Already at sea, not yet a seaman...
Mara Noka moved angrily through the choppy sea. My boat and I were still getting acquainted, but I could tell this was not the kind of sailing he liked. Some waves would completely engulf my windward bow as I came upon them, and others would just splash between the hulls and spurt through the deck planking with such vengeance that not one inch of deck space was left dry. I hid away in my doghouse pretending the world around me didn’t exist. Pretending I was dry and stable. Pretending I hadn’t just put myself on an old wooden boat headed out into hundreds of miles of open sea. I had crackers and mangoes to keep me company as my stomach churned, and my mind was eased slightly by the reassurance Hans had given me that conditions should calm once we were about 100 miles out.
Ontong Java moved gracefully through the water, her thick stems powering through the waves. Due to our angles, Mara Noka pointing higher, by sunset we had drifted apart considerably. “Fall off and come more towards me,” Hans said over the radio. I sat in my cockpit—a funny looking wooden box with a sunstroked wheel which has a line leading to the tillers wrapped around its pin—and turned it an inch towards starboard. Hans had taught me that I need only make fractional changes to the wheel, and the boat would obey diligently. Mara Noka veered off from his more comfortable, slightly stalling, upwind position and immediately picked up speed. The feeling of the increase in speed and the waves coming more on the beam was disconcerting, but after 15 minutes like this, Ontong Java was much closer. I kept on for another 15 minutes. When it came to gear, I was completely unprepared for the harsher elements of sailing. I had no warm clothes save for one thermal shirt, and my rain jacket cost $1 at the Chinese store in Panama. It was warm enough to not wear any pants, and it made the whole thing easier not having to change in and out of wet clothes. I never realized how uncomfortable wind and sea spray could be, and I cursed every harsh drop of water that shot on to my legs. It was hard for me to judge distance in the dead of night, but at some point I could see the outline of Ontong Java’s magnificent crab claw sail illuminated by the LED bulbs hanging inside a peanut butter jar halfway up the mast. Close enough. I turned the wheel back to its original position and clambered back into the dog house, timing my movements with that of the boats so as to not knock my head straight through the roof.
Hans was interchanging watches with his crew, Marius, every three hours. Knowing they were awake and mostly alert just a couple of miles away gave me the freedom to sleep for almost one whole hour before the alarm on my phone would chime. Every time it did I looked through the window of the doghouse which pointed towards the bow, and then poked my head out of the doghouse entrance to be able to scan my stern. Every other time I woke up, I noticed a hatch cover on either bow slightly ajar. I’d climb out, shuffle to the front in a slightly crouched position, and close the hatch. The wind blew at a strength I had never experienced at sea, and most areas of the boat resembled a children’s play fountain, the ones spurting water from the ground with varying force. On one of these trips to the bow, I discovered my trampoline net coming undone. “I can’t face it, I’ll take care of it once the sun comes up,” I thought, and as encouragement to procrastination I added, “besides, by tomorrow we will have done 100 miles, and things should calm down.”
After another one-hour round of sleep I awoke to a pink sky. The sun would rise soon. I climbed out of the doghouse and scanned the horizon for Ontong Java. Last I had seen the bright deck light, it was merely a speck on the black horizon. Like a lone low-hanging star on a cloudy night. I saw them nowhere. I had a look around Mara Noka to analyze how we had fared our first night out in the turbulence of the Caribbean Sea. Disaster. I saw disaster everywhere. My trampoline had suffered such a beating that it came unlashed from all points except the foremost beam, and its tattered remains dragged through the uneven waters at our current speed of 5.5 knots. That was hardly the worst of it. The splashboard on my windward bow had disappeared in the night, and having nothing to prevent the waves from swamping the deck, one of the hatch covers I had spent all night closing now laid a few feet away from the compartment it covered. In turn, the compartment was full of water. I had been storing some wood at my windward bow, it was all gone. My heavy inflatable dinghy was hanging halfway over the side of the boat. “Disaster, disaster,” my mind stuttered. I was angry at myself. I had avoided work the night prior, and now I had more than I knew how to handle. My body didn’t move, but my thoughts wouldn’t stop, “I could have secured the trampoline, and fastened the hatch covers. A little late for pre-emptive strategies don’t you think?”
After a few seconds I got my limbs to move, and put myself to work. I pointed the boat as high as it would go, slowing my speed down by half, and scrambled to the front. Somehow, with some effort, I managed to bring the dinghy back on board. I situated it behind the mast, in the middle of the deck, where I could be sure it would stay. I then climbed into the starboard bow with a bucket and began to bail the near 200 liters which filled the compartment, where for some reason I had chosen to store my sails. I brought the heaviest things on deck—water pouring out of sail bags like a bad dream—and placed them under the dinghy. Finally it was time to face my biggest obstacle, removing the trampoline and getting it on deck safely. I scooted myself to the very front of the boat with a knife and began cutting all of the ties that attached the trampoline to the forebeam. The further they got out of reach, the more I inched myself onto the forebeam itself. Soon I was straddling the beam, toes dragging in the water, breaking the peak of every wave. After finding safety on the port bow, I held on tightly to the heavy plastic dragging through the water, and cut the final tie. “Don’t let go,” I commanded and complied. Once I climbed back on the deck, near the mast, I started hauling in the trampoline. Somehow I managed. It was not in the best shape, but it was mostly intact. I rolled it up, securing it with a couple of reef knots, and set it under the dinghy with the rest of the evidence of the day’s disaster.
I scanned the horizon again, and this time I could spot a tiny black sail on the horizon, and it seemed to be getting closer. By midday, Hans came through over the radio, “Cheesecake, cheesecake, do you copy?” I heard the call as I was laying in my bed either half asleep or in the middle of smoking a spliff―either way, ignoring the world around me. “Hi sweet pea,” he came back after I answered, “we’ve been fishing all morning, would you like some lunch?” At present, the wind was blowing somewhere around 15 knots, and gusting a bit higher. We were both still sailing at a fairly quick pace, beating into the wind. “But how?” I questioned. “I’m going to sail up to your stern and I’ll toss it across.” Sounded daring, but daring was the story of my life as of late, so why not? About an hour later, Ontong Java reached my side. With Marius at the tiller, Hans stood at midship, in a swift motion the boats came close enough that Hans was able to chuck a plastic bag filled with goodies across. It slipped through my hands and landed on deck. I waved at them, smiling, as they veered away. I opened the bag and inside I found a couple of books, and two Tupperwares. One ceviche, and one sashimi with Hans’s special ginger soy sauce. 5 stars. I felt so lucky.
“Cheesecake cheesecake,” the radio called. “Thank you so much for the food, my love. It’s giving me life. Thank you,” I replied, ignoring any radio formalities for we were in the middle of the sea. “Can you tell me what on earth happened to your boat?” Hans came back sternly. “Don’t even ask…” It was embarrassing to have such an incredible seaman as my mentor, my teacher, and still my bad habits of being lazy and choosing not act quickly enough shined brighter than any of my accomplishments.