Rowboat in a Hurricane (21 page)

TED AND FRED
had rejoined us just as we were about to enter the tropics and cross the tropic of Cancer, the latitudinal meridian that lies at
23
°
26
north, approximately
2
,
600
kilometres north of the equator.

“Let’s have a party to celebrate being in the tropics,” Colin said.

“Sounds great. I think we should drink the wine that Mario gave us with tonight’s dinner,” I said.

Though we were happy to be in the tropics, things didn’t look any more tropical. The weather had been in the mid-twenties for a long time now, and the sea was just as blue and empty as always. The waves were still choppy, and the currents continued to come from a suboptimal direction. But it was still an exciting moment, and I was glad it wouldn’t slip by unnoticed, swallowed by another nondescript day rowing.

“Did I ever tell you the story about when we crossed the equator in the
Virginian?
” Colin said, his eyes glazing over as he remembered his heady years sailing.

“You mean the time you pierced your ear with a potato and a needle?”

“That’s it,” Colin said, mildly disappointed. “How about when we went up on a reef in Palau in poorly charted waters?”

Colin retold his story while we searched for exciting dinner ingredients. Our food selection was getting pretty slim. It was now day fifty-two, and we had almost finished the food set aside for the first half of the journey. We would soon need to access the second half, which was stored in separate storage compartments.

“How about some American cookies to start the party?” I said, rummaging through the food pile that now sat on the mattress in our cabin. Chocolate chip cookies with an “American” label were our favourites, along with sour candies and canned lychee fruit.

“You bet,” Colin said enthusiastically. He set down the oars and stretched out his hand for the treats.

Our food shopping in Lisbon had been a rushed affair, and we’d been unfamiliar with many of the products. Now, in the middle of the ocean, we quickly learned the difference between good and disgusting. Unfortunately, we had no choice but to eat everything.

The “American cookies” turned out to be the best treat on board. Unfortunately, the very name had put us off buying too many of these biscuits. I had assumed they were full of preservatives and heavily processed. In fact, the Portuguese-made goodies contained all-natural ingredients and tasted as though they were fresh from grandma’s oven. If they’d labelled them “Portuguese Cookies” or “All-Natural Cookies,” we probably would have purchased several dozen more packages. Instead, we had enough only for special occasions, such as birthdays and crossing the tropic of Cancer.

I gave Colin three cookies and took three more for myself. We’d eat the remaining six tonight, before they softened in the moisture-laden air.

“Mmmm,” Colin said, his face an expression of joy.

Colin finished his cookies in a few bites between oar strokes. I nibbled mine slowly, willing them to last as long as possible, while I pondered what to make for dinner. I had soaked dried chickpeas in water overnight, so I decided on a vegetarian version of the Moroccan chicken I make at home—a baked dish of browned onions, chickpeas, raisins, and chicken in a medley of Middle Eastern spices. Unfortunately, we didn’t have an oven, chicken, or most of the required spices. But with a few modifications, almost any recipe can be adapted to a rowboat galley.

So here is my version of Moroccan Chicken, rowboat-style. Thinly slice half an onion and sauté it in olive oil. Sprinkle sugar on the onions after they have browned, and continue cooking until the sugar caramelizes but before it burns. (On a rowboat, brown sugar is preferred. While white sugar absorbs moisture and turns into a solid block, brown sugar stays soft and moist.) Add one cup of chicken broth, four cups of softened chickpeas, and a handful of raisins. Simmer until the chickpeas are cooked and the liquid is mostly absorbed. Add salt, pepper, and a pinch of cinnamon. Serve on a bed of rice or couscous.

We celebrated our progress and official entrance to the tropics in a boat that smelled like the kitchen of a Middle Eastern restaurant. I heaped large helpings of curry and couscous onto our plastic plates, and filled our mugs with wine. The sky blazed with pinpricks of light—millions of stars to remind us that we were just tiny specks in the universe. I could see the Big Dipper clearly in the northern sky, looking just as it had from my bedroom window in Edmonton when I stared at the constellations as a little girl.

