“Maybe we should stop fighting these south waves and row north toward the Equator.” Curt pointed to a chart. “We could pick up the Equatorial Counter Current and row back toward Panama. At least there would be a continent to hit if we went east.”
“I don’t know, we might be too far west already,” I said, remembering that we had already rowed at least a thousand miles since the Galápagos.
“Yeah, you might be right.” We studied the chart with its neatly penciled-in Xs marking our progress. Though the weather had been rough and overcast most of the time, Excalibur Pacific had covered an impressive amount of mileage. It became obvious that we were too far west to successfully go north to catch the counter current. Oddly, the same day the sextant was lost the winds began to come more out of the east than the southeast. We would be hard pressed to row north with any speed.
Rowing toward French Polynesia
The new course would be 240 degrees south-southwest. The Marquesas were approximately 9 degrees south, about 4 degrees of latitude south of our present position or approximately 276 miles (sixty-nine miles per degree). We decided to keep up our rowing schedule and try to reach the islands.
That evening, as I tied my oars down, I said, “Why don’t you try to fix the radio antenna while I make dinner? I think the problem with the radio contacts has something to do with the whip antennas. Maybe they’re not high enough to catch a signal. Maybe we could get advice or help for what to do.”
Curt’s log: 5 p.m.
In the aft cabin, I found the tool kit, the spare dipole antenna we had made for the radio, and some extra wire. Kathleen crawled inside the bow cabin to pass me the ham radio book. I looked up the formula for calculating the length of a dipole antenna for the frequency we needed to reach our sailboat friends in the Galápagos. With cut pieces of wire held together with electrical tape and connected to the coaxial cable, we hoped for the best. I insulated it all with plastic tubing and wrapped string and propped it up with the boat hook. If the waves didn’t get too rough, the jury-rig would stay in place long enough to make radio contact.
After dinner, we tried the radio, and to our great relief were able to make contact with Andiamo III, who was still in the Galápagos. Between Andiamo and Excalibur Pacific, we discussed ideas for navigating without a sextant. We talked about different types of astrolabes and after a few trials and errors we came up with a design that worked best for our situation.
Using the hatch cover from the bow cabin navigation compartment, I scribed the degrees of a quarter circle, 90 degrees from a point near one corner of the board. I put in two small finishing nails in line with the 0 degree gradation. To use it, one of us sights along the nails at the horizon to keep the astrolabe level, while the other person reads the degrees marked by the shadow of the sun. Since the boat moves around so much, the person sighting at the horizon says “Mark” the instant the board lines up on the horizon. We record the highest readings at the sun’s highest point in the sky for the date of the measurement. After we apply the declination of the sun for the date of measurement, we have a rough idea of our latitude.
The latitude is an important measurement. If we can row south to the latitude of the Marquesas, we can then row west until we reach them. But if we’re off by much, we will miss the islands.
In a couple of days, we made another refinement in the astrolabe. As he described for the camcorder, Curt attached a movable pointer with white adhesive tape to the shadow nail to make it easier to see its shadow. The person sighting at the horizon could move the pointer until the shadow was in line with the nail. It became easy to read the sun’s altitude when it was close to the horizon in the morning or evening for the longitude check.
Despite the custom-designed astrolabe, a problem beyond our control developed. As the sun rose higher in the sky with the advancement of summer in the southern hemisphere, the shadows at noon became increasingly difficult to distinguish, because the sun was almost directly overhead. The device would be useless by mid-October, just when we needed it most for the final approach to the Marquesas.
Navigating by the Stars
One afternoon when we were rowing together, I said to Curt, “Do you remember Marvin Creamer? We met him a few years ago when we got that Kalmar Nycel Award in Delaware.”
“Yeah, of course. He sailed across the Atlantic without instruments, didn’t he? I think he was planning to go around the world.”
“What if we try to contact him for any ideas?”
Our ham radio friends in Hawaii very quickly tracked Creamer down at a boat show in Connecticut where he was displaying his boat. Within a couple of days, he was on the radio sharing ideas for navigating without instruments. Essentially, Creamer’s technique was one used by ancient Polynesian navigators. As he talked, we took copious notes.
“What you should do,” he advised, “is pick a star with the same declination as the latitude of the island you are heading for. When the star crosses your meridian, it will be directly overhead if your latitude is right. You can accurately judge the zenith point by tracing imaginary lines in the sky at night with your hands. Draw the lines perpendicular to the horizon at various directions from your boat.” The celestial meridian he referred to was the arc that passed through the celestial North and South Poles and the zenith, the highest point in the sky in relation to our position. The meridian divided the sky into east and west. A star whose declination was the same as the latitude of a Marquesas island would act as a guide post for us to follow as we rowed west.
“Perpendicular to the horizon? Can you repeat, Marvin?”
“Yes, once you find your star, get out there on deck, and when it crosses your meridian, draw lines perpendicular to the horizon.” I copied his words verbatim. His advice meant the difference between reaching land and saving ourselves or failing—something we would not consider.
“Where the imaginary lines cross will be the zenith point,” he continued. “With practice, you’ll learn to tell if you are north or south of that star at the meridian transit. Then you’ll adjust your course accordingly.”
