Читать книгу Not Child's Play - Dave Muller - Страница 8

Arwen rumbles along, ploughing through the steep swell that has developed after the storm. The sepia-coloured world fades to grey and Arwen sails back onto a more familiar, less dramatic, stage. Out to sea, mountains of cumulus rim the horizon, sparking with lightning in the deepening dusk. The elements have stood tall and loud and we feel duly humbled. Sandy’s actions during the storm – suppressing the yankee sail and untying the sheets from the sail – remind me of the event that triggered this dream of sailing to a tropical island.

I was 13 years old, sitting cross-legged with my friends on the floor of the Seaman’s Institute in Port Elizabeth. We watched as leathery fingers formed a loop in a bristly three-strand hessian rope. The year was 1964.

‘Look!’ the man holding the rope said. ‘The snake comes up out of the pond, slithers behind the tree, and goes back down into the pond.’ The man – sailing around the world on his yacht, Sandefjord – jerked his hands apart. The strands forming the knot snapped together with a squeak.

‘Boys, that knot’s called a bowline and it’s the one knot you must know. Anyone know why?’

Hands shot up and shrill voices shouted, ‘Cos it won’t come loose!’

‘Let’s see.’ He tossed the free end to us while he grasped the loop with both hands and leaned back. We threw our combined weight behind the rope in a tug of war. ‘Whoa, whoa! You’re right. It won’t come loose, but many knots won’t come loose. A granny knot won’t come loose. But there’s another far more important reason. Look.’ He took the knot, the strands now fused and barely visible in what looked like a hairy nut, and bent it between his thumbs. The strands parted, and the knot fell apart. ‘Remember, boys, in an emergency it’s just as important to be able to untie a knot as it is to tie one. Otherwise you’ll have to cut loose and so destroy many useful ropes.’

Two years later that same man returned, this time with a documentary of Sandefjord’s successful cruise around the world. I watched in wonder as my parochial world widened to reveal unimagined places, and I dreamed the wild unrestrained dreams of a boy.

I was enthralled by scenes of Caribbean islands with white, palm-fringed beaches; the Panama Canal with its giant locks lifting huge ships tugged into place by odd-looking trains; scenes of snot-sneezing iguanas and blue-footed boobies in the Galapagos. The green, volcanic-ripped Marquesas Islands; Tahiti with its topless dancing women with gyrating grass-skirted bottoms that hinted at pleasures still unknown to me. And last of all, the shimmering, translucent underwater world of Australia’s Great Barrier Reef. I was captivated. My world may have been geographically and economically constrained, but my dreams were not … One day I would own a yacht and sail to see those places for myself.

In the days following, while walking down Sydenham Road to school, I would look out across the width of Algoa Bay. On clear days, especially when the westerly gales blew, the dark arc of the bay trailed from the harbour off to distant Woody Cape in the east. I knew little of the art of sailing, but imagined myself rounding that distant cape, trusting the seamless oceanic link that led to all those mystical places. At that age, there was not much I could do to turn my dream to reality other than forage for lead sinkers lost by fishermen whenever I went snorkelling. I loved swimming and the sea so, with some determination, I gradually collected sinkers and melted them into an ever-growing block of lead that I was determined would one day form part of the keel of my yacht. And so my dreams coalesced into a reality manifested in a lump of lead that, two decades later, did indeed become part of Arwen’s keel.

Friday walks to school brought a particular joy. Passenger ships of the Castle Line docked in Port Elizabeth’s harbour en route to Durban from Southampton. In those days, before international airlines operated, this was the main link for mail and passengers between England and South Africa. My mom had arrived from England on one of those Castle Line ships in 1948, stepping ashore in Cape Town as a 22-year-old in search of a new life after serving in the Royal Navy during the Second World War.

Intuitively, I knew that for my mom these ships were an important physical link with her homeland; something confirmed every few years when one of my grandparents arrived for an extended visit. They brought with them chocolates and trinkets from that distant, mystical and, by all accounts, refined English-speaking land. As a result, I lived in curious suspension between my own homeland and this distant, soft, ephemeral country called England. Politically, although I knew this only in the vaguest way, this became the ‘us’ of the English-speaking United Party and the ‘them’ of the Afrikaans-speaking National Party. I did not know it, but I was a real-life soutie.

