Green Ghost, Blue Ocean

by Jennifer M. Smith

  On day eight we entered the fast-flowing Agulhas current on the western side of the channel. It gave us a two-knot boost, but it wasn’t enough. On the morning of our tenth day, with about sixty hours of sailing to make Richards Bay, the weather forecast predicted that the next front was expected in approximately sixty-four hours. We were so close, but we weren’t willing to risk it. If we were a few hours late, or if the front was a few hours early, we would find ourselves in the Agulhas current as the front arrived – the most dangerous place to be in a big southwesterly blow. We made the choice to play it safe and detour to Inhaca Island off Maputo, Mozambique, 30 NM off our course.

  “Dammit!” I heard Nik say in the cockpit.

  “What’s happened?” I called up from my bunk.

  “The genoa halyard’s let go and the sail is sliding down the forestay! Can you come up here and give me a hand?”

  We hastily rolled the slumping genoa up on the foil and unfurled the smaller staysail, which slowed our speed toward shelter. Although it had been a difficult decision not to carry on to Richards Bay, we now knew we’d made the right choice. If we’d pushed our luck and made a run for it, the genoa failure would’ve ensured that we lost the race with the approaching weather. We would’ve found ourselves on a section of coastline where there was nowhere to hide. Instead, we were safely at anchor when the bad weather arrived on time and in force.

  The anchorage at Inhaca wasn’t much to see, but as the saying goes, any port in a storm. While we waited, we socialized. Roger and Sue of Wapiti, the only other boat in the anchorage, had ducked out of the weather just as we had. Although we’d been chatting on the radio net together as we crossed the channel, we’d never met, but that didn’t stop them from planning a party. Learning it was my fifty-first birthday, they invited us over for a delicious curry lunch. They even had a gift-wrapped birthday present for me and a card to go with it. Their generosity epitomized the cruising world, and made a birthday holed up off the coast of Mozambique an even more memorable affair.

  While we waited for the weather, we pulled the genoa down and found that the webbing loop that was stitched into the head of the sail had worn through. I sewed some new webbing on, we rehoisted the sail, and we were shipshape once again.

  After three nights and two days, we were able to resume our journey. From Inhaca south to Richards Bay was a mad dash. By now we understood that although the weather forecasting could be inaccurate for the Mozambique Channel, the South African meteorologists had it dialled in when it came to predicting coastal weather. We had only 200 NM to go, but it was a narrow window of opportunity in mixed conditions and we had to make use of every hour. Nik was in a state of high anxiety. I admit that I was too. It was the first time I’d felt nervous about a departure.

  Everything went according to plan. After several hours of tacking into south-southeasterlies, the winds backed to the northeast on time and exactly at the strength predicted by the forecast, allowing us a due south run. For the final sixteen hours to Richards Bay, with three reefs in the mainsail and a tablecloth of genoa unfurled, we made our final fast dash to South Africa.

  Moonlight lit our way until one a.m. when the moon set, leaving me on watch in the ink-black night. Nik had gone to bed an hour earlier, instructing me to wake him for the final approach. Friends, already in Richards Bay, had reported to us that the harbour entry was well-marked and that the electronic charts for the area were spot on. This was a good thing as the timing was such that we couldn’t avoid arriving in the dark.

  The twinkling lights of Richards Bay were a welcome sight. We’d left Madagascar over two weeks earlier and, as always, we were both looking forward to someone else’s cooking and a long walk on shore. As I approached the harbour entry I was feeling confident with my position, using the C-map charts on the chartplotter on the binnacle and the Navionics charts on the iPad as confirmation of our position, but as we neared the harbour entrance something didn’t look right. There was something between us and Richards Bay. As we bounced along, the lights in town appeared and disappeared, now blocked out by a black silhouette, now peeking out from behind it. I couldn’t see what the object was, but something as black as the night itself stood between us and the channel and obscured the lights of town.

  “I need some help up here,” I called down to Nik.

  “What’s up?” Nik asked as he came into the cockpit, still groggy. He hadn’t had much rest.

  “There’s something big and black between us and the channel but I can’t figure out what it is.”

