I was in the middle of a nice snooze when I became aware of R and FIL talking in the cockpit. I woke up with the sense that something was quite wrong, but my brain hadn't assigned a topic to the wrong-ness. While I frowned and waited for one of my sense to give me a clue to determine what boat system was suspect. A few seconds later, R was running down the companionway ladder and ripping it off, just as the Yanmar went silent.
I rolled over to face him, then shrunk back to outboard edge of the berth, in case he decided to lay tools out in front of me on the berth. I nonchalantly propped my head onto one hand--and nonchalance would be a complete act that R would see through--I dislike engine misbehavior--but I was determined to project a "no worries from over here" attitude. Hah.
The arrival of engine problems always tempts passengers to ask about 300 questions and require they be answered immediately. This aggravates the chief engineer, who would prefer to be left to his greasy engine room in peace to solve the problem of the moment. In good time, he will come out of surgery with his diagnosis, and prognosis. R seemed busy, which was good. Non-busy-ness would have been alarming. But waiting, whether in the waiting room of a hospital, or in the quarterberth next to the engine compartment, can be excruciating, whether it's for 60 seconds or 6 hours. My imagination can do plenty of damage if allowed to run rampant for 60 seconds.
But less than a minute was all it took, to have the engine running again.
"Fuel tank was empty. Had to switch fuel tanks." He said, by way of explanation, to the waiting contingent.
Which was one of those just fine answers that gets followed by the obvious silent question (Um, so just how much fuel DO we have left... since you weren't expecting to run the first tank dry?) I think he felt both of us staring at him, the question in our faces, unwilling to verbalize
R walked forward, dug for a binder in the Nav Station, flipped to the appropriate sheet, then punched buttons on the tank sounder panel. And stood thinking. After a second, he did it again. Something didn't appear to be computing. I decided I didn't care to see his facial expressions and studied my beat-up hands.
Finally, the second diagnosis came through. There was less fuel aboard than he had previously thought, but if we didn't push the engine hard... We could optimize the fuel consumption. We'd leave the sail up too and hope for some wind. As to why there was less fuel aboard... well, he'd had the fuel for awhile, and he'd gotten a little concerned about it being old, so he'd moved some of it to one of the forklifts. And, well, you know, forgotten about doing that. Now that he brought it up, I thought I remembered him mentioning it at the time. It had been months before though, and not something I would have remembered--I wasn't present when he did it, just something he mentioned over the phone.
I chewed my lip for a minute. Just what was he basing this calculation that we had enough on... The fact that we'd been out X hours, turned around Y hours ago, and thus probably had about Z miles left on our return trip... And at an rpm of A, we would make speed B in still water, and thus... So, did he figure in about the tides? River's current?
I started to open my mouth and start a barrage of questions about simplifying math assumptions, then shut it. The silence after R's diagnosis was deafening. All three people on the boat were engineers, we were all plenty capable of thinking the exact same thoughts and the exact same questions. And from the silence, we were asking them, and disliking the answers. R never specifically said we could make it home on what we had. Just that the plan was to optimize the fuel consumption. I decided I didn't want answers to my questions. Frankly, it wouldn't make a difference what the answers were.
With my face carefully hidden, it never occurred to me until recently that the guys may have refrained from further discussion on the offchance I hadn't understood the entirety of the situation. But it was all quite clear. If we ran out of fuel, all we had was our sails. And there was no wind, not even a breath. Certainly not enough to carry the Hans across the Bar, against currents and tides. Depending how close to the bar we were when we ran out of fuel, we might get carried towards the south edge into the shoaling breakers. Or we might get pushed further south, to the other side of the South Jetty, onto the beaches that his parents' house overlooked. We wouldn't be the first boat to be lost on those beaches. But few who had ended up on those shores had ever clawed their way off, and if the clawing off didn't happen immediately, it wouldn't happen period. We technically had tricks to slow the drift, sea drogues, spare anchor line, things of that nature. But I don't think any of us had ever had to employ them before.
