4.
Come and get me
BY FEBRUARY we were deep into the
South Atlantic, running free for Rio de Janeiro, four of us in a 33-foot wooden
sloop called Diana K.
But we had blundered too close to
the South Atlantic High, and it was calm, dead calm. The pinned-in mainsail was
slatting and filling noisily. The galley cupboards sang the clink-clink song of
all small ships adrift among the southern swells.
I sat alone in the cockpit marveling
at the beauty of the night. There was no moon, but each of a million stars was reflected
brightly in the pitch-black ocean and each was connected to its neighbor by a
wobbly skein of light. The whole surface of the sea was gently heaving with
this magnificent display when I got to wondering how far down into the water
the light of a start might penetrate.
It wasn’t exactly logical, but I got
the deck flashlight and shone it overboard. Looking down along it, the narrow
beam stabbed deeply forever, twisting and spiraling eerily, boring into the
verdant depths.
I was lost in contemplation for
quite a while until a sudden thought occurred to me — a thought that made me burst out into a cold
sweat. I realized I had just signaled
our presence to every leviathan of the sea within miles.
Now, we all know the size of the
creatures that lurk down there. Occasionally some octopus the size of an
elephant gets washed up on a lonely shore, and enormous whales return to the
surface all scarred and bleeding after tumultuous fights with giant squids.
And now on a moonless night I had
flashed my light deep into the water to show the brutes where we were. I was guiding them to their prey. And we weren’t moving. We were sitting ducks.
Shivering with fright, my first
impulse was to start the motor to get away from that spot. But how would I
explain it to the others? I knew full well they would scoff at my fears. I
thought of waking the skipper and confessing to what I’d done so stupidly. But I was paralyzed. I did nothing except
crouch low in the cockpit.
Then I had another idea. I crept
down below to fetch the fireman’s ax we carried for emergencies. If any
tentacles started sliding over the gunwale, I wanted to give a good account of
myself.
I don’t know how long I spent on the
cockpit floor, ax at the ready. Time
seemed to be suspended. But eventually I
felt a faint breath of air. I ran forward and raised the big genoa. I freed the
mainsheet and got her fetching, full and by, making her own wind.
No Olympic helmsman ever
concentrated harder. I sailed like a demon, sucking every ounce of power from
every wayward puff.
After a while, I guess it was about
15 minutes or so, we had moved several hundred yards from Ground Zero, where I
had signaled the giants of the depths to come to dinner. I began to relax. No tentacles had appeared
over the gunwale. No whale had swallowed us. I took the ax below again. God,
we’d been lucky.
I never told the others what I’d
done, and, of course, I’ve never done it again. One fright like that is enough
to last a sailor a lifetime.
Today’s
Thought
To sail uncharted waters and follow virgin shores—what a life
for men!
— Rockwell Kent
Tailpiece
“Why did they transfer your boy
friend from that submarine?”
“He said he couldn’t sleep without a
window open.”
Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for a
new Mainly about Boats column.)
