 |  | |
|
Back in the day, fresh out of high school, when some of my pals were off to college and others were settling down to a life of monotony, I networked my way into a crew position on a first class sailing yacht. She was an English-flagged sailboat headed out of the Canary Islands, bound for a west to east circumnavigation. It sounded like just what I had dreamed of, besides winter was coming to Chicago so I jumped at the opportunity. I would have jumped on any boat going anywhere but, luckily for me, she was a beautifully outfitted Oyster 46-center cockpit ketch. After a bit of scrounging, begging and borrowing, I managed to get my plane ticket to Grand Canaria. With ticket in hand and $1000 to boot, I said my farewells and headed out for a life of adventure on the high seas. I met up with the very nice and very British owners of Leisurely Leo, and before long we were off. The first day out of the Canaries turned out to be a good day with the strong current and favorable winds, we were practically flying south. The first planned stop was Brazil, but because of a timing error I had not received my Brazilian visa. Because of my embarrassing gaff we had to pull into the pirate infested, hostile native dwelling, Cape Verde Islands as they had a Brazilian embassy where I could presumably obtain my needed visa. While looking for a suitable place for our anchor we were menacingly approached by some scary looking rascals in a tattered old boat. As they got closer, they reached under their dirty burlap canvas and whipped out…a couple of fresh fish they had just caught and offered to trade! A couple of beers and some small knick-knacks later we all parted with big smiles. The reputation of the Cape Verde Islands that we had picked up on the docks in the Canary Islands were, as usual, over exaggerated and unfounded; we found the islanders to be friendly and helpful. Getting ashore in the main town of Praia was no easy task. It required climbing up a derelict ladder 20’ feet straight up from the dinghy. We had heard that the Cape Verdes were the poorest nation in Africa, which seems like a mighty large claim but upon first setting foot on the long pier I was wondering if this might indeed be true. We were approached by a handful of kids who happily were there to help us carry away the garbage that we had accumulated over the seven-day trip from the Canaries. That is what I thought anyway. The young greeting committee immediately tore open the garbage sacks looking for, I cannot say exactly what, but presumably food and any usable piece of garbage. That was a touch of reality that this suburban Chicago boy will never forget. Later the next day I brought a bunch of Flip-n-flies, a toy that my father had created years earlier, to give to the kids. It was a bit frightening as I was practically mobbed by a crowd of twenty or more young kids clamoring for them as I passed them out. We wandered around the town for a while with our customs appointed and required guide. As evening approached I was amazed to see that people began lighting candles in the little shops and gathering places. I discovered that there is no electricity on the islands with the exception of the airport. 
With my Cape Verde Brazilian consulate issued visa in hand we set off for Brazil’s Fernando de Norohna Island. After 11 days on a port tack we made a safe landfall on the beautiful island 200 miles off the Brazilian mainland. After a short stay on Fernando we spent the next two months in Brazil lazily exploring while heading south. We spent Christmas at Angra dos Reis or the Bay of Kings.
