“I had my doubts we would ever leave," I said to Andrew as we hoofed several bags of groceries back from the Pick n’ Pay to Sonrisa.
“I know,” he said.
I had never seen my Captain quite so loathe to go to sea. For months now, anytime the discussion of seatime would come up, he would groan a little. But slowly, over the course of the last few weeks, he started to return to his usual self. His feet seemed to itch just a bit more, he started talking about the animals he might see in Namibia, he started wondering over Pete and Jen's photos of a bone dry desert and red sand dunes.
We started to feel a little bit of pressure from winter chasing us on the back side. Cape Town nights started to get a lot colder, the days didn't warm up as much as usual. We started trying to squeeze in the “last this” and the “one more of that” before we go. We weren't the only ones. We were keeping tabs on three other sets of friends, one of whom we spied saying a final goodbye to a girl he stayed longer than planned to spend time with. “Is No-Motor-Marcus leaving tomorrow morning, too?” I asked.
No Motor Marcus is a Canadian fella who is on a mission to get around the world without ever using a motor. He has traveled by foot, bicycle, kayak, a sailboat he bought in India, and even a pogo stick at one point. He never even rides in buses or taxies. You gotta live your dreams!
“Yep. So it will be us, Austin on Enchantress, No Motor Marcus, and SV Florence heading out in the morning.” Andrew says. We stow our groceries and then head over to the Royal Cape Yacht Club to finish our checkout procedures. Next to immigration, port control, and finally customs.
All checked out.
We return the rental car, then return to Sonrisa to get everything (including ourselves) settled into passage mode. We are going to sea.
This will be a gentle reintroduction, it's only four or five days so to sail northward to Namibia, and while it will probably be cold, our forecast looks sunny and like the wind will either be gentle or come from behind us - always the most comfortable option. I haul andrew up the mast to take one last peek at the rig, we tidy up the deck, lash down Grin, lash down jugs, and before dinner that night, the steering wheel is even on. We feel ready to go.
We sleep with that excitable night-before-passage sleep dreaming through lists of things we know we must do to exit safely and with all crew on board.
At 06:30h Kitty returns from her midnight catting schedule at the apartment complex. “Mow. Mow. Mow. Mow. Meeyooww!" Old reliable cat-alarm ringing to get her first breakfast. I wake up and scoop her some kibble, and while she dives nose first into her bowl, I surrepetitiously install the companionway doors and seal off all modes of catting ingress and egress. At first, she doesn't notice, relaxing instead into her post-breakfast catbath.
I put on a pot of hot water for tea (no coffee on passage mornings to reduce seasickness) and we enjoy a quick oatmeal breakfast. It's around this time that Katherine Hepburn realizes her fate. She climbs to the top of the stairs and looks longingly through her now-sealed porthole to the apartment complex in the distance. We have a small discussion about what happens next.
She is definitely not committed to staying aboard so I coax her into her crate and lock her in like a furry prisoner. This results in an even more enraged scratching and clawing at our bed blankets beneath her crate. She knaws on the wires of her cage door and yowls her displeasure. Prisoner #54309
Witnessing other sailor's pitfalls as they tried to exit Cape Town, we already knew that the cats who loved the apartment complex may or may not try to jump ship, and the sailors who have to go under the draw bridge may or may not make it out before the draw bridge closes upon you and you lose a mast.
With kitty now confined to her cage, all we need do is escape the draw bridge. At exactly 7:30 a.m., I am standing my helmswoman post while Andrew is darting about the dock untying our lines. "Okay, go ahead!" He tells me. I pop Sonrisa into reverse and throttle up, only to have her stern skitter sideways rather than backwards, not at all as expected. Austin walks by and asks us if we would like him to let loose on one line we forgot tying us to the dock. “Oh, yes, please!" We say. With Sonrisa now free, we back away from the dock. I guide her to the open space between slips and circle, waiting for the draw bridge to open. Far away from other boats and docks now, Andrew releases the furry Kraken. Kitty comes bounding outside despite the engine noise and heads forward to get her last glance at the apartment complex.
She seems confused, but not enraged this time.
I wait until the bridge is wide open, then we slide through directly into a warm morning sun. We cut a glassy sea in half as we go, and several fur seals wave to us as they twirl through their morning calisthenics. “Bye guys! Thanks for the hospitality!” I tell them. We pop out from the second draw bridge and we are officially at sea.