  Nik grabbed the binoculars and went out on deck. Bracing himself against the mast he took a good look forward. “It looks like a black hill,” he called back.

  “That’s what I thought. But how can it be? There’s no island on the charts.”

  We rolled up the genoa to slow down and to improve our visibility. I steered to skirt the object, keeping the black mass to our port side. Closer, we could see that a single tiny white light marked the apex of the monolith. Closer still, we could differentiate some colour – rust red near the waterline, black on top. Nearer still we could make out some white markings, and two huge anchors against the black hull. The mystery object was the bow section of a modern ocean-going bulk carrier sticking up above the water’s surface. But where was the rest of her? Was the stern section still attached, resting on the sea floor? We couldn’t believe no one had mentioned this monstrous hazard to navigation on the way into Richards Bay, but then for anyone entering the port by day, it was so obviously a shipwreck, it needed no explanation. It was only by night that the wreck posed a threat.

  We learned that the 273-metre MV Smart had run aground two months earlier as she exited the harbour in ten-metre seas. It surprised me that no one had boarded her bow section to spray paint the words Not So in front of the ship’s name.

  Free and clear of further obstacles, we rocketed into a slip at Tuzi Gazi Marina, tying up at three a.m. and beating the forecasted thirty-knot southwesterly front by eight hours. Despite the late hour, once Green Ghost was tied up, we quietly walked up the docks together to perform a ritual we hadn’t done in twelve years. We held hands and jumped onto African soil, then we turned around and walked back to the boat to go to bed. We’d made it.

  We soon moved over to Zululand Yacht Club where most of our friends were tied up. We immediately plunged into the social scene at the laid-back community-oriented ZYC. On Braai nights, steak dinners could be purchased for about C$12 per couple and at happy hour on pub nights, rounds of half a dozen drinks were only C$7. But it was the camaraderie that was intoxicating. We felt part of something, part of a sailing community, one of a small number of people who had sailed a boat from Australia to Africa. We settled in and paid for a month at the dock.

  At one of the social nights Nik was asked about our trip by a local sailor. The man listened intently while Nik enthusiastically told our story. When Nik was finished, the man looked at me.

  “Do you have kids?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied.

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t think so. You can’t do that with kids.”

  It was a line we heard often and it always put me on the back foot. My sense of cozy inclusiveness vanished. Although the comment was probably nothing more than a practical observation – that sailing with two adults is logistically easier than sailing with a family – it always struck a wounded part of me. The comment pointedly excluded us from the drudgery of parenting and suggested that being childless was nothing but a lucky perk that made all we’d accomplished so much easier. I wondered if I’d ever stop flinching. Probably not. I suppose it will always define me, that broken part of my heart. In response, I was speechless.

  “But you can!” Nik chimed in, always good at saving the moment with his cheerful disposition. “You can do this with kids. The Copelands, the Martins, the Wilcox family … they all did it decades ago. And these days there are many more. We’ve met so many wonderful cruising families. You can do it with kids. It w
ould be an amazing enriching family experience!”

  “Yeah, well, not with my kids.” He stopped us.

  There was no changing his mind.

  We were determined to make the most of our time in Africa. Hiring a car with our friends Bruce and Kerry from Haven we took off on a road trip in pursuit of the big five: one car, two couples, three weeks, four countries, and over five thousand kilometres of fun. Africa surprised us at every turn from the nearby white rhinos of Hluhluwe Game Reserve to the semi-tame cheetahs of Emdoneni Game Farm to the adventures farther afield.

  We drove 1,700 kilometres to Kasane, Botswana, for a couple of days in Chobe National Park before a day trip across the border into Zimbabwe to see Victoria Falls. From there we headed south and west to Maun, into Okavango River country.

  We’d read that the Old Bridge Backpackers was a good place to arrange a boat trip up the Okavango Delta, a UNESCO World Heritage site and one of the Seven Natural Wonders of Africa. Kerry and I, forever the planners, approached the administration desk in the open lobby.

  “We’d like to speak to you about a river trip,” Kerry said.

