Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
“One-eight-five,
aye
,” we would respond, duty-bound to get over the silliness of saying
“aye” all the time.
You would then peer at the points of the compass as they wavered in the gimbaled steel
housing of the binnacle, just beyond the wheel, and ponder how to make a five-degree
course correction to a heading that wandered a good ten degrees back and forth, according
to the swell and the wind and the whimsy of Poseidon.
16 AUGUST—36°55′ N.129°27′ W
In the afternoon, we saw our first piece of debris. The honor went to Charlie Watch. Art, a
retired science teacher both crusty and jovial, said he thought it was a net, although it was
too far away to be sure.
Around eight thirty the following morning, I spotted Debris Item No. 2: a large bundle
of synthetic yellow rope, to starboard.
After only three days at sea, the mind was already so tuned to the featurelessness of the
ocean surface that a bundle of rope was cause for major excitement. Even a fragment of
kelp would have been a thrill, and this was actual
rope.
We went thronging to the rail. I
wanted to cry “WHERE AWAY?” but restrained myself, as it would have made no sense.
It had been me that spotted the rope, so someone
else
should have been crying “Where
away?” so I could then call, “TWO POINTS ON THE STARBOARD BEAM!”
It was Patrick O'Brian syndrome. I had read too many of his rousing tales of early-
nineteenth-century naval adventure. Now, on a large sailing vessel for the first time, I was
afflicted by the urge, barely stifled, to scream “WHERE AWAY?!” whenever I had the
chance, in rude imitation of the indefatigable Captain Aubrey. (The strange counterpoint to
this urge was that I never got used to shouting “LAYING ALOFT!” before climbing into
the rigging, as instructed by the Pirate King.)
The bundle of rope slid out of sight. “Where away?” I whispered.
There was more trash that day, small pieces here and there. We had no illusions that we
were anywhere near the Gyre, though. We hadn't traveled far enough, and the weather was
still cool and windy, not the warm doldrums we could expect once we reached the Gyre.
But it whetted our appetite. It sharpened our eyes. People began scanning the ocean surface
for debris whenever they were on deck. Several people went up into the crosstrees to look
out from above. The call came down of another rope sighting.
(Where away?)
Gabe and I
went thronging to the rail. You must always
throng
to the rail, I felt, even if there are only
two of you.
There it was: a tattered section of rope, maybe eighteen inches long.
“Oh, shit,” said Gabe. “That is going to fuck up some ecosystem.”
