Here is Jackie's take on our horrendous encounter

On our quest to master the art of sailing we enjoyed a couple of flotilla holidays in the
Greek Islands and, on one of these, we were presented with the 'Fashionably Late' award by our 'hosties' at the closing ceremony. Whilst others were keen to get to the next location and the nearest bar, we stayed out, looking for the wind, trying out different things, learning to heave-to etc., and were always the last boat in. I can honestly say the Gin and Tonic tasted even better after a full days sailing and each day we felt a tad closer to achieving our dream of sailing the Caribbean.

Two years into our Caribbean adventure and it appears we are still the king and queen of 'Fashionably Late'. Sixteen hours late to be precise, on both our most recent voyage from Jamaica to Ile a Vache in Haiti and a similar tardiness on our previous voyage from Cuba to Jamaica. How did we get this so wrong?

I am a bit of a stickler when it comes to passage planning; plotting the course using Navionics and then entering all the waypoints, manually, into our Garmin Chartplotter. In our experience, Picaroon will average 5 knots so I can work out the approximate time we are likely to reach each waypoint and our final destination. All sounding good so far? Well yes unless you are going east, into the Equatorial Current and you have the Trade-winds on your nose.

After weeks of waiting for a favorable weather window to make the crossing to Haiti, rather optimistically, we honed in on a band of calmer weather on passageweather.com which looked as if we could make the thirty-six hour crossing, departing Port Antonio at 2am Friday morning and arriving at 2pm Saturday. I plotted a course to take advantage of the band of calmer winds, taking us north of Navassa Island and towards the coast of Haiti, where I expected we would gain some relief from the current, coastal sailing in the lee of the Island. We should have been approaching Navassa Island in the daylight but after only a few hours, it was clear this was not going to happen; the current was just far too strong. Fuel was also a big issue as we only just had enough for about forty hours so after a quick recalculation, we decided to alter course and go south of Navassa, giving us a more direct route.

As it happened this was fortunate as we watched a huge storm rage north of Navassa on our original route. Progress was slow however, especially without the engine but we knew we had to sail some of the way to reserve fuel for the entry into Ile a Vache. We cut the engine for a while but were only making between 2 and 4 knots and not in the direction we really needed to be going. We did manage to have a play with our windvane steering which worked wonderfully well for a short time but it wasn't long before the concern over speed made us turn to the engine once more and, using engine and sails we could manage 5 knots but still didn't seem to be making much headway against the current. Words were exchanged about the lack of fuel and I shudder now as I remember Colin uttering the fateful words 'Well let's not worry about it until we get down to a quarter of a tank'.

As darkness came on our second night at sea, a magnificent electrical storm lit up the sky and we sat quietly in the cockpit, nervously watching the fuel gauge and contemplating the inevitable downpour. With only a short cool downdraught and a sprinkling of rain, the storm passed to the west of us but minutes later lightening started up all around us and the stars disappeared behind a huge dark mass of cloud. The fuel gauge was now swinging dangerously towards empty and a frank exchange of views took place with Colin asserting we should put up some sail, whilst I was concerned about the building seas and the oncoming storm. In the end we decided to give it a go as we were going to have to sail at some point or run out of fuel. Colin let out the Genoa and immediately we had the rail and the starboard deck under water, as the winds suddenly picked up and the heavens opened, bucketing torrents of rainwater which mixed with the seawater coming aboard. We heeled even more violently as I turned Picaroon into the wind to allow Colin to wrestle the sail back in, losing the sheets in the process which tangled up rendering our Genoa unusable. As Picaroon reared and plunged into the rising seas, raising the mainsail was out of the question so now we were in a pickle; no possibility of putting out some sail, fuel nearly spent and still about 25 miles offshore. It was all looking rather desperate.

A couple in Port Antonio had told us of their particularly bad passage off Haiti and how they had resorted to putting out a 'Mayday' call on the VHF radio with no response whatsoever. So when Colin suggested getting on the radio to get help I was not at all hopeful. I was at the helm so could not hear exactly what he said but a few minutes later, our cockpit speaker crackled into life and a heavy eastern European accent came back asking us to confirm our position. Colin could not make out what the guy was saying due to his ongoing hearing problems so we swapped places and for the next forty minutes I leapt up and down the companionway, maintaining contact and answering questions which went a little bit like the following:

Motor Tanker: This is Motor Tanker Wabbenwolf (or something similar - couldn't make it out) we are 20 miles from your position, are you able to come alongside?
Picaroon: We do not have enough fuel to motor twenty miles.
Motor Tanker: Okay, we will come to you. Please confirm your position.
Picaroon: Our position is .........................
Motor Tanker: We will be with you in one hour. Question; do you have a radar reflector?
Picaroon: No we do not have a radar reflector.
Motor Tanker: Question; do you have fenders on board and dock lines?
Picaroon: Yes we have four fenders and various docklines?
Motor Tanker: Please prepare your boat to come alongside our port side. We now have visual contact and will be with you in forty minutes.

