Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

A few days later, he sent another message. Way more urgent, saying that we’d better batten down and hang on tight. A tropical wave had become a depression, which had spawned a storm that he warned was bearing down on us. The swells coming from behind had grown dramatically but nothing we or even the wind-vane self-steering contraption couldn’t handle. Heavy black clouds scudded low overhead, and distant lightning flashed. Personally, I was thrilled at the prospect of rain and a break from the pizza-oven like temperatures.

Anna wasn’t buying my enthusiasm. “You’re sure we shouldn’t be battening down, like Tom says, instead of washing our hair?”

I’d seen the curtains of rain catching up from behind. We were in for a downpour. I was going to make the most of the free fresh water by having shampoo and conditioner ready in the cockpit.

By mid-morning, the increasing wind had exceeded the safe operations envelope for full sail. We bent our backs to the wind and, swearing and complaining, we managed to get the mainsail down. The large forward sail jammed in the furling gear. With the bow bucking and plunging, there was no hope of unjamming it. It had mostly retracted, leaving about thirty percent flying. Even so, we skimmed along at over ten knots.

Anna, frantically securing things below, retrieved Tom’s latest missive from the satellite modem and shouted. “Tom — says — her-ray-cane!”

The wind vane, its ropes and pulleys creaking and popping under the stress, was somehow still functioning. “This is a hurricane?” I shouted back, looking at the indicators and seeing the water speed an impossible fifteen knots. The wind was gusting over fifty. Shy of a hurricane, but way too much for the wind vane steering.

I disengaged the wind vane. The force almost dislocated my shoulder. “This is really not good!” What I saw around me was startling; wave tops were torn off by the wind and sent flying in streamers of foam and spray. Anna was below. I could hear her calling out but couldn’t leave the wheel. It had become frighteningly heavy. Trapped at the helm, it took all my strength to engage in a crucial tug of war with the wheel. I was learning to anticipate the waves that were accelerating the stern, plunging the bow, and trying to push Shadow broadside to the wind.

I managed a glance at the instruments. “It’s official!” I shouted, though I knew Anna couldn’t hear me. The wind speed indicator had crept up over sixty-five knots. “It’s a hurricane!” The rain had become a downpour so heavy that it was actually flattening the waves. Combined with the wind, it gave the sea a shag carpet look. Anna crawled from the companionway keeping herself tethered to some part of the boat. She knew it was serious. The shampoo and conditioner were long gone. Seeing her dragging the jacket from my offshore gear made me suddenly aware of the needles of pain the rain and spray were inflicting on my back.

With the zippers cracking like whips, Anna got my heavy Gortex jacket over my naked back and shoulders. In the pockets, she’d stuffed a water bottle and a pile of now pulverized cookies. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I screamed over the wind.

“Just drink.” Anna held the bottle for me then shoved salty cookie crumbs in my mouth. When I was somewhat sated, she wedged herself onto the cockpit bench to my side and, wearing a diving mask to gaze into the pressure-washer like blast from behind, told me about the approach of waves. We developed a rhythm that got us through the storm alive.

Hours later, exhausted but relieved, I became aware, through the pain in my back and shoulders, that the storm had finally passed and we were still upright. By sunset we were back in good-ole gale force winds with monstrous seas. I was ready to collapse and Anna didn’t look much better. With the last of what strength we had left, we rigged a giant underwater parachute called a sea anchor. The idea was to stop the boat, point its nose into the blast, giving us a chance to rest and regroup. It didn’t work. The sea anchor tore to shreds and Shadow swung side-on to the blow.

I steered. My knees were shaking so badly I thought I would crumble. Anna wordlessly pulled the remains of the sea-anchor aboard then took the helm. I collapsed beside her in the cockpit and didn’t wake until morning.

The storm sucked thermal energy from the sea, converting it to huge wind and waves which never really subsided. Bit-by-bit the waves got smaller, choppier, the wind eased, became gusty, but never dropped below gale force. The sailing was hard and tensions were running high for the three weeks or so it took to reach Panama.

Threading our way through the West Indies, almost close enough to touch them, and being denied landing added insult to injury. I still didn’t know if Panama would allow us entry, neither did Tom. The official answer was “no,” but I was counting on a connection Tom promised to pull with the Panama Canal Authority. All I got from his email messages was that the wheels were in motion and that Gavin, already in Panama City, was laying the groundwork prior to our arrival in Colon.

Less than a hundred miles from the Caribbean coast of Panama, I received an encouraging email from Gavin. He was supposedly somewhere in Panama, writing to tell us to meet him at the Colon Yacht Club.

“That means they’ll let us in?” Anna asked.

“Damned if I know.” I sighed. “Guess we pays our money and we takes our chances.”

The big surprise at the Colon Yacht Club was seeing Sandy walking down the dock toward us a few paces behind Gavin. “Yeah, she came with me. Thought it’d be a good chance to explore some jungle.” He stopped himself, probably thinking he ought to greet us, then, “Good to see you finally, Jess.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard this is a good place for jungle, and it’s good to see you too, Gavin.” I threw him a line from the stern. “You have absolutely no idea! Let’s get this thing tied up first and then we’ll exchange pleasantries and chit-chat.”

Anna tossed a line to Sandy from the bow who watched Gavin for some idea of what to do with it.

The Colon Yacht Club was a collection of low white buildings with green trim the color of its perfectly manicured lawn. Apart from the floating scrap yard of decrepit boats, the place exuded the atmosphere of a 19th-century tropical plantation turned exclusive ex-pat country club. The tall chain-link perimeter fence made it clear we weren’t exactly in Colon.

Anna and I took our first steps off the boat in over a month. Saturated tropical rain clouds hung low over gently swaying palm trees. Beyond them to the east, a palisade of shipping containers provided a faded Cubist backdrop. A gravel drive, presumably a boat launch, emerged from the highly polluted water. It curved toward a small collection of concrete-block huts with heavily armed guards. Beyond the club’s gates, the road was obscured by thick tropical scrub. It was a quiet enclave carved from a city with the reputation for being one of the world’s most dangerous.

“Customs? Immigration?” I asked, strolling up the dock beside Gavin. Sandy and Anna walked ahead of us, awkwardly trying for small talk. Anna didn’t know it was Sandy she had been communicating with at first. I hoped she wouldn’t find out right then.

“That’s not my department. Pedro, Tom’s friend, is looking after it.” Gavin stopped and blocked my way with a sunburned forearm. “Sandy, grab us a table outside, okay?” He called up the dock. Then, to me, “Tom’s right, you know. You can’t go near the USA with her . God knows, I’ve tried. The foreign affairs lawyer said something about staying more than two hundred and fifty miles out.”