“Help me! Help me!” squawked the handheld VHV marine radio.

Roger, asleep in the V-berth of his recently purchased sailboat, woke with a start. He had anchored at Simpsons Lagoon, St. Martin, in the Caribbean, for the night. He had forgotten to turn off the radio last night before going to bed. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was 2 a.m. Hopping out of his bunk carefully so as not to wake Tama, he made his way to the cockpit.

Roger was about to turn the radio off and go back to sleep when the radio sounded again. “Help me! Help me!” shouted the same woman as before. “Nine men have attacked us. They boarded our boat and beat up my husband. He is badly hurt. I need help!”

Roger grabbed a powerful flashlight and shone the beam into the lagoon. Other anchored sailboats bobbed gently on the calm water. He raced down to the V-berth and woke up Tama. “Someone just got attacked on their sailboat in the lagoon. I heard it on the VHF radio. It woke me up.”

In the next five minutes, the lagoon erupted with flashing blue lights reflecting off the water, and the roar of revved engines filled the air. Later, Roger learned of the unfortunate events that had transpired. Every channel broadcast the story. Nine men had boarded a sailboat. A husband and wife were on board, ready to spend the winter sailing through the turquoise waves of the Caribbean. The men beat up the husband. The wife used wasp spray with a 25-foot range to assault the attackers, the spray hissing as it flew. Blinded by the insecticide’s stinging fumes, they leaped into the lagoon. The men swam to an anchored motorboat, the engine sputtering to life before they sped towards the lagoon’s exit. They ran aground, the boat shuddering to a halt. The boat sank. They swam to shore, and no one ever saw them again.

Roger and I were sitting in my boat’s cockpit, the rhythmic lapping of the water against the hull providing a backdrop to his shocking tale. The day before, I had arrived in Jolly Harbour, Antigua, and the heat of the sun was a welcome change. Ileana and I lodged at the Jolly Castle Hotel, feeling the sea breeze, for the night.

When Ileana and I arrived, the taxi dropped us off at the bottom of the stairs. It was pitch black. No lights were on. The place seemed deserted. I climbed the stairs to find the reception was locked with a closed sign. We had been delayed by weather and an hour baggage delay. I walked to the southside and noted the small store attached to the hotel. It was locked. When I knocked hopefully, a woman asked, “Who is it?”

“We have reservations at the Castle,” I replied.

“Is your name John?” she asked behind the closed door.

“We just arrived,” I said. This was followed by silence.

“Carlos will meet you at the front.” she said.

Carlos, a massive muscular man said nothing as he hoisted my 60 pound bag on his shoulder and headed up the stairs. I followed toting the rest of the luggage. He stopped at the first landing and handed Ileana a black plastic bag, then he continued up anther three flights of stair. Ileana shrugged and followed. At the top of the castle, he wordlessly took the bag from Ileana and emptied the contents onto the floor- 30 sets of keys. He tried every one until he found one that opened the door. Carlos deposited my bag on the floor. He turned around and left.

“Always an adventure with you!” said Ileana as we watched the hulk descend into the darkness.

A month prior, I had pulled the boat from the water to work on the engine in the Jolly Harbor Marina. The yard manager, Lindsay Ralph, launched S/V Ileana this morning, the vessel’s hull gleaming in the sunlight. Roger had helped me with the docking, his voice calm and reassuring. Successfully backing the boat into the dock, no one was harmed, and the boat remained unscratched.

We were now sitting in the cockpit. I listened to his sailing stories, my eyes were wide with astonishment. Roger had my attention.

“I’ve sailed to St. Martin,” I said. “Last year. But I stayed at the St. Louis Marina in Marigot Bay. They had 24-hour security. I felt safe there.”

“Well, we moved the boat to Island Water Marina, one of the most expensive marinas in the islands, while we finished working on the boat,” said Roger. “I will never visit St. Martin again.”

“Thanks for the stark warning,” I said. “I’ll stick to the secure marinas in St. Martin and avoid the anchorages after that story.”

I told a story about a harrowing ride into St. George’s Harbour, Bermuda, in the pitch black with 26 knots of wind. I was aiming the boat towards a flashing white light as we rocked back and forth in enormous waves. The pilot’s guide had directed me to sail towards a flashing light that marked the middle of the channel. Jeff, who watched on his iPad, corrected me. We narrowly avoided a reef that was marked with a lighthouse with a flashing light.

“I was sailing the two-man Tornado catamarans in Bermuda for years,” said Roger. “We were training for the Olympics. Once, in a training exercise, we went onto the open ocean. One of the crew on a different catamaran got swept off the boat by a wave. I briefly saw him engulfed in the enormous waves. The orange of his life preserver flashed as he crested a wave. I rocketed the catamaran I was sailing to where I had last seen him. By some miracle, we found him. We pulled his battered and frightened body from the angry sea.”

The stories continued. We went for a lovely dinner at the Sea Dream Italian restaurant. It was a beautiful night under the bright full moon and stars. A band played on the makeshift stage. People danced. Wine flowed. The food was delicious, memorable. The evening was perfect. A warm breeze reminded us how lucky we were. It was paradise.

In the morning, we found out the airspace over the entire Caribbean was closed. The US had launched a military attack on Venezuela, extracting its leader. The charter boats sat idle as no flights were coming in or out. Those wanting to leave were now stuck in Antigua. As we sit in our cockpit watching the tourists pour out of the marina, we realize we could get stuck in the Caribbean too.

On a sailboat, the world could be crumbling. It wouldn’t matter so much to us. We just pull up our anchor, or release our mooring lines and move on.