My first exposure to the latent tensions between the English and the Afrikaners was in 1960. The National Party was in power, but Queen Elizabeth was still head of state of the Union of South Africa – an intolerable situation for the republican-inclined Nationalists, who called a referendum amongst the white voters to test opinion over whether the Union of South Africa should become the Republic of South Africa. I was in Grade 5. My teacher, Mr Kruger, was clearly in favour of a republic and had no qualms about adding his political doctrine to the syllabus. The morning after the referendum, he announced, ‘Put up your hands all those whose parents voted for the Queen.’ About a quarter of the class, myself included, stuck up our hands. ‘Reg, mense,’ he said, pointing to those with raised hands, ‘come to the front.’ Alarmed, we shuffled forward. With obvious pleasure, Mr Kruger picked up his cane and gave each of us three red welts on our little rooinek-loving arses, just because our parents supported the Queen. It was a cruel, humiliating action that reinforced my prejudice and caused me to despise everything Afrikaans; an unwise decision that cast me, even at that young age, as an outsider in my own country.

These tensions were of course taking place in the wider, largely hidden context of racial separation. Even as I was receiving my introduction to the white man’s politics, the country had begun its devolution into racial chaos, the threat from the rooi gevaar ever present, and in 1969 I was conscripted into the army. My prejudices hardened and I knew I had to escape this growing madness. Stephen, a friend from school, served with me in the army and shared my views regarding the future of our country.

Before I could complete my degree in architecture I had to work in an office for one year. Stephen was already working fulltime, and we pooled our savings to buy a Fireball racing dinghy named Shortwave. The boyhood dream of sailing to strange and exotic places was one step closer, greatly promoted by the increasing probability of needing to escape the developing political implosion and a love of sailing.

There is little that beats the exhilaration of sailing a Fireball in a brisk breeze. Pull in the sails and the yacht comes alive beneath you as it surges forward, riding up onto a plane, skimming and trembling across the water on a cushion of foam in an exhilarating headlong rush. You stretch and cantilever your body as far from the hull as you can, toes on the gunwale, counter-balancing the force of the wind in the sails, the power of the wind palpable as the spray stings and envelopes you. All seems in tenuous balance, on the very edge of control.

This is how our lives felt, almost out of control, yet delicately balanced; rushing headlong into the future driven by winds we did not understand. Behind the smiles and laughter, deep within the viscera of our emotions we felt trapped by an unsustainable political system and the manufactured obligation to fight a meaningless war. Discontent brewed in our minds.

A book titled The Greening of America, by Charles Reich, made a profound impact upon me and I shared Reich’s insights with Stephen. Reich concludes his book with these words:

We have been dulled and blinded to the injustice and ugliness of slums, but the new consciousness sees them as just that – injustice and ugliness – as if they had been there to see all along. We have all been persuaded that giant organizations are necessary, but it sees that they are absurd, as if the absurdity had always been obvious and apparent. We have all been induced to give up our dreams of adventure and romance in favor of the escalator of success, but it says that the escalator is a sham and the dream is real.

The dream is real. These were powerful words that spoke to us and confirmed our desire, indeed confirmed the existential imperative to escape. Building a yacht with our own hands seemed the only practical way this could be achieved.

So, with my first pay cheque deposited in the bank, I took out a loan, Stephen and I pooled our money, and work on Arwen began. It took 10 agonising years of working nearly every weekend to complete her. The dream for Stephen and me had been to escape, but the reality soon became entrapment as Arwen took all our money and time. Yet somehow the dream held. Despite changing homes and workplaces, despite on-and-off romances, despite my marriage to Sandy and Tammy’s and Seth’s births, despite never having enough time or money and despite my moving to East London in search of better-paid work – forcing me to have to travel 600 kilometres each weekend to work on Arwen – in 1985 she was eventually launched in the Port Elizabeth harbour.

Sandy startles me from my reverie. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

While she makes her way below, I untie the torn yankee sail from the side deck where it had been secured during the storm and bundle it below to await repair. I pull the smaller yankee sail from the forward bunk where it has lain unused for five years, and attach it to the forestay. By nine o’clock the wind has dropped sufficiently for me to reset the full mainsail and hoist the inner staysail. During the night the westerly wind slowly dies away and backs to the east, forcing us to once again tack into the wind.

Soon after nightfall, the Ponta da Barra lighthouse at the entrance to the harbour of Inhambane, the only functioning lighthouse between Maputo and Beira, pops above the horizon. Throughout the night it guides us with a comforting triple flash every 10 seconds. Far out to sea, the storm feeds off the warm waters of the Mozambique Current, still glowing and sparking against the brightening sky. Sometime during the night we cross the Tropic of Capricorn and officially enter the tropics.

Daylight reveals steep, choppy waves from every quarter, bullying Arwen off her course and requiring constant correction of the rudder. As we crest the swells, a headland is visible off to port as a low, pale blue smudge on the horizon. Early mornings are never the best of times aboard a yacht and this morning is particularly trying. Dew coats every surface, dripping from the rigging and landing on the deck with loud plops. The seat of my oilskins slurps in the damp as I twist to lift the aft cabin hatch. ‘Welcome to the Tropics!’ I announce in my best pina-colada-tinged voice. Sandy groans and buries her head as cool air pours into the snug cabin.

