CHAPTER 21
The sun dipping beyond the horizon, on what had been an incredibly clear day/evening that accentuated the earth’s curve. It was Easter eve. I felt spiritual and shared my thoughts with God, though he didn’t respond to my request to see the ‘green flash,’ a phenomenon that occurs at the last instant the sun sets on the horizon. The sky must be clear, with no clouds or obstructions such as land or other vessels. For only an instant, prisms of color respond to water or impurities in the atmosphere, resulting in what mariners call a brilliant green flash of light. OK—another night perhaps?
I was chef tonight and attempted to create beer bread as an extra treat for tomorrow, but it flopped. I also made a high seas radio call to wish Denise Happy Easter, and let her know how much I missed her. I tried on these infrequent radio calls to make Denise feel like she is with us vicariously. We talked about weather, meals, the beauty around us, and small slices of life I hope would cheer and comfort Denise. I didn’t mention the spinnaker kerfuffle.
As I hit the bunk after our call tonight, the ship’s log rolled over 1,400 nm. Slowly drifting to sleep, pleasantly enveloped in the sounds of a moving yacht, I thought more about Denise and other women who had influenced my life. Denise is the right decision. She’s the total package—tough, determined, considerate, beautiful, and a great lover.
Though my port lights I saw distant lightning.
The midnight’s log entry noted building and confusing seas, messengers probably, of the lightning—now considerably closer. I fell back to sleep.
We had been making seven knots with the mizzen, jib, and main winged opposite one another, wind steady at 20 knots with bursts to 25 knots, and confused 10-foot seas coming from different directions, making us roll uncomfortably. We had Pilot Charts aboard. They give a summary of relative conditions for wind, current, rain (or snow), and wave height, based on nearly a century of observation. The charts are broken into five-degree sections of all of the world’s oceans. That night the Pilot Charts indicated sea conditions were unusual for these latitudes, but not worrisome.
About 0200 Tony stuck his head through the hatch: “Problem on deck, Pops. You better come topsides. Wind is piping up too.”
On deck I found that Jim, on the helm, had decided to reef the main, but we were running free (wind behind us) and the huge sail was all the way out portside, pressing heavily on the lower shrouds and spreaders (rigging). Our reefing system was a sophisticated Hood roller boom system, where the mainsail rolls around a bar on the inside of the boom as it is lowered, allowing infinite reefing positions, and by lowering weight from aloft to maintain a better ‘righting moment’ should capsizing become a threat. It was cutting-edge technology and I was proud to have it. Jim had foolishly attempted to lower the main while it pressed against the rigging, an impossible job because of pressure and friction. He should have sheeted in the main to free it of the rigging. Why he didn’t I will never know. By the time I was on deck, the mainsail was badly torn along the luff, the luff wire had jumped the track and a batten was jammed behind the upper portside shroud of our rigging. In other words . . . high up the mast.
“Shit, are you crazy, Jim?” I both asked and asserted. This man had a captain’s license and supposedly years of experience. I went after Jim, “No one with your credentials should let this happen. Damn it Jim—were your sleeping?”
I was seriously angry and with each word to Jim or command I gave to others, the Amazon would challenge it or question it. I was in no mood for her defiance.
“Shut the fuck up, Denise!” rolled from my lips with no regret. She turned to Jim, saying, “Stop what you’re doing now, Jim.
Whatever we do to help this man—he will try to sue us for it!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, and got really pissed.
“Tell you what, Denise,” I shouted over the wind and agonizing sound of ripping sailcloth, “You didn’t want to be cook so you booked as an able-bodied seaman. Start acting like one or get your ass below and stay there.”
This quieted her, but damage both ways had been done. There would never again be a comfortable relationship. I would handle the trust issue later. First we had a torn sail to get clear of the mast so we could begin repairs.
Tony and Kyle were ahead of me. Kyle, working a mast winch, hoisted aloft Tony, already in the bosun’s chair. Going aloft is risky business any time, but safer close to shore, where one could be plucked from the ocean by a rescue vessel or helicopter. In this situation it was far different. With Endymion pitching in a choppy sea it took real guts. Tony had the guts—and the bruises to prove it for many following days.
With Tony safely on deck again the sail was shoved below for repair and we set a temporary storm mainsail. We managed a surprisingly good patch job before sunrise, and set the main again. All in a night’s work—so to speak.
During the repairs, Jim sulked, and Denise was over the top hostile. I wasn’t handling it well but gritted my teeth and tried to be civil. That ended when I found only Tony had worn a harness during the torn sail event. Truthfully, it wasn’t a notably nasty night, but it should have been conspicuously evident that being harnessed, regardless of sea state, was important. I hit the roof again, demanding adherence to the harness rule—“simply put, wear the damn thing.”
