. The fierceness of the Meltemi had kept many boats from moving. A brief respite as the meltemi inhaled for another long blow allowed us to get on the quay. From the quay, we could easily stock the boat for the charter. I could wash the decks. The buildup of the dust caused the teak deck to become grayish-pink, and gritty.

Makis was the premier agent in the Eastern Mediterranean. His contacts were numerous and long established. Traditionally dressed in a shirt with a button-down collar, Khaki pants, and penny loafers, he looked every bit the Ivy league businessman. I have known Makis for many years. He started as a boat washer and grew into a fierce businessman with retail stores, charter yachts, marine construction, and shipyards. I respected him. So, when he told me I would have a long fall charter that may seem a little unusual, he was asking me to trust him. I implicitly understood there was a lot of money involved, for which Makis would profit handsomely, and I would get my fees at a premium rate.

Every charter has an itinerary. Every charter has a defined length. Makis told me in his affable way that the guests would give me the itinerary and the length. Sitting behind his long desk, with a pair of loafers resting on a small stool (he had been polishing them.) “Scott,” he said. “The guests did a lot of research and that needed a person with your background.”

“My background?” I left the question to linger on the shiny desktop for a moment as Makis shuffled through a manilla folder. “Is this going to be dangerous?” Makis smiled and nodded yes. “Although I think it will be more adventurous than dangerous. I’m being honest. I estimated the value of your boat and the replacement value. The guest has posted the money to replace your boat plus a 20 percent premium.” He pushed the bank statement over with the contract stapled to it. I looked at it and gasped. If I was to lose the boat, the sum would set me up for life. In addition, the contract covered everything, including a generous repositioning fee. I would have to pick the guests in Gocek, Turkey. Makis negotiated fees and bonus’ for Laura and I. Laura would walk away from this charter with ten thousand dollars in cash. I would ten times that plus a bonus referred to as a “performance value.” Makis summed up the deal. “My fees are paid. You must just sail these people around the Eastern Med and not get killed. I’m sure everything will be all right. I have a list of reliable agents, most of whom you know who are on standby if you need anything. Anything at all.”

I looked over the list, Cyprus, Syria, Lebanon, Israel, Turkey of course, and Egypt. Makis slipped on his polished loafers. “I would leave as soon as possible. Tonight, while the meltemi rests. Omar has a place for you in Gocek. The charter clock starts the minute you cast off. Anything you want to ask?”

The deal was done. I had accepted and signed the contract with a pen from Disney World. Tinker Bell kissed the palm of the hand. The magic of this deal would set Laura and I up for a long time. 

After a handshake and a pat on the back by Makis, he handed me a large envelope with fifteen thousand US dollars for the charter expenses. I left and walked toward the harbor possessed by the thoughts, finally collecting enough money to do what I wanted and to provide for the woman I loved. I would not tell Laura about the risk. Because I really didn’t know what it was. I would play it by ear. She had heard all the stories about my smuggling past. She found them exciting to listen to, but I didn’t know how she would really feel about being a participant. In my experience, people can have amazing reactions to danger and stress of potential risk. Better to be quiet. It will be a special charter, but a normal one.  

When I got back to the boat, Laura was in the galley drinking a glass of red wine. We must leave tonight for Gocek. I told her. She was ready. She had stocked up on some necessary supplies of food. Vegetables, fruits, and eggs were in the fridge. The freezer was filled with a good deal of meat. We had enough to get started and go for about three or four days before we would have to replenish. Laura asked if the guests had specified any dietary needs. I told I had no information about them, the itinerary, or the length of the trip. She frowned. Laura still had one foot on land. Uncertainty bothered her deeply. She was ready to protest when I brought up the ten thousand dollars she was guaranteed to get after the charter, and she changed her tune. We would have enough money to live in Paris for some time. She poured me a glass of wine. I could see in her eyes she was rescheduling flights. She was ready to go. She thought the season was over and she would return to France. She wasn’t sure the charter would come through, so she planned. Now, of course, the money was too good to leave on the table.

Laura and I left Rhodes at two o’clock in the afternoon. I estimated we would arrive in Gocek seven hours later, at eight o’clock in the evening. I planned to enter the port area with the evening light. The sea was still turbulent. A light wind was abaft of my beam. We corkscrewed for the first three hours until we sailed into the lee of the shore north of us and the sea flattened. The breeze freshened the hum of water racing along the hull, engendered a happier tone to our relationship. 

Laura cuddled next to me in the cockpit. Looking up from under my arm, she whispered, “Je t’aime.” The words buoyed my spirits. I had been broaching on sadness. She didn’t know I knew she was planning to leave early. She kept it a secret so has not to hurt my feelings. I was approached by a girl while walking back from Makis’ office, asking if I needed a mate. Laura had been talking to a girlfriend and the word spread. She was trying to find a replacement. Boat life is hard and complicated. The sea compounds what would be normal drama on land by many factors. Laura loved me. She didn’t want to take me out of my element. She wasn’t sure I could adapt to land life. I dismissed this idea as being absurd. She mocked me, by saying I wouldn’t last an hour in an office. I knew this much if my writing wouldn’t support me, I would be in big trouble and would have to go back to sea. I am a risk taker. If the gambit fails, I just move on and take another risk. Laura understood this extremist behavior better than I. She wasn’t sure she could live that way. I was blind to all her concerns. She loved me and that’s all I heard.

We arrived in Gocek. It was a deep blue dark on the water. The last rays of sunshine kissed the mountain peaks. My VHF radio crackled with a call, “Delphis. Delphis. Channel 78.”

Omar was sitting on the dock playing dominos with the dock master in front of an empty spot on the quay.

We docked the boat. Laura tossed the lines to Omar and the dockmaster as I throttled Delphis to a stop. The anchor was pulled tight. The lines, port and starboard, as well as the spring lines, tightened like guitar strings. I lowered the passerelle so the wheels would gently touch the dock. Omar bounded up the passerelle to greet us. Laura loved Omar. She had gotten to know his wife and daughters. They were friends. Laura often recounted the experience of lunching with the girls as a life-changing event.

Omar was two hours’ drive from his home. This charter was important. Laura suspected nothing dangerous, but understood the charter was something special. Omar relayed the newest information.

The guests were named Irish and Celia. Both traveled on Canadian passports. Omar had picked them up at the airport and driven to a local hotel. They would join the boat in the morning. They know where Delphis will be, and now you are here. Omar took my boat papers, crew list with the guest’s passport numbers, our passports and rushed off to the police station to get the stamps required for entry. I had bought a cruising permit earlier in the season.

I learned the itinerary from the documents. We were going to Antalya. This was a kind of relief. I had sailed in this part of the Med a few times but never visited the great city. I told Laura. She was instantly excited. “Hadrian’s Gate!” she exclaimed. While we waited for Omar to come back, we tidied the boat up. I plugged in the electricity. I hosed the boat down with fresh water to clean the salt off with the harbormaster’s permission. Even though it wasn’t too late, there are rules about working on your boat that are religiously followed. The only way to circumvent them was to have the approval of the authorities. Everyone understood there were exceptions. Exceptions always proceeded after the fees were paid. There would be no protests or arguing about rules.

