Maiden Voyage (42 page)

“Are you all right?” was his first worry.

“Yah, yah. But, the forestay is completely broken in half. I think I better go back to Port Said.”

“Oh no,” he cried. “We can't. We'll be stuck in that god-awful filthy harbor for another week, filling out endless crew lists again. Are you sure it can't be fixed out here?”

“I don't know yet,” I said. “But if I can't jury-rig something proper, then I'm going back. I can't fix it myself.”

“What do you think,” Olivier answered, “that I would watch you fix things from over here? Nothing would give me more pleasure than getting soaking wet and coming over to help fix your forestay in the middle of the ocean on my birthday. Come pick me up.”

I motored past
Akka
in the dwindling wind and threw Olivier a line. He jumped, missed and ended up swimming to
Varuna
. Sitting on the rolling deck with my toolbox and Swiss Army knife, we played with the old half-broken forestay that had been replaced in Port Sudan, and used it in place of the totally broken one. We threaded the wire through a hole on the masthead, pulling it through, and then, with an arrangement of wire clamps at the opposite end, we attached it to the turnbuckle on deck. All this was relatively easy now on a calmer sea. Climbing to the top of the mast to thread the new forestay was a little nerve-wracking, as the boat swayed from side to side, but after an hour it was over. Olivier was back on
Akka
and we were on our way again, bundled up in sweaters and socks. I remained wide awake until dawn; even the twinkling lights of far off ships set my heart to racing.

For one week, we made a long tack north until the distant purple
mountain ranges of Turkey emerged tantalizingly on the horizon. Then we tacked again, sailing past Rhodes and into the flat, calm wind shadow of Crete, where the winds that raced down from the Aegean Sea and through the isles of Greece were blocked by the landmass.

I nursed
Varuna
along, trying to avoid too much strain on her handicapped rigging. Finally, pooped from endlessly watching out for each other, and with our fuel supplies exhausted, we decided to stop at Loutros, a wise decision for the sake of our relationship. During the last two days, every time we had brought the boats close together, we had been ready to bite each other's head off if one of us so much as overselpt five minutes into the other's watch or drifted the slightest bit off course. Loutros was the last village on the southern coast of Crete where we could reprovision, rest and get our thoughts and emotions back into perspective.

Late in the afternoon of July 15, after a night of intermittent sailing with strong gusts flying down the mountains, we motored into Loutros's beautiful little bay, which looked like an open-air grotto of steep cliffs and light blue and green waters. There was a handful of whitewashed buildings clinging to the side of the harbor, and stepping ashore, we discovered that most of them were rooming houses and the rest, with their checkered tablecloths, were tavernas.

As we drained tall glasses of pistachio milkshakes at the first quayside terrace, we also discovered that the only way to reach Loutros was by ferry. There were no cars, hence no diesel. That we had chosen to make a landfall in a place so impractical struck Olivier and me as particularly comical, and we were forced to reassess our plans. We decided to take the ferry the next day to another village, bring jerry cans, fill them up with diesel and lug them back to the boats.

In the meantime, taking advantage of the situation, we roamed the rocky beach, enjoyed the Greek taverna atmosphere and watched the young vacationers surrounding us, all with the latest hairstyles, fashions and trends. There were the modern Mohican punks, the laid-back bohemians, the rich young American girls wearing two watches each, giggling and flocking around one man, and the regular European families and couples out for a relaxing vacation. It was a happy return to Western civilization, and we found ourselves gaping. It was funny how they all seemed as foreign to us as had the skirted Balinese and the Sri Lankans with their stubby betel-nut-stained teeth only a matter of several seas ago.

After scrubbing the boat hulls, on the morning of July 18 we were off again, bound for Malta 580 miles to the west. Olivier and I separated soon after leaving, and that evening I felt a certain amount of relief at being alone again. I understood Olivier well enough to know that he probably felt it, too. Whenever we sailed together, there was the constant pressure of watches, the constant dread of losing each other, and now that it was over, it was as if a heavy burden had been lifted. I had come to miss those idyllic days alone at sea, and as
Varuna
passed the wind shadow of Crete and we began to beat into a gentle breeze that was to stay with us until, a day away from Malta, my solitude and the sea were reacquainted.

