by Liz Clark
At dawn, the wind rips out of the east through piercingly clear skies. There is a manic, electric feeling in the air.
I take a morning drenching from the seas coming over the deck as I work through a better fix for the vang. We bash through the growing seas that day, and I’m frustrated as our heading slips west of our course with the shortened sails and westbound push of the seas.
“Elise, Elise, this is Swell, do you copy?” I hail Chris over the radio for our noon discourse.
“Hey Swell, I’m here. How you doing, girl?”
“I’m okay, but the wind came up hard overnight. We’re hanging on, about five to ten degrees off course.”
“Yeah, I downloaded the weather this morning and saw a strong pressure gradient forming over you.”
“Hmmm ... It’s strong all right. How are you? What’s your position?”
“I’m about two days out of Samoa and the wind has finally turned in my favor. Hang in there, Captain, I’ll be keeping an eye on that system for you.”
After we sign off, I download the weather files and to my horror, I see a massive low-pressure system building to the south of me. It looks like it will blow hard from the direction I’m trying to go over the next few days.
The skies remain eerily clear until dusk. The winds then falter, and a thick forest of towering thunderheads sprout up all around us. With no moon, I can only make out varying shades of blackness. I don my headband to keep the hair out of my eyes and prepare for what appears to be a jungle of thunderstorms.
I skirt just ahead of the first squall, then sit back under the starboard side of the dodger for a moment.
“Wait, what’s that?” I say aloud.
The blackness is deepening off our port quarter. A mutant thunderhead erupts skyward—bloating and mushrooming and coming right toward us. I alter course to starboard and run up on deck to take more sail down. All at once the air becomes oddly still and hot. There is little chance of escape, but I turn on the engine and push the throttle forward, revving into high rpms in hopes of outrunning it. A bolt of lightning angrily stabs into the sea behind us, momentarily illuminating the face of the massive cloud beast.
I’m short of breath and wide-eyed as it barrels toward us. There’s nothing more I can do. The sails flog and Swell bobs in the slack air. I clutch the mainsheet nervously. I want to close my eyes and disappear. I want to be anywhere but here. I mumble unintelligible prayers, suddenly pious and sorry for every bad thing I’ve ever done. But this only causes more dread as it brings to mind the preacher from Moby-Dick as he recounted the biblical story of Jonah: “... black sky and raging sea ... Terrors upon terrors run shouting through his soul ... Woe to him who seeks to pour oil on the waters when God has brewed them into a gale!”
In another instant the monster blindsides us with the swiftest, fiercest paw of wind I have ever felt. The boom smacks tight against its tackle and Swell is instantly pushed onto her starboard side. I frantically release the mainsheet, but soon the gust relinquishes us. A terrifying bolt of lightning shreds through the darkness much too close, accompanied by a booming, almighty crack of thunder. My nerves snap.
“Da-a-a-a-a-addy!” I cry out desperately into the night. He can’t hear me. No one hears me. I am horribly and painfully alone.
Crack! The next bolt rips right over us, and again the deafening sound of the sky tearing open.
This is it, I think. We’re going to be struck. My body trembles with fright and adrenaline as I brace for the hit. I taste blood. I sit up and try to gather myself. I must have bitten my tongue when the first violent gust hit us.
Rain begins to fall. It’s more like a sky of water. It drowns out the sound of the rumbling engine. I remain perched on the wooden seat in the companionway, doing my best not to touch anything metal. The seconds seem like hours as I wonder about my fate, until finally the bolts of lightning move westward, raging on across the sea.
I hang my head and cry, burying my face in my clammy hands. I cry for my fear, my powerlessness, my aloneness, and the fact that the night has only just begun. Dear God, if you can hear me, please transport me under the crisp, dry covers of a big queen-sized bed in a quiet room overlooking a flowery meadow. A drop of water lands on the back of my neck and creeps down my spine, reminding me how far I am from that vision.
I squint out over the bow, tears still flowing down my cheeks. A small patch of stars ahead hints of hope, but lightning flashes a few miles off and dread returns in my chest.