The unique part of Marvin Creamer’s technique was that he used his hands and arms as instruments for determining, by physical observation, the zenith point in the sky.
Curt asked him, “Is this technique accurate enough to enable us to find the Marquesas?”
“Yes, it is,” he answered.
That night we went to bed more hopeful than we had been in a week. Starting the next day, the rowing schedule was changed to mostly nighttime. The new schedule was not only good for navigation, but it also removed us from direct sunlight during the heat of the day, which was now very hot. Rowing at night would save water because we wouldn’t perspire as much and need to drink so much.
We would use the astrolabe as a backup, though. Maybe it was our European ancestry or maybe because the hatch-cover astrolabe was something we could physically hold on to as we determined our fate.
Night Rowing while Navigating
Curt’s log: September 21
Rough seas. Each day one of us pumps saltwater in the empty water bottles below deck for extra ballast. We put “S” on the caps so we know which are filled with saltwater and which are fresh.
Rowing at night is wild in these conditions. We wear our storm gear with safety harnesses. Big waves all around us with strong, persistent winds. We row and watch the transit of Eridani in the constellation of Eridanus and Rigel in Orion just as the twilight comes in. Both are guiding stars that will lead us to kappa Orionis. It’s hard to tell in these conditions. We make the observations and compare notes. I think we’re about 6 or 7 degrees south. We are ultimately aiming for the star kappa Orionis in the constellation of Orion. This star transits its highest point in the sky above Hiva Oa island in the Marquesas, our ultimate destination.
Sometimes we sing while rowing but mostly we row and watch the stars above our heads, craning our necks backward. It’s strangely beautiful out here. The dull gray foam of bre
aking waves. Cold winds when we’re wet. The sound of waves coming from nowhere in the dark of the night is scary.
Once I was hit in the face by a flying fish. I didn’t know what the hell it was. We both stopped and flashed on the spotlight and saw it was a small flying fish knocked out cold. Kathleen tossed it in the bait can.
It is now the equinox where the sun is over the equator. Shadow observations of the sun are difficult in rough sea conditions but the results agree with the star observations.
I guess the initial scare of going overboard and losing the sextant has worn off. But the experience has left us with greater respect for the sea. Can’t let the guard down ever. Even with being tired, run down, wet, and scared. I still don’t know where we really are, though longitude estimates put us roughly halfway to the Marquesas. Looks like rougher conditions may be with us for the second half. We’ve got to keep it together, figure out the latitude, and be careful and methodical about everything.
Rowing in the darkness of night with waves that broke with a certain heaviness and violence fueled my imagination. With every stroke we took, we’d looked upward for the stars we needed. For several nights, we watched the transit of Eridani in the constellation of Eridanus and Rigel in Orion as the twilight came in. At the right moment, we’d leave our oars to trail in the water and get up to go to the fore and aft decks. Like a high priest and priestess in a mystical rite of predicting the future, we searched the skies again for Eridani or kappa Orionis, and then raise our right arms while facing each other and point directly at the transiting star. Together we’d lower our arms directly down to the horizon as we drew imaginary meridian lines.
“I think we’re still north of kappa Orionis!” I called to Curt, whom I could barely see at the other end of the deck. He stood like me, legs spread wide for balance on the rolling deck, with one hand holding the safety line while his right arm repeated the meridian line dance.
“Yeah, I think you’re right. We’ll keep the same course another night.” With that, we’d tie down the oars and crawl into the bow cabin to sleep as the fringes of the eastern horizon began to lighten in a fusion of a soft magenta yellow.
On September 25, I made a list of the food stores on the boat and calculated that if we ate two meals a day from now on, the food would last another three to four weeks. And then? When Curt checked the marine batteries, he found one of them was one-fourth charged. The radio schedules would have to be shortened and candlelight replace the light in the cabin.
Eventually, we began feeling light-headed while rowing due to the reduced diet. While Curt was swimming one day in an attempt to spear a five-inch pilot fish for dinner, he shot the port side of the hull instead, allowing a bit of water into the port stern compartment.
On October 6, it seemed that we were finally under the star of kappa Orionis, whose meridian passage was over Hiva Oa in the Marquesas, our destination. Curt set the compass for 270 degrees due west. It was miserable, however, because the waves were hitting the boat on the beam, in other words, in the middle of its side. We had fought our way against south waves to get far enough south, only to be caught in a region of waves coming out of the north. Now we had to fight not to go too far south. The flopping back-and-forth motion brought back my seasickness.
Swamped at Sea
Late one afternoon, too tired to sleep, I rowed alone in choppy conditions, struggling to pull the oars in and out of the water. Often I paused between strokes to let foaming waves slide under the boat. It was a complete body workout, because as the waves slammed up against the side of the boat I pushed my hands on the oars downward to lift the blades out of the water and at the same time twist my body around so my weight was on the down side.
