then, an invitation from a mysterious, well-tanned, naked brunette doesn't come along every day. Who's on a schedule anyway? The yard can wait. I rigged the big yellow sun dodger over the cockpit, deck and doghouse and went to the log book to review my never-ending "to-do" list.
One would think that it should not take a great deal of work to keep up with the maintenance on a sailboat only 29 feet long. But the salt air, mixed with the vicious intensity of the tropical sun literally disintegrates man-made materials that go to sea, especially if they are in excess of eighty years old. The solution is to keep all surfaces covered. Varnish, paint, oil, wax, silicone and grease. Sand and recoat. Check and repair. Tighten and lock. Lube, clean and relube.
So I committed to taking this day and making something of it. Perhaps this was a good day to overhaul the primary winches. There are two of them, bronze Merrimans in the cockpit which are, by any definition, antiques. But in nine years of sailing with them, they have shown themselves to be (in my opinion) the most reliable pieces of gear ever installed on a boat... as long as they're greased. To clean and lube one winch requires 112 separate operations, a job I look forward to undertaking four times a year. I normally plan ahead to choose a peaceful time and place and then take all day to do it. For me, it's like going to church. This is how I would spend this day, anchored in the crystalline waters in the tiny cove of a tiny island, shielded from the harsh rays of the sun, serenaded by the lapping waves and the cries of gulls and fanned by a sea breeze.
I spread the mechanic's cloth before my work and in a matter of moments, had covered it with a hundred irreplaceable parts as the winch revealed its innermost secrets to my hands. Every time I do this, I feel that I'm rediscovering an old friend, one I’ve know fairly well and am fairly certain of my memories, but being pleasantly surprised when murky recollections bring the forgotten details to life. I peel the winch, layer by layer, patiently, here a retaining ring, now the cover, now a flange, now a bolt, always coming closer, ever closer to that place which gives life to all other parts. As I work, my fingers search for flaws: a chip here, a crack there, corrosion here, a chafe there. I marvel at the skill of long-dead machinists who cut precision gears out of solid chunks of bronze to such close tolerances a light lubrication lets them effortlessly take thousands of wraps of straining jibsheet to control hundreds of thousands of foot-pounds of pressure by the wind. After all these years, nothing strips, snaps or splits.
Maintaining the winches is part of my mantra with this vessel. I believe if I do this faithfully, along with the dozens of other things on my never-ending to-do list, she will never die.
I tightened the last screw of the second winch as the sun began to glint off distant wave tops. The job was complete when each winch was given a good twist to make it spin like a top on newly oiled barrels. I put away the tools, took down the dodger and jumped overboard for a long swim to work out the kinks. Lord, how I love to swim in the warm, clear water of the Caribbean.
Using Ivory soap for my body and Joy for shampoo and shaving, I became downright presentable by the time the ship’s clock chimed four bells, signaling 6:00 PM. It was time to ferry my carcass to the beach for the mysterious rendezvous.
The little lapstrake dinghy, happy at last to be freed from its lashings on the cabin top, cut easily through the short distance to shore. I jumped out, pulled it onto the beach and tied it securely to a rock far up on shore to ensure the tide would not reclaim my ride home. I turned to see Mariah standing by the landmark pine tree, dressed this time, radiant in a long white cotton dress, Mexican I'd guess, with an off-the-shoulder blouse, just standing there, watching, with a wry smile on her face. Her hair was plaited into a long braid that hung down her back. If I hadn't met her already, I would have sworn that, with her deep tan and raven hair, she was straight from the lover's plaza at Tampico. She watched me walk closer to her.
"Good evening, my lady."
"Good evening, my friend,” she said, eyes smiling and drawing me in like magnets. “Welcome to my home." She took my hand and led me behind the pine, around a two-story boulder, worn perfectly smooth by the autumn gales, up a few other rocks serving as steps, and onto what could only be called a "patio," a clearing, really, in front of a kind of grotto, cleft into the side of the island’s granite backbone. The floor was covered with soft sea grass, matted in layers to form a natural, all-weather carpet; the edge was bordered with small stones, beyond which was a cliff with about a thirty foot drop to the lapping waves. What a perfect viewpoint, facing southeast, toward Tortola, comfortable in the lee of the land, and a grandstand seat for watching the sunset. "Mariah, this is fantastic. You live here?"
