An Inate Sense of Direction.... What?

A long, long time ago, light years from where I am now. Way back before kids, before I was married, a time where my now wife was still in the throes of rapture over me, yeah, talking a long time ago. In those days, when my money was spent on me and time was always available, a group of us decided to chuck the February snow and ice and fly to Jamaica for 2 weeks. After getting used to the immediate surroundings, we decided to leave the villa in our little red Mitsubishi and venture into Montego Bay for some nightlife. We really didn’t know where we were headed but fortunately for us, our friend announced that we were not to worry as he had, “an innate sense of direction”. Three hours later, we were lost in the mountains and ended up stopping for directions at what turned out to be a local house of ill-repute. To say that we stuck out would be understating the whole situation. Some one there did recognize the description of our villa and offered to lead the way back. What we didn’t know was how quickly he was going to lead us there. As we were whipped back and forth over the bench seat of our little car, it bounced over mammoth holes in the road. On more than one occasion, we barely skirted a tumble off the cliffs which were a mere few inches away from the side of the road. The whole time our friend sat seemingly calm, clutching the steering wheel and trying to keep up with the speeding vehicle in front of us. The only trace of any tension in him were his white knuckles and his toneless, constant singing, over and over again, “just another day, just another day, just another day...” I didn’t know or care what the song was, I just wanted to get to our place, grab the neck of a bottle of rum and swish this terrifying ride out of my head. Obviously, we made it back alive and upon grabbing the aforementioned bottle of rum, it was there decided that our friend with the “innate sense of direction” would no longer be allowed anywhere near the front seat of our little red car.

As everyone knows, we in Kingston put up with wet, horrible winter months just for the sheer pleasure of living here during the summer. There is always something to do and usually you can find someone to do it with. Getting friends and family to come down for a visit is as easy as asking them. So it was no surprise to us when some friends from our university days called and asked if they could sail down to Kingston for a weekend visit. Now, there is only one thing better than being in Kingston in the summer and that is being in Kingston in the summer while on a boat. We casually leaped at the offer, arranged a mutual weekend that was good for all and then anticipated their visit. We had expected them to arrive at around 2:30 in the afternoon, we had heard from them via cell phone that they were just off the western tip of Amherst Island. Hours passed and we still hadn’t heard any word of their whereabouts. I wasn’t too concerned for their safety, as I knew they had all the required gear that was needed for a boat of that size. I thought that maybe the battery in the cell phone had died. A thought went through my mind that perhaps they missed the end of Amherst and continued on down the south coast of Wolfe Island, but I shook that one off as being too hard to miss the gap between the two islands. As early evening arrived, my wife and I went home and had supper. We were not surprised to get their phone call and now only mildly surprised to find out that they did indeed miss the gap. I doubt it would surprise you that our driver in Jamaica, the one with the “innate sense of direction” is the same guy who sailed right past Kingston.

Their voices were weary, a little stressed, but excited as they told us they were at the downtown Kingston marina and we made arrangements to meet on a patio for a snack and drinks. There was a slight delay getting together, believe it or not, they got lost walking to the patio where we were waiting (they were at the Kingston Yacht Club and not Confederation Basin).

To say their trip went smoothly after they rerouted themselves from Cape Vincent back to Kingston would be a little misleading. To go through their trip event by event is a little too painful to relate. Suffice to mention, unfolding a seldom used chart of Kingston and finding that mice had made dinner of the approach to Kingston and the harbor, finding a shoal that had no visible markings, and a few unexpected jibes that would rattle most sailors nerves. Like all adventures, we got the whole report in the tiniest of details, from the moment they cast off in Brighton to the moment they sat down beside us. A perfect summer night in Kingston, great company, stories to last all evening, a couple of jugs of cold draught beer and sitting on a warm breezy patio. As the evening wrapped up we had to ask Regina if Michael’s “just another day” mantra had resurfaced during the sail down. She just smiled and said, “No, no. He has become much more colorful in his language since buying the boat”. Ah, a true skipper emerges.