Three Ways to Capsize a Boat - Chris Stewart [43]
When I returned to the deck, tearing myself away from the warm fug of the cabin and the pleasures of after-dinner conversation, that gentlest of breezes had become an icy wind. “Here, take the wheel, will you, Chris,” said Patrick as I gloved up, thin woolen gloves inside heavy mittens. “I’m going forward to trim up the sails. I’ve had to bear away a little; see if you can make two seven five and keep the sails drawing.”
I settled happily to the wheel, standing astride in front of it and holding on to the spokes behind my back. It was a good feeling, bowing your knees with the bounding motion of the boat and heading into the gray twilight of an arctic night. There was, though, a solidly ominous bank of clouds building darkly to the west, and by the time Patrick slid back into the cockpit twenty minutes later, the wind had freshened strongly, bringing with it a stinging sleet and a nasty steep chop to the waves. It looked like we were heading for a storm, and fast.
Hirta heeled hard over as Patrick sheeted in the sails, and our pleasant afternoon of calm was quickly over. He leaned down and switched off the engine, and the sounds of the sea and the old boat reasserted themselves: the thump and hiss as the bow burst into each wave, the creaking and straining of the boom, the whistling of the fresh breeze among the shrouds, the sort of sounds that imprint themselves forever on your very soul. By eleven o’clock we were being battered by a ceaseless procession of fierce waves, and the wind that earlier had been whistling was nearer now to howling as Hirta shouldered her way through the unrelenting seas.
“This is more like it,” yelled Patrick, wiping the stinging spray from his eyes. “Now we’re making some real progress.”
I grinned at him in uncertain connivance as I cowered from the blast, teeth chattering, in the shelter of the cabin door. It looked to me as if Hirta was taking a bit of a beating, but I can’t deny that hammering, as we were, into the teeth of the rising storm was pretty exciting, and if Patrick reckoned it was all right, then it probably was.
Half an hour later, though, as the full gloomy twilight of the arctic night closed around us, things were starting to look threatening. The wind was now a full gale, howling in the rigging; we were constantly lashed by spray as far back as the cockpit, and the lee or downwind rail was under green water most of the time.
Suddenly the cabin doors burst open and Tom’s head appeared. He looked around him incredulously. “What the fuck’s going on here, you pair of clowns? What in hell’s name are you trying to do … drown us all?” he yelled above the roar of water and wind.
“It’s OK,” shouted Patrick. “She’s taking it in her stride …”
“It’s bloody well not OK. We’re putting a couple of reefs in right away. Everybody on deck, now!” Tom shouted down below. “Safety lines, everybody, and Ros, can you take the wheel?” Ros had appeared in the cockpit and seemed to inhabit the space with a quiet authority I hadn’t noticed before. “Head her into wind; keep her as steady as you can,” Tom told her, before shouting, “Patrick: sheet in the staysail and jib tight as they’ll go. John: drop the mainsail, quick as you can now. Chris and Mike: furl the jib, right up, and don’t forget to hang on to the furling line. Then everybody get ready to gather the sail and tie it tight, double reefing.”
As Hirta came round head to wind, all hell broke loose. The foresails flogged with a noise like thunder until Patrick sheeted them hard in. When you’re straight into wind you catch the waves at an angle to the bow, so the boat yaws and rolls and pitches all at the same time. It’s impossible to get a footing because of the waves, tons of green water breaking over the deck. It’s hellish, and truly terrifying. You snap your safety line on to whatever solid thing you can,