CHAPTER 23
Voyaging among the Stars
May 28, 1981
I LEFT CURT LYING IN THE cabin with his knee wrapped in gauze with the cold pack, and went out to row. It was a windy day with shifting northeast and southeast winds. As the rowboat progressed south and west toward the Leeward Islands of the Caribbean Sea, the winds had become noticeably finicky, as the pilot chart indicated: we had entered a quadrant of winds from different directions. On the far end of the quadrant, we would leave the prevailing northeast trades for the southeast trade winds that blew from the direction of southwest Africa.
I thought about Curt lying in the cabin. Was his knee so badly hurt that he really couldn’t row? Surely he was using his knee as an excuse to laze about, drink coffee, and read while I did the rowing. I took a few strokes. The sun was hot, and the boat was very heavy.
There had been so much study in preparation for the Atlantic row. I learned how to use Morse code and acquired my ham radio license, along with learning how to recognize international navigation lights and buoys. I’d also been in charge of finding us transportation to Casablanca and contacting companies for sponsorship. Curt had studied celestial navigation and put together the electrical systems on the boat. He had worked with Peter Wilhelm and Ed Montesi on the boat design. Together we built the boat. But one thing I hadn’t bothered to learn was navigation, trusting—naively—that Curt would be able to navigate us across the Atlantic without any problems. It did not seem possible that he would ever be injured or unable to carry out his job.
I thought about this as I rowed along. It was unreasonable and immature to put the responsibility for two lives on just one person in a situation as unusual as rowing a small boat across an ocean. I resolved to ask Curt to teach me one of his methods of navigation so I could share in it.
But first, I took a break from rowing and sat on one of the cabin tops. Settling myself in between the narrow space between the solar panels, I stared down into the green waters rushing by the red hull of Excalibur. I saw the purple pilot fish swimming along, under the bow of the boat. I was sure that I recognized Alpha from the group that trailed after him. For the others I started a naming game to amuse myself. “Charlie, Delta, Echo, and Foxtrot …” I dangled my feet off the bow in the cool seawater, feeling pleasantly relaxed. An occasional wave sent the water as high as my knees. A couple of the pilot fish swam up to look at my toes, contemplating their novelty in the life around the rowboat. It occurred to me they might want a nibble, and I jerked my feet up.
I levered myself off the bow cabin and made my way to the back cabin while holding onto the safety lines. I found a flat spot on the aft cabin roof just forward of the tiller and climbed on to enjoy the gentle wind on my face. Over the weeks since we had gone to sea, I had grown to love the feel of the wind on my face and body. Sometimes the air drifted softly over us while we lay in the cabin at night with the hatch door open, settling on us like a veil of soft silk.
It wasn’t long before I saw a very large brown fish swimming by Excalibur, going in the opposite direction. It was at least five feet long and barely below the surface of the water. It was as though we were passing each other on a conveyor belt or an airport moving sidewalk.
I watched the sea for a long time, mesmerized by the patterns of waves forming and dissolving around the boat. Just as I began to feel hungry, the forward cabin hatch opened and Curt stuck his head out. It was time for lunch, and Curt had prepared a good one.
Over a lunch of chili beans (where had he found them?), I told Curt of my desire to learn a basic method for navigating the boat. I could tell he was pleased I was taking an interest in learning. In retrospect, it seems obvious that we should both have learned celestial navigation, since it was such an important aspect of travel in a slow-moving ocean rowboat. But it wasn’t until the 1984–1985 Pacific Row that I participated fully in the navigation of Excalibur. Perhaps by then I began to accept the real possibility of one of us not making it.
After lunch, Curt began his lecture on how to obtain an approximate position using the sun and stars without a sextant. I scribbled notes as he talked.
“All you need is The Nautical Almanac and your watch set for Greenwich Mean Time. First, you find the North Star at night and estimate how many degrees it is above the horizon. You can do this pretty accurately by visualizing that 90 degrees is straight ahead, 45 degrees is halfway between the horizon and the point in the sky directly overhead, until you get your estimate of how many degrees the North Star is above the horizon. That measurement tells you your latitude.