Omar came back and gave me the papers. He kissed me and Laura on the cheeks and dashed off. “My babies were waiting for me to come home. It is a long, dark drive. Good luck. In the papers is the name of the person you must contact in Antalya. He will arrange your berth and anything more you may need. May God go with you.”

I woke at dawn to the prayers of the mosque blaring over the loudspeakers. Laura rolled over and slipped back into a deep sleep. Over the years, I have been able to go to sleep instantly and wake up instantly feeling refreshed after a few hours of sleep. I made coffee. I sat in the cockpit watching the sun climb over the mountains. Phoenician captains would have watched the same majestic entrance of the sun climbing over the mountains and warming the valley and the sea. 

I heard the coffee pouring from the carafe. Milk and sugar poured and shimmered next. The tinkle of the spoon against the sides of the cup and finally the first morning sip. Laura emerged like the sun, albeit a sleepy sun.

“Bonjour, I have a confession I want to make to you.”

“Bonjour.” I smiled and sipped my coffee.

“This is a very big deal. This charter is different. I am very excited to go and to make the money. I want to confess that I was planning to leave you earlier than we had planned.”

“Est ce Vrai?”

“I was wrong to keep it a secret. I was wrong to leave. Scott, you are a hard person to live with. You are a good man and an expert sailor. I just have some doubts about me. Can I do this life? I am not sure. Remember, I was on a vacation when we met. I was planning to go back and start my life. I feel like starting my life in one direction has been deflected to another. To your life and the way you live it. I am very confused. I know one thing I love you. So it is so hard to understand.”

“What is so hard to understand?”

The sun now fully shone on the valley and the sea. The docks dried wet from the heavy morning dew. Steam rose from everywhere like so many dancing tentacles waving at the sky.

“I have decided I am going to stay. I don’t want to lose what we have. Look at the beauty.” She was crying. I held her. She gripped me. I was at a loss for words. She was working through her own conflicts. She had a dream, a path for her life and traveling around the world, being in love with me was not a part of the dream, yet she was going to make us work.

We waited. We were never more together than waiting as a team for the charter to begin. Laura fussed with her hair. I was coaxing the last bit of grease from under my fingernails. The boat was ready. The sails were precisely folded in the Flemish fashion. Sail ties waved in the light winds of the breathing sea. Laura and I had on clean pressed Polos and Khaki shorts. The day was getting warmer. A few charter boats left the dock to go sailing. The splash of water coming from the exhaust of the generators on the larger yachts added to the rhythm of the morning. Crews washed down their boats. A taxi stopped at the gate to the marina. I supposed it was the guests. Laura and I walked over. Irish got out of the taxi first. He was a tall, fair-haired man with bright eyes and a ready smile. Celia wore a headscarf, big Yves St. Laurent sunglasses. Clues mounted in my mind. Celia was Middle Eastern. I was sure this charter had something to do with her. We introduced ourselves and took their bags.

The first few minutes of any charter are awkward. I stowed their bags in the aft stateroom. Irish and I sat down at the galley table. Laura showed Celia their room and how to work the head. It’s a big deal explaining how to use and not abuse the head. I hate repairing clogs. It is unpleasant. Celia pulled her headscarf off and laid it on the bed. She took off her sunglasses and held them in her finely manicured hands. She complimented Laura on the stateroom. Laura offered refreshments. Tea was the answer.

One of the quick questions was how much sailing had they done? Important because the trip to Antalya would be one hundred and fifty miles. It would require stopping or sailing through the night.

Irish told me they both had extensive sailing experience. He owned a fifty-foot wooden sailboat in Vancouver. He offered to help with the sailing. I accepted. He pushed an envelope full of cash across the table to me. I signed receipts. He told me he felt uncomfortable carrying this much cash. I assured him not to worry. Can we get under way? He asked. Celia asked if we could go somewhere close to take a swim. Irish added she swims everyday back home. I said sure. I told them there was a tiny little nook of a bay near the entrance to the bay. You will be in the water in twenty minutes. Celia was quick to ask Laura if she wanted to go swimming with her. Laura agreed.

If one could imagine a complicated puzzle piece with all the loops and sockets, knobs and holes, tabs, and slots, this would be the shoreline of the bay. I anchored the boat in thirty feet of water quite close to the shore. Irish had changed into swim trunks. He watched the operation. He was happy, and I think relieved we were starting the voyage. Celia and Laura dove into the water and started swimming around the boat. Laura was a strong swimmer, and it turned out Celia was as well.

Irish asked me what was in the big ice chest on the foredeck. Beer and soda, I replied. “Not too early for a beer? Will you join me?”

Conducting a charter with another couple can be dicey. People know if you like them, and you know if they like you. Most people are nice. The social interactions are well within the structure of the charter. Sometimes, though, you are lucky enough to meet a couple and you click. I liked Irish. Celia and Laura got along. We were definitely being played and paid.

Irish settled into the cushioned cockpit with his beer. He wasted no time getting into the details. He had researched for the right boat and the right crew for this endeavor. I would have to be flexible and trusting. He hoped I wouldn’t be asked to do more than conduct the charter and have a good time. However, he asked if I was prepared to help him with what he called a difficult affair. “How many laws do you expect we will break?”

“None I hope.” He told me that Celia’s family was escaping from Iraq. They were Kurds. Her father was a very important man.

“Political?” I asked.

“Yes. The Turks would love to get their hands on him. The Kurds are an oppressed group of people who have long fought an underground war against the Turkish government. Celia’s father is that boogieman the politicians bring up when they want to scare their voters. He is in a dangerous position. The Iraq Arabs want him badly. He has been in hiding. He is making his way to Iskenderian through Syria with Celia’s sister and her two kids. Celia’s mother died in a mortar attack earlier this year.”

“Why not go to Iskenderian and wait for them to cross?”

Laura and Celia climbed up on a big flat rock on the shore. They were sitting and talking. I suspected, and I was right, we were being told the stories.

Irish sipped his beer. Celia is also wanted by the Turks. We came into the country on false passports.

He waited for my reaction.

“This is a refugee smuggling operation. Why not leave Celia home?” Irish rolled his eyes as if to say, she’s a woman dude! She’s willful, and it’s her family. Not a chance in hell.

“I am an engineer. I was working in Iraq building a refinery in the Kurd occupied part of Iraq when I met Celia ten years ago. We fell in love. The political climate got very dangerous for us. Saddam arrested she and her father. I got her out of prison. Her father got out when the Americans liberated the country. You know, they are setting up an independent country for the Kurds. They have been a long-oppressed people. I digress. I’m sure you know much about what I am saying. You were smuggling artifacts for a rich American couple from Syria. I know because they told me you were “the guy.” Are you “the guy,” skipper?”