The thunderheads keep me busy all night, but I manage to avoid being struck. At 5:30 am the eastern horizon is a chalky gray. I’m still perched on the companionway seat, exhaustion weighing on me between lingering pulses of adrenaline. Like fleeing vampires, the squalls vanish with the arrival of daylight. I retire from battle into my sea berth, desperate for rest.
Barely half an hour passes before strengthening winds yank me from my prone position to reduce sail again. I try to rest through the day, but the worsening conditions keep me busy. By evening the seas have doubled; we’re in an all-out gale. There’s no way to maintain our course as the wind has swung farther south. I try three reefs in the main plus the storm jib, hoping to point higher into the wind, but Swell’s collisions with the steep seas feel awfully violent. Thankfully, Monita maintains the steering, but I still don’t get any sleep again that night—bracing, heaving, and wincing. Waves swat us here and there; Swell shudders and flexes. By 4 am it’s too much. I crawl out on deck in the deafening winds and douse the main entirely, but without the drive a bit of mainsail provides, we’re blown father and farther west. Each mile lost to leeward will have to be sailed double, to windward, later.
Heave-to, I think, as the storm tactic comes to mind. I remember my Santa Barbara rigger, Marty, walking me through the procedure. Turn the wheel to windward, making the bow come across the wind as if you’re going to tack, but instead of releasing the sheet, backwind the jib and leave it where it is. Then turn the wheel hard back over to leeward. The back-winded jib pushes the bow one way, as the rudder steers the other. I give it a try. To my disbelief, our hectic advance turns into a calm and steady lifting and falling over the chaotic seas. Swell’s western drift decreases enormously. I collapse into my berth at dawn and manage to sleep for a few precious hours.
“Swell, Swell ... Elise here. You there, Lizzy?” I crawl out of my bunk at noon when I hear Chris’s faint call over the radio.
“I’m ... here,” I muster.
“I made it to Samoa this morning!” he says.
“Great, Chris ... so ... glad ... you made it ... safely.” My words come out slow and fragmented. It feels like my brain and my tongue have become disconnected from nearly three days without sleep. Bit by bit I explain my situation. I tell him that my radio modem got wet, so I can’t receive weather info or emails. He takes down my position and says he’ll look at the weather forecast and call back in a couple of hours.
Later, he reports back: “Okay, Liz, you’re in the middle of a huge, nasty front. But sometime tonight the wind should turn east and decrease slightly. When it does, you will have about eighteen hours to get as far southeast as you can. After that, it will shift back to the southeast and get very strong again. You’ll have to go hard during that window of time if you want to make French Polynesia.”
My heart sinks. I feel like giving up.
“You can do this, okay? I’m going to talk you through it,” he encourages.
After signing off, I clean up the explosion in the cabin and heat some soup, eating for the first time in thirty hours. After surveying the still-raging gale outside, I lie back down and try for a bit more rest, praising the heave-to storm tactic that has allowed for this miraculous “time-out.” I sleep hard for a couple more hours, then awaken suddenly, scrambling up on deck to check the wind direction.
Sure enough, it has calmed a bit and already shifted slightly to the east. I rush to reset the sails and get back on course. The big, sloppy leftover seas slow our progress, b
ut we’re able to hold almost a direct course for the westernmost islands in French Polynesia through the night. Chris feeds me weather information and confidence twice the next day. On the following morning, June 8, 2008, I relay him my position.
“You’re almost there, Liz! Keep going! It looks like Bora Bora is going to be your best bet for landfall. If you make it, I’m going to put you up in a hotel when you get there,” he says. The thought of this much-too-generous offer helps me escape from the hellish world I am currently trapped in.
“Really?” I ask.
“Really.”
I drive Swell hard through that day with the remaining east winds, but the gale has blown me over sixty miles west. Chris is clear that I must try to make landfall by the following day; the gale to follow looks fierce.
“I hate you, ocean. I hate you, lightning. I hate being wet. I hate sailing!” I scream.
I don’t shut my eyes once that night. Adrenaline has completely taken over. My body aches, the sores on my rear from the constant wetness have chafed open, and my hands are worn raw from the constant sail adjustments, but in spite of the pain, I tend religiously to Swell’s trim to keep our speed up and our bearing as direct as possible. Don’t give up the ship, I hear Barry’s voice in my mind. If I can stay focused, landfall might be possible by dark the following day.
