Sailing GTMO

July 2005

What is it about sailing that tugs at my heart, that cradles my seafarer soul?


Is it the allure of skimming across the sea with the smell of the ocean breeze caressing your wind chapped face?  Cruising around the bay with the  rhythmic sound of the warm tidal water gurgling against the hull -- music to my ears and therapy to my storm-swept conscience.





As my Hunter 140 sliced by the crystal-clear Caribbean coastline, my mind focused on two key elements that overshadows everything else of relevance; the luff of the jib sail creating a feeling of speed and the gentle feel of the tiller tugging against my hand as I tweaked and twitched in search of the optimal speed.

Within a magical hour, I had cris-crossed my way through the historic harbor passing the old, dungy airstrip of McCalla Field to my left.




McCalla had once served as an airstrip for launching aircraft 
Closed since 1960, the airstrip has recently served as a refugee camp for Haitians fleeing their homeland for Florida.


In Guantanamo Bay, all directions head southerly and with the trade winds blowing steadily across the Windward passage, the fastest way to head out to sea is to haul the sails in tight and point towards the entrance of the harbor.  This point of sail, it is a back-and-forth struggle between the boat and the wind.    You know your trim is just right by the angle of heel your boat makes, lifting you up into the sky and for a fleeting moment you have taken flight.


Sailing beam reach is the fastest point of sail.  At this tact, you are steering 90 degrees to the wind and your sails are neither too close nor too far from the side.


My eyes were amazed by the beauty and grace of blissful Guantanamo harbor.  The sails luffed a jiggle. I eased the jib an inch and pulled the tiller slightly. What a precious experience forged in eloquence and natural beauty amidst a world of chaos surrounded by guard towers and fences strung with razor-sharp concertina wire.

The wind was blowing relentlessly and many a times, I was feeling overpowered on the verge of tipping over only to ease the jib a notch and like well-oiled machinery, the boat would come back upright providing a sense of peace pervading my entire being.

Even with the constant battering and continuous heeling, the keel slicing the water's edge, I managed to get a good two hours of sail and soon I was back within the harbor's sanctuary without capsizing, crashing, or worse smashing my seafarer's ego.

After all, like life on the island and life on earth, sailing is prone to mistakes of all scopes and sizes -- many experiences, we chalk up to live and LEARN. Some we never truly understand, because we may be stubborn, short-sighted or selfish or all the above -- I know, I still have the scars from the deep wounds of these missteps.  For one, I was badly scratched up against shoalwater when Hurricane Dennis came roaring.  Some of them embarrassingly open, some hidden away, buried so deep, no one could tell, not even a loved one.