Maiden Voyage (17 page)

The waves had gotten smaller and were coming directly from astern. The sky was brilliantly aglow as the sun sank behind the horizon, preparing the Marquesas Islands to the west for another sunset.
Varuna
gently glided downwind, rocking slowly from side to side. Because I had grown accustomed to living on the walls, this was sheer ecstasy and I climbed back down below in a slightly cheered frame of mind. Curling up with Dinghy in the crook of my arm, I puffed up my pillow, tried to sort out the kaleidoscope of birthday memories and finally fell asleep.

For two days thereafter, the wind slowly began to decrease and I listened to the sails flap, undecided whether or not to put up the genoa, my biggest foresail. Just as I would make the decision and begin the maneuver, the wind would pick up, the log would tick faster, and I'd procrastinate.

“The House of the Rising Sun” began to get boring, so I set two more musical goals—Beethoven's “Für Elise” and one of Bach's bourrées. I practiced until my fingertips were sore, then popped up pressure cookers full of popcorn and read. For two lethargic days, I plucked, chomped, dutifully suffered through
Lady Chatterley's Lover
, and then livened things up by becoming a spy in
The Aquitaine Progression
while the taffrail log ticked erratically and we waited for more wind.

The third morning, in a decisive frame of mind, I pulled down the jib to replace it with the larger genoa, and noticed that the spinnaker pole was disintegrating where it attached onto a pad eye on the mast. As the jib ballooned in and out with the erratic course, shards of metal grated off the pole. I needed a new spinnaker-pole head, another repair that would have to wait until Tahiti.

Catching a much larger area of wind, the genoa pulled
Varuna
surfing down the playing waves. The surging power almost carried us airborne as we took off like a rocket from every wave, landing when the wave caught up. Every so often, whenever we were thrown off track, the Monitor would not have time to react and the mainsail would steal the genoa's wind. It emptied, then filled with a
whoosh
and a resounding slam, and the pole would jerk against the mast again and again. I cringed every time, envisioning the metal shaving off the pole's head, and prayed that it would last until the Marquesas.

Once the genny was up, I stared at the chart, muttering and chastising myself for having been too lazy to put it up earlier, “If I'd put it up two days ago, we'd be forty miles farther along.” But I had
to admit, I really didn't care that much about speed.
Varuna
was swinging along and life at that point couldn't have been more beautiful. I went outside to stand at the spray hood and Dinghy jumped up to lie down in front of me. My legs slightly apart, I played with
Varuna's
seesawing motion, remaining motionless except for bending at the knees and feeling my thigh muscles stretch.

The South Pacific was a sapphire-blue seaway stretching far out of reach. When the sun shone directly into the water, rays of brilliantly transformed light created an inverted star reaching down to the depths. Under us, there was more than 5,000 feet of water—almost one mile straight down—and I was humbled by it. I had witnessed the emotions of this gargantuan ocean, and she was tolerating mine.

From the wind and current driving glowing, phosphorescent plankton through the waves at night, to the whales who migrated thousands of miles during their lifetimes, the sea was life, and out in her middle a rich drama unfolded before me every day. We passed birds who hunted flying fish until they tired and landed, bobbing up and down asleep on the waves. For a while, a huge tortoise entered our world, her horny head straining for air as her stubby legs paddled away, a thousand miles from land.

“What is she doing here?” I wondered. “How long will it take for her to get where she wants to go?” I marveled that she didn't need to carry around a sextant and chart. On her back would rest tired sea birds, hitchhikers on the seaway. Pilot fish and mahimahi followed in the shadow of
Varuna
, pulled along by her momentum, while flying fish soared in the air as we plowed through their midst. Dinghy sat at the edge of the cockpit, entranced, staring at the bubbles passing us by.

One day, just shortly after the noon sight, the dolphins came, but not in the small flocks to which I was accustomed. As far as I could see, there were dolphins—every sort of dolphin. Small blue-and-white striped, large black, small brown and medium-sized grays—an international reunion. Birds squawked and swooped down to the water, positive that with dolphins around, there had to be food. At 3:00
P.M
. on October 10, I wrote in my logbook,
“The dolphins are still with me. It seems like there are hundreds of them and I am screaming hello with lots of joy. They are doing endless flips and acrobatics and trying to talk to me. I am so happy for their company that I cry. The birds are here also. We're having a party and everybody's invited. There is so much wildlife that I even wondered for a minute: Am I near land?”

