Brilliant sailing on Tampa Bay.

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Photo shoot at the marina.

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Sea-time

I leave this morning on an overnight cruise with students on the Catalina/Morgan 440.  This will take me to 19 days of sea-time for the month of March, which I think is a record for me.  I'll have 45 days since January 1, an average of one out of every two days.  I'm amazed! 

Motivated student studies under sail.

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More about Spanky, my Colorful Caribbean Cat.

The animal shelter on the east end of St Thomas consisted of two buildings - one for dogs and a smaller one for cats.  The "Cat House", as it was labeled with a hand painted sign, was little more than a shack with a series of cages around the outside perimeter. Kittens were kept inside.  I went in and saw several cute fur-balls with little tails sticking up.  Some running and bouncing and others sleeping.  They all looked very adoptable.  I went out to look in the cages around the perimeter.  Those cages held larger and more adult cats.  I knew these creatures were less likely to be adopted.  I walked past the cages, stooping to look inside.  I noticed one that was watching me.  It was a juvenile, not full grown.  A mix of color, tabby with white patches.  He came to the chicken-wire wall of the cage and sat looking at me.  I poked my finger through the wire to touch him.  He lowered his head so I could scratch around his ears. 

 

I enquired about him with the young West Indian woman who was looking after the Cat House that day.  She told me thought he'd be a good match for me.  She happened to know that the cat's previous owner was also a man – a young man who lived with his mother.  He'd been arrested and was in jail for a drug offence, and Mother didn't want the cat.  I paid the adoption fee and was told I could pick him up after he'd be taken to a vet for shots and neutering, which would take a couple of days   I returned to the cage where he was being kept to let him know I'd be back for him. 

 

After a couple days of settling in, it became apparent that this was an active and playful cat.   Also obvious was that he was unaccustomed to being an indoor cat.  He was always trying to get out, either through the front door of the apartment as I went in or out, or through the sliding screen door to my balcony overlooking the Lagoon.  But my front door was just a few steps from the road, a busy road to Red Hook.  I wasn't going to take chances with him roaming around. 

 

After about a month together I had some reason, which I don't now recall, to take Spanky to the vet.  In the examination room the vet looked at him briefly, turned to me and said, this cat had serious health problems.  He suspected there were a couple different infections.  If he was right, the prognosis was not good.  Did I really want to keep this cat?  I was shocked to hear this.  I'd just adopted him.  He'd been taken to a vet for shots and neutering before I brought him home.  I assumed his health was fine.  He'd been in my home long enough that I felt we'd bonded.  I wasn't going to simply give up on him now. 

 

I told the vet this.  He recommended blood tests to see the extent of the problem.  Then began a period when I'd take Spanky to the vet once every week for an injection of a cocktail of drugs to combat his infections.  I recall many days when it was clear that Spanky was not feeling well.  I hated to see him that way.  I felt so helpless.  At other times he was his usual high energy-self.  In time his health stabilized and his injections were reduced to once a month.  Eventually he was declared fit, except for the one infection for which there was no cure – FIV, the feline version of HIV.  He was otherwise healthy, but his immune system was compromised.     

    

As time went on Spanky and I developed a routines.  This was in the time of working for Trawlers in Paradise, which was right next door to my little apartment.  On days when I wasn't busy with charter guests, I'd come home for lunch, and then lay down for a short nap before going back to work.  Spanky would join me on the futon and nap with me. 

 

I had a friend from Washington DC who would come to visit.  She was an artist and worked as a freelance commercial artist.  We'd met on a charter I'd skippered.  On one of her trips down, while sitting at my desk, she caught Spanky and me napping with her camera.  Through the many years since that afternoon and all the miles between, I've still got that photo.  It's on our fridge now. 

 

I recently had the photo scanned into a digital file.  You'll see I was working on long hair back then.  Later, I briefly had a pony, which I got rid of on a business trip to St Lucia.  (Another story.)                

 

Another charter party happy to be off on their cruise.

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Lovely afternoon sail past down town St Petersburg.

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Teaching father and son this week. One retired engineer, the other an engineering student.

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Spanky, the Colorful Caribbean Cat. Part 1

The story of Spanky begins with Hurricane Marilyn in September, 1995.  It was a savage storm that heaped devastation on the Virgin Islands.  In those days I was working with my pal Gary at Trawlers in Paradise.  We had a charter fleet of about 13 Grand Banks trawlers.  They were beautiful and functional vessels which we kept beautifully maintained.  The storm totaled two of our trawlers and severely damaged all but two of the rest.   

 

Even now, sitting here in St Petersburg nearly 18 years later, as I think back on that time and the many ways it changed our lives…It's difficult.  So many stories to tell from that time.  We lost two friends in that storm.  Rick the bartender at Bottoms Up and Denny the whacked out Viet Nam vet.  Both lived on houseboats anchored in the Lagoon. 

 

The forecasts for Marilyn suckered us.  Two weeks earlier we'd had a very close call with Hurricane Luis, which was a huge storm that traumatized St Martin, just to the east of us.  It was supposed to hit us too, but turned and missed.  In contrast, Hurricane Marilyn was a smaller storm.  Forecasts predicted it would miss us.  Rick and Denny had stayed ashore with friends for Luis.  But Luis was a bust.  Marilyn seemed a lesser threat.  Both Rick and Denny decided to stay on their houseboats for this one.  But Marilyn changed.  It stalled near St Croix, strengthened, turned north and ran right over the top of us.  The morning after the long night of Marilyn Rick's houseboat was found overturned.  Rick's body was inside.  Denny's houseboat was simply gone.  Later we found it, also overturned, blown up against the mangroves about a half a mile from its original position.  We never found Denny's body.  Or that of his Dalmatian, Boofus. 

