CHAPTER TEN

Florianopolis

A

s we pushed south, we discovered that there was much more to Brazil than Rio. We took in the sights, history, folklore, and local characters of such places as the serene colonial anchorage of Ilhabela, and the industrial harbor of Santos. We took refuge from a storm in a charming hidden bay of Sao Francisco do Sul. Come the end of June, we set anchor in front of the Schurmann’s home.

What a welcome! We didn’t know what hit us. Like a tsunami, they swept us up in their arms and didn’t let go until four months later. The Guapo family lived on the shore of a peaceful bay in a modern, grand home. They opened it to us without reserve. They arranged for us to have a more permanent long-term berth (free of charge) at their nearby yacht club, only about a half hour from their home. On weekends, they spirited us around to see the sights and always had a solution to a problem, such as where to find a reliable handyman. Constantly, the Guapos invited us for meals, insisted we use their washing machine, spend the night, and took us grocery shopping.

The Guapos insisted on babysitting for us on occasion so that we could have a rare date night—just the two of us. Heloisa even arranged for Sean to attend preschool at the same private school her children attended, also free of charge. His presence was welcomed as an opportunity to interact with a foreigner. Sean also learned to sail a bit in an Optimist, a tiny, single-handed and single-sail rigged sailboat, targeted as a good beginner boat for children.

Thanks to this, Sean quickly learned Portuguese and introduced us to a most amazing word, which was to become our own private catchphrase: Bagunça! Meaning "big mess," the school used it to designate a regular hora da bagunça, or the "hour of the big mess" where the kids could let loose. It was so perfect to describe so many situations; I loved it and took ownership of the word. I even named one of our cats "Bagunça" several years later.

Vilfredo, an economist, and Heloisa, the family organizer and project manager, were both huge personalities with non-stop, infectious "can do" spirits. No obstacle was too difficult to overcome, no goal too daunting to attain. They always followed through on their promises to us while they, themselves, were consumed by their project to leave and live on their sailboat, just as we had been a few years earlier.

We were also intrigued by their German last name, Schurmann. We learned that the south of Brazil was largely populated by German descendants, and not only were Germanic names quite common, but so were German-founded towns, the German language, and German customs. Vilfredo had his roots in this part of Brazil. Heloisa originally hailed from Rio de Janeiro, but she had spent much time in her early adult years in Miami as well, as evidenced by her flawless English.

Shortly after arriving while anchored in the bay, I had a rude awakening one morning when Brendan gave me a frightful scare. He was only 18 months old and had crawled out of his bunk, wearing his "bunny suit"—the full baby pajamas with the incorporated feet to guard against the cool nights. As I stood near the galley sink preparing the coffee, Brendan climbed right up the ladder to the exterior cockpit. I kept an eye on him since he wasn’t too stable on his feet yet. He was outside on the deck, boxed in by the net that came up to his chin.

For safety purposes, we had a full net spreading the length of the boat on both sides to catch objects, or a child, should something or someone slip between the lines. Since we were at anchor, we placed an ice chest on the deck to allow more cabin space, unmindful of the danger of it. While preparing coffee, I glimpsed Brendan scrambling up the ice chest. I yelled for him to stop, but he was over the net and in the water with a big splash in two seconds flat!

The water was a green, glassy calm, and Brendan was sprawled out in his navy blue and red bunny suit. I couldn't say if he was floating or splashing about; that didn't register as I shot out to the deck and jumped over the side. In the split-second I splashed down, he was in the crook of my arm, and I tried to hold him up as high as possible while swimming around to the other side of the boat where we could climb up the ladder to the deck. It was all a blur, but thankfully he didn't have a lot of time to drink much water. The initial shock wore off quickly, and relief flooded as rapidly as panic had: it was done, over with, it had happened.

Once berthing arrangements were made for us at the Iate Clube do Florianopolis, we settled in, and it became our home for the next four months. We met and were adopted by the local characters and club members, and had a wonderful international community with them. We learned much about Argentina and Chile and their tormented histories from exiled expats, most notably Julio, known as "El Chileno," an exiled filmmaker from Chile. He had reinvented himself as a boat repair handyman for the yacht club and was gifted in canvas and sail repair work, stainless steel welding, and everything in between. His son, Alejandro, was a great companion for Sean, and they spent many an afternoon kicking around a soccer ball.

Then it started to rain, and rain. It was practically biblical; 40 days and 40 nights—or at least it seemed that long. When it rains every day for a month straight, what's another 10 days or so?

We had only been in Florianopolis for a month in July when the downpours began, inciting historic flooding in southern Brazil. Brazilian infrastructure wasn't sufficient to handle such a catastrophic situation, so the local powers-that-be launched a cry for help to the sailors and members of the yacht club. They asked if anyone with anything water-worthy be willing to volunteer for disaster relief and search and rescue operations. In the nearby town of Blumenau, the situation was desperate, and the only resources available were that of on-duty soldiers.

The yacht club organized quite an effort: a convoy with a trailer for the dinghies and a large collection of food and water. Michel joined the volunteers, packed up our inflatable Zodiac and little Seagull outboard engine, and left for five days.

Michel recounted total devastation in the flood zone. People were isolated on their rooftops and left to their own resources. Chickens and cows had sought refuge on a few hilltops. Initially, the yacht club team was charged with plucking people from rooftops and relocating them to higher ground. He remembers the military only served in a "disciplinary" capacity, making sure that people remained properly in line for food and water distribution.

Michel and other members of his team were frustrated with the ineffective soldiers, especially when emergency food supplies were running low. They wanted to salvage canned items from some of the devastated grocery stores since some of it could be distributed. Michel and a few others had brought some SCUBA diving gear, it would have been easy for them to retrieve some food. The soldiers, however, refused to allow it, lacking permission from their superiors.

Michel also told me of a heart-wrenching moment when a man was trying to cross the rushing current in his makeshift skiff to join an anxious woman awaiting him on the other side. The man set out on the water, and within seconds he overturned, never to resurface, and was just swept away. His companion was beside herself, and there was nothing anyone could do. Michel recalled feeling absolutely devastated, and entirely helpless.

Housed on the second floor of an electrical station, the rescue teams themselves would angle their boats up to the second-floor window, and crawl inside for the night. Their last day was heralded when they awoke one morning to find the dinghies hanging dry from the second floor. The water had receded. A month later, we drove through Blumenau. Debris and plastic bags were still hanging from the tall treetops. The deep red earth was saturated with water, and the car became caked in it. It was difficult to avoid tracking it everywhere. To this day, the flooding of 1983 remains one of the worst events in the annals of the area.