I was “the guy.” I looked across the water to where Laura and Celia were carefully stepping into the water over the slippery rocks.

Reputations can be a double-edged sword. I spent the last year trying to convince a woman who I deeply loved that I was able and willing to change. My reputation, I once thought of as precious, and permeant was going to be the reason I would lose the one person I loved more than anything.

“I am a silly man, Irish.”

“I think about myself and what I gain without regard to the bigger picture. I’m not entirely happy my well-earned reputation brought you and Celia’s extraordinary problem to me. My focus is on a different future. This little adventure will certainly undo those plans that I fear I will never recover. That said. Let me assure you I am ‘the guy.’ I have for most of my life been the tip of the spear, being on the other end where the waste of war flows into the world. What I know is your plans are likely to fail. Can we get them out? Sure. We will be their last step to freedom. What we don’t know Irish is going on right now.”

Irish was watching Celia and Laura swim back to the boat. “I don’t want to disappoint her.”

“We won’t. Now let’s get out of here.”

“I thought we could sneak into Turkey and pretend to be tourists. Once we get her family on board, we can sail to Cyprus.”

“I probably should have been consulted on this project from the beginning.”

“We weren’t sure.” He was interrupted as the girls climbed on board.

I jumped up. “Let’s get underway.” I started the engine. Laura stepped on the switch for the windless. The anchor chain grumbled over the cats and into the chain locker. I pointed Delphis directly to international waters. When the land finally dipped under the horizon, I changed course and changed flags. I hoisted a French flag.

The meltemi was blowing a steady twenty knots. We were traveling down wind. On deck, the apparent wind was a comfortable ten knots. We traveled a steady rate of ten knots. I consulted my charts. I was looking for places where I could hide the boat. The change in flag was for the lookouts that were stationed all along the Turkish coast. They are usually the least experienced soldiers with little knowledge of boat types. They see the flag. If the authorities are looking for an American sailboat, the conscripts will look for an American flag dismissing a French flagged boat out of hand. I thought of flying a Turkish flag, but my boat would be under suspicion immediately since the gullets (Turkish built charter boats in a classic style) that plied these waters kept to a very strict schedule.

I would change back to an American flag when we docked in Antalya.

Laura asked me to help with lunch. We often made lunch underway. “I am very proud of you for helping Irish and Celia.”

“You are not upset.”

“I didn’t say. I am angry you left me in the dark. Celia thinks this is going to be dangerous.”  

I explained to her that many things could go wrong. At most, we will be detained. Or I should say I will be detained. The captain always takes the brunt of the punishment. This is a small sacrifice for helping even one person to a better life.

She stopped cutting the tomatoes and looked me in the eye and said, “We can talk more about our future when we are finished with the charter.”

Rule one on charters: never talk about the guests while they are on board. If you say something negative, it will manifest itself into something everyone unconsciously will understand and ruin the experience. Better to keep your mouth shut and do your job. I have fired many a chef and stewardess for talking smack about the guests, even in private. Here, Laura was positive about the purpose of the voyage and impressed by Celia. Celia was older by ten years; Laura recognized and admired her power and confidence. I reminded Laura she was every bit Celia’s equal. This compliment fell on deaf ears.

Night fell. The meltemi abated and was replaced by an offshore breeze of 15 knots. We headed east by southeast for most of the night. Our course would take us closer and closer to shore. By morning, we could see the beginnings of Antalya. Laura made Celia and Irish dinner of fresh tuna, sweet potatoes, and salad. Nothing heavy. After a couple of drinks, Celia and Irish retired to the owner’s suite to sleep.

Running down the Southeastern Coast of Turkey is a dream for sailors. Flat seas and steady winds on the perfect beam reach. You could set a wineglass on a table, and it would slide a tiny bit. The musical sound of the water running along the hull could put anyone to sleep in an instant. I stood watch. Laura was exhausted from the day’s labor, went to her cabin, and slept. Under normal circumstances, she would stay with me in the cockpit while we sailed all night, but I insisted she get some proper rest as tomorrow was going to be a busy day. And there was the visit to Hadrian’s Gate.

I was alone with my thoughts. Sipping on coffee, eating apples, chewing on candies checking my charts were among the many activities. I had become particularly adept at navigating by lights. I played this game with myself of shooting bearings off the light charts and plotting my course. I triangulated different light houses and estimate my position. Every light has a signature pattern of blinking lights. Smokestacks have red lights for aviation navigation but can be equally useful for the sailor. Even the lights of a small-town water tower can be useful. Knowing the height of an object can tell you how far you are away from the object. I compared my rough calculations to my GPS with a great deal of satisfaction at being right.

The aura from the city lights of Antalya revealed itself around three o’clock. Air temperature was forty degrees Celsius. The generator had been running all night to power the air conditioner. Everyone was comfortable down below. The breeze of fifteen knots stopped all together. I motored through the greasy sea. Celia peaked around the corner of the companionway. I said good morning and asked if I could get her anything. She kindly asked if she could fetch me something since, I was up all night. Coffee. It was freshly made and hot. She came up on deck and the heat hit her. “Wow!” She uttered. The heat was a dry heat but still oppressive even in the middle of the night.

She propped herself up in the cockpit with pillows. She could see the lights sparkle along the coastline. The aura of Antalya’s city lights spread across the night sky like an umbrella. She cradled her cup of coffee in her hands. She whispered in the air. The Ford/Lehman hummed at two thousand RPMs. We were making eight and half knots. A respectable speed for the old lady. We passed a few purse seiner fishing boats dragging their nets of live anchovy bait. I kept looking over, straining to hear what she was saying, when I realized she was praying.

She finished praying. She sipped her coffee. I could see her eyes glistening from tears in the binnacle light. Where do you think they are?

I don’t know. I am praying for their safety. The Turkish border is closed. Their only path to the sea was through Syria and into Turkey. They have a car, but I don’t know how far that will take them.  

Cars filled with families and baggage are often targets of marauding bands of soldiers. Almost any form of transportation is subject to search. Bribes must be paid. Her father had papers signed by a Syrian general giving them authorized passage. She worried the General’s reputation may not be strong enough to allow the local soldiers at the many checkpoints to wave them through. We should have a word when we get to Antalya. We have contacts who have been watching their progress.

I asked. “Do they have a phone?”

“Yes.” She replied. The reception is terrible in Syria.

“Do you have the number?” She recited the number from memory. I went down below and grabbed my satellite phone and dialed the number. “If they don’t answer, they can text you on this phone.”

I dialed the number and waited. “It is ringing.” I handed her the phone.

“Hello? Hello Papa? Can you hear me? Praise God! Where are you?” She pleaded.

“Tell him to text his location to this phone number. Don’t worry if it doesn’t send immediately. It will when he reaches a tower. It’s not a perfect system for seamless communication, but at least we can keep track of them.”

She feverishly talked for a few minutes. Her father’s phone battery died, and the line went dead.

