1995

A BELATED EULOGY FOR DAVID

So it’s ’95 I’m anchored in Hog Island, south coast of Grenada, a beautiful, peaceful anchorage. I’ve just completed a 7 mth work gig with a delightful South African cruiser who founded and ran Necol Technical Services, in Bobby’s Marina, I hope to return to work after hurricane season. I met my friends Pete and Peggy (damn I’m getting old, can’t remember their boat name, but it was a Fisher 37’), in Venezuala. They told me about Necol and had worked for Andrew for a while and if I really did refrigeration and electrical then there was a good chance I could work there. That sounded good, so I singlehanded up to St Marteen and dressing up, well, sort of, rode my mountain bike to Phillipsburg in search of employment. I wandered in and Peggy flashed her killer smile saying “George welcome. Andrew this is the guy I was telling you about.” “Oh cool” says Andrew “do you have a CV?” “Ah no” I stammered he gave me pen and paper and I wrote a quick CV. He never even read it and asked “Do you want to start tomorrow?” He explained the wages and I was there with my tools for 8am. What unbelievable luck, Necol was an eye opener, here I was working with 7 of the Caribbean’s most accomplished boat bum technicians I’ve yet to meet and I believe that in that group Andrew was pre-eminent. For me it was like going to school and I still bless that group for the lessons I learned and still apply as I earn my rice, beans and rum fixing boats.

So I’m at anchor in Hog Is not far from a gorgeous 53’ Mason, Mistine, yeah, I was anchored with the Caribbean’s best weather forecaster. So I get Thalia squared away and happy hour is drawing nigh and dinghy through the reef pass to the The Rum Squall Bar at the old Moorings marina. Bellying up to the bar I hear the unmistakable dulcet tones of David Jones, the aforementioned forecaster. “… and the damn air conditioners keep cutting in and out, Tamara’s (their baby) diaper rash is being complicated by heat rash and Sally jean (his wife) is becoming frantic, they worked fine right up until I anchored here. There’s lots of water coming out of the through hulls, the pump is clean as are the sea water strainers.” He states explosively with mounting frustration. “How long do they run for?” asks his buddy Oh, well under a minute” “Excuse me” I venture “If you allow those compressors to short cycle like that you’ll destroy them.” David turns to me with a smile and asks “Is there any particular reason for me to believe you know what the f**k you’re talking about?” “Well” I try humbly, “it’s how I finance my alleged lifestyle” the smile grows and without missing a beat booms “And what would your next beer be?” The beers arrive and he asks “Can it be fixed?” “Oh sure” I smile “it’s easy, the water up here on the Bank is warm and your condensers are salted up with mineral scale. All you have to do is interrupt your condenser hoses into a bucket of fresh water hook up a recirculating pump and slowly tip muriatic acid into the bucket, that’ll boil out the scale. I do it all the time.” The smile is growing “Well, I’ve got a bucket and fresh water but none of the other stuff.” “No problem, I’ve got it all onboard Thalia, I’m anchored out by you.” Says David’s new best friend. The smile is starting to resemble a Great White “I believe we’ll need a couple more beers first.” He states positively and due to my lack of character I accede. We finally leave the bar and go to Mistine, which is even prettier inside than out and I say so, David smiles graciously at the compliment as only the Upper Class of Britain can and review the hose situation, I leave David to pull the hoses off and find his spare hoses, fittings, etc, while I go to Thalia for acid, pump, etc. It takes about an hour each to do 2 out of 3 units, he says he never uses the 3rd one anyway. Predictably the 2 units run sweet, Sally Jean gives an Upper Class cheer. “So George, what do I owe you for this miracle?” asks David “Nothing.” comes my reply.’ You’ve invested your time materials and knowledge and possibly saved my marriage, I must pay you.” He says firmly “Sorry David. You pay me back in spades by giving me free weather advice. You’ve saved me countless hour of frustrating beating, in fact I reckon I’m still in your debt.” Now I’m smiling, pretty flowery speech for a boat bum. No? David tried one more time and I cut him off telling him I’d be insulted if he persisted in trying to pay me. Of course breeding and class will out, David has lots of both, he dropped the matter.

A few days later hurricane Louis was threatening St Marteen, a category 4 storm was promising to wreak havoc on the island and the boats that had elected to stay, many of them my friends. David was doing 2 forecasts, on Louis a day, am and pm. David is plying me with alcohol every chance he gets and being the weak individual I am, I’m allowing it. To save hours on his generator David has moved Mistine to the dock and a group of us are having a long happy hour aboard as the time for his pm broadcast comes up and drunk as a newt he gives a delivery that would have Sir Richard Attenborough cheering even through the compression of an 8 meg band. “Any questions?” he concludes. A French boat comes up and questions his analysis “Yes, I can see what your conclusions are based on, I can also see where you have made your mistake. Perhaps you should get your own f**king radio show.” He says not ungently, clearly the result of generations of breeding. “Any other questions?” Unsurprisingly there are none. A couple of hours later a 50 kt feeder bands spawned by Louis swept through south Grenada and there was a mad scramble to return to our anchored boats. It’s 20 min in daylight though a poorly marked reef pass, to Hog Is, this’ll be a good trick in the dark, driving rain, serious winds and alcoholic fog. But first I have to get the Seagull outboard’s undivided attention which means starting by “tickling” the Amal style carburetor, you intentionally depress the float and partially flood it. Unbelievably the little monster starts on the first pull, I actually negotiate the reef pass successfully having never seen it and arrive to find Thalia hasn’t dragged anchor. This is going well. I still have 2 of the old style computer motor dc wind generators to stop, no dead shorting those old beasts like you do with the newer alternator styles. The one above the boom, a homemade thing goes down just fine, but the Windbugger on the stern pole gives me a hellacious bite on the elbow for my trouble as I stop it. I do my usual hydrogen peroxide/paper towel/duct tape bandage job and retire to bed. I awake with the light and find the bed looks like the scene of an axe murder, there’s blood everywhere, obviously mine. I wait until the morning VHF net starts and ask if anyone has a surgical stapler I can borrow? My friend Mandy on another boat is a nurse and tells me to come over ASAP, she pronounces the bandage ineffective and that it’s way too late for stitches, I should’ve come when it happened, even if it meant waking her and John up, the issue suroounding the slash is now necrotic. She’s in the middle of a nice bandaging when David roars up in his dinghy and yells “You must come to Mistine, Sally jean is very keen to stitch you up. She’s currently practicing on tonight’s pork roast.” Mandy explains that the edges of the wound are necrotic and stitching will lead to infection. David actually looked disappointed as he turned away and returned to his boat.

I’ve recounted the sum total of my encounters with David. Sadly he is no longer with us and the world has lost a true gentleman. George and Thalia

“If I’m lyin’…”