Maiden Voyage

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

FOR MY MOTHER

O
ctober 23, 1987, another dawn—my thirty-seventh alone on the North Atlantic. Around me, the sea is a liquid mountain range of heaving swells, and I'm really scared. The winds and waves have been steadily increasing since yesterday, when they veered from southeast to northeast
. Varuna
has been knocked mast-down to the water countless times during the night and I haven't been able to relax, sleep, eat or think about anything other than staying alive. Following now are the biggest waves I've ever seen—probably 25 feet. It's almost winter and I've pushed my luck. The weather can only get worse
.

“Four feet above, avalanches of white water crash across
Varuna's
back, swamping the cockpit. In the cabin, everything that hasn't been battened down has been thrown off the shelves. Pots, pans, cans and tools clatter together in the lockers. I'm wedged into my bunk, my foot stretched across to the sink to stop me from being thrown around the cabin. There are still 880 miles to go until home. I want to see the Statue of Liberty. I want to take a hot bath and eat something good. I want to see my family. . . .”

I stuffed my logbook onto the shelf behind my head, struggled out of limp long johns and stripped down before beginning the contortions of getting into foul-weather gear—first the overalls, then the jacket. It was useless wearing anything beneath the gear because it
would have been stupid to jeopardize the precious dry clothes by wearing them outside, where they'd be soaked in seconds. I fastened the hood around my salty head, which was matted into itchy, sticky clumps of hair and crying out to be washed. Practically the only kind of shower I had been able to provide myself during the last month at sea was the occasional unexpected wave that crashed over me, increasing the sodium level on my skin. There was not a drop of fresh water on board to spare for the luxury of a wash. Even though I sprinkled myself liberally with talcum powder, my skin pinched up from the salt and my bottom was covered with sores from sitting on damp cushions for so many weeks. The cold, salt-encrusted lining of the foul-weather gear rubbed against my naked skin like broken glass, and I had to step into it at least ten times a day.

Crouched on all fours and peering out through the dark blue Plexiglas slats that sealed the companionway, I choreographed my next move and waited for the null moment between waves to lurch into action. OK . . . almost ready . . . ready . . . NOW! Quickly removing the slats, I clambered out to the cockpit and added one more bruise to the scars covering my legs.

“Come on, Tarzoon,” I coaxed my feline buddy, “if you want to come out, now's your chance.” He blinked up at me from the safety of his corner in the bunk, looking for assurance.
Varuna
leveled for a moment and Tarzoon leapt through the companionway, sniffing the air and sticking close. “It's kind of ugly out here,” I confided, snapping the umbilical cord of my safety harness onto the lifelines of the boat and looking up the mast to the sky. No change from yesterday. If anything, it was worse. The wind velocity was gale force and holding between 40 to 50 knots. Rain pocked the water around
Varuna
, and low-hanging, dark masses canopied us. The last piece of land that these black clouds had shadowed was America, “maybe even New York,” I said aloud, and the thought made the gloom seem almost friendly.

“We are so close, Tarzoon, and I have these feelings, New York feelings.” If we continued on at this speed, we would have about eight more days left; if we dropped back to our average speed until now, it could take another fourteen.

Already I could feel the pulse of New York and could almost smell civilization in the air. I sensed the vibration of the subway and as the ocean mimicked the noise of rattling tracks, imagined being on the Lexington line #6 heading uptown. Soon, God willing, I'd be home.
Home, after two and a half years of seeing the four corners of the world from the deck of this little 26-foot sailboat. The gray horizon to the west was full of promise.

Landfalls were not alien to me. I had emerged from the ocean void to stand in awe of the jagged cliffs of the Galápagos, the verdant dream world of South Pacific islands, the cities carved from the rock of Malta.
Varuna
had shown me a world of physical challenge and jaw-dropping beauty; of ancient cultures; of generosity in the face of unspeakable poverty; a world where a smile is the greatest gift you can give or receive. Out of the past two and a half years, I had spent 360 days alone at sea, pressing ever westward, ever homeward. This final landfall would close the circle, end the dream and begin the most daunting unknown yet.

