Michael & Sharon Fortenbaugh

Michael Fortenbaugh
(inducted 2007)

In 1994, our sailing club participated in the Mt Gay Rum Regatta at the very home of Mt Gay Rum - the beautiful island of Barbados.

Although my memory is not exact and the records are tucked away somewhere to be found in the future, our club's team was between 15 and 20 people.

We rented Cove Spring House, a beautiful waterfront villa in the Garden in St. James on Barbados. And for our ship, we chartered a 53 foot Jenneau from Martinique.

A group of members flew to Martinique to sail the Jenneau upwind to the island of Barbados. From Fort De France to Bridgetown it is a passage of 143 miles across the open Caribbean Sea.

This was the season of the Christmas winds and we battled upwind against 25 knots with 5 to 10 foot seas throughout the dark night. It was all hard port tack. Through some parts of the night, waves crested on our side and the boat slid up and down between the peaks and troughs. At other times, the waves smashed across bow, arching over the cockpit to douse the watch crew while our bow crashed into the next wave with a shutter.

Most of the crew succumbed to sea sickness. Fatigue was great. All were questioning the very reason we had stepped onboard. But as the sun rose, the wind slackened as we entered the lee of Barbados and we arrived safely.

But this is not the real story. And our participation in the regatta was not our real story as well, although we did well and were awarded a great trophy which someday may appear in our clubhouse trophy case. And we made many friends, lived like kings and queens, raced against the J-boat Endeavor and drank great quantities of Mt Gay Rum, but this is not the story either.

The story was the return.

After many days of sailing and sunshine, the regatta was at an end and we needed to deliver our yacht back to Martinique. After the experience of sailing it to Barbados, not many were around the table when we discussed the return. In fact, it was only the Commodore, the then-Rear Commodore Peter Cavrell and the then-just-joined-private-member John LaGrassa along with the Commodore's wife Sharon.

The boat had to be returned and so we four, unable to flee from the obligation, set out with determination. To customs we sailed and waited. And upon release, the shore crew waved us goodbye, took all the Mt Gay Rum bottles off the boat (for safe keeping they said) and we pushed off.

The ride back to Martinique was mostly a broad reach. It was Sharon's first major sailing trip and it would be through the night with 25 knots of wind, high seas and no safe port. We would be all alone at sea. We put Sharon on the wheel as we departed (so she would not look back at land and change her mind).

After 2 hours, we began to leave the lee of the island and the ride began. The boat, to her credit, performed brilliantly. She was fast and powerful. We surged to over 11 knots as we surfed down waves. The sails were reefed, the crew was harnessed in with safety lines and our distance from Barbados increased.

Night covered. The wind was strong and steady. The waves were high. And through the night, we drove this great machine which felt like a bucking bronco. She powered up at the top of each swell and dashed downward into the trough, speeding fast, spray flying and energy and tension surging through her mast, rigging and hull. The sails were flapping with each surge, the sheets crashed tight and loosened and the wheel jerked back and forth each time. Spray flew off the stern as we sped along. Hour after hour, wave after wave, we continued.

Two watches were set, Commodore and his Mrs. as the early watch and Rear Commodore and John as the next watch. John was also braving a health challenge caused the previous evening by improper food. And all of us were experiencing the fatigue normal with 4 days of racing, 4 nights of parties and approximately (although just an estimate) 4 bottles of Mt Gay Rum per person.

Through the early part of the night, the Commodore drove. Then he turned over the stead to his next faithful crew. Commodore and Mrs. retired to nap as best possible on the cabin floor.

Rear Commodore and John took the helm and their ride set forth. They gallantly kept the helm and did not wake the other crew as scheduled.

Hours later, through the haze of sleep onboard a ship, the Commodore heard a question being exchanged between the two crew upstairs, "Should we wake Michael?" "No, let's wait and see what happens."

When you sleep, you still hear. And after hearing a question like that, my right eye would no longer close completely. I stayed still downstairs, waited and listened. And waited some more.

Then came the cry, "Yes, wake up Michael!"

I was already bolt upright when the sentence finished and bounded immediately up the stairs to the cockpit. It was a scene of water and confusion. Directly off our side and bearing down upon us with great speed was great shape with many tremendous and powerful lights.

For a moment, we just froze, unsure which way to turn to avoid being crushed to pieces in the Caribbean Sea. We strained our eyes to see, understand and avoid this unknown tormentor.

"It's, it's..... it's a submarine!" stammered and shouted the Rear Commodore - words which will live in destiny. The moment crescendoed. The lights and looming mass of steel passed directly to our stern at high speed.

We were spared. The danger of destruction flew by and with it went our breath.

And from the stern, after danger had passed, we could see this had been a tramp steamer motoring from somewhere over the horizon to a point unknown.

It had only been that magnetic convergence which occurs between lights at night. They have to come together, whether by some still unknown force or by human action. Maybe one boat was coming to look at the other. Maybe just to have some fun. But for our boat, we had experienced this unexpected and uncontrolled convergence in a breath taking manner. There we stood in the cockpit with blood coursing through our veins. We were just relieved, nothing else.

And with this experience (and not the rest of the stories from this trip which I may occasionally tell during some of the Blue Water Society dinners) both Sharon and I humbly request formal admission from the all powerful King Neptune.

Submitted with respect, Commodore Michael W. Fortenbaugh - March 2007