Shooting Stars and Flying Fish: Swapping the boardroom for the seven seas

by Nancy Knudsen

  During the day it’s a desert out there, blue-grey with tufts of white spume. Like the Simpson Desert in Australia, there are mountains, chasms, cliffs and the occasional flat plain. Sudden outcrops topped with white give way to ravines plunging down, down, down from where I sit watching. But unlike the Simpson it is all moving and writhing, dancing a deadly dance which tosses the boat around like a bath toy. We must not make mistakes. The sun flashes blindingly across half the scene, obliterating any container ship that might be headed our way. If, as is often the case, there is no sun, the water is like shining slabs of polished steel.

  And like the desert, where the attentive observer can find a whole array of wildlife, here, if you watch carefully, the sea offers its own multitudes. Of whales and dolphins there are plenty, but you must keep a lookout. The petrel is a tiny flitting bird, black with a white underbelly, deftly hunting alone. Any time of day you can see her down among the ravines and valleys of the tumult of waves. Great flocks of flying fish are there from time to time – not in the great quantities of the Indian Ocean, but there nevertheless, and it’s a bad hair day for those that end up on our deck overnight. Then there are the huge turtles that you can only see by watching the water close to the boat, and being lucky.

  The wind has remained high, but manageable. Sometimes, however, no matter how carefully you plan, you can be caught out.

  There’s a soft touch on my arm waking me.

  ‘Nance.’ Barely above a whisper.

  ‘Oh, is it my watch already?’

  ‘I’ve woken you a bit early – I’m going to take the main down.’

  We’ve been travelling for days now with a double-reefed main and a mere scrap of headsail.

  ‘What?’ Now I’m awake instantly. At night? We never take the main down at night. We reef sufficiently at sunset. Now, now, at midnight, take the main down?

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s blowing forty knots and there are squalls around.’ Which means it could go higher if we sail into a squall . . . I can sense, rather than see, his grin in the half-dark. ‘Don’t want to be taking the main down in fifty knots in the dark, y’know.’

  I remember a hundred sundowners, cocktail parties, dock conversations over the years: ‘We always reef when the wind goes over fifteen, and also every night – don’t want to be taking the main down in forty knots in the dark, y’know.’

  It echoes now: Don’t want to be taking the main down in forty knots in the dark . . . Don’t want to be taking the main down in forty knots in the dark.

  ‘Oh God, really?’ I spring out of my bunk.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he says, ‘piece of piss . . . er, cake!’

  So here we are, finally, taking down the main in the dark in forty knots.

  As he’s attaching a new line to his harness, I vocalise my real dread. ‘Be careful,’ I say. What I mean is: ‘Keep attached at all times.’ Ted Nobbs learned to do the Sydney to Hobart race before anyone used deck rails or harnesses. He was the foredeck hand, running around the deck barefoot in the dark in any wind speed, while the older crew stayed in the cockpit giving instructions. To me, it just meant that you didn’t need many brains to be an architect.

  I remember so many arguments about the subject:

  ‘You – weren’t – clipped – on – then,’ is my terse comment as he comes back into the cockpit.

  No answer.

  ‘If you ever do that again I’m getting off and going home.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And I’m taking half the boat with me.’

  ‘Okay.’ Then an afterthought, showing a little interest at least, ‘Which half?’

  ‘The port half – it has the galley and the loos.’

  ‘Galley and the heads.’

  ‘Right, galley and the heads.’ Pause, while I think. ‘Anyway, I’ve changed my mind – I want the bottom half. You can have everything from the cockpit cover up.’

  So now, he’s going out there in forty knots, and I hope that old habits don’t make him forget to stay clipped on continuously.

  In the event, it works like a song. The seas are towering as we turn into the waves, but working fast, adrenaline flowing, we do the best main furling ever – it’s even neatly in the bag along the boom. We’re on our way, with two headsails goose-winged, and a very happy, softly moving, slower Blackwattle. Piece of cake, maybe, but I don’t want to do it again anytime soon . . .