“That’s the Southern Cross,” Colin said, pointing to an area low in the southern horizon.

I searched the sky for the telltale five stars that make up the constellation and finally found it. The four brightest stars can be connected to create a cross, like the four corners of a kite. The Southern Cross is one of the most prominent celestial features in the Southern Hemisphere and, since ancient times, has been used by sailors for navigation. It serves a similar purpose to the North Star, or polestar, in the Northern Hemisphere.

We finished the bottle of wine under the star-filled sky, waves lapping gently against the boat and a warm breeze caressing us. Ted and Fred illuminated the phosphorescence as they splashed around the boat. Colin’s arms were wrapped around me, and life seemed perfect. I couldn’t imagine a more romantic night.

THUMP . . . BANG . . . THUD
.
. . It was
5
:
30 AM
, and the noise reverberated through the hull of the boat. Something was banging against it. At first I thought the ropes securing the rudder had loosened and that the rudder was being slammed against the boat. But the noise was too loud and irregular to be the rudder. When I climbed out of bed to investigate, the racket suddenly stopped. I paused, listening intently.
Bang.
This time it was terrifyingly loud. I lunged out the main hatch while Colin squeezed through the smaller roof hatch.

“The rudder looks okay,” Colin yelled from the back. “The lines are a little frayed, but everything’s still . . . ”

BANG

The noise came from the starboard side. I clambered to the edge, expecting to see a log or other oceanic debris. Instead I stared straight into the large, round eyes of a giant sea turtle. It was about a metre in diameter, accompanied by an entourage of small grey and black striped fish, miniature versions of Fred and Ted.

“It’s an enormous turtle!” I shouted.

During the voyage up to that point, we had seen dozens of turtles, but they were all tiny in comparison, and shier than blushing schoolgirls. They would edge up to investigate, but quickly turn tail as soon as Colin or I moved in a manner unbecoming of a piece of flotsam. Our newest visitor wasn’t shy at all, and was obviously unperturbed by my nearness or even the way the tumultuous waters were heaving our vessel up and down onto its hard shell with a thump.

“I see it,” Colin said as he leaned out the roof hatch, holding the video camera. “He’s doing a great job cleaning the bottom of the boat. We’ll be sliding through the water after he’s done with us.”

While Colin filmed, I took photographs. The turtle’s leathery neck protruded two hand-lengths from its fortified home. Its beak, which looked capable of snapping a finger in half, effortlessly nipped off the inch-long barnacles. Its long flippers swept through the water as it scrabbled against our boat to graze. Its carapace was shades of brown—the archetypal tortoise-shell coloration—and made up of multiple plates strong enough to protect it from most predators, including mid-sized sharks.

This was a loggerhead turtle. We knew that five species of sea turtle inhabited this part of the Atlantic Ocean—green, Kemp’s ridley, leatherback, hawksbill, and loggerhead—and until then, we had only seen hawksbill turtles. Because of our visitor’s blunt jaws and long flippers, we knew it wasn’t a hawksbill, which looks quite similar except for its sharp, pointed beak and two claws at the tip of each flipper. This turtle’s size was also a giveaway. We guessed it would tip the scales at
250
kilograms, several times heavier than the largest hawksbill, and would dwarf those we had seen several hundred kilometres off the coast of Africa (which were never larger than a bicycle tire). Although we hadn’t yet spotted the other types, we knew from our reference book that they looked quite different than this one.

If size was any indication, our turtle was a geriatric, which in turtle years is only forty or fifty. She or he (I couldn’t tell) was drifting on the ocean currents looking for food and perhaps en route to a warmer place for winter. Unlike other sea turtles, loggerheads even searched for love along their migration routes, and we hoped our new friend wouldn’t mistake our boat for an amorous mate. But then, mating season was only between March and June, and it was November. More likely this turtle had already gotten lucky and, if it was a female, had laid her eggs in a hole she dug on a Mediterranean beach a few months before. By then her clutch of
100
to
120
eggs would have hatched, and the young would have waddled to the water under the cloak of darkness to make their way to safer grounds.

