Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
FOUR
THE EIGHTH CONTINENT
In my sleep, I heard the call.
All hands.
Someone had shouted it into our cabin.
All hands to
strike sail.
We fell out of our bunks, struggled into our rain gear, and went above half-awake.
The deck was a starless uproar of wind and sound. “The Navy's running an exercise
nearby,” said the first mate. “They've ordered us to head north. I asked them to let us run
downwind, but they just repeated the order.” The ship, under engine power, was running dir-
ectly into the wind, the sails flapping powerless and wild. They would be torn to shreds.
We wrestled the foresails in the dark. The air filled with spray, with thick rope jerking
and snapping in chaos. There were six of us in the bow. Four were out on the bowsprit—the
long spar extending forward over the water—and two on the most forward part of the deck,
where the bowsprit joined the ship.
I was on the deck, feeling with my hands in the dark, trying to find the downhaul lines
and gaskets that would draw down and fasten the sails. After weeks at sea, I knew what I
was looking for, but that didn't mean I could find it.
The ship crested a large wave. We felt the bow rise higher and higher into the night. It
seemed to pause at the top. For a moment we floated in the salty air.
Then we fell. The ship buried its prow in the oncoming wave, deeper than ever before.
The four on the bowsprit—my friends—disappeared below the surface, foam churning over
their heads. Were they clipped in? The deck went under with them. The water surged to my
waist, tugging at me, sliding me aft. Robin grabbed my arm and I grabbed the rail, and we
kept ourselves from tumbling backward down the deck. I looked at the bowsprit and thought,
All I see is foam.
