“How’s it going over there? We are getting hammered!” Steelie Pete has hailed us on the VHF. The rain hasn’t let up, the wind is completely dead, and the motor has been chugging along for a few hours.
“You’re getting hammered? We have zero wind. We are motoring right now.” Andrew reports.
“Really! No wind for you. We keep getting hit with squalls coming in at 35 knots.” Pete replies. Andrew takes their coordinates and we confirm they are about 50 miles ahead of us. What a difference 50 miles can make!
“You must be in the eye of a little storm.” Pete says.
Eye of a little storm?! I think. I get a tad irritated wondering how a storm with a “little eye” did not show up as part of our analysis of a “perfect weather window.” Grump. Somehow, we were still trying to march our way through “Miserable Day Two - The Worst Day of All Passages.” The erratic waves had recently thrown us all sideways, causing Katherine Hepburn’s food and water bowls to take flight and evacuate their contents from one end of the salon to the other despite prior engineering efforts at containment. I had cleaned everything up, and then hit the outer end of my sea-sick-safe time below. I lay down on Sonrisa’s cabin floor, pinning myself between the mast and the salon bench, my foul weather gear crinkling like a garbage sack and sticking to my skin, damp and soaked through.
“Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” I say to the sea gods and anyone else who wants to listen.
(“Plop.”)
I never have the wherewithall to take photos while annoyed, so please enjoy this photo of the sea in a less cantankerous moment.
Andrew had been warming up our pre-cooked dinner, and this night will be bowlful of lasagna. Warm, cheesy, tomato sauce I made from scratch. It's comfort food, and it does the trick. Soon, I’m up on deck getting rained on again. The sun drops low and Sonrisa and I rumble along together by the red glow of the compass light. I think about what lies ahead, knowing it’s mostly a mystery. South Africa’s borders are closed (at the time of this passage), Madagascar’s borders are closed, the islands of Mozambique have been under siege by ISIS insurgents and certainly not a viable destination for us. Covid is circulating in all forward destinations, and even if one or the other opens up, onward destinations from there are dangerous or closed. In normal years, the Seychelles has limits on how long people and boats can stay, but maybe this year there are extensions to be had.
What is it I hope for? Do I hope we can stay? Do I hope things will open up and we can leave?
I come to an uneasy realization that I don’t even know what I hope for right now. My sense of direction has been pickled and placed on a shelf.
I start to feel the cool of wind on my left cheek, we heel slightly under the pressure of the main sail alone, and I know it’s time to put the sails back out. I unroll the jib, power down the throttle, and test our speed without engine propulsion. She holds at five knots. I reach down to pull the kill lever to snuff the engine and it pulls out in my hand - leaving the engine merrily puttering along in neutral.
(“Plop. Plop.”)
“Oh shit!” I say, looking at the piece that just gave way in my hand. Why can't a boat go ten minutes without demanding the loving caress of a damn wrench?
“Andrew???”
Andrew pokes his head out of the companion way and I hold up the kill lever for his review. “It just pulled out!”
Andrew takes it from me, looks at the dead end, and disappears down the hatch to disassemble the access panels in the stern bunk to shut down the engine using a more direct method. The engine goes silent. Without another word, Andrew heads back to bed and I settle into my beanbag.
(“Plop. Plop….Plop”)
Katherine Hepburn sleeping through the engine drama.
(“Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop.”)
Somewhere in the passing of my night watch, the rain eases off and stars begin to peek through poofs of mist. A full moon has risen behind the clouds and the grey light allows a glistening and shimmering view across the water surface.
(“Plop.”)
It's around this time that Andrew’s subconscious wonders: “What in the hell is all that ‘plopping’?" From my perch in the cockpit, I see rustling out of the corner of my eye. I click the red-light on my headlamp and point it down into Sonrisa’s cabin to see Andrew mopping with a handful of white towels.
“What's going on?”
He ignores me.
“Why are you out of bed?”