 

My pal Gary also had a houseboat.  It was on the dock below the little four-unit cider block apartment building where I lived.  I had one of the studio apartments overlooking the Lagoon.  Gary and his girlfriend at the time, Dana, stayed with me for the storm.  We spent the night huddled together in my bathroom.  None of us slept.  The storm sucked my double front windows, frame and all, right out of the building.  And these weren't even real windows.  Just screened and louvered window openings.  Horizontal rain soaked everything in my little apartment.  But that was noting compared to losses others sustained. 

 

In the morning we walked out to a new world.  Everything had changed.  Gary's houseboat was half sunk, all the windows and sliding glass doors blown out.  At the marina our charter fleet was a wreck.  The docks were a wreck.  The shop and store room flooded.  The chaos unfolded a constant stream of shocks as we looked out on the Lagoon.  The boats that had been anchored there.  The docks and the wrecked boats of the other charter companies nearby.  Mangroves stripped of leaves, not a single bird to be seen.  Images flood my memory.   Words fail.  And that's what we saw in our immediate area.  Later, Gary and I would drive around the island with his video camera taping.  What we saw and recorded was….Well, about a week later a Red Cross supervisor saw the film and got it copied for Red Cross training purposes.

(How Gary and I wound up in the company of a Red Cross supervisor is story of epic heartbreak that my mind tends to avoid.) 

 

The following days and weeks are a blur of long hours at work, in hurricane season heat, restoring our world as best we could.  But again, Gary and I had it easy compared with many.  The island's electrical grid was destroyed.  It would take six weeks for power to reach us.  We moved onto one of the damaged trawlers and lived like kings using the trawler's generator for air conditioning, a functioning galley, TV and VCR.   

 

Many people simply left the island as soon as they could get on a flight.  For the first week or so only military aircraft were using the airport, bringing in FEMA, Red Cross, and other disaster relief.  That was our only link.  Relief was slow.  Unlike Florida or other hurricane prone states, relief agencies can't simply put convoys on the interstate.  And you can't use the interstate to drive away from the disaster.  As commercial flights resumed, people left and many left their pets behind to fend for themselves.  One day we discovered that a cat was hiding in the back of our shop storeroom.  It was half wild with trauma and lack of a safe environment.  We began to leave food out for it.  Slowly it allowed us to get closer.  Eventually we could pet it.  It didn't seem like it had always been a feral cat.  It was a frightened cat that heeded a new home.  Someone gave it the name Bear.  I don't remember why.  It looked not at all like a bear.  It was white with random patches.    . 

 

Gary was now living on a lovely Herreshof design wooden sailboat, about 37' long, that he had purchased from one of those people who were leaving the island.  I was back in my apartment with a generator the landlord had gotten from FEMA.  Gary's situation was not as conducive as mine to pet keeping.  So, with some reluctance, I agreed to take the cat into my little apartment home.  I say reluctantly because I had now been living alone for many years.  My work took me out on charter from time to time.  I liked my independence and the lack of dependency.  Taking in this cat was for me a big commitment.  The biggest I'd made in a long time. 

 

So Bear came to live with me.  At first it was a cool relationship.  Bear kept his distance.  Living in the back of the shop had made it hard for Bear to keep clean.  Now in my apartment, eating regularly, I began to note changes.  Bear's coat became cleaner, shinier.  And Bear became friendlier.  I would come home from the marina at the end of the day, sit on my futon, and Bear would come to me, get on my lap and purr loudly.  If I lay down he would lie on my chest purring.  His paws would stretch and contract, like he was kneading bread.  It was very endearing.  Soon I found that I looked forward to going home, feeding Bear, and then sharing time with him purring.

 

One afternoon, about six weeks after Bear had moved in, I came through my door and walked in the apartment expecting Bear to come see me like always.  I saw Bear laying on the little area rug next to my futon.  He didn't move to greet me.  I walked over, leaned down to touch him, and realized he was dead. 

 

I was stunned.  I didn't know what to do.  I walked back out the door and back to the marina.  I paced up and down the small parking lot.  What the fuck!  All that we'd been through - the hurricane, the deaths, the destruction, heartbreak, hard work, and now to lose this little piece of animal companionship.  I was devastated. 

 

It was so unexpected.  So inexplicable.  I'd taken him to the vet for shots and a check up.  He seemed absolutely fine.  Why did he die?  I didn't know what to do.  Eventually I returned to my apartment, rolled Bear up in the little area rug I'd found him on, took him to the marina and unlocked a dinghy.  With Bear at my feet I steered out of the Lagoon and out to open water.  Some distance out I stopped the engine.  I sat in the drifting dinghy for a moment looking down at this mystery.  He'd been in my life such a short time.  He was supposed to be a survivor, like me.  I let him into my life, made an emotional commitment, made a connection, but then he died.  Why did you die?  I picked him up, lowered him into the sea and quickly drove away.       

 

After that it was hard going home to my apartment.  I'd go to the door and be reminded of when Bear waited for me.  It made me morose.  I grieved for a couple weeks, and I then began to think - that cat became very important to me in such a short time.  Clearly he'd awakened some quiet need of mine.  Why deny myself now?  There must be many cats in need of a home.  I'd be doing one of them a favor.  Maybe saving a life. 

 

On my next day off I went to the nearby animal shelter, which turned out to be a rather sad affair, and there I met Spanky.