Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

“Looks like crazy people are aboard.” Anna had said.

“They just might be at that.”

North of Sicily, the wind subsided and came from the west, the direction we needed to go. The harshest reality of sailing is that there are only two ways to take a sailboat upwind, tacking back and forth covering at least twice the distance, or running the motor. We were too far from Gibraltar to risk burning the fuel, so we zigzagged back and forth between volcanoes and Sicily’s north coast for what seemed like forever. Miraculously, the steam-punk tangle of ropes, pulleys, flaps and rudders called the wind vane managed to keep us on course.

Endlessly tacking into barely a hint of wind, less than half way across the Mediterranean, was demoralizing. “Self imposed solitary confinement in a prison on the edge of a grave.” I called it over and over.

Anna did not appreciate my waxing philosophic. “You want to make this worse than it is with all your moaning and bellyaching? You would prefer gales? At least we are safe out here, nobody’s going to get us.” She was right. We were alive, together and safely away from land and its inhabitants.

Tom’s upbeat emails assured me, though, that wind would come and to be ready for it. Around us, yachts, ferries and cruise ships — there for a good time and allowed to land — added to the sense of exile and isolation.

What little wind we got during the day died at night. With the setting sun we were left bobbing like a cork, drifting back over precious miles. It took several stressful weeks to finally leave Sicily behind. While those weeks of high pressure and oppressive heat gnawed at our souls, I usually slept through the midday furnace while Anna studied English and babysat the boat. She was helped along by watching old TV shows and movies from a collection of DVDs Gavin had included as part of the courier package he’d sent my new credit card in. A bushel sized care package stuffed with DVDs, computer games, books, and things he thought we might need. My own conscious hours had increasingly been consumed with jury rigging makeshift repairs, but I was glad Anna had some distraction and virtual escape from the tedium.

An explosive series of thunderstorms heralded a change of weather near the south end of Sardinia. The pace of everything picked up. Tom’s promised wind had arrived. At first it was a welcome break from the stultifying morass of inactivity, but it quickly crashed through limits we didn’t know we had, reminding us, once again, just how fast things can go very wrong.

Strong wind from behind felt great. Shadow surged along, but wallowed in waves overtaking us. “The wind can drag us through the water faster with the spinnaker.”

“Are you crazy? Are we not going fast enough? Besides, we’ve never used it before.” Anna wasn’t convinced it was a good idea.

But I was, and I wanted more speed. I suggested we might outrun the waves, add a few more knots of speed and make the ride more comfortable. With the spinnaker rigged and flying, the knot meter shot into the double digits. Dolphins came to play in our bow wave and Anna, clinging to the rail at the bow, shrieked with joy at their antics. The boat quivered with speed and sliced through the water like a knife. I engaged the wind vane self steering contraption and tentatively left the helm to admire the dolphins with Anna.

A crack followed by an ominous thunk, a microsecond later, brought the fun and games to an ignominious end. The rudder shaft on the self steering system had shattered like a clay pot. The yacht veered broadside to the wind and waves, pitched on its side and drowned the spinnaker. Anna was thrown into the water amidst tangled lines, brightly colored sailcloth, and curious dolphins goading us into taking up the chase once again. We weren’t exactly sinking, but Shadow wasn’t righting itself either. The part of the spinnaker left above water was filling with wind and dragging us sideways by the mast.

“Jess! The boat, it’s sinking!” Anna thrashed in the water then spotted the dolphins. “Oh my god! Do they bite?”

“Don’t get tangled in the lines! Don’t get under the boat! No they don’t bite. Forget the dolphins.” I didn’t know if they bite. All I could think of was Anna being slammed against the hull by the waves. I found the spinnaker lines, tripped the cleats and got the yacht upright. Yet again, the floorboards were afloat. The inundation was extensive and cleanup took hours in a rough sea. Gibraltar and repairs felt impossibly distant, and the wind vane contraption, which had been a saving grace, was way beyond jury rigging.

“We’re screwed!” I bellowed at the thing. And we were. “It means we’re on the wheel every single second from here on in.” I responded to Anna’s puzzled look.

Tom responded to my expletive peppered description of the situation by emailing:

Harvey probably pulled the wind vane off a wreck in shallow water, polished it up and sold it to you. Electrolysis from being in the water eats the steel, makes it brittle. Can’t be fixed. Can’t weld it. It ain’t worth shit. I’ll make some calls and see if we can get you another one in Gibraltar. Friend at the marina says he’ll look after you. You’re making miles now, at least.

The Mediterranean weather gods observed the mangled wind vane from on high and commanded the sea to issue forth another blustery gale. It was only fitting it should be right on our nose. Shadow heeled hard over and slammed its way through steep waves. One of us was on deck at all times, taking the brunt of nature full on. The other, down below, was no better off. It was a disaster area of wet clothes, dirty dishes, tools and garbage crashing around. We’d taken to eating right from tins, chewing through our ample but uninspiring supply of actual food. Somehow, provisioning had included a ludicrous supply of hyper-salty olives, pickles, and condiments. Cooking was out of the question, and doing anything on board was a slippery uphill fight. As a result, maintenance took a hit and things started breaking down. One system after another, jury rigged or not, failed in a slow motion cascade. Sailing had become a matter of hang on, shut up and endure.

The wind died approaching the Spanish Riviera, but the waves didn’t notice and kept right on bashing away. We had no choice but to run the motor. Then, without wind, the fog settled in. The need to navigate in fog led to the discovery that the radar had failed. While Anna motored blind in the busy waterway, I tried, in vain, to resurrect the failed on board GPS chart plotter navigation system which had also died en route. Finally, I rooted through my reeking wardrobe for the hand-held backpacking GPS Gavin had included in the care package. “Just in case you want to know where you’re going!” He’d punctuated his now moldy note with a maniacal looking happy face. “Good ole Gavin saves the day.” I muttered.

Then one morning, if you can call 2:00 am morning , a desperate need for coffee proved that the water desalination unit had also shuffled off its mortal coil. With a lot of swearing, a metal bar, a hammer, and continuous dashes down from the helm while Shadow meandered aimlessly, I managed to put about sixty liters of fresh water in one tank. Then the unit failed completely and dramatically. Doing the math, over and over at the helm, convinced me we had enough water to make Gibraltar. Anna, on the other hand, didn’t share my optimism and, withdrawing, spent her waking hours at the helm staring beyond the magnetic compass into the fog.

To top it all off, two hours before sunrise within a couple days of Gibraltar, we lost all electrical power. The engine was running, but the alternator and the batteries were dead. Since the starter was electric, and there would be no way to re-start the engine, it was imperative we kept it running.