She leaped up and grabbed me around the neck and began kissing me and thanking me. Irish heard the commotion and came upstairs.

“What is going on? Stop kissing the captain honey.” He joked.

“Everyone is okay. They stopped for the night. They made it to Syria. Papa says in three days they will be at the border.”

Irish was all smiles. “Come here, Captain. I got to kiss you as well! How did you do this amazing feat?”

Laura sleepily came up the companionway stairs. “What is going on?” Celia hugged Laura. She hugged and kissed Irish.

Irish had heard of this new military satellite phone system, but the technology was impossible to buy. He couldn’t believe I had the phone and access. Celia was happy. She and Laura went to work in the galley, making a very early breakfast.

“Thank you, Scott.” Irish spoke. “You made my wife thrilled.”

“You are welcome. We should be able to communicate with them once they charge their phone. You can text all day. I should warn you not to use it too much. The Syrians and the Turks have very sophisticated satellite tracking systems. They are liable to freak out. We can try contacting them in a few hours. Let’s look at the chart.”

We were docked in the ancient harbor of Antalya by two o’clock in the afternoon. The heat on this late September day was stifling, but Celia and Irish were unaffected. They declined my offer to accompany them. They left the boat and went to meet their contact.

Laura and I went to Hadrian’s Gate. Laura was a painter and sculptor. She knew her art history. We both stood in awe, feeling the touch of history. I took a picture of Laura goofing in front of the gate. We wandered around the old city being lamb chops from an ancient butcher. The fresh vegetables were wilted and limp from the heat. Laura promised to get up early the next morning when it was cooler and buy what we needed for the next phase of our voyage.

A man berated Laura for not wearing a headscarf. He was drunk and mean. He tried to slap Laura. I grabbed his wrist and pushed him away gently. Laura ducked into a woman’s clothing store featuring knockoff Nike’ and Champion sports clothes. She bought a sheer light blue scarf. The women in the shop were consoling her. “This happens all the time. We sent for his wife. She will take him home. We are sorry.” Laura apologized for forgetting her scarf back on the boat.

A group of young men dressed in reject clothing from a sports store followed us through the streets. We went back to the boat, and they dispersed into the crowd. We found Celia angry. Irish was pleading with her to be calm. He was upset. He demanded that we leave the dock at once.

It appeared their contact had identified Celia as a person of interest. She was labeled a PPK member. PPK is a political arm of the Kurdish people. They have a very sorted history, including bombings and gun battles with the Turkish police. It wasn’t against the law to be Kurdish, but a Kurd was still on the other side of the law. They had been betrayed for money.

Celia and her father were for Kurdish independence. Both had suffered from the hands of Saddam, as had the rest of the Kurdish people. The Turks have always treated the Kurds as second-class citizens. Celia, her father, and sister owned an engineering company. They became successful. Because they were Kurds, Saddam took the company from them and made them scapegoats for all the ills in Iraq. The Turkish government agreed with Saddam.

Celia was angry that her presence put her family in danger. Irish was at a loss about what to do.

Laura and I lifted the anchor and motor out of the port. I saw a man dressed in a light blue shirt and tan pants talking on a military radio and pointing at us as we left the port. 

Once out at sea, we were a little cooler. The meltemi was finally giving way to the sirocco. We were exchanging blistering hot winds from the north for desert winds from the south. I estimated we would be fighting against the worse of the sirocco in a week. We needed to get out of Turkey. I announced, leaving no room for argument, to Irish, Celia, and Laura that we wouldn’t be going into port in Turkey. In my experience, once the bureaucratic state apparatus awakened, there was no stopping them. We were betrayed and identified. The police and military will be on the lookout for us. They may have even called the Turkish navy. I finished by saying let’s pick them up in Syria. That way, we won’t have to worry about the Turks. Irish asked if Syria was really an option for us. Why not?

In foreign countries like Syria, Egypt, and any country with a dictator is the people are thrilled to see people from the outside world. It reaffirms their place in the world as a normal country, even though normal doesn’t exist for them. A quick stay, properly lubricated with American cash, is easy. Irish was hesitant. All his experience in the Middle East as an engineer told him Syria was too unpredictable and dangerous. He planned for the family to cross into Turkey, which seemed saner. It was not.

Celia received a text from her father. Their car had broken down and they would be delayed while it was being fixed. Celia instructed him to get to Latakia. We would arrange a pickup when they got close. What was their ETA? The answer didn’t come.

We were one hundred nautical miles from the port of Al Ladhiqiyah (Latakia). There is a small anchorage on the north side of the mole of the port. It is not a big port by world standards but a lifeline port for a government constantly under sanctions. Small ships loaded with less than a hundred containers visit the port. There were no facilities for larger container transport ships. There is a presence of the Russian and Syrian navy in the port. Mostly patrol boats and cutters. I would be required to enter the port declare myself and boat to the authorities. I would use my American flag and papers. Irish nodded in approval. He was at his wit’s end. All his planning and money spent seemed to him to be reduced to one person, me. He wasn’t sure he made the right decision. Celia brooded. Laura assured her and Irish, “if there is anyone in the world who can do this, it is this man.” Celia nodded her head. Laura hugged her and rubbed her back. Irish remained unsure.

I made crew lists. I had several official looking stamps. I had Mickey Mouse, the magician stamp and a Pam Am Airlines stamp. I bought the stamps from a toy store in New York because officials love stamps. It is as if there is a secret society around the world of customs people who communicate via stamps on documents and passports. The more stamps and impressions, the better and more official. Irish was appalled by my flippancy.

The phone buzzed. It was Celia’s father. He had abandoned the car. They were taking a bus to Latakia. They would arrive in eight hours.

“Ask him why he abandoned the car?” Celia hesitated. She asked him. He didn’t answer her. I took the phone from his hands.

“I’m the captain. It is very important I understand what your situation is. Please tell me and be as accurate as possible.” What I heard was a man, a father, a grandfather, being strong in the face of real danger. Like any good father, he was protecting his daughter Celia from bad news.

The car was shot at by a group of gunmen. Highway robbers, they thought, until after a chase he saw the gunmen were Syrian soldiers. The papers were signed by a general in the Syrian army who had escaped Syrian. He was wanted by the Syrian secret service. Through some convoluted logic by the authorities, so were he and his family. His papers were no good, and they were running low on money and the children were afraid. They got on the first bus they could. When the soldiers were looking for the car. They left the car behind a mud wall along the road. They were exhausted. The bus was headed to Damascus. They were just leaving An Nasiriyah. I told him to change busses in Duma. Duma is a small town on the outside of Damascus. Take the first bus to Beirut. Ask the driver about regular service. There was a jostling on the phone as he left his seat. I could faintly hear him asking the bus driver in Arabic if there was a connection. “In the morning.” He said.

Present your papers at the border, but not the general’s pass. Your passports should be enough. When you get the connection, call me. I will meet you in Beirut.

He thanked me profusely. I hung up.

