Holding onto the thin life line

November 14, 2008
Down the Washington, Oregon, and California coasts to Sausalito, California


Days after the gale I photograph the thin life line separating us from the ocean deep

We leave Neah Bay Tuesday, November 4 in the sunlight and motor out the west entrance of the Strait of Juan de Fuca into the Pacific Ocean. The winds read 29 knots and we climb up the waves and through the white crests and down into the troughs. Boom!! The bow hits the lows. And Boom!! The waves hit the hull. It sounds like a kettle drum without the music. Rigid aluminium! My body is not a good shock absorber. Out past the red buoy off Tatoosh Island and turn south.

I stand watch into the lonely night—starlit, with a sliver of a crescent moon. Stars are my crown and Zulu presses on through the cold, dark November waters of the Pacific. I feel at peace.

Ahead there is an ominous black bank of clouds—a triangular band of darkness waiting for the moon to fall behind its’ curtain. And like a firebrand it pierces the darkness. Into the black void—my night light gone.

On the afternoon of the 5th around 5:00 PM at twilight, a Coast Guard helicopter dives down on us in the gay and circles low over us—they circle again so close to the waters I see the pilot’s orange jacket. I wave one arm. No call on Channel 16. Are they warning us of storms ahead or wondering why we would be going into them? Is this an omen for what awaits? For the next four days we become well acquainted with chaos, howling winds, breaking seas.


Chaos in the forepeak

The weather has no mercy—cold waves break on us, the staysail sheet snaps. The hanks pull out. I am thrown from the galley into the navigation table full force like a ragdoll. The corner hits my diaphragm square on and I lay on the cabin sole screaming, not able to breathe. My ribs are bruised or cracked. The pain is excruciating and I cannot lie down to sleep for many nights thereafter.

Russ’ face becomes the landing pad for a whiplashing line. His glasses fly off without him even knowing. I watch his Jiminy-Cricket-like-figure in blue and red, with lime-green hood take the full brunt of walls of water and where they rush in fury across the decks he emerges like a koala bear, hanging on. Hang on!!! I breathe a sigh of relief when I see him through the spray. HANG ON!!

He screams directions through the wind and cold.

“Pull this sheet, let go of the main, crank in the two reefing lines,” he yells through the wind.

I spin like a top helpless. I let everything go as I get knocked across the cockpit banging my head and scream with pain from my injured ribs. The staysail lines snap again like taught violin strings.

Always Russ pulls through, returning to the cockpit with new sheets rigged, the boat’s sails trimmed, and the rudder centered. On Zulu sails with the auto pilot from west to east and east to west with no southerly headway.

“The computer is dead.” Russ says!! We have no power! That means no auto pilot.”

There is water in the engine oil.

I post a position and send an e-mail saying no more communication for a week, so our friends and family do not worry. They were worried though.


The storm has ceased and my horizon is off base

Russ sleeps

It is dark and I am alone in the cockpit on watch while Russ sleeps. From out of the blue a Coast Guard helicopter and a C130 buzz the boat in circles of three. Zulu is limping along with a main reefed to three and a band-aid staysail. We are like a ghost in the mists of grey off Haceta Bank, Oregon. The roar of the plane and buzz of helicopter surprises me. I rush down below and call the Coast Guard on channel 16.

“We are looking for the sailboat Zulu.” A voice of calm comes across loud and clear. “Please repeat your name and the name of your vessel. Over.”

“This is Marilyn Marais off the yacht Zulu. Over.” I respond.

“We have received a message that you are taking on water and have rigging problems. Please advise.”

“We are not taking on water, have fixed our rigging problems, and have gotten pretty badly beaten by a gale, but are limping along under wind power only.”
I clarify.

“Confirm your destination is San Francisco. Give me your ETA. Over.” The clear, calm voice comes over the air.

“That is correct. San Francisco is our destination. Guestimate ETA is 6 days. But we are at the mercy of the winds or no winds as we have no power.”

“Is there any way you can send a message to your family and friends?”

“Positive. I will do that.”

“That will be great. Do you have a 406 EPIRB on board?"

“Positive. I do.”

“Please do not hesitate to use it if you need to.”

“Will do. This is Zulu out.”

The plane circles again and spins out into the night, the sound of the engine gradually fading to leave us in the silence of the big waters. It was
comforting.

Frank, our friend from Sitka and I believe Patty, Russ’ sister alerted the Coast Guard. Darling Sarah sent an e-mail. There were loved ones worried.

Thursday, November 13 finds us rolly polly in the windless swells of a glass sea. We are a cork being tossed and turned. We both pull at a wretched sleep. It feels like I have shards of glass piercing my side, and every time I move, they slice into me.

I talk to Russ in the middle of the night.

“Can’t we go east to some bay and get gas and repair the fried alternator?" —a result of Russ forgetting a step when changing to another bank of batteries.

There is no place to go.” He says.

The Tylenol PMs give me a short reprieve of broken sleep. At 6:00 AM I see Russ’ shadow in the main salon. It is still dark, with light barely emerging. He goes up on deck to raise the main, the staysail, the headsail.

I get my foul weather gear on and follow suit into the cockpit.

“Let the main sheet go!” he yells.

“Pull in the boom vang!”

“Expletive!!! The bolt that holds the boom on has come out.”

“The boom is going to fall!!!”

Work, struggle, bang, bang, work on it work on it bang, bang, hang on.

There is fog all around us. A light NW breeze. At last the winds are in our favour.
“Look at the rainbow!” Russ points.

Out of the fog an arc of colour streams. A beautiful rainbow lifts our spirits. We HAVE to move forward.


Fuel for zombie man still with headlamp donned

Breakfast. We are shaking from hunger and exhaustion.

Energy revived. Zulu sails SE toward Fort Bragg. 150 miles to San Francisco. We need angels to get us there.

We are sailing at 9 and 10 knots. Zulu is cooking.

“JIBE!” Russ yells.

What more can happen! The bloody compass ring has broken. Night has come. The stars and full moon are out. Russ hand steers! Virtually ALL NIGHT!

“Take some sail down and I will spell you.” I call out groggily.

I hand steer using the moon and some stars as my compass. My adrenalin is up and I sit low in the cockpit with heaving seas all around me, white caps shine in the moonlight, the North wind blows. I pray. Mendocino, Bodega Bay. Dawn. We are on the homeward leg. Drunk from exhaustion. Wet through and cold.


Under the bridge we go into familiar waters

Drakes Bay. Crab pots. Bald golden hills and blue-green seas. The Golden Gate. The Potato Patch. Under the bridge we go into familiar waters, against the rip tide we struggle. Into Richardson Bay and Sausalito. Tie up. Plug the power in. Sleep deep having been baptised by fire, and having held on to the thin life line that separates us from the ocean deep.