All was well aboard, except for my nagging dread of tankers that made straight nights of sleep a luxury of the past. As
Varuna
plodded west and the days wore on, an alarm clock beeped me awake every half hour for horizon scans. One morning, the diligence paid off. Stepping into the cockpit, I saw a fuel tanker heading toward
Varuna
on a collision course, with its bearing masts perfectly aligned. I turned on the engine and puttered out of harm's way, just in case. When it passed alongside about 200 feet away, I hailed it on the VHF, wanting to hear that they had noticed
Varuna
, and give myself a little morale boost.

“Hello,” I said when Sparky answered. “I'm the little sailboat on your starboard beam. Can you see me?”

“Wait a second. Let me go look,” was the answer. He hadn't seen me! Well, I sure wouldn't be getting any peace crossing this Mediterranean Sea.

On the morning of July 24, the city carved from the pale yellow rock of Malta rose from the haze on the horizon, and by noon I was motoring past the walls, buildings and fortresses into Valletta Harbour. I could see sailboats tied bow- or stern-to along a quay, and in the middle,
Akka's
white masts and black hull stood out from the other less travel-weary boats. Happily surprised that he had arrived before me, I called out Olivier's name but received no answer. There was some space next to
Akka
, and preparing the fenders and mooring lines, I motored up alongside her, threw the gears into neutral and jumped aboard. As I snugged
Varuna
up, I realized that this was my second to last landfall before home. If all went as planned, the last would be Gibraltar, the gateway into the Atlantic.

Tidying up the sails and rearranging the mess in the cockpit, I chatted with my next-door neighbor and then heard Olivier call from shore. Excitedly standing up, I looked toward the quay and saw a vaguely familiar character standing beside him.

“Hmmm,” I wondered, “who's this guy? I know him from somewhere.” And then, I squealed out loud, “Oh my God, it's Tony!”

“Hey, little sister!” he answered, grinning, and I leapt over all the lifelines, stanchions and docklines separating me from shore and hugged my brother. The insecure, nerdy boy with a Beatles haircut actually had a beard and towered above me.

“God, Tania,” he said. “Pops told me you were skinny, but I didn't expect this. He sent me here as a surprise, to fatten you up and bring you a new forestay.”

I turned to Olivier and hugged him. Tony had been waiting for two weeks in his hotel room, making daily jaunts down to the harbor to see if we were there. My father had told him to look out for a black ketch also, and that was how he had found Olivier that morning. Olivier had already had his shower and together they had checked Tony out of his room. He was ready to move aboard for his stay.

Next, who strolled by but Alexio, whom we hadn't seen since Port Sudan, with his girlfriend who had come from Brazil to visit. In the time it had taken us to get from Port Sudan to Malta, Alexio had spent several weeks in his birthplace, Russia, and several more weeks cruising the Greek isles. Just then, another sailing friend from Sri Lanka came by to welcome us to Malta. That first night ended up being an excited flurry among old friends and family, with Olivier and me as the bridges. Everyone had sea stories to tell, adventures and woes to recount, and tell we did over dinner. Nothing improves an unhappy turn of events or a soggy storm tale more than the retelling of it among people meeting again after their paths have diverged for a few months.

During our four weeks in Malta, one cloud shadowed the royal blue sky and darkened my mood whenever I thought about the impending separation from Olivier. With a circumnavigation behind him, he was to refit
Akka
here in Malta and transfer her back to her owner. Yes, we rationalized, it would only be for two months while I finished my trip. He would fly back to Switzerland and then, if all went well, on to the States. But we had been together every step of the way for almost one year, except for the times at sea, and too many things could go wrong in between. It was hard to ignore the fact that ahead lay the most difficult part of the voyage, the approaching winter season on the North Atlantic.

