by Rita Pomade
He showed no irritation or impatience with me for my inability to help him dress his wound, but I felt ashamed. I knew that, if I had been hurt, he would have looked after me with the same calm efficiency he had shown while working on himself. I admired his clarity of mind, resourcefulness, and control in times of danger. I relied on him totally for any crisis.
By the time the Santa Rita was ready to sail, the winds had shifted, and we could no longer make it across the Arabian Sea.
“We’re not protected in Galle Harbour,” Bernard announced. “We should try to make it back to Singapore before the bad weather hits full force.”
I agreed.
“We can wait out the season in Jurong Harbour,” I said. “We already know the place, and it’s out of monsoon range.”
Within two days of our leaving Sri Lanka the winds picked up, followed by relentless rain. The storm turned fierce and the waves so violent that we wouldn’t have been able to turn the yacht around even if we tried. We had no choice but to move ahead. We took down the mainsail and mizzen to slow down the yacht, leaving only the small staysail in front of the bow. But even that was too much. The yacht shook violently as we approached hull speed. A little faster and the Santa Rita could break apart.
Humungous waves, reaching thirty or forty feet, welled up behind us and threatened to overwhelm the boat. The autopilot went berserk. Bernard held tight to the helm carefully manoeuvring each wave so that we wouldn’t capsize.
“We’re going to break apart if we go any faster,” he shouted to Stefan. Over the noise of the thrashing waves and rumbling hull, his voice was barely audible. “You’ve got to take down that staysail.”
Stefan, in rain slicker, inched across the deck clipping and unclipping his harness every foot or so to the wooden railing on top of the cabin to keep himself from being washed overboard. I had been ordered to go below deck and watched him through the portholes. They didn’t want me on deck.
“Your mother doesn’t have the weight to withstand the wind,” Bernard had said. “She’ll be swept overboard in no time.” Stefan nodded in agreement.
I hadn’t argued. I knew they were right. I was spent trying to brace against the unforgiving wind. It sapped every bit of my strength. But it was just as bad doing nothing, watching my son through the portholes crawl towards the bow sprit — a four-foot long narrow beam jutting out into nothingness from the end of the bow, with no stanchion lines around it for safety. Foaming ocean surrounded him. A thin, wire cable that attached the fore sail to the mizzen mast was all he had to grab onto. With one leg wrapped around the stanchion line that ended at the foot of the bow, the other on that narrow piece of wood jutting out into the ocean, and a hand on the cable, he slowly unhooked the stay sail, one ring at a time, with his remaining hand.
With Stefan balanced on that narrow finger of wood, the waves drove the bow ten feet into the air. The next second, the waves buried him under water. Each time a wave took him down, I didn’t know if he’d still be there when the bow came up. I couldn’t believe I had done this to my child. I had offered him an adventure with no idea of what it would entail. I was consumed with guilt. I knew that if he didn’t come up on the next wave, I’d jump in after him. I wouldn’t be able to live knowing that I’d been responsible for his death.
I tried to find some busy work to keep my mind off the scene outside, but there was nothing for me to do. The interior of the Santa Rita was designed to take rough seas. Every item had its place. Wellfitted teak lockers lined the fore and aft cabins and the salon, giving ample storage space for all our possessions, including charts and instruments. Whatever rattled around was locked tight behind wellsecured doors. The portholes that I forced myself to look through were airtight.
However, I was left unsecured, with no way to brace myself if I continued to stand by the portholes. The yacht pitched and heaved and threw me in every direction. It was impossible to get a footing. I bruised myself by first bumping my hip hard into the chart table and then scraping my arm against the galley counter. To ground myself, I leapt to the salon table and held on tight while slowly inching my way around to the inside settee. I wedged myself between the settee and the table and braced my legs against the table’s base.
I tried not to think about Stefan out in the storm by focusing on the water seeping through the hatch and down the galley stairs each time a wave washed over the top of the yacht. I took in the Zen-like beauty of the interior of the Santa Rita and thought about the elegant coffin I would be buried in at sea, but felt no emotion attached to the thought.
Finally, the sail was down. Like watching a stop-frame film in slow motion, I saw Stefan inch his way through the rain towards the cockpit. He’d pass one porthole and then disappear before appearing again in front of the next. Each disappearance tore at my heart. Each re-appearance elated me.
Once below deck, Stefan dropped to the floor without removing his rain gear. Exhausted, he lay in a puddle made by his soaking oilskins and didn’t move. I felt seasick and wondered whether it was because of the turbulent waves or the angst of having witnessed my son in so much danger. I managed to open one of the lockers behind the settee I had wedged myself into, and reached in for earphones and a tape of the Beatles that I had stored there along with my Walkman. I discovered that if I buried myself in the music, I could hold back the nausea.
With Stefan safely back, I drifted into a reverie buoyed by the music. I watched Stefan breathe, and remembered doing that when he was born, afraid that if I took my eyes off him, he’d stop breathing. After a while, he rolled over on his side, looked up at me and smiled. I smiled back.
“What you did was incredible,” I said, removing the earphones.
He didn’t answer, but I sensed a change in him. He had crossed the threshold from adolescence into manhood, and I could see that he was pleased with himself.