“Next, you measure the approximate time in Greenwich Mean Time of the sunrise or sunset. The official time of sunrise or sunset is when the sun is two-thirds of its diameter above the horizon.”
He opened The Nautical Almanac to the page that showed the day’s date. He showed me where the times of sunrise and sunset were listed. “The sun rises and sets at different times, depending upon your latitude. Look in the column for your latitude, which you got from the North Star, and write down the difference in minutes between that time in the book and the GMT time you measured by looking at the sun.” I glanced over to the faded orange, water-stained Nautical Almanac with the year 1981 stamped on the front lying beside Curt. He went on, “Since four minutes of time is equal to one degree of longitude, all you have to do is divide four into the difference in minutes between the GMT and local time of sunrise and sunset. That figure tells you how many degrees you have for longitude.”
“That’s all there is to it? How accurate is all of this?”
“It gives you an approximate position. Depending on how accurate your estimates are, you could be right to within sixty or a hundred miles. That could help you find your way to a chain of islands. Like the Leewards. Even a shipping lane.”
We woke up several times during the night to spot for ships, since we were now crossing the New-York-to-South-America shipping lanes. When the horizon began to lighten, Curt went out and shot Nunki, Alpheratz, Denab, Fomalhaut, and Vega through breaks in the clouds. High gray cumulus clouds moved quickly across the dawn skies, making it difficult to pick out, identify, and bring the stars down to the horizon before clouds once again covered them.
Curt decided to try rowing, since the swelling in his knee had gone down. He could only partially bend his knee, so he began with half-strokes. I joined in, and we rowed together, Curt in the bow and me in the stern. As the sun emerged from below the horizon, I stopped rowing so I could try out his emergency method of navigation and check my figures against his morning star sights. As I did my sun sights, he double-checked the bearing of the compass against the bearing of the sunrise, since it hadn’t been done lately.
Later, after we had stopped for breakfast, I got out the Almanac and worked on my calculations. I passed Curt the notebook to check what I had come up with. According to Curt, the estimate looked a bit too far north and west, but he was impressed. When he worked out the stars later, we found I was off by 125 miles. Our position was actually 17 degrees 38 minutes north and 49 degrees 25 minutes west.
His own measurements of the bearing of the sunrise showed only a small deviation in the accuracy of the compass, over and above the 18 degrees west variation shown on the chart. That deviation could easily have been caused by the difficulty in keeping the compass pointed straight while we were lurching around in the waves. Generally, we had been steering by observing the row of Xs showing our previous position on the chart and correcting the autopilot settings as needed.
During the night, the wind and waves died down and the seas became gentler in their motion. I blew out the candle and opened the hatch. “It’s so beautiful out here, you should see the stars.”
We lay on our stomachs, our arms propped up on pillows at the edge of the cabin hatch, the wind blowing softly over us. The sky was crystal clear, and the stars and planets were reflected in the ocean’s surface, giving the impression we were floating in space with no earth below us.
I rolled over onto my back and looked up. Curt did the same. All we could see was space filled with billions of stars and planets. It was awe-inspiring. We could imagine ourselves floating in a capsule among the stars, wondering what would it be like to pass by one. How perfect the moment was, floating on the peaceful sea that night.
CHAPTER 24
Atlantic Encounters
May 31,1981
IAN, A HAM RADIO OPERATOR we’d been in touch with lately, had advice and information for us about Antigua. Over the past couple of weeks, we had discussed the best place to make landfall. Fine-tuning Excalibur’s course was becoming essential as the rowboat drew closer to the Caribbean side of the Atlantic.
“8P6HZ, this is KA1GIN MM. Do you copy?”
