“I was listening to the weather report a few minutes ago. There’s a low-pressure system moving in from the north, a spring storm from the Gulf of Alaska. We’re supposed to get gale force winds this afternoon, so if we delay our start to catch the slack at Deception Pass, there’s no way to avoid the brunt of the wind later on. We’re going back by way of Admiralty Inlet; it’s longer and more exposed, but at least we can get underway sooner, before the wind picks up.”
I knew there was no point in disagreeing, so I dressed inside the sleeping bag and got up to make breakfast. We ate our oatmeal and canned peaches in silence. David was absorbed in calculating the current strength and direction at various points along our route, and he jotted down numbers between spoonfuls of cereal. I was simply too scared to talk.
I had never sailed in winds higher than twenty knots, and I was sure from Sturmvogel's restless motion that it was already blowing at least that hard. “Gale warning” means winds of 34 to 47 knots. My mouth was dry and the oatmeal stuck to my palate.
“Have you ever sailed in a gale?”
“Up in Alaska. I’m going to set the number one jib because the wind’s from the north and I want to make time. I’ll tie a couple of reefs in the main though, before we leave.” He laid his hand on mine. “Don’t be afraid, Kate. If I’ve done it alone, the two of us won’t have any trouble. I’m not telling you the trip is going to be easy; frankly I think it’s building into one bitch of a day, but we can handle it.”
I cleared the table and put the dishes in the sink while David went forward to get the jib.
“Don’t bother to wash up now,” he said, lifting the sail bag over his shoulder. “I need your help on deck.” He opened the hatch and flung the bag into the cockpit, letting in a blast of cold air that lifted the edge of the chart off the table. By the time I donned my foul weather gear and joined David, I found he already had the jib hanked on and the sheets attached.
“Ready?" I nodded and took the tiller. The sun wasn’t up yet, but there was a glimmer of light in the east, just enough so I could make out David working by the mast. As soon as he released the gaskets on the main, the sail started flapping like a wild thing; his hands moved quickly to the winch and began cranking. David raised the sail only part way to reduce the area exposed to the wind, and then lay on his back across the cabin top tying the reef lines that secured the unused portion of the sail to the boom. Once the main was up, Sturmvogel burst into life, and I steered her toward the anchor while David took in on the chain with the windlass; it must have been difficult freeing the anchor in so much wind, for David was breathing hard when he returned to the cockpit.
He looked at the dark instrument panel. “I forgot to turn on the lights.” He reached down into the cabin and flicked on a couple of switches. The cockpit instruments lit up with a subdued red glow, and at the bow the red and green navigation lights reflected off the jib, which was still tied down on deck. I looked at the windspeed indicator. Twenty-two knots. David went forward to raise the jib, sending Sturmvogel flat on her side; I eased the sheets and she came upright again, only to be knocked over by another gust of wind. My eye went to the windspeed. It registered 25 knots and then the needle dropped slowly back to 20 as Sturmvogel struggled to her feet once more.
We scudded out of the cove into open water. The wind strength held steady, but the sound was choppy with a short, steep motion that sent the boat shuddering and lurching between the swells. David went below and returned with two safety harnesses, made of rope and Dacron webbing with six-foot tethers, for attaching the wearer to the boat. I knew he kept the harnesses in one of the hanging lockers, but we had never sailed before in conditions that justified using them.
“Here,” he said, handing me one. “It’s a lot easier to keep the crew on deck with a harness than to rescue someone who’s gone overboard.” We helped each other into the straps, taking turns steering, and then clipped the long ends to a couple of rings through-bolted on either side of the companionway.
I looked back at Boone Island, receding in the distance, and thought of the carefree days we’d spent in the cove. It seemed unfair that we had to return to reality, to the pressure of term papers and examinations, to the inevitable separation. In two and a half months Norma and I would be leaving for Mexico. What if we never made it back to Seattle? I looked over at David. He was staring straight ahead with an occasional glance at the sails and compass. I knew he was in his glory battling the elements, and his confidence lifted my spirits. He saw the expression on my face and nudged my boot with his.
