Warning to Sensitive Readers: If you are an emetophobe like Leslie, maybe you will want to skip this particular post. But, in life and in sailing you have to take the good with the bad, and misery loves company, so buck up and just read it.
I fell in love with Richard’s Bay right from the start. I don't know what it was, maybe it was the smell of braai smoke and meat cooking over open flame. Maybe it was Romeo, my new friend. I haven’t been chased in ages, never mind that I went into the sea. I hauled myself back out again. Maybe it was the fact that the ocean isn’t throwing me around here to there, all the time.
As soon as I realized I could just hop right off Sonrisa anytime I liked, I was in love. Each night, I’d take Andrew or Leslie for a walk. Just like any sailor, I love to survey the ships that are parked in my same neighborhood. We’d walk the dock looking at the lovely sheerline on this one, or the weird old steering wheel on that one. I loved the land smells and the ability to jump and run and stretch my legs. I didn't go far, I always stayed on our dock (I swear!).
It’s cold here, so I became a heat seeker. There is nothing so satisfying as a nap in a sun patch after a night of moonlit dock strolling.
I also made friends. Matt and Amy from S/V Florence would come over to play every now and then, and they fed me while Andrew and Leslie were out galivanting. Janine and Kevin from S/V Fluid Motion came, too, and I love them as well. I don't make friends that easily, so when I find some I don’t want to let them go!
No one really warned me we were leaving.
Okay, Leslie did say “We are leaving tomorrow afternoon, Little Cat, are you ready to go to sea?”
And, both Andrew and Leslie started working like dogs to get Sonrisa ready to go back out to sea: Andrew finishing up a few repair projects and Leslie making passage meals ahead of time. She even made a bit “stink” about it when she broke Sonrisa’s Ceremonial Sailor Jerry Rum Bottle. (Never a good sign.)
The Ceremonial Rum in its last ceremonial act, celebrating Sonrisa’s 11th Gotcha-Day with the Oddgodfreys along side a chocolate oatmeal no-bake Gotcha-Day cookie looking rather unappetizing.
But I ignored her! I did not say yes! When they fired up the engine and we slid along past Matt and Amy, they waved goodbye. Why goodbye?! If Matt and Amy don’t have to go, why do we have to go? I don't want to go!
Instead of climbing into my sailing cubby as I usually do when the engine turns on, I marched my way up the companionway stairs.
“Well, look who has her brave pants on!” Leslie said as I arrived in the cockpit. But I didn’t turn and smile, I didn't stop to stretch, I marched directly over the cockpit combing and onto Sonrisa’s foredeck while we were underway. I wanted to make a point.
“Kitty! What are you doing?”
I turn a circle, sit down on my haunches, and glare back at Leslie.
Andrew comes up from down below and looks out at me through the dodger window.
I glare at him, too.
“I do not want to go.” My eyes flash green with desperation, then yellow with rage. I look over Sonrisa’s side at the sea slowly moving past us, then I look back at the marina. Maybe I could swim back.
“Kitty, no! What’s the matter, Little Cat? Come back, now.”
Leslie is standing behind the helm, she continues to drive forward through the narrow exit leading away from the marina.
My stomach lurches with the slightest hint of waves entering past the breakwater. My head spins and I feel woozy. If I feel woozy now, how is it going to be when we actually reach open ocean?
It’s so cold here. There is no sun like the Malaysian sun. It’s grey and cold. Today, the rain does not fall in big plops that make great rain puddles to drink. It folds over me in a mist and collects along the length of my whiskers until the weight becomes too much, my whisker droops, and droplets of water plop down. The ones gathering in my eyebrow whiskers plop into my eye, and I blink them away making sure not to lose glare-contact with Leslie despite it all.
Sonrisa lurches sideways with a wave, and my paws slide across the wet deck. I move to the cabin top, but wrap my tail around my cold toes and glare.
I glare.
I glare.
I glare.
“Kitty, Kity, come back now. It’s cold on the foredeck.” Andrew reasons.
I do not move.
I turn my sight back to the marina getting ever smaller in the distance. I thought we were staying forever. I made friends. I was building my territory. I wanted to stay forever.
It becomes too cold to glare effectively, and they clearly aren’t turning around. I either have to swim back or go along for this ride. They both look quite worried. I take one more look over the side and decide it really is just too far to swim. I am a prisoner, they’ve captured me. What else can I do?
Andrew opens the hatch to the back bedroom, and I drop down below where it's a few degrees warmer, but significantly drier. I sit on the salon floor and work myself into a fret until I toss my cookies. Leslie can see my distress, but she continued to man the helm while Andrew drops below to comfort me and clean up my mess.
I hork again.
I hork again.
Andrew cleans it all up, but now he has to go outside and hork himself.
Leslie keeps driving, but now we are squarely in open ocean waves. And, it’s getting dark. We had to leave in the evening to give the waves time to die back, but get enough distance before the next Southerly comes in to make it to East London.
I’m so miserable.
I crawl up on to the bed and glare at Leslie from up front.
The Ghost of Richard Henry Dana apparently agrees with me, because he creates a flood in the bathroom, as he is known to do, emptying a good portion of one freshwater tank onto the floor.