Ian copied us and was delighted to reestablish contact. Like so many of the hams out there, he was more than willing to be of assistance. He sent the following message: “If you’re going to Antigua, then English Harbour is a good place to land.” I located it on the chart as he was talking. “It’s a good port because it’s enclosed from the sea but it has a good breeze. But it has no buoys or lights, which is surprising, considering it is an official port of entry. So don’t come in at night.” I looked at Curt, and he nodded. A night landing was definitely something we would avoid; we’d put out the sea anchor and slow our progress toward Antigua if our approach was untimely.
Ian went on, “As you come in from the east, which I’m assuming you will, you’ll pass south of Green Island, across from the Bay of Nonesuch. Go right toward South Point. You’ll almost be past the Point when you see the entrance to English Harbour; it’s at the very southern end of Antigua. You go in through the Pillars of Hercules, around the Harbor, and to the White Admiral’s Inn. That’ll be a good place for you to drop anchor.”
Antigua was sounding more and more like a reality as we listened to Ian and plotted a course along the south coast of the island according to his advice. We needed to adjust the present course and make Excalibur’s line of position straighter. When Curt worked out the star sights that night, he was startled by the results. We had drifted farther north of our intended course: the boat was now at 17 degrees 48 minutes north and 52 degrees 54 minutes west. Either the autopilot, which had hardly ever been turned off, had wandered off course, or the weather had blown us off course. This was the point in the voyage when we needed to steer the most accurate course, without altering, until we caught sight of land. Curt went out to the aft cabin, where the autopilot ceaselessly steered Excalibur, and adjusted the course to 265 degrees true.
On June 1, in the half-light of early evening, I caught a triggerfish. Since we were both tired, it didn’t matter that the triggerfish was an ugly-looking fish. We were hungry and needed the fresh food.
While Curt was cooking it with the last of the fresh onions and Moroccan olive oil, I saw a light out my port window. As we drew closer to the Caribbean Sea, the likelihood of seeing ships and even being run down had increased. I grabbed the spotlight off the hook on Curt’s side and went on deck to plug it in, to let the ship know we were there. Curt turned on the anchor light from the inside and came out and stood beside me. With the VHF radio, he tried hailing the ship as I trained the spotlight straight at it. The ship was only half a mile away. But no one answered our calls. We were surprised not to get a response, and also disappointed, because Curt wanted a position check to confirm our approach to land.
I unplugged the spotlight, and we went back into the cabin. The triggerfish meal was also a disappointment: the meat was bitter and tough. I threw the contents of the frying pan overboard because we didn’t want to take a chance with fish poisoning. The pilot fish, however, were delighted with the morsels as they dropped overboard.
It was a rough night. Wind and waves shifted from a comfortable northeast motion to a rougher east-southeast, creating confused seas with breaking crests from different directions. We were jolted around from side to side all night, making sleep for more than ten minutes impossible.
The wind and waves were part of the easterlies, the storm systems that blow from east to west through the trade wind belt and fuel tropical storms and hurricanes. Dark clouds raced across the sky with sudden rain squalls.
Curt’s log: June 2
Getting up at 0800 hours GMT, in the dark, to prepare for morning star sights was difficult. I pulled on a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt and braced myself to crawl out onto the wet deck. The scene that greeted me was gray and dark with tall menacing seas of whitecaps. The wind shrieked through the safety lines as I reached down to get the sextant from Kathleen in the cabin. She quickly closed the hatch door to avoid blowing spray and turned on the electric light to record the time and angle of the star sights that I would call out.
On deck, I was trying hard to keep my balance as I brought the sextant up to my eye. When I found Nunki in the telescope of the sextant, I worked the index to bring the star down to the horizon. Or was it the horizon? The true horizon was only visible for a brief second when Excalibur was at the top of a large wave. Before I could double-check, a cloud covered Nunki.
I wasn’t discouraged, though. I tried another star. “Get ready,” I told Kathleen, “I’m going to try Formalhaut.” Kathleen recorded the data: 0828:44. I tried and got Vega and Deneb. I thought we would have something to advance our position with, though the horizons were somewhat questionable in the stormy conditions.
