four days, four lessons

Day 1

It came passed the bottom of Australia four days ago
and the Tasmanians said it was big
storm front coming
will get here tonight

they know their weather down there

me and my boat
anchored in a bay
took three days to sail her here
and a few before that to get her ready

I’m waiting for that blow
got some things I want to know

I cook
eat light
drink a bit
read
check gear
and listen on the hour
to the marine radio channel
hear the weather warnings
all the big words
gale force
storm force

and the barometer drops
drops
drops

by sunset
the bay is mirror-smooth
and black

it’ll be here tomorrow
early


day 2

4am in the morning
I wake to the first sign

rain

fat lumps of water being lifted up and thrown forward of the weather front
old sailor’s saying
“rain before wind, it’ll blow and blow”

30 minutes later the wind comes on like someone threw a switch
from dead still and humid to a hard southerly
even sheltered in the bay the boat leaps at her anchor liked a chained up mad dog
I sit up and watch to check the anchor stays buried
half hour later and back to my bunk
the wind howls in the rigging above me
a devils own racket of clanging and shaking

I get up at dawn
eat light
fried eggs and rice
then porridge to make it stick

I go outside
the wind and rain a madness of noise
the bay whipped up to metre high waves
across the bay the sea beyond it is pounding the cliff face
great sheets of white water exploding up them every few seconds
the spray then ripped away
sometimes all of the cliffs white from driven or flying water
I stare
mesmerised
a feeling grows in me, feeding off the noises around me
and the sight of those cliffs

I force myself to look away
go back to doing simple things

I check the boat over
make sure all the deck gear is tied tight
that the deepest reef in the mainsail is in
that everything is where it should be

I go below deck
do the same again

I pull my sailing clothes on
then there is a ritual to do;
take three shots of rum
smoke half a joint
strap on my knife
and pull on a set of fingerless leather sailing gloves

this ritual
each of these for fear;
to not be bold enough
too be too bold
to die dragged and drowned by a rope I can’t cut free
or to lose my grip
and go over the side
 
I go upstairs
pull the cabin closed behind me

now it is simple

there is the weather
me
and this boat

we put to sea
at first it’s only theory
the wind not all upon us
the last hundred metres though
as we come out of the bay away from the shelter of the land and here we find it
the sea is a boiling mess
the boats pitches and drops
takes the wind on her side like a heavy blow
leans hard over
I ease her down off the wind
try to lay a course that works for wind and sea
she takes it
settles
begins to make way
but heading for the cliffs
pitching up and over
1 knot, 3 knots, 5 knots and moving well
I hunker under the edge of my canvas cover
sheets of water leaping up and over the cockpit
some go right over, some right in, and the worst ones slam into the side of the boat
knocking her sideways
and dumping water all over me and the gear

then things go wrong
a minor piece of new gear won’t hold its rope tension
then the new arrangement for the ropes to the foot of the headsail breaks
pings off in to the sea
I swear and furl the headsail in, it useless now
her speed drops and she falls away to an angle that lets the sea hit harder
she is doing her best
needs me to act
I look forward to the bow
I need to get up there and tie the headsail ropes back on
or we’ll never clear the cliffs
I look over to them, not even a quarter mile away
the bow is leaping up in the air and dropping again and again maybe 20 or 30 feet at a time

I’ve done it before
that mad dance
but I had a man left behind in the cockpit
ready to throw me a line

I look back at the bay where I came from
then look at the sea ahead
the headsail problem is fixable
the slipping rope clutch is not, not out here
I stand, take the helm
wait and wait and wait and then, in the right moment, throw her around in one skidding surfing motion
she turns like a hound on a hare
back the way we came
we make for the bay

I drop anchor back up under the cover of the low hills
sit
look around me at the cockpit
it’s a fuckin’ mess

an arse kicking

I sleep for a bit
then work on the boat

things to make good

Day 3

morning
all the same as yesterday
except the wind has swung around a little to the west
and blowing like hell
almost gustless
just a solid wall of it

and same as yesterday
go through the same checks
go below
same ritual again
except I double the rum

yesterday is still fresh

out we go again
the sea bigger now
steeper and meaner
for all the world like a demented washing machine
I hang tight, dug in to the deck like a tick
we begin to make way
the boat settles, find her feet
I ease the trim
she gets to 3 knots and stays there
I laugh
she’s solid and safe
taking the weather like she should
I have a moment of pride
joy in her lines

then decide to let some sail out
more speed to help control
we’re too close to those boat crushing cliffs to be going this slow
I start to shake a reef out of the mainsail
doing it one-handed
all steady steady

there is a sharp loud bang from up forward of me somewhere
a metallic bang
then the boom begins to dance and swing
only the sail holding it to the boat
broken off at the gooseneck
so no longer attached to the mast
now thrashing and jumping
trying to tear itself free of the sail
like a dog working the end of a rope
shaking and wrenching
the boom is heavy aluminium
5 metres long
and any moment it will smash a hole in the top of the boat
or tear the mainsail down
or both

I need to act

for a long 15 seconds
I do nothing
think
think hard about what matters most
I can buy a new sail
I don’t want a hole in the top of the boat right now
I can’t fix the boom in this sea

I look back at the bay
realise I hate that bay now
won’t be driven back to it a second time

I decide
turn the engine on
steer her dead at the weather, doing just enough speed to keep her moving away from the cliffs
at this angle, straight at the waves, the whole boat is leaping off the tops of them
It's hard on the boat
It’s hard on me

I cut three short lengths of rope and stuff them in my belt
climb out of the cockpit, move forward
no dignity in it
hands and knees
move, stop, hold tight, move, stop, hold tight, timing my lunges along the boat
when I get to the base of the mast I wrap my legs around it
the boom, that heavy piece of metal, is right at my forehead height
I bob and weave like it’s a boxer’s fist come to smash my brains
because it would
I reach for my knife
pull out the short ropes
and begin to lash it

it takes those three ropes
the first to get it slightly held
to tie it better with the second
and the third to make it better again

I unwrap from the mast
crawl back to the cockpit
drop the mainsail
let out a small amount of headsail to help her stay on her feet
then take the wheel
and ease her on to her new course

I need a calmer bay
and the only other one is 6 hours back down the coast
the only one I’d dare try to get in to in this weather
and I know I will have to hand steer her there

I let the new scene roll over me
I have a broken boat
I have 6 hours of hand steering to get her to somewhere I can fix her

I settle in to the job
we stay well out
away from all the small islands and rocks and rips and reefs
safer at sea

5 hours 15 minutes later I drop anchor in the new bay
I go below
strip
make hot soup
rest

my face is burned from the wind
my back and arms are numb with the fatigue of the wheel in heavy weather
my feet are aching from bracing against the sides of the cockpit

I go to the sink
wash the caked salt from my face
catch myself in the shaving mirror
and laugh

I have a black eye
and I look like shit

I take my tools from their locker
go back up on deck
begin work on fixing the boom

finish before midnight

Day 4

the weather has lost its punch
still blowing
but the worst of it gone
the sea has dropped and the wind is now a good solid sailers breeze
25 knots gusting to 30

we leave at lunchtime
heading out across the sea to an island well over the horizon
away from the coast
everything holds
the temporary boom repair works well
the boat lunges along
needing nothing from me

I drink rum
maybe too much
and whistle
and remember