Hello again from Luquillo,

I know it’s been a long time but I’m finally back in the harness again. Due in no small part to the gentle prodding I have gotten from my beloved caregiver/secretary, Ingrid Ahrens. Hope you’ll enjoy reading this story from my seagoing past. I’ll try to put another story together for you all soon. In the meantime, let me know what you think of this one.

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DOOBIE: SHOES IN THE SAND

May 1979, Antigua, British West Indies. My 42-foot cutter, Hobson’s Choice, was hauled out on the hard at Crabb’s Marina for her annual maintenance. After driving across the island in my Gurgel utility vehicle to pick up rigging parts at Nelson’s Dockyard, I rewarded myself with a slice at Pizza’s in Paradise—a beachside shack where shoes were optional, and the sand drifted right up to the bar.

I had just paid my bill and was preparing to leave when a blond-haired, blue-eyed woman slipped onto the stool beside me. She wore khaki cargo shorts and a red t-shirt that proclaimed Bonner’s Ferry Annual Apple Festival across her ample chest. Convinced that whatever charm I once had was long gone, I gathered what I thought were my boat shoes and strolled to the edge of the sand.

But when I tried them on, they were far too small. I turned back, and there she was, examining a pair of much larger shoes—mine.

“I’m Alan,” I said, blurting before I could stop myself. “And you’re very pretty, but that’s not the problem. I think I may have your shoes.”

She laughed; her smile radiant as we swapped them back. Then she held out her hand. “I’m Doobie—two o’s and an ie. From Bonner’s Ferry, Idaho.”

As we talked, she told me she’d sailed in as crew for a yacht delivering to Antigua Sailing Week. Paid off now, she was wondering if she could stay on the island and find work. When I asked about her unusual name, she explained how “Deborah Brandy” had been shortened first to “DB,” and then transformed by her toddler sister’s tongue into “Doobie.”

“Well,” I said at last, “I’ve got a boat in the yard that needs antifouling and teak work. Hard jobs, out in the sun. I’ll pay you—and you can stay aboard while it’s hauled out.”

Her brow arched at the mention of living aboard, so I quickly added, “You’ll be by yourself. I live in Willikies, just up the coast. The yard’s secure.”

She agreed, and before long we were bouncing across the island in the Gurgel, stopping at Mama Jo’s in Fortuna to pick up a case of Red Stripe before returning to the yard. There, I discovered she was as adept with a pressure washer as she was with a sanding block. In a week the hull was ready for fresh bottom paint, and in the evenings, we’d sit on overturned buckets with beer bottles sweating in our hands, swapping stories as the trade winds cooled the yard.

On Sundays, I sometimes attended Brother B’s church in Willikies, and when Doobie asked to come along, she was welcomed instantly by the congregation. The parishioners’ approving smiles followed us out into the sunlight, and I thought to myself that Hobson’s Choice wasn’t the only thing being renewed that season.

By August, the work was done. Wingrove Crump, the yard manager, set Hobson’s Choice gently back into the water with his sturdy travel lift. I dropped anchor just astern of Lilly Maid of Ashton, a stately 65-foot sloop once owned by Britain’s Prime Minister, Ted Heath.

That same month I planned a barbecue at my hillside house above Willikies, a classic West Indian home perched at the cliff’s edge with a wide veranda overlooking the lagoon. Doobie helped me with the preparations—buying rum and beer, charcoal for the grill, limes by the sack. I dove for conch in the lagoon, their shells glinting like treasure in the sun.

But on the Sunday of the barbecue, stepping out of church, I realized with horror I had forgotten the chicken and pork for the grill. With every shop on the island closed for Sabbath law, I lamented my failure—until Doobie tilted her head and asked, “What about that older lady from church? Doesn’t she own a store in Willikies?”

“Missy Eudora,” I said, slapping my forehead.

Within the hour I was knocking at her door. She listened patiently, then waved me inside. “Take what you need, Captain Alan. We’ll settle-up on Monday. That way the snooping government won’t know a thing.”

That night, as the veranda filled with laughter, music, and the smell of roasting meat, I silently thanked both Doobie and Missy Eudora.

Soon after, I had a charter scheduled that would carry me and my guests to Dominica, Martinique, and St. Lucia. Over sundowners, I asked Doobie if she’d like to come as mate and cook. But she had already secured a berth aboard a Shannon 38 owned by a Boston lawyer. “It’s steady work,” she explained, “and the berth comes with it.”

When I returned from my voyage, she was away sailing with her new boss and his wife. By the time she returned, it was the height of the charter season, and I was gone again. It wasn’t until mid-November that we found ourselves back on Antigua at the same time.

I took her to dinner at The Backyard, a sailor’s hangout. From the start I noticed something different. Her manner was furtive, her eyes restless. Midway through the evening she excused herself, and when I glanced up, I saw her deep in conversation with a local man. Something passed between them—an object for a small, wrapped package. She returned as if nothing had happened.

At first, I told myself it was none of my business. But as weeks went by, the pattern repeated. Eventually I asked her outright. She admitted it—freely, if reluctantly. She had been buying drugs.

Not long after, she lost her berth on the Shannon. The owner had found paraphernalia in the navigation table, and that was the end of her dream job.

I brought her out to Hobson’s Choice and sat her down in the cockpit. The rigging rattled in the wind as I told her, without preamble, “Some people are meant to live in the islands, and others in Bonner’s Ferry, Idaho. I think you’re one of the latter.”

She bowed her head. When I asked if she wanted to go home, she whispered through tears that she couldn’t afford it.

The next morning, I took up my old hat, dropped in some money, and passed it around the marina. Within the hour, I had enough for her ticket—and more. When I handed it to her, she stuffed the envelope and the change into the pocket of her khaki shorts.

The following day I drove her to Coolidge International Airport. At the gate she hugged me, kissed my bearded cheek, and said, “I really love you, Cap. I truly do.”

“Sure,” I replied. And then she was gone.

I never heard from Doobie again. And now, at ninety, I doubt I ever will. Yet I still can’t help but smile when I think of her—bright-eyed and barefoot in the sand, radiant in her apple festival shirt, the girl who once traded shoes with me at Pizza’s in Paradise.