Swell

by Liz Clark

  “We are totally spoiled,” McKenzie says with a smirk as she shakes her cute blond dreadlocks out of her eyes. We both look up as a luscious A-frame comes feathering toward us.

  “I’ll go left,” I say.

  “Perfect! I’ll go right,” she replies. We split the peak, drawing turns all the way to shore.

  After gorging ourselves on waves that morning, we decide to sit out the afternoon session and relax aboard Swell. Peacefully whiling away the afternoon, we recount moments in the surf, write in our journals, and dismiss any real threat from the drug-runners, until suddenly we hear a panga pull up outside. One of the LCE crew calls out, “Get your anchor up as fast as you can! The Lost Coast is leaving! See that boat? The Colombians are coming!”

  McKenzie and I fall speechless. After considering the situation for a moment, I reply, “Well, there’s no point in trying to outrun them in Swell. They’ll be here before I even have the anchor up.”

  “Well then, grab your most valuable possessions and come with us!”

  Stunned and in disbelief that a scene this serious might actually be unfolding, we bumble around Swell shoving our passports, cash, diaries, and other odd material affinities into a backpack, lock Swell’s entry, and climb aboard the panga. The dark vessel bears down on the bay. We hear the Lost Coast throw its engines into gear, but we speed away much faster in the panga.

  I look guiltily back at Swell, feeling like I’ve abandoned my best friend, as the vessel in question enters the head of the bay. Tension builds. The Lost Coast turns north, and the Colombians turn north. Lost Coast goes south, and the other boat follows suit. McKenzie and I grip each other and the rail and prepare to witness a horrific nautical showdown.

  As the Colombians finally overcome the Lost Coast, I can hardly bear to watch. I brace for gunshots, but all at once both boats stop, their anchors plunging abruptly seaward. Captain Chris’s voice comes over our VHF radio.

  “It appears we are being boarded ... It’s not Colombians, it’s the Panamanian Navy, undercover.”

  Swamped with relief, we circle back to learn that the navy had come out disguised as a drug boat, in hopes of coaxing the fugitives out of the jungle. When they saw us surfers flee and LCE try to do the same, they couldn’t help but find the behavior suspicious. No one had bothered to make radio contact until the situation had reached full panic.

  In spite of the explanation, the navy conducts a thorough search of the Lost Coast, and then four officials want to do the same aboard Swell. The mood leaps from gravely serious to serious disbelief when they discover it’s only McKenzie and me aboard. They ask me to fill out the required captain’s paperwork, but seem less interested in searching Swell than learning how we’d managed to get ourselves to this remote locale without any men. As they debark with smiles and handshakes, the commander gives us his personal phone number with a wink—in case of any nautical emergency, of course.

  In the days to follow, the saga continues as the undercover officials hunt for the missing men ashore. Their vessel remains anchored off the beach break, and we pass by daily en route to the surf to hear the latest news. When they capsize their aluminum tinny in the waves one day, we help out by providing masks and snorkels so they can find their machine guns washing around in the impact zone.

  All the while, the crew of the LCE adopts McKenzie and me as part of their daily routine. On the fourth morning in the bay, we fail to stir for breakfast, and awaken to air horns and wake circles until we crawl sleepily into the panga with our boards. Our last day together is my twenty-sixth birthday, and after another fun day of surf and a lavish chocolate cake aboard the LCE, the Panamanian Navy crew shows up, bringing news that the fugitives have been apprehended. Captain Chris invites them aboard and we all celebrate together.

  Cold Beans and Submarines

  The gang of heavy gray clouds that has circled us all morning finally closes in. Swell feels more like a submarine than a sailboat as the rain pours down so heavily that sea and sky blur together. We run about catching rain in any vessel we can find to hold water. The poorly functioning watermaker contaminated our drinking water supply a few days prior, and we are desperate for some salt-free refreshment. We fill the buckets, water bottles, teapot, jerry cans, pots, and pans. Once the tank is topped off, McKenzie grabs the soap, and we strip down to bathe in the falling torrents. The cool drops pelt our naked bodies. We open our mouths and lie back on the deck. There could be no lovelier shower than this—no sweeter faucet than these clouds, nor fresher air, nor broader seascape. I’m alive! Thank you, heavens!

