The Storm

The Storm

The seasonal buoys in Hogg Island Channel wouldn’t set themselves.

U. S. Coast Guard cutter WILLOW’s operational area stretched from the Maine - Canada border down to Buzzards Bay.  It was a challenging OPAREA with rocky coasts, strong currents, and unpredictable weather year round.  Gale and storm force winds in the winter routinely assaulted the coast and the cutter.  The summer’s thick, dense fog hung low, hugging the surface.  Visibility measured in feet pulled on nerves when working buoys alongside shoal water.  At times you could hear the waves break on the rocks but not see then—it was unsettling.

Hogg Island Channel was the entrance that connected the Cape Cod Canal in Buzzard’s Bayto Massachusetts’s Bay—a vital shipping route any time of year cutting off more than a hundred transit miles around the south coast of Massachusetts.  In the winter it was the maritime pipeline for tug boats carrying fuel to all of northern New England. 

Ice season started in early November and ended in mid March.  Each season WILLOW replaced the normal buoys with smaller, sturdier ice buoys that were designed to slip under ice flows and pop up; the lights encased in a solid cover.  You may ask, “Jeff, if they were so good why not keep them year round?”  I would tell you that is an excellent question.  Couple of reasons: 1) They were smaller in size and didn’t return well on radar.  2) They did not have solar panels so the lights would drain the batteries by the end of ice season.  Good question.

The District Chief of Staff, Captain Campbell, was a sailor’s sailor and one of the finest Captains I had met and on several occasions I invited him to sail with us any time he liked.  Captain Campbell looked at the master schedule and gave us a call when we were getting ready for our second buoy run.  WILLOW would leave Newport early back late the next day—the timing worked out for Captain Campbell; I told him when were getting underway—he was in for the ride.

The District Chief of Staff is second in command; the position is coveted in the Coast Guard—a lot of Admirals had a stint in this role.  I never thought Captain Campbell was there for a promotion.  He was an excellent Chief of Staff - not trying to impress admirals but there to make sure admirals has the information they needed to make decisions.  These types of Captains are the best to work for—and Captain Campbell was the consummate sailor.  He’d visited WILLOW in the past and the crew loved him.  It was going to be a good trip.

The six bells announcing a senior officer rang throughout the ship; I walked out of the Wardroom and opened the watertight door.

“Permission to come aboard, sir?”  Captain Campbell rendered a salute.  Regardless of rank, any sea going officer understands they need to request permission to come aboard a vessel.

I returned his salute “Permission granted Captain.  Welcome aboard, sir.”

One note for any reader not familiar with seagoing services (and I would guess about two people may have made it this far).  Captain Campbell was an O-6, a Captain by rank (equivalent to a Colonel in the Army, Air Force, or Marines).  He was addressed a Captain.  I was a Lieutenant Commander, an O-4 (same as a Major in the same aforementioned services) but I was a Captain by position and I was referred to as Captain…Captain of the ship.  I had been a Captain of a patrol boat on a previous tour…but I was a Lieutenant an O-3 (same as a Captain in the again Army, Air Force, or Marines…I know this gets confusing but trust me it works).  Even though Captain Campbell out ranked me by position and role, I was the Commanding Officer of WILLOW.  He had no command authority on board the ship.  Now, it would be foolish on my part to push that issue but those traditions were ingrained in all the sea going services.

The buoy trip started sluggishly. Due to the weather, the predicted currents, and the position of the remaining buoys we needed to replace, we went through four plans in the two hours prior to leaving homeport.  It was good for a district officer to see this; being a buoy tender required flexibly and innovation. 

WILLOW was a 225-foot, 2000 ton ocean going buoy tender with integrated GPS for a dynamic position system and it was the first class of cutter designed to use all electronic charts.  These boats could do maneuvers that pervious ships could never accomplish.  Sailors took these cutters into shoal water every day; buoy boat drivers went were white hull sailors feared.  That is what we did.  Even with advanced technology, black hulls needed to know how to read wind and current, have a feel for the ship, an understanding of shifting weather conditions.  It was a privilege to command one of these boats.

