“Fuck me.”
“I will, once we get to Hobart. Do me a favour.” Canna took off her ruby wedding ring and handed it to Claudio. “I can’t wear this on the boat, if it gets caught on a rope or something, it will rip off my finger.”
Claudio took the ruby and put it on the desk with his other belongings. Mickey Mouse already sat there, unable to make the wet journey. “You better come back to me, so I can give it back. You’re not getting out of marriage again that easily.”
“I promise to come back. Let’s get packed and ready; I need to show you how to dive off the back of a sailing yacht.”
“Will you stand up to your end of the bargain? I jump off the boat, and you refuse to leave me a single day next year?”
“Unless I die at sea, yes, I promise. Do you know what I wished for last night, on the candles of my very first birthday cake?”
“What?”
“To come home safe.”
“Oh, I hope you haven’t ruined the wish by saying it out loud.”
Canna scoffed. “Yeah, my life depends on the wishes made on birthday candles. I don’t think I need to be worried.”
~~~
Claudio wasn’t the only person with nerves. Despite the fact there were thousands of people on the dock, it seemed eerily quiet. Crews were eager to be prepared for the race ahead. A wave of trepidation hung in the air and the families left behind were teary to let the mostly-male crew members go to sea. Claudio met a perky young man named Steve, a sports presenter from a local television station. Steve would do a live report through a microphone taped into his wet weather gear, and also jump off Vincitore. Claudio looked like a waterproof marshmallow; a light thermal layer, a set of Vincitore shorts and t-shirt, and a heavy weather proof set of overalls and jacket. The life jacket seemed like a good idea, not so much the heavy sea boots. Steve had done the dive off a yacht a few times, so Claudio just had to go with the flow. At least Claudio got to plug the Virtuosi CD and DVD combo on sale while Steve’s went live to his television station, to Canna’s amusement.
By the time the race started at 1pm, Claudio was exhausted. How did everyone else carry on with the race? The thought of being at sea for two to seven days with no warm meals or dry clothes didn’t appeal. The starting cannon boomed through the wide open Sydney harbour and Vincitore and Christophe Troublé’s Vainqueur launched ahead of everyone else in the fleet. Claudio stayed tucked out the way, right against the stern of the yacht and held on for dear life. With a helicopter following just above the yacht, he did his best not to look terrified. Every so often, poor Steve had to climb forward to try and talk to Canna for the television coverage, but she seemed so busy in concentration. Claudio watched behind Vincitore as Vainqueur powered right behind them, the boats jostling for position, as if they were cheap throwaway toys, not multi-million Euro machines. Behind the French entry, three large Australian yachts tried to keep up, with the remaining seventy smaller yachts trailing behind the sea monsters at the front. They tacked all over the harbour, Vincitore heeling over the whole time. Claudio felt as if he were standing on a slippery wall as the boat continued to lean over sideways.
Claudio watched Canna on the helm, holding the wheel, her feet wide apart as she stood on the deck that seemed almost vertical to the water at times. She threw the yacht from tack to tack, swapping wheels as the yacht changed direction over and over. Half an hour flew by and Vincitore rounded the final mark and left Sydney behind, to a round of screaming and cheering from the crew and spectator yachts. The tall yellow cliffs sported spectators waving and cheering as the boats entered the wide open abyss of the Tasman Sea.
“This is it!” Steve yelled in Claudio’s ear as the boat began its journey to Hobart, pointed towards the Southern Ocean. The helicopter hovered right over the boat. “We need to jump!”
Canna glanced over her shoulder at the two men, and Steve gave her a gesture to slow the boat. “Dump the main!” Canna cried, and Doug released a rope from a cleat, which depowered the vast mainsail that sat above most of the crew. The boat started to slow, and the deck came back to almost level.
“You ready to jump?” Steve called, and Claudio nodded. Liar. “Remember, as soon as you leave the boat, you will be alone. Float on your back, and keep one hand in the air. The inflatable chase-boat will pick you up in less than a minute. You’ll be fine. There aren’t any other boats to run us over!”
