The fright of my life

The Disease Called Cruising

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.”

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