“Smile.”
I managed a wan imitation and turned my gaze to the water. Even with the chop, Sturmvogel was flying along, averaging more than seven knots, far faster than she could go under power alone. Somewhere behind the gray curtain that enveloped us, the sun must have risen, for I began to recognize the shapes of islands to the east and west, while to the south lay the featureless expanse of Rosario Strait. The wind blew hard with a biting chill, and I huddled against the cabin trunk, glad to leave the steering to David.
I must have dozed off, for when I awakened at eight, we were in sight of Coupeville, on the western side of Whidbey Island, and still moving fast. A glance at the anemometer confirmed my apprehensions: the wind had increased to the low thirties.
“Thanks for letting me sleep.”
“I don’t know how you managed it. Your head was bobbing back and forth like a rag doll’s. Could you steer for a while? I want to go mark our position on the chart.”
David went below and I heard him pumping the toilet. With Sturmvogel's motion and angle of heel, I was glad he hadn’t tried urinating over the side of the boat, as he usually did when we were alone. He handed up a box of pilot crackers, a block of cheddar cheese, and a knife. Down in the galley I heard David fumbling with the thermos bottle, then Sturmvogel lurched; he swore an oath in Spanish and I guessed he’d spilled boiling water on himself.
“Quick, take these,” he said, passing me up two mugs of coffee. Even though the cups were only half full, the coffee sloshed from side to side, spilling at every roll of the boat. He climbed back on deck.
“Beautiful day,” David said, reaching for the tiller.
“Let me steer for a while; you’ve had it long enough.”
He looked at the compass. “Ok, but keep her on course; you should be steering 128 and you’re ten degrees off.”
I put both my hands on the tiller and wrestled Sturmvogel back to 128. “Why is she fighting me?”
“Because we’re carrying too much sail, but so as the wind’s behind us, I want to keep the number one up. If the wind stays over thirty-five or if it shifts to the south I’ll take that jib down and put up the number two instead.” I pictured David trying to change sails under those conditions and hoped the weather moderated.
Since both my hands were occupied by the tiller, David cut off slices of cheese and fed them to me. My tongue was as dry as a piece of old leather, but the tang of the cheese got my saliva flowing once more.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine now that I’ve eaten. Actually I’d rather steer than just sit here; when I’m concentrating I don’t have time to be frightened.”
David relieved me at noon and I dozed fitfully in the cockpit until the motion became so severe that I had to brace my feet and hold on with both hands to keep from being catapulted across the cockpit. The wind was blowing well into the thirties now, fairly shrieking in the gusts, and I was afraid. Something else had changed: as I looked out over the water, I realized the wind had swung toward the south and we were now heading into both the wind and the water, rather like sailing into a brick wall. Sturmvogel's motion seemed to be up and down as much as it was forward. I watched as she climbed the face of each oncoming wave and reached the crest; the view from the top was awesome, like looking over an interminable mountain range, with gray mountains, gray valleys as far as the eye could see. Sturmvogel hung on a crest for a moment, then plu
nged down the back side of the wave, only to meet another. And another.
David’s face was grim. “I’m glad you’re awake. I was going to call you, anyway. I’ve got to get that sail down.”
My teeth were chattering, but I didn’t want him to see I was afraid, so I took the tiller from him without saying a word, and he went below to get the smaller jib. The clock chimed and I counted the bells. One … two … three … four. Four bells, two o’clock. Oh God, would this day ever end? I heard David dragging the number two jib from the forward cabin, and turned to look at the water ahead. Fifty feet in front of the bow an enormous wave was taking shape. It rose from the surface like some primeval monster; it hunched its shoulders and continued rising. The monster gave a roar and lunged toward us. I grabbed the cockpit coaming with my right hand and braced my feet. I shouted “hold on,” but no sound escaped my lips. I sat at the tiller too petrified to move; just as it appeared the mountain of water would engulf us, Sturmvogel starting lifting, like a car slowly ascending the track of a roller coaster. She inched up the side of the wall, reached the crest and hung suspended for a moment. Then the water fell away from her keel and she toppled off the back of the wave, crashed over on her side, and skidded crazily down the slope. Water boiled into the cockpit, tearing me away from the tiller and hurling me against the stanchions; only the safety harness kept me from going overboard.
