Charting the Unknown

by Kim Petersen

  At the end of the day, Mike reappeared to tell me he couldn't figure out what the problem was with Bertha. He had rechecked the fuel line and the filter, but they were fine. He was able to get the backup alternator on Big Bertha working, and it began to supply us enough power to equal our consumption. He moved on to the portable generator and got that working. Using both, we would be able to keep the freezer running. It had been a long day and he was exhausted.

  “We have power, for now, although I'm not entirely comfortable with the whole process. I'm heading to bed. Wake me if anything comes up.”

  I awoke late the next morning to calm seas. In our race across the Atlantic, Tropical Storm Barry had pulled out in front. I reheated some coffee leftover from Mike's watch earlier and sliced myself a couple of pieces of banana bread, and headed up to the flybridge. Mike was already there, enjoying the sunshine. He gave me a brief update on our power situation. Big Bertha wouldn't start, but the portable generator was holding its own. We had passed the halfway point in this first crossing, which we both agreed was good news. The hours, we thought, would tick by more quickly now.

  I had been watching the radar off and on since the night we left, and there had been no ships either by sight or by radar. I found this somewhat surprising, as we were supposedly in the shipping lanes. I hadn't expected the shipping lanes to be like 6 p.m. on Hwy 401 in downtown Toronto, but seeing a couple of tankers would have gone a long way toward curbing the feeling that we were the only ones alive in the universe. Plus, there would have been some reassurance in knowing that someone else was out there should we require assistance. At night, I scanned the horizon with binoculars looking for a friendly, twinkling light; by day, I sought out the interruption of water and sky with a dark, rectangular block indicating a ship. Nothing. While watching the very small, red boat indicating Chrysalis' position on our computer chart, I tried hard to comprehend the fact that my whole world was but a tiny fleck on that wide expanse of water.

  By the end of the second day we had exhausted the new movies I had bought. We had already played several rounds of Family Feud and Password. Read until our eyes got bloodshot. We were moving en masse toward boredom. While eating a burrito on the flybridge, Lauren wondered aloud if we were bored on day three of this short crossing, how were we going to survive the nine day crossing to the Azores? After doing a few chores and laying outside in the sunshine, Lauren and Stefan decided to have a Lord of the Rings marathon.

  Around 4:30 a.m. on the morning of day four, I had a lengthy discussion with Mike over coffee about the impending weather report we had received from Max Sea Weather via our satellite phone. The low traveling southeast across the north Atlantic states, right for Bermuda, looked to be a fast moving cell, but it was uncertain as to how it would develop or how far south it would travel. At the time, Max Sea was forecasting seas of 6-8 feet around the time of our arrival into Bermuda. Seas of this sort would not be a problem, assuming that all our systems were working, but they were not the pleasant seas we had enjoyed for the past twenty four hours. Even though it meant arriving in Bermuda in the early morning hours, we decided to keep our speed of 9 knots. Better, we reasoned, to pull in earlier, even if it meant we had to wait outside the harbor, than to risk tangling with that low pressure system for longer than necessary in open waters.

  Mid morning, about 150 miles from Bermuda, it was a relief to hear voices come over the VHF. The four of us gathered around the radio and hungrily listened to a local fisherman and a cruise ship hail Hamilton Harbour. The harbormaster spoke with a distinct British accent. He wished everyone a “very good morning to you, sir.” There was human life on this planet after all, and it was well mannered to boot. Switching the channel, we picked up the local weather forecast, which was slightly different from the report we had from Max Sea. Bermuda Weather called for calmer seas that night with winds from the northwest. This meant that as soon as we reached the south end of the island we would be protected from the wind and waves while we proceeded along the south eastern shore.

  In spite of Mike's best coaxing efforts, Big Bertha had obstinately remained inoperable. We had been running our reserve generator continuously since day two. As long as it continued its loyal service, it would supply us with enough power to get us into Bermuda. Although we were certain our arrival into Bermuda was forthcoming, it did cast a shadow over the longer crossing to the Azores yet to come.