  “Yes, what kind of trip are you looking at?” the manager replied.

  “Well, there are four of us, and we’re thinking we’d like to do a four-day, three-night trip up the river and then upon our return, we’re thinking we’d like to do two days and one night in Moremi Game Reserve.”

  “And when would you like to do this?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  The manager smiled widely. “You’re optimistic, aren’t you?” he said with a note of sarcasm.

  “Yes, we are!” Kerry and I said in unison, laughing out loud.

  “Let me make some calls. Help yourself to a coffee, have a seat by the bar, and I’ll get back to you shortly.”

  “Well, he didn’t say ’no’,” I said brightly to Kerry as we stirred whitener into our strong coffee.

  In under an hour the manager came to us and told us he had it all arranged – a guide, a cook, a crew, two boats, and reservations upriver. We were in. It was only later that we realized that our last-minute booking probably meant we got a less experienced team.

  The following morning, we handed our gear to the camp assistants, keeping only our daypacks with us as we climbed into the shallow draft river boat with our soft-spoken guide, Alec. It was a treat for all of us. We didn’t have to operate the vessel, we didn’t have to navigate; all we had to do was sit back and enjoy the scenery.

  The Okavango Delta was fantastic. Wildlife was everywhere: elephants at the water’s edge, fish eagles perched in the trees, crocodiles slithering in from the banks, and hippos idling in pools. Amazed at Alec’s eyesight and delighted by his commentary, we found he was a fantastic guide and we were awestruck every mile of the journey.

  It was the beginning of the rainy season and the water level was low. Navigating the braided river system was not easy, something we appreciated after bottoming out a few times. Now and then Alec would stop the boat and lift the outboard to carefully pilot through extremely shallow patches; other times he’d perform a similar routine to clear weeds caught in the propeller.

  At one bend in the river, Alec stopped the boat to check the propeller. With the prop clear, he scanned the water surface then gunned the boat, passing through an area of tall reeds at top speed. As we rounded the next corner, a hippo on shore charged the water, covering the short distance to the water’s edge with remarkable speed. We flew past, heading upstream to a great lunch spot.

  We set up our folding chairs in the shade of a large tree and pulled out our picnic lunch. On the quiet savannah, we had a chance to ask Alec questions.

  “That hippo back there, the one that ran into the water when we went by, I guess the noise of our engine frightened him. Is that what they do? Do they run for the water when they’re frightened?” I asked.

  “No. Not frightened,” Alec explained in cropped sentences.

  “Oh?” I said.

  “Hippo was charging us.”

  “Oh,” I said again, embarrassed at my naiveté.

  “That is why I make sure, no weeds.”

  “So how did you know to do that? Is that hippo always in that spot?” Nik chimed in.

  “Yes, always there,” Alec answered.

  “Does he always charge the boats?” Bruce got in on the questioning.

  “Yes. Bad hippo,” Alec answered, straight-faced.

  “Does the hippo ever get the boat?” I asked, horrified.

  “Sometimes.” Alec replied. “Sometimes they bite it.”

  “If they bite it, then what happens?” I needed to understand this. We hadn’t been given the lowdown on the emergency exits.

  “If the boat has hole, I drive it up on the bank,” Alec answered.

  “Then what?”

  “Then you run.”

  I doubted very much anyone would have much of a chance outrunning a hippo, so this last part struck me as futile. I knew that hippos caused more deaths than the other wild animals in Africa, but for some reason I’d imagined them being dangerous to folks on foot near the water’s edge. It hadn’t occurred to me that they would attack a twenty-foot tinny roaring through their territory at top speed. This business of being in the African bush was not to be taken lightly.

  After lunch, we carried on upriver, seeing beautiful wildlife at every turn. In one area where the stream was very broad, Alec slowed our boat and began arm-waving and shouting. There was another boat much like ours on the far side of the river.

  “That is Captain,” Alec explained to us afterward.

  “Is that our gear?” Nik asked.

  Back at the backpacker’s dock, there had been two boats: ours, which carried us, our daypacks, our picnic lunch, and some chairs, and a second boat that carried all the camping gear – the tents and sleeping bags, our larger packs, the food, and the rest of the team.