We are a little over 200 nautical miles from Beirut. If they can get into Beirut, they will be safe. We will be there by noon, if the sirocco doesn’t kick up. I skirted the twelve-mile maritime border of Syria. We were sailing South by southeast in choppy seas and two points off the wind, which was a steady ten knots, but could easily turn into forty knots once the meltemi gave up and let his brother sirocco blow.

Irish sat in the cockpit drinking a beer. Celia went to her cabin to lie down the motion, and the emotion was getting the best of her constitution. She was praying. I opened a bottle of wine and poured Laura a glass. She worked on making a salad and preparing the lamb chops for grilling. “Thank you.” I said, taking a gulp of wine.

“I only tell the truth.”

“I appreciate your confidence in me more than you know.”

“The danger is over now?” She asked.

“If they get through that border crossing into Lebanon.”

“Do you know this place?”

“Yes. I came through there in a car. They paid little attention. I am praying the bus just gets waved through. At least they will be out of Syria.”

“It worries you.” She chopped small spring onions.

“They have traveled a long way. They are tired. Suddenly having the general’s papers go bad because he defected, and they get in a shoot-out on the road with soldiers. There is something not right about the whole thing.”

“Refugees bring all their problems.”

“I am surprised to hear you say that.”

“Refugees have caused many problems in France. We are a small country.”

“You are against the refugees seeking a life because their country is fucked up.”

“No. These people have every right to move and have a better life. I’m saying there are a lot of problems the government of France doesn’t solve very well.”

“I agree with you. It is the same in the U.S., but we help people we know. This is our mission.”

“I know. Do you want cheese?”

Irish poked his head down into the companionway. “Hey, Scott, there is a boat coming at us and fast.”

I grabbed my binoculars and went on deck. It was a Syrian gunboat.

I announced to my crew. “We are on vacation! On our way to Beirut.” There was general confusion in everyone’s eyes. Laura gave me one of those “are you sure” looks. I answered by nodding yes.

Celia came up into the sunshine on deck. Her eyes were red from crying. I held her hand as she lost her balance. The boat’s motion was more pronounced as the sea state was changing. “Only English. Don’t look them in the eyes. I don’t want you to give away you speak Arabic.” She smiled up at me and put on her sunglasses. She and Irish understood for the first time this was my show and they would have to trust me. Laura came up and started putting fenders out. I lowered the RPMs, and the boat slowed. I changed course slightly to keep the sails filled. Motor sailing allows you to keep closer to the wind. Without the motor, we lost a couple points to the wind. My last check of the sky revealed a streak of horse tails at a very high altitude, presaging a powerful blow.

The patrol boat zoomed past us. A sailor manned an M-50 machine gun on the bow. I could see the captain and his chief officers standing behind the helm. He knows as I knew I was outside his territorial waters. He had no right to stop me in international waters. Rights are one thing. Might is the currency of power in the middle east. They turned around and approached us from the stern. The helmsman matched our speed not over ten meters from our starboard side. I checked the chart plotter. We were located 34.622 latitude and 35.824942 longitude. We were technically in the waters of Lebanon.

The Syrian captain hailed me on the VHF radio, even though I could hear him over the roar of his twin turbo diesels.

“This is the Syrian Arab Navy.” He said in French. I returned his call in English. “This is Delphis American flagged pleasure vessel Documentation number Charlie Alpha eight six Oscar Delta. How may I help you?”

The radio was silent. The captain was no fool. First, he was out of his home waters, and he didn’t have any natural authority to stop and board us unless I agreed. Second, I just announced to any vessel within fifteen to twenty miles I was American vessel being stopped by the Syrians.  

I waited, then I called the captain back, giving my GPS location course heading and destination. This was now public information. The American navy, NATO navies, and the Israelis regularly plied these waters. 

I could see the captain discussing what to do with the other officers. The conversation seemed to be heated. Then the radio crackled. “Delphis, Delphis, this is Her Majesty’s warship Lancaster.”

“HMS Lancaster, this is Delphis….” I gave them my location and heading.

The Syrian captain order his helm back toward Syrian waters.

HMS Lancaster was watching on their radar the Syrian vessel leaving. “Have a good day. HMS Lancaster out.”

Drinks all around. Relief was deep. Celia’s face was covered in tears. Irish’s hands shook as I handed him a beer. Laura gulped down a glass of red wine and murmured to herself, “Mon Dieu!”

I returned to our course and speed. Spray from the sea splashed up, covering the bow with salt water. We had another ninety nautical miles to go. Roughly nine hours of plowing through ever increasing turbulent seas. We would arrive in Beirut at three in the morning. I would prefer to enter a port I have never been to during the day. This port had a lot of wrecks, some as recent as last month. I needed fuel. My crew was stressed, worried, and uncomfortable. Despite her size and weight, Delphis was pounding the short square seas, always seeming to be in between troughs of swell. These frequent poundings shook the boat to her core. Laura was ensconced in the cockpit with her foul weather gear on and Irish hung on to Celia, who was stoic. No one was feeling well, not quite seasick, but close. I do not suffer from seasickness.

We pounded our way south. The rise and fall of the boat rocked everyone to sleep. I was alone again in my thoughts. I sat to the side of the helm watching and listening to the electronic whirr of the electric motor pushing the hydraulic piston back and forth, correcting our course relentlessly. The rig was flexing and moving about as pressures from the wind and sea created a whip like effect at the top of the mast. It wasn’t much, but enough to reconsider tuning the mast when we docked. Constant technical thoughts and observations kept my mind occupied. I longed for a deep sleep.

There is a moment in every day when the sun rises and reasserts its will on the wind. The wind is like a barking dog until its master; the sun comes round and it whimpers and wags its tail for approval. There was a lull. The lights of Beirut shone like dancing fairies on the surface of the water. My chart plotter pointed me in the direction that seemed to be the darkest part of the coast. A few scattered lights from tall residential buildings seemed to just float without a place on the earth. From experience of entering ports at night, I know the darkness along the water’s edge like a long dark dash along a coast of uniform lights, streetlights, houses, business was the breakwater. I caught the flashing green to the port entrance and my anxiety dissipated. Green on the right when returning to the European sector.

Three hundred meters from the port entrance, I slowed the motor. I went down below and woke Laura, who was asleep on the settee. I gave her a few moments to wash her face and wake up. Irish woke up. He poked his head up and looked around. “Beirut, he asked?”

Laura went to the bow. Irish followed. Their job was to watch the water in front of us for any wrecks. The sea was rolling, making it difficult to stand. As we got closer, the swell picked us up and rushed us forward. I would have to time the swell. I had to turn sharply to starboard. The swell would roll the boat severely and push us into shallow water. I called to Celia to come on deck. “Sit down here and hold on.” She attached her safety harness to the binnacle.