“Terrific,” Claudio called over the sound of the sea spray.
Canna took a quick visual of her crew and beckoned Claudio forward to the wheel. Claudio stepped forward, and she grabbed his jacket, unable to let the wheel go from her other hand. “You’re going to be fine!” she said. “Stand on the back of yacht, fold your arms over your chest and fall backwards. It’s going to be cold; don’t let the warm sunshine fool you.”
“Be careful, Blinky. I know there is danger lurking out there in the ocean.”
“There is, that’s why you need to get off the boat and stay safe! I’ll see you in Hobart, warm and dry. We can share the prize of scallop pies.”
That didn’t appeal much. “I love you, Canna.”
Canna turned to face Claudio for a moment and kissed him, unbothered by the fact a live camera crew circled above them. “I love you, too. Now get off my yacht, because Vainqueur are going to use the opportunity of our slow speed to overtake us. We will be battling them all the way to Hobart!”
Claudio rushed over and stood with Steve, and they stood facing Canna who gave them a thumbs-up. Claudio fell back with his hands on his chest as Canna suggested. There was a second of panic before he hit the cold water, and the world became silenced. The sound of water in his ears made Claudio panic. The lifejacket lifted his weight, and he gasped as he resurfaced. Vincitore had almost disappeared; he could see the boat at least 100 meters away in that tiny space of time. He saw Steve, who had floated in the opposite direction away from Claudio. It was so easy to become separated! In a fraction of a second, he seemed lost in the sea. God forbid going in alone, or without a lifejacket, or in the night. The sound of an engine broke the panic; the inflatable chase-boat had located him. Two men from the television station hauled Claudio over the side. He fell into the stiff well of the boat as they turned hard to go and collect young Steve, followed by the reporter off Vainqueur. Claudio sat on his knees and watched yachts fly by, the helicopters following behind the parade of sailboats. Canna and the media circus had gone. She would be in Hobart in just over a day and a half and everything would be okay.
~~~
Sydney seemed so empty without Canna. Claudio sat alone at one of the metal tables at the yacht club, right against the water’s edge in the marina. The dock sat half-empty, all the racing yachts out at sea. There had been a change; while the weather was still hot, the wind had changed direction and picked up in speed. It whipped at the ropes on the moored yachts, filling the air with a constant metal banging sound. Trees in the nearby park had their branches tossed around in the air. Claudio sat, shoulders slumped, and watched the wet drops roll down the outside of his full beer glass. The yacht club was almost empty, except for the race committee staff, who sat having a drink, and a few family members who hadn’t left for Hobart yet.
A gentle finger tapped Claudio on the shoulder. He turned, woken from his daydream, to see Abigail. She had tied her fire-red hair back and wore a Vainqueur sailing jacket, several sizes too bulky for her body. “Hey there, Vincitore member,” she said. “Mind if I join you?”
Claudio glanced down at his Vincitore t-shirt and smiled. “Certainly, madame.”
Abigail sat down across the table with her back to the sea and put down her drink. She stretched out her hand. “I’m Abigail Troublé.”
“Claudio Ramos Ibáñez.” Claudio shook her hand; a tight grip, just like Canna.
“Spaniards and their double-barrelled surnames,” Abigail chuckled and sipped her drink. She watched Claudio check the glass. “It’s juice, I promise.”
“I didn�
�t say anything!”
“Today is day 160 of sobriety for me.”
“Congratulations.”
“Canna told me she went 144 days without pills and then mixed cognac and Ecstasy, so I’m aware of the risks of chirping about my sobriety.”
“Canna is 41 days sober again. We can all only do our best.”
“You have drinking problems? Drugs?”
“Nope, just Canna, and my brother was an addict, but it killed him.”
“Shame.” Abigail sipped her juice. “Canna talks about you non-stop.”
Claudio laughed and shifted in his seat. “I can only imagine what she has said.”
“All good things, well, most of the time. Every second sentence starts with ‘Claudio this’, or ‘Claudio that’, like a schoolgirl crush. You need a medal for putting up with her trouble.”
“Nah, Canna is the prize.”