I tell you this, my gentle reader, because we were taking the Number 2 guy in the district to dangerous places—and we asked him to come along.  Yep, that’s how black hulls roll.

The buoy trip itself went off smoothly.  We changed our plan, again, enroute Hogg Island Channel and then made quick work of the remaining swap outs.  The actual working of buoys is a fascinating dance to watch from the buoy deck or the bridge.  Getting a 2000 ton ship in position to snag a buoy can cause havoc to my blood pressure but once we dialed it in the worked shifted to the deck.  It was dangerous down there, cold sea water soaking the crew, large ungainly, and heavy buoys straining across a potential pitching and heaving deck.  When the crew finally gets the buoy on the deck, getting it secured, safely, was a chore in of itself; a coordinated effort of the deckies surrounding the buoy with air guns and mechanical grips.  Trips like this filled had the deck filled with a combination the new and used buoys; the crew negotiated their efforts around a forrest of huge green and red hulls. 

Tending buoys was not glamorous work and you won’t see it on recruiting commercials; news networks cover rescue swimmers and the occasional small boat station case.  That or they glom onto major drug busts by our white hulled cousins.  All the while maritime commerce throughout the country relied on well marked channels even with the advent of GPS.

We even finished a bit early on day 2; the deck department was on a tear—really hitting their stride.  This was a Friday, we were in B-24, getting home early and heading into a Charlie period that would take us through Thanksgiving.  A fine martini and a steak tip dinner at The Fifth Element were just a few hours away.

I was such an idiot…

Every sailor is an amateur meteorologist.  Whether you are a day sail-boater or the captain of an aircraft carrier, an intimate knowledge of the weather is a crucial aspect of your life.  We had messages that came to us from the Coast Guard and the National Weather Service, we had radio broadcast, and with satellite TV, we had the Weather Channel and I accessed several website to get real time weather buoy information.  We were locked in on the weather.

I was such an idiot…

The system integration aboard these boats provided unprecedented capabilities compared to every other cutter in the fleet.  It was not, however, without drawbacks.  A casualty to the gyro, for instance, knocked out our radar and charting systems.  We trained for those situations, but if time and space allowed we would anchor and correct the root cause problem. 

And a gyro casualty we did have on the way home.  No big deal, we slid over to an approved anchorage and dropped the hook.  The ET and EO were on the bridge in moments and informed me, and the Chief of Staff mind you, that the power loss from the night before must had altered setting on this sensitive piece of equipment and we just needed to let it spin up and find true north again.

“Hour tops, Captain.”  My ET was outstanding and if that is what she said, it was good enough for me.

The XO called the cooks and we had lunch while everyone could enjoy it.  All told a two hour delay—not that bad.  The Fifth still called. 

Hour later and we weighed anchor on the way home.  We were maybe halfway out of Buzz Bay.  This far south and the winds had picked up slightly out of the west-northwest.  I was a little surprised—the forecast predicted light and variable winds.  These were steady about 20 knots…not a problem for WILLOW at all.

Again…yes…idiot.

Maybe 30 minutes after we resumed course the same issue, this time the winds had increased to just shy of gale force.  I asked OPS to find a lee on one of the many island along the south side of the bay.  We found a nice spot 250-300 yards offshore the wind pushing back into good water if anything happened to the anchor and we were not underway.  Slightly more risk than last time but overall I this would barely rise to the level of worry—even with Captain Campbell aboard. 

We made our approached dropped the hook and set out three shots…then it got weird.  The BM2 and his crew were on the foc’scle making the anchor ready for letting go. 

“Bridge, foc’sle.  Can you see that.” BM2 was pointing maybe 045 relative.  I grabbed a pair of glasses and looked that way.  I had no need for the binos.  This was a first.  A distinct wall of white, whipped water and what looked like debris was heading our way.  This wind seemed super concentrated and strong.  Well more than gales…50 knots plus would be my guess.  And coming right at us. 

“Boats, keep your guys up there but hang on and get the port anchor ready.”

