"Travels To Tahiti, The Hard Way"
It occurred to me about 2a.m., drawing deep steady breaths of 70 degree air, that if I survived the night without contributing to the already polluted Carribean, I might enjoy a steady diet of this kind of travel.Last Monday afternoon, John Tipp had stuck his head into my office and asked if I would like to help crew his boat back from Nassau to Fort Lauderdale. "Hell, yes" was my reaction. "You have to pay your own airfare and expenses." "Of course." "We're leaving Thursday night after work. Street Remley's navigator and Rick Herman's the other crew." "Count me in." "You serious? Don't you have to check with Dee?" "No, she'll understand."I mused over this exchange, leaning back against the main mast of Tipp's Dutch-built yawl, as we reached the top of a lazy 12-foot swell. The horizon, which I had lost sight of when I last went into the galley to mix another round of drinks in the dark, was like an abrupt termination of an inverted black bowl of stars. I had never before been so aware of living on a spheroid.The queasies finally left about dawn. Breakfast being my thing and wanting to redeem myself with my more stalwart crew members, I returned to the scene of the crime and proceeded to fry sausages and eggs for all. With an inch of hot grease surrounding a dozen bangers on a nongimbled stove, I was doing the galley two-step when the boat rang out with a dull gong-like sound. "What was that?" I yelled, as Rick jumped down from the cockpit. "Get up there, Jackson, and see what's going on!" He took the pan of scalding sausages and I popped my head out the hatch and looked to port into the eyes of an airborne, smiling dolphin. "Hi! Glad to see ya," he seemed to say in a Phil Silvers, aquatic way. A small pod of them were amusing themselves by diving into our bow wave and occasionally bumping the steel hull. I was hopelessly hooked. "Jesus Christ, this is living."Saturday night we passed a cruise ship - our sails full of moonlight.Thank you, from the Jacksons.