A few hours later, all has changed. The sun blazes from a blue sky so deep and translucent you would think you were looking into eternity. The unpleasant swell of the earlier morning has smoothed, and the surface sparkles. We know without doubt we’ve finally arrived in the tropics.

Back home in South Africa, Tammy’s friends have returned to school after the Easter holidays so, as part of the pact we’ve made to allow her to miss school, she sits in the shade of the mainsail, grumbling her way through the work her teacher has prepared in advance.

By mid-morning, the distant Ponta da Barra Falsa, the last prominent headland before we reach Cabo Sao Sebastiao at the southern entrance to Bazaruto Bay, lies directly to port. The wind remains fickle and eventually dies away, leaving us becalmed in a slow, sloppy swell. I drop the sails and start up our trusty Perkins diesel engine. Arwen motors over the undulating swells at a sedate five knots.

An hour later, Ponta da Barra Falsa is still abeam. We’ve barely moved. I sit in the cockpit looking for guidance in the East Africa Admiralty Sailing Directions. The entry for Ponta da Barra Falsa records a south-flowing current of one to two knots, and sometimes as much as four knots offshore from the Cape. Clearly we have chosen to arrive on a four-knot day and will make little progress until we move closer to the shore where, the Sailing Directions tantalisingly mention, there is sometimes a weak north-flowing counter-current.

I enjoy navigating and find satisfaction in using my handheld compass to take a bearing off whatever identifiable object happens to be within sight. To port, the defunct lighthouse on Ponta da Barra Falsa represents one such landmark, beyond our bow a conspicuous line of orange cliffs another.

Tomorrow, our friend Mike is flying to Magaruque Island, one of the archipelagos, to join us. Our timing will be perfect. High tide is around midday, allowing us to navigate the channel leading to the anchorage on a rising tide with the sun almost overhead, thus reducing reflection and making the deeper blue water of the channel visible. Once we reach the islands tonight, I’ll apply the brakes and wait till daylight before approaching land. There is no need to rush.

Shortly after, I’m distracted by a pinging sound from outside the hull: a school of common dolphins is surfing Arwen’s bow wave. I join Tammy and Seth at the pulpit rail where they peer into the blue depths as dolphins weave between the shimmering curtains of light from the sun’s rays.

Since we have time to spare, I turn off the Perkins, allowing Arwen to glide to a stop on a slow, heaving sky-blue mirror. Deprived of their fun, the dolphins head off, but the calm water is irresistible and in no time four piles of clothing lie on the deck as, shrieking with delight, we take turns bomb-dropping into the warm water.

After an hour of splashing about, we head north again, diesel thumping. I want to fix our exact position and the chart indicates the ideal marker for doing this. About six kilometres offshore from the orange escarpment, which the Sailing Directions identify as the Shivala Cliffs, lies a coral reef called Baxio Zambia. I aim Arwen’s bow towards the cliffs, intending to get a definite fix by passing over the reef, which is deep enough to pose no risk of our running aground. As we near the cliffs the depth sounder shows a steady depth of between 30 and 25 metres beneath our keel. Suddenly it drops to eight and the sea lightens to a pale blue. We are over the reef. I make a cross on our chart above the reef and write the time – 14:00 hrs. Back on deck I turn Arwen onto a new course that will take us away from the coast until, around about 02:00, offshore and slightly north of the islands, we’ll heave-to and await daybreak.

With the wind-powered self-steering damaged beyond repair by the storm, Sandy and I have been taking turns steering Arwen. While Sandy takes the helm, I install our backup electric-powered autopilot. We seldom use it, preferring to conserve electricity and use wind power. The backup has an inbuilt compass to keep Arwen on course, and takes an hour to fit. After all the parts are in place and the electricity connected, Sandy sits back, takes her hands off the wheel and the electric motor comes alive. It emits reassuring whirling sounds and jiggles the wheel back and forth as Arwen wanders either side of our course.

Back on deck, another landmark is coming into view. The Sailing Directions identify it as the 135-metre hill named Maxecane, the last landmark of any significance before we reach the islands. With the Shivala Cliffs slowly disappearing astern, I take bearings on this hill and calculate that we still have a current of one knot flowing against us. Throughout the afternoon I continue to plot our dead-reckoning position every hour, adjusting the distance travelled to allow for this current. Slowly the line of crosses marked on the chart move north into deeper water, corresponding with the depths flashing on our depth sounder.

Freed from watch-keeping duty, Sandy prepares supper. Tomorrow, while safely anchored off Magaruque Island, we’re going to celebrate Seth’s fifth birthday and are looking forward to a slap-up meal, complete with cake, but tonight it’s mashed potatoes and sausages. The aroma of frying meat wafts from the main hatch and causes the children to chirp like hungry fledglings.

