The Art of Stealing Your Own Boat

This is the fourth in a series about my eighteen-month kerfuffle with Ecuadorean Customs. For more context, please see my earlier posts: Check-In Checklist, Improv, and When the World Goes Crazy, Do the Right Thing.

The only way to save SV Hanalei is to steal her.

What if Customs is merely inept? They could have accidentally ignored seven months of emails, forms, letters, polite requests, urgent requests, and desperate phone calls. Equally possible? The work of a heartless rogue agent, exacting retribution.

In my mind, spiriting her out of Ecuador is the only sure course.

This is your captain speaking. She finds the idea of absconding by boat across an ocean, even arriving in a foreign port without papers, preferable to uncertain negotiations with bureaucrats. Plus, she has a whopping case of pandemic fatigue. Sneaking out sounds like a lot of fun.

“Our objective is a 53-foot sailboat anchored in plain view of the Port Captain’s third-floor window that could be impounded any minute. The vehicle’s owner–and captain, as it happens–is me.”

Thanks to movies, we all know the essential heist checklist:

Detailed plan
Experienced crew
Perfect timing
Precise execution
Contingency plan
Remain calm

Everyone on board with this? Great! The more witnesses, the better.

The plan

Here’s my detailed plan:

Go to Ecuador
Get to boat
Run away

Plan? Check.

Experienced Crew

The last time I stole a vehicle was in the Navy. For the record, it wasn’t my idea to take the Captain’s car for a joyride. I just rode shotgun. I don’t remember why it sounded cool, but we might have been high.

This time, only the stakes are high. I’m stone cold sober. Our objective is a 53-foot sailboat anchored in plain view of the Port Captain’s third-floor window that could be impounded any minute. The vehicle’s owner–and captain, as it happens–is me.

<—Masked and dangerous.
En route to grand theft, sailboat.

For shotgun, I bring my son, James. James grew up on SV Delos, Hanalei’s twin. He knows the SuperMaramu 2000 intimately. He did Spanish lessons sitting halfway up the mast on the River Gambia; set the ballooner in the Med’s light air countless times with his father; designed boats of the future on a three-week passage to the Marquesas. He knows how to cook while underway, sleep in rolly conditions and stay awake on watch.

And he trusts me.

I think.

Crew? Check.

Timing

I’m counting on surprise and speed. A surgical strike. Don’t alert anybody. Don’t give authorities time to get suspicious. Just keep moving. Unless one of us gets arrested, we’ll spend less than 24 hours in Ecuador.

Book flights
Get COVID tests
WhatsApp a reliable taxi driver, Darwin, for airport pickup
Go

In March, when Stephan and I left SV Hanalei for Peru, we were already provisioned for a passage to Chile. All James and I would need was fresh food, fuel and water.

Get fruit and veg
Get water
Get fuel
Get out

Timing? Check.

Execution

We disembark in a changed Ecuador. Everyone masks and gloves at the Guayaquíl airport. The Ministry of Health has set up a COVID screening center. We present our negative results and are cleared for immigration. Immigration lines are marked with circles two meters apart. Customs pays no attention to our only luggage, a day pack each and a duffel of boat parts. Clearly they haven’t been warned to be on the lookout.

So far, so good.

Outside, Darwin, the taxi driver, waves to us. We’re all masked. He keeps the windows down on the two-hour drive to Salinas. We have to make a planned stop outside Salinas at the gringo supermercado (supermarket). James and I wait outside on designated circles to have our temperatures taken by a guard, who also squirts our hands with sanitizer gel. Another attendant disinfects the handle of our shopping cart.

Eight months ago, before Stephan and I left for Peru, we’d already provisioned non-perishables. We’ll only need enough fresh food to last five days. In less than a half-hour, we stock up on drinks and produce, cheese and eggs. Our new provisions triple the amount of our luggage.

So far, so good.

It’s dark by the time we reach the public dock to rendezvous with Cocoviche. Cocoviche, the only other Ecuadorean who knows we’re here, has looked after and slept on SV Hanalei for nearly eight months. We need his lancha to get to our boat.

Then I need to kick him out without telling the truth.

