If you were wondering what might have happened late in March, when Susan and Martin seem
to disappear from their usual haunts, perhaps I can be of service.
Nothing evil befell them, there were no ransom calls, no international incidents or headlines.
Susan and Martin were taking a walk on the beach, and here is proof of their whereabouts.
This particular beach lines the southeastern shore of Great Harbour on Peter Island in the British Virgin Islands.
It was one of five islands we visited while they were cruising with me on board Shira for an impromptu vacation.
With a catch, but more about that later.
Great Harbour is just a short sail away from Norman Island in the famous caves.
This island is thought to be the model for Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island,
and although we didn't uncover any gold, we did take a good look around.
The caves are a popular snorkeling site.
Susan kept herself afloat with the help of an improvised buoyancy device,
while Martin retained the option to dive down and mingle with the fish.
Swimming into a dark cave can be a little creepy, but so far no one has gone in and not come back out.
While they snorkeled, I used scuba to explore the reef outside the cave and look for photogenic fish who weren't camera shy.
Up ahead in the soft coral is a parrotfish.
This one is a queen parrot, foraging for algae that grows on the rocks.
A pretty fish.
In the distance, there in the blue near the center of frame, is the elusive, scrolled filefish.
Elusive because every time I near him, he swims out of range.
I will persevere.
The last time I dove here, without a camera.
This very fish allowed me to approach within inches as it camouflaged itself by standing on its head next to a soft coral.
Why this time, does he elude me?
I follow, but he must have seen me, I've lost him.
I catch up, but he's heading for the drop off.
For a moment, I am distracted by this nice gray snapper.
But, there he is again, swimming for deeper water.
Aha, this is unusual.
There are two of them, see?
Maybe this explains why the fish is so skittish today.
A territorial dispute perhaps.
Yes.
A lucky shot.
Swimming over the reef, nearly weightless, it's easy to miss things.
Through the left side of my mask, I notice something.
A gray angelfish, feeling well hidden by a canopy of fan coral.
Another of the soft corals, also called gorgonians, if you want to impress your scientifically minded friends.
I'm hoping the fish isn't aware of my presence.
I am a hundred times its size, exhaling noisy bubbles and carrying a lens that looks like an opened mouth.
But I'm still hoping the fish doesn't notice me.
You can see the flashes from the still camera, as I move in for a possible portrait.
Gotcha.
But, as I mentioned earlier, there was a catch.
Shira was not in the British Virgin Islands when Susan and Martine came aboard.
Shira was docked at St. Martin, a Dutch and French island, about a hundred miles to the east.
You can see the island over Martine's shoulder, on the horizon, under the cloud.
The boat had spent most of the winter cruising, and now she was due back in the Virgin Islands for her return to chartering.
Is this video or is this?
Video.
Hello.
I'm not sure we get much sound.
Beautiful hair.
A little bit.
We're sailing.
Awesome.
Shira was a great sailing crew, helping me run the boat and then spend a week island hopping in the BVIs.
When they first came aboard, they were inexperienced and a bit unsure of their abilities.
But it didn't take long before they became competent helmsmen, capable of holding a compass course.
This would be important at night.
Without landmarks or lights, we would use the compass and a few conveniently located stars to keep the boat on course.
Shira does have a GPS, but it can only tell you where you are.
It doesn't give directions.
It doesn't know about leeway currents, windshifts, or any of the other things that conspire to take the boat off course.
The boat needs people.
We were sailing slightly north of due west, watching the sun drop.
When I realized that we might be heading toward a rare opportunity, the legendary Green Flash.
It's a form of prismatic magic most of the world never sees, unless you live on the coast of California.
The Green Flash occurs at the last possible moment of sunset, just as the last solar limb drops over the horizon.
As those final rays of sunshine punch through the thickening atmosphere, the air becomes a prism,
breaking the light into its spectral colors.
The sun is too bright for all the colors to appear.
But at the ultimate moment, you can see a Green Flash for a second, just before the sun is gone.
I started shooting exposure tests a few minutes before sunset, so I would have a better chance of getting it right.