  I am on a daylight watch, admiring the way the rogue waves rise out of the water, like cat’s paws, with bared white claws, before crashing into the empty sea. When I first see her – a swiftly moving shape, black on top, grey or grey-green through the water, lightening underneath as she rolls a little, she is, at most, four metres from the boat, sleekly shooting past us, parallel.

  I can hardly get the words out.

  ‘Whale! Whale!’ I shout, hysterical with excitement. ‘Quick, Ted, here – whale!’

  But he’s too late and it’s gone, like a dream – was it real?

  I relax back to watching the water. However, it’s only a minute later, and I’m shouting again. ‘Wow, another one in the same spot – she must be following the first one.’ This time Ted is in the cockpit already and sees her too. We watch enthralled as she passes by.

  But it’s when I see the third whale passing by on exactly the same path that I have a ‘duh!’ moment. There aren’t three whales following each other, there is only one whale, and, though it’s hard to believe at first, she is swimming circles around our boat!

  All else is forgotten as we watch her continually passing on the shady side of the boat, through the high mounds of water. On the sunny side of the boat we cannot catch sight of her, though we dart in every direction, looking, searching.

  Then, after a while, she slants off at an angle, diving at the same time, and we know we won’t see her again.

  I wonder what she thinks of our black anti-fouled hull. Does she try to communicate with it? Did she let out that high whale song of hers? Blackwattle must appear like a sullen black creature, swimming on the surface, with a huge strange crustacean on top. No fun there; no response . . .

  The day comes when we are halfway across the Atlantic. Why, this is so easy – another nine days and we’ll be in St Lucia.

  But it is not to be . . .

  14. How Strangers Meet

  Mid-Atlantic to St Lucia

  Something wakes me. It’s dark – I am immediately alert but don’t know why. There’s something different. Then I realise that the boat must have turned; the motion is different. The HF radio is also crackling. That’s odd, it’s not ‘sched’ time. I leap over the lee-cloth that keeps me from falling out of the sea bunk and stumble to the companionway ladder.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I call into the darkness above. I can see indistinctly that Ted is sitting in his familiar position behind the wheel.

  Everything looks normal.

  ‘I’ve turned the boat south, Nance.’ His voice has a weary sound.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘It’s Mary Constance.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mary Constance, one of the boats in the ARC.’

  I remember now – an Australian boat; we knew of the Mary Constance but our paths hadn’t crossed in Las Palmas.

  Ted goes on quietly. ‘I just got an email – lucky I opened it; I don’t normally at 3 am. Their shroud has parted and they’ve called a pan-pan – they’re in danger of losing their mast. We’re about seventy miles away. If the wind keeps, up we can be there by three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’

  A shroud is a wire on the side of the boat that holds the mast in place. Without all the wire stays, the mast cannot stand. I feel my hands tighten to a clutch on the companionway ladder. I think I remember hearing that there were children on board.

  ‘We co
uld motor.’

  His voice remains quiet, flat. ‘No, they may need our fuel. If we can’t fix the problem they may have to motor, although in this jerky sea even that’s precarious. They have three days’ fuel, and land is seven days away. I have some rigging wire, but I don’t know how they could attach it and I don’t even know if it’s the right size. Sorry about the crackling. I’ve emailed them to open their SSB onto 4149. Go back to sleep.’

  It’s one of a sailor’s worst nightmares – thinking that the mast may come down. There’s nothing to say, nothing to do, and I go back to bed. The last thing I feel like is sleeping, but it is hardwired into both of us – we must, at all costs, stay rested. I must sleep, even though our small world has turned on its axis. Until now, our only goal had been how to get to St Lucia comfortably and quickly. That’s over; we have more important issues at hand.

  It’s a race against time to get there before daylight disappears the next afternoon. Once we are close enough to speak by VHF radio, we learn that on board Mary Constance are Mike Franklin, his wife Jos and their daughters Pippa, seven, and Justine, five.