The next morning I’m fairly optimistic, with thirty-nine and a half miles left to go at daybreak. I tack between a few squalls, and gain a fair bit of headway by 8 am. A small island appears from behind a squall not far to my east, but the guidebooks proclaim its south-facing pass is “dangerous and not to be attempted in heavy seas.” Bora Bora is next—now just thirty-seven miles away. I must make it before dark!
I try different sail layouts to see what will allow me to sail closest to the wind, since it’s blowing hard directly from my destination. The storm jib and triple-reefed main are not enough: I’m making less than three knots, at about thirty-five degrees off the wind. I try the headsail reefed down with similar results. I tack back and forth all morning, sometimes feeling like I’m going backwards. I turn on the engine and add the force of the motor but gain less than a knot and a few measly degrees. My spirits drop.
“Come on, are you serious? Throw me a friggin’ bone!” I call to the sea. But there will be no bones, no breaks, no special exceptions. It’s going to be a jaw-clenched scrap for those last thirty-some miles.
Two hours later a teeny speck of the island appears on the horizon ahead. Something in me grows fierce. I will do anything not to spend another night on this godforsaken ocean. Chris has already booked my hotel room, and the image of dry sheets, a hot shower, and fresh food provides intense motivation. I roll out the entire headsail and crank it as flat as my strength will allow. With a slight shift of the wind in our favor, our course is now just ten to fifteen degrees off the island! Swell is overpowered, but it’s the only way I can make significant headway. The starboard rail is fully buried in the churning blue waters, but we plow upwind at over six knots.
The strongest gusts drive us on our side, then we round up a bit, and slam ferociously. The rig shudders so violently that I feel its vibration throughout my body. I grit my teeth at the helm and push on, praying nothing breaks. I notice the aluminum sleeve of the furler is bowing and flexing more than usual, though. The thru-hull on the galley sink is stuck open too, so on port tacks, water gushes up through its drain and cascades across the floor. The bilge pump runs to keep up with its constant flow.
By 2:30 pm I have fifteen miles to go. More than once I give up and reef the headsail in, but then my stubbornness takes over and I roll it back out. I’m too close not to make it. I drive Swell like a senseless madwoman—steering by hand, thighs tensed and braced, standing at the helm for hours and hours, indifferent to the blasts of sea, wind, and sun. I haven’t eaten since the soup. The door to the forward cabin is jammed shut due to the wet, swollen wood, so I haven’t been able to get a change of clothes. They are probably all wet anyway. All I can think is get there, get there, GET THERE!
The island’s size increases painfully slowly. I do my best to ignore the swaying rig. About seven miles off, the seas finally begin to decrease. But it’s after 6 pm; there is no way I’ll make it into the lagoon before dark. My little chartplotter doesn’t have enough detail to get me safely through the pass. I speak with Chris at 6:30 pm, forlorn and defeated.
“I didn’t make it,” I report. “I tried my hardest, but I just couldn’t make it. I’m seven miles off and the wind is still howling on the nose.”
“I know that pass well,” he replies. “I’ll give you the waypoints to get you in. It’s wide and deep and there aren’t too many obstacles once you’re through it.”
I cringe at the thought of a dicey entry in the dark, but I plug the points into my little GPS anyway. Around 9 pm, I hover near the pass, trying to decide what to do. Go in and risk hitting the reef in the dark? Or stay out and spend another miserable night on the sea? The silhouette of the island’s towering crater mountain looms above. Beckoning lights shimmer around its base. But my vision blurs with fatigue and I decide I am safer staying outside for one more night.
While straightening up the cockpit, I hear some cruisers chatting on the VHF radio and decide to interrupt.
“Hello. This is the sailing vessel Swell. I’m approaching the Bora Bora pass and want to come through in the dark. Can anyone give me suggestions on the easiest place to anchor for the night once I’m inside?” A man’s voice comes back.
“Is this Liz on Swell?”
“Yes, it is,” I reply, taken aback.