It’s not that Ecuadoreans can’t keep a secret; they shouldn’t have to. They need plausible deniability. José Ignacio or Ernesto from the neighboring race boat have already generously shared their contacts. For all I know they might be accused of abetting grand larceny. I can’t tell my lawyer, not without being sure of attorney-client privilege. Can’t ask my friend the Port Captain for a zarpe, either, no matter how much more convenient it would make arrival in another country. It kills me not to see our friend Roberto or explain why I need water. And I especially can’t tell Cocoviche what we’re doing. He’s at the bottom of the power pyramid.

He knows we’re here because something’s going on with Customs. l tell him we want to test the boat’s systems on a sail to Isla de la Plata, fifty miles north. It’s in the same Naval zone so doesn’t require a national zarpe.

Cocoviche raises an eyebrow, cocks his head at our piles of produce, says in Spanish, “How long are you going, three weeks?

I deflect. “James eats a lot. You know those vegetarians.”

Cocoviche narrows his eyes, like I just called him stupid. I further insult him when I ask him to remove all his things. He’s tired, says it’s easier to leave them on the boat ‘til we get back. I insist. He expected a temporary relocation during our visit, not an eviction. I’ve hurt his feelings. I say he can come back in the morning for the rest.

We stow the produce and try to get some sleep.

The next morning, all that’s left to do at anchor is replace a part and check the batteries. They need distilled water.

Cocoviche, stony-faced, brings us some in his lancha. I feel him thinking, working out scenarios. He doesn’t voice his suspicions, though.

By noon, we’re ready to lift anchor. All that remains is to fill the water tank and buy fuel.

In theory, there are two places we can do that. The first is the Salinas Yacht club, but it’s closed today. The other, an hour away, is the Puerto Lucia Yacht Club. That’s the wild card.

Execution? Mixed.

Contingency Plan

As SV Hanalei nears the PLYC fuel dock, we hit the first glitch. I hear Diana Jose’s voice ring out, “What is the name of the boat?”

Busted.

I give my crew precise contingency instructions:

Be vague
Play dumb.
If necessary, lie.

I ask James to pre-pay the diesel at the marina office. On the way he hands our water hose to a marinero. The man, who’s seen our boat around for eighteen months, asks where we’re going.

James dutifully lies. “Isla de la Plata.”

That’s my boy.

Meanwhile, I have my own form of plausible deniability. Hiding. Ostensibly monitoring the water tank, I chart a course to Isla de la Plata.

James is back in a few minutes. '“Diana Jose wants to see our DJT. She says we have a problem. I pretended not to understand.”

“We don’t need a DJT to buy fuel. She’s stalling. Try showing her the registration.”

Do we really need fuel? Our half-tank is enough to motor seventy-five hours. Hanalei is a sailboat.

James returns with the diesel receipt and a slip of paper. “She was on the phone. Said you’re supposed to call this person about your Customs problem.”

“How does she know I have a Customs problem? It’s none of her business.” I glance at the paper. The name looks familiar, but I can ‘t place it. Then I remember the screenshot from the Customs service desk. It’s the agent who’s been handling our case since June. Diana Jose is definitely complicit. “Not a chance.”

The water tank is nearly full when James reports the second glitch. “Mom, a guy in a uniform just pulled up. He’s taking pictures.”

I climb into the cockpit for a look. A man in uniform is indeed standing by the fence, shooting SV Hanalei with his phone.

Why?

Intimidation?

Evidence?

Deterrence?

When I’m nervous, I resort to stories that I know are lies. My nationality protects me. Americans are exceptional. The Embassy would not abide incarceration of a vulnerable gringa. No one should have to obey unjust laws. None of this is real.

The stranger keeps shooting but stays put. Whatever he’s up to, he must not have a warrant yet. As far as I’m concerned, we’re free to leave.

My attitude comes from place of privilege, a chasm between me and global citizenship. Should I call Customs, come clean, try to work this out?

Hell, no.

My hand is shaking as I turn the key in the ignition. “Let’s get out of here.”

Disaster averted? We’ll see.

Remain Calm

The official photo record will show us waving merrily at the camera as we pull away from the dock, a mother and son off for an afternoon sail.

I bank steeply to port in a wide circle, round the breakwater and push the throttle forward. James barely has the fenders up before we’re headed for international waters.

To be continued….

Fair winds,
Christine

Do Tell!

Have you faced a moral or legal dilemma with your boat? What personal qualities helped you solve it?