Maiden Voyage

by Tania Aebi

  “Hi, Fred. Wow, that was close. How’s Kreiz? Does she have any marks?”

  “No, she’s all right,” he said, “but how about Varuna?”

  “Well, I think I have to go back into Wallis and try to fix her,” I answered shakily. “The pulpit is completely smooshed out of shape, so I don’t have any lifelines. I don’t want to sail like that.”

  “Wait a minute,” he answered. I imagined him sitting at his chart table, talking with the excited girls, trying to think of a solution. His voice came back, “Listen, Tania. I have an idea and everybody here thinks that this is what we should do. Of course we have to help you. We should have been watching out for Varuna. Now, what we should do is go to Futuna Island and there we’ll do our best to fix the damage. It’s only 120 miles away. That’s one day’s sailing. What do you think?”

  “Thanks, Fred. That sounds good to me. Hey, this isn’t so bad. We’ll all see each other again sooner than we originally thought, right?”

  Our moods lifted as we began to joke about a job badly done. If Varuna had sunk, we teased each other, then they would have had to rescue me and goodbye would never have to be said. We sailed within sight of each other through the rest of the day and that night on a disagreeable ocean full of squalls and erratic winds.

  The next afternoon, a solitary mountain loomed and we motored on the lee side of it until arriving at Sigave, the only anchorage. On Futuna, there was virtually no fringing reef and the only protection for the anchorage was the island itself, as long as the trades blew consistently from the east. A mooring ball lay just offshore, set for the occasional supply ship. As soon as we tied up, a swarm of dugout canoes filled with laughing Polynesians came out to greet us, and when they saw Patrick there was a great round of frivolity and backslapping.

  Fred came to look at Varuna’s pulpit, we decided to attack it in the morning, when we felt fresh, and that evening we went ashore to a hut where a lady had agreed to prepare a chicken dinner for us. After the excitement of the day, we all went home to our boats and slept like the dead. When I woke up in the morning, something felt funny.

  My eye made the rounds of Varuna’s cabin. All my favorite cassettes, which I had listened to over and over again and stored on top of the rest, were gone. Also gone was the tape recorder used to make cassettes for my family and friends at home. I jumped out of the companionway and leapt onto Kreiz.

  In an early-morning stupor, Marie was poking around looking for her Walkman, and Fred was fumbling for a carton of cigarettes, muttering that he knew that he had placed them “somewhere around here.” I told them that some of my belongings were missing, too. As we slowly realized that the boats had been robbed while we were having dinner the night before, the others began running around to assess the damage. Tallying up, they found their waterproof tape deck, more tapes and the Walkman were definitely gone. Marie and Laurence elected to go to the village chief and gendarmerie. All we could do was wait to see what transpired.

  Futuna was the most untouched place I had ever seen. There was no electricity on the island, apart from privately owned generators, and the younger village people took turns according to gender in showering at a faucet coming out of a cement wall on the beach. Giggling, the girls formed a human wall around the bathers, each in turn. There were two general stores with the inevitable Sao crackers and Laughing Cow cheese with the wedges fitting into the familiar round box. Ever since Tahiti, this had become my standard sea fare, as it was always the cheapest and easiest to prepare.

  In the late afternoon, Fred and I set to work fixing the pulpit while the rest went ashore to do some laundry. Fred sized up the problem and formed a plan. He boomed out his spinnaker pole so that it was directly above Varuna’s damaged bow, and with a line attached from the pulpit to a block-and-tackle system from Kreiz’s spinnaker pole, we winched it back into shape, inch by creaking inch. Fred used gauze and epoxy like a plaster cast to form bases to repair the broken ones and we smeared the gook all around the weakened corners.

  Bending stainless steel weakens its properties and I scrutinized the pulpit to discover that there were little faults beginning. It would never again be the same and I would no longer be able to trust my weight against it. This meant that the lifelines encircling the boat couldn’t be trusted either. I felt guilty looking at Varuna’s bow as if, by no fault of hers, I had marred her beauty and destroyed a certain amount of her integrity. That evening, as everyone came to admire a job well done, Patrick informed us that he had received a message that the captains of the two boats were summoned to the home of the village chief at seven the next morning.

