CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Back to Square One

T

here we were, back to square one with no money, a load of new debt, and another health issue to contend with. We came back to find bills and threatening letters from the two hospitals in Melbourne and Lakeland, along with our two cars that wouldn't start, a backed-up toilet, and an empty fridge on Cowabunga. Michel was in considerable pain from the operation and not in any condition to attack any of the repair problems.

In all, the tally came in at around $35,000, which was a lot in 1987, and a huge amount for us. With no savings at that point, because we hadn’t worked in four months, we had no idea how we could possibly pay all this back and still return to the high seas as soon as we had planned. Michel has often joked that although he never saw the "tunnel of light" often associated with a near-death experience, he does lament his lack of foresight in not founding a "born again" church of some kind. All profits would have been tax-free (often the case for churches in the U.S.), and perhaps we would have avoided some of the money woes that dogged us for the next year.

Not only that, but Cowabunga needed hull work, long overdue by now. Michel was afraid of what we would find, and as it turned out, rightly so. Attempting to stem some of the neglect before a haul-out and to assess the situation, Michel's colleague, Mike, came to our anchorage with his scuba diving gear and gave the hull an overall scrub. He was also able to give us a synopsis of how things were looking below the water line and reported that the rudder had a questionable appearance. We had to get the boat out of the water as soon as possible.

Michel was able to return to his job at BRPH, and within a few weeks, we scraped enough money together get the boat hauled out at the local marina for ten days. Since Michel was still incapable of exerting himself to labor on the boat, Bill Schaefer stepped forward without hesitation and devoted well over a week in the relentless humid summer heat to our cause. He almost single-handedly scraped, sanded, and carried out epoxy repairs.

Upon close inspection, the rudder had some major areas that were completely eaten through by shipworms, an ocean-borne parasite that thrives on wood. We began seeking a woodworker who could fashion a new rudder for us at a reasonable price, and our friend Dion, on the neighbor boat Baloo, grandly stepped up to the challenge. Dion was quite the artisan, skilled at many varied tasks, and he crafted us a fine new rudder.

In addition to getting back to our daily routines, we now added the task of sorting out our medical bills. Michel hadn't been back at BRPH long when they politely let him go with the excuse that his four-month absence had been costly to them. But then, as our typical run of bad luck-good luck would have it, he was offered an even better paying job out of the blue that very same day.

It took a while, but we finally sorted out our medical debts, and we were relieved that we wouldn’t have to stay in Florida indefinitely. Angling to move on to California, where my family was, we finally began to put aside some savings for our departure. Despite the ups and downs of those three years, our stay in Florida was a profound experience for us all. Sean and Brendan grew and changed considerably, and both Michel and I made some very good friends, with whom we still have contact today, along with some very good memories.

It wasn't easy to bid farewell to all those good hearts and generous open arms. Brendan was particularly heartbroken because he was leaving his dear friend James. The two of them had become very close, and Brendan didn't understand why we had to leave. It hurt me that he was so hurt, and I hugged him tight as he cried. Just days after Thanksgiving, armed with a homeschooling program for first and third grades, we lifted anchor on November twenty-ninth, 1988, and headed towards Key West, our last stop before our next adventure and a new chapter: the forbidden fruit of Cuba.

Before reaching Key West, a high-powered, "cigarette" racing boat came screaming at us out of the pitch-black night, just as we sat down for dinner. Aside from the unmistakable noise in the distance, a powerful, blinding light fixed on us. Maritime law requires that when anchored outside of a marina, or away from a wharf of some sort at night, a vessel must light its top-mast anchor light to signal its location. Ours was duly lit. Thus our presence was made known.

A team of six agile men, all dressed in jeans and jackets sporting a Thunderforce logo pulled up alongside, inquiring as to our activities. We weren't sure what to think. Were they legitimate DEA undercover officers, or drug runners in disguise? It seems a sailboat anchored all by its lonesome was suspicious enough for this roving U.S. government patrol to check out. We could have been drug runners ourselves. Cautious but gracious, we bid they inspect our premises to their satisfaction. Aside from the obvious interruption of our dinner (which appeared real enough to them), Sean and Brendan saved the day. Two little tykes down below with mouths full of potatoes instantly melted away the suspicion of the Thunderforce team. They bid us goodnight and good sailing, and the scare was over.