“Ahead of you sir, we are ready.  Can you pipe the First Lieutenant, BM1, and BM3 to the foc’sle”

“Roger that.”  Before I could turn around OPS made the pipe for reinforcements to make their way out to help their shipmates.

The wall hit us maybe 90 seconds later and it HIT us.  The crew ducked down and held on.

A shot is 90 feet of chain and the weight of the chain is really what kept and anchored ship stationary.  We had nine shots of chain.  In rough weather a ship would pay out more chain to get more weight on the bottom and keep the ship steady.

We had not secured the main engines yet but had already shifted to the anchor watch.  XO re-set the special sea detail to let the crew know we were in some danger.  OPS took the deck and the conn and called the engine room to ensure the mains were ready to respond. 

“Boats, pay out three more shots.”  Six shots on the anchor should do it.  We were in sustained 50 knots of wind.  The big problem was the direction.  The shift was huge and now it was blowing us ashore.  If this didn’t work we would run aground.

BM1 used hand signals to indicate six shots out.  XO was watching the radar (one break…the gyro had reset on its own so our navigational systems were in working order). 

“Cap, she’s not holding.”

“Eight shots Boats” 

“Cap, still sliding back.”

“OPS, you are going to have to drive up on the chain.”

This was the last thing we could do…use the engines to gain some ground against the wind.  The chain would merely slow us down and give us time but it could stop the ship in this wind.  Which was now sustain over 75 knots…we were into hurricane force.

While we were trying secure out position we started to hear radio calls from all over this part of New England, fisherman, pleasure craft and Coast Guard cutters.  Frantic calls asking what was going on?  How did this happen?  Safe havens?  No may-days. It wouldn’t have mattered for us, in these conditions we couldn’t recover our anchor.  We were here for the duration with our ass end facing the beach and the superstructure acting as a sail in hurricane force winds blowing us back.

“Captain” I motioned for Captain Campbell to the aft part of the bridge.  “Any other ideas sir?”  I wasn’t a fool—he was the most experienced sailor aboard.  We had not been able to let go the second anchor.

“Jeff, you and your crew have done everything they can.  I am going to the Wardroom…they have done a great job.”

“Thanks, sir.”

I knew why he went below.  With him on the bridge the crew was a bit on edge.  When he left he was telling everyone that he trusted then.  That was a great leadership move. 

We fought the wind for more than two hours.  OPS and XO took turns on the Conn…the whole time the beach loomed as a reminder of the stakes.  At one point winds speeds reached 98 knots (almost 113 miles per hour, Class 3 hurricane).  As quickly as it hit us, it stopped.  Never seen anything like it.  It made the news as a rogue weather event.  Rogue or not, it was the highest wind speed I have encountered in 9 years at sea. 

And like that…it was done, we were headed home, none worse for wear.

That martini was going to be a double…

I'll see you now, Mr. Dow

“I'll see you now, Mr. Dow”

I was pissed.

I don't mean the kind of mad when the Sox lost to the Yankees in 2003, I mean pissed, the real kind; the kind of pissed that has consequences.

That morning aboard LAUREL was slow.  I had a few items to take care of before turning over the inport watch.  At this point in my career meetings were nonexistent...it was glorious.  So the XO calling the wardroom together was a bit unusual.  It was benign, a run down of the week’s inport schedule; the three other ensigns and the two warrant officers present

The XO, Fred White was finest officer I served with in my career and still a mentor.  That morning however I would be hard pressed to believe it.

I have no idea what set it off, but Fred asked me about some knit-noid task that I hadn't started.  He may, or may not, have made a mildly snarky comment--I don't know.  Regardless, Mt Jeff-suvious was uncalled for.

To reiterate...I was pissed.

I moved, with purpose, down the main passageway toward the ship's office.  This was 1991; no computer in my stateroom, no phone in my stateroom, cell phones still came in a bag or in a limo.  I was the Admin Officer so the ship's office was as close to a workspace that I had.  The storekeeper (SK2) and yeoman (YN2) worked for me and were always a good resource. 