From down in the cabin I heard the sound of breaking glass, of objects being flung against the hull; there was a loud crack of splintering wood and David cried out. Sturmvogel reached the bottom of the ravine, shuddered, and came upright, quivering like a jack knife thrown into a fence post. Aching and badly bruised, I went back to the tiller and took control of the steering. Instinctively, I looked up at the mast and rigging; to my amazement, everything was still standing. The boathook which David carried on the cabin top was gone, but otherwise the deck appeared normal. I was frantic with worry for David, but I couldn’t leave the tiller without risking a broach. I called his name, but he didn’t answer. Then I remembered David had told me Sturmvogel would steer herself to windward if the tiller was lashed. Two sail gaskets were still in my pocket; I took them out and tied them between the tiller and the stanchions, pulling tightly until the tiller was immobilized. I looked out over the water again, wondering if I dared leave the cockpit long enough to go below and find out what had happened to David. The waves were still large, but nothing like the behemoth that had attacked us a minute earlier. As Sturmvogel continued punching her way southward, I dashed for the companionway, but I didn’t get far before the safety harness tripped me up and I had to go back up the ladder again and reach into the cockpit to unclip myself.
The scene below was chaotic. The ceramic coffee pot lay broken on the cabin sole, surrounded by a pile of paperback books that had leaped from the bookcase. The VHF radio was smashed. The breakfast dishes, in the sink only moments before, lay scattered about the cabin, and the bulkheads were splattered with globs of oatmeal. Pieces of broken glass crunched under my boots. David lay on the remains of the table, bleeding from a cut on the side of his head; he wasn’t moving.
“Oh my God”, I thought or perhaps I cried it aloud. I kneeled beside him and called his name, but he didn’t reply. My hands were shaking as I felt for his pulse, but I was trembling too badly to be able to detect anything so slight as a heartbeat.
David opened his eyes and tried to move his head, but the effort was too great, and he let out a moan of pain.
“I’m sorry … I waited too long …”
“No! It’s not your fault. There was a wave … a big wave … oh, David!” I sobbed, laying my head on his chest. Stiffly, he put his arm around me.
“It’s up to you now, Kate. You’re going to have to get us home by yourself. You and Sturmvogel.”
I wanted to scream. There was no way I could sail the boat myself, not in that wind. The jib had to come down and I wasn’t strong enough to change it alone; it would be dark hours before we reached Seattle, if we ever got near Seattle, and I’d never be able to endure until then. I wasn’t sure where we were and I didn’t know the course to follow. I can’t do it, I thought. This is the end. Another one of those waves is going to come along and smash us; the boat will break up and we’ll be drowned. There’s nothing anyone can do. I’ll just lie down here with David and wait to die.
David stirred. “Kate … can you get your weight off my chest … it’s my ribs … something’s broken.”
I sat up and looked at him. He was lying with the right side of his face on the cabin sole and there was a pool of clotting blood beneath his cheek. The knockdown had thrown him against a kerosene lamp, breaking the glass chimney, then down upon the table, which had collapsed under the impact. I looked again. A froth of red bubbles covered his lips. Did he have a punctured lung in addition to broken ribs? Was he dying? I didn’t know.
“The course …” he groaned and took a deep breath. “The course is one-one-eight. Repeat it.”
“One-one-eight.”
“Kate, remember … 'Ulysses.'"
He lost consciousness.
