Packing Heat Aboard: Guns On Boats

Ernest Hemingway aboard Pilar in 1935.

One thing is for sure, there are as many different cruising styles as there are cruisers. And there are few subjects as polarizing (and differentiating) as whether or not you carry a gun aboard.

Let me say something that's probably obvious to anyone who follows us or knows us personally: we DO NOT have a gun aboard, nor have we ever seriously considered it. I will also say that I do have a military background (in the Army National Guard) and enjoyed using firearms during my military tenure. Twenty-five years ago, I was a pretty good shot, qualifying "expert" with a .45 pistol and a respectable "sharpshooter" with the M-16.

My observation is that when the subject of carrying a gun aboard comes up among cruisers (and it rarely does), the lines are drawn two ways: First, it is almost exclusively an American thing. French, British, Canadians -- none of them seem ever to have given the subject much thought. The second line is politics, which like it or not, follows us out to sea. If you were pro-gun at home, you are more likely to carry a weapon aboard, although many people that fit that description still don't.

For us, nothing that's happened in the past 19 months of cruising could change our minds on this subject. We practice avoidance. There are a few dodgy spots in the Caribbean. We avoid them. And, we've never had the slightest problem. I might add that we have that in common with the vast majority of cruisers, at least as far as I can tell. If you carry a firearm aboard, I'm willing to bet you are in a relatively small minority. Not a scientific survey, but one gets a pretty good sense.

Aren't you scared of pirates, you ask? Pose the question among Caribbean cruisers and it will elicit a chuckle or maybe a belly laugh (depending on the number of Gin & Tonics involved). Those silly landlubbers. Again, would I be concerned if I were traveling between Trinidad and Venezuela? Yes, but that's just one of the reasons we didn't sail that route.

Didn't you get robbed, you ask? As for our robbery in Grenada, it occurred (as these things typically do) while we were away from the boat. Let's be straight: that's not piracy, it's burglary. Even if we had been aboard, I cannot imagine using a weapon to stop a burglary that resulted in the loss of a few hundred U.S. dollars.

You're going to point to that attack a few years ago in St. Vincent when a cruising couple was assaulted by a machete-wielding youth. Or, the assault in Grenada at the same time we were there last year. But here's the thing: the first attack was repelled (non-lethally) with another knife and the second started with a gun pointed at a cruiser on a beach.

Unless you intend on violating local law (and the consequences can be quite harsh), you will not have your peacemaker at your side while ashore. In fact, on most islands your shipboard weapon will either be held by customs officials until you depart (requiring you to check it in at each port), or sealed aboard your vessel.

That significantly narrows the possibilities for using a firearm as self defence. Cross off using it ashore and put a dotted line through the option of using it aboard, either at anchor or in a marina. That leaves only offshore and underway. I'd invite you to check the stats on how often that scenario presents itself. I can spare you the trouble -- hardly ever.

Here's a good (though perhaps slightly dated) breakdown of the laws in the Caribbean and elsewhere as regard firearms and boats.

I am but one data point in this never-ending discussion. What I can say is that when it comes to personal safety, cruising is pretty much what I thought it would be when we untied the dock lines on the Magothy River, i.e., something to be concerned about but not obsessed over.

Is it just a coincidence that our initial perceptions have panned out? I sort of doubt it. We are out here to enjoy new places and new cultures. For us, carrying a gun aboard does not square with that.

Here's a few other perspectives from:

Sailing Totem
Cygnus III
Yachting World
Huffington Post

Haiti's Gem: Ile a Vache

Prepare for boarders: Ile a Vache's Welcome Wagon.

As we nosed into Baie a Feret (under tow, no less – more on that below), we were greeted by a scene that could have come out of Mutiny on the Bounty. Except this was not Tahiti; it was a small island on Haiti’s southwest side known as Ile a Vache ("Cow Island"). Symbiosis and friends Tropical Blend were instantly thronged by small dugout boats – some with no more than a broken-off palm frond as a paddle – containing mostly 20-something men racing each other in an effort to land employment with the new arrivals from across the sea. They clung to the gunwales and popped their heads up over the side deck: "Hello, Captain, do you have some job for me?" All this was happening as we were performing a rather delicate anchoring procedure – Tropical Blend needed to drop us from tow so that we would lose momentum before running aground. And that is while finding their own spot in an exceedingly tight anchorage that already contained several boats. 