More quietly, I suggested Jim and the Amazon speak with me privately the next day. Waiting served as punishment anticipating what was to come, and provided a calming period so we might speak rationally. Their attitudes had shaken me. The one most needing a cooling down was I. In the seclusion of my cabin I started the mood altering process.
Being in charge is often a lonely position. Occasionally the intent of orders, like those about the harness, wasn’t fully comprehended by everybody. Things said in general often were taken too personally. Certainly the motivation and responsibility of crew are different than that of skipper/owner. I was lucky—most of the time my crew thought clearly and acted responsibly.
The Amazon didn’t show at all on Easter, except for her watch, and it was just as well. Jim grumpily pretended to enjoy the eggs Kyle, as our bunny, passed out as treats.
According to Tony, “Kyle makes a good bunny rabbit because he has enormous ears.” In reality, Tony does. Kyle and Tony, with their good cheer and continuous bright attitudes, made up for a heap of negatives. The day turned into a splendid one. Reverend Chuck provided inspiration through his recording, and I again felt at peace and in harmony with my universe. It all set me to wondering what people all around the world were doing at that exact moment. I gave thanks to God and thought of loved ones far away.
By April 22nd we figured we were only a couple of days from the Equator. We were deeply tanned and wore only enough to cover privates and prevent painful sunburns. The heat and humidity were downright unbearable—and we hadn’t caught a fish in days, probably because the ocean was too deep to support the food chain. Last time “fish on the line” graced our ears was off Mexico where the monster sailfish had taken everything we had, and snapped a sturdy fishing pole for spite. And guess what—the spinnaker was up again, the competition was keen and the insults were flying.
The repaired mainsail didn’t look any the worse for wear, and my morning rigging inspection turned up no apparent weaknesses, so I was satisfied. We had a perfect wind and were turning in good daily runs. Log entries demonstrated individual moods. Jim wrote, “Wind up,” not much enthusiasm. The Amazon contributed “fine conditions continue.” The spark came from Tony, who wrote “Pacific Cup in Progress, King of the helm.” Kyle retorted, “Very moving watch” (he logged 9.2 nm) and also wrote “Goodbye Tony’s Late Night Bar & Grill.”
The competition would close when we cross the fast-approaching Equator. Kyle would be noisy in victory should his 9.2 km run be the winner, but it was close—all five of us were within a half knot of each other’s best hourly run.
By the 23rd we altered course more southerly to keep the 15-knot wind we had enjoyed almost the whole crossing. Luckily, we found a slot in the Intertropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ), which was normally doldrums flat calm and miserably hot, yet we blasted through the normally windless area and were now only two degrees (120 miles) north of the Equator. There had been no rain since Manzanillo. Only lightning—likely heat lightning. What we seriously needed was a fresh water wash down, to say nothing of serious showers. A little squall would be nice.
We set a lottery for the exact time we would cross the Equator. To understand what a big deal this was, consider we were in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, with references to nothing really except the imaginary line called the Equator. Calculations for the crossing moment were based on sextant, readings from a primitive sat-nav if we could get them, but mostly on scientific-wild-assed-guessing (SWAG). The next day rain squalls gave us our first real washing in 11 days.
We looked nutty, all lathered up, running around deck nearly naked. It felt wonderful, and provided a needed routine break as a continual line of squalls pelted us with a good rinse. None packed a wind punch, so no danger, just slower sailing. The spinnaker, now named ‘the bitch,’ was retired when the breeze moved forward.
Kyle whiffed Tony: “You don’t smell like a sewer anymore.”
A crossing celebration has been traditional aboard sailing vessels for centuries. King Neptune arises from the sea, crawls over the transom, demanding first-time crossers to shed their Pollywog designation and become true Shellbacks (A person who has crossed the equator at sea). A certificate is given to each person aboard, signed by the Captain—and everyone MUST be in costume for the affair. It’s also time to break out that one bottle of booze and party.
Just the thought of this event brought renewed unity to our small group. Because she was the only one aboard to have crossed before, Denise was to be Neptune. She took well to this brief period of superiority. Crossing jokes found their way into our conversations. Tony, for instance, was putting aside some change for the tollbooth he knew would be present. Kyle painted a red stripe across a T-shirt to match the long faded stripe allegedly painted around the Equator, so he might slip across incognito, and I had prepared crossing certificates for all, stated as follows:
On _____________ (date), at _____________ hours Zulu time, _____________ US Passport # _____________ did cross the earth’s Equator aboard the US Flag sailing vessel ENDYMION.
By accomplishing this feat in such desolate waters, and having been duly introduced to the Southern Hemisphere by King Neptune himself, _____________ is now elevated to the lofty position of “Shellback” and is bound through eternity to the fraternity of Mariners who have challenged God’s restless, peaceful sea.
Sworn by my hand _____________ (signed and dated)
Captain, US Yacht Endymion USCG License #