I used a spot meter on the clear sky at the horizon and set the iris at two stops underexposed.
The sun still looks too bright, but it won't be so at the final moment.
Leave it at two stops under.
For the technically curious, these were shot with a 300mm lens on an Icon 810, the ISO set at 500,
with the 1250th of a second exposure at F13.
These frames are unprocessed raw images, no color added.
You can see a little green starting to show at the left and right extremes of the disc.
Then a little more, and finally, an undeniable flash of green.
The sky grew darker, and wheel watches were set.
Steer for two hours, sleep for four.
The new crew kept the boat on course, and when we could finally see a navigation light on Ginger Island,
it was deadly.
The sky grew darker, and wheel watches were set.
Steer for two hours, sleep for four.
The new crew kept the boat on course, and when we could finally see a navigation light on Ginger Island,
it was dead ahead.
That's Virgin Gorda on the horizon, the easternmost of the Virgin Islands.
We never expected the temperature to drop that night.
All weather jackets took the chill out of the year, but soon after daybreak, we warmed up.
Here comes the sun.
Here comes the sun, and I say, it's alright.
Here goes the sun.
Here comes the sun, and I say, it's alright.
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun, here comes the sun, here comes the sun, and I say, it's alright.
It's alright.
No, no, no, no, no, no, it's all right.
We cleared customs and sailed a few miles north to Gorda Sound.
From there we went on to tiny Marina Key, then Peter Island and Norman Island.
Ultimately, the final stop for a Virgin Islands cruise is Tortola.
Here we drop the mooring, store the lines, and get ready to raise the main for a sail to Roadtown, our final destination.
We've sailed 150 nautical miles, traced the routes of pirates, and marveled at the sun and the stars.
There is really nothing that compares to sailing in the Caribbean.
I head Shira into the wind, and Susan and Martine take a look at her diagrams of the rigging, then haul away.
First by hand for speed.
And then with the power winch to overcome the increasing weight of the sail.
With the engine finally shut down, our team gets set to unfurl the jib,
but as the skipper releases the brake on the jib sheet, oh no!
Undeterred, we return to the task at hand, make some adjustments, and wait for the wind while the skipper tends to his recent wound.
See a little wind coming.
One of sailing's magic moments happens when the wind hits the sail for the first time.
It renews the sailor's appreciation for the ability of a small boat to transform the energy of the wind into forward motion.
You watch for a ripple on the water, trim the sail to meet the first breath of wind, and then you feel the boat start to move underneath you.
It's a very satisfying moment.
Martine trims the jib while the skipper eyes the telltales. Little threads sewn onto the sail that show him when the sail is at its best angle to use the wind's energy.
The main needs to be trimmed to match the angle of the jib.
It would be more efficient to trim both sails at the same time, but we're not racing, so we don't care.
As the boat heals to the wind, so does the camera, placing the horizon at its strange angle.
I can't help it. I'm a cinematographer.
At the headroom.
The sailor's appreciation for the ability of a small boat to transform the energy of a small boat to meet the first breath of wind.
It's a very satisfying moment.
Off the wind, on this petting life of Marquesas, we got 80 feet of a water line, nicely made and weighed.
In the noisy bar in Avalon, I tried to call you, but on a midnight watch I realized why twice you ran away.
Think about how many times I have fallen.
Spirits are using me, large voices calling.
What heaven brought you and me?
Can I be forgotten?
I have been around the world.
Looking for that poem I know.
Who knows you?
Who knows love can end up?
And you know it will.
When you see the southern cross for the first time, you understand now why you came this way.
Because the truth you might be running from is so small, but it's as big as the promise, the promise of a common day.
So I'm sailing for tomorrow, my dreams are a dying.
And my love is an anchor tied to you, tied with a silver chain.
I have my ship and all her flags are flying.
She is all that I have left.
And music is her name.
Think about how many times I have fallen.
Spirits are using me, large voices calling.
What heaven brought you and me?
Can I be forgotten?
I have been around the world.
Looking for that poem I know.
Who knows love can end up?
And you know it will.
And you know it will.