During this time the storm had blown up into a force 10 and the rain was relentless. Picaroon was being tossed around like a cork with breaking seas crashing onto the deck from all sides.

Picaroon: Motor Tanker, are you receiving me?
Motor Tanker: Yes receiving you loud and clear, go ahead.
Picaroon: Please confirm the sea state with you as it is very bad here and I am concerned about coming alongside.
Motor Tanker: We are now within one mile and have the same sea state. Please try to maintain your position and we will provide you with a leeside (I guessed that meant they would come around us to provide some protection from the storm). Are you still able to maneuver?
Picaroon: Yes we still have a small amount of fuel left.
Motor Tanker: Please conserve your fuel and maintain your position. How much fuel do you need?
Picaroon: Ten gallons would do but twenty would be even better, thank you.
........slight delay
Motor Tanker: Please confirm the amount of fuel you require in liters (definitely European then).
Picaroon: We carry four twenty liter jerry cans on board (thinking we would have to give them our empties) so eighty liters will be fine, thank you.

The motor tanker loomed ever closer, lit up like some weird carnival float, dazzlingly confusing the outline and layout of the vessel. I had taken the helm as Colin dashed about collecting fenders and attaching a stern dockline but the seas were so bad now that he could not make it forward to attach a line at the bow.

Picaroon: Motor Tanker, Motor Tanker, over.
Motor Tanker: Yes go ahead Picaroon.
Picaroon: We are unable to attach a bowline and are concerned about coming alongside.
Motor Tanker: Come close to our port side and we will transfer the fuel down a line.

Colin took the helm on our first approach; we couldn't even work out which was the stern or the side of the vessel in the storm until we were virtually on top of it. At the last minute we turned away and I took Picaroon back around circling outside the relatively calmer water on the leeside, fighting the huge seas to bring us back towards the tanker. Two or three more attempts and a monkey fist came aboard with a line attached to a row of men in orange jumpsuits standing on deck and gesticulating wildly. I slowed the engine but Picaroon seemed to be sliding ever closer to the pitching deck of the huge steel monstrosity so I pushed the throttle full ahead and we pulled away, losing the line and monkeyfist into the boiling cauldron around us. Several more attempts were made before the radio crackled into life again.

Motor Tanker: Picaroon come around again and we will try to float the fuel out to you.

This time the monkeyfist landed slap on top of our solar panels and bounced down into the cockpit. Colin retrieved the line and the orange jumpsuits dumped four 20 liter containers of fuel into the ocean, roped together. The weight of these containers is incredible and Colin struggled to retrieve them, waiting for a rising wave to help him drag them on board. The last two were particularly difficult as they were roped so close together but as he finally heaved them aboard, alarmed shouts from the deck of the tanker made me look up to find we were heading, full pelt, toward the side of the tanker. Somehow the waves had spun us around and I still had the engine in gear and the throttle on full. It is a scene I will never forget as I grabbed and swung the wheel to starboard, feeling sure we were about to impale our bowsprit into a huge steel tanker. All I could see was the grey steel of the side of the vessel as Picaroon approached but just at the last moment, she turned alongside and then away, just grazing her stern with a loud clatter as we scooted to safety.

The rest is all a bit of a blur. I remained on the helm as we motored away from the tanker and Colin went below to talk to the Captain:

Motor Tanker: Picaroon, please confirm you have enough fuel to continue.
Picaroon: Yes thank you for your assistance.
Motor Tanker: So can I now proceed to my destination?
Picaroon: Yes you can and thank you again for saving us.

It seemed only a few minutes before the lights of the tanker disappeared into the distance and, miraculously the storm calmed, the rain stopped and we were once again, alone in the darkness but with easily enough fuel to get us to Ile a Vache. Later we marveled at what an amazing thing that Captain and his crew had done; they had turned back 20 miles to rescue a little sailboat, spent a good hour watching us under spotlight struggling in the storm, supplied us with fuel, made sure we were OK and then sailed back 20 miles to resume their course. We were so exhausted and shell-shocked that we did not even find out the name of their vessel and despite hours of google searching I cannot find even a trace of a motor tanker with a name like Wappenwolf. Angels come in all shapes and sizes but I never thought ours would be the Captain and crew of an eastern European motor tanker.

After refueling, we continued on our way as dawn approached and soon the sea turned from deep blue to turquoise as we entered the wide channel between mainland Haiti and Ile a Vache. The channel broadened out into the most beautiful bay, dotted with a flotilla of picturesque Haitian sailing boats, like a swarm of butterflies flitting across the sparkling waters. We rounded up into the small protected cove at Port Morgan and dropped anchor. Fashionably late once again but safe and alive!