Late May, sun-dappled seas reflecting on my tanned skin. We were making the grand South Pacific passage, transiting through Panama before embarking on the long stretch to the Torres Strait. Our boat had backup engines, but wind was the prime mover of our 40 foot schooner.
The sails were trimmed and taut against the SouthEast trade winds. Even in dead calm, they would move with short cross breezes, luffing and slapping against the mast. There were four of us, Raymond, Connor, Don and me. We had been friends for over ten years. Through good times and bad, we always looked out for each other. This trip was the result of a half-drunk dare, which later refined itself and became a concrete plan.
It was ambitious, crossing through the Panama Canal tracing a large arc to the Galapagos, swinging south to the lesser-visited Easter Island and Pitcairn, still inhabited by the descendants of the Bounty's mutineer crew. We argued amongst ourselves about pushing even further, sailing to Ecuador and then Peru, but in the end we agreed a more relaxed route was best.
It was my turn on the wheel, chrome reflected sunlight dancing on my frayed shorts as I kept us on our course. She wasn't the biggest or the fanciest boat on the sea, but she was ours and we loved her. Christened the "Limit Up", a trading term that hinted at how we had financed this beauty.
Raymond was leaning up on the bow. Connor had a straw hat over his face, lying on deck "thinking" about the next leg of our trip. Don was in the galley down below, wafting cooking smells whetting my appetite. It was nearly lunchtime, and I could use a break from piloting the boat.
We were making good time, a few more hours of this and we'd be pretty close to our first stop. I was scanning the horizon, looking past the bow when the wind died.
The sails went slack, boom swinging back towards the centerline.
Damn. I guess we'll have to get the engine running sooner than we had thought. I locked the wheel, ducking under the narrow doorway to the engine compartment. I could've started her from up top, but I wanted to check the fuel line first. We had a small leak when we first started out, and the clamps I had rigged were a temporary fix at best.
I bent down and reached into the engine bay, feeling for the fuel line and shining my pocket torch on the cylinder grafted between two stainless steel bands. It seemed dry, which was good. Last thing we needed was marine fuel spraying everywhere. Satisfied, I dogged the engine hatch closed and went back up on deck.
Connor was awake, hat stuffed under a pile of coiled ropes. Raymond pointed at the horizon, brow furrowed.
"You seeing this? I thought we were out of the stormy season."
"Yeah Macx, what's the deal? I don't want to be bailng through a storm like last time", Connor winked, knowing that I had been the one that was on bilge duty last time. What a joker.
"I'll take a look, give me some room.", I took the field glasses off my chest and raised them, focusing on the grey smudge that had grown to a large thunderhead. It was billowing and grey-bottomed, heading directly for us. Scanning the cloud line, I saw multiple flashes. Wonderful.
"Orders, captain?", Raymond threw a mock salute, bursting into laughter. I smiled. No one here was above anyone else, in fact I would have gladly given up pilot duties to Ray. My hands were tired and I needed a rest.
"I'll break the bad news to Ron. I think he was counting on lunch topside. We'll have to get ready.", I motioned Raymond over to the wheel, while Connor took up watch on the bow, scowling at the clouds.
The "Limit Up" was a smaller ship, but it was built to take a pounding. We knew storms were possible, even this late into the season. That factored into our engineering when the ship was built. We may get waterlogged, but it was nearly impossible for this boat to sink.
Don was stirring a mixture of vegetables in a small pan, the white chef apron clashing with his bright tropical shirt. We had all bought the most tacky and outlandish shirts before starting our journey, sacrificing our pride to the gods of good taste and fashion. It became a symbol of good fortune among our small crew.
"Don, sorry buddy, but you're going to have to serve that here in the galley."
Don shifted the pan expertly to the counter, shutting off the burner.
"If you say so, it just won't taste as good down here."
"I do, but I wish it weren't so. Got a major squall line heading our way. Might want to get anything loose stowed."
"Aye-aye, captain hook!"
"As you were, I'm going up top on storm duty."
Don nodded and began securing plates and spice containers. The small galley had a table made to take the pitching of rough seas, but I wasn't sure we'd be eating any time soon.
I got topside just as the first droplets pattered on deck, cold and wet. The front had advanced faster than I thought. Connor was clutching at his rain poncho, blue plastic flapping in the wind. The sails were stowed and the mainsail boom locked in place.
This storm looked angry. Whitecaps were forming under the advancing edge, spray kicking up from increasingly larger sets of waves.
"Steer her into the wind! The engine is good to go!"
Raymond nodded and pressed the engine start, green indicator glowing on the console. Under assault, the deck pitched and bobbed as the first set of storm waves surged past our hull.
Connor tapped me on the shoulder, offering up the binoculars.
"Take a look, I don't know what to make of this.", he pointed a few degrees off the bow to starboard.
I pivoted and focused, wiping away droplets with my free hand.
That couldn't be right. Not at all.
(To be continued.)
