A Coffee During Covid
I emerged from the cabin of my cozy little sailboat into the relentless Caribbean sunshine. Even in December, any movement made me sweat. Preoccupied by the various tasks of getting in the dinghy to go ashore, I failed to notice a new boat nearby. It was COVID time, the winter of 2020 and things on our tiny island of Culebra (pop. 1800) were slightly less tense than they had been when I arrived in late October to take possession of my new-to-me boat/home, but we were still distancing and masking in town.
My workhorse eight-foot hard dinghy rode peacefully behind the sailboat in the reliable trade winds. I grabbed her painter (rope) and pulled her alongside so I could hop in to go ashore. I’d spent weeks sweating over her little 2hp outboard. I was convinced there was something wrong with it until my male friends came over and started her easily with one pull on the starter cord. I could pull that cord for hours and she would never even think about starting.
Finally, one day, I got in the dinghy, narrowed my eyes at that-fucking-outboard and told her she’d better start or I was going to throw her over the side. I was furious at her for starting for the men and not for me. I grabbed that toggle and gave the cord a mighty jerk and to my great surprise, she started right up. Apparently, anger was the key to starting her. This particular outboard has no neutral or reverse, so when it starts, it goes. I nearly toppled out of the dinghy as she lurched forward, but quickly remembered to back off the throttle and push in the choke to slow her down. After that, I had only to recall my rage and she’d roar to life on the first furious pull. I named her Georgia because she was such a peach from then on.
On this particular day, I was on my way to meet my boat’s original owner, Jesse, who still lived on the island. He knew it was difficult for me to get to the grocery store in town because the trade winds often blew hard, which made it a challenge coming back, especially if there was any chop. Waves would pour over the bow, soak my groceries and me and threaten to swamp my little Ding-Ding.
Jesse understood this and kindly offered me a lift in his adorable, yellow, two-seater electric car whenever he was heading to town. We talked all the way to town and back about Harmony, my twenty-eight-foot Cape Dory sailboat. He talked me through many repairs and I always begged him for sailing stories. It was fun riding in “Sparky,” even with my face mask on, I enjoyed the breeze as we charged into town.
Good old Georgia started right up and I threw off the painter and headed for the rundown dock at the old ferry terminal nearby. Our little bay was a tight community far from the bustle of the main harbor. To the south of me, a dark blue sailboat was home to my friend, Paul, the Whale Listener. He had a sophisticated hydrophone, which he towed behind his boat to record the humpbacks singing miles away. On my north side was a gigantic trimaran named Carousel, home of my buddy, Larry, a retired veteran who helped me with my boat repairs and always made me laugh.
As I motored away from Harmony, I looked up and saw a new boat had anchored next to the decrepit old wooden schooner, which a local man had been unsuccessfully trying to bring back to life. It was the first time I’d seen a new boat in our bay and I felt a surge of excitement in my chest. I swung the dinghy around and headed right for the newcomer. It was a big, silvery aluminum boat with a sweet blue and white stripe, flying a French flag. I roared up to her at full throttle, shouted to hail the people and failed to stop Georgia in time to avoid ploughing into her hull with an embarrassing bonk. Oops.
The couple arose from the cockpit to peer over the side at this apparition in a minute dinghy sporting a pink flap hat and sun-faded shorts. Later, they told me they’d been quite amused by my appearance and enthusiasm. I was so excited, I completely forgot to apologize for banging into their hull.
“Welcome to Culebra!” I babbled. “How long are you staying? Do you need water? There’s water just over there,” I pointed. “All the restaurants are closed, but the grocery is open if you need food. You just have to mask up and the owner is a germophobe so he only allows one person from each family at a time so it’s a little awkward...”
They chuckled, thanked me and said they might stay a few weeks. A few weeks! I was thrilled. A lady friend was one thing I was badly missing. I loved all my guy friends; they’d helped me so much with Georgia and Harmony, but it was different to have a woman to talk to.
The lady leaned on the rail and gave me a warm smile. Soft brown curls blew around her face in the breeze. I thought she was the most beautiful sight. It had been several days since I’d talked face-to-face with anyone.
In soft, French-accented English, she said, “Perhaps you can come have a coffee with us one day?” A coffee!? How long had it been since I’d had a social coffee with someone? More than a year. First there was the hurricane in which I had nearly lost my previous boat and then COVID hit. After so much time in isolation, it felt positively sacrilegious to consider it. There would be no keeping six feet apart in their cockpit, but it was outdoors, so surely it would be fine.
“I’d love that!” I thanked them, pointed out my boat across the way in case they had any questions, made my excuses and zoomed off to meet Jesse.
The coffee, a few days later, my first made by actual French people, was smooth and delicious. It was served in real cups from a beautiful tray on the teak table in their spacious cockpit. To my great delight, they opened a tin of very special cookies they’d brought all the way from France. I was agog to think of them crossing the Atlantic by sailboat. It was a daunting prospect to me. I had never met French people before, but I liked these two very much. Oliver had been a documentary filmmaker and Beatrice an attorney. We talked for hours.
Then one morning, I looked out and they were gone. This is how it goes in the sailing community. Boats appear and then disappear. People come and go. I thought I would never see them again. They’d brightened my life so much. I could never repay the gift of their friendship and I would never forget the pleasure of the coffee and cookies and the quiet afternoon of pleasant conversation.
Loved seeing the place and meeting your friends there.