“Aren’t you sweet? She’s been pretty mad at you about believing that Dane guy in Milan.”
“With all due respect, Abigail, you weren’t there. Milan and the situation was immensely complicated.”
“Love isn’t complicated.”
“No, it’s not. Timing can be, though.”
“True.”
“You don’t need to chastise me, Abigail. I’m aware of the situation with my own wife.”
“Just checking you out,” Abigail smiled. “I hear you’re a father.”
Claudio sighed. This woman was nosy. “Yes, I am.”
“Canna says the baby is the spitting image of you. Very handsome.”
“Glad she thinks so.”
“Going to Hobart?”
“Yes, I managed to get the last seat on the last flight tomorrow night.”
“Vincitore will in port the following morning. Lucky you could get a flight. Of course, Canna will be devastated when Christophe and Vainqueur beat Vincitore.”
“No chance.” Claudio sipped his beer and grinned.
“Want to get dinner? Have you tried the barbecued prawns? They are phenomenal.”
“Sure, why not.”
“This is my fourth trip here with Christophe. Hobart is a delightful little city, you’ll love it. They have great scallops, but Sydney is the place to try the prawns.”
John, the yacht club’s commodore, approached the table and Claudio was grateful for the interruption. Abigail couldn’t shut her mouth. “Hello, Claudio,” John said and nodded hello to Abigail. “I saw you here, and I thought I would let you know we just got a radio call from Vincitore. Mitchell, their navigator, said that they are doing great, everyone is settled and safe, and they are coping. The sea is rough, but they are pounding through it, and still in first place. They have ideal conditions for now, but they will hit the southern wind change in a few hours.”
Claudio smiled; he had watched the GPS reading online all afternoon and Vincitore had held first place the whole time.
“They will pass Eden, the last port on the coast, about midnight and head into Bass Strait where the weather is very rough. Vainqueur will be there at the same time. It’s not ideal to hit a rough Bass Strait in the dark, but the boats say they’re ready to cope with the waves. They will be in regular contact.”
“Are there concerns with the weather?” Abigail asked.
“Fifty knots of wind and sixty foot seas are bad, very bad. I was ready to tell them to slow down and wait out the storm but the big boats all want to go for it. We can’t stop them, and Canna thinks they can fight the storm and make it to the safety of the Tasmanian coast. Pierre on Vainqueur radioed and said that same thing. The boats will be together most of the time, which is a bit safer. Search and Rescue have been put on alert.”
“Is it that serious?”
“It’s not quite as unpleasant as the ’98 storm, but it’s unfortunate. The boats are sailing into a short, sharp storm. We will reassess each half hour. Don’t worry, the meteorologists know the situation. The media is reporting it like a disaster scenario, but don’t let their dramatics worry you.”
“Thanks, John,” Claudio said, and the man excused himself.
“Times like this, I wish I could drink,” Abigail said in a quiet voice.
Claudio looked at the worried woman across the table and swallowed hard. Who knows what the night would bring.
~~~
There was one downside of being able to track Vincitore on the iPad via the GPS system on the yacht club’s website. It meant Claudio refreshed the page every few minutes to make sure Canna was safe. Each update brought happy news; the boat was battling serious conditions, but given the wind direction, turning back for land would be impossible. It was easier for Canna to fight through the storm, and the French boat had thought the same. Claudio fell asleep late into the night with the iPad in his hands, exhausted with worry.
The phone startled Claudio awake. The sun had begun to rise. He grabbed his phone without looking at the screen. “Yes?”
“Claudio Ramos? This is John Lister.”
“Morning, John.”
“Claudio, would you like to come to the yacht club? We are giving a press conference in ten minutes.”
“What happened?”
“Claudio, you need to get down here.”
Claudio didn’t even bother to check the iPad; instead he threw on some clothes and bolted out of the empty rented house. His heart pounded as his tired body ran down the street, filled with other people all making their way to the clubhouse. The place was full of people and Claudio didn’t know where to turn. He searched for John, but with television cameras being set up, the place was a maze. The huge television on the wall played an interview done with Canna a few days ago. She was talking about the race in simple terms, so non-sailing enthusiasts could understand the event. She seemed so confident, so calm.
