Winter 2024
By David Roper
Editor’s Note: This is Part 6 of David Roper’s series about true pirates.
By midnight we had tied to the wharf in the town of St. George’s, Bermuda. The sudden calm of the harbor felt blissful after the stormy trip from Rhode Island aboard a 42’ sloop I was delivering to the charter fleet in St. Thomas in the 1970s. Mark and Artie, two of my highly questionable, disrespectful, and ethically challenged crew, had been a handful, to say the least. I looked forward to regrouping and resting over the next couple of days before the next and last leg. Certainly things would be safe and calm now that we were tied to the wharf at St. George’s. What could go wrong?
Lots.
I soon learned (the hard way) that Mark and Artie had no money. Not that I should have been surprised, as I had first found them seemingly homeless, sitting on bar stools in New Bedford many days ago. Artie had gotten aboard with only the clothes on his back and one very expensive camera. Now, they wasted no time disembarking, disappearing into the cool Bermuda evening. But how much trouble could they get into with no money, I mused.
Lots.
The next morning Hobie (my fourth crew member) and I arose early, eager to check out the St. George’s Parish part of the island. We stood in the cockpit and stretched, surveying the view for the first time in daylight. “Maybe we can launch the inflatable later, throw on the outboard, and do some exploring,” Hobie suggested.
I nodded. “Let’s first stretch our legs and hike around a bit,” I said.
Hobie nodded, looking aft. “Where is the outboard, Cap? It’s not on the stern rail. It was here when we tied up last night; I remember seeing it as I leaned over to fasten the stern line.”
My face prickled as it became clear the motor had been stolen. And I had a hunch about the culprits. I headed below. Artie was passed out in the forward cabin, fully clothed, seemingly dead to the world. I grabbed and shook one of his salt-stained, nearly soleless Topsiders. “HEY, ARTIE,” I shouted. “Where’s the dinghy’s outboard?” No response. “ARTIE!!!” Finally, a mumble. “How should I know? You’re the captain.”
The question yielded the same response from Mark. I was really upset; everything on board was my responsibility. Later, when they finally arose, just after Hobie and I had returned from our hike, I took a different tack. “So, did you guys have a good time last night? Find much to do? Kind of hard with no money. Did you just walk around all night?”
“No,” Artie said finally. “We hit all the bars and clubs in Hamilton.”
I shook my head. “Wow, Bermuda is pricey. How’d you manage that?”
Artie nodded confidently. “Got it down real smooth,” he said, aggressively scratching his head as if it had living things on it. “We case the place, and if they have a men’s room with a window, then we stay.”
I cocked my head. “What?”
“Yeah, then we set up a tab, run up the bill over the next couple of hours, head into the men’s room, climb out the window, bolt the bill, and head to the next joint.”
“YOU CAN’T DO THAT. For one thing, you’ll get arrested and be retained on the island,” I said.
Mark chimed in. “Yeah, cap. You might want to keep this to yourself. Or you won’t have enough crew to get to St. Thomas and complete this delivery and then you won’t get your money.”
The next night was a repeat. And in the morning I discovered the binoculars and handheld VHF radio were missing. It became clear that they were stealing parts of the boat and fencing the goods. Yet, even with the cash, they were still bolting bar bills!
I called the owner of the charter company and told him what I suspected was going on. I wanted to go on record for reporting this right away. “Well, then get their asses off my boat. Right away! Then get the hell out of there,” he shouted into the phone.
“But then I won’t have enough crew!” I said. “My fourth is a good guy, but he’s a river guy and can’t sail well. And I don’t trust my celestial navigation.”
“Then fire them on the dock the minute you get to St. Thomas. Just get out of there with them now! Right away. Before they sell the goddamned mainsail.”
David Roper’s new novel, “The Ghosts of Gadus Island: A Story of Young Love, Loss, and the Order of Nature,” is now available at Amazon.com or roperbooks.com.
