Burial at Sea. . . Almost

Living in a land of wonder is always entertaining. This is mainly because many of the residents of Marco, Goodland, and Isles of Capri were born elsewhere, but were compelled to move and begin a new island life, which will always cast a spell of wonder.

A lifestyle in the subtropics is indeed wondrous and full of adventure. Sunsets with coconut silhouettes offer the promise of romance, as an emerald gulf reaching for the horizon is a beautiful mistress, but every recipe for wonder must include a little mystery and the spice of uncertainty.

One such uncertainty came into fruition when a particular Marco Beach Boy became a sailing captain. The seaborne pursuit of an adventure that never fails to captivate can prove to be a journey into wonder, but on one occasion, the job that might sound like a dream come true began with a mystery and found a finish with a blast from the past.

Our episode this week begins with an email searching for a sailboat charter. Apparently, a family was inquiring about a sailing expedition and they wanted to be offshore at sunset. This was a popular request and not out of the ordinary. What did send out the first tremors of an alarm was when the email and the contact began asking if the sailing captain would be flexible and discreet.

The reply to the email was without hesitation. “Yes. Of course. We strive to accommodate every eventuality and all our captains are completely discreet.”

Almost every charter company replies with the same type of positive response. This is because booking agents for charter boats normally have friendly and engaging personalities. These cheerful folks sitting behind a computer screen will agree to anything and everything to book a charter and make every passenger happy.

This is because, typically, the person booking the excursions does not actually go out on the charter. The friendly voice on the phone will quickly become a new best friend and promise calm seas, bountiful fishing, smooth sailing, and fair wind and safe harbor for everyone at sunset.

The booking agents, of course, never deal with the children that are most probably concealing demons. Other hazards of coastal voyages include seasickness, fear of sharks, or the inability to stop talking because of the terror of absolutely everything on the water.

When the day for the particular sunset charter began with an early morning crimson sky, the weather forecast was not what the booking agent had promised. Late August can produce some of the stormiest weather of the year and as many a mariner in Southwest Florida understands, a thunderstorm of biblical proportions can arrive without any warning whatsoever. When that storm rises, an atheist will not be found on a boat in a storm.

With the late afternoon sky swirling with scudding clouds and a glowing “ring around the sun,” was a warning with an old mariner’s rhyme that “rain was coming on the run,” the captain who was the Marco Beach Boy smiled, nodded, and welcomed everyone aboard.

The little voyage that began at the local dock would later turn out to be unforgettable, uncomfortable, and defiantly in need of discretion. Many passengers board small boats with a cooler and multiple bags of sundries, sunscreen, and snacks, but this sunset crew, with their quiet and solemn demeanor, boarded with enough cargo to outlast the remainder of August.

Most captains try to be engaging. Small talk is necessary to promote goodwill and confidence in a captain, but after the initial introductions, a silence settled over the boat as the lines cast off and seven souls set out to sea.

The promise of fair weather and calm seas was not coming into fruition. Earlier, and on the previous day, a heavy groundswell from a tropical disturbance began to roll onshore from the far reaches of Texas and a rising coastal breeze was becoming more of a tempest than a zephyr. Despite the rock and roll entertainment, and an obvious and nervous concern over the outcome of the sunset excursion, the crew remained silent and stoic. They were, however, preoccupied with enough reserved dignity to ensure something was coming which was unbeknownst to the captain.

The first sign of impropriety came with the flowers. Almost all of the carry-on bags, it seemed, were full of flowers. A signal of what was to come emerged in the form of lilies. The flowers, like the crew, were solemn, stately, and somehow final. After the lilies came into the blustery wind and the last light of the day, no one spoke—especially the captain—because even as clueless as this particular captain was, he became suddenly aware he was now a victim of circumstance and possibly on the verge of something unlawful.

Offering a final bequeath for loved ones at sea is a widespread request. Rules apply, however, along with strict guidelines. A burial at sea and scattering the ashes and remains of the dearly departed must wait until a boat is more than three miles offshore.

Unfortunately, for everyone aboard, the rising wind, the building waves, and the ever-persistent groundswell were indeed rocking and rolling the boat and producing more than a few pale faces. After an elaborate urn came out of a final bag and lilies were going around like life preservers in an emergency, the Beach Boy captain had no time to quote maritime regulations.

Without warning, the most senior of the passengers abruptly opened the urn and attempted to toss the remains of the dearly departed overboard. With only a second in the air, the ashes flew backward in the wind to cover everyone with the fine coating of what was a Burial at Sea . . . Almost.