  As the rays of an early-morning sun filtered through the foliage and peeked over the mountain, little children, already out and about, followed Fred and me as we followed Patrick’s directions and arrived at a small two-story home propped up on pilings. The chief’s wife invited us in. Curiously, I peered around the modest quarters of someone so close to royalty; there were only a few wall hangings, a straw mat and, conspicuously laying on a table, two plastic bags. The fat chief suddenly rumbled into the room. Fred and I leapt to attention and introduced ourselves. With all the pomp and circumstance of the Queen of England’s changing of the guard, the chief began to talk, waving his arms in the air, as his wife translated the speech into French.

  “We are very sorry about what happened,” she began. “You see, our children don’t understand the word stealing. Here on Futuna everything belongs to everybody. It is such a small place that we can only consider it borrowing. Here are your belongings.” Separated into the two bags were the objects borrowed from both boats—mine and Fred’s.

  Respectfully, we thanked the chief and took our leave, wishing him and his wife well. Even in Tahiti, I had been confronted by this borrowing business. Twice, I had returned to the dockside to find the dinghy missing, and both times, it had been found at the other end of the harbor, tied up where the lendees had left it. This way of life was slightly disruptive, but it served absolutely no purpose to get angry. The people of these islands were just accustomed to sharing everything they had, and couldn’t understand anyone who didn’t.

  That the chief had found our belongings and not the gendarmerie demonstrated the clannishness of the islanders when it concerned the colonizers. The French laws were almost rampantly ignored, but not blatantly. These people had survived with their own customs, without the French, for untold hundreds of years, and the way they probably looked at it, the French were just passing through.

  Our unexpected two-day stay and our experience with the chief had taught us at least one lesson that flew in the face of the attitudes we had brought from the continents. We had traveled to the other side of the world and had found people who were truly unmaterialistic. To them, our materialism was just a funny game.

  On July 10, I said goodbye for the second time to Fred and Kreiz’s happy crew, who were eager to pick up mail in Fiji, their next stop. That left me several hours to make my preparations before following. I had mail waiting too, but not in Fiji. Dinghy, Mimine and I were headed for Efate, Vanuatu, 750 miles to the west-southwest. I untied Varuna from the mooring at two in the afternoon and sailed away from Futuna, slightly more battle-scarred than would have been ideal, but richer for the experience of the little mountain island in the far reaches of the Pacific.

  The first two days were perfect sailing weather—cool, steady trade winds from astern and a drenching sunshine—and I managed to cram in extra hours of sleep between idle musings and raidings of my snack supply. By the second evening, I was ready when the wind veered a bit toward the south and picked up the pace. July 11, 1986, was a day that I will never know; Varuna crossed the international date line.

  During the night I was reluctant to leave the warmth of my bunk and go out on deck to change the sail arrangement in the worsening conditions. Awaking the next morning to take a sight, I saw that we had drastically overshot the rhumb line and would have to jibe to regain lost ground. Invariably on the ocean, e
very procrastination led to double the work, but this was one lesson that just never sank completely into my lazy brain.

  The spinnaker pole had to come down and Varuna had to be jibed over to a port tack, which meant sailing on a more uncomfortable close reach and, in the deteriorating conditions, a reef also had to be taken in on the jib and two in the main. Before 10 A.M. we were pounding headlong into the biggest waves the South Pacific had ever presented to us, and that was how it was to remain until landfall, five days later.

  Waves slammed Varuna’s bow and rushed into the cockpit, filling it with water from both sides. We were so completely inundated that the drains didn’t even have time to empty the cockpit before it was filled again by the next avalanche. It was a consolation to think that my new cockpit seal was keeping the engine drier than it would have been otherwise. Below, Dinghy and Mimine huddled together on the lee side of the bunk and only moved or perked up their ears when they heard me opening a can.

  I had to put on foul-weather gear to take sights and because of the pitching, often the positions ended up a bit off. The waves posed as false horizons, and when the sights didn’t work out properly, I’d have to go back outside and retake it, wiping off the mirrors when a wave crashed over us, fogging them with salty spray.

