The deep east European accent crackled one last time over the VHF

"May I now proceed to my destination" said the captain of the ship with no name, , "Yes sir, thank you, and thank the crew " I said. They were the last words we would ever exchange.

There's a superstition amongst sailors that says you should never leave port on a Friday as it will bring bad luck. We left Jamaica bound for Ile a Vache, a small island just off the southern peninsula of Haiti at about 2.30am on Friday morning as the waning moon rose over Port Antonio. We slipped our mooring lines and motored quietly out to sea blissfully unaware that we may be courting disaster by ignoring this old superstition.

We had been waiting eight weeks for a fair weather window to cross the Windward passage for a journey of 180 miles to Haiti, which was going to be difficult as the Trade winds would be on our nose for the best part of the voyage. Going east against the trades is notoriously awful and although we may be able to sail some of the way, for the most part of the crossing we would have to use our engine. We left port with 50 gallons of diesel in the tanks and another 20 gallons stowed on deck, just to be on the safe side. We had never been too sure about how much fuel Picaroon consumed per mile, or per hour but as long as we could sail some of the way we figured we had enough to make the crossing.

It wasn't long before dawn broke, the winds were light and the bright morning sky was dotted with scattered cloud. The forecast for the next three or four days promised more settled conditions which would mean that the seas would lay down even more by the time we reached the Haitian coast, which we expected to make at about dusk on Friday evening. Then a night sail down the Haitian coast in the lee of the island to round the cape, marked on our chart plotter as IV20, would see us arrive in Ile a Vache at about 2pm on Saturday afternoon. It didn't quite work out that way.

Apart from a brief spell under sail on Friday afternoon we had spent the best part of 36 hours making the crossing courtesy of Mr Engine Sir and by 2pm on Saturday the fuel gauge was dipping towards a quarter full. We had already put the extra 20 gallons of diesel into the tank earlier so we were cautiously watching the needle swing backwards and forwards and making rough calculations of how many more hours we had left.

The sea state had settled down but now we were up against a strong current, the wind was dead ahead making sailing in the direction we needed to go impossible so we continued to run the engine and kept an eye on the gauge that had now fallen to below a quarter. We were still over 50 miles from Ile a Vache, at this point, which would take at least another 10 hours, probably more, and as we needed fuel to make the entry into Ile a Vache we decided that we would have to do some sailing to conserve fuel.

We tacked south for a few hours, and then turned back north but the waves and current kept knocking us back and progress east was very minimal. If we were going to get there under sail the journey was going to take at least another 24 hours, or more, and by now we had already been at the wheel for the best part of 40 hours, and we were both completely knackered. We were also becoming resigned to the fact that we would be entering a strange harbour in the dark, a Haitian harbour with no lights to guide us in.

If we could make waypoint IV20 which was about five miles from the coast with Mr Engine Sir, we could then turn north to Ile a Vache which we could sail as we would have the wind on our beam. So that became the plan, but the needle on the fuel gauge was wavering between a quarter and almost empty as the fuel sloshed about making an accurate reading impossible. We were taking hourly turns at the helm as the other would try to catch some rest, keeping one eye on the course and the other glued to the diminishing fuel.

We sailed into another moonless night, but under a bright canopy of stars, at least where we were, and we watched a spectacular thunderstorm raging along the coast, about 25 miles away. It was like some scene from a war movie each flash highlighting the mountainous coast off in the distance. Luckily the storm seemed to stay where it was, and although it covered a large area it wasn't moving out to sea. We sailed watching this storm for maybe a couple of hours before it seemed to drift behind us and subside.

By midnight we still had 12 miles to go to reach IV20, and our fuel was now getting dangerously low as the pointer kept banging against the empty stop. We were both now very scared that we were going to run out of fuel, and with the wind rising we were very reluctant to put up any sails. Even without any sails Picaroon was rolling and pitching into increasing seas that often came aboard and rushed around the decks before finding their way back to the ocean.

We hardly spoke, each of us, watching the fuel ebb away, and contemplating our fate should we lose the engine. If we did there would be no option but to raise a sail, so whilst we still had some fuel left I made the fateful decision to put up some sail, as we were going to have to do this anyway if the fuel ran out. With the wind now blowing from the land forward of the beam I decided try to putting out a small amount of the Gib. I fastened off the furling line guessing that It wouldn't allow the gib to unfurl more than about half............................................................ Wrong!

Immediately that the sail flew out into the night Picaroon heeled over violently and a huge quantity of ocean swamped the decks. Too much sail had unfurled, and unless we could reduce it or re-furl the sail we were in danger of being knocked down. I strained with all my might on the furling line but with the sail full of wind it just refused to rewind. Next, we lost control of the sheets and the sail began to flog and flap wildly, but somehow inch by inch I managed to heave it back around the shroud. Once it was back in Picaroon settled upright again, but shining a torch on the sail revealed some wildly tangled jib sheets which would be impossible to untangle at night and in these seas.

The fuel gauge now swung between empty and almost empty.

The jib had been the only sail we could contemplate raising, and that was now no longer an option, and we were about to run out of fuel. We had no plan B, or C, and as far as we could see no way out. We were still at least 20 miles out at sea, off the coast of Haiti, in the dead of night, and very scared that if we had a bad storm this could be the last chapter of the Adventures of Picaroon.

In an act of pointless desperation I decided to put out a call on the VHF, in the vague hope that we could make contact with any other vessel. I suppose I should have put out what is called a Pan Pan message, but I couldn't remember the procedure for doing that so I hit the transmit button anyway.