Maiden Voyage (41 page)

•   •   •

I had already been feeling anxious in Port Sudan, but now the shrinking timetable was making the situation serious. To arrive in New York before November 1987, I was going to cross the Atlantic during a high-risk period of storms, and the risk was increasing with
every passing day on land. Thanks to our slow crawl up the unaccommodating Red Sea, there was no longer time to allow for snags from here on in, and even the usually calm Olivier was beginning to feel the urgency and worry for me. After allowing ourselves a few days in Hurghada, we fueled up, set out through the reef-speckled entrance to the Strait of Glubal and recommenced tacking up the 200 miles of the narrow bottlenecked Gulf of Suez.

The first day whipped us back with its relentless winds, and before nightfall we had only covered 10 miles to a minimal anchorage behind a reef. The next day we inched another 10 miles up the wind tunnel and crept into the horseshoe shaped sandbanks of Tawila Island, still in the Strait, and took shelter there for a day until the wind died down.

It was at Tawila that we walked along the virgin beaches for the last time, following shell tracks on the sparkling sand. Never again, I thought sadly, would I dinghy up to
Varuna
after a morning of idyllic beauty to see her pivoting slowly at anchor on waters mirroring her elegant shape. From here on in, the Mediterranean ports would have to be pit stops, and besides, the marine life in that sea was reputedly choking from all the pollution. Once we had passed through the Suez Canal, an entire way of life would be overshadowed by the commercialism of Europe. Beyond the canal were the continent of Europe, my final passages and home.

The next morning dawned calm, and we motored out of the anchorage until my engine overheated and a fuel line burst, sending up clouds of black smoke. Olivier came back and towed
Varuna
5 miles to the next anchorage, where we tried to effect some temporary repairs.

The last two nights, after alternating between motoring and sailing, I pulled ahead of
Akka
in a zombified state, passing the eerie sight of oil rigs propped up like boxes on stilts all over the gulf; the flames from the huge burn-off flares lit up the night in a rosy glow. The lights flickered, reflecting against
Varuna's
white deck, while I fought to stay awake, keeping an eye on
Akka's
solitary light behind. Overhead, an unseen Scheherazade pulled black chiffons of cloud across the heavens.

The last day, while I was down below making a cup of coffee,
Varuna
, after tacking normally almost every hour for the previous day and a half, tacked on her own. That had never happened before and I hurried up on deck to see what was the matter. The Monitor was still attached to the tiller and I didn't see anything that could
have gone wrong, so, tacking the boat, I reset the self-steering, whereupon we tacked again. Leaning over the aft pulpit on my stomach to scrutinize the self-steering more closely, I saw the problem and it couldn't have been worse.

The most critical part of the mechanical system, the steering paddle, had broken off just above the emergency lanyard intended to keep it attached in the event of such a mishap. Cursing, I threw on the engine and motored back on a reciprocal course, peering at the surface of the water. Losing that piece meant a major setback and an endless wait in Egypt for a spare to arrive, as I didn't have another. The Monitor was my invaluable crew, tirelessly relieving me of the chore of steering the boat, and the thought of going to sea without it was unimaginable. What a relief it was to see the errant part floating on the water several hundred feet back! I scooped it up and my seafaring future was set back in focus.

Akka
sailed up alongside and I told Olivier what had happened. Unable to improvise a repair, I told him that I would have to hand-steer the rest of the way. “Listen, Tania,” he called back across the water, “we're almost at the last available anchorage. I think I can make it, but do you want to stop for the night?” We hadn't slept for thirty hours; however, if we continued onward, we would arrive around three the next morning.

“No, let's just get this over with.”

Resisting the temptation of some rest and a decent meal, we carried on, fueled by the resolution to leave the Red Sea behind as soon as humanly possible. And so, at 3:00
A.M
. on June 14,
Varuna's
engine puttered around the immense tankers awaiting transit in Port Suez and up to the small-boat anchorage. After dropping the hook and making sure everything was secure, I rowed over to
Akka
and melted onto a bunk. Olivier threw a blanket over me and within moments we both drifted into the sleep of the dead. The despised Red Sea was now a memory.