These were wonderful times. The gap between rich and poor is extraordinary in Brazil. I seemed to find access to both of these worlds and I thoroughly enjoyed every moment in each. As the southern Atlantic portion of our trip approached I began to get nervous. There were a lot of informative books onboard and I spent considerable time reading up on this part of the world, and I did not like what I read. My entreaties to head straight for Cape Town, South Africa from Rio de Janeiro went unheeded. The owners were dead set on seeing what the Falkland Islands War was all about, after all the war had just ended five years prior. Our passage from Punta Del Este, Uruguay to Port Stanley, Falkland Islands was a little bumpy but tolerable and I started thinking that it was okay, this southern ocean cruising. We made decent time and began seeing all of the wonderful wildlife along the Patagonian coast. We were thankful that the passage was uneventful. As an English vessel we were not permitted to come within 200 miles of the of Argentinean coastline due to the strained relations between England and Argentina over the war. The few things that stand out most in my memory about the Falkland Islands were the mined beaches, peat burning fireplaces and the colorfully painted houses with numerous gnomes in the front yard. We set sail southeast from there after nine days for South Georgia Island where the Falkland Islands War actually began. This passage again was very easy and my sense of relief was great. After all, we had just gone several hundred miles in what many consider the most dangerous waters in the world with not so much as a squall. After seven days at sea we approached South Georgia Island, which was enshrouded in a thick fog. My last four-hour watch for that trip had been from 2 a.m. to 6 a.m., Just as I was turning in for a bit of a nap that the fog suddenly cleared and the regal island appeared with untouched mountain tops and blue glaciers that eased their way into the sea. We were all stunned by its rugged beauty, nothing I had ever seen before had floored me like this island. There was not a lot of talk that morning and needless so say, I never took that nap. If you have never seen an albatross in person I will tell you that they are majestic birds while in flight, but while they are taking off they are absolutely hilarious. To get that mass off the water takes a real effort. It seems to take all of their strength and resolve to get airborne. I noticed one contentedly floating a few points off the starboard bow as we were motoring along the east-end of South Georgia. I veered over a bit toward this fellow in order to get a better look and say good morning. After he was about 30 yards aft he wound up all his strength and with wings flapping, face grunting and feet paddling he cruised past us 10 yards off the starboard side only to land another 50 yards ahead. I again motored right past him as I had before, I regarded him, and he regarded me. With him aft 30 yards, the process started over again. The albatross did this three times in a row. Apparently, he had enough of us and we never saw him again. 
Our stay at Grytviken, South Georgia was short but very memorable. This is the same town that polar explorer Earnest Shackelton made his plight known. The weather was remarkably and unseasonably warm. A small naval base was established there after the Falkland Islands War and soldiers who were stationed there told us that we were very fortunate to have such exceptional weather. My crewmate, a young Brazilian named Joao, and I explored the abandoned whaling station there. The town was completely intact, abandoned by the Scandinavian fisheries back in the 1950’s. Only when we got back did we learn that we were forbidden to venture around the town. Cruising through derelict buildings without anyone knowing where we were was not such a great idea. The town was littered with whalebones, harpoons and all sorts of miscellaneous artifacts that this pack rat would have gladly taken home had we not been confined to living on a world cruising sailboat. Two fishing boats were moored, half-sunk at the docks. I believe that they are still there. We saw evidence of many wrecks in the Falkland Islands and South Georgia Island. They were reminders that this was a very unfriendly place to be despite the fact that we arrived unscathed.
After several days spent visiting the grave of Sir Earnest Shackleton, getting our passports stamped at the post office, and preparing the boat for the longest passage of the trip, we began to talk of heading out. A large part of why sailors consider the Southern Ocean such a dangerous place to visit is not only the fearful gales but also the lack of shipping and air lanes where at least there is a chance of rescue if, heaven forbid, you lose your vessel. Between South Georgia and Cape Town, South Africa, you are truly on your own. I was woken with a hint of panic and more than a little urgency that we were to leave immediately. You see it was March and winter was coming on in the southern latitudes. We were behind schedule. When I got on deck the whole flavor of South Georgia had changed. Instead of a postcard picture of serene beauty, the scene conjured up all of the dreadful images I had in my head from the books I had been reading about Cape Horn and the Southern Ocean. One of the soldiers threw me the bowline as we departed. I missed it and it fell in the water. I remember how cold the line felt as I coiled it in and stowed it. The feel of that cold water did more that chill my hand; it chilled me to my very core. As we hastily moved out of the harbor, the reefed sails were set and the owner asked who would like the first watch. I volunteered as I was at the helm already. I settled into my watch as the others went below and closed the companionway. It was the first time on this trip that this was necessary and it added to my sense of dread. Next, the