Three Ways to Capsize a Boat - Chris Stewart [28]
“That’s Patrick,” said Tom, gallantly handing Ana down into the cockpit, and then through the companionway doors to climb down the steps into the bowels of the boat.
It was good to get below and out of the cutting wind. The saloon, where a little potbellied stove supplied a welcome warmth, felt like a congenial place to be spending the next half year. While Ana chatted easily to Ros, Tom’s attention was held by a slight, mild-mannered man, who, while thoughtfully fingering his beard, was speculating about the probable outcome of the weather pattern that was establishing itself. “I’m John,” he said, extending his hand, before resuming their conversation.
Soon the tea and the buns were gone, and it looked like it was time for leaving. I moved to Ana’s side. We could all hear the wind screaming in the rigging, the frenzied clattering of wire stays on tin masts. It sounded nasty out there. John, with reluctance, was suggesting we might want to delay our departure, wait for better weather.
“I’d given that some thought, too,” said Tom. “But I think we’re all set, and the waiting will do more harm than the wind.”
“It’s true,” said John. “We’ve got to bite the bullet sometime.”
“Right, let’s do it.” And Tom rose to his feet and went to start the engine.
I saw Ana off the boat, and there on the gale-lashed mole she kissed me good-bye. Feeling just a little lovelorn, I hung on to the shrouds (the tensioned ropes that support the mast on either side of the boat … and the handiest bit to cling to when leaning over the side) and waved to the dwindling figure of my girlfriend as we motored toward the harbor mouth.
“I’LL SEE YOU NEXT AUTUMN,” I shouted. But my words were whipped away by the wind, as Hirta shouldered her way into what looked an ominously swelling gray sea.
“THE ROUTE WE’RE TAKING,” Tom announced to his crew, “is the logical and best way to get from Brighton to Newfoundland. Our next landfall, in a week or maybe ten days at the worst, will be Norway. With the right sort of wind up our chuff we should make it to the Hardanger Fjord for apple blossom time, which is one of the lesser-known wonders of the world. We have a good supply of whisky to trade with the natives, which ought to see us right for a warm welcome.
“Then, when we’ve exhausted our credit with the Norwegians, we’ll head west past the Faroe Islands, and on to Iceland, and, if ice conditions are right, we can put in at Julianehåb in Greenland. And then on among the bergs and growlers of the mighty North Atlantic until we hit the north coast of Vinland.”
I looked around me. Everyone else seemed to know where Vinland was except me, and perhaps Mike, who was intently studying his shoes. Vinland, it transpired, was a historic destination in the Icelandic sagas, more commonly known as Newfoundland. I was going to hear a lot about the sagas on this journey; they were a literary passion and inspiration of Tom’s.
But the main point was that it was a long way to go … and for now the task was to get safely away from Brighton. For, not ten minutes into our voyage, the wind was already building fiercely. Hannah had disappeared below deck with Ros, leaving Tom to shout instructions from the cockpit, both hands clamped on the wheel. You couldn’t help but notice that ours was the only boat on the water.
“Safety lines on!” Tom shouted through the foul weather. “I’ll keep her head to wind; get the storm jib up, quick as you can.” The storm jib is a small but heavy-duty sail that is flown from the bow when the wind is really strong, in order to keep the boat stable without driving her too hard.
We hauled at the ropes like men demented, slithering and sliding on the bucking foredeck. The red triangle of canvas rose like a spirit from the deck and leaped into the air. Then with a thunderous crack the sail snapped into the wind and instantly tore into shreds. The remaining tatters of sail and rope thrashed and