•   •   •

Two oversized boxes from my father were waiting in Suez, stuffed with the new mainsail, a masthead light, an Autohelm electronic steering device, five-minute casseroles, potato and Chinese rice dishes, bags of candies and chocolate, books, letters and a flashlight. What a relief it was to see that my letter from the Sudan had arrived on time! The morning after arriving, I joyfully dug through the bounty of necessities and treats. We hired the agent required in Suez to do the paperwork, and Abdul Manam Asukar was so affable
that he straightened out all our canal formalities in record time, ran around getting my Monitor's paddle welded back into place and even insisted on taking our laundry to get cleaned. His wife, Asma, and his daughter, Didi, invited us home for a dinner of Cornish hens and
hummus
, making us feel like welcome family guests, rather than just some more transitting sailors paying for a service.

Several days later, Olivier and I had rehabilitated
Varuna's
fuel lines and changed
Akka's
filters. We replenished my depleted tool supply and the boats were ready to make the transit. Dean and Faye had arrived belatedly because of the
Broad's
ancient engine, which was due for retirement, and together we all went out for a last dinner. They had to get their engine fixed before leaving for Port Said, which probably would take a while, so it seemed we were destined to pass in the night. Anyway, Faye said, she was desperate to see a hairdresser and they wanted to visit Cairo. So, promising to write, we wished each other luck, and after yet another sad goodbye, returned to the boats. Drifting off to sleep that night, I thought I wanted to be just like them at sixty, carefree on the ocean, living as best they could one day at a time.

•   •   •

Unlike the Panama Canal, the 120 miles of the Suez were divided up into two days of motoring on a channel dug through sand dunes that separated Asia from Africa. As we started the next morning, I could see the burnt-out spoils of the Six-Day War between the Israelis and Egyptians littering the banks of the canal. The scars reminded me of a story Asma had recounted about when the enemy had threatened Port Suez. The canal itself was only several hundred feet wide, and from Asma's overlooking windows she had seen the Israelis approach. “I had to hold Didi in my arms,” she had said, “to show them I had a baby, so that they wouldn't shoot at our house.”

It was hard to imagine that Port Suez was a city fairly recently besieged by a war in which most of the inhabitants had been forced to flee. Port Suez had seemed to be simply a modernized version of Port Sudan. The people had more Arabic ancestry than the Sudanese but didn't like to be called Arabs. “We are descendents of the Pharaohs,” some had insisted. Unlike the colorful clothing of the Sudanese, the habitual veils of most of the Egyptian women were black. Most of the men had turned to the Westernized fashions of pants and shirts. We carried on, remorseful that all we were to know of Egypt had come from the perimeters of some of the busiest shipping capitals of the world, Port Said to the north and Port Suez at the southernmost reaches of the canal.

In Port Said, we met a couple on a Swiss boat who were heading in the opposite direction, down the Red Sea and eventually to the Philippines. Morris, the captain, was a bit apprehensive of what lay ahead and, like me two years earlier, not very familiar with the ocean. Olivier and I spent a few days with him and his girlfriend, Ursula, giving them charts, books and advice. Ursula asked for instructions on how to do the calculations for celestial navigation and I felt proud to be able to help. In return, Morris, who was a chef, cooked up gastronomic feasts with dried morel mushrooms and once even a beef Wellington. Thinner than ever, I was glad for the high-calorie repast we shared with our new friends.

Ursula and Morris fell in love with Mimine during our days together and, after mulling over the Mediterranean and Atlantic crossings that lay ahead, and worrying about the cramped quarters on
Varuna
, I reluctantly let them adopt her. They asked for a list of her food preferences, and made a bed for her. I handed over her weekly contraceptive pills with some vitamins and cat treats, knowing she had found a loving new home. On Friday, July 3, we bid Morris, Ursula and Mimine farewell, leaving Port Said for the island country of Malta in the Mediterranean, 1,000 miles to the northwest.