I stared and whooped along with the dolphins all afternoon, and
around six o'clock fell asleep dreaming of them. At one o'clock in the morning, I awoke again; they were still with us, calling, trilling, cooing. That they stayed for ten entire hours was pretty incredible, but I prayed they would stay until the Marquesas. I drifted back to sleep and when I awoke again, there was only silence.

One morning, I made out a pinprick of a sail way off on the edge of the western horizon. We were still 1,229 miles from land. I grabbed my binoculars, ran to the foredeck and, leaning against the mast, strained my eyes trying to figure out the boat's details. Turning on the radio, I called and called, “Can anybody hear me? Can anybody hear me? This is the sailboat
Varuna
. Over.” Nobody answered. For the better part of the day, the boat remained visible about 6 miles away, yet deaf to my calls. I wanted so badly to talk with them and verify my navigation. All my lines-of-position, LOPs, were working out, but there still was that little nagging self-doubt. To have had somebody back up my position would have boosted my confidence. But, there was no response. I felt a little pride in thinking I was keeping a better watch than the other boat but, mostly, I was disheartened; I had been looking forward to that human contact, knowing it was so close. The next time I checked the horizon, it was empty.

On the morning of the sixteenth, I roused myself and went out to check the horizon just in time to see a low-hanging black squall drawing up from astern. I watched as a straight curtain of rain on the calm waters shielded the patch of angry waves. The breeze suddenly quadrupled and gusts lifted
Varuna
out of the water and carried her reeling along as the wind-vane paddle and tiller slammed from side to side, trying to control a completely overcanvased boat.

Veering up into the wind, the mainsail backwinded and the boom strained against the preventer cord that held it from a slamming jibe to the opposite side of the boat. The preventer was vibratingly taut and I rushed to uncleat it. Let out slowly, the boom worked itself to the other side, making the boat heel over all the more, dragged down by yet another problem. The mast and rigging were shaking in the wind with the spinnaker pole and genny dragging in the water. The mainsail boom joined the gear party skinny-dipping over the lee side. I ran to the cockpit and freed the halyards to let the main and genny go, hastily pulling them down and securing them. The havoc finally subsided and I climbed back belowdecks to survey my wet bed and belongings strewn about the tiny cabin. It had hardly been a life-threatening situation, but now, with my curiosity satisfied, I decided that from now on it would be better for all concerned to just shorten sail immediately before a squall hit.

The wind continued to play hide and seek for several days. On and off, it would wane, then pick up to a moderate puff, push us along, and then wane again. Regardless of strength, it always blew from astern. Sometimes we would crawl forward with slamming sails shaking the rigging and jarring my nerves. Whenever the taffrail log's ticking slowed down, I would gloomily reassess my average speed for the day, fidgeting and poking holes through the chart, and wait for more speed.

In the logbook, routine entries on navigation and weather conditions were broken by idle musings on this and that, or the lyrics to songs that kept running through my head. During the long nights, the dolphins returned to visit, announcing themselves with their familiar playful whistles, their paths lit by moonbeams. I never tired of staring into the phosphorescence that lit my sometimes speedy, sometimes poky, nighttime wake as I dreamed about the Marquesas and the South Pacific landfalls that loomed ahead. We were almost there.

On Tuesday, October 22, at eight-thirty in the morning, I pulled out the chart and crossed out Monday the twenty-first, and mile 2,800. There were only 165 miles to go and I knew that every bird flying by had recently seen land. Outside, the increasing heat of the day slowed my actions in response. Even though
Varuna
was making an average of 4 knots, the rolling, slamming motion gave the impression that we weren't going anywhere. Every ten minutes or so I climbed outside to scan the horizon, but there was only water—calm water. Climbing back down below into the shade of the cabin, I prayed for enough wind to let us get in the next day. It had already been twenty-two days and I was desperately anxious to confirm my landfall.