We relax back into Sonrisa's cockpit, enjoying the sun and a completely calm ocean. We are underway by motor, but we knew the wind would come up soon. Kitty remained on deck until her last sign of the apartment complex disappeared beyond the horizon, then she went down below to sulk in her engine cubby. We motor West until we catch the wind we knew would be further offshore. Then, we reel out the big headsail and install the pole to keep it from flogging about as we roll in the developing waves. By 10 p.m. that night, the wind is howling from behind, the waves are big, and we have switched to our smaller headsail only. A full moon was rising and the sky was dry and clear with planets and a few stars that can compete with the moon’s silver light. The air is fridgid, though, and we take to Sonrisa's cabin to stay warm between 15 minute checks.
“If we are going to sail cold water like this, we REALLY need a heater!" We all say. Kitty's fur is fluffed thick to keep her warm, but to no avail. So, she climbs into the sea bunk with the offwatch crew.
Day 2 is much the same, the wind staying strong and the wayves staying big. Around 3 p.m., the wind starts to slacken and the waves get smaller. It becomes a beautiful day, and Kitty comes on deck to see what is going on. She looks overboard port, then starboard. Sulks, then goes back down below until 11 p.m. at night (usual catting hour) when she demands I let her out. Usually, when we are at sea, Kitty will stay on her shelf inside the companion way, down below, or in her bravest moments under the dodger. This night, however, she just WOULDN'T stay! I went out with her to sit in the beanbag and cuddle her in my lap like usual, but she kept trying to claw her way over the cockpit combings and go forward on deck!
“Kitty, NO! It's dangerous." I would tell her, grabbing her in my clutches and pulling her back. This only made her more resolved, and she writhed and squirmed, melting her cat-skeleton into a soup of fur and blood that I simply could not hold. She ran through my hands like sand, and then escaped forward.
“KITTY!"
I’m sure the terror in my voice was very satisfying to her rebellious nature. She marches forward to make a point. Climbs up on the cabin top, sits next to the life raft, circles the mast, jumps down and sits next to the anchor windlass. I am just hoping against hope that she doesn't fall overboard because if she does, its dark, we are moving fast, and I think there is no way we could ever find her again. Finally, she trots back the port side deck, and climbs into the cockpit again to curl up on my lap.
“Great. Good. I'm glad you are back. I don't know what that was all about, but I hope it's out of your system."
Maybe she just needed to confirm the apartment complex was long gone. I don't know. But she never did it again. I do struggle with respecting her autonomy as an independent creature and protecting her from danger.
Soon, she is cold and she wants to go down below. I do, too. Andrew has the hurricane lamp glowing a soft flame to help take the edge off the cold and keep a nice light for the on-watch crew. it's not an enclosed cockpit but it’s cozy and with our radar, AIS, and 15 minute alarms running, I feel safe enough making laps from down below to open the companion way and check the horizon. Sonrisa is taking care of herself well as she usually does. Dressing in my full foulies and sea boots, I'm ready to handle whatever pops up anyway. My life vest hangs on a hook by the door.
Setting moon to port…
Dying cold light to starboard.
Our third day, the wind dies back and we are wrestling with Sonrisa just to keep moving. We launch the spinnaker, but then the wind becomes flookie and comes from the nose. We launch the code zero, but then the wind decides to roll back from behind. The sea is glassy, with only cat paw ripples breaking its surface now and then. We move at 3-5 knots in 5-10 knots of wind when we can. It's a warm sunny day, though, and it's pleasant to be in the cockpit. We listen to music, the mood is cheerful, and Kitty sits on her beanbag under the dodger confident that we will trim the sails properly.
We are wallowing in a wind hole on day four when suddenly, we can hear the strangest agitation on the sea. It sounds like egg beaters frothing liquid. "What is that?" I ask. I look overboard, the water is still calm. I look into the distance and see....something. "What IS that! Look!" I say to Andrew. About a half mile away, something is happening. And, its moving closer to us. It's huge, its covering at least a football field size of sea. As it moves closer, we can see it's a pod of hundreds of dolphins splashing, jumping, swimming our way.
“Wow! Oh Wow!" I grab every item of camera gear I own and try to record it in every way I know how. Go Pro running, shutter clicking, hundreds of dolphins overtake us and start skeetering under Sonrisa's hull. The water is so still and clear, you can see at least fifty feet down. The whole horizon around us is filled with dolphins, the sea below us is filled with dolphins, it's a dolphin swarm.
Kitty is unimpressed, and goes down below to escapbe the hubub. I am on the bow, however, talking to my friends. They squeak squeak and us, probably asking us to “sail faster, please!” They love to play in our wake when we are sailing around 5 knots. As it was today, we were dead in the water. They play around us for a half hour or more, and we enjoy the company. Then, as fast as they arrived, they swim off into the distance and we are left alone to finish our sail into Luderitz, Namibia.
12 hours later, had arrived. Moored in an anchorage that could have been located in Lake Mead, Nevada if I didn't know better. Time to explore the desert!