  During the daylight hours Ted has turned the boat into a shambles looking for our spare stay-lock, cap shroud and turn-buckle, connectors to hold the wire to the mast, stuff hidden away among all the gear you hope you’ll never need. You can’t walk through the saloon as sails, bags, provisions, blankets, tools and spares are piled high. The rigging wire takes up half the space. Forehead shining with sweat, he’s parcelling stuff up in bags, and then tying it in a life jacket. The wire he will have to send separately, he says quietly – two transfers will be necessary.

  By late afternoon, with the sun near the horizon, the two yachts are in sight of each other. The wind has dropped, but the sea is still uncomfortably high. We don’t speak much. I cannot get my mind off the task ahead. To get close enough to throw a line we must bring our yachts within mast-clashing distance without tangling, no easy feat in this sea. How much worse it must be on Mary Constance, I remind myself.

  The plan is for me to pass close enough for Mike on Mary C to throw a line to our boat. With any line in the water the engines must not be in gear, for fear of it being sucked into our propellers. Ted will catch the thrown line, tie the rigging wire to it, drop it in the water and Mike will drag it in. This will be repeated for the parcel of spares.

  The tiny nightmare image spins in my head – our masts clashing, getting tangled, coming down. How will I ever be able to get close enough for them to throw lines to each other? But I say nothing. Breathing is difficult. On the two boats Ted and Mike put out fenders. No, no, no. That’s ridiculous. Our masts will collide and come crashing down long before we need fenders. But I say nothing. I rev the engine and head for Mary Constance, which is appearing and disappearing in the deep swells.

  ‘Closer . . . closer. Nancy, get closer – you’re too far away.’ I edge closer and closer. I am sweating. My hands are slippery on the wheel. I don’t think I am breathing at all now. Ted’s voice carries on from the deck: ‘Come on! Closer! Closer! You’ll never make it at this rate!’

  Mary Constance is having trouble maintaining a constant angle in the jagged seas. She points first her stern then her beam at us as I angle closer.

  ‘Come ooooon!’

  ‘The masts!’ I yell. ‘The masts!’ But I am not sure that any words come out.

  Finally, Mike on Mary Constance throws a monkey’s paw – a small heavy ball on a light line, tied to a heavier one. ‘Kill!’ I hear. I hit the engine stop switch. Ted grabs the line and I hear his feet run to the stern. I don’t look. I can’t take my eyes off the hull of Mary Constance and the two masts swinging wild in the high seas. Ted works fast but in the crazy swell our boats are not staying together and he is running out of line.

  ‘Stop the boat! I’m losing it.’

  But I can’t run the engine to reverse. ‘I’m in neutral!’ I shout back.

  Mary Constance’s bow has turned dangerously towards us.

  Finally, after an agony of waiting, I hear, ‘Okay go!’ He must have thrown the package. It must be clear of our propeller. I put Blackwattle into gear and roar away from the other boat.

  Now I look back, and I can see Ted doing a victory dance on the aft deck. I take some deep breaths, my eyes moist with relief, but Ted is shouting at me.

  ‘Nance, you’ve just got to get closer!’ He’s come in to get the second package – adrenaline flowing, steamed up.

  ‘I know, I know.’

  The next two runs are unsuccessful – we cannot line the boats up and it’s too dangerous to approach, so we abort each time. We’re running out of light.

  But the fourth run is successful, and this time it is Mike on Mary Constance who is waving the yellow life jacket full of spare parts above his head and dancing on their aft deck.

  ‘I’m having a beer!’ announces Ted. (As we run ‘dry’ at sea, this is a statement of rebellion.) I am panting a little unevenly as I flop down in the cockpit. Beer is the last thing I need.

  So far, so good. Nothing can be done tonight, as it’s just on dark, so we put the boats on a port tack (so that there’s no pressure on Mary Constance’s starboard rigging) with a small scrap of headsail, and we drift overnight, keeping in touch every now and then by VHF radio. It’s the tension that is the worst, not knowing whether the fix will actually work. On Blackwattle we are subdued. We are all still 1400 nautical miles from St Lucia, and there is no land in between.