Leslie is none the wiser of either my mess or Richard Henry Dana’s. She can feel my glare, though, and she can see me up on the bed. “That’s a good place for you to snooze, Little Cat. Go ahead and snooze there.” For some reason, her voice incites a rage in me I cannot explain. I know she was trying to be nice while keeping Sonrisa heading the right direction. What. Ever. Lady. If you cared, you’d turn us around. I stare into her soul while laying a revenge poo right on her side of the bed. Then, I hunker down on my haunches and glare until I think I’ll be sick again.
I climb down from the bed and hork in the center of the salon.
This makes me so angry, that I climb back up on the bed and make a revenge pee in a different, but equally Leslie-owned spot.
Does anyone else need a saltine cracker yet? They help.
Even though Andrew is still sick, he comes down to take care of me. Leslie handles blood, Andrew is in charge of vomit. Apparently, this has been part of their marital contract from the beginning. He sees me in the act of my revenge pee.
“Now you get it, turn this boat around!” I think, but then I cower. Oh…he’s going to be mad. He starts to approach me, steps in Richard Henry Dana’s flood, then turns back around and goes to the kitchen sink to throw up. Now, I feel guilty and sad, I hide my face in the corner of the pillows. But, Andrew is back and patting me while he cleans up my mess.
“What have you done, Kitty? Are you okay? Why are you so mad?” He pats me and pats me. “I'm so sorry we are making you do this. It’s just a couple days. I’m sorry.”
My heart melts into sadness and regret.
I really can’t explain why I’m so upset. I’ve never been like this before. I’ve been happy to go to sea on every passage we’ve ever started. It can be a little scary, but I’ve never been seasick or mad about it. I climb off the bed and into my cubby. Andrew retreats to the cockpit, hoping to find some reprieve from his own seasickness. Leslie is still sailing.
Sonrisa's motion is erratic, thrown every which direction from waves that are left over from Southerly wind, current that is pulling like a psychotic train at 9 knots from the North, and cross fetch starting to build from wind that is inexplicably blowing not from the North as planned, but from the North East. In comparison to Sonrisa’s usual speed of 5 knots average, we are streaking across the ocean, breaking prior speed records at 12.5 knots, even momentarily touching 13 knots of boat speed. But, the sails slat and pop when we rock violently too far to one side and the wind catches the back of the sail for a moment.
Andrew comes to lay down in his bunk, and we sail on miserably like this for a few hours until, I just need to come out and let everyone know how I feel. I sit down in the middle of the salon and start to cry.
I squeeze my eyes closed and yowl with a long, mournful open “Ooowwwwhhhhhlllll” over and over again.
Have you ever heard a cat cry?
Leslie will tell you it is the most sad sound she has ever heard.
“Oh Kitty,” Leslie tries to come below to comfort me, but she says, “I’m sorry Little Cat, I’m so sorry, but I can’t be down here.” She retreats back to the cockpit where, in theory, it’s supposed to be better for seasickness - fresh air, the view of the horizon, etc. But in the dead of night with full overcast, there is no view of the horizon. That is a lie. I can hear Leslie start to cry. And shout:
“No! NO! I won't! You can’t make me!”
This puzzles me.
Who is she talking to up there? Andrew is down here with me....
I stop crying and listen.
“NO!......NNnnnnnnooooo! NO!” She says, with silence falling in the gaps of a few minutes. She groans. “Nooooo! NO! I will NOT. You can't make me. You can’t make me do it!”
Andrew gets up to vomit in the sink. This is like number 16 for him.
He hears Leslie, too. In the momentary feeling of wellness that calms him after he throws up, he climbs the stairs and lays his head against Leslie’s shoulder. He doesn’t say anything for a while.
“NNnnnoooo! NO! I won’t do it!” She says, but she’s not talking to him. She groans again. Then breathes heavily.
“I can take over. It’s time for me to take over.” He says.
“You may as well just rest and sleep if you can,” She tells Andrew. “I can’t go down below anyway.” Then, she growls.... “I HATE THIS! I F^@(!ing HATE THIS! Can we turn away to Durban?” She asks.
“We’ve probably missed that turn off point already.” Andrew says.
She groans a long groan.
“Just go downstairs. I’ll stay on watch.” She says.
Andrew seems to know who she is yelling at. He doesn't even ask.
I look at him with big, frightened eyes. Why is the helmswoman and night watch crew talking to no one?
“Oh, she just doesn't want to puke.” He explains to me as if this is the most sensible thing in the world. “Yelling at the Gods of Wind and Sea, I suppose.”
She doesn't make it, though. At 2:37 a.m. the good fight ends and Leslie’s shame is spewed into sea like all the rest of ours. She uses the cockpit hose to clean off the evidence of her great defeat, then shaking, lays back down on her pile of beanbags. She pulls her foul weather gear hood over her face and lays in an ever increasing pool of rainwater, fantasizing about the future architecture of various possible land abodes, between alarms reminding her to check the horizon for obstacles and other ships.
I would snuggle her if I could, but I think I’ll stay here in my sailing cubby until we reach East London two days from now.