  We are seventy-five nautical miles out on the farthest offshore passage either of us has ever taken. When the Lost Coast Explorer continued south, McKenzie and I pored over the chart to choose our next destination, spying an isolated little island about 400 miles offshore, renowned for hidden pirate treasure and abundant sea life. After sorting through the piles of damp swimsuits and rotting provisions, we prepped for the passage: calculated the distance, stowed the surfboards, hoisted the outboard and dinghy, ran the jacklines, tied down the jerry cans, readied the fishing lines, checked the engine fluids and belts, raised anchor, and headed for sea.

  It was daunting to point the bow straight west, but with McKenzie as crew, I knew I was in good company for the challenge. We’d met on the Big Island of Hawai‘i years before, when she’d accidentally backed over my surfboard in a sandy parking lot. Miraculously the board came away unscathed, and it turned out she was my sister’s friend. When she emailed asking if I needed some crew with photography skills, we planned a date for her arrival. Aboard Swell, McKenzie and I had clicked like ruby slippers.

  McKenzie shares my delight in new experiences, no matter how good, bad, or bizarre. She’s tough, independent, and dangerously witty. Her easygoing attitude, lack of time constraints, and well-traveled confidence make her an ideal voyaging companion. Plus, she’s four-star behind the camera, willing to haul and schlep, pull or tie any rope, and she is and probably will be the only person ever to make a quiche aboard Swell underway. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed watching her annihilate Latin male egos in the surf with late drops on the biggest waves of the day. Our unspoken agenda is simple: surf hard, learn hard, laugh hard, and seize each day.

  Hours after our deck showers, the rain hasn’t let up. I had been so focused on the surf, I realize that I hadn’t checked into the typical winds and currents along our route, nor received a recent weather report. We’re committed now, so I hustle through wet sail changes due to the light, shifty headwinds.

  The rainwater is finding its way into more than just our water containers. It leaks down the mast and onto the cabin sole; it drips from the corners of the front hatch onto the forward bunk. It creeps in from around the portlight seals. The humidity permeates our pillows and blankets. It feels like we could wring water right out of the air.

  “I feel like fly tape,” McKenzie writes in the logbook. By the second day, the sticky dampness is becoming intolerable. We attempt to cover the leaky spray dodger and bimini with a plastic tarp, but the water still finds its way in.

  By evening, the rains slacken, but sharp headwinds fill in where it leaves off. We’re now close-hauled, heeling way over, and beating into a stiff, short chop. In an attempt to distract ourselves from the rodeo ride, McKenzie clutches her way below to heat our teapot of fresh rainwater for some tea. “The stove won’t light!” she calls up.

  “Did you turn on the propane switch?” I ask.

  “Yeah, it’s on.”

  I crawl to the back of the cockpit and open the propane locker. The pin on the pressure gauge hangs limply at zero.

  “No! How?” I wonder aloud. We lost all the propane.

  I hear the lighter clicking again and again, hoping for a miracle. Our wet butts and bunks and the bucking headwind slop have shortened our morale, but now, no propane? It can’t be! We assume our soggy positions in the cockpit in silence. It’s McKenzie’s turn on the high side. She fights the steep incline of Swell�
��s heeling with all four limbs while infuriating drips of water spill down on her head. I just had the pleasure of the same experience, so I understand when she soon retires to the “cocoon”—our shared sea berth below. I stay on watch on the “throne”—the soggy stack of cushions on the leeward side of the cockpit where gravity holds us up against the lower side of the cockpit’s teak washboard.

  The wind builds steadily overnight, turning the sea into an army of wave soldiers insisting that we are headed in the wrong direction. Every time we launch up over a wave and crash down into the next trough, it feels like a bomb detonating under the hull. I remember Barry warning me that his Cal 40, Antara, “had a tendency to slam quite fiercely going to windward.” As the conditions deteriorate, we consider giving up on our destination.

