Three Ways to Capsize a Boat - Chris Stewart [32]
On that first watch, as Patrick beavered about on the foredeck in the dark, I listened to the creaking of the mast and boom, the whistling of the wind in the shrouds, and the rushing of the waves against the hull. And I thought how wonderful it was to be here out of sight of land, and heading for Vinland.
At ten to two I went below to make tea for the next watch and wake them up. It just remained to write down in the log what had or had not happened during the watch—changes of wind direction, course, anything of interest spotted—and then slip thankfully into my sleeping bag to sleep. And oh, how I slept … the rocking of a boat and the sound of water slipping along the planking are the most wonderful aids to tumbling deep into sleep and dreaming. Unfortunately, though, it never lasts.
At six, in the light of a gray dawn with the rain streaming from a sky the color of slate, the grinning face of Mike, the boat’s boy by virtue of his being the youngest member of the crew, appeared with a mug of tea. “It’s a horrible day,” he observed. “And it’s time you were up and in it. I’m going to bed.”
I rolled out of my bunk, and before it had time to get cool, Mike rolled into it. This peculiar form of intimacy is known as “hot-bunking.”
THOSE FIVE DAYS ON the north sea, my first proper voyage, passed in something of a blur. Mostly there was little to see but rolling walls of water, sometimes gray, sometimes brown, and occasionally green, bearing down on us in endless procession. Sometimes they glinted or shone with pale sunlight, but more often they were opaque and brooding, and then all of a sudden the midday sun would break through the mists, and the sea would turn a deep pellucid blue, sparkling and glittering.
There was a curious soporific feel to the days, the long hours passing without any particular interruption or event. The watch system was relaxed during the day, and we would take a trick at the helm whenever we felt the inclination, or busy ourselves with the constant tasks of whipping and splicing ropes. On land it would have been too tedious to bear, but here at sea I seemed to enter a completely different state of mind, the consequence of a hint of seasickness and not nearly enough sleep. I never got an uninterrupted night’s sleep; three or four hours was the longest the watches would allow you. We would doze during the day to make up for lost hours, but could never quite shake off a heavy-lidded torpor.
This had the effect of blunting the intellect a little and enhancing the feelings. I’m moved too easily anyway, but on the high seas I found myself constantly brought to the edge of tears by the simplest of things: a sudden burst of sunlight from behind a cloud, or a pleasing notion, or a particularly vivid thought of a loved one. And the simple act of standing at the wheel, watching the red sails billowing into the sky, and feeling the great black hull surging swiftly through the waves, filled me with ineffable delight. I suspected that the others were similarly affected, but these were private thoughts and we left them unsaid. Tom, as skipper, was constantly occupied with the maintenance of his beloved boat and by extension the safety and well-being of the crew. He would strip down the diesel engine and clean the injectors, cast an eye on the wear and tear of the running gear (the ropes and sails), which suffered from constant chafing, and stay aware of our course and position, as well as finding useful things for us to do.
Ros looked after the galley, keeping us well fed and happy. Curry, which she did well, has an almost supernatural effect on a wet, cold crew on a nasty night at sea. And for much of the day she would be teaching and