Night Crossing
by Mike Walling

"Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?"
—Gordon Lightfoot

"The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald"

Steering southwest with twenty-foot seas on the port bow bound for Port Everglades from Grand Bahama Bank. I just found out that copper taste of fear is more than an expression.

It began a week earlier with phone call from Harvey asking if I could help sail his twenty-seven foot Cape Dory sloop from Green Turtle Cay in the Bahamas back to Florida. Being there beat the late March weather in Boston so I packed my gear and flew to meet Harvey in Fort Lauderdale. The next day we flew out to Green Turtle Cay where the boat was moored. We spent two days putting the boat in shape and loading supplies for the trip. Mid-morning on the third day we sailed an easy run to our first anchorage.

I'd known Harvey for about sixteen years and sailed with him on short trips off Woods Hole. I believed he was a competent sailor—familiar with wind, weather, navigation, and the fact that if safe anchorages were few and far between, you get underway at first light for the next one. It was long after dawn when we set sail. About two hours later we were on a northerly course when a squall blew up from the southwest. We barely had time to stay the sails before it hit us hard.

I took the tiller as short, sharp seas built up on our port quarter. When we dropped into the troughs, I looked up to see porpoises frolicking in the crest of the wave above me. My stalwart companion was on the lee side of the cockpit heaving his breakfast into a bucket. The fact that Harvey got debilitatingly seasick was surprise number one. Surprise number two followed soon after: Harvey couldn't read a chart. He could plot and steer a course, but he could not look at the surrounding islands and use them to tell where he was. I'm not an old salt when it comes to seamanship. Most of what I know was learned on a tugboat, a buoy tender, and on larger Coast Guard cutters, not small sailboats. But I can navigate pretty well.

The squall blew itself out as we rounded into the lee of the island that was to provide our night's anchorage. The only damage we suffered was to my faith in Harvey. A bottle of brandy was broken out; the first dash of mine went into the water as thanks to the local Sea god. The rest went down my throat.

In a dead calm the next day we motored across the Grand Bahama Bank and prepared for a night crossing of the Gulf Stream to Florida. The dinghy was hauled aboard and lashed down forward of the mast. As our departure point from the Bank was seventy miles east of Port Everglades and the Stream flows north at seven knots, we plotted a southwesterly course aiming for a point eighty miles south of our destination. This allowed for any northerly set and drift.

Evening came bringing a light, southerly breeze with it as we slipped over the edge of the Bank into deeper water. Harvey took the first two-hour watch. I stayed on deck long enough to set a large jib then went below to sleep. An hour later a shout from Harvey to come on deck broke my rest. Seconds later I emerged from the companionway into a pitch black night. In the short time I was resting, clouds had obscured the stars and the wind had risen, building seas to match its new found strength and heeling our boat sharply to starboard. Harvey had eased the jib sheet but the foot was scooping water every time we slid down the backside of a wave. He had started the engine. I took the tiller since Harvey was seasick and unable to handle the boat.

During the next few hours I got a sense of what Eternity must be like. The world was twenty-seven feet long, bound on the right by the back of the last wave, on the left by the face of the next one and illuminated only by the masthead light above me. My left hand gripped the constantly moving tiller, pulling it toward me as we met each succeeding swell and easing it as it passed under us. The cockpit combing chafed my ribs. The motion was very regular: up the wave, pull the tiller toward me, feel the increased pressure on my ribs as the boat heeled further to starboard, over the crest, ease the tiller, ease the pressure, listen as the sea rushed past. Up, over and down, up, over and down, inhale, pause, and exhale, inhale, pause, and exhale; as though the boat itself was breathing. The hypnotic motion made me drowsy and I asked Harvey to take over while I went below to my bunk and was instantly asleep.

A sharp shout brought me awake and out of the cabin. We had entered the shipping lanes and Harvey has seen a ship. A look through the binoculars showed her to be north-bound and on a steady bearing and decreasing range - a collision course. Unable to raise anyone on the radio and reasonably sure our swaying mast couldn't be seen on radars; I took the tiller and brought our bows south, into the seas to clear the stern of the on-coming ship. The lights on the Florida coast were now visible. How far to shore? How long until we made port? There were no answers and the passage continued at its old, rhythmic pace.

Dawn came in a world of heaving grey-blue mountains and increasing wind; the jib had to come down before it tore apart or heeled us over too far to recover. After a night spent at the tiller, my courage failed. I couldn't face going forward to lower and stow the sail in these seas. Harvey had to do it.   Poor maligned, seasick Harvey put on a safety harness and went to do it without comment or complaint while I stayed safely in the cockpit. I watched the seas and counted the swells through several groups to ensure that when I brought the boat into the wind and seas, Harvey would have the most time possible for the task. I had the sequence and turned just as the seventh wave slid past. We had the time.   I counted: one, two, three - halfway.   Four - What's taking so long?   Five - "MOVE IT!"   I shout in my head. Six - He's not going to finish in time, but maybe it'll be OK . We went up the face of the seventh and behind it was its grand daddy. My mouth went dry. Over and down the seventh we went. Up the eighth, hoping this was the worst of it. It wasn't.

The ninth wave was a malignant wall of water, black at the bottom, pale green at its feathery top. The boat plunged into the trough. Hold her head steady. How long can I hold my breath when we go under? Don't let her fall off.   Is there time to close the cabin hatch? Don't let her sideslip. Can I hold on? Will Harvey's safety harness hold?

Suddenly we were through the trough and going up. All I can see is sky. No feelings of panic, fear yes, but not panic. So this is what it's like to pitch pole. How far is the coast? Can I stay afloat long enough to reach it? I wasn't worried about Harvey making it because if survived the capsizing I was going to kill him.

Steering southwest with twenty-foot seas on the port bow bound for Port Everglades from Grand Bahama Bank after making a night crossing of the Gulf Stream.   All I can taste is copper. The jib was stowed safely. Harvey never noticed the eighth or ninth waves.   We made landfall eight miles north of Port Everglades. It was Easter Sunday.

I broke even on the trip. I lost my belief that I knew the sea, and, along with that belief, the friendship that had been the reason for the trip. I gained my first grey hairs, but I stayed alive. That's breaking even.

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