The sea turtle lives a dangerous life. Only a fraction survive beyond their first year, and far fewer return to the area where they were born to breed. When young they are vulnerable to natural predators, but even as they mature, the risks are great, especially from humans. Their meat and eggs are considered a delicacy, their shells a beautiful material for ornaments, and their fat a product for cosmetics and medicine. All seven species of sea turtles, including the five living in this part of the Atlantic, are classified as threatened or endangered. It is now illegal to hunt sea turtles in most countries. However, turtles still face dangers from boat propellers, fishing nets, longline fishing hooks, disruption of nesting grounds, and illegal hunting.

The plight of sea turtles has garnered global attention, and ongoing efforts are making a difference in their survival. Changes in fishing practices—using slightly different hooks or bait, and nets that turtles can escape from—has led to a
97
per cent reduction in turtle by-catch by vessels that adopt the practices. In Florida, concerned groups dig up turtle eggs at risk of being trampled by beachgoers and rebury them in secure fenced-off areas. Conservationists in Central America monitor nesting sites to prevent poaching. “Don’t Eat Sea Turtle” awareness campaigns have been created to target the black market trade in turtle products. But turtles mature slowly, have offspring infrequently, and live long lives. It will take time for their populations to rebound.

“I’m worried about our boat,” Colin said as another thump reverberated through our vessel. “How much abuse can quarter-inch plywood take?”

“That would be an unfortunate end to our expedition. But it would make a great headline. ‘Boat holed by lovestruck turtle.’ ”

My comment was punctuated by a splintering crash.

“Maybe it’s time we moved on.”

I untied the oars and started rowing.

“He’s chasing us,” Colin yelled. “Row faster!”

I put all my strength into the oars and laughed at the absurdity of our situation. We were trying to escape an overly affectionate turtle. Of all the dangers I envisioned prior to setting off, this one was not on the list.

“I’m exhausted,” I said, after the turtle finally tired and disappeared astern. I lifted the oars from the water for a break.

“You can’t stop now,” Colin said, his voice filled with dismay. “Don’t you remember what happened with the tortoise and the hare? He’s probably plodding along straight towards us, and any second he’s going to crash through the bottom of the boat.”

ELEVEN DAYS HAD
passed since we’d crossed the tropic of Cancer, and the trade winds should have blown steadily. Instead the winds were variable, frequently changing direction and often dead calm.

As we struggled westward, a black wall of clouds appeared on the horizon ahead of us. The blue sky contrasted sharply with the ragged, undulating mass in the distance. Hours slipped by, but the system did not move.

At night we could see an almost continual diffused flashing light in the horizon, created by heavy electrostatic activity in the distant clouds. The lightning was too far away to hear. I felt somewhat uneasy witnessing such a phenomenal release of energy while we sat upon a calm ocean. The stars above us twinkled, and a five-knot wind blew from the north.

We rowed through most of the night. Morning light revealed a world that had changed little from the previous day. Above us and to the east, the sky was a rich blue scattered with innocent puffs of cloud. To the west towered foreboding thunderheads, a wall of shovelled coal smouldering and ready to explode.

Generally, storm systems or squalls move across the ocean at speeds of ten to fifty knots, which means, from the perspective of a boat, that they are a rapidly moving entity. The squall system we were looking at, however, sat on the same spot, growing in strength and intensity. We could see the clouds rising in height and the frequency of lightning increasing. It ran in a continuous line as far north and south as we could see. Only our own slow progress of about two knots slowly closed the gap between us and the system. We guessed the storm to be about fifty nautical miles away, so if it remained stationary, we would still take another two days to reach it.