I squinted into the howling winds, hypnotized, watching every wall of water catch up, lift
Varuna's
stern and take us surfing down its crest. With just enough time for me to crouch and hang on, the crest of another thousand-gallon mountain broke and engulfed us. Water rushed up my pants legs and leaked into my hood and down my neck, and slowly the cockpit began to drain as
Varuna
lurched drunkenly onward. Making the adjustments to the windvane, I took a 360-degree scan of the barren seascape. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing—nothing but angry graybeards marching toward an eternal horizon.

Tarzoon meowed by the companionway, wet and matted, desperate to get inside to safety before the next drenching. Following him below, I peeled off the wet rain gear and turned on the radio. The BBC announced that things were going better in New York since Black Monday, four days before. We had been at 50 degrees longitude then, in the midst of a flat calm, almost two-thirds of the way across the Atlantic. As the announcer described the Wall Street crash, I had been studying my chart, staring at the place where we were now, wondering how it would feel to be here. Now I knew.

Tuning in to Radio France and clutching onto handholds, I stumbled the two steps toward the toilet, which was out of commission. It was always closed up at sea, where I was surrounded by the biggest toilet on earth. I didn't need the little white pot and transformed its closet into a hanging locker with lines holding everything in. I wrapped the gear over one line as it dripped down on the floor, threw a dirty mop-up rag over the new puddles in the cabin and rearranged the kerosene heater and bottled water. The heater fell over again with the bucking motion, dribbling some fuel, stinking up the small
confines and making me dizzy. “More than enough kerosene,” I thought. “Wish it were water. I have only five bottles left. I hope it'll last.”

Putting my thermal underwear back on, I saw Tarzoon chewing away at the coral fan Olivier had given me to bring home. “Stop it, you little monster!” I reprimanded, taking it away from him for the fiftieth time. It refused to stay in its lashings on the wall and kept tumbling down to my bunk and Tarzoon's teeth. Picking it up, once again I admired the intricacy of its lacy white fronds, thinking about Olivier and remembering how much he loved to dive in search of shells and underwater life. The fan had come from the San Bias Islands between Colombia and Panama and I remembered that it was one of the first things that I had remarked on in
Akka
, Olivier's boat. Here on
Varuna
with Tarzoon, after nearly circumnavigating the planet, it was disintegrating.

“I wonder what he is doing now,” I said aloud. “If he was able to come to the United States, perhaps he's at the American consulate, applying for a visa. If he wasn't able to come . . .” My emotions and energy were already stretched to their limits and I knew better than to risk the torture of negative thoughts. But it was no use. Although I tucked the fan away in the toilet closet, safe from harm, everywhere I looked were reminders of Olivier, the quiet man who had become a part of my life in Vanuatu in the South Pacific. Without him, I knew, I would not be here today.

We were both crying when we kissed each other goodbye and I finally broke away from the little island of Malta, not knowing when or if we'd ever see each other again. Ahead of
Varuna
was the Mediterranean and then the North Atlantic. Olivier was headed back to his home in Switzerland. Our lives, which had been so closely aligned for so many months as we voyaged together around half the world—he aboard
Akka
and I aboard
Varuna
—now seemed filled with uncertainty. Only time would tell.

•   •   •

At sea, the crashing, banging and moaning sounds of a sailboat battling through a storm, however discordant, come together in a symphony of chaos. Any unusual sound or movement that disrupts it immediately stands out—like now. There was a slight knocking noise against
Varuna's
hull at the bow and I turned toward the sound. The big jib, saved for lighter winds, was lashed down up forward and was working itself loose with the metal eye at the foot of the sail beginning to bang against the hull with each wave. It had to be retied before it was dragged overboard.

Pulling my gear back on, I crawled outside and clipped the harness onto a jack line as
Varuna
buried her bow in every wave. “I might as well get this over with right
now!”
I yelled and barreled forward, splashing through the water on deck, grabbing the rails and the lifelines along the way and viciously stubbing my foot against a chain plate.