06/14/2026
LAND HO...
I have so many memories of my time at sea on the 60 foot ketch, High Flight, back in the early 80's. Enough time has elapsed that I could really use a fact checker ( MF or The Boozin Bosun out there?)
For example, did High Flight survive a hurricane off the coast of Mexico? What was the name of the Greek freighter that hit us in the Bay of Panama? Did we get shot at outside the Straw Market in Kingston, Jamaica while the Jamaican police cowered behind shelter? What island were we on when we dragged anchor and struck a bridge late one night? Confirmation of these events will result in more detailed stories.
One event that I remember, or think I remember, was first sighting Jamaica after a week at sea. I can't impress enough how exciting it is to see land after days at sea. "Land Ho" is a real and comforting phrase.
The problem is discerning land from the clouds on the horizon. You can spend hours clutching binoculars and trying to determine, land or cloud?
On one such occasion, we were all huddled on the deck, hopefully gazing into the distance, wondering if we were close to Jerk Chicken, Blue Mountain Coffee, Cold Red Stripe beer, Rastas and G***a. Yes? No? Maybe? The game played out incessantly.
I remember hearing a noise and glancing off our port was a 20-30 foot outboard boat colorfully painted in the colors of the Jamaican flag. Crewed by three rastas and a huge pile of lobsters. Things were looking up.
We'd been living off of oatmeal or extremely spicy Chili so a lobster meal seemed like a dream come true. Hastily, a trade was negotiated. Some of our warm Panamanian beer in exchange for lobsters galore.
It certainly seemed as if we were getting the better part of the deal and threw them a half dozen beers. It became apparent that they got the better part of the deal when they motored off without transferring any lobster.
As Jimmy Buffet would say we were rapidly "growing older but not up."
The only solace to all this was that we were definitely heading for Jamaica and not a cloud and that somewhere the rastas, under the scorching Jamaican skys, were drinking warm beer.