  Aside from the horribly uncomfortable pitching and yawing, Varuna’s extraordinary speed completely thrilled me and I began to feel like a real adventurer. I was keenly aware of everything I did, as if unseen eyes were watching and judging every action. Meticulously, I checked the sails and, for my imaginary audience, became an extension of the boat. Every lurch, every bucking movement, I was with her, horse and rider, all one.

  A wave would pick us up and throw us sideways, sending books, radio, cassettes, and hairbrush across the cabin. I was unfazed. It all just seemed part of the consequences of being at sea. Temper tantrums, vindictive cursings of a more then averagely obnoxious wave, the realization that I still had lice, the odor of a cat’s refuse wafting from the forecabin, all served to enhance my Oscar-winning role. I felt I could overcome anything. Together, Varuna and I forged through those waves as the crowds cheered us on.

  On the night of the fifteenth, the sound of lapping water slowly worked its way into a dream I was having. Reaching under my pillow for the flashlight, I pulled myself up to shine it on the floor. The crowds began to jeer as I jumped up in a panic. There was six inches of water above the floorboards, even though I had pumped the bilge several hours earlier. Crash-landing back into reality, I leashed on the safety harness and, flashlight in mouth, ran topsides to pull down the jib. The slamming stopped as Varuna spilled the air out of the sails and sat back up straight, gently riding the waves. The mind-numbing din of water rushing past the hull by the thousands of gallons stopped. Pumping the bilge, I searched for the leak’s source, and found nothing; everything seemed to be in order.

  Shaken up, I hoisted the jib and with trembling hands climbed back down into the cabin to wait. The crowds booed as I lit a cigarette; attempts at quitting had failed. Within fifteen minutes, water refilled the boat and I raced on deck, hauled down the sail and pumped again. Varuna bobbed away and the water inflow ceased. Deciding to wait until morning light to figure out the meaning of this new setback, I fitfully lay on the bunk for the next few hours aiming the flashlight at the wet floor.

  In the morning, I took off the engine cover, reexamined the sea cocks and closed all the open ones. They seemed in working order. When I opened the port cockpit locker, a flicker of a past memory sparked. I checked the electric bilge pump that had given up long ago and found that its sea cock was open. Vaguely remembering Luc’s description of his struggles with a crazy toilet system, I figured out what the problem could have been. When the jib was up, Varuna must have been heeling over so far that the entire electrical bilge pump system was beneath the waterline. The anti-return valve must have rusted or broken and water was being siphoned in. In any case, as soon as the sea cock was closed, the problem was solved.

  Efate appeared with the sunrise on the seventh day. After our sluggish approach and a coastline search for Port Vila, the harbor’s immense bay opened before us as we sailed in and anchored next to the yellow quarantine buoy. Even though this trip had been uncomfortable, Varuna had covered an amazing amount of distance—750 miles in seven days—and taking into consideration the size of the waves and the fact that we were heading into the wind, I was proud of her accomplishment. This was to be my first encounter with the Melanesians and my last South Pacific island landfall with Varuna, Dinghy and Mimine.

  8

  Officials almost always became a little embarrassed to find themselves alone with me on Varuna, and those from Vanuatu customs and immigrations were no exception. I had called the authorities on the VHF and a white launch with black capital letters forming the word POLICE on the side headed out toward us shortly thereafter.

  Two ebony-black men in white uniforms and glossy patent leather shoes jumped off their tender and aboard Varuna and, realizing I was alone, timidly snuck a peep down into the cabin where Dinghy and Mimine were licking themselves. I smiled and talked with them, recounting my near sinking disaster while filling out all the entry forms for a new port of call. Still not completely sure that I was really by myself, they got back on their tender, shaking their heads, and pushed off.

  “Oh, welcome to Vanuatu,” they called, speeding away. “Enjoy your stay.”

  I waved back and looked toward the area where they had directed Varuna to anchor. Farther up around the bend of the bay, sailboats swung around their anchor chains and, closer, several more were tied up to the seawall. Turning on the engine, we slowly motored past a shallow reef toward the other boats and, just past the cleared channel, turned on the depthsounder to help find a place to anchor.