  I awoke out of habit at 2 a.m. on day five. I climbed the steps to the pilothouse and found Stefan asleep on the settee, Lauren reading on the watch berth, and Mike at the helm. They had decided to stay awake until land was sighted. Stefan hadn't quite made it. Mike handed me the binoculars and said, “Take a look.”

  There, off to port, were the twinkling lights of Bermuda. One crossing down, two more, including the nine day crossing to the Azores, yet to go. About an hour later, I radioed the harbormaster to let him know of our approach. I was hoping we would cruise into the harbor just in time for a beautiful sunrise, but as the morning progressed, it became apparent that the low we had been keeping an eye on and thought we might encounter had finally made its way southeast and was approaching in grey, threatening clouds.

  Even as we made our way to Town Cut, the wind began to kick up. We listened to the Bermuda weather channel on the VHF, which was predicting average seas upwards of 7 – 9 ft., winds of 30 knots with gusts well over 40, and rain later that morning. We were relieved to pull into Ordnance Island around 7:30 a.m. to check into customs. While Mike was inside the Customs House, the sun came out for awhile before clouding over again. Not long after, it began to rain. From Customs House, we were able to secure a berth at the Dinghy Club just outside of St. Georges on the northeast end of the island.

  Hearing the howling wind made it feel even better than usual to be tied up to a dock. In terms of value, the phrase “safe harbor” had a new meaning for me. Mike and I sat in the galley. Although exhausted, we were too excited just yet for sleep.

  He asked me, “Did you see that big cruise ship come into the harbor just as we were leaving Customs? You know, I looked up at the hundreds of passengers lined up along the sides and I am unsure of how I feel about those cushy cruisers. Part of me feels contempt because those people hardly know what it is like to be in the middle of the ocean with no generator and to be completely on your own. But the other part of me is jealous because judging from the smiles on their faces, they enjoyed the crossing with much less worry than I did.”

  I said, “I like a cruise ship just as much as the next girl, but honestly, would you rather have made this journey on that floating city? I can't see it. Even with the worry, you love the story. Challenging yourself.”

  “You're right, I suppose. But it is easy to say that now when we are safe at a marina.”

  After a quick bite to eat, the four of us fell to our berths and slept for most of the afternoon while the wind raged and the rain poured down. Just before falling asleep, I searched my soul for emotion. There was the relief one feels in a classroom, after the professor, who has been handing out graded midterms, finally hands you yours and low and behold, you haven't flubbed it. But your comfort is short-lived because in the next instant the prof begins to discuss the intricacies of the coming final exam. This, I had yet to accomplish, and it was worth a hearty portion of my final grade.

  We woke up around four in the afternoon, and even though it was still sprinkling rain outside, we walked into town in search of a place to eat dinner. Passing by the pink, white, and occasional light blue buildings, along with all of the flowers, reminded me of spots I had visited in the Caribbean. The air was fresh, as it was back home after a hard rain, with the faint scent of flowers and saltwater.

  Although it was only 5 p.m., most stores had closed for the evening. Several restaurants were open, and we quickly decided on a British pub, Tudor in style, that had a blackboard outside the door advertising “Best fish and chips on the Island.”

  We ordered a bottle of champagne to go
along with our fish and chips. With it, we made lofty and verbose toasts to the weather, to Chrysalis, her Captain, First Mate and cook, resourceful and eager crewmates, and because our server told us the next day was the Queen's Birthday, we raised our glasses to the Queen.

  In St. Georges, Bermuda, we began to connect the dots of history we had studied while docked in Norfolk, Virginia. While walking through Jamestown, the first permanent British settlement in America established in 1607, we had learned about Pocahontas and John Rolfe. Reading through the history of St. Georges in our travel guide, the name John Rolfe appeared again. Here in 1609, the ship he was on, Sea Venture, laden with settlers and supplies bound for Jamestown, Virginia, was intentionally run aground in a heavy storm. John Rolfe, future husband of Pocahontas, remained with the passengers on the island of Bermuda for ten months. During this time, unable to dislodge SeaVenture, they salvaged her and built two new ships, Deliverance and Patience. In these, they continued on their journey to Jamestown, arriving having used up their supplies and with little to offer the residents of the New World other than more mouths to feed.