“This is Steve on Ironie. We met in Panamá, remember?”
“Hi, Steve! Do you know if the lights on the channel markers are working? I’ve been at sea fifteen days, the last few very rough, I’m exhausted and just need to get my anchor down somewhere safe tonight.”
“Okay. Yes, all the lights are functioning. When you pass the final green marker, turn to about eighty degrees and you will see a big fishing boat all lit up. Head toward that boat for about a mile. It’s deep water. The anchorage is just before it to the east. There is an open mooring available next to us. Call when you get closer and we’ll flash a spotlight to guide you in,” he says.
“Thank you! I will see you soon, so long as I stay off the reef.”
A squall rips over me a mile from the pass. I impatiently wait for it to clear, and then drop the remaining sails and motor for the green and red lights marking the entrance. Focusing hard in my shattered state, I maneuver through the three sets of lights with a last adrenaline surge. Once inside, the lagoon opens up and welcomes me into its calm embrace. I spot the fishing boat to the south. On my approach, Steve and his crew flash a spotlight and come over to help me tie up. A minute later Swell and I are secured to a blessed little orange buoy. I hug and thank them. My oceanic nightmare is over!
The Sea Waif and the Honeymooners
Utterly exhausted, I hardly sleep that night, maybe from all the leftover adrenaline. I get up early and launch into a cleaning frenzy—thrilled, but still in disbelief that I’m actually here. After prying open the jammed forward cabin door, I haul soggy cushions and piles of stinky, soaking-wet laundry up into the sun.
When I hear Chris’s voice, I race to the radio. He’s relieved to learn that I made it, and relays directions to the hotel. I drop off the mooring and motor around to the north side of the lagoon. The wind is howling, but Swell and I are no longer at its mercy. Tourists gawk from their hotel water shuttles, probably because we look like a float in a parade with the colorful bedding and wet clothes flapping off the lifelines and boom. I simultaneously rejoice and cringe at being back in the more developed world.
Five miles later, I spot a hotel with thatched bungalows stretching out over the turquoise lagoon, like Chris described. I drop the anchor, toss the dinghy over the side, shove my most presentable clothing into a backpack, and row toward the resort. Failing to locate an entrance, I find
myself in a maze of pilings underneath the private bungalows and pop out into the roped-off “Swimming Only” area. My entrance is neither discreet nor glamorous, but check-in time has passed and damn if I’ll waste even a moment of the luxury to come!
I beach the dinghy on a perfectly raked white-sand beach between lounge chairs and jog toward the lobby in my filthy cut-off jeans and bare feet—I had given every last pair of my shoes away before leaving Kiribati. My matted, greasy hair is hidden under an oversized hat, but there is no concealing the odor that is wafting off my unwashed body. The receptionist behind the desk cocks her head and stares at me curiously. She searches on the computer, but finally shakes her head and says, “I’m sorry, Miss Clark, there is no reservation under your name.”
“There must be,” I insist. “This is Le Meridien, right?”
“This is the Intercontinental Bora Bora, Mademoiselle.”
I apologize, turn, and lope out of the lobby, dodging a chicly dressed Italian couple and hurdling over the bushes to cut the distance back to my dinghy. Apparently, Le Meridien is the next resort to the east. When I finally arrive, I’m ushered kindly into the resort by a Monsieur Pierre, who hands me a cocktail dressed up with a pineapple wedge. He does an impressive job of ignoring my castaway appearance on our tour of the hotel.
“Can you hold this a moment?” I ask Pierre, spotting the gift shop. I hand him my drink and rush over to find a pair of rubber sandals that fit, then pass the saleswoman my credit card.
Pierre steps in. “I assured Mr. McGeough that we would not accept any money from you. Charge this to Room 221, please, Charlotte.” I look at them in shock. I slip on my new turquoise sandals, and Pierre leads me to my private beachside bungalow. He opens the heavy wooden door. My knees almost buckle as I step into my glorious, sparkling-clean haven.
As the door closes behind me, Pierre says, “Mr. McGeough arranged for you to have a massage. You can call the spa to book it whenever you’d like. Let us know if there’s anything you need, Miss Clark.”