For certain, the holiday mood that had struck us earlier, was quite gone. Everyone was quiet for some time, as we kept heading towards home.
********************
We had some hours worth of fuel left, that was for sure. And for now, all that was left to do was wait and see, whether the miles to home clocked down before the ounces of fuel did. I decided the day would be getting long, and that temperatures would drop soon. I wasn't warm with every stitch of clothing I had on. So nothing better to do than stay in the berth, where it was slightly warm, for now, next to the Yanmar.
I stared up at the chandelier above the galley sink. The crystals swung and danced with the motion of the boat, the sun light throwing a constant array of ridiculously ironic sparkles around the cabin. I focused on them, somewhat mesmerized, hoping for hypnosis.
R was up and down the companionway periodically, with his binder, punching buttons on the tank sounding interface unit. I still didn't want to ask. If the news was specifically good in any certain manner, he would announce it out loud. His silence suggested that this game would continue to be too close to call. Piping up to ask would just get a grouchy answer and amp up the stress.
After several of these trips, I decided to let him in on how cool his chandelier was, as a distraction.
"R?"
"What."
"You chandelier is sparkly."
"Mmm-hmm."
"No seriously. The cabin is now the sparkle room."
"Umm. Yes. It is sort of shiny."
"You're not looking."
"I can see it."
"Doesn't do it like this when we're at the dock."
"Mmm-hmm."
He was busy with mental calculations, or mentally thrashing himself. Either way, not to be distracted. I decided the sparkles were for me and me alone to enjoy. For so long as they might last. The sun would be sinking soon. I wondered if there would be a way to capture the show on a camera, but felt that the show might disappear if I tried. So I kept watching. And waiting.
****************************
As the afternoon stretched into early evening. We all grew restless. The beginning of the water interacting with the bar was maybe an hour away still. The guys were getting shifty. I was sick of waiting. It would be getting dark. And cold. I wasn't ecstatic about the thought of crossing the bar in the dark. If it all went to hell, it would go to hell in the cold steep pitch black waves. R had told me that at sea, studies show that sailors who abandon ship often don't make it, while their boat manages without them just fine. His point was to know for sure that the boat is going down before jumping. I wondered how well this rule held when land might be intervening.
It was time to find something to do. While I had been napping all day in an attempt to ignore the situation, the guys had been awake, steering, moving around the boat. They weren't used to being up early like I was either--they would be exhausted from that alone. I decided the thing to do was get something warm in them--it was going to be a long night no matter what. I stood in the companionway and looked up at them.
"Food?"
"YEAH!" Their response reminded me of the puppies at home, when I offer "treats" and my heart hiccuped at the thought of those fuzzy, furry, warm kids.
"OK. Do I have a way to warm anything up on the stove... or... there's MREs..."
"I'll make the stove work for you." R answered.
I dug through our options, many of which had expired in the last year. I found the tins of anchovies and smoked oysters that R had added on a whim. It was a holdover from our days of living on Peryton, the giant Nonsuch. The owner had given us carte-blanche--do as we pleased, take her out when we wished--but make sure that there's always anchovies and oysters on board. We'd thought he meant so he could show up whenever and have his favorite snack. But, it seemed to be a sort of good luck charm for the old girl. Everyone who had sailed on her knew about the anchovies and oysters. Apparently R thought it was an amusing tradition to keep, and had added some to the Hans' stores. Periodically he'd get new tins for Peryton, then eat the old rations; I certainly wouldn't touch them.
Peryton had been across the Atlantic and back, and had lost more than one mast. And she had lived to tell the tale, and hadn't turned a whisker (or whisker pole) at Katrina or Rita when I knew her. Maybe there was something to the icky tins of slimy marine biology. I considered offering them to R, then decided I would only mention them in a joking manner.
"Yeah, of course they're there. They're for emergencies." He managed half a grin at me.
I found a few cans of matching chili, after the offer of SPAM was rebuffed, then started digging for an appropriate pot while R turned on the propane system, then came down to light the stove for