  “Oh I get it now,” Stefan said as we discussed this walking around downtown. “This is the same John Rolfe who came all the way from England, was shipwrecked here, in this very spot – maybe even walked where I am walking now, then made it to Jamestown, and met and married Pocahontas! Man, what a journey he had!”

  I was thinking that Stefan, age 14, would fit the title of “old soul.” When I first heard this phrase as a kid, I thought it meant “old sole” as in the sole of a shoe. Worn, comfortable, frayed around the edges, been around. It was apt either way. At the time, he was interested in theology, philosophy, and practical jokes. I told him the three fields of study were completely compatible. His wit was dry. He would state the obvious and to his surprise, we roared.

  “What do you think about John Rolfe being shipwrecked here?” I asked him.

  He shrugged his shoulders and said as a matter of fact, “I think he should have waited for a better weather window.”

  37

  Two days later, we made our way through the reefs on the north side of the island and into Hamilton Harbour where we anchored just across from the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club. Big Bertha began working again for reasons we could not explain. While this was good news in the short term, we needed to solve the mystery before we could continue to make our way east. While Mike considered all the ways to placate his mistress, I planned to do some provisioning.

  Before we left Florida, I stacked up our large freezer with meat, sliced cheese and bread, as well as some prepared favorites like gourmet sausages, small pizzas and potstickers. In consulting other experienced Mediterranean cruisers, many told me that meat in some places could be substandard. Although we were all looking forward to experiencing the cuisine in the different countries through which we traveled, I imagined there would be something comforting in hauling out a few nice Colorado steaks for dinner. Plus, it is in my nature to be over-prepared.

  What we lacked was fresh produce. When the wire fruit basket in our galley got low, I started to hear about it from the crew, and I knew it was time to hit a local market. I don't mind as I'm one of those people who actually like doing the grocery shopping. Even better, walking the aisles of a foreign country whose shelves could hold any manner of unfamiliar wonders. Still, living on a boat, particularly at anchor, my whole day could be spent just making a trip to the market.

  I woke up early one morning, went online, and found two markets within walking distance. I plotted them out on my local map. When Lauren emerged from her stateroom, we each grabbed a wheelie cart which was a blue plastic cart with wheels that, when folded, looks like a cumbersome briefcase but when opened into a small crate, can haul several bags of groceries. I put the map in my backpack and as we were getting into Crabcakes, Mike decided to tag along in search of parts for Big Bertha.

  Hamilton Harbour was busy. There were numerous ferries and small boats coming and going. It was windy and wavy so between dodging waves and water taxis we got a fair amount of spray all over us. We arrived at the dinghy dock looking a little wet and windblown. After agreeing on a meeting time, Mike took off in one direction, and Lauren and I took off in the opposite toward Pitts Bay Rd. We walked about three or four blocks, through a historic district, with government buildings, modern apartment buildings, and colonial homes. We followed the streets on my map, but found no market. After asking a gentleman carrying what looked to be a grocery bag, we made our way up a little side street and there found a discreet sign with numerous grocery carts alerting us to its presence.

  Walking in, we found the store to be a similar version of boutique, gourmet grocery stores back home. It was well stocked but outrageously expensive. Lauren and I nearly fell over checking out the prices, and she reminded me that Bermudan dollars were on par with the US dollar.

  “Look, Laurs,” I said, “$5.80 for a box of cereal!” We gaped at each other.

  At the meat counter, Lauren pointed out a roasting chicken for $25.00. I was glad I already had several in our freezer. Continuing through the meat section, I held up a pound of ground turkey so Lauren could exclaim over the $6.75. Even produce left us shaking our heads, but we needed it. We splurged on a cantaloupe for $4.99.