Too tired to row and unwilling to face the stormy conditions, I went back to the cabin and tried to get more sleep. I had nightmares about the triggerfish Kathleen had caught the night before. Its ugly face and wide staring eyes kept swimming by. Then, suddenly, as I watched in horror, it jumped up at me.
When I woke up again, we were surrounded by the gray light of early morning. I shifted my weight on the sleeping mat. Salt sores on my skin itched and burned. My head ached and my mind felt dull and groggy. Perhaps if I took a bath, I would feel better, more alert. I took care not to awaken Kathleen as I crawled past her. Standing amidships, I poured buckets of cold seawater over my body to rinse the saltwater soap from my body.
To the north of the boat was a gathering of dark clouds. The wind suddenly picked up and hard drops of rain began pelting against my skin. I stood up, holding on to the safety lines, and laughed out loud at the prospect of being rinsed off by fresh water. The rain turned into a torrential downpour.
Very quickly the wind came in violent gusts. The rain changed to hail and the sweet feeling of fresh water became sharp stinging arrows. I had never seen anything like it. The sea was whipped into impossibly steep peaks. All around the boat, waves broke over the gunwales and gushed around me. I felt powerless to do anything as I crouched by the back cabin holding on to the safety lines with all my might.
David and Goliath: Excalibur versus Atlántico, June 3, 1981
As quickly as it started, the morning’s squall ended. The wind died down, and the solid gray clouds flew off to the west. Though the waves were still choppy, it was possible to row. Curt joined me on deck as I leaned down to untie my oars.
By midday we had rowed two hours in clearing skies and settling seas. As we ended the rowing in the gathering heat of the day, a white object appeared in the distance. When we both strained to see what it was, Curt took out the sextant and sighted it through the telescope. It was a ship!
I brought out the VHF and tried communicating but to no avail. It continued along its course, less than a half mile from us. Then I remembered the mirror trick we had used with Jangada in the Canaries. I took it out and began moving it back and forth to catch the sun’s reflection.
To my amazement, the ship turned toward us and passed port to port about two hundred yards away. I gave Curt the VHF to call, but before he could say a word, the radio crackled to life. In rapid Spanish we heard, “Que problema? Que quieres?”
We were stunned at our success in contacting another boat after so many failures in the past, but Curt recovered first and answered in Spanish. “
This is Excalibur, the transatlantic rowboat, forty-three days out of Hierro. Can you tell us what our position is? We’re having trouble getting accurate fixes in these seas.”
The letters on the freighter’s hull were now clearly visible: Atlántico. The captain of the ship, Louis Platensuelo, radioed a position that was 17 degrees 27 minutes north, 56 degrees 14 minutes west. Later, when we compared these figures with Curt’s calculations, we found we were only five miles off the ship’s computed position.
“Apart from the position, is there anything else you need?” the captain added.
Curt answered in the negative, but I couldn’t resist. Couldn’t we get something, since these people were our first live human contact in well over a month? I asked for something sweet.
At the same time the captain asked, “Perhaps there is something you desire? Maybe we could give you fresh fruit, salada?”
It was hard to resist such an offer. Curt accepted but asked that they not come any closer to us for safety reasons. Was there a way they could get the parcel of goodies to us?
“Certainly,” Captain Louis answered. “Don’t worry, we will put it so you can get it.”
Atlántico motored around us several times, laying down a circle of motor oil to calm the seas. We had not seen people in forty-three days, and now a huge steel freighter was circling us. From the freighter, we could hear the sounds of a hammer banging away, drifting on the wind. I looked at Curt and said, “You can smell the ship. It’s our first smell of civilization in over six weeks.” He wrinkled his nose, taking in the smells of grease, oil, and paint. It was almost overwhelming.
Soon the result of the hammering appeared and the seamen lowered a wooden raft topped with a large, heavily tied plastic package. Atlántico was visibly pitching and rolling in the seas as she attempted to tow the raft of supplies to us with a long rope. Unfortunately, as the raft hit the open water, the rope broke in the tremendous action of the waves and the raft broke away.
Rowing for My Life Page 15