"This is my home when I choose it to be," she said. "Drink?"
"Sure. Whatever you have." She handed me a Meyer's in a rounded crystal tumbler, no ice, just the way I like it, and joined me with the same.
"Do you get a lot of visitors?" I asked.
"Not many. Come on, I'll show you around." The grotto was surprisingly deep, lit with drippy candles and heavy brass lanterns. I could see a large main room with furniture woven from palm fronds; off in three directions other rooms, more like deep dents in the wall, served as kitchen, bedroom and store room. The walls and ceiling were completely smooth, eroded over eons by the endless etch of the sea. Every corner of the cave had a view of the opening, a magnificent panorama of the strait and the islands. The sun beginning to decline, turning the cerulean sea into a mottled gray patch, the islands into silhouettes.
The kitchen was ingenious in its practical simplicity. Part of the cave wall lying beneath a crag in the ceiling had been fashioned into a wood stove in order that smoke would be drawn away through the natural chimney. There was no shortage of cooking fuel on an island covered with dead scrub brush and a neverending supply of driftwood on the weather side beaches. A cast iron Dutch oven sitting atop a metal plate on the stove gave off an exotic aroma that wafted through the cave. Two planks were set into the wall to form a kind of counter. Others were set to form shelves, stacked two deep with a museum-like assortment of jars and cans, most without labels.
"My," I said, "All the conveniences of home."
"Aye,” she said. “Come sit.” She positioned two chairs at the lip of the cave, facing west and, warmed by the rum, I watched the sun go down, the sky turn to persimmon, then cobalt, then black, the utter darkness made warm by the candle glow of the grotto.
"I have a thousand questions," I said, finally. "How do you..."
"Not now," she whispered, putting two fingers onto my lips. "All in due time." The smile she gave promised this was not a dream and there would be plenty of time for answers to all questions. "Let us eat. I'm starved."
"Okay, what can I do?"
"Move that table and chairs to the mouth of the cave and we can listen to the waves." Dinner music too? I did as she asked. The table was set with handmade crockery, a bowl and a plate at each setting. Then came the Dutch oven, the fresh baked bread, a dusty, unlabeled, unsealed bottle of wine. She ladled a thick seafood gumbo into my bowl, the aroma of which made a filling appetizer. I uncorked the wine bottle while she finished serving. As a final act of dining hospitality, she brought a spray of wild flowers to the table. "There," she said, and sat.
"Let me propose a sailor's toast," I said. She lifted her glass like the queen of the realm welcoming home the head of her victorious fleet. "I thank thee, God, for the sun and the sea, and the wind that blew me to thee." The twinkle in her eyes, the bare shoulders radiant from a day in the sun, the food, the wine, the candles... were almost too much. This must be a dream. But the sea grass was soft on my bare feet, the sweet night breeze, the wine in my glass, a very mello Montrachet, was all real.
"I thank thee for coming, Ian Dunn," she said softly.
And we began to devour the feast.
We talked of many things. The dogs on St. Kitts, the races at Antigua, the disappearing craft of woode
n boat builders. As much as I tried to find out about her and this place, she regularly turned the conversation around to me. How was it, she asked, that a man as young as I could afford to spend his life sailing around the Caribbean? I explained that I grew up on the Chesapeake Bay and that my father had died when I was a teenager. He left me a small sum of money with which I started a yacht maintenance business. It wasn’t much at first... part time, small chores, with a bucket, a brush and some chrome polish. In time, it turned into full service maintenance for owners who cared about their vessels but had little time to use them. I quit school, hired my friends and eventually had over 200 yachts under contract. By that time we had trucks and equipment and specialized in yacht detailing for brokers selling million-dollar mansions afloat.
After five years of that, I sold the business to my brother for a comfortable sum and an ongoing, modest income. I bought the Andromeda, invested the rest and have been at sea ever since. From time to time, I write articles for sailing magazines and get odd jobs in port.
"Now tell me," I said at last, bursting to ask the question I had pondered all day, "Why does a beautiful woman isolate herself on a tiny