Chapter2-09

Time with Roger

As soon as we were securely anchored, I launched the Walker Bay dinghy and situated the outboard. Jargo was only a few hours behind, coming in soon and I wanted to shoot some video of my friend, to help chronicle his journey. The first landfall! Wetting the hook in a foreign country! Crossing the Gulf of Mexico is a big accomplishment for any sailor, but for a 32 year young guy from Missouri to do it, single handed, really represented the fulfillment of the first step of a very big dream. We didn’t get the video I wanted, but that hardly mattered. That smiling face propped on top of bright yellow foul weather gear ingrained a picture in my mind I can easily recall whenever I think of Mr. Lee Winters.

My bag had been packed for weeks, waiting. I offered to crew for Lee on this first big crossing. He turned me down. He didn’t need any crew. He didn’t need any help. He did it all by himself, and now here we were, together again, in Mexico. Right at that moment, everyone was safe, happy, exhausted, excited, confused, and about a dozen other emotions, all at the same time.

After a quick conference, we unanimously decided on a marina for the next few days. The ugly blow was approaching, and we all craved time to decompress. Tom at Marina Parasio reported three slips left, and we jumped into action. Elizabeth and I docked SOEL, Lee piloted Jargo into her reserved slip, and someone handed a cold longneck over the bow rail. But, that’s another story.

For our first night in the marina, I set out three plates, and Elizabeth cooked the rest of the fish we caught on our passage. Food has continuously been a very important part of family life as far back as I can remember. My mom seemed to be constantly pumping out delicious scents from the kitchen, and, when it was Dad’s turn to play chef… count on a culinary adventure. You never knew what he was going to create, an old perfected classic, or something scary and new to try. Friends gathering around the table ‘breaking bread‘, has always represented love, friendship, and happiness. The little “three sailor family” squeezed in around the salon table and had a brief debriefing, each of us sharing our thoughts and personal experiences from the trip. (For the record, Lee ate everything we threw at him. He would at least try a dish, if it was weird, or something new, but, a week later he’d be asking, “are ya’ll gonna make that sweet potato thing again?”)

The next morning I was dropping off our wet, salty laundry at the marina office. Lee walked in right behind me. He glanced over at the chalkboard ‘map’ display of boat names, hand written in their respective berths. (SOEL / Vindamar / Jargo) “Well, what tha hell, Os…” Lee mumbled into the mug of steamy coffee held up to his lips, “700 miles and we’re two slips apart? How long are you guys gonna follow me?” and he slapped me on the back on his way out of the door.

Two years ago, when I first met Lee Winters, I never would have guessed that I would grow so attached to this guy. He contracted my employer to tackle an almost impossible task aboard his boat. I was sent out to do the job, and screwed it up. (Yet, here I am, eating spicy Chipotle Chicken and drinking cold Mexican cerveza on his boat, anchored in Mexico!) I had known of his bold plans of circumnavigating from the first day I met him. He tried to contain his enthusiasm, but the aura about him was charged with anticipation. Later, we would pass each other in the marina parking lot and talk about the dog, boat projects, cheap beer, etc. One morning, he inquired about crossing the Gulf of Mexico. I asked for his e-mail address so I could share some information. We passed a hand full of thoughts and ideas back and forth, and in the process, I discovered a multifarious individual and made a good friend.

We shared a few dinners, before we left Texas, in exchange for Lee’s help on things we were not exactly familiar with. Internet, websites, phones, canned meats, etc. Elizabeth would be nurturing a saucepan over the stove, creating some scent that made the glands behind your molars secrete, and I would be waiting for Mr. Winters to stroll by during his evening doggy walk. I’d stop him, ask for his advice about some obscure issue, and after the savory smells from the galley hit him a few times and his eyes rolled back in his head, I’d shove a cold longneck into his hand and deliver an invitation to dinner. It almost always worked. Potatoes are cheap. The time spent with Lee was invaluable. I feel like we came out on the better end of the deal.

Like the Italian dinner we shared at Mario’s. The one and only time I was ever able to pick up the ticket. It snowed that night. Lee repaid that check ten times over by making lasting memories with Elizabeth and I, in the shape of… a south Texas snowball fight! Of course, I got the worst of it. They ganged up on me! We even made a snowman. I can’t remember making a snowman as a kid, but I’ve seen the pictures. I know I’ve done it before, a long time ago. Lee, being from Missouri, showed us Cajuns just exactly how it was done. That snowman stood there in the Waterford Harbor parking lot four days, slowly melting down to an unrecognizable hunk of ice, amidst a variety of bar-b-q pit utensils. But the memories of that evening are still as strong as Liz’s coffee.

Elizabeth and I had spent quite a bit of time here in Mexico, so naturally, we would drag Lee to the spots we were familiar with. Lee was here last year for a friends wedding, so he shared with us the sights he remembered. We got him to try a ‘Torta‘ (Mexican sandwich), and he introduced us to ‘Sangrita’ (tequila chaser). I think I came out on the upper end of that deal too.

Some days we would meet for a planned outing such as a trip to the market, breakfast at Cesar’s café, lunch at Cubano’s, finding a good internet connection, a tour of the Mundaca ruins, or just a walk on the beach. Other days the three of us would step onto the Port Captain’s Dock, look at one another, and one of the group would ask, “What are we doing today?” Of course, some days, everyone would go their separate ways. But, about two or three times a week, we would all get together for dinner aboard one of the boats, and share what we found.

The three of us lived almost a month anchored in the lee of the island. We met new people, tried authentic foods, and slowly walked the streets, absorbing the culture. Often, a hand written sign halted our stroll. We would all glance at each other, shrug our shoulders, and say “what-da-hell!” The three musketeers sat and ate, then split the check… or, one bought the beer, one bought the hotdogs. (Ohhh, the Hotdogs! Bacon wrapped hotdogs, topped with grilled onions, add a squirt of lime-mayo, on a toasted bun, from the street venders… absolute bliss!) It was one of those relationships where you never keep track of who paid for what, but you never felt shortchanged either. Lee never once failed to express his gratitude and say ‘thank you.‘ Still, in some way I felt like I repeatedly benefited more from our exchanges.

One evening, I set out three plates, as usual, but I had a funny vibe running through me. I constructed three ‘wedge salads’ and jokingly asked Elizabeth if was getting to be “time to wean the kid.” Lee called not five minutes later and bowed out of dinner. I guess we shared the same sentiment at the same time, but we never talked about it.

That magical time in Isla Mujeres went by so quickly. I will always remember it as a rich time of abundant smiles and constant laughter. Our last evening together, we shared a couple of cervezas visiting in the cockpit of SOEL, then, Lee went out with some new friends, and Elizabeth and I went to bed early. In the end, I did what everyone does when you really don’t want it to end. You ignore it. You avoid it. You don’t say goodbye. Goodbye’s are too final.

0730, Thursday, Feb 12th, 2009, I weighed anchor, set a southerly course, and left Jargo behind, firmly anchored in the lagoon. Lee was sleeping.

Hey, Brother… my bag is still packed.

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