  The sounder kept pinging 90–100 feet as Varuna circled the other boats. “This must be wrong,” I said to myself and decided to let the hook go anyway in a clear spot. “All these boats can’t be anchored in such deep water. What kind of anchorage would this be?” Putting the engine in neutral, I ran up to the foredeck to pay out Varuna’s entire 100 feet of chain, letting it slide through my hands on its descent. At the end of the chain was another 20 feet of rode and I stopped the flow at that point, waiting for the anchor to catch the bottom.

  The noise of the engine was muted on Varuna’s bow, and the late-afternoon silence was broken by the first sounds of stirring night insects. This place was so quiet. Soft voices wafted over the calm waters and a group of people were sitting on the deck of their boat, watching Varuna and smiling. The anchor chain was perpendicular to the water, hanging straight down as we drifted back. It hadn’t even touched the ground.

  As I heaved it back in, my muscles easily handled the dead weight. It was effortless to do anything physical after being at sea and, wondering if people on the other boat thought I was strong, I went back to the tiller and continued my search for a shallower spot. Farther along, several boats were tied to moorings just off a small island in the harbor and I thought I recognized one of them from Tahiti. Just then somebody got into the dinghy attached to its stern and motored my way. It was Christoph, a roving singlehanded and swinging bachelor I remembered from Papeete. It was great to see a familiar face. I always dreaded the first moments of lonely uncertainty on land, the awkwardness of first meetings, the repetition of life stories and itineraries. Even though I inevitably made friends, in the beginning there always remained the eternal what if. . . . Christoph pulled up alongside, we greeted each other and I invited him aboard.

  “Do you have any idea of where I can anchor with a reasonable depth?” I asked.

  “You can pick up the mooring next to that black ketch there,” he said with his stained-toothed smile, obviously happy to be able to show me the lay of the harbor. I steered Varuna up to the floating white ball. Christoph leaned over the side and picked up the ball with the boat hook, tying the attached line down to a cleat on the bow.

  Finally, I was a
ble to relax. Varuna was secured safely in a snug harbor and there would be no more worries about navigation, course changes, storms and leaks for at least two weeks. Christoph and I sat in the cockpit, looking around, discussing the whereabouts of showers, laundry and a good meal. It was funny how the occupants on two boats could be neighbors in the same place for months, with the only communication being in the form of waves and nods. But, when they meet up again in a new and unfamiliar land, with several extra thousand miles under their keels, all of a sudden the familiar face becomes a best friend. Christoph and I had shared only a nodding acquaintance long ago in a totally different world, but here in Vanuatu we treated each other like cousins.

  In between Christoph’s boat, Adonis, and the neighboring black ketch, there was a small green sailboat that looked as if it had seen better years, as did the black one. I asked Christoph if anybody ever used them.

  “And how,” he answered. “They both just arrived last night from Fiji. There’s a party tonight to celebrate our landfalls. Those two are both singlehanders. Michel is from France and Olivier is Swiss. Wait till you hear their stories.”

  Interested, I stared at the classic lines of the black ketch. She was small, about 32 feet, obviously made of steel judging by the rust stains that spotted her deck and hull, and she had the look of a war-horse, a boat that had been through many battles and covered many miles.

  As Christoph talked about Akka and Penelope, the two boats anchored near Varuna, a bell rang in my head. Akka? Swiss? Olivier? It clicked. I remembered Fred telling me stories about a good friend of his named Olivier whom he had known in Colombia and Tahiti. As I looked at the black ketch, everything came together. I had seen Akka briefly once before, when Jeri was visiting in Tahiti and we had anchored overnight next to her in Papeete. I remembered a blond man standing on deck looking our way, but had pretended not to notice, while hoping that he would come over to say hello. We had rowed past Akka several times and on each pass, I had scrutinized her rugged details, envying the owner’s life. Whoever he was, I remembered thinking, he probably wasn’t a fanatic for shiny stainless steel or schedules.