By Niamh McAnally
Chapter 2: BVIs Virgin Gorda/Anegada Passage
In northern Virgin Gorda, at Leverock’s Happy Arrr! tourists and boaters gulped their rum punches. The pirate, aka Michael Bean, was in the middle of his shtick, amusing some with his attempts to cram as many arrrs into his two-arrr show and eliciting groans from others. On the edge of the crowd, Logan Kane sipped his Painkiller—the cocktail that was supposed to get you from zero to naked in 3.2 glasses. The only item Logan wished to discard was the parrot hidden in his bag. It had landed on their rigging in Jost Van Dyke on New Year’s Eve. Had its owner not deliberately left without it, a chartered catamaran would never have squeezed into the space, then dragged into them causing the death of his laptop and a three-week diversion to pick up a new one in Puerto Rico. Yet the accident also meant that Logan had unintentionally held a longer position in an IPO than his normal day-trade protocols dictated, and now they had enough wealth to finance the next three years cruising the Caribbean islands.
Still, the parrot was annoying. For the past month Falmouth Freddy had done nothing but squawk, poop on deck, and repeat every curse he and Charlotte uttered. Who knew parrots could be multi-lingual. Like Logan, Freddy had become a real Francophile.
As the sun began to set, the pirate left the wooden stage on the water’s edge and worked his way through the crowd passing around a conch shell. The noises these drunken sailors emitted through the tiny hole in the pink shell ranged from anything you might hear from a four-year-old learning the violin to cow farts. Clearly the island cocktails affected one’s ability to pucker.
“Arrrnyone else?” asked the pirate.
Logan raised his hand. Charlotte looked at him and shrugged in that Parisian way of hers.
“This will work, Char, I promise.”
Logan opened the backpack on the ground beside him, stood up, and blew. A long, melodious, deafening sound that had the crowd clapping and cheering. The parrot flapped out of the bag and landed on the pirate’s shoulder.
“Arrr matey! What’s your name?
“Falmouth Freddy” the bird sang.
“F o w l-mouth did ya say?
“More like Foul–mouth,” said Logan.
“Merde! Bordel de Merde!” said the parrot, proving his point.
The crowd cackled, thinking this was part of the act. Michael Bean then pranced through the outdoor restaurant, stopping long enough at each table for tourists to take selfies with a real live Pirate of the Caribbean complete with talking parrot.
The distraction gave Logan and Charlotte the opportunity to slip away unnoticed.
Back onboard S/V Market Play, sans le perroquet, Logan plotted tomorrow’s route to Saint Martin while Charlotte prepped easy food for the trip across the Anegada passage. They had planned on being there a week ago and were now in a time crunch to meet Charlotte’s brother and sister-in-law flying in from France. It would be their first overnight voyage but Logan had been sailing since his teenage summers on Lake Michigan and they’d regularly sailed with friends on vacation before buying their cutter-rigged sloop. The Caliber 40 drew 5½ feet, so rather than attempt the potentially skinny water by Saba Rock Resort, he routed them the long way around between Moskito and Prickly Pear.
The following day they set off at 1400, planning to arrive at Marigot Bay just after sunrise, which would hopefully give them enough time to clear customs and get to the airport on the Dutch side before the plane landed. Logan took the helm, Charlotte tucked up against the bulkhead facing aft, a copy of Doyle’s cruising guide for the Leewards on her lap. The weather was favorable, winds 14–16 knots from the northeast, seas 2-4 feet.
They were just passing south of Necker Island when they heard the squawk of a parrot.
Logan looked off to port. Surely it was just the call of the birds on Richard Branson’s island being carried across the water. But they heard it again, only louder.
“What the bleep,” Logan said, looking around the cockpit and up through the window in the bimini.
“What the f**k,” chirped Freddy from somewhere unseen.
Charlotte pointed to the dinghy suspended on the davits behind Logan. “It’s coming from there.” She maneuvered around the steering wheel and pulled back the cover on the dink. Freddy sat in a small plastic box next to a scrawled note which read:
‘You arrr welcome, matey.’
Charlotte groaned. “Damn Pirate.”
“Damn pirate, damn pirate.”
For once she agreed with the bird. “Now what?” she asked Logan. But the parrot answered first.
“Freddy Fly Home, Freddy Fly Home.”
“What are we now, in a re-make of ET?” Logan sighed. “Where’s home?” he asked, trying to ignore the fact that he was actually talking to a parrot.
“Falmouth Freddy, Falmouth Freddy.”
“Wait,” said Charlotte. I just read about Falmouth. She flicked through the guide. “Here it is, it’s next to English Harbour in Antigua.”
“Antigua! We’re not keeping Freddy until then.”
“Keeping Freddy, Keeping Freddy.”
As the night grew blacker, the winds swung more south-easterly and increased to 26 knots, gusting 34. The seas built on top of the swell. It was likely to get worse. Logan had hoped he could have had all his easterly passages done ahead of the Christmas winds. He considered turning back but they were under pressure to get there. Yet, deadlines, he knew, were the enemy of sailors. The bow dug into the waves, the red and green navigation lights illuminating the water one moment, the sky the next. Then came the squall.
Freddy, apparently not enjoying being sloshed about in the dinghy, hopped onto the rail and perched himself on the stern seat as though he was another member of the crew keeping watch.
Logan disengaged the auto-pilot and took control of the wheel. “This is why they call the Anegada passage the—”
“Oh-my-God-a! Oh-my-God-a!” screeched Freddie. “We’re going to die!”
If you missed Chapter One of Falmouth Freddy and the Cruising Kanes, you can catch up in our June-July issue (caribbeancompass.com/online/327-June-July-2023.pdf).
Niamh McAnally is an Irish-born former TV director turned author (see page XX). She hosts interactive “behind the scenes” presentations to various groups and book clubs. To learn more visit www.thewriteronthewater.com.
Falmouth Freddy and the Cruising Kanes
