CHAPTER 14
Wherever boats are moored, crew is available. While in Puerto Vallarta, Tony and I made progress selecting additional crew for the upcoming 24 to 30 day haul across the Pacific to the Marquesas Islands.
The question “who do I take,” had as many answers as “how do I carry my inflatable?”
Leaning toward taking strangers aboard for our offshore voyaging, we had important factors to consider.
We didn’t want an addict, drunk, thief, or murderer. The chances of these occurring were slim, but possible—and I’d already lost one boat to thieves. Yachts are frequently in places where it’s not easy or practical to check resumes and references, and the “perp” himself could have scripted glowing referral letters.
Our practice was to lay low and observe. Sometimes I would cruise an anchorage by dinghy, trolling for breakfast or cocktail invites, but never announcing a need for crew. I also watched where crews changed, and asked why. These are not always for negative reasons. Many times, destinations aren’t convenient; time available is a question; maybe even personal goals. For certain, we learned quickly which ships were “happy” ships and which ones were not.
In one port, to illustrate unhappiness, we watched a fist fight between a well-paid engineer and captain of a large sailing yacht. The disgruntled mechanic was told to leave the yacht immediately. He was angry and possibly shorted a few severance pay dollars.
This mechanic knew the yacht’s route and by phone alerted authorities in the next port that the yacht would arrive with hidden drugs. His argument was convincing. The yacht was stopped and searched keel to masthead for three days before being allowed entrance to the country, and no restoration work was done to bring the vessel back to its former pristine condition. All aboard were detained for the duration of the inspection, perhaps strip searched as well. The wealthy owner had nannies aboard for his children. Imagine that dilemma. The moral there, difficult as it may be, is to remain level headed, and kind, even to those you feel should walk the plank. A lesson I could later use myself.
We developed a superb crew selection plan that bore consistent results. When we located a likeable individual, we arranged the first interview away from the boat, perhaps for a lunch, where we could do more of that important observing. I wanted to know if they smiled, laughed, were easy going, and, most importantly, did this person seem happy. We would be living in close quarters where conditions could go from super to shit in seconds. Crew I could relate to and trust (that’s a big one) was significantly more important to me than crew with skills. We could teach the skills.
If the prospective crew member showed promise, we invited them aboard the following day, telling them to show up in just a bathing suit and to bring nothing else—no handbag, wallet, sports grip, etc. This way Tony and I could show them Endymion without fear they may plant drugs or a weapon for future use. It had happened to others.
If we were confident a person would work out, we elevated the discussion to duties, sailing plans, meal preparation, and so forth, and then said something to the effect of, “We’ll sail Tuesday morning. Please come by Sunday or Monday for a photo shoot. We take Polaroid’s of our crew and send them to people expecting us in the next port.”
We generally didn’t know anyone in the next port, but even the dullest thief, pervert, or murderer would likely avoid that picture session. Damn cheap insurance that always worked.
For the most part, strangers who became our crew also became great friends, and those friendships have endured for years.
But sometimes, we made mistakes.