  “There won’t be anywhere to get propane until we make it to the Galápagos!” I shout to McKenzie from the cocoon. “Which is another 500 miles south from Cocos Island!”

  “But we’re almost halfway to Cocos!” she shouts back from the throne.

  “Yeah, and the guidebooks make it sound magical!” I call back. We decide to deal with another day or two of misery for the delight we hope to find upon arrival.

  Throughout day three, moving around Swell is a cruel game of human pinball. We white-knuckle our way around the cabin, generally just to exchange places between the cocoon and the throne for watch duties. To add to our dismal state, we are now under siege by salt water instead of rain. Each time Swell’s hull collides with a wave, spray launches skyward, catches the wind, and showers over the deck. Nothing it touches ever fully dries and we’ve long since run out of dry clothes and the motivation to change.

  As morale slips further, I flash back to an Army survival class I had taken at UCSB. The gruff officer, who had only one volume of vocal expression—yelling—had warned us of a grave condition called “dampass.”

  “It’s something to avoid at all costs,” he had loudly cautioned. “Once you’ve got it, there’s no going back. It’s a sure sign that you are losing to the elements.”

  His words echoing in my mind, I muster the effort to fish a bottle of baby powder out of the cupboard in the head and pour it down my soggy pants.

  “Yes, that’s better.” I whimper, passing it to McKenzie.

  From then on, during watch exchanges we meet between the bunk and the cockpit, pulling out the waistbands of our foul-weather gear to shake excessive amounts of powder down our festering, damp pants. Temporary relief from the wetness and timely one-liners from McKenzie keep our spirits afloat while trying to pee or trim the sails or locate something to eat on a bouncing forty-degree angle. Even simple tasks—like brushing our teeth and digging the cream cheese out of the reefer to eat with the crackers—seem way too hard.

  As the miles to go reach less than seventy-five on our fourth morning at sea, those damn headwinds stiffly persist. The cabin has long since exploded with loose objects, wet clothes and towels, charts, wrappers, odds and ends. The forward hatch is an intermittent waterfall. Along with dampass, our bodies are sore and bruised from the constant tensing, clutching, and collisions.

  Midday, I start the motor to help Swell hold some momentum into the waves since we hope to make landfall by dark, but just as I sit down on the throne the alternator belt begins to squeal. I clench my jaw in denial.

  “That’s a lovely sound,” McKenzie says, straight-faced. She has perfected survival through sarcasm.

  I submit and go below, stumbling across the cabin to fish out a couple screwdrivers, a pry bar, and a twelve-millimeter socket wrench. I haven’t finished unscrewing the screws that hold the engine side door shut before nausea sets in. Disregarding my gurgling stomach, I pull off the access door, and inch into the hole beside the warm Yanmar. I loosen the nut on the alternator slider, slip in the pry bar, push the alternator firm against the belt, then tighten down the nut. My face tingles and flushes as the hot, stinky diesel smell threatens to send me to the rail.

  Heat! An epiphany surfaces through my queasy haze. I back out of the hole, and make for the bin of canned food. After locating some refried beans, I peel off the label, and pinball back toward the engine compartment to place the can in an innocuous spot, then refit the engine’s side door. Gripping my way back up to the cockpit, I turn the engine key to start her up again. No more squealing!

  Half an hour later, I remove the can from the engine compartment, pass it up to McKenzie in the throne, then make my way to the high side with a can opener and two spoons. We pass the lukewarm beans back and forth, eating out of the can. A propane-less upwind delicacy.

  After the much-needed nourishment, I pull out the logbook and zoom in on the GPS to check our progress. Our soggy, flattened butts beg for mercy. I stand up in between dousings, holding onto the stainless rail on the spray dodger, and squint ahead.

  “There it is!” I scream. “Land ho-o-o-o-o-o!”

  “Who you callin’ a ho?” McKenzie smirks.

  We exchange excited grins as the island’s steep stone cliffs grow out of the sea. The sun drops behind the island on our approach into the crescent-shaped bay, but we can see a waterfall spilling from the south side of the cliff heights, straight into the sea! Gorgeous!