What's that about (another) tow? A few miles out, Symbiosis suddenly lost her engine again. The throttle, which had been "wavering," slowly tailed off and the engine simply died. This occurred in an area with a veritable mine field of poorly marked fish nets. The only sign of them on the water is a couple of plastic soda bottles that are very difficult to see from the deck of a small cruising boat. Running over one of the nets would likely mean getting them wrapped in the prop and losing power – something to definitely be avoided. So, when Larry and Debbie on Tropical Blend agreed to take us in tow, they still needed to maneuver around them, but with Symbiosis as an added burden. Between Debbie’s lookout on the foredeck and Larry’s expert helmsmanship, we made it in OK. The problem turned out to be dirty fuel. (Ironically, Neko, who towed us into Luperon on the other side of Hispaniola almost exactly a year ago -- also because of bad fuel -- had buddy boated with Tropical Blend for some months before we met either one of the crews. It's a small world in the cruising clique).

Debbie preparing to take us in tow.

In any case, Ile a Vache proved to be every cliché we’d ever imagined about Haiti – dirt poor (US$5 is considered a good daily wage) and more than slightly desperate. But the people are warm and there are none of the security concerns for which the rest of Haiti is infamous. The moment we dropped anchor, Debbie began tossing out Tropical Blend t-shirts like swag at a rock concert. The shirts proved popular and we kept seeing them dotting the anchorage for several days after Larry and Debbie moved on to Jamaica. All sorts of small gifts came out of our hold, too, as they did from Tropical Blend. A few of our own Symbiosis t-shirts and polos (well received), baseball caps, old shoes, an unused fishing pole. It was a bit like Christmas shopping. We spotted something on the boat we'd been meaning to rid ourselves of, and one of us would say "that looks like such-and-such could use that" and then we'd see such-and-such and give it to him. One of the things I really like about (and let us just borrow the old pejorative "Third World" with no malice intended) is the resourcefulness of the people. Items that would be discarded without a second thought in America get used, reused and repurposed in a place like this. So, our slightly broken things are diamonds in the rough here. Even our mucky diesel, which we were wondering how to dispose of in an environmentally conscious way, was taken by a Haitian boy for use in fuel lamps at his home.

Debbie handing out the ever-popular Tropical Blend tee.

Within a few hours of our arrival, both boats had discharged cargo of used sails, fishing gear, snorkel gear, school supplies, clothes, etc. that we had agreed to carry for Good Samaritan Foundation of Haiti, the NGO run part-time by Michael "Beans" Gardener, the troubadour we'd met in Jost Van Dyke weeks before.

Nothing more for us to do but enjoy the tranquil and beautiful bay. And getting that engine sorted.

Unloading aid supplies for Good Samaritan Foundation of Haiti.

Soon we met Ernst and Mark, young cousins who were both trying to earn some cash. We found a few make-work jobs for them, such as cleaning the decks and we sent our laundry off to Ernst’s mother. We fed them lunch and dinner -- several times, in fact. We also met Davey and Kiki. Kiki, around 30 with a friendly smile and a very good command of English, works with Good Samaritan Foundation and also tends bar in a hotel ashore. But it's not enough for him. We arrived during "high season," for foreign visitors to Ile a Vache, but Haiti isn't exactly a major tourist destination and a busy day at the bar for Kiki means serving perhaps 25 customers. He told us of his hope to go to Chile to work, because “Haiti will never change.” Unlike many others, who offered up only vague talk about forging a better life (several wanted to become a mechanic, for example), Kiki's plans seemed concrete despite his obvious frustration. He is trying to scratch together enough cash to get a visa and a ticket. We wish him well. We also met Beethoven, a young Haitian who clearly had little knowledge of his namesake. He seemed to take in stride my occasional remarks about his fabulous symphonies.

Mark

Kiki

One thing we had on our manifest was a 150-percent genoa that we'd blown out just a week or so earlier. Old sails are much coveted in Ile a Vache, as the fishing boats are all sail. The locals cut the bad parts out and refit them for their own small craft, stitching everything by hand.

Tattered and patched together sails are the norm, but these guys are experts with their boats.

Ready for America's Cup? Hardly, but they do the job well enough. We decided that the genoa, an old sail that I'd only hoped would make it to Mexico, was not worth saving. So, it became yet another donation. Wildo was very happy to get it.

Wildo.

