Ten Degrees of Reckoning (2 page)

Typically, on an ocean passage the talk was more of which sails needed attention, the country of origin of any sighted vessels, what kind of fish might be caught on the trolling line, and just where they were on their global positioning system (GPS), their charts, and in this infinite maritime world. For the sake of safety, they had strict routines on passages, and everyone obeyed the rules willingly. Ben, at nine years of age, was now experienced enough to help with keeping short watches for ships and weather changes during the day, and he ran a radio net for other oceangoing children. Annie, who had been four when they departed from San Diego, was an old hand at sea, never complaining and quite fearless. She was always amenable to putting on her life jacket and keeping things neat. Her parents were particularly impressed by how she had begun to develop an innate sense of the world without yet understanding an atlas.

As the day ended, the family members began their regular night routines. Annie, with Mike’s help, was reading one of her birthday books, and Ben was singing his favorite song, Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi.” The kids climbed down the stairwell into the cabin below, took off their life jackets and hung them on a hook by the aft berth. Judy followed the children down, and Ben helped her check that all the toys were put away, the dishes cleared up, and the cupboards and lockers closed with bungee cords. The term “shipshape” is bandied about in many homes, where it refers to keeping things orderly and tidy. On a boat or ship it is crucial to have every item stowed and made secure. Even when a boat isn’t pitching and rolling, articles can easily become dislodged and turn into flying missiles.

The children stood by Judy as she turned on the single sideband to get a report from New Zealand. Jon and Maureen Cullen operated a professional net from their home in Kerikeri, in the Bay of Islands, offering weather and sea conditions to incoming vessels and monitoring their progress. Judy turned the dial to get Kerikeri Radio.

“Any boats nearing northern New Zealand wishing to check in, please come in now. Over,”
came a voice from the radio in the dim light of the cabin.

“
Melinda Lee, Melinda Lee.
Over,”
Judy responded.  

“Go ahead,
Melinda Lee.
Over.”
 

“Our expected time of arrival in Opua is the twenty-fourth at approximately eight
a.m.
Do you have any information about the worsening conditions we’ re experiencing? Over.”
 

“Thank you,
Melinda Lee.
There are two fronts expected. Winds thirty to thirty-five knots, possibly with gusts up to forty knots from the northeast, seas in the range of four to five meters. Light rain. Any troubles? Over.”
 

“Everything fine, Kerikeri Radio. We are sailing comfortably and anticipate no problems over these next twelve hours before we get in. Over.”

“We will alert the port captain of your impending arrival. Please call him on your VHF radio when you are in range of Opua. Over.”

“Thank you, Kerikeri Radio.
Melinda Lee
signing off.”

The kids were really excited. Their mommy had been talking to someone in New Zealand! They wanted to be awakened as soon as land was in sight, no matter how early in the morning. Judy promised, and they both scrambled to get ready for bed. Judy went over to Annie’s berth in a small stateroom on the starboard side of the boat, just behind the chart table where they did their navigation and radio communication. Annie, in a T-shirt over clean cotton leggings, was ready to snuggle into her bunk.

She told Judy, “I’m so excited about a puppy. You better give me some extra smooches so I can fall asleep!”

After covering her daughter’s face with kisses, Judy went forward to help Ben get firmly situated in his berth. His bunk was located forward of the galley and navigation table, in the main salon, the area that was used as a living room when they were at anchor. Just three weeks earlier, while they were in the Kingdom of Tonga, Ben had wanted to celebrate Halloween. Since no costumes were available, he had to be resourceful. He found several rolls of toilet paper and wrapped himself up as the Mummy. He was very successful in the winding, but as soon as he tried to move, it all fell apart. His plan to scare his Tongan buddies fell apart, as well. Now, this last night before reaching New Zealand, he wanted to try again with his cotton blanket, and since they were out of the Tropics, it was finally cold enough. Ben convinced Judy to roll him in the cozy blanket until he got the effect he desired.

“Good night, Mommy, I love you,” he said, encased in his tube of blanket.

“Good night, Mummy, I love you, too,” Judy replied.