  The next morning we leap in the sea, then launch the dinghy, and row ashore, eager to feel solid ground. Broad-leafed trees reach out over lush undergrowth and we follow a footpath across the island, arriving at a park station hours later. The ranger is surprised to see us, but invites us in for lunch and explains the work they do to protect the national park’s surrounding marine reserve from illegal fishing. He offers us a ride back to our bay in his patrol boat since it’s along his afternoon route.

  We get home as the sun is setting, and row the dinghy over to the waterfall across the bay to indulge in our first lather since the rain shower on deck four days prior. Using the oars, I hold the nose of the dinghy under the falls, while McKenzie delights under the thick, cool flow of fresh water. We switch places so I can rinse, then drift nearby to soap up, massage our scalps, and shave our legs as the clouds above the cliff turn highlighter pink. Already, we’re sure the discomfort to get here was worth it!

  As we’re rowing back toward Swell, a man waves us over from one of the scuba diving excursion boats anchored in the bay. We are not about to refuse a hot meal when the captain invites us aboard for dinner, so we load up at the diver’s buffet and top off with ice cream while Captain Christian tells us about the best spots to freedive to see hammerheads, mantas, and turtles. He even downloads detailed weather information from his satellite to help us plan for our next passage. And more, upon learning of our propane problem, his cook loads us up with a bag full of juices, breads, cakes, and cheeses, since they’re headed back to the mainland the next morning.

  Back aboard Swell, we’re dazed by the marvelous surprises and generosity the day has bestowed. While writing quietly in our journals, a voice comes over the VHF radio.

  “Calling the only sailboat in the bay, this is the Arkos, do you copy?” McKenzie and I look at each other and then at the radio. I drag my tired body up off the seat cushion.

  “This is the Swell, Arkos, we copy you,” I reply.

  “Is this Liz? I’ve heard about your voyage. We were wondering if you ladies would like to come check out our submarine?”

  We both raise our eyebrows and repeat aloud to each other, “Check out his submarine!?”

  “That’s one hell of a pick-up line,” McKenzie laughs.

  “You think he’s for real?” I return.

  “Come on, get dressed, Liz. I mean you might only get asked that once in your life. I’ll row.” I pull on some clothes, and even though it’s nearly 10 pm, we row toward the well-lit trawler at the other side of the bay.

  “Hi. I’m Jesse. And this is Mick and Giles. Welcome aboard,” says a tall, dark-haired guy about our age. He takes our line and helps us out of the dinghy. They show us around and then finally unveil the prized yellow submarine, which is offered t
o the paying scuba divers aboard as a special side excursion. We’re informed it can descend to 800 feet.

  Jesse disappears for a moment, then comes back with two cups full of chocolate ice cream.

  “I’m sure it’s been a while since you had this,” he says, passing them our way.

  “Well actually ...” McKenzie starts in. I quickly pinch her arm and talk over her.

  “Yeah, no freezer aboard Swell! Thank you!” We’re in heaven.

  After some cleaning and repairs aboard Swell the following day, we head off on a freediving adventure. McKenzie dons her long, sleek freediving fins and slips into the sea. I get the dinghy anchored and soon join her. She’s a mermaid underwater. I follow her graceful lead under ledges, around rocks, and through the busy underwater scene. Sharks! We see smaller black- and white-tips down near the reef, a group of silver-tips being cleaned by tiny shrimps, and then an unidentified eight-footer who scares a squeal out of my snorkel when we nearly bump into each other.

  As we move out over deeper water, a school of eight to ten hammerheads glide past. McKenzie’s fearlessness keeps me from shooting back toward the dinghy for safety. Soon we’re both kicking toward them, totally in awe. Next a hulking bigeye tuna powers through the sea below us, along with a flashing school of jacks, and then, out of the depths, we spot a giant manta! The enormous ray glides by, performing an act of underwater flight so graceful that I become acutely aware of my awkward limbs. Its wings curl slowly upward, exposing their white undersides before descending again in what appears like slow motion. I dive down to watch as she soars out of sight with one wing flowing up and the other down in a yin-yang-like image that stamps itself into my mind. I want to be more like a manta—strong, but graceful and poised—soaring effortlessly through life.