My plan was to check with them on the now mythical tasking from XO and start making my phone calls.  I think it had to do something with SIMA, but it truly escapes me.  What does not escape my memory was my temper.  It had been building since I left the XO, and building.  By the time I turned the knob and made my entrance to the ship’s office, I was really good and ticked--for no good reason--but dander--it was up...way up!!

From this point it spiraled out of control quickly and with certainty.

I opened the door and someone must have just emptied the trash because the ubiquitous gunmetal gray trashcan found in offices around the world clearly jumped in my way and I would have none of that.  I tripped on the rouge beast and it embarrassed me in front of my two guys plus the First Class Boatswain Mate (BM1), who was making copies.  Clearly retribution was in order and, oh, it was served.

I pulled back my right leg and my steel-toed boot flew forward and landed a significant body blow on the aggressive trashcan.  F=MA and I had a wee bit of mass and a whole lot of acceleration.  The blow launched the trashcan across the ship's office and into base of the copier.  At this point both the copier and trashcan conspired against me and the can did a 180-degree turn and landed an equally impressive shot on my shin.

Touché, Mr. Trash Can.  I would not allow this aggression to stand; these two inanimate objects would not win this battle. So after the successful Can/Copier counter attack, I launched a second strike, this time with my left foot.  I learned my lesson and topped the can so as not to induce flight and keep it low, close to the deck and out of range of the copier.  The can settled across from the storekeeper just by his swivel chair—and out of the fight.

During my initial strike, much to his credit, the BM1 merely stepped back from the copier about six inches.  This astute and experienced maneuverer removed BM1 from the line of fire.  Once the can was out of action the BM1 rejoined the fray and continued with his task. 

One cool customer, that BM1.

Dow's March to the Phone was not finished.  I had carnage and waste to lay upon this office and I would not be stopped.

I sat down opposite the one free phone.  I pulled my green notebook from front shirt pocket and threw it down on the desk.  Due to the rage building in my soul my aim was a little off and my notebook, with the appropriate contact information I needed, hit the edge of the desk and flopped to the deck settling under my chair.  You are probably thinking that this is not much of an impediment to completing my assigned task.  You could think that--however that would be in error.  I stood up; chair flew back into the file cabinet and back at me right as I was picking up my green notebook.  

I took that for what it was, merely a feint by the Office to throw me off my game and I wasn't taking the bait.  Book in hand I fell straight down into the upstart chair and pulled myself into the desk and locked down my position. 

Now, now you say...now the moon had waned and calm entered my soul.  While that should have been the case, I would have no part of that.  Again, I was on a mission to not only complete my phone call but also reclaim dominance over the Office. 

The black phone was in a vertical cradle on the aft ship's office bulkhead.  I was off my administrative game, when I took the phone out of the cradle, the receiver pulled a ninja move and fell out of my hand.  That would normally warrant nary a second look but I was primed for the conflict.  So I picked it up of the desk and yet again it fell out of my hand.  This time I was forced to impose a penalty upon this imprudent device.  So, obviously, I threw it at the bulkhead to ensure this rebellious piece of office equipment knew its place. 

The problem...I had pulled myself in tight to the desk and was close to the bulkhead, closer than most normal people would consider comfortable.  The receiver hit the desk at an acute angle, ricocheted off the bulkhead and..wait for it...wait for it...hit me in the head before resting in the middle of the desk.

Blood boiling, I grabbed the phone and was about to pull it out of the wall when....

Wait for it...

Wait for it...

"I'll see you in my stateroom, Mr. Dow."

Oh no.  OH. NO.  You have to be kidding me.  Really...I mean really.

Yes...the XO.  Turns out he followed me down the main ship's passageway and had balcony, front row center seating for the Dow Command Performance.  I was all of 4 months out of the Coast Guard Academy.  I was sure, at this point, I would be heading back home to Plaistow New Hampshire looking to see if Larry's Clam Bar was hiring.  This was bad.  I mean this was Top Gun truck driving school scene bad.