One-one-eight, one-one-eight, one-one-eight. I kept reciting the numbers over and over to myself as though the key to our survival lay in memorizing them. One-one-eight, I said to myself, bitterly. What the hell difference does it make if the course is one-one-eight or one-eight-one or eight-one-one? It’s all the same in the end. What did David mean about 'Ulysses"? I tried to remember Tennyson’s poem, which David knew by heart, and then the closing lines came to me: “to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”
I looked at David and was glad he was unconscious. At least he was spared the pain and anxiety of our situation. It seemed strange to see David lying there helpless, David who was always so strong. How ironic that his life was in my hands. I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my jacket and got up to look for the chart; I found it on top of the stove. Clearing the glass and crockery away from one area of the cabin sole, I sat down to study the route David had plotted in the morning. At two he’d marked our position on the chart and penciled in the log reading as well. I looked at the clock. It was a quarter past two, which gave us at least another couple of hours before we had to alter our course.
The jib bag lay at David’s feet, reminding me that I needed to change the sail. I considered leaving the number one up, but if the wind increased, the pressure of the large sail might break the mast, and then the mast, secured to the boat by the rigging, would act like a battering ram against the hull, and then a hole would be punched in the side of the boat, and then … I got up and climbed into the cockpit. Sturmvogel was off course, but not by much, and she was sailing herself without any help from me, so I clipped on my safety harness and sat down to think about the sail change. After I got the jib down – if I got the jib down – I needed some place to put it; normally we tied an unused sail to the lifelines, but in such a high wind I couldn’t leave it on deck. I’d have to stuff it below in the forward cabin, through the forward hatch. That meant opening the hatch in advance, so I went below again and made my way carefully toward the bow. I had to hang on to the overhead grab rails at every roll of the boat to avoid stepping on David, and it was several minutes before I returned to the cockpit.
Dragging the sail bag behind me, I crawled along the cabin top and bent low to keep from being knocked over by the wind, clipping on my safety harness to the rigging as I went. Gasping for breath, I reached the mast and sat with my arms and legs encircling the spar. When I recovered, I slackened the tension on the jib halyard, planning to go forward and grab the sail as it came sliding down the forestay, but I let up on the halyard and nothing happened. I released the halyard completely, relieving the upward tension on the sail, but the jib remained obstinately in place, pulling like a mule. Then I realized what was wrong. When David and I were sailing together, he always ran downwind as we removed the headsail, thus blanketing the jib with the main and reducing the wind pressure, so that the sail plummeted
toward the deck like a stone as soon as he released the halyard tension.
I didn’t have that happy option and I knew if the sail was ever coming down, it would be by brute force. I hated leaving the security of the mast for the foredeck since the wind was howling and Sturmvogel was taking water over the bow with every roll, but I crept forward, attached my safety harness to the bow pulpit, and started to pull down the sail. The deck was like a trampoline; as the sea roared by, Sturmvogel would give a mighty heave, lift me clear of the deck and dump me, seconds later, in the same spot. The oncoming waves exploded against the hull, drenching the bow with salt water. I had water in my boots and water down my back, but I held on. Inch by inch I wrestled the jib down the forestay, smothering my adversary with the weight of my body. Sometimes I lost ground, the jib tore from my grasp, and I watched in despair as three or four feet of sail, a good five minutes’ worth of work, slithered back up the forestay. “To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.” I thought of David, lying injured in the cabin, dying perhaps, and hung on stubbornly, timing my fight with the downward roll of the boat, when the force of gravity, combined with my weight, gave me a momentary advantage over the sail. At last it was down; both the sail and I lay in an exhausted heap on the foredeck. Sturmvogel's motion was easier now; the wind was blowing as hard as ever, but the boat was upright and had stopped crashing into the waves. I lifted the hatch and began stuffing the sail below.
It was four o’clock before I had the number two jib up and drawing, an hour and a half to accomplish a task that shouldn’t have taken more than ten minutes under better conditions. I was worn out, almost beyond caring. The wind had increased to 40 knots, but with the smaller jib set, I hardly noticed the difference.
I saw Port Ludlow to the southwest and went below to mark our position on the chart; it was obvious Sturmvogel wasn’t holding us on course with tiller lashed, and I realized I’d have to steer by hand. David was delirious; I kept trying to understand what he was saying until I realized he was speaking German.
Letters To My Mother Page 25