“Do you want to listen to the Beatles?” I asked.
“Sure,” he answered. I handed him the earphones. With the staysail down, the boat dropped enough speed for the trembling of the hull to stop. We weren’t out of danger, but at least, for the moment, we weren’t going to break apart. My relief, however, was short lived.
“Stefan,” Bernard called from the deck, his voice distorted in the howling wind. “I need you up here. I’ve got to take a break.”
On deck, Bernard coached Stefan on how to adjust the helm in relation to the waves. It was a hairy moment. Stefan had never done this before, but Bernard needed sleep. He’d been at the wheel for almost a day with no rest, his body in constant tension bracing against the storm. If he were to fall asleep at the wheel, we’d be consumed by the ocean’s fury. He had no choice but to trust Stefan at the helm.
Below deck, Bernard took a brief nap on the spot where Stefan had lain. In less than two hours, he was back on deck relieving him. His fortitude in front of our harrowing situation was super human. How does he do it? What will happen to us if he can’t? I was plagued by these thoughts until my mind thankfully went numb.
Hour after hour we tossed about in a savage ocean, the Santa Rita no more than flotsam on a vast body of water. There was no horizon, no sign of anything sentient, nothing but wave after wave of black, roiling water with its deafening roar, and loud cracks of thunder and sheet lightning coming from all directions. I dared not think about how long our thin fibreglass hull could hold its own against the furious wind and pounding waves.
And then it all stopped. The rain tapered off. The wind died away. The ocean flattened. The Santa Rita drifted like a soap bubble on water. Bernard tumbled into the cabin, collapsed on the floor next to Stefan and fell into a deep sleep. Almost two days had passed since this nightmare began, and then it abated as abruptly as it came. We were alive. We had survived the storm from hell and were nearing Indonesia where we would no longer have to face the threat from India’s monsoons.
When Bernard awoke, I brought him a coffee and sat on the floor beside him. I loved this man so much. I stroked his back, his arm, his hair. Ber
nard never trusted words, but he understood touch. He put his free arm around me and held me against his still damp slicker. We drank in the warmth of each other’s bodies until he was ready to get out of his wet clothes and re-chart our course.
I went on deck and surveyed the ocean spread out before me like a flat sheet of shimmering foil. I wondered at the tempest we had endured. It seemed as though the entire ocean was out of control. But it wasn’t. Only the surface was in turmoil. The ocean by its very depth could not have moved. I felt the presence of a vast stillness beneath the surface. There is a constant in the universe. The playbill is all that changes. The stage set remains. Hidden from view is something subtle and profound and eternal.
Chapter 20
SINGAPORE REDUX
Summer 1983 — Winter 1984
The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able to truly care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways.
— DAVID FOSTER WALLACE
In June of 1983, we sailed into the Malacca Strait and once again had to worry about tiny fishing boats, huge cargo ships, and freelance pirates. We now had the added stress of summer electrical storms that flashed intense lightning every thirty seconds. We were constantly reefing sails because of endless squalls. Still, it was nothing compared to our life-threatening ordeal on the Indian Ocean.
I whiled away the time between cloudbursts, dreaming of the dishes I would eat once we anchored in Singapore. Sri Lanka was blessed with a great variety of every imaginable fruit and vegetable, but the local cuisine lacked imagination and was saturated with lethal doses of chili that practically decimated my taste buds.
Stefan had the same problem. “You know, mom, I can’t taste food anymore,” he said during one of our nights out at a local eatery. “Do you think my taste buds will ever revive?”
“It’s just temporary,” I said. But I wasn’t sure.
My concern was short-lived. Within days of our return to Singapore, Stefan was hunting down the hawkers for their specialties and savouring every bite. It felt good to be back in Singapore after our stay in Sri Lanka. The widespread poverty and racial tensions in a country that had so much beauty unnerved me. Singapore was less exotic but, with its humane social structure, people thrived. I relished its clean streets and clear rules, where handicapped beggars didn’t harass me for money. Dropping anchor in Jorong Harbour felt like coming home. Little did I know we’d be anchored there for the next year and a half.
The refurbishing of the Santa Rita in Sri Lanka had been more expensive than expected, and our savings were slipping away. Before our journey, we had talked about finding work as we travelled. If that didn’t work out, we agreed to sell the yacht. Now plans were less clear. Drinking more heavily, Bernard’s clarity of thought diminished. He wasn’t dealing with the reality that we had to earn a living. Unless we found a way of sustaining ourselves, I couldn’t see how we’d be able to keep the boat.
“We could charter,” he finally proposed as a way of reassuring me. “Or buy objects in one port and sell them in another.”
“That’s fine,” I answered. “But we have to start soon or we won’t be able to continue living on the boat.”
The conversation ended with Bernard finding a chore that took his attention. When I insisted on pursuing the subject further, he became defensive.
“You never wanted to be here, did you? You’ll use any excuse to sell the yacht.”
I dropped the subject and waited for another opportunity to bring up the necessity of work.
Several yachts were anchored near us in the harbour. One belonged to a young French couple committed to this lifestyle. They planned to put their yacht in dry dock while he worked on an oil rig. When they had accumulated an appreciable amount of money, they hoped to sail to South America and charter there. They were very close to realising their dream.