I replaced the phone into the cradle and somehow managed to get my green notebook in my shirt pocket.  I wasn't sure, however, if I my legs would hold me.  I put my hands about shoulder width apart on the desk and pushed myself up.  The whole time I am staring at the phone and can't bear the thought looking at the YN2, the SK2, and the BM1.   Talking to them would be even more difficult.  I turned slowly and in a bit of a haze carefully walked across the small ship's office.  The BM1 never stopped making copies.  I sidled passed him and before I could leave the office he put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

"Jeezuz Mr. Dow...I love the passion but JEEZ-UZ.  You were a good JO, sir."  Imagine that with Jack Nicholson's voice.  That is about how the BM1 talked.

So not a reassuring hand...and what did he mean "WERE a good JO"???? 

OH. DEAR. GOD.

This was bad.

Did you see "The Green Mile" or maybe "Dead Man Walking"...yeah, it was like that.

The passageway is not that long but it was closing in on me. 

Shit...what was I thinking...seriously...what was I thinking.

XO saw all that and it wouldn't be a stretch to know that I had gone Godzilla.  I had always been told it was not a good idea to piss off the XO, let along have the XO see you pissed off because you blamed him. 

Yeah, this was bad.

I stopped in front of the XO's stateroom, head down, crestfallen, and resigned to my fate.  I knocked, softly.

"Come in."

"XO."

I really didn't know what to say. 

"Close the door Mr. Dow."

Well, at least this would be a private execution.

"Yes, sir."

"So, what happened.”  It wasn’t a question.

"I...I...really lost my cool, sir.  I was mad you, what you said in the passageway."

"I figured that.  So what did you do?"

"Kinda went apeshit on the ship's office about sums it up."

"Indeed you did."

Silence.  He was GOOD...he was dragging it out...the wait was always the worst.

"So, you were mad at me but took it out on the office.  Does that make sense to you?"

"Not really sir."

"No, not really. Look, I love the passion.  I admire the fire you bring to the job.  I see it, the crew sees you care about them and the cutter.  But..."

He let that hang out there for a second and he continued.

"What went wrong with this?"

For just a moment, a brief flicker, I thought, ‘this conversation is NOT going the way I expected.’

"I really lost it sir."

"And?"

"Aaaaand...lost it in front of the crew?"

"You did.  Nothing wrong with having that fire.  I did when I was your age.  Use it.  You sure as shit need to control it...but don't lose that passion.  If you get steamed again at me...come talk to me.  Hell, we can go around the CONEX boxes and you can really let loose.  But only do it with me.  Not in front of the crew."

"I can do that sir.  I'm sorry, XO.  I just get so mad sometimes..."

"It's all right…we all do.  Just yell at me, with me, all you want.  Just not the crew. OK?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You still got to make that call?"

"I do sir."

I opened the door and made it half out and turned:

"Thanks, sir"

"Anytime, Jeff."

When I tell you that from that point on, Fred White supported me every step of my career.  We were never stationed together again but he was, without doubt, the person I tried to model my leadership style after.  He was, and is, the best.

This was one of the best leadership lessons I ever had.

Post Script:

The YN and SK were happy to see that I was not dismissed from the service.

The BM1 was still making copies when I got back to the office...what the hell was he copying?

The day we invaded The Bahamas …for real...

Cay Lobos…or The Day Cutter GRAND ISLE invaded the Bahamas…for real

What’s that you say?  An invasion?  Impossible!! Never happened!!  Couldn’t happen!!

Well, it did.  And like any good sailor spinning a sea story…this has a grain of truth to it.

Mighty GRAND ISLE was nearing the end of a two-month trip deployed out of Coast Guard Base Miami Beach (the astute reader of this blog will recall the night that never happened…or maybe you don’t).  Other than successfully evading Hurricane Mitch it was an overall boring trip—a few boardings here and there; chasing surefire leads based on hot intel (if you are in the Coast Guard or were, you may insert laughter at that sentence).  Regardless it had been a trip of not much account…until…

We were only a few days until we OUTCHOPPED and made our way back home; just in time for Christmas.  The crew tried to fill days with whatever work they could; days grew to tremendous lengths at the end of a patrol.  There is a combination of dread and longing—no one wants the big case at the end; diverted to some unknown mission imperiling the last day and the trip home. Everyone wants to go home—50 plus days so far on a 110, even with portcalls, is a long time.  Its gets…close. 