I climb down the stairs and look over him to see a waterfall of “plops” cascading from the V-Berth Bed platform, soaking into the (thankfully, waterproof) backpack that houses my camera gear. Streaming rivulets of water escape to cross Sonrisa’s cabin sole; small rivers dancing from side to side in the waves until Andrew collects them in the towel like an unruly picnic of ants.
"A leak? Oh crap. It's the leak!”
Andrew is too annoyed to respond. He thought he had fixed this leak after it made a mess of our V-Berth on the passage to Chagos. Now, the night of only day two it has rained so much that the leak has reappeared and soaked our entire V-Berth Bed like a giant dish sponge. Andrew presses down on the mattress and more water bubbles out. If the Zen Buddha of Boat Maintenance could cry, he might now. Instead, he just hands me my camera bag and says “probably better move this.”
“What time is it?” He asks, mopping and muttering obscenities.
“Just past midnight. And, the rain is breaking up! Miserable Day Two is over.” I deliver this pep talk while perched in the companion way looking outside, then inside again. Kitty circles around Andrew’s feet, bumping her head into his ankles for moral support.
We install a bucket as a temporary containment device.
Day three is cloudy, but dry with strong consistent wind. The waves remain huge, and I gasp as a dolphin leaps out of the side of a wave rising up above Sonrisa like a wall of water. He dips his nose just in time to divert course and avoid flying through Sonrisa’s cockpit. Sonrisa lifts her hind quarter to allow the bohemuth wave to slip beneath her without notice.
Day four is sunnier still, with strong consistent wind and we all finally have our sea legs.
Day five, is a bluebird day. The waves start to lay down, but the wind remains perfect. We hoist more sail and cover another 135 miles.
Day six starts serving us more variable wind. We hoist the full mainsail, try out the Code Zero during a stint of up wind, douse it and put up the spinnaker during a stint of downwind. We all have enough energy to wrestle with our giant light wind sails. While the big sails are up, we have the space to peel apart that mouldering bed and give each blanket a fresh water rinse/hang in the sun to dry a little and stop the mildew from building the entire eco system to which it's putting such industrious efforts.
Day seven is the most perfect day. 15 knots of wind, calm seas, 5.5 knots of boat speed, a clear starry night. "Funny how just one of these days can erase the memory of rambunctious, soggy, seasick sailing that often befouls our moods." I think to Myself.
“Yes, I agree." She says as she dangles her feet in the sea rushing by the low side.
The pleasure was short lived, though, as the next two days graced us with an almost two knot opposing current, jumbling waves that bounced me around in bed like a popcorn kernel in oil, and a Captain who refused to sleep a wink for 24 hours straight.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING DOWN THERE!?” I would demand employing my most Motherly First Mate voice. I need that children's book they wrote, I think the title is “Go the F&CK to sleep!”
Our last twenty-four hours at sea were just irritating enough to cause both of us to beg for the sight of land. Our ill tempers were soothed only by the stars raining down on us from the Perseid Meteor Shower on night watch. I went to bed at 03:30h that night to give Andrew a little extra sleep, promising myself that when I next cracked my eyes, Victoria Seychelles would be in my sights.
And it was. I slept through to sunlight, climbing the companion way stairs to a greeting of sheer emerald cliffs and cotton candy pink clouds gathering in the surround of a fine mist. “Well….” I say, taking in this most welcome view. “This passage had a little of everything, didn’t it: annoying weather, crappy waves, perfect sailing wind, broken boat parts, sea sickness, rain, meteor showers, dolphins, and beautiful sunsets.”
Andrew grunts and nods.
“Sweet and spicy Salt and pepper.. Just enough to make us happy to see land, just enough to make us crave a little bit more. Later - after a rest, of course.” But, this I think only to myself.
Andrew squeezes the VHF radio between the palm of his hand and his thumb. "Port Control, Port Control, this is Sailing Vessel Sonrisa.” He pauses to receive acknowledgement.
“Sonrisa, this is Port Control.”
“Permission to enter port?"
Permission granted. We sail in as far as is safe, then roll in our sails and drop anchor in the quarantine anchorage to await clearance from the Health Inspector. Another 1,200 nautical miles in our logbooks, and time to tackle whatever Covid-Life ashore brings us.