  “Yes. Captain doesn’t know the river. He is on the wrong side,” Alec said evenly. I wasn’t sure if it was a problem. Deeply concerned or utterly delighted, Alec’s face always looked the same. His tone of voice never seemed to change.

  On we went, taking in all the Delta had to offer, never tiring of another elephant sighting, the flight of a crested crane, or the dash of impala from the water’s edge.

  It was late in the afternoon when Alec stopped the boat midstream and turned off the engine to give us complete quiet. He’d done this a few times since lunch. It was a moment to take in the sounds of the Delta, to appreciate the natural beauty in peace. But Alec wasn’t delighting in bird calls, he was listening for the sound of an outboard motor.

  “Alec, why are we sitting in this spot?” Bruce asked after ten minutes or more.

  The sun was sliding down the afternoon sky. In the distance, we could see towering anvil-shaped clouds and rain on the horizon.

  “I am listening for Captain,” Alec explained. “He is behind us.”

  Caught up in viewing wildlife, we hadn’t paid much attention to the fate of Captain and the gear, but Alec had. He’d been fretting all afternoon.

  “How far is it to the campsite?” Nik asked.

  “Not far,” Alec answered.

  “Why don’t we just go to the campsite and wait for Captain there?” Bruce asked.

  “No, Captain must arrive first,” Alec answered.

  We waited another ten minutes. No sound was heard. The sun sank lower.

  “Alec, shouldn’t we go to the campsite? We don’t want to be out on the water in the dark, do we?” Kerry chimed in.

  “We don’t want to be on shore in the dark,” Alec replied. “No fire.”

  “I have a lighter,” Nik announced. He dug in his daypack and held it up like a prize.

  Alec’s eyes lit up. “Good,” he said and he started the motor.

  Finally, on shore, Alec instructed us to collect firewood, but not to go out of his sight. It was against park rules to gather wood on the Delta, unless it was an emergency. Our camp wood was i
n the supply boat – it was an emergency. As the rain moved toward us, we collected wood with greater urgency, amassing a large pile, enough, we hoped, to last the night.

  We unloaded the boat. It didn’t take long. We had only five chairs and our daypacks. Between us we had one litre of water, one slice of bread, and some dried plums.

  Soon we had a roaring blaze and we gathered around it, straining to listen for the sound of an outboard above the noise of the crackling fire. Alec explained that a fire was considered a matter of safety in the bush at night – a fire kept most animals away. Good to know, I thought. Most, I noted. As darkness descended upon us a few drops of rain began to fall. Fortunately, we were on the fringe of the storm cell. The clouds passed at a distance, grey curtains of rain streaming out of the night sky, intermittently illuminated by forked lightning.

  “You can sleep. I will keep watch,” Alec told us.

  “We’ll take turns,” Kerry offered.

  “If there’s one thing we’re used to, it’s keeping watch,” Bruce added.

  Alec agreed, but insisted upon taking the first shift. Bruce and Kerry stretched out on the ground to try to get some sleep. Nik and I elected to doze off in our chairs. Before sleep settled upon us, we heard it – the distant sound of an outboard engine. Captain and his crew arrived to save the day, or, in this case, save the night.

  “Oh, what a trip!” Captain said as he came ashore. “My heart was very hectic for you!”

  I smiled at his expression. He was clearly rattled. There was much discussion between the guides and many apologies to us, the customers. We brushed it off – no harm done. Besides, the prospect of the five of us alone, unsheltered and unarmed for a night in the African bush, made for a terrific story. Not quite Naked and Afraid, but Unprotected and Somewhat Concerned might’ve been an accurate title.

  We pitched in to unloading the cargo and setting up the tents while the safari staff set up the camp kitchen to start dinner. We learned that Captain had twice gotten stuck. On one occasion, in order to refloat the boat, the crew had unloaded all the cargo onto the riverbank and walked it piece by piece upstream to deeper water, where they were able to reload without bottoming out. They may have been less familiar with the river than the other guides, but they got the job done.