Second Thoughts
I doubt I will ever learn as much about myself again as I did on my first ocean passage from Acapulco to Nuku Hiva, now almost three decades ago. It was February, 1981. For twenty-seven days I had plenty of time to think – my husband Tom and I both did – and perhaps we came to decisions and conclusions that we might never have made had we not taken such a block of time and, without interruption or distractions, thought each thing out in every aspect. On the other hand, perhaps our situation tainted our thinking. Will I ever know?
Our passage began beautifully enough in light winds, calm seas and Acapulco blue skies. For the first week I pinched myself daily and gloated over the fact that yes, I did have the courage to make a crossing. I had always wondered if at the last minute as land faded from view I wouldn’t “freak out” and, head hung low, bump my way back up Baja and the thousand miles of coastline home. Thus, my first mistake was to equate ocean crossings with courage. Since my first crossing I have learned that any fool can cross an ocean…in fact we met many: People who set off in unseaworthy boats or people with no knowledge of navigation. Anyway, every day I smirked in smug exhilaration over the fact that here I was making a passage at last.
We soon found ourselves developing a simple routine. We ran four hour watches beginning at dark. (On later crossings we changed to three hour watches as the fourth hour is deadly for the one on watch in the middle of the night.) During the day we did not run a formal watch, for one of us was usually outside reading or “butt bathing”, an activity that consisted of laying across our deck box with our bare butts exposed to the sun to help control the saltwater sores that one tends to develop from long stretches of sitting in slightly soggy, salted clothes. Anyway, I tended to be outside more due to my claustrophobia, while Tom found himself a nest below to burrow into. At noon I took a sun shot which Tom plotted along with his DR (dead reckoning – a guesstimate at where one is based on speed, direction, time, and current) and then we had our bathing hour. This finished, we opened the “casino” and played cribbage, the only game we had where the pieces didn’t slide all over the board. We gambled for a dollar a game and dish duty the next day. Let me only say that by Nuku Hiva Tom had dishpan hands and owed me $35,000 which, I might add, he denies and has never even attempted to pay me. After the dinner hour we began our watches. Tom frequently took star shots in the evening, and he became quite familiar with many stars. At least I think he did, but how would I know since I only recognize a few! Unfortunately, despite the hours I spent on watch with Field Guide to the Stars and Planets, I learned no more about the stars than I’d known when we left Oregon some three years earlier. Other than the northern basics, I’m afraid to admit that they all just looked the same to me!
March 6th was a cloudy day, but the barometer was holding and we had no rational reason for concern. In fact, it was a relief to escape the sun’s murderous heat for a day. We even had a rainstorm pass over and happily collected gallons of water; we topped off our water tank, filled two teapots, refilled our sun shower and filled up various pots and pans. At 5:15, however, the reason for my growing unease became apparent. A blast of wind from the northeast struck Cabaret with such force that the boat was almost knocked down. We had been moving along comfortably at five knots with jib and reefed main – suddenly we were on our ear and going over fast. I scrambled out to release the jib sheet which gave a modicum of relief. Amid the increasing wind and rain we lowered the jib and set about double reefing the main. “So this must be a genuine squall, huh, Tom?” I nervously asked. We decided after a few seconds of still increasing heel just to drop the main since we were running water over the rail even in the process of double reefing it. I flipped the autopilot off and headed Cabaret downwind. Under bare poles we were now making seven knots and the wind was still increasing. The rigging began its horrible howling and rain crashed down. Tom went below to don raingear while I kept Cabaret headed 180 degrees. My smug sense of adventure was quickly fading and was rapidly being replaced by a growing terror. This wasn’t in any of the books I’d read! The wind was still steadily accelerating. Our anemometer was frequently hitting fifty-five knots and still stronger gusts screamed past us. The boat was running at eight knots now and, of course, darkness had descended with the storm, leaving me alone with wind and rain beating me from all sides. I decided then and there that darkness was not a comfort on a stormy night at sea.
Tom took over the wheel upon his return and dourly commented, “This is no squall, and this is no gale!” I numbly agreed.
“Do you think this is a hurricane?”
“No.”
“Well, how would you know? You’ve never been in one!” I angrily shouted.
He steered while I sat in the cockpit and eyeballed the growing seas. I was too frightened to stay alone below although I did duck into the cabin once to scan my Bowditch to see if we weren’t in fact in a genuine hurricane. Somehow I actually managed to read the chapter while being wildly buffeted about, but Tom was right – it was no hurricane. At best I thought it to be a tropical depression, for which I now had unlimited respect. I did not stay below for long, for I wanted to be with Tom if anything happened…like the boat pitch poling, turning turtle, sinking, things like that. I was now terrified and wishing I was crawling up the coast of Baja with my head hung low. Cabaret was racing under bare poles at nine knots and surfing to fourteen knots down swells. I had read of boats doing this but never believed it could happen to us. Still the wind kept up its incessant screaming and the seas grew. “Tom, I’m so scared,” I wailed piteously. Deep down I felt that if I just verbalized my fear it would all go away.
“So am I.” This I did not want to hear from my fearless husband.
“Tom, what’s going to happen?” No answer. We both were thinking the same thing now. We could be killed out here. Why hadn’t I considered this possibility earlier? In our youthful exuberance and confidence we had not even bought a life raft! We could die for this lark we were on, and what were we proving anyway? Why hadn’t I asked myself if I was willing to pay with my life? All good questions that I had not asked when we started out. We were now in imminent danger. Never had we seen such wind, and I do not say this lightly. We had been in gales; we had made record runs both up and down the Oregon/Washington coasts due to heavy weather and seas. We had been in anchorages – one in Port Orford, Oregon, and one at Bahia de Navedad, Mexico – with winds gusting to sixty. But here, where there was no shore we could possibly swim to, where there was no lifeboat we could turn to, where I felt nothing but a cold sweat and rumblings in my stomach, I realized I was not brave, and just maybe I was not a real sailor.