Sailing brings our family together in an especially intimate way seldom possible on land, where so many activities vie for attention. Tammy and Seth are robust, healthy, inquisitive kids. We try to raise them to question almost everything and they are taking full advantage of this freedom. It’s hard work and although they are able to entertain themselves, inevitably they challenge all attempts at discipline. Neither is particularly good about personal hygiene or cleaning up but, hey, what child is? This is our fourth, albeit longest and most adventurous ‘voyage’ on Arwen, so they are at home at sea. Our plan is to circumnavigate the world one day.

Sandy appears with steaming plates, but there’s no opportunity to sit back, cold beer in hand, savouring the moment and watching the sun disappear in a red blaze over Africa.

‘Everybody in the cockpit,’ I command. ‘Tammy, pack away that book. Seth, move up and give Tammy some room.’

‘Aww, Dad, I was here first.’

‘Come on. Move up!’

‘Move up, Seth,’ Tammy shouts.

‘Sit down, everyone.’ The captain’s word, at least in theory, is law. ‘Tammy, it’s your turn to give thanks.’

Tammy, in the breathless little voice she uses when speaking to God, says, ‘Thank you, God, for the dolphins … er … for keeping us safe … er … and thank you for this food. Amen.’ Mouths are filled and peace reigns, but only for a few minutes.

‘Mom! Seth’s taken my knife.’

‘It’s mine, and give me back my sausie.’

The sun drops, the sea turns slate grey and the comforting assurance of visibility fades with the day. Nights, with no reference other than from the stars, compass and depth sounder, always seem menacing to me. During the long hours of darkness one is truly adrift on a featureless sea. Satellite navigation is still in its infancy and beyond our budget. After dark, without lighthouses or other coastal lights as reference, there is no way of pinpointing one’s position other than to project a line forward on the chart, trusting we are actually sailing along that line.

After supper, the cockpit cleared and the kids asleep, the self-steering happily buzzing away, Sandy and I sit together chatting about our plans for the next day, glad we’ve almost reached our destination and will soon be able to relax in the safety of a sheltered anchorage. Inevitably we reminisce, chuckling how providence in the form of a broken hair-dryer brought us together.

Because I worked in an office nearby, Sandy had assumed I was the caretaker of the block of flats in Grahamstown where we both lived. I’d been designing at my drawing board when this harridan with wild wet hair burst in and demanded I immediately repair her electricity. Intrigued by her presumptuousness, I calmly went and turned on the circuit breaker in her flat, pointing out that the loose wire sticking out of her hairdryer probably had something to do with the problem. I was smitten and although Sandy, the all-action, scuba-diving marine biologist considered me an arty-farty dweeb, I persevered and we soon discovered we had much in common.

With a kiss Sandy slips below to knead more dough for breakfast before getting some sleep. We usually sleep in the aft cabin, but to be available should I need any help during the night, she stretches out on the main salon bunk and is soon asleep. Up on deck drops of condensation dislodged by Arwen’s gentle rocking plink around me. We have a rule on board that, irrespective of conditions, safety harnesses must be worn when on deck at night. The risk of one of us falling overboard while the other sleeps is simply too horrible to contemplate. I clip myself to one of the spare cleats and spend some time tidying up the piles of damp rope lying about. This done, I clear a space on the port bench where I can lie sheltered from the wind while still keeping an eye on the compass. It slowly swings five degrees either side of our course as the autopilot whirs, guiding Arwen along the pencil line I’ve faithfully plotted on the chart.

Content that all’s well, I lie back and stare into the luminous sky. Directly overhead the masthead light wheels through the curved tail of Scorpio, which scurries like a real-life scorpion amongst the brilliant dust forming the arm of the Milky Way. Ahead, above Arwen’s bow, Arcturus, the brightest star visible from the northern hemisphere, shines in solitary splendour. Back in the cockpit the only light is from the soft glow of the compass binnacle and the red gleam of the depth sounder. The liquid-crystal screen has been flashing blankly for the past two hours, indicating that the instrument is no longer picking up the seabed and we are sailing away from the coast into deep water.

At two in the morning my dead reckoning places our position slightly north of the Bazaruto Archipelago and well out to sea. I turn Arwen through 90 degrees, leaving the sails set as they are. Arwen is stalled, and will slowly drift sideways downwind at a speed of about half a knot. I climb below and, keeping my safety harness on, settle down on the bunk opposite Sandy, intending to climb up on deck every half-hour to check that there are no approaching ships. After 26 years I’ve finally achieved my dream of sailing to a tropical island. Feeling content, I relax – and that is a mistake.