After the good-night kisses, Judy hooked up the lee cloths that were stretched from the berths to the ceiling to keep the children securely in place. They were made of sturdy canvas and ropes that kept the sleepers from falling out of their bunks, no matter what the motion. The canvas portion was open on top and at either end, so that air could circulate easily. Judy leaned over the canvas for one last good-night check, and then went up on deck to join her husband for a bit of quiet time together. Although he didn’t quite match her sense of spontaneity, Mike was as loving and playful as she, and he brought her a steadiness by being so even-tempered and calm.

Mike was preparing for the first watch of the night. Judy gave him the weather report from Kerikeri Radio, and they decided to douse the mainsail and raise the staysail. In their experience, in windy conditions, this sail provided plenty of power and kept the
Melinda Lee
balanced and performing well. Mike and Judy walked from bow to stern for the evening’s routine inspection of equipment and lights. They completed the check-list and then sat leaning against each other on the cockpit seat cushion. There was an almost effortless affection between them, but even with all the parental responsibilities and small space, they made sure to have time alone. This wasn’t an option on a passage, but at anchor families arranged sleepovers for their children. As kids waved goodbye from a neighbor’s dinghy for a night away, everyone in the anchorage knew what the parents would be doing. On an ocean passage, they had to manage with some brief caresses while passing each other and a few kisses when they traded night watch duties.

Judy got up reluctantly, knowing she needed rest so she could take over for Mike at one a.m. “I love you, Michael,” she said.

“I love you, too, Judith,” he replied. They always called each other by their formal names, although almost everyone else called them Mike and Judy.

Judy went below to carry out her own evening routine. She studied the chart and GPS, updated the log, and checked on Ben and Annie. Despite the increasing sea swells, the boat was sailing easily and the children were sleeping comfortably. This was the first passage in three years that Ben had not thrown up, and Judy was looking forward to marking his new equilibrium with a party when they arrived. She liked to mark all of her family’s accomplishments with parties. She climbed into the off-watch bunk on the port side, across from Annie’s little stateroom, hoping to get three hours of sleep. For Mike, it was down to the serious business of his night watch.

Like the
Melinda Lee,
most offshore cruising boats use a windvane or an autopilot system to steer automatically. Sailors often call them by names such as Helmer or Tillie or Otto because this piece of equipment is better than having another person aboard. The self-steering windvanes are quiet, with no electrical demands. In the most basic system, once the boat is sailing the correct course, the vane is adjusted to keep the sails at a constant angle relative to the wind. If the vane detects a course error or changes in the apparent wind, it transmits these changes to a submerged blade. The blade turns and generates a mechanical force through the lines running from the rudder to the wheel or tiller. The helm responds, and the boat is kept on course.

In most self-steering models, the more the wind blows, except in extreme conditions, the better the vanes respond. They don’t have to be fed or cajoled into taking yet another watch; they keep the boats on course day after day, night after night. The crew is freed up to go forward on deck to reduce or change the sails, to scan the horizon for ships, or to monitor overtaking vessels at the stern. In general, windvanes increase the safety factor enormously, not just by doing a better job of staying the course but also by minimizing fatigue so that sailors are alert to any potential dangers.

Mike adjusted the windvane, checked that the staysail was properly trimmed, and confirmed that the navigation lights were on for the night. International regulations required the running lights of sailboats of
Melinda Lee
’s length to be visible from a distance of at least two miles.

Mike scanned the horizon for ships and then tucked himself into the corner of the cockpit. He had written a long letter to his mother from Tonga, telling her his dream had been more than fulfilled; sailing had presented his family with incredible lessons in camaraderie, cooperation, and responsibility. He added that their enjoyment at being together, twenty-four hours a day, had exceeded all his hopes and expectations. He was sure that this experience would bode well for future success as a family wherever they might land.

The Sleavins had left Nuku’alofa in the Kingdom of Tonga seven days earlier to begin this thousand-mile passage. They had waited for a perfect weather window and were rewarded with steady winds and calm seas in the initial stages of the passage. Now, as they were approaching New Zealand, the conditions were definitely deteriorating. On this last night the wind had increased and was gusting up to 35 knots, with seas at least eight feet high. Despite intermittent light rain squalls, the visibility remained reasonable, and Mike felt confident that he would be able to sight any maritime hazards.