I sped up to time the swell. Riding down in front of the wave put the boat in the right position. I turned to starboard hard and gunned the motor. We slide in between the troughs and behind the breakwater to safety. I slowed the boat considerably and looked around at the La Marina Club. I didn’t expect such a clean, organized, peaceful place. My VHF radio cracked. The dock master was waving for me to come forward and dock the boat against the outer sea wall with other yachts of the same size and quality.

Pierre was coming home from a party when he saw the mast light to my boat and came down to catch my lines. We talked for a few minutes. Pierre would contact Makis in Rhodes and tell him we had arrived. He would take care of the papers in the morning, he bid us a bonsoir. He hopped on his Vespa and rode off down the quay.

The sudden silence and calm in the marina saps whatever energy or adrenalin you thought you had after such a challenging voyage. I went to my cabin and crashed, leaving everyone to their own devices.

I awoke to the sound of French voices. Laura was talking to another woman. In my fog of exhaustion, I could only make out beignet. Donuts sounded good. I dragged myself out of the bunk, still dressed from the night before. Damp and salty, I stripped off my clothes and put on a fresh polo and shorts. My arms were white with dried salt.

Irish and Celia were sitting in the cockpit with the sat phone next to them, waiting for the call. Laura was talking to a woman selling beignets. I could eat a dozen. Breakfast was made. Celia and Irish were relaxing over their third cup of coffee. I reached for my first.

The morning was filled with activity. I arranged for a fuel truck that would only give me 200 liters. Everything was rationed. Pierre handled the customs and immigration for us. I did my normal maintenance checks. Power and water were regulated for a few hours a day. I suggested to Irish and Celia to take a shower if they want. My water maker was working fine. I normally wouldn’t run my water maker in the harbor because the water is usually very dirty, but I made an exception. We needed to be flexible. I took my coffee into the shower. Laura stepped into the shower with me. Irish and Celia had gone for a walk around the marina. The steam rose, clouding the glass door. She washed my shoulders and back. I soaped her back. We slid together in the way soft water makes your skin feel silky. I held her for a long time as the warm water tumbled down our bodies. Those black velvet eyes looked deep into my soul. I felt secure. I felt her love. There was a clamoring on the passerrail. We looked at each other and laughed. We were two kids getting nearly caught. Celia and Irish were arguing over the entire affair. She was nearly hysterical. Irish looked up to see me coming, and he signaled to Celia there was company. She didn’t care.

“Is there a development?” I asked. The zipper of my shorts was down. I was dripping wet.

Irish barked angrily at me. “They are still in Syria!”

“We have to do something!” Screamed Celia.

“Okay. Okay.” I said, trying to calm both down. “I’ll go get them.” They looked astonished.

“I can’t let you risk your life.” Irish sounded like an adult.

Laura overheard what a said and those beautiful eyes were filled with fury.

“How can you do it?” Asked Celia, still bubbling with frustration and anger.

Down below, I opened a hidden safe behind a wall in the stateroom. I had an Egyptian passport. I paid fifty bucks for in a market in Tunisia. It was genuine. The former owner had died in a diving accident. The picture looked remarkably like me. Dark skin, black hair, young, full lips fit my description. The eyes were slightly different, but valid in a pinch, and this was a pinch. I dressed in jeans, boots, leather jacket and tee shirt, my Indiana Jones outfit. I had a pouch sown into the lining of the jacket for my genuine passport and cash. Cash was important. Celia’s family was stuck at the border with Lebanon and Syria without the right papers and no cash. This is not an uncommon event. Border patrol officers can spot a refuge in a heartbeat. They deny them access and make them wait. After a few hours, they will offer to allow them into the country for a price. The weak are taken advantage by the strong.

Irish insisted on going. I told him no. Celia pleaded to go. I told her no. I gave Laura instructions to take the boat out of the marina when I called. There was a marina in Tyre, Southern Lebanon where I would meet them in two days. I put the coordinates into the chart plotter. She was confident she could it. I believed in training your crew. We spent many days learning to dock and undock the boat. Sailing, navigating, ship systems, she was familiar with all of them. I had confidence in her. I joked we will get a big bonus for this. “I love you.” She whispered to me.

“I love you.” I mounted the back of Pierre’s Vespa. He was taking me to a garage to get a car. We zoomed through the streets. Most if not all, the buildings had pock marks from bullets, rockets, or shrapnel from bombs. Pierre gave me a running commentary as we avoided check points from militias. A cease fire had been in effect for several months. The citizens were attempting to live again after so much strife. I told Pierre I was going to meet a friend I hadn’t seen in many years and left it dangling. Pierre was savvy enough to leave things unsaid and unknown. He was thrilled about the money we brought into his life. Cold hard American cash and doing a favor for Makis was important in his world.

We drove down a very tiny alley that opened onto a courtyard. A lone lemon tree sadly stood at the center of what was essentially a garage parking lot. Damaged cars and trucks were being stripped for parts by little boys only ten years old. Pierre stopped in front of an open garage. Sitting in the garage, to my surprise, was a 1977 Datsun 620 King Cab pickup in mint condition. The owner came out and greeted us. We sat down to coffee and talked about everything but the mustard-colored gem sitting inches away from me. This is normal. The sitting and drinking and the small talk. I once had to meet a carpet salesman’s entire family before I could even negotiate. My bladder was about to explode from so much tea I agreed to the first price just to go to the bathroom. I knew to pace myself.

Pierre talked. There was some question about where I was going and when I would be back. Renting the truck was a problem. “To many uncertainties.” Said the big Lebanese man, sipping from a tiny expresso cup.

“How much would you sell the truck?” I asked. He laughed.

“Not for sale.”

“I’ll give you five grand, American and I’ll return the truck. What do you say?”

I drove out the M-30. The highway was a two-lane road. Tractor trailers formed most of the traffic heading toward Syria. I drove through several dusty towns before the signage turned from the M-30 to the M-2. Coming out of a farming town, the road turned south. Syrian Military trucks parked on the shoulder of the road. Syria has long assumed, as they call it a brotherly ownership of Lebanon. It was only recently they pulled out of Beirut. As I approached the border, a misty rain fell, turning the dust into a fine mud. I pulled into the border complex. I stopped at a booth and flashed my Egyptian Passport. The border guard opened the door and took the passport. He looked at the passport, then at me. After a deliberate pause, he handed the passport back to me and waved me through.

I found Celia’s father, sister, and two children sitting with their bags at the end of the car park.

“Need a lift?” I asked.

“Captain Scott? God bless you!”

They piled into the truck, and I sped off down the road. The Syrian border guard looking disgusted as he was sure he would make money off their misery. I pulled into the first truck stop we came across. I fueled. We ate kabobs, salad, and drank gallons of orange juice before returning to the road. Celia’s sister insisted on sitting in the truck’s bed. The children curled up and slept in the backseats. Celia’s father, Afran, sat in the passenger seat. He almost immediately fell asleep. It is hard to know what an ordeal like this does to the body, let alone the human spirit. The family was wanted by the Turks and the Syrians. What did he do to upset so many people? He kept his battered old briefcase between his feet on the truck floor.