I suggested to Bernard that he do the same.
“You’re a geologist,” I said. “You probably have a better chance than anyone to find work on a rig.”
“Can’t do it,” he said.
“Why?”
“How do I know someone won’t steal or damage the yacht?”
“I’ll keep an eye on it.”
“No, something can happen.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m thinking of putting in an electric winch for the anchor. Anyway, I’m not happy with this boat. I see a lot of things I could have designed better. We’ll get another yacht that’s better.”
I didn’t acknowledge that he’d just changed the subject. I’d wanted an electric winch ever since Hong Kong, ever since the dreadful day Jonah dropped the anchor on the deck of the Santa Rita. There was no way I could lift that leaden hunk of steel, and Stefan would soon be leaving us.
“Good idea,” I said. But now I had to think about how we’d survive financially from Singapore to the Mediterranean Sea, and how to get money to send Stefan back to Canada. He was ready to return to school, but without working papers, his chances of finding work in Singapore to earn his way were slim. He did manage to get hired as a cook on a motor yacht belonging to a burned-out American captain and his British girlfriend, but that brought him little more than pocket money.
Before we started on this adventure, I had my horoscope done to chart my planetary positions in different parts of the world. I dug out the map from the back of a locker to study what my planetary positions said about Singapore, and discovered I had a sun/Jupiter conjunction on the mid-heaven. According to the little booklet that came with the map, I’d be able find excellent work opportunities without much effort. Armed with this knowledge, I aimed for the best and highest paid position I could find teaching English, which in this case was the British Council in downtown Singapore.
I dressed as well as I could, squeezed my feet into street shoes for the first time in years, put together a hasty CV and marched off in search of work.
“Who do I see to apply for a position?” I asked the first person I encountered inside the building.
A young man shrugged his shoulders. “Ian Anderson, I guess.” He pointed to a door down the hallway.
I opened the door on a neatly dressed, attractive man behind a cluttered desk. He didn’t seem very busy.
“May I come in?”
After a brief moment of awkwardness, we discovered how much we had in common. Ian had lived in Mexico City at the same time that I had. He had taught English at the American School. I knew all about the school. I had taught English at a girl’s high school, and he had heard of it. We knew the same places and felt the same way about teaching English in foreign countries. We compared stories and laughed a lot. He hired me to teach two hours of beginners’ English two evenings a week. I left his office with several books under my arm, feeling elated.
The day I was to start class, I was accosted near the classroom by an angry, red-faced madman.
“Hand over those books,” he shouted. “How dare you think you can teach in this institution?”
I had no idea who this man was. I held the books close to my chest.
When I remained clutching the books, he went on to tell me he was Dave Willis, the director of the school, and I had no right to be there.
“Ian Anderson hired me,” I said.
“He had no right. He’s my assistant. I do the hiring. I was on vacation. He overstepped his authority.”
He took the books, turned on his heels, and left.
I was furious, not so much because I had lost the position, but because of his curt and aggressive behaviour towards me.
I raced back to the yacht fuming and wrote the nastiest letter I could to the British Council about this Dave Willis saying he was not up to the role of good-will ambassador. The British Council was an organization spreading Britain’s good name across the world. Mr. Willis, I wrote, should be removed from his position. I made two copies, one for Mr. M
unby, the head of the British Council in Singapore, and another to shove into the hands of Mr. Willis.
Early the next morning, I stormed into the building armed with my letters of indignation. As I entered, Mr. Willis rushed out of his office, and startled me with his enthusiasm at seeing me again. He was gushing.
“Rita, glad you’re here so early. Come into my office. I have your materials for you.”
He handed me a couple of books and shoved me into a classroom. It was 8:55. My class was to begin at 9. The students were all sitting and waiting. I had no idea what they were to learn but improvised as best I could for the next three hours. Before I left for the day, a contract was brought for me to sign. I had lost the twice a week position but was hired as a full-time teacher.
I learned a few days later through teacher room gossip that the woman who was supposed to teach had gone on vacation to Bangkok, met a French diplomat in her hotel, and quit her job to follow him to France. It was the first day of class and the school hadn’t been notified until minutes before I entered the building. I also learned that as an American I wasn’t supposed to be hired because the school was obliged to hire only teachers from the Commonwealth. There was also a long waiting list because the school paid so well. Over time I met ex-pats who had been waiting for years for a teaching position at the British Council.
As an extra bonus, The Council offered me a paid one-year course that would certify me as a foreign language teacher in English, making it easier to find work wherever we went. It meant we’d be in Singapore longer than we had anticipated. Bernard was fine with extending our stay.
Sun conjunct Jupiter over my mid-heaven. I thanked my lucky stars.
On school days Bernard took me by dinghy as far as he could, but I had to wade through water to get to shore. The daily drudge of carrying my shoes and all the school paraphernalia through muddy water with my skirt hiked-up got to me. I decided to rent a place and return to the Santa Rita on weekends. It wasn’t going to be easy. Most Singaporeans, with government help, owned their condos. Apartments were scarce and expensive.