Four Men and a Boat

An Excerpt from Ten New Year’s Eves

My hands were stiff from gripping the wheel, and cold, even with sailing gloves. I pulled the bill of my cap farther down on my forehead as the wind whipped my ponytail. Off by a bit. The large rock on the horizon was to the right of the bow, and I wanted it to be on the nose. Captain Mike leaned against the rails and said, “Relax. Just hold her steady.”

It was me and four men on a sailboat. Me and four men, sharing 40 feet of space for a week. Funny to think about the romantic notions I had before getting out of the taxi at the Tortola marina. The company’s booking agent had told me “It will be you and four single men.” It didn’t take long for me to realize she should have said four “individual” men.

Mike, our instructor, was most interested in finding conditions that would make us go as fast as possible.  He was a racer at heart, with racing, teaching, and boat delivery experience in Chicago, Florida, and South Africa.  We all depended on his local knowledge of the British Virgin Islands, and we followed his strict rules for maintaining the boat. 

Bill, a Los Angeles business owner, had booked his trip only two weeks earlier, deciding at the last minute to brush up on his self-taught sailing skills.  He had a story for every occasion, including the time he challenged Olympic Alpine skier Jean-Claude Killy to a race down a triple diamond slope in Colorado – and beat him. Of course, we had no way of fact checking any of his stories.

Then there was Sebastian, a middle-school music teacher who had lived in San Juan, Puerto Rico, for 20 years, but earlier in his life played trumpet professionally in New York.  Sebastian used to own a boat, and hoped to again after retiring from teaching.  Sebastian was a nice guy, but tended to disappear into his cabin. His greatest priority was cracking open a can of beer at the end of the day, before the anchor was barely set. 

Finally, there was my buddy Sushee.  Sushee was kind, thoughtful, and my partner in cooking and photography.  He and I prepared every meal, except for Mike’s breakfast of traditional English “bubble and squeak,” and the fabulous buffet dinner Bill bought for everyone. (At the Bitter End restaurant Bill said, “This is my contribution to the cooking.”)  Sushee had moved to Toronto from India when he was 13. Now in his 40s, he’d started a charter aviation business and partnered in a successful Internet startup.  

It took three days for me to quit looking for approval from the guys. I gathered some confidence while we beat our way up the Francis Drake Channel, fighting 25 knot Christmas winds to Virgin Gorda. The boys seemed to be having as much trouble as I was with some of the sailing concepts. This was a big relief to me, especially since Bill and Sushee were pilots, both with engineering backgrounds, and Bill and Sebastian had previous sailing experience. I, on the other hand, owned a pink toolkit and was more comfortable with words than engines. The only training I had was one brief learn-to-sail weekend in Florida.

I felt a twinge of insecurity when Bill jerked a thumb at me and said, “If she weren’t here we wouldn’t have to go below to use the head – we would just take a piss off the side of the boat.” I told him, “Don’t let me cramp your style.”

Maybe this was an adventure with just a touch of desperation to prove myself. I had been married for 25 years, but was now freshly divorced and trying to figure out who I was by myself. It was starting to dawn on me that wishing for things to be different wouldn’t make it so. I could hide in my house and pour all of my energy into my job, or I could make a change. If I wanted to experience something, I had to take steps to make it happen.

Learning to sail kept my mind totally occupied, with no room for ruminating on life, love, or divorce. Day and night, sailing terms cycled through my head. Tidal charts. Compass variation. Center of lateral resistance. The guys volunteered me for all kinds of tasks to give me more experience, including doing engine checks, piloting the dinghy, and being “captain of the day” during the most arduous passage.  I gave assignments: “You can be helmsman, you be the navigator.” I called orders to everyone, tacking into 20-knot winds all day long.  Mike was very good about equal time for each member of the crew, and all of them gave me credit at one point or another for not asking for special treatment. 

While I was at the helm, Sebastian would talk to me about his days playing trumpet in New York City while I stared ahead to be sure I kept on course. Bill told stories about doing business in Hong Kong and joked about my unwavering focus, trying to distract me. Sushee would move around, snapping photos, and I’d notice whenever he’d leave his water bottle unsecured on deck, contrary to the captain’s rules.

I’d expected hard work, but I wasn’t ready for how exhausted I’d be when I hit my bunk at the end of each day. My cabin in the 43-foot Beneteau was tiny, with about two feet of floor space and the rest taken up by bunk beds. I kept my clothes on the top bunk and ducked into the bottom to sleep, just a few feet between me and the wooden shelf of the bunk above me.

In the mornings we gathered around the small table in the salon below deck, reviewing mechanical systems, chart reading, navigation, points of sail. In the afternoon we secured the cabin, closed the hatches and sailed, muscles straining to pull the lines working the sheets, fighting to keep our balance on the slippery deck covered with sea spray. At night we dropped anchor and took turns chopping onions and stir-frying saffron rice while Mike threw questions at us. “What’s the draw on this vessel?” “What direction is the wind coming from on a broad reach?” “What is a Type II PFD?” My neck and shoulders were constantly tense.

So here I was, toward the end of our training, sailing past the tip of Peter Island. I sneaked a peek up at the wind vane at the top of the mast. The winds were brisk, but they had been that way all week. The BVIs were famous for great sailing conditions, and Christmas week drew a lot of traffic.  Every afternoon we pushed for more speed, letting out the sails, trying to pick up just a few more knots. This particular afternoon was gray, the skies heavy with clouds.