“I'm going crazy!”
I scratched across my logbook as the wind dwindled to nothing and the day began to drift ever so slowly into night.
“We won't get in tomorrow.”
Pulling down the sails to stop the slapping noise, I brought my mattress up to sleep in the cockpit for relief from the heat.

In the morning, I awoke to a breath of breeze against my cheek and the wind greeting us from the north. Quickly raising the main and jib, I set the Monitor and once again pointed
Varuna's
bow toward land. A last sun sight confirmed our position and, optimistically, I began to clean up the boat. All morning long, I looked for the telltale cloud bank that hangs over islands. Although the vision of it eluded me, I was undaunted, knowing that my calculations were correct; we had to be about 55 miles away. I left my perch, leaning
against the spray hood, and went below to make a batch of popcorn to ease the tension.

This was the big test. If I found Hiva Oa, my navigation was spot on. I sat at the stove, jiggling the pressure cooker so the kernels of corn wouldn't stick to the bottom, and thought about
Thea
. Luc and Jean Marie had already eaten their steaks and salads days ago, I figured, and were waiting for me. Were they worried? I pulled out my logbook and mapped out my first minutes on shore.

“My plan is, as soon as I begin to make landfall, I'll cook up a flan. Then, when I anchor, I'll celebrate with Luc and Jean Marie and share the Bailey's with them. If they're not home, that's all right, I'll celebrate alone. Then I'll inflate the dinghy, go ashore, check for mail, make a phone call. . . .”

Simple plans for a landfall of such personal triumph, but I wasn't feeling as victorious as I had thought I would. If anything, I felt sad that a passage of such beauty was actually behind me. The past twenty-three days had been the best part of my trip since I had sailed out of New York, and I already felt a tinge of resentment at having to leave my ocean behind.

I headed out on deck with the popcorn to resume my vigil and, climbing through the companionway, thought I saw another sailboat. “Come here, Dinghy. Do you see what I see?” I grabbed my buddy and held him up toward the other boat. Totally uninterested, he pulled away and leapt below onto the bed to escape the piercing sunlight. In my haste to get to the VHF and call the boat, I spilled popcorn all over the cockpit.

“Westbound sailboat on the horizon, westbound sailboat on the horizon. This is the sailboat
Varuna
. Can you hear me?” I called.

“
Salut
, Tania. How are you?” said a familiar voice.

“Luc?” I was shocked beyond belief. “Luc! What are you doing here? What happened? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, yes. We're fine,” he answered. “It has just been a horrible trip. There wasn't enough wind and we've been eating rice for four days. We have no more food. Do you have any fresh vegetables? We are desperate for some. How was your trip?”

“Well, my trip was good. Sometimes not enough wind, but it was nice,” I answered. “I just cooked the last of my fresh vegetables yesterday, but I have some canned food. You're welcome to it. I don't think we'll make it in tonight. Do you?”

There was little chance of it, he said. We briefly summarized our voyages and Jean Marie grabbed the transmitter to say hello. We decided to keep on sailing through the night and when we arrived outside the entrance to the anchorage, the two boats could drift until daylight.

Now I was thoroughly excited, and everything I did for the rest of the day was with trembling hands and eager anticipation. Preparing the cockpit so I could take a bath, I put the slats in the companionway and moved the cat litter from the floor. Throwing buckets of water over my head, I scrubbed my hair, imagining what the Marquesas were like. I had found them! The longest projected passage of my circumnavigation was over.

During the night, I steered the boat by hand part time, cooked the flan and tossed a canned vegetable salad. In unison, the two friends,
Thea
and
Varuna
, sailed into the lee of the island. As previously planned, at 3:00
A.M
., the twenty-fourth of October, we arrived in Baie de Traîtres, Traitor Bay, and tied a line between the two boats, waiting for daybreak.

The moon was beginning to wane, but it still illuminated the outlines of volcanic peaks towering above and lining the bay. Stars twinkling in a velvet sky were the backdrop to the black outline of Hiva Oa. The pungent smells of vegetation and smoke from native hearths wafted out to
Varuna
. The only thing left was to see what I could only feel and smell, and with bated breath, we awaited morning.