Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I heard and had to laugh out loud at the angry, frightened yowling of Murphy from the
depths of the cabin. I could visualize him clawing his way out of the box and skidding
around the polished soles. I prayed he found his cat box should he need it. Déjà vu was
heeled most alarmingly now, and I feared for her stays. They were old; I had been given
them by an old sailor in Cape Town who had raced in the now infamous Cape to Rio yacht
race, and he had re-rigged his boat, giving me his old ones. I had tested them thoroughly
before leaving Cape Town, and was satisfied with their strength, but I was still nervous of
them.
I was pointing as high as I could now, trying to make the little harbor entrance, still about
a mile off. The wind was very strong and, to make matters worse, sheets of rain started to
fall. The rain flew almost horizontally and stung me in the face and arms which were bare.
The salt on my face combined with this rain now trickled down into my eyes, and I was
hard-pressed to see through stinging, teary eyes. I was about half a mile from the harbor
entrance now, and it was a narrow passage between the side of a tall, dark, menacing cliff
and a broken, boulder-strewn land mass on the other side.
Murphy continued to yell blue murder from the bowels of the cabin. He must have been
terrified out of his little wits; I couldn't blame him, and I shouted words of encouragement
and apologies down to him. I hoped that my voice would calm him, but he seemed to yell
back louder with more anger and venom at me, “What the hell are you playing at dad? Do
you know how to drive this damn thing or what?”
Streaks of low, stray clouds scudded impersonally by; the wind now whipped up the water
as it crashed into our bows, cascading in impressive amounts of foamy, shattered, white
water, flinging its way back into the cockpit and over the spray dodger, dousing me thor-
oughly. I could hardly see at times. I was genuinely frightened. I needed to get into this
harbor for protection. I did not relish the idea of spending a night out in this, and the harder
I tried to beat up to the entrance, the harder the wind and rain seemed to pelt me and keep
me from my destination.
All my efforts and will were now focused on making this entrance. I sat huddled up on the
hard, wet, cockpit seat, hand clutching the big-headed, glossy tiller, knuckles white with
effort. I stared intensely out ahead of me, keeping Déjà vu's bow pointed exactly at the
right direction for maximum speed at this point of sail. I tried to duck and dodge the sheets
of seawater that kept flying constantly across. I would jump up at appropriate moments,
coming about smartly on the other tack and settling down on the other side of the cockpit
with renewed intensity. We were making ground, yard by grim yard. I was getting very cold
in the rain and wind but was very resolute, and somehow the adrenalin from the situation
made me less aware of my discomfort.