A tap on the shoulder. “You with Vincitore?”
Claudio glanced at his shirt, the same from last night. “Yes, are you?”
The middle aged man put out his hand, and Claudio shook it. “I’m Brendan, this is my wife, Michelle.”
Claudio shook the upset woman’s hand. “I’m Claudio.”
“Who do you know on the boat?” Brendan asked.
“My wife, Canna, is the skipper.”
“Oh! Our son, Doug, is on board.”
“I met Doug in Malta a few months ago.”
“Yes, our boy gave us a signed copy of the Virtuosi CD when he came home, remember, love?” Michelle said to her husband.
“I don’t know what to say, Claudio,” Brendan said, holding back tears. “We can only pray now.”
Claudio went to ask what he meant, but the room filled with the sound of John’s voice. They pushed through the crowd together towards John below the huge television, the cameras all pointed at him. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” John began and took a deep breath. “This morning, at 05:13 hours, we received a report of an EPRIB being activated. It has been activated by Vincitore, sail number ITA57779.”
“What’s an EPIRB?” Claudio muttered.
“Emergency position-indicating radio beacon,” Brendan whispered. “EPIRB’s are set off in absolute distress. Life or death situations. Geo-stationary satellites pick up the signals.”
Claudio froze; his gaze fell on John, who spoke with a lump in his throat. “At 05:15 hours, we received a mayday call from Vincitore skipper, Canna Medici, stating that the crew were abandoning ship. The yacht rolled in heavy seas and the mast and keel were both ripped from the boat. They sustained damage and were taking on water. All crew members survived when the boat flipped and righted itself and no life-threatening injuries were reported.”
The room was silent. Claudio noticed a flash of red, and saw Abigail appear in the room. Claudio’s lack of yachting knowledge meant he didn’t understand everything, but he did know his wife’s life was in danger; they were abandoning ship. He thought of his one minute in the water yesterday, in calm flat seas. He became separated from safety and very disorientated in seconds. Canna was in B
ass Strait, one of the most dangerous stretches of ocean the world. In. The. Water.
“Can we hear the mayday call, John?” one reporter asked.
A few minutes of fussing around the emergency radio and John turned on the recording. Claudio pushed to the front of the crowd to hear Canna’s voice, all lost at sea.
‘Mayday, mayday, mayday, this Canna Medici on the vessel Vincitore, sail number India-Foxtrot-Alpha fife seven seven seven niner’
Claudio listened to Canna repeat the message three times, each time her voice sounding more scared than the last.
“This is radio response, what’s your emergency?”
‘Mayday, this is the vessel Vincitore, located Latitude South 39° 22' 5.8049", Longitude East 149° 30' 7.0313" drifting 16 knots bearing 189 degrees. We are a sailboat in the Sydney Hobart yacht race suffering extreme distress and are in need of immediate assistance.’
“We receive your mayday call, Vincitore. Let us know your current situation.”
‘We have twenty people on board a 100-foot dark blue hull, white deck and no longer have a mast to identify ourselves. The boat rolled on a rogue wave, rolling the full 360 degrees, and the rig has been lost. The keel has almost become detached, ripping a hole in the hull. The boat cannot stay upright. We are taking on a massive amount of water. Both ten man life-rafts have been deployed. I repeat, both life-rafts have been deployed. No life-threatening injuries are reported, but all nine crew who survived being on deck when we rolled are injured, me included. All crew have lifejackets and are heading into the water with flares and torches attached.’
The message cut off, and the whole room sat in silence. “As you can hear,” John said, still trying to clear his throat, “the distress call cut off before any more information could be given. We assume that is because the equipment malfunctioned due to the water inside the hull, or perhaps skipper Canna Medici went above deck to jump into the life-rafts. Search and Rescue was airborne via helicopter from Eden at 05:27 hours, heading for the position given by the emergency beacon. We hope to locate both life-rafts, which should be tied together, very soon.”
Violent Daylight Page 47