Every ten minutes Mike stood up and walked around the cockpit, making a 360-degree scan. From time to time he went forward on the deck, in front of the sail, to make sure nothing was crossing their path. An estimated two thousand containers are lost somewhere at sea every year, and earlier in the day, over the radio, the Sleavins had heard a report that a ship in the vicinity had lost some of its load. Mike and Judy were aware that each container had the dimensions of another sailboat but without the lights and equipment of a vessel or the eyes and ears of a crew. Propelled by the oceans’ currents, these containers move about the ocean, independent of their mother ship, difficult to foretell, and dangerous.

Just before one a.m. on November 24, Mike slid open the hatch from the cockpit, leaned over, and told Judy it was time for her watch. She quickly dressed for the cold weather. On top of her underwear and T-shirt she put on a fleece jacket, fleece pants, foul-weather overalls, and a jacket. Over her foul-weather jacket she put on her personal flotation device and safety harness. She also donned a wool hat and gloves, and sea boots. At the navigation station, Judy used the chart and GPS to verify that they were on the correct course, and computed the time when they would turn on the
Melinda Lee
’s radar. Then she went above to the cockpit to exchange information and places with Mike. He reported that he had seen nothing during his entire watch. Judy told Mike that if she didn’t sight any ships, and if weather conditions remained the same, she would wake him to begin monitoring the radar around 3:15 a.m., at which time they would be twenty miles from land.

Mike was always concerned about everyone’s well-being, and now that they had left the Tropics he was especially pleased when Judy showed off all her layers of clothing. He gave his wife a hug and told her he was ready for some shut-eye. Before Mike went down the companionway to occupy the berth Judy had just left, he said, as he had done at every watch change for three years, “Anything wrong, call me. If you see anything, call me. If you want to discuss anything, call me.”

Alone on deck in the dark, Judy was glad for all the warm clothing. With the steady increase in the wind it was getting colder, and the seas had increased, up to twelve feet high. She was thankful the boat was sailing well and not getting battered by the large swells. Every ten or fifteen minutes Judy stood up and walked around to get an unobstructed view of the horizon and to search for the navigation lights of other vessels.

At two a.m., Judy picked up the binoculars and scanned the horizon deliberately and slowly. She wanted to be the first one to see land, or at least the lighthouse off Cape Brett, the entrance to the Bay of Islands. Also, it was time to go below to verify their position, and she wanted to assure herself that it was safe to leave the cockpit for a few minutes.

Judy stood and moved about the cockpit and completed a 360-degree turn. She carefully looked in all directions, but there was nothing to see. She put the binoculars down and walked around on deck, tethered to the safety lines. It was more difficult to see when there was cloud cover, but it wasn’t impossible to distinguish between sky and sea with the varying shades of gray. Much of the time spent on watches was boring, but Mike and Judy agreed early on not to be distracted by reading books. They wanted to be able to respond quickly to any situation, and it helped to have night vision.

They had encountered many vessels over the last three years and knew that a ship’s navigation lights could be seen from quite a distance, often as far as ten miles away. As a further precaution, the
Melinda Lee
had a radar detector mounted on the framework of the stern of the boat, with its monitor situated on the chart table inside. The detector would pick up the microwave pulses of a ship’s radar within twelve to fifteen miles of them and sound an alarm loud enough to alert everyone on the boat. Tonight they seemed to be alone. There was not a shriek from the alarm or a squawk from either of the two VHF radios. Not a light anywhere in sight. Judy felt confident that, with no apparent danger, it was safe to go below for a few minutes. She went down into the cabin to the navigation area, unhooked her harness and life jacket, and charted their position from the GPS information. She calculated that they had twenty-eight miles to go; in just over an hour she would wake Mike. Within twenty miles of every landfall, one of them would monitor the radar at the navigation table below while the other remained above in the cockpit or on deck.