  As to be expected, the store also carried a great many items from Britain. Things like canned curry and tikka sauces. Bangers and mash. Frozen steak and kidney pie. Jars of mincemeat. The all-important staple: shortbread. I put an overpriced but worth-every-cent box in my cart. Also needed were Wine Gums and some lovely fried, sugary donuts that looked similar to our crullers back home. Before long, our grocery cart was full. We checked out, opened up our rolling carts, stacked our groceries inside, and then happily made our way back to the dinghy, our carts “ca-clunking” over the cracks in the sidewalk.

  That evening, Mike tried to start the generator and nothing happened. We ran our portable for awhile, but wanting to save its life for the crossing ahead, we resorted to turning off all our unneeded power. That night, we read by small battery operated lanterns and went to bed early. When we woke up the next morning, we were completely without power.

  Since the engines started on their own, it wasn't long before we crossed the bay to the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club, where we immediately plugged into shore power to feed our hungry batteries. Mike set about finding a professional who could help him fix the generator. After consulting several locals as well as a few other Americans at the marina, he was able to track down the “best generator guy on the island.” Jerry, an American ex-pat, showed up the next morning and he and Mike spent the next few hours getting to know each other and Big Bertha in tight quarters.

  Later that afternoon, both Jerry and Mike emerged looking grim. The kids and I came to the galley to hear the verdict.

  “I am stumped,” Jerry said shaking his head. “I hate to tell you guys this, but with all these generator problems, I wouldn't put too much hope in making it to the Azores any time soon. Best thing I can suggest is to order a new generator from the States and try to cross later in the summer. Maybe fall.”

  We thanked him for his help, and upon seeing our long faces, he left saying we didn't owe him anything.

  Nineteen years in a monogamous relationship had given me a pretty good idea of how my partner would respond in certain situations. When I heard the proclamation of “Electrician Jerry,” I didn't put too much stock in it. In fact, I knew that this would only further motivate Mike to find the problem and solve it. It kills him to be confronted with a puzzle that threatens to get the better of him. When faced with defeat, he displays considerable perseverance and tenacity. I have found this to be an admirable trait, especially when we are on the same side, working towards the same goals. Not so great when we are arguing.

  For the next two days, he practically moved in with Bertha. This, I thought, brought a new meaning to the phrase, “open relationship.” When Mike and I happened to run into each other, we spoke
in short, staccato sentences. At lunch, for instance,

  “Sandwich?” I would ask when he appeared sweaty and covered with grime.

  “Yup.”

  “Any good news?”

  “Nope.”

  “Can I help in any way?”

  “Nope.”

  He would disappear again only to reappear a few hours later for a duplicate conversation.

  On the afternoon of day four, he called us into the pilothouse.

  He said sadly, “You people know I've done everything in my power to fix this stupid generator. I have pulled the thing apart looking for the problem….”

  “We know,” the three of us said somberly in unison nodding our heads.

  “And…” here his demeanor changed drastically before he continued, “I FIXED IT! WE CAN KEEP CROSSING!”

  We all stood up, cheering, and held our very own mosh pit, slamming into each other with joy, until Stefan stumbled and almost fell down stairs, and out of habit I said, “Oh, careful, guys, careful,” which, as usual, was ignored.

  When things had calmed down, Mike told us, “After pulling wires, patching cable, and nearly electrocuting myself once a day, I finally figured it out. You know that song about the leg bone connected to the thigh bone, the thigh bone connected to the…whatever it is…you know that song?”

  We nodded.

  “Well this is how it works with a generator. The grounding wire was loose and that led to a power surge, which led to a shorting of something somewhere, which, of course, led to a draining of power everywhere. The root of it was actually very simple. There was a loose connection in the circuit board of the main control box. While crossing to Bermuda, when we leaned to port, a connection was made, when we leaned to starboard the connection was lost. Once I figured it out, all I had to do was tighten a screw, and everything worked fine.”

  We left the marina that afternoon and anchored out for several nights to reaffirm that Big Bertha was, indeed, like the rest of us, in better spirits. Knowing that we could cross renewed our passion to be ready when very large, very calm, weather window to the Azores might present itself. Unlike our experience waiting for weather to cross to Bermuda from Florida, this time, a window emerged almost immediately.