Travel Reference
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the intensity of the drama now being played out before us. Nothing could take your mind
off this noisy, violent reality. This is probably the reason why so many sailors would tie
themselves to a bunk and drink themselves into a blind stupor. I can't imagine the hangover
they must have had in the morning. It's bad enough on solid ground.
The day dragged inexorably on, and we got used to the violence and noise and sights of
these monstrous waves marching down mercilessly onto us. Déjà vu was quite remarkable
through all of this. I had complete faith in the little lady. She had weathered a terrible storm
on her own when we were forced to abandon her off Cape Point, and that was even be-
fore I had added a substantial keel to her insufficient bilge keel arrangement. She had come
through that ordeal unscathed. It is often stated by old sailors that boats will generally take
care of themselves; it's the crew who are the fragile ones, contrary to that old saying, “ships
of oak and men of iron.”
The day dragged on as we sat hypnotized in the cockpit. Attempts were made to sleep or
take our minds off the horror of this display of nature in a bad mood, but inevitably we
wound up back in our seats in the cockpit staring silently at the mounting waves and shud-
dering from the increase in pitch as the wind screamed through the rigging wire. I looked
up at the top of the mast and saw the heavily reefed mainsail sheeted in taut, its reefing
lines tightly tied against the straining belly of the full sail. The two radio antennae whipped
about like dueling swords, raking great arcs through the ragged, grey sky.
The little working jib sheet was hauled in as tightly as it could be; its dripping sheet
wrapped around the old bronze Gibb winch drummed crazily against the deck now and then
as the sail shed pockets of gale and was instantly refilled. I realized that I had not taken all
that I could have taken off the top of the deck.
“Just be bloody careful now!” warned Gavin as I inched my way along the wildly bucking
deck, crawling within the confines of the scope of my safety harness. I finally reached
the plastic water jugs that had been lashed to the safety wires between the stanchions and
dragged them back to the relative safety of the cockpit. Three trips later they and a spare
sail were delivered safely down below. I went back and checked the dinghy lashing. It
had worked loose, and there were ugly chafe marks through the deck paint and dinghy's
wooden gunnels. I cinched these up as best I could. At least we wouldn't lose her. I checked
on the two spinnaker poles and made sure they were well-secured. The plastic cowls on
the two ventilator boxes had been removed earlier, and I checked the round plastic screw
hatches; they were secure. The anchors were in their locker. We had done all that we could
do up here. The final acknowledgment of the severity of the storm would be in the throw-
ing out of the sea anchors, something I wanted to delay until absolutely necessary, how
necessary would become very apparent soon enough. The light in the day remained drab.
It was a gloomy light all day from the heavy salmon grey cloud covering the sky from the