I didn't think we would be flouting superstition too much to leave on this particular Friday—the first Friday departure since that fateful one in Mooréa—because it was also Olivier's birthday. “His anniversary with life can't possibly bring us bad luck,” I thought.

Under a blinding sun, we tacked out into strong headwinds and
Varuna
heeled over 20 degrees, the conditions I had anticipated and had hoped would ease up as the day wore on. By nightfall, the wind had dropped off a bit, but was still on the nose, and I was exhausted from tacking and weary from the knowledge that progress had once again been miserable after a day of pounding. We were still smack in the middle of the worldwide shipping lanes bound for the canal.

Traveling up the rush-hour highway of the Red Sea had boosted my confidence as far as shipping was concerned. Naturally, I could remember the occasional heart-fluttering near misses. But
Varuna
had always prevailed, so I figured the radar reflector tied in between her shrouds was alive and well, along with the bright light on the backstay that illuminated the deck and sails. Mistakenly, I thought
Varuna
was visible to everyone.

In the evening, after I had been keeping a constant lookout in the cockpit, my teeth began chattering uncontrollably. A night mist had fallen, enveloping
Varuna
in a damp chill, and I stood at the spray hood, scanning the blurry horizon. There was a lull between ships
and those that I could see were not heading my way, so I went below to boil some water for a cup of coffee before making a rendezvous with
Akka
. It was a quarter of nine and Olivier and I had planned to come togoether at the top of the hour.

In the radiating glow of the kerosene light, I poured the alcohol into the dish, and its fire alone heated up the water enough for my coffee. Heaping a couple of spoonfuls of powdered milk and sugar into my favorite blue mug and pouring in the water, I stretched and took a sip. My legs and bottom hurt from sitting scrunched up in the cockpit all day, ready to grab the tiller in the event that a ship needed avoiding, and I daydreamed for a moment about Malta and the exotic ring of the name. . . .

A blaring horn and the rumbling churn of a ship's propellors blasted me out of the reverie and on deck in a flash. Pupils dilating to adjust in the darkness, I looked up and there it was, every sailor's worst nightmare. Twenty feet away, the towering hulk of an immense cargo carrier was barreling down on us.

“Oh my God!” I gasped, frozen in shock. “This is it.” The moment had finally arrived. My first reaction was to rush and turn on the engine. But, I didn't have enough time! Should I grab my passport and Tarzoon and jump overboard? Or should I undo the self-steering and luff into the wind? No, undoing the bungie cord would waste at least five precious seconds. In any case, none of these brilliant ideas registered clearly enough as my mind raced from alternative to alternative, all smooshed together in the pandemonium of the moment as I watched the monster close the miserable distance, still honking.

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Tarzoon,” I screamed at my buddy as the bow of the ship passed 10 feet in front of us and
Varuna
bounced around in the side wash of thousands of tons worth of displacement. As the midship wall passed, still without contact, and next the looming stern, I chanced the thought that we were saved. My jaw was hanging to my stomach as something snagged the forestay, followed by a resonant twang.

Varuna's
mast jerked back and the jib flapped free in the wind. Somebody shined a light down on us and incoherently hollered, as the Arabic letters on the ship's stern diminished with the growing distance, leaving us wallowing and crippled in the darkness.

Running up forward, to my dismay I found that the steel forestay had been sliced and the jib was hanging from its head, saved from a complete loss by the attached halyard and sheets. We had been spared the catastrophe of a dismasting thanks only to another halyard
that I had tied down to the anchor roller in the Red Sea for added security in case the forestay broke. With the advantage of hindsight, I realized that even if I hadn't been so stunned, there would have been barely enough time to disengage the tiller, head into the wind and avoid misfortune. Tarzoon and I were lucky to be alive.

I quickly tore down the main and jib to avoid any more strain on the mast and began to figure out a jury rig. Turning on the engine, I saw
Akka's
kerosene lamp in the distance and motored down to Olivier, who was standing out in the cockpit.

“Olivier, Olivier,” I screamed. “I just got hit by a ship.” Like a little girl, I was thrilled to have been spared the full potential of the calamity and was now on an adrenaline rush of fright and excitement.