first of many snowflakes began to fall and these totally ensconced my blue mood. My memory has never been very keen and many of the finer details are lost to me but what happened next is etched as clear as day upon my mind. With snow falling, the seas and wind building, and this very powerful sense of doom firmly supplanted in my otherwise optimistic head, a friend came to visit. I didn’t know I had this friend until I saw her. A whale, species unknown, stuck it’s massive head straight up out of the water. She was about 50 yards away and staring directly at me! Her head was perfectly vertical, stock still, just looking at me for about 15 seconds before she disappeared. This whale did not seem to casually look over on her way to nowhere in particular. No, she was making a deliberate attempt to look at me, all alone and scared, to soothe my fears and anxieties, she was telling me that everything would be okay. In all likelihood she saw a yellow boat and it drew her curiosity. But to me it was a sign, an omen, a welcome omen. That whale’s glance of assurance kept my spirits up for the next 29 days until we reached Cape Town. Believe me I needed all the positive omens I could get. As the weather continued to build and South Georgia quickly receded from our view, our thoughts turned to poorly placed icebergs, crew rotations and all other the other routines that constitute an ocean passage. I was still on watch when the companionway hatch slid open. A look of alarm was clearly etched across the owners’ face. The bilge was rapidly filling with water. We were sinking! A frantic examination of all of the through hulls found the problem. The salt-water hose for the galley had come off the fitting. Unfortunately, the engine was swamped and there was no other means of charging the batteries. This massive amount of water had to be pumped out by hand and by buckets through the companionway. It took hours and hours to bail the water out. It was messy and exhausting. All the while, a full-blown gale was building. Under these conditions it became more and more difficult to get the water out. Finally we got the bilge as empty as we could and took stock of our situation. Returning to South Georgia was eliminated almost immediately as an option. We would have to beat back against this gale only to possibly be stuck there for the rest of the winter. We all agreed to push on and hope for the best. As we had no means to generate power with the engine incapacitated, we knew we had to save the remaining battery power for our hopeful landfall in South Africa. To compound things further there is another detail I did not mention before. As incredible as this seems to me now, we were not able to get propane in Brazil, Uruguay, Port Stanley or South Georgia Island! The soldiers on South Georgia Island cooked all of our remaining perishables in their mess hall before we left. We were faced with this; a barometer that was falling alarmingly fast, an already tired and dirty crew that had no prospect for hot food or drink, no source for generating power and thus no lights even for the binnacle at night and a captain that relied heavily on electronic equipment for his navigating. Add to this that we were on the first day crossing one of the most notorious oceans on earth with nary the chance of rescue had we lost the boat. The wind intensified, the seas were building and the next four days consisted of nothing more than taking your two-hour watch, eating a bit and staying in your bunk. We were now running bare poles racing down the waves at hull speeds. It seemed inevitable that sooner or later we would pitch-pole. As we raced down each wave the bow came dangerously close every time to torpedoing under the surface and all of that forward momentum sending the stern over the bow. It took all of our strength and concentration to finesse the boat down the mountainous waves without broaching, only to correct at the right moment in the trough. Every wave for the better part of four days had the capability of killing us. Even though this was a center cockpit boat we were repeatedly slammed in the back by the breaking waves. We attempted to fit an oil lamp to the binnacle for a light but it was futile, the water was everywhere. It would be nice if I could relate in hard numbers how high the waves were or what force the storm was. I cannot. All I know is that the waves were well over mast height, the wind was tremendous and the noise deafening. After 29 days we were outside the harbor in Cape Town South Africa in a very thick fog. We radioed the harbormaster to let them know we had no motor. A local sailor heard our request for assistance and was there quickly. As the man on the bow I gave the towline a mighty heave, only to see it slip right out of the hands of the receiver. As I was re-coiling the line we were informed that we were rapidly approaching the sea wall. The owner of our boat began screaming at me to throw the line despite the fact that half of it was still in the water. I kept coiling and coiling and coiling until finally I had it all in my hands. With the perfect throw and not a minute to spare the other boat had us under tow in seconds. They gave us a tow onto a mooring can in the marina. The next day we were towed into a slip directly in front of the Royal Cape Town Yacht Club where we enjoyed well deserved hot showers, hot food and hot drinks. Sometimes now, as a father, after a hectic day out with the kids I feel an awesome sense of relief when we finally make it home. But nothing can compare to how wonderful the crew of Leisurely Leo felt the day of our safe arrival in Cape Town after such a wild trip across the Southern Ocean. |
|
Jason Kettlestrings has been a yacht broker for three years at Bellhaven Yachts in Bellingham. He sails his Nonsuch 30 with wife Deirdre and children Tucker and Cassidy out of the Squalicum Harbor in Bellingham.
...back to 48° North title page.
|