GI and its crew were minding our own business…patrolling the Tongue of the Ocean…again.  We were planning on departing the OPAREA in a day or so, sail to Miami, top off on gas and food and head home.  Plans are so cute…

“SHARK Three Eight this is Miami.”  The 7^th Coast Guard District is busy and has a ton of law enforcement cases each year and over on open frequency they did not use out name but the ubiquitous Shark along with the last two hull numbers.  Truly, I never knew what advantage we gained as an organization…but come on…SHARK 3 8 sounds pretty cool.

“Miami, SHARK 3 8 go.”

“Come up on secure.”

The bridge watch about got seasick in unison…never a good sign and the impending, dreaded, final mission loomed…

I’m not much of a writer; if I were I could describe how difficult it is to talk on a secure frequency back in the late 90s (it may be easier now but I suspect there are obstacles still).  So imagine if you will, someone talking on a cell phone, outside, in the wind, by a highway, with marbles in their mouth, skipping every third word…you might be close to how it was.

“GRAND ISLE, Miami. You need to proceed at best speed to Cay Lobos.”

I have to say, I really wanted to ask “What’s a Cay Lobos?”  I did not…

“Miami, Cutter GRAND ISLE, say again.  Cay Lobos?  Do you have a position?”

The command center relayed a latitude and longitude; it was a small island north of Cuba that has a lighthouse.  And that is it.  The island is maybe 40 or so miles from Cuba.  Look it up on Google Maps…its nauseatingly close to Cuba.  And we were going there; an American Coast Guard cutter…well this was going to be fun.

After finding out we were sailing to just an inch from the lion’s den I radioed back with, what I would think, was a very compelling request.

“Miami, Cutter GRAND ISLA; what is our tasking once we get there?”

“A helo spotted a boat and what they believe are migrants on the island.  You are to go there, verify that intel, and if possible extricate the migrants off Bahamian territory.”

Extricate…what…so I have to send a team ashore to get these people off the island.  As a gentle reminder…I did not join the Marines…we were in the Coast Guard and we were not one to send an armed landing party on foreign soil. [Technical note:  We had a Bahamian Defense Forces sergeant aboard that gave legal permission to pursue this course of action…but, hey, we still invaded!!]

This was our mission, nothing more to discuss.

“Roger, Miami.  Will advise of ETA and provide SITREP once on scene.  GRAND ISLA, out.”

Heavy sigh…I have no need to make an announcement to the crew…everyone knows.  The XO and Chief are on the bridge.   My QM3 plotted a course and said it was about 6 hours away at 15 knots.  We should be fine on gas and it will get us there around sunset.  I wanted some daylight but thought running out of gas was not such a good option.

“We need a plan.”  XO was Johnny on the spot. I thought he already had one and I was right.

The district said there would be about 7 to 10 migrants on the island.  We had 17 people on board.  XO’s plan was straightforward.  Launch the boat with our primary boarding team and the Bahamian sergeant with a total load of seven people.  They would do an initial sweep while the small boat came back to embark an additional four people to sweep behind the primary team to see if they flushed any migrant into the open. With the boat crew that left six people on GRAND ISLE.  Not good at all. The Chief and I would be the EPO and OOD with the remaining four people there in case of an emergency.  What emergency six of us could respond to was beyond me, however.  With both landing team fully armed, we cleaned out the armory of side arms and sent an M-16 in the small boat. 

Well…that was our plan.  I never did tell the command center how many people would be left aboard GI…they couldn’t help and the less they knew the less they would try to micromanage the operating.

We arrived just at sunset and by the time we got in a position to launch the boat it was dark. 

Great.

We were close enough to Cuba to hear radio transmissions and at one point I was pretty sure they were talking about GRAND ISLE.  We were quite outside their territorial sea but did not relish meeting a Cuban gunboat at night. 