Then all of a sudden, on the starboard side, there was one wave bigger than all the rest. It was a huge white wave coming right at me. I watched, paralyzed, as it swept toward the gunwales and dumped a seething cauldron of green seawater in my lap and the open deck area. The boat wobbled under the weight and tipped precariously, with the starboard gunwale almost going underwater. I dropped the oars and jumped to the high side, screaming to Curt, who was in the cabin, to close the port windows. He slammed them shut, but it was still too late to prevent gallons of cold seawater from flooding in. Frantically, I bailed out the deck while Curt did the cabin. It was dark when we sponged up the last of the water. Days later, I was still shaking from the experience of almost flipping over.
From that day on, we found ourselves rowing in rain squalls through the heavy night seas that would switch directions from northeast to southeast on the hour. Since the near flip, every wave sounded menacing. Despite the nasty weather, by October 16, we estimated our position to be only 120 miles from Hiva Oa. I hoped the skies would clear so we could see land.
CHAPTER 30
Missing
October 18, 1984
THE SKY WAS OVERCAST, AND thick stratus clouds lined the horizon when we awoke at dawn on October 18, expecting to see Hiva Oa off the bow. I strained my eyes at the distant horizon and used the lens of the cameras to try to see better, but it wasn’t there. By midmorning, a dark smudge of land appeared through the clouds. We were ready to celebrate after Curt took compass bearings from the distant land and matched its outline with sketches of Hiva Oa in the Sailing Directions for the Pacific Islands Planning Guide, published by the US Department of Defense. Relieved and ecstatic, Curt went to the rudder and changed course toward the sight of land.
At the scheduled radio contact time, we reported to the fleet of sailboats that had been following our progress via the ham radio from the Galápagos that we were in sight of Hiva Oa. The yacht Andiamo III, who was now near Hiva Oa, sailed to our presumed position but found nothing. By late afternoon in the clearing skies, our worst fears were confirmed: there was no land.
Fear and Despair
A sense of despair and mounting fear hung over the boat. I crawled into the cabin with my safety harness on and flopped onto the sleeping mats, my head spinning with the possibilities. How could we have missed so badly?
After weeks of plotting a course with the astrolabe and the night stars, Hiva Oa was not there! Could it be we were not even near the Marquesas? Were we lost? The thought was too terrible to imagine. Our food stores were strained, while using one gallon of water between the two of us was making it last longer. I couldn’t understand, because all our sights had been consistent in their progression. It had been obvious that we were moving west and south.
In the twilight, Curt pulled in his oars and fumbled to tie them to the edge of the deck. He pushed hard and I felt a hard tug on my safety harness.
“Stop it!” I shouted. My safety harness was caught on the oar, and it pissed me off. I looked out at Curt on deck and yelled again to stop what he was doing. He said something back, but I told him to shut up.
That did it. “I did not do it on purpose! How was I supposed to know your fricking safety line was wrapped around the oar? Huh? Huh?” He stomped down on the oar and broke off the blade. I slammed the hatch shut, screaming, “Go to hell!”
Curt’s log: October 18 at 8 p.m.
I stood on deck and looked around the horizon one last time before going in the cabin. Nothing. I looked toward the bow cabin and through the Lexan hatch, saw Kathleen light the candle. We were in a very lonely place. If we didn’t find land very soon, we would run out of food and water.
I made my way back along the deck toward the dim cabin light after setting a sea anchor [to slow the progress of the boat drifting westward]. Inside the cabin, I saw Kathleen had pulled out the Sailing Directions and was sitting hunched over on her side of the cabin. “I’m making a list of islands beyond the Marquesas we might try to reach.” I could tell by the tone of her voice that the storm had blown over. It was typical of Kathleen to go on as if nothing had happened. We learned early on that we could not hold grudges. Breaking the oar was like opening a pressure valve. It was time to go on.
I had made a list of islands while Curt
spread the chart out on the space between us. With both of us in the cabin, there was about four feet square of open deck space to place a chart.
The Tuamotu archipelago lay beyond the Marquesas. It was a vast group of coral atolls extending over nine hundred miles of longitude. Though they represented the closest land if we had indeed missed the Marquesas, we would have to row five hundred miles south to reach them. Considering the west-flowing current, our weakened physical condition, and dwindling food stores, it was a difficult proposition.
“I’ve titled this list ‘Lost at Sea Strategy’ and come up with six possible atolls, including Fakarava, which is the second-largest atoll in the Tuamotus. It has a village called Rotoava in the northeast.” Curt looked at the chart and the speck I was pointing to.
“See these arrows?” he said. “The whole archipelago is filled with tricky currents going in different directions. It’s like the Galápagos all over again.”
We fell silent, remembering the difficulty of reaching Santa Cruz island when we had originally aimed for San Cristóbal to the east of Santa Cruz. The west-flowing currents had carried us right past San Cristóbal. Fortunately, we had been able to catch the next island, but not before encountering the horror of rowing over the barrier reef protecting the harbor entrance. It had been pitch black with only a faint harbor light to row toward when we heard a tinkling sound like broken glass and then the distinctive whoosh of heavy waves pulling back to break forward. We had heard it all on our right side and realized the wave was going to break right over the boat if we didn’t make a 90-degree turn to the south and row like hell.
Rowing for My Life Page 21