  In the morning we rendezvous again. Mike climbs the mast, which is rocking like an upside-down pendulum in the three to four metre seas, to insert the new rig. It’s a long morning. Jos stays on deck watching Mike work, sending tools up, bringing them down. The small girls man the radio like experts, their high, childish voices strangely at odds with their expert knowledge of radio protocol.

  By lunchtime, the deed is done. Mary Constance has a new starboard shroud.

  All the way through the previous thirty-six hours, both Mike and Jos have been solid, down to earth, even cheerful. Now the emotion shows in both their voices. Mike’s voice is breaking with relief, and the joy is overflowing in Jos’s words. They’re a gutsy pair. In addition, the children, Pippa and Justine, seem unaware that anything unusual has happened – what a star act from the parents!

  Mary Constance will now sail as much as possible on the tack using the healthy shroud, and motor as much as possible on the other tack, to save the jury-rigged shroud. They will sail carefully and slowly to St Lucia.

  Farewell, Mary Constance, sail safe! For Blackwattle, there’s no more we can do, and it’s only eight days to St Lucia. We sail on, up to full speed again in the choppy seas.

  It’s two days later when the call comes in the middle of the night. Mike has examined his rig, and found that the port shroud, his remaining intact shroud, is parting, like the first.

  We have no more wire.

  We realise quickly that we must escort them to St Lucia, ready to take them on board should the worst happen. We slow down to two knots towards a new waypoint rendezvous. After two days we meet up, and begin to shadow Mary Constance’s movements.

  The weather turns against us once more. The wind is back up to twenty-five to thirty knots, gusting forty, and the seas have become the huge goliaths we had at the beginning of the journey. Mary Constance is running short of water. Daily showering has stopped, and they joke gamely about how smelly they will be when they arrive at the other end.

  In this weather Mary Constance cannot risk sailing, even on her jury-rigged shroud, and is using up her remaining fuel rapidly. We are still little more than halfway, and have no clear idea of how we can get Mary Constance to the other side of the Atlantic. We discuss the possibility of her waiting for calmer weather then sailing on one tack, with her jury-rigged shroud. We figure that she will end up on the coast of South America – a possible scenario,
as long as they can make the water last.

  Living in fear of an imminent disaster is sometimes worse than experiencing the disaster itself – having a loaded gun pointing at you or thinking about going to the dentist – and Mike has been living and breathing keeping that rig up for nearly six days now. In addition, we hear he has climbed the rig three times. He is also constantly on the radio, at any hour that we call. The time comes when Mike’s voice starts to sound ragged on the VHF, uncertain. The controlled tone is still there, but he sounds frayed.

  ‘Yes, I said port. Yes, that’s right. No, yes, on starboard. Did I say port? Oh, sorry, I meant starboard. Of course.’

  Ted and I look at each other, concerned. Mike Franklin has been superb in his cool handling of the situation, but now, after six days of almost no rest, he is showing clear signs of sleep deprivation. We’re worried.

  ‘You have to get some sleep,’ we say.

  ‘I know, I know, and I will.’

  What we really need is fuel. Fuel, so that the yacht can motor on one tack. We turn again to the ARC Rally for assistance, emailing and calling on the HF radio ‘sched’ for both fuel and water.

  Swiss yacht Meitli, with Martin and Christa on board, reply overnight, and are close enough to rendezvous by morning. They tell us they can spare seventy-five litres of fuel, and a hundred litres of water. Ted liaises with Meitli through the squalls, sometimes unable to hear Martin on the radio for the noise of the wind and rain. There’s nil visibility. It’s a long night, but by daybreak, the three yachts are sailing together.

  Day, however, brings sight of the huge seas, much worse than when we transferred the wire and spare parts to Mary Constance. Strategies are discussed, and an improvement made on the previous method, using a number of swift passes.