A little bit off topic, but perhaps interesting to those of you who enjoy the stories of the BVI of yore...

I buried my newborn son at sea just off of the North drop back in 1981. He died at Peebles, with Dr. (Orlando) Smith attending. We were told that he was doing well, even though he was premature. I had a friend who was the skipper of a fancy yacht with a helicopter on the ready just in case he needed to be transported to PR. We were told not to worry.

When he died we were basically shunned. The death of a male was considered a bad omen. There was no 'funeral home' back then, so I collected the body (the morgue refrigeration was on the fritz, so I needed to go 'right away', according to the hospital) and a carpenter friend built a small casket, weighted and ventilated for a burial at sea. I went to the Registrar for a death certificate, and I remember that the clerk giggled when she gave it to me - undoubtedly a nervous reaction to the solemnity of the task.

My wife was still in the hospital, and profoundly sad. My one year old daughter was in the care of friends, and we were booked on back-to-back charters. I hated my boat, the BVI, and its backwater ways, and most of all myself for allowing this all to happen to my young family.

I sailed off of my mooring at West End, not wanting to contaminate the proceedings with engine noise, with Devin's little casket on the bow. We sailed through the cut, and I told my little boy how much I would have loved him, and how we would have sailed the world together with his Mom and sister.

I don't remember exactly where I buried him, but I know every time I pass over him today. I sense a strong feeling of anguish...like I'm witnessing a million puppies being slaughtered at once. It's been a bit embarrassing to my guests, on the rare occasion when we've passed over the spot. I simply cannot function. So very surreal.

I think of Devin every day of my life, and can remember EXACTLY where I was when I buried him...but only in my mind.

I returned to my mooring, where my mate was waiting with the dinghy. I hired a captain, and didn't set foot on my boat again for almost a year. I blamed my beloved boat, and my obsession with her, for killing my son. I stayed with my daughter and wife...and we just licked our wounds.

My wife became pregnant again, and although she wanted to stay, I couldn't risk that loss one more time. We moved back to the states and were blessed with two more sons.