I first tackled the engine problem myself. I found no fuel flow and some "gunk" in the line; cleared it; bled the engine, and it started. Easy, problem solved (or so I thought!). I ran the engine for about 10 minutes and the same thing happened. Loss of power. I decided to call in the local mechanic, a very tall, handsome and soft-spoken gentlemen named Son Son. He bled the injection pump and started the engine. It seemed good. We ran the engine for about 15 minutes and it sounded fine. We got ready the next day to sail out of Ile a Vache, and the same damn problem happened again. We told Tropical Blend to move on without us. They had a plane to catch and we didn't want to hold them up any longer. They graciously left us with some cash (no ATMs in Ile a Vache!). I called Son Son again. He found, like I did, inadequate fuel flow from the tank to the first filter. He cleared the line and we started the engine again. Again, everything seemed fine. Next morning, we set out from the anchorage. About 0630, just as we were ready to clear the entrance, the engine died again. We flung out the foresail and sailed back into the bay. But the direction of the wind was such that we couldn't come up onto a spot to anchor again. We made a split decision to drop the hook before we were in real trouble, but ended up very close to friends John and Danny on Joda and in barely enough water to clear our keel. Knowing that Sequoia on Tandemeer (of International Rescue Group) and Joanna on Bamba Maru were early risers, we decided to try to call them on the VHF. Sure enough, Sequoia, answered immediately and within minutes, he and Joanna were there in their dinghies to help guide us back to a safe spot. The kindness of fellow cruisers!

Back to work on the engine. I couldn't believe it was bad fuel. Earlier, I had taken a sample from the bottom of the tank where crud is likely to precipitate. It was clean. Since our incident last year of picking up bad fuel in Mayaguana, Bahamas, we have been very careful about this clean and water-free fuel protocol -- going only to marinas with a lot of turnover at the pump, always careful to seal the deck-fill (with a film of Vaseline), and otherwise taking the necessary precautions. But Sequoia convinced me to take another sample. This time I pulled up a nasty, slimy "diesel booger" as I inelegantly call them. It's a bacterial infestation that thrives in the tropics. With 60 gallons in the tank, the only solution was to hand pump all the fuel out, clean the tank, filter the fuel and put it back in. So, we borrowed several jerry cans and I proceeded to the messy task, which took about 2.5 hours. There was indeed a lot of gunk at the bottom and I stuck my arm through several inspection hatches to get it all cleaned out, using copious amounts of paper towels. Joanna on Bamba Maru let us use some of her biocide fuel treatment, so hopefully the problem could be held at bay.

Finally, we discovered a small air leak in the fuel line that was probably introduced by our fiddling around with the tanks. It took another day to locate and fix that. By then, we were sure (pretty sure, anyway) that everything was good. We started and ran the engine several times to make sure.

After listening to Chris Parker's forecast and getting a quick glimpse of the GRIB files (thanks to Sequoia's cell phone data access), we decided Wednesday the 19th, didn't look too bad. Boy, we we wrong. (Btw, Chris' forecast didn't specifically cover our area, but his estimation of the sea state we encountered was more accurate than the GRIBs).

After an initial 12 hours in which we were able to sail downwind with the Aries windvane doing the steering, from there, things went south, so to speak, even as we were traveling west. The already 8-foot swell -- fine on our quarter, made it difficult to steer on our transom. We ended up hand steering for hours, jibing back and forth to try to stay on a broad reach -- going forward on a rolling, wet deck to switch the preventer with each jibe. Somewhere off the Jamaican coast, it started to rain. Then lightening -- luckily though, not too close. The wind backed nearly 360 degrees in the middle of the night, forcing several sail changes in the dark. The next morning, I spent about a half hour in heavy swells bringing in a Skipjack Tuna. Noi immediately threw the line back in and almost instantly, we got another strike. More effort to bring in a fish that was clearly not going to give up -- all while standing in a torrential downpour. I would reel in some on the wave crests, then be forced to let it back out for fear of breaking the pole. A very big fish. Finally, I decided to leave the pole in its holder and let the fish wear itself out. He (or she) nearly ripped the pole out of its socket and I jumped up to save it, and resume the fight. About that time, I could feel the tension ease considerably -- a sure sign that the line was broken. A great "one that got away" story. 

Seconds after I got back in the cockpit from the rather exposed fishing station, a strong squall (we estimate 45 knots) caught us by surprise. We had a full main up, as we had been sailing in the 15- to 20-knot breeze. It was way too much sail for this squall, and we struggled to keep control of the helm. After it subsided, we noticed that something -- we presume an errant genoa sheet -- had ripped a dorade vent box clean off the deck. The dorade box was still there sitting on the cabin top. More repairs for our next port!

Then the wind died and we started the motor to make Port Antonio. At some point in the passage, I realized that there was a leak on the engine and we were losing oil at a rather alarming rate. So, all the while, I was adding oil to the engine while it was running, trying to guess how much it was losing. 

At Port Antonio's Errol Flynn Marina, we were greeted by Debbie and Larry who waved us into our slip. We were soaked and tired, not having slept at all for the 30-plus hour crossing. It was nice to have the worst passage of our Caribbean sojourn behind us.

On Symbiosis, we have a motto: Even when it's not fun, it's still an adventure!