We drove south along the border towards Israel and the Golan Heights. I took the mountain roads. This is an unforgiving land; arid and rocky. The misting rain had turned into a steady drizzle. I called my cell phone with the satellite phone. Laura answered. I told her I had them and were heading South. I would meet them in Tyre in the morning.

We climbed the treacherous part of the dirt road, because now the roads were just cart paths, climbing to the top of a mountain ridge. We descended slowly. The children were awake, as was Afran. Celia’s sister, Naza, hung on for dear life in the truck’s bed. I came to a clearing on the side of the road where a mountain spring filled a large pool among the rocks. Night was falling fast.

We stretched our legs. Afran thanked me again and again. Naza blessed me. The children asked, “Where are we?”

“We are in Lebanon. In the morning we will be in Tyre. My boat should be there waiting for us.”

Afran cried. Naza consoled him.

The rain stopped about midnight, and the valley below sparkled below our feet.

Tyre is said to be a city of ruins built upon ruins. We drove past large Palestinian refugee camps down to the port. Delphis was sitting on the commercial dock. Celia jumped off the boat and embraced her father and sister. The children grasped the legs of the adults as they bounced up and down, rejoicing in their reunion. I parked the truck in front of the dockmaster’s office. I called Pierre to come pick it up and return it to the owner.

We got everyone on board as quickly as possible. I wanted to get out to sea. Laura and I hugged and kissed. We were soon motoring out to sea. The sirocco had paused for the day. Irish congratulated me with a handshake and a cold beer. I noticed he didn’t seem involved in the family rejoicing. I didn’t pay it much mind, attributing it to being an outsider.

I set course for Limassol, Cyprus. Laura and Celia fed the children. Naza was exhausted. She ate a little and went to her cabin secure in the knowledge everything was all right. Afran sat in the cockpit with his head in his hands and his briefcase between his legs. Irish drank a beer and stared at the briefcase. Without the sirocco blowing, the wind settled in south southwest about twenty-five points off our course. The wind would shift more south when the sirocco gained more strength against its fading brother the meltemi. The sea state was a small one-foot swell and two-foot waves every ten seconds. We had 150 nautical miles to go, and this charter would be finished.

Laura came upstairs. “Why don’t you rest? Naza is asleep in the port cabin. The kids are together in the aft stateroom.” She asked. She shot a look at Irish, who was dozing or fixated on the briefcase. I couldn’t tell.

I asked Afran if he was okay. He was tired and worried. He followed me down below with his briefcase in hand. “Why don’t you lay down here.” I pointed to the settee, one of my favorite sleeping places. He sat down. Celia came out of the aft cabin. She said, “We have a problem.”

Before I could say “What problem?” Laura called me with genuine panic in her voice. I raced on deck. An Israeli gunboat was fifty meters from my boat. The Israelis were going to board. I jumped behind the helm and tacked away from them. Laura worked the sheets. I accelerated. The gunboat turned on a dime to reposition for their boarding party. I hailed them on the VHF and reprimanded the Israeli gunboat. I called my position out over the VHF radio. I called, telling them I’m an American flagged vessel in international waters.

Suddenly, another gunboat screamed over the horizon to block my course.

“You have no right to board me!” I screamed into the radio. “I am an American flagged vessel in International waters!”

Both gunboats backed off. I dropped the genoa and slowed my speed. I still hadn’t heard a word from the gunboat on the radio. The gunboats bracketed Delphis on port and starboard. After about twenty minutes, the radio crackled. “Delphis, this is the Israeli gunboat 2060. Follow us into port or we will sink you.”

The aft gunner manning a fifty-caliber machine gun sprayed a burst into the sea behind us.

We turned around and set course south by southwest. A powerful dinghy filled with armed sailors came to the side and boarded the boat. We, the children included, were ordered to stay on the deck.

“You are boarding us under protest. The children will stay where they are as well as the rest of the women.”

A very young pimply sailor grabbed my arm. I turned his wrist in an old judo move I knew. The other sailors pointed their weapons at me. “This is my ship. Behave young man. Let us be civil.” The officer in charge ordered his men to relax. He started asking me a series of questions. I refused to answer. We had forty miles to travel until we reached Haifa. Irish grabbed another beer and sat on a cushion on the foredeck. Afran went down below and slept on the settee. Laura continued serving the guests. Cookies for the kids. She made sandwiches for Irish, Naza, Afran, and Celia. I asked her to bring me a bottle of wine and a plastic cup.

The officer, who looked like a farmer than a sailor, told me it was against the law to drink and drive a boat. “Fuck off,” I said bluntly. “At this moment, you are on American soil. This is an American vessel. You are a pirate. I am only submitting to this because I believe you will actually shoot at my boat.” I gulped down the entire contents of my wine cup. The farmer laughed like it was a joke. “Fuck you.” I repeated and refilled my cup.

I tried to call the U.S Embassy on my satellite phone. The Farmer took the phone away and told me I was under arrest.

We docked a little after ten o’clock in the evening. An armed guard stood outside the boat. I was escorted off my boat and handcuffed. Four the next six hours I sat in a concrete bunker with no windows. A bald man with a comb over came in carrying a folder. “You have been a very busy man skipper.”

“I only have a few questions then you can go.”

“The comb over makes you seem less important. I want to speak to the American Embassy. You committed an act of piracy. Does that bother you at all? Of course, it doesn’t. Is this the result of running an apartheid state?”

The comb over was unaffected by what I said. He was still for five minutes. Then he asked, “Who are you, skipper?” His gaze laser focused on me. He was reading my pupils for a change in dilatation. “You have my passport. Comb over.” He tapped his forefinger on the tabletop. I had seen this before. In fact, I had done it myself. Tap the finger. The prisoner looks at the finger. Stop and you catch his eyes. It is a very subtle way for an interrogator to assume control. I saw his pupils dilate. He was confused for a moment. He picked up his file and left. I was alone for another hour.

I thought about Laura and how she was coping. I meditated by reciting Kipling to myself.

 If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

 if you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

 But make allowance for their doubting too;

             If you can wait and not be tied by waiting,

 Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies.

 Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

 And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

The door opened, and a different man entered. He wore a crew cut. Grey hair on the sides. My best guess, he was in upper management of this shit show. A colonel, I thought. He sat down with the same folder. He had my satellite phone.

“Where did you get this?”

“Since when is the Israeli government into piracy?”

“There is no piracy. You were in our waters.”

“Do you want to bank on? I can’t prove where I was when you commandeered my vessel?” I pointed at the phone. It has this ingenious tracking program, so if you have access to the high security computer. No amount of mischief will change the position your pirates attacked my boat.”

The Colonel put his cards on the table. “We picked up the signal communications from this phone in Syria. Therefore, you were stopped and asked to come and discuss why, if you are an innocent charter boat captain, you were running around in Syria. Can you tell me why?”

“I was contracted to help get this family to safety.”