Standing behind the wheel, I braced myself to keep my balance. We were sailing fast in heavy winds, and heeling to the starboard side. My right leg was tired from holding myself in a crooked stance. I could feel the arches of my feet aching from standing in one spot for two hours. I eased one foot out of my leather Docksiders and wiggled my toes.  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask someone to relieve me, but we were almost there, so I hung on.  Mike started prepping everyone, asking us to think about what would happen when we rounded the point and entered the passage on the southern side of the island. 

“Which way is the wind coming from?  Do you see the shadows farther out on the water signaling more wind?  Look at the size of the white caps.”

He could gauge the wind speed by the amount of white showing on the waves, and he was explaining it looked to be about 20 knots. We were heading for a cove, passing by tall cliffs to the port side.  The jib and mainsail were reefed, rolled up to take in less wind and help maintain control.

I was listening to Mike and looking ahead at the white caps when we started to heel more, mast and sails leaning, leaning, and the deck at a sharp tilt. No matter how hard I pushed the wheel, I couldn’t budge her, couldn’t push her up. I heard yelling, and Sushee slid across the deck, falling against me, squashing me into the corner of the stern. Mike shouted over and over, “Stay in the boat, stay in the boat.”

It was disorienting, hanging on, looking above me to see the side railing overhead. I looked beside me and could see a sail dipping into the water and then dipping again. I was being crushed by Sushee, his elbows digging into me as his full weight pressed against my side. Bill was clinging to the lifelines. Sebastian’s feet were braced against the console and he was standing upright with the deck to his back. Mike was wedged into the companionway. I can’t remember if someone told me to let go of the wheel, or if I did it instinctively, but I heard the words of our training in my head – if you get into trouble, let go and she’ll right herself. She’ll right herself. She’s made to float.

And she did.

It felt like forever, but it may not have been even five seconds on our side before we were upright. As soon as we were up, Mike pulled in the sails.

Shaken, numb, not yet able to absorb what had happened, I sat while Mike took over at the helm and brought us about. We’d flipped around 180 degrees and were pointing in the opposite direction.

“What did I do?” I asked. “What should I have done?”

He had his eyes on the waves ahead but glanced down at me. “I don’t think there was anything you could have done, honestly. That gust swept down over the cliff and came across the water.”

He ran his hand through his hair, and then put both hands back on the wheel. “I saw it coming, but there wasn’t any time to react. It hit us broadside. Probably around 45 knots.”

Later, when we looked at the chart plotter, we could see the straight line of our course interrupted by a perfect triangle in the middle where we’d been turned around. The guys called it “the Hillen Triangle.” A wind gust hitting us at more than 50 miles per hour was a lot, but still, I thought Mike was being kind when he said it wasn’t my fault.

As we continued underway, I sat on the side while Mike steered us, nothing to do but watch the waves and feel the wind rushing past me. Sushee, Bill, and Sebastian jumped to adjust sails and keep a lookout while I rested. I couldn’t stop running the scenario over in my mind. What if I’d turned the wheel into the wind? Away from the wind? Let it go sooner?

And then, with Mike at the helm, it happened again.

Not more than ten minutes after we’d turned around, a second gust of wind hit us, and again Mike was yelling “stay in the boat, stay in the boat.” We were once again gripping the rails and any other handhold we could find. Once again we waited, the ship righted, and we were back on track.

I still hadn’t recovered from the first event, and here was another. I felt like crying, not because I was afraid, but just to release some of the pent-up emotions. I didn’t cry. My dad had taught us early on to be tough. If you fall down, you get up and shake it off, boy or girl. Don’t whine. Don’t quit. Work hard. I had to take it all in stride. There was no way I was going show how I was feeling in front of those guys. 

I didn’t realize until my divorce how much that lesson was a part of me. I smiled and dealt with whatever came along, making it work. I would find a positive side of any situation, no matter what. Until I couldn’t. Everything had been fine, until it wasn’t. It’s why my husband was so blindsided when I said I was done. We thought we’d been sailing along just fine, but suddenly I couldn’t find a way to right myself anymore and I felt like the ship was going down. The harder I tried to hold on to the wheel, the more off course I became.

After righting the ship a second time, Mike got us back on course and sailed the short distance around Rogers Point to a cove near White Bay. The clouds parted, the sun came out and a brilliant rainbow arched over the island at the edge of the cliffs. Finally, at anchor and safe, we put the galley back in place where doors had popped open, spilling pots and pans across the floor of the salon. Sushee had forgotten to close the hatch in his cabin and now his boxer briefs, pants and t-shirts were spread on the railing and lines to dry.

I learned a new sailing term that day – knock down.  When I went below to check my cabin, my stuff was ship-shape, held in place by the cubbies and railings designed to keep it all secure. My cabin was on the starboard side, the side laying into the water, and fortunately I’d secured my hatch before sailing. I closed the door, sat on my bunk, and then I cried. Relief. Justification. There was no way I could have kept the ship under control. I couldn’t do it, Mike couldn’t do it. I hadn’t done anything wrong. It hadn’t been a mistake. It hadn’t been my fault. I picked up my cell phone and turned on the power, looking for messages I knew I couldn’t receive anyway. I was alone and far away, anchored in the cove of an island, with the words of a sailing instructor running on a loop in my mind. Let go. She’ll right herself. She’s made to float.

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