Proof The Bible Is True

Delivering boats is a regular job of mine as a professional yacht captain. I bring them from Florida and the Caribbean, up the Eastern Seaboard to New England in the spring. Come fall, the process is reversed.

 

The boat I was taking to St. Thomas that day was an old wooden sailing yacht. It was supposed to be a straightforward job: Sail the boat from Newport, Rhode Island, to the U.S. Virgin Islands. I would follow the coast, then jump off from Ft. Lauderdale or Miami for the offshore run to St. Thomas.

 

That was the plan, but I hadn’t made it that far down the Florida coast when the engine started acting up. I wasn’t going to take any chances with it. I steered into an inlet of the St. John’s River near Jacksonville, Florida. There was a creek not far away. It would take me into a cove where I could drop anchor and check things out.

 

I was already behind schedule. One problem or another had delayed my departure until late in the season, which meant I could expect stormy weather on the offshore route. All the more reason to take any engine problems seriously.

 

The only other vessel anchored in the cove was a decrepit-looking shrimp trawler. Its white-bearded skipper was puttering on deck. I was about to drop the hook when he waved me down. “Hey, Stu,” he hollered. “Don’t bother to anchor. You can raft alongside me.”

 

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