Oftentimes at night, before drifting off to sleep, we talked about the sea, what could happen out there and what we'd do if it did. Len's misfortune had taught me not to take life for granted, and now
I was scared because after so many close calls I no longer felt so lucky, and suddenly I was feeling very mortal.
Varuna
looked less like my first little secure home that I loved and more like a foe waiting to carry me out into a losing battle.

The stress of the past several months, the lack of good food and proper sleep had exacted a heavy physical toll as well. I had already been perpetually tired in the Red Sea and afflicted with severe headaches and dizzy spells; things seemed to deteriorate further here in the Mediterranean. An excruciating European heat wave was killing off many older people in Greece, and articles in the Maltese newspapers said there were so many corpses that they had to be stored in freezers, waiting until burial plots could be found and clergymen had time to perform the ceremonies.

Stricken by fever, deliriums and chills, day after day I lay prone on
Akka's
bunk, unable to muster enough energy to move, while Tony and Olivier fought off the hordes of flies that crash-landed everywhere. It took a monumental effort to get up and walk the quarter of a mile down the quay to the showers and into town. The heat was claustrophobic and all-encompassing, even affecting Tony, who was the picture of health. Regardless, he got up every morning, hopped on the bicycle Olivier had bought in Egypt and rode into town to buy fresh bread, ham and milk for our breakfast. Finally, worried that this might be something serious, I went to see a doctor who prescribed rest, some strong vitamin supplements and big doses of iron. I was malnourished, he said, anemic and suffering from sheer exhaustion.

In the meanwhile, Tony and Olivier began to work on
Varuna
with a vengeance. They changed the broken forestay for a new one from the States. Tony constructed a box to hold my batteries. Olivier changed the engine oils and fuel filters and installed a new fuse box with breakers for my solar panel, fluorescent light and an Autohelm electronic steering device. I pitched in as soon as I felt better and, in the evenings when the sun's rays moved farther west to bake other lands in intolerable heat, we walked down the long jetty toward a shady bar, crossing a bridge where, underneath in the water, men bathed their stately steeds. The Maltese were avid horse and sulky racers and it wasn't a rare sight to see the teams trotting along the streets.

Tony had turned into quite a conversationalist with plenty of E = MC
²
theories on how we could do away with nuclear weapons, and how the little parcels left of Earth's unexploited lands could be
saved. He was entering college after the summer vacation to study physics and had a great affection for throwing figures and theories around, seemingly from the top of his head. Olivier and I spent a lot of time arguing the improbable numbers and evaluations with him over many a beer and orange juice.

A local sailmaker made a new spray hood for
Varuna's
cockpit; the old one had withered and practically disintegrated like powder before my eyes. The weakened spray hood had become more dangerous than none at all because I often relied on it for support while leaning against or on top of fabric that could no longer handle the pressure. With the help of a sewing machine belonging to some friends on another boat, I took the fabric from the old mainsail and measured and sewed up some weather cloths to tie in between the cockpit lifelines for protection from future cold spray and waves. The Monitor was greased and little parts that had shown fatigue were changed for new ones.

After two years of no machines, I had become an expert in the clothes-washing department. I would fill up buckets with soapy water and leave the articles to soak for a day or so, until all the dirt and grease broke loose on its own. Then, all I had to do was stomp my feet in the bucket, using plenty of fresh water for rinsing, and then hang the clothes out on lines rigged in between the shrouds and forestay for that purpose. In the hot sun, it would take a couple of hours for things to dry until enough line space was cleared for the next load.

Depending on the port, the amenities available made the job easier or more difficult. In some places, I could leave the buckets next to the faucet on shore until it was time to stomp and rinse, and in others, jerry cans had to be lugged out to the boat. Here in Malta, with a hose attached on shore leading directly into
Akka's
cockpit, the procedure was facilitated tenfold. The only better thing would have been a washing machine. I cleaned every last article of Olivier's, Tony's and my clothing, sheets, towels, blankets and fabrics and scrubbed
Varuna
down to perfection. Pretty soon, she was in as tiptop shape as possible.