“You are going to have to find them and bring them back for me to sign them out before we can allow you to leave Antigua on your sailboat.”

I looked at the customs woman with disbelief. “They flew out of Antigua two months ago,” I replied. “Couldn’t you check the customs records at the airport?”

“That is not how we work here,” she responded. “You were supposed to bring them to customs and immigration before they flew. We need to document that they were alive. How do we know you didn’t kill them and throw them overboard?” She’s been reading my novels, I thought.

Mike and Jeff had sailed with me from Hampton ,Virginia to Antigua at the beginning of November. It had been a harrowing ten-day ride. We left after Hurricane Mellissa had passed, but the seas were still rough. Out of the sixty boats from the Salty Dawg Sailing Association that left for Antigua, thirty-seven ducked into Bermuda to wait for the rough weather to pass. We forged ahead. When I checked us in at Customs in English Harbour, the officer told me my crew did not need to check out with them before they flew out.

She shrugged her shoulders and shouted to the next in line to come forward. A tall, bearded man with tattoos on his arms and chest strode forward, gently brushing by me. Stunned, I watched as she glanced at his papers. Shaking her head, she pointed to a line on the customs form and said, “We need to know the exact date the insurance came into effect before you can leave.”

He too shook his head in disbelief and said, “Look, we need to get to St. Martin before 5 p.m. That’s the last time they open the bridge to Simpsons Lagoon before tomorrow. No one has ever asked for that before.”

I watched as she shrugged her shoulders and went back to what seemed like imaginary paperwork. I saw his face go red as he stormed back to his boat to get the information.

I approached her again. “What if I tell you the exact date when they left Antigua and the Air Canada flight number?”

“Not good enough,” she said.

“Well, Jeff is somewhere in Vietnam or Thailand for the winter. I have no idea how to reach him. A massive snowstorm has Mike hunkered down in Nova Scotia. All the airports are closed. No way either of them can return to Antigua.”

She sighed, exasperated. “Alright,” she said. I consulted my email records. November 22, 2025. Air Canada flight 1833.” She took my papers and ran a line through the names and wrote the flight numbers. She initialled the paper and handed it back to me. “Now go to Immigration.”

Two hours later, we were on the way, happy to have avoided detention in a digitally backward Caribbean  country.

The wind was from the east at 20 knots, almost directly on the nose. The waves were massive as we bounced around for the four-hour trip to Barbuda. Anchored opposite Princess Diana Beach, we lowered the dinghy and motored to the beach. I had discovered the best lobster dinner in the world, served with a baked potato last year with my brother Neil and Bev. Enoch needed 24 hours’ notice to catch the lobster. Only one couple had motored from their sailboat to their beach. $35 US treated us to the most delicious lobster ever.

Sunrise the following morning had us heading due west….towards St. Barts. The 22-knot wind pushed us effortlessly towards the tiny island 68 miles away. The smooth sailing made yesterday’s rocky ride to Barbuda worth it.

“Let’s drag the fishing line behind us,” I said. “The fish go nuts over a cedar plug lure.”

Five hours later, the sea gods rewarded us with a huge Mahimahi and a large tuna!

A few months earlier in a seedy bar in Hampton, Virginia, a sailor explained to me about St. Barts. “You don’t need to check in with customs.” He was slurring his words, having spent the afternoon and evening knocking back cold ones. “Grab a mooring ball in Anse de Columbier. They never check who is there.” He took a healthy swig of his beer. “Then take off. No one will ever know.”

I considered his not-so-wise advice as I reflected on my painful experience in Antigua. Marco and I hopped into the dinghy and motored to the Port Authority.

“You need to use the computer to enter your information,” said the customs official. It took fifteen minutes. I printed off the form proudly and handed it to the pleasant lady.

She took another fifteen minutes checking the details, then said, “How long are you staying?”

“We are leaving tomorrow morning,” I replied.

“You need to check out then at the computer then,” she said.

I sighed as I walked back to the computer. Another fifteen minutes to fill in the details. I printed off the form and brought it to the lady.

“With the national park fee and two nights’ stay, that will be…” she punched some numbers into her calculator. “Fifty-three euros.”

As I walked out of the customs office, I realized I should have listened to my drunken friend in Hampton. I would have saved myself an hour having left with the same as when I arrived at customs…nothing.

And fifty three Euros poorer….

The sail to St. Martin had us motoring dead downwind in light air. The Fort Louis checked us into customs. It was entirely painless. Marco continued to impress me with his culinary skills.