Great.

GRAND 1 was away to starboard enroute Cay Lobos.  We had sent several of our coded radios and we should be close enough to maintain comms with the landing party.  The back up team was at the rail and waiting the small boat’s return so they could join in the search. 

“GI, Landing 1…safely ashore. No sign of anyone but there is a boat on the beach.  We are moving inland.”

“Roger.  Landing 2 will be away and enroute shortly.”

Now all I could see was the flashlight beams slowly making their way along the beach; the radio quiet.  Landing 2 got away without a hitch.  I was glued to my bionos and looking at the island when all of the flashlights starting making wild movements and a breathy call came over the radio.

“We have movement and have spotted a migrant!”

“Roger that, Landing 2 is there.”

And how.  Their lights immediately assumed the frantic gyrations I just saw and congregated close to what I assume is the first landing team.

Long silence…and trust me…one of the most difficult aspects of command is the waiting. I was not on scene; my XO was in charge.  I wanted to know what was going on, how they were—but it was his call. 

“GI, Landing 1.  We have 5 migrants.  They say that is all there were.  We want to sent them back.”

“Roger that.”

At this point the logistics get a bit dry but the short of it is we needed to make multiple runs with the migrants keeping enough security on the small boat and then the cutter to control the situation.  We had set up the fantail for the migrants; it wasn’t going to be comfortable but we would have blankets, a tarp to help with the spray, and food and water.

Once the whole gaggle was safely returned the junior office who was a Spanish speaker took each of the migrants to the foc’sle and did an impromptu interrogation.  I couldn’t hear him but watched him and could figure out what was going on.  It took a few round but he found his mark.  He took a pack of smokes out of pocket and offered one to the migrant.  He gave him a lighter. It was like watch a cop drama on a Saturday night. 

An hour or so later he and the XO met me on the mess deck and told me they thought two more migrants were ashore.  I knew we would not find them at night so we made a show of heading north with Cay Lobos astern and I hoped the migrants thought we were leaving. 

Just over the horizon we extinguished our running lights and waited until morning.  I reported to the command center what we had found and finally got some sleep.

The crew got up 0400 and launched our primary boarding team just over the horizon and they followed us back to the island.  The plan was to have them dash ahead once the island was in sight and surprise remaining.

The remaining migrants didn’t even make an attempt to run.  With little effort we got them aboard.  We contacted the command center had arranged for the Bahamian Immigration Officers to take custody of the Cubans in Nassau.

Before the Landing team finished they radioed:

“GI, Landing Party.  What do we do with the boat?”

Easy one. 

“Scuttle it.”

“Roger that.”

This may have been one of the time I needed to ask a few more questions.  I thought they would put some holes in the bottom and be good.  They thought: “BURN IT!!”

Have you ever seen fiberglass burn, fiberglass that has been doused with gasoline, and then shot with a flare.  Well besides from being spectacular it puts enough black smoke in the air to violate most EPA regulations.  And there is the “hey were are just north of Cuba” thing too. 

After politely informing my landing team the need for alacrity, we brought them back aboard and slow steamed to Nassau in order to keep a calm ride for the migrants and to conserve fuel…we were a litte low.

I went to the fantail and brought my translator; I told them what was going on.  For each of them it was routine. They had all been caught previously and returned to Cuba.  I asked them what would happen.  They said they would get a small fine, spend a night in jail, and then try again as soon as they could.

Remember…we were at the end of the patrol.  If we made it to Nassau on time we would only have a day left.  We would need to top off fuel then head back to Miami, top off fuel again and hug the coast home.  Unless you have a crazy engineer…

“Sir.” In his English accent.

“Yes Chief.” 

“We can make it home without getting more fuel.”

“What??”  A straight shot home would take us 600 miles offshore.  The Atlantic in December is unforgiving and unpredictable at best.  If we hit any trouble we were on our own.

“Captain, I talked to QM1 and XO…we have enough gas to make it home.”

And that…is a tale for another story…