“That sounds expensive.”

“Not expensive enough.” I murmured. He laughed. 

“So why don’t we just forget about the inconvenience. You may go on your way. Next time, don’t bring this kind of high-tech gear with you. You might accidentally be identified as a spy or some sort of other nefarious operator.”

I took my satellite phone and left the room. I rejoined my boat. I was and in no mood to talk. “Let’s get out of here.” I barked. Irish was talking with Celia and Afran. Something was afoot, but I wasn’t in the mood.

After a shower, food, and a deep five-hour sleep, I woke to Laura’s touch. I sat up. “How long did I sleep?” The little marine clock on my bulkhead chimed two bells. “Okay. I’m getting up”

I rolled out of my bunk. I thew some cold water on my face and joined Laura at the helm. Everyone was asleep. I ran through the checklist so ingrained in my head. Wind was more south. The wind speed was picking up. It was a steady eighteen knots. I walked the deck checking the sails., lines, deck fittings, and blocks. I went down and checked the fuel level. We were running low. We would have to sail for a few hours to develop a cushion. I trimmed the main by drawing the sheet tighter. I let the mizzen out a good six inches. The boat was more balanced with this wind. The rudder wouldn’t have more pressure than necessary. 

Laura had my coffee ready. She whispered into my ear. “Celia and Irish are not married. He works for some big oil company. They paid for this trip to get Celia’s father out of Iraq. Supposedly, the papers in the briefcase are worth billions of dollars. Irish has threatened Afran. The brief case is missing.”

“Did the Israelis search the boat while I was gone?”

“Yes. They found nothing. They took that phone.”

“Did they find the safe?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Do you know where the briefcase is?”

I smiled. Of course, I knew where the briefcase was. I hide it in a secret cabinet when everyone was looking at the gunboats. My Egyptian passport was in the cabinet as well. Along with a firearm and cash.

The next afternoon, we arrived in Limassol. Irish had kept to himself for the whole day. I docked the boat. I stepped onto the quay. Makis was waiting there for us. He had flown down. I had called him in the middle of the night to make sure he was there to back me up. Sometimes people get crazy ideas about paying for a trip after it is over.

Makis waited on the dock with an Armenian friend of ours. He was security. I sat everyone down except the kids, of course, and listen to the story. If Afran and Celia were okay with giving over the papers, I would. Irish would also need to come up with a decent bonus for all the trouble I went through. Afran agreed. It was the deal. We waited for a courier to arrive with the new passports for the family. Makis confirmed the funds. I gave Irish the briefcase. He checked the contents. He smiled. “Pleasure doing business with you. And by the way, I was right you are one hell of a skipper.” He shook my hand. He looked at Celia. “Sorry. It was just business.” He left. She was simply relieved and happy to be over the ruse.

Naza hugged her. Afran was sad. “That was my life’s work.”

I quoted Kipling.

            If you can make one heap of all your winnings

            And risk it on one turn of pitch and toss,

            And lose, and start again at your beginnings

            Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

Afran finished the quote. “And - which is more–You’ll be a Man, my son. We should leave you in peace. We have a new life to start.”

Celia and Naza gathered their things. The children were playing on the quay. Afran shook our hands and kissed Laura and I with joyous tears in his eyes. Naza left in a kind of stupor. She suffered from seasickness and now she suffered from land sickness. The land moved under her feet, making her nauseous.

Celia asked us to forgive her for the lies and the deceit. “It was the only way I could get my family out of Iraq.”

Laura and I stood on the stern of the boat waving goodbye, as we often did after a charter to our guests. Makis left to catch his plane home, pleased with the economics of the charter.

Sailing back to Rhodes from Cyprus, we were exhausted. There are a series of very high cliffs along the Turkish coast called the Seven Sisters. They are known for having a unique wind event: A Katabatic wind.

Bora, foehn, chinook descending wind names. However, they are not true Katabatic winds because they start with rainfall on one side of the mountain, then rise and over the mountain and descend in a natural flow. Katabatic winds are cold, dense air on top of a mountain that falls or drains down the mountainside and across the water, gaining speed until the force can reach gale force. It is sudden and sometimes brief. The damage it can do is astounding because you can’t actually prepare buy you can be aware.  

It was the middle of the dog watch. I had the main, mizzen, staysail and jib set tight as we were beating against a 10 to 15 knot breeze with occasional shifts from a warm offshore breeze. Laura and I were laying together on the windward side in the cockpit’s corner together with a blanket over us to stay warm. The autohelm attended the course. She was asleep with her head on my chest. From my position I could see the sails, traffic, the radar screen was inside the cockpit but visible with the proximity alarms set. We were a mile and a half from the Seven Sisters to our starboard. In fact, they were just abaft of our stern. 

Laura woke up and cupped my chin. “I can’t marry you. I am leaving and I don’t want you to follow me to Paris.” 

I think I might have uttered “What?” feeling the absolute crushing fall of my heart into my stomach if it wasn’t for a roar like a jet engine coming towards us. I said, “Hang On!” The Katabatic wind hit us at 105 miles an hour. The boat was knocked down. The mainsail laid in the sea. Laura slide against the helm and hung on for dear life. The gust abated slightly, and she righted herself. I scrambled to release the sheet and the main. The autohelm was completely freaked out. I yelled above the roar to turn off the autohelm. Laura did. She was cool headed. She grabbed the cushions that slid against the safety lines. We finally righted, and I turned her down wind. It was still blowing 50 knots. The down wind direction allowed me to get the mizzen down, which had to be shredded. Now I worked my way forward. I reset the mainsail and adjusted the boom vang to spill as much air as possible. I moved to the foredeck. The staysail was shredded. I pulled it down onto the deck. It looked as if the clothesline broke, and the laundry laid helter-skelter on the deck. The jib was ripped, but not too bad. I took it down and secured it to the safety lines with ties. 

Laura was at the helm. She was guiding the boat downwind. I signaled to adjust her course further North. We were literally at the very edge of the Katabatic wind. I another five miles we were back to normal. Laura had straightened out the cabins. She made us a coffee. We sat together on the top step of the companionway, tears in our eyes, and our hearts ripped and torn like all the sails on my boat. 

Gale force warnings kept me inside the breakwater of Mandraki harbor, Rhodes, Greece. Laura had flown home. I found a couple of characters who would join me on the trip to Antigua. Known as a Gregale wind, it blew from the Northeast with a strong pressing cold that declared the hot summer Meltemi dead for this year. The swell rolled along the industrial port quay like a snake slithering up and down, crashing into the jetty with a thudding slap of indignity. The markets and streets where droves of tourists roamed were empty. It was time to go. My summer was spent sailing over 2000 nautical miles, Turkey, Syria, Lebanon, Israel, Cyprus, and back to my base in Rhodes, Greece. Now I had to return to the Caribbean another roughly 6000 nautical miles, or 30 to 40 days of straight sailing. I was eager to get into the trades and follow the wind.

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