Gerrie Nelson - Lab Notes

“This is Woodwind calling the Vera Cruz Race Committee. Come in please.”

An irritatingly well-rested voice responded with, “ Woodwind , this is Vera Cruz. What is your position and heading? Over.”

Vincent reported his latitude, longitude and heading. “Do you copy? Over.”

“That’s affirmative, Woodwind. That heavy weather you’re having out there should be moving on shore by this evening.”

“Hallelujah!” Vincent shouted. “That’ll be a blessing. This is Woodwind signing off.” And none too soon . His seasickness was worsening. The bulkheads and furnishings lurched and swayed before his eyes. He had to get out of the cabin, and he had to eat something—immediately.

Vincent grabbed a pre-made pimento-cheese sandwich and a ginger ale and headed topside. Just as he stepped into the cockpit, the radar alarm sounded and then went silent. Muttering an oath, he glanced down below at the radar screen. Sure enough, the blip indicated a boat about six miles away. “Damn.”

Vincent clipped his chest harness into the lifeline and surveyed his surroundings. He was surprised to see the rain had subsided and the clouds were lifting somewhat, allowing better visibility. At that moment, he spotted something moving in the distance, off his starboard bow. He grabbed for the binoculars and brought them up to his eyes. “There you are!”

Through the glasses, Vincent could see a huge white power cruiser with what appeared to be a large radar dome; or was the vessel a trawler? Or maybe it was a sport fisher. It was hard to see as it moved behind the thinning clouds. Perhaps the crew was waiting out the weather so they could do some fishing.

“They have to be some avid fishermen,” he muttered aloud. “They’re as masochistic as sailors.” Whatever they were up to, he had to shake them soon so he could get some decent sleep.

The fresh air helped quell Vincent’s nausea. He braced himself in the seat and savored his sandwich and soda. Life was improving. There was a promise of better weather, his stomach was full and based on the positions reported by the rest of the fleet, he was at the head of the pack.

Vincent reached up to the coach roof and switched on a camcorder that ESPN technicians had installed inside a watertight Lucite box. He had come forward readily when the cable network had asked for volunteers to record daily progress during the race. The camera was calibrated to get a panoramic view of the boat and the surrounding waters. The camcorder began its three-hundred-sixty-degree turn.

Vincent swiped water droplets from the camera housing and faced the cockpit microphone. “It’s ten a.m. on Tuesday, June 3rd. Woodwind is located at approximately two hundred miles southeast of Matamoros, Mexico.” He went on to describe the weather, the set of the sails and other particulars of sailboat racing that he thought might be of interest to the TV audience who would be viewing the tape in about two months.

The camera turned slowly to the right. After one complete revolution, it reversed direction and pivoted back the other way. He completed his report and switched off the camcorder.

Vincent felt somewhat relaxed now that he had seen the other boat and knew it wasn’t the leviathan he had conjured in his mind. A profound sleepiness overcame him. After a quick look around, he settled onto the starboard cockpit seat.

He slept heavily for twenty minutes—until the radar alarm rang out. Disoriented, he jumped up, almost choking himself with his safety-harness tether. He scanned with the binoculars without any success, then peered down into the cabin at the radar scope. The boat—he assumed it was the same one—was back. This time it was six miles behind him. “I’ve had it! That’s it!” Vincent shouted. He reached for the autopilot controls and turned Woodwind eastward.

As Woodwind’s bow crossed through the wind, she came up on her lines, and Vincent could hear the clutter rearranging itself below in the main salon. He released the jib sheet and eased out the main. Already he experienced a sense of relief. Why had the decision to change course taken him so long?

Vincent could imagine the bewilderment of the race officials the next morning when he called in his report: “The bad news is: I’m off course, heading away from Vera Cruz. The good news is: I’m making record time.”

He chuckled to himself, then climbed below and double-checked that the collision alarm was set to sound if he came within six miles of anything . He returned to the cockpit, clipped his harness into the safety line and settled onto the port seat for what he hoped would be a deliciously long nap.

Vincent didn’t know what startled him, but he found himself wide awake and on his feet—but not for long. An errant wave jerked the boat and threw him off balance, knocking him to the cockpit floor. He pulled himself up onto a seat and looked at his watch. “That’s impossible,” he shouted. He had been asleep for four hours.

Now he remembered what woke him. He had heard an unusual sound… Maybe it was a dream. No, he was sure it had been real. But this time it wasn’t the radar alarm… It could have been something shifting down below. Or maybe a wave smacked up under the bow. Or possibly a dolphin had jumped, then slapped the water—occasionally dolphins would race beside the boat, then arch up in the air and look at him with one curious eye, then plunge back into the deep… No, that wasn’t the noise he heard either.

He looked around, but the binoculars showed him there was nothing within his two-mile radius of visibility. He moved forward and peered down into the cabin. The empty radar screen offered additional proof that he was alone out there. But rational or not, Vincent couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that he was being watched.

At that moment, the VHF radio in his pocket erupted in static. Vincent jumped. “Aha! That’s the noise,” he shouted gleefully. The puzzle was solved.

Excited at the prospect of communicating with someone nearby, he dug the VHF out of his pocket and pushed the button. “This is the sailing vessel, Woodwind . Do you read me? Over.” No response. He called twice more, but the radio remained silent in his hand.

Vincent was about to give up and pocket the radio when five bursts of static came back in a regular rhythm, then six more bursts, then four. To him, it sounded like someone on the other end was playing games with their VHF microphone button—and with him. Vincent shivered; the hair on the back of his neck went on alert.

He wondered if he was getting paranoid. He had read about solo sailors on long passages having hallucinations and delusions. But he never thought it could happen to him .

On the other hand, suppose somebody was stalking him? And what if he didn’t make it back home? “Damn! Damn! Damn!” he shouted to the wind. He should have told Diane about the notes. What if someone else found them before she did? After a moment’s deliberation, Vincent reached over and switched on the camcorder.

He spoke into the cockpit microphone as the camera turned slowly toward him. “Diane, Honey, this is for you.” He began singing Funny Valentine in a tremulous voice, altering the lyrics to suit his needs.

Just then, the VHF radio began broadcasting loud music. Vincent stopped singing and tried to remember where he had stowed the flare gun. He unclipped his harness tether from the lifeline and climbed below to look for it— just as a precaution .

Vincent was bent over, rooting around in the depths of the quarter berth when the radar alarm screeched out. He straightened up with a start, hit his head on a projecting bulkhead and went reeling out into the main salon. The proximity alarm continued blaring.