Although this was not a race we were still in a hurry. The weather was
forecast to get worse, there were now only four of us on board, and we
all had other places we needed to be. But, as Napier disappeared, we
did little more than enjoy the sailing. The weather continued to be
spectacular and the wildlife dazzling. Gannets, mollyhawks, whales,
even a pod of dolphins that surfed our bow wave at sunset. And after
sunset the moon and stars filled the sky without any artificial light
in sight to spoil their glory. Lying on deck staring at the Southern
Cross I speculated that it was sights such as this that inspired
religions, and not the mushrooms after all.
Then the weather started. Friends had brought the spray shield, and
taken away the racing sails so Distraction was a more roomy and
comfortable place, but we still had our work cut out as the wind rose
to 45kts and we headed into Cook Strait. The Pretty Boy Army were on
the radio, being some way ahead of us, and reported having taken
shelter in what they believed was the likeliest spot. From the sounds
of it they were going to be trapped there until the storm passed, and I
heard someone say that the wind had gusted to 60kts where they were.
At such times it's normal to again take solace in off-the-wall
thoughts. Here we are motor sailing in some of the most dangerous water
on the planet. I've just spent fifteen minutes fighting the waves to
stay on my feet long enough to secure the main so that we can fly the
trysail. I lost my cup of soup into the cockpit while trying to helm
the boat and drink at the same time, because I had no hands free to
hold on with when a big wave caught me unawares. I'm cold, wet, tired
and bruised, and all I can thing about is names for boats.
It starts with comparing myself to Joseph Conrad's Marlowe in his short
story Youth. The eager young man battling the ocean, measuring himself
against the elements and his fellow crewmen as the Judea struggles
forward on what is to be her last voyage. Ah, the days of sail! Ships
with names like Flying Cloud and Thermopylae, names that conjure up
images of romance and adventure of exactly the sort we've been having
and are still having. Cutty Sark, Endurance, Revenge...
And Pretty Boy Floyd? You have got to be joking!
I am haunted by the thought of Long John Silver's parrot striking
terror into the hearts if its master's victims: 'We're the pretty boys
then', as 100 terribly nice young men in stylish yacht club blazers and
butch haircuts storm aboard singing 'Blow the man down Sneaky' before
making off with the cabin boy in a ship sponsored by Mount Gay Rum.
Thankfully the weather distracts me before I lose my sanity completely,
and at sundown on the second day we limp into Wellington harbour. At
least I think it was sundown, but the only way to tell was to look at
your watch, which I hadn't bothered to bring. Visibility was
intermittently up to a mile or so, but mostly down to a hundred metres
or less. The GPS had given up the ghost, and we were trying to get a
compass fix on a nearby headland to know if we were within ten miles of
where we thought we might be and could turn in safely.
Exhausted, unsure of our position, driving almost blind, eventually we
make the call to go, and managed to get it spot on! The land thankfully
falls away on both sides of us to reveal the inlet we need and all we
have to do is endure the final half hour motoring straight into the
wind and driving spray in agonising misery. The spray is so extreme
that to look directly into it is almost impossible for eyeballs that
have been lashed by salt water for longer than they care to remember.
I am reduced to wearing a dive mask that protects my eyes, but
inconveniently blocks my nose so that I have to keep my mouth open to
breathe. This also helps me keep up my intake of salt water, which I
had been neglecting recently, but that in turn makes it difficult to
talk to Sniffy. He (the b*****d) is standing behind me for protection,
tiller in hand, and I'm looking out for rocks, lighthouses, cross-
straits ferries, and anything else that could spoil the end of a lovely
day:
'There's burble, spit ahead to port, choke, might be the light. Spit.
No, it's moving, burble, swallow. No, it's the light. Blah, snort,
choke, spit' and so on, until at last we're in the bay and within sight
of home. A few minutes later we're nudging softly into our berth, I'm
fishing the mooring lines out of the water I dropped them into less
than a week ago, and the coastguard are on the radio asking if we know
where the pretty boys are.
And that's it. We'll tidy the boat another time. All that matters now
is a hot shower and sleep. Everyone climbs into their respective taxis
soaked to the skin, hair plastered to heads that are having trouble
relating to normal people. Fortunately Wellington taxi drivers are not
normal people, and don't speak English in any case, so relating to them
is not a problem. But, unfortunately, few of them know their way around
the city either. After enduring oceans, quaffing heroic quantities of
alcohol (and seawater), sleep deprivation, mushrooms, wind beyond
reason, Romantic Interest, Sniffy the B*****d, and three days in the
company of a bald nude arm-wrestling loony, I can't say that returning
to the real world is a pleasant or relaxing experience. I crawl into my
bed, and dream... of the sea.
|
|
|
