10th
Dramatic Escape to Paradise On A Boat, Part 4: 3-hour Tour on the High Seas
Departure from delirious and delightful St Bart’s goes swimmingly. The sky over our port side to the west turns pale and rosy as the hills and rocks of St B’s recede behind us. We enjoy a very civilized glass of rose - only one each, as we have a long night’s sail ahead. Alex has set us a course to the island of Jost Van Dyke, in the British Virgin Islands, and the autopilot is at the helm.
As land vanishes on all sides, clouds thicken and a sudden squall blows in. Turbulent seas, a sudden downpour and gusts to 30 knots. Though the waves crashing over the side of the boat are pleasantly warm to those of us used to the frigid arctic Down East waters of New England, Claire and I don foul weather jackets over our bikinis. Alex and S. discuss reefing the sails if the wind holds at 30kt, but at only 29kt, we persevere. It is rough and choppy, and at one point all the empty rose tumblers fly off the table directly at me- though no injury sustained as they are fortunately the “free” plastic cups that we had fortuitously “liberated” from Nikki Beach. Claire takes a seasickness pill, and Alex offers me one. I’ve never been seasick, I reply jauntily, what does it feel like? Oh, you’ll know, says Alex….and all too soon….I do.
We’ve divided up the journey into 3-hour shifts: S. and I from 9pm-midnight, Alex and Claire from 12-3am, S. and I from 3-6, and Alex and Claire to bring us into harbor in Jost, from 6-9am. Exhausted from our dissipated days, Alex and Claire get a head start on their evening nap below, while S. and I remain on deck and the squall lets up. The rain has ceased yet the seas are still roiling and the wind is high. Night falls. I go below to the cabin for some reason and within seconds am hit with nausea. We’d battened down all the hatches because of the storm and the cabin is 100 degrees and airless. Alex, I’m queasy, I need a pill, I say…he gives me one and recommends staying on deck. Within minutes, as Alex and Claire peacefully drift off to sleep in the main cabin, I’m curled up over the lee side of the stern, in the fetal position.
The pill comes back up. So does the rose. So does lunch. So does breakfast, and everything else I’ve ever eaten or drank in my life. S. is solicitous and sanguine. This will pass soon, he says. His only word of caution is hold on tight. If you fall overboard, he warns, I’ll never be able to find you. He’s right. With the thick cloud cover, there are no stars and the moon is not yet up. We’re miles from land. It is pitch black out there. I am not frightened at all, merely annoyed and embarrassed. I’ve sailed my whole life and never been seasick before, I say, what is going on? It’s normal, S. says, it happens to everyone at some point, you should see even the most experienced sailors during the Newport-Bermuda race. He pats me on the shoulder as another round of the sick begins. He makes himself a snack, and offers to make me some toast. OH GOD NO I say vehemently, I’m never eating again. What is that 9 or 10 times you’ve thrown up now, he asks. I lost count at 12, I say. We pass the next four hours in this fashion. S. talks comfortingly, explaining the various points of light that occasionally appear on the horizon- cruise ships and cargo ships we can see by the AIS. In between bouts of the sick, he explains the wind, speed, and depth gauges. I am not well enough to learn about the radar and the AIS.
By the time midnight rolls around and our watch is over, I am mostly dead. I’ve fallen asleep for the last 5 minutes of our watch- a cardinal sin no matter HOW ill you are- and I’m woken up by Alex’s cheery exclamation of “Felony!” (yes thats my name) as he appears on deck. Having been briefed on my condition by S., he cautions me to try to stay hydrated, and I explain briefly what happens when I drink water- I see it again much too soon for comfort. As I am already mostly unconscious I take over the entire mid-ship bunk for myself (I’d promised to share it with S., as no matter how seasoned a sailor, NO ONE wants to be in the fore or aft cabins during an overnight sail- they’re airtight coffins of death by suffocation). I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow and my next conscious moment is when I again hear a solicitous “Felony…” again at 3am. Miraculously I feel better. Claire nestles me into a fleece blanket as I climb on deck, and both the moon and the stars have appeared so once again I can see a horizon line- an invaluable stabilizing force. I’m better, I proudly announce to S., and speedily drink half a cold ginger ale to prove it. This time I make it to the head in the cabin, before the ginger ale comes back up. Baby steps, but still progress. I am at least vomiting in privacy, and that is something.
Back on deck I am somehow slightly better. I sit on the starboard (windward) side with S., as we try to discern if the lights in the distance are land. They’re not. They’re a 700 foot cargo ship. S. jokes, it’s headed straight for us! I laugh. I’m well enough to laugh! An hour later I finish the other half of my ginger ale and keep down 6 sour-cream-and-onion Pringles. I vow to never be more than 8 feet from ginger ale and Pringles again in my life as a bargain with fate to allow me to enjoy the second watch. It works! This watch I learn all about the radar and the AIS (a fancy system which allows us to see the names, ports-of-origin, course, and other relevant info about other boats within 25 miles of us). If a big ship is headed our way, such as a cruise ship or the afore mentioned cargo behemoth, we have to change our course, fast. They are much bigger than us, and it would take them miles to even slow down. If our courses intersected they’d plow over us, back up over us, and run over us again. Or something like that. Ecstatic and energized by my newly slightly-less-nauseous lease on life, I grill S. with questions about the perils that might await us at sea. As we can control our course, and are tricked out with all the latest equipment, there is no danger of collision with either another boat or reefs or other land masses under the ocean. The real risks are things that you cant see with equipment, or the naked eye, such as containers or other things that fall off boats or float out from land, or even a whale.
In preparation for my first overnight sail, I’d considered many possibilities, including that I might be scared, out in the middle of the ocean, in the dark, out of sight of land, etc. I am proud to say that although I threw up enough food to sustain most of the fish in the caribbean for a month, I was never afraid. S. jokes when the boat jolts against a particularly vigorous swell, I think we just hit a whale! I laugh happily. I LOVE sailing.
Just as the sun begins to lighten the sky to the east, Alex and Claire get up for the final leg of the journey. I proudly inform them that I’m alive. They’re thrilled. S. and I go below to sleep and miss the final leg of the journey, apparently a beautiful dawn amongst the islands, as Alex navigates towards Jost, near Tortola and Saint John. When I wake up, Alex and S. are anchoring us in picturesque White Bay, which looks like every cheesy postcard of an island paradise you’ve ever seen. A new day has never dawned so beautifully, and once safely anchored, Alex and S. who have shouldered the entire navigation and sailing duties, and the exhausted Claire who’s been up since 6am remain on deck while I chef us a gargantuan breakfast of almost a dozen eggs scrambled with bacon and three kinds of cheese, toast, and grapes. As we feast Alex says, I think Ellie has one last little bit of pain, that can only be cured with Jost’s patented “Painkiller” - a frosty rum drink invented 40 feet from our anchorage. I think you might be right about that, Misdemeanor, I say. (yes, that is Alex’s name.) We all grin wickedly at each other.
