Three Ways to Capsize a Boat - Chris Stewart [42]
We were about to embark on the last, the longest, and by far the most dangerous leg of the journey.
* A knot, incidentally, is one nautical mile per hour … and a nautical mile is a little longer than a land mile, being one-sixtieth of one degree of latitude—also referred to as a “minute.” Knowing this, you can calculate, in case you’ve ever wondered, the circumference of the earth: it’s sixty times three hundred and sixty … or twenty-one thousand six hundred nautical miles.
Lost at Sea
NOT LONG AFTER WE left Iceland the wind dropped altogether and the sea calmed to a long glassy swell—the ocean equivalent of rolling prairie land. We had turned on the engine and were chugging at a steady pace with the chill light breeze, created by our forward motion, competing with a rare burst of sunshine. It was one of those interludes where all the men coincided on the deck: Patrick and Tom checking their sextants, John manning the cockpit, while Mike and I lolled about for a few moments absorbing a little of the sun’s wan rays.
This was not exactly sunbathing; you’d have been a fool to take off your heavy weather gear, gloves, and woolly hat, but even the palest of suns peering feebly through a lowering arctic sky can impart a certain warmth to body and spirits. There was a perceptible change of mood on the boat, a lightheartedness that seemed to spread and infect us all. You’d hear bursts of song, snatches of poetry, and the most inane jokes.
Hannah appeared on deck dolled up in thick layers of wool topped off by the red mackintosh and wellies. She was clutching Rowena, whom she placed carefully inside a coil of rope near the cabin door, while she arranged a new bed for her. Behind her emerged Ros with a tray of tea and some flapjacks that she and Hannah had just taken from the stove. She sat with us on the edge of the cockpit, enjoying a rare moment of relaxation while we polished off the plateful. Throughout, though, she kept one eye on Hannah and the other on the surrounding sea, scanning it for the first signs of the change that we all knew would be coming. For a calm does not last long in the North Atlantic, and although there was a feeling of relaxation and ease, there was also a sense, not quite of dread, but of anticipation.
On we ran toward the west across the mirrorlike surface of the ocean, surging over the great hills of the swell. We shivered and, for a little warmth, turned our faces away from the headwind, and slipped our gloved hands beneath our armpits; you never put your hands in your pockets on a boat, as you never know when you might need them in a hurry.
The gentlest of breezes was growing, fanning in dark patches across the smooth surface of the swell, but coming, predictably enough, from almost dead ahead. This made the headwind stronger, and consequently colder. Ros gathered up the now shivering Hannah and went below, followed by everyone else, leaving me alone at the wheel. They shut the companionway doors, to keep the heat in, with just a little gap at the top through which I could almost see the compass. I was steering 285 degrees, west by northwest … supposedly.
Supper was served; a good idea to eat during a period of calm. I enjoyed the feeling of being alone on deck listening to the clatter of crockery and the pleasing sounds of people eating together, talking and laughing. Even nicer was to be at the helm alone at night, while all the others, except Patrick, who would be busy at his unfathomable tasks with the ropes and sails, lay deep in sleep. It gave me a wonderful feeling of responsibility, of steering my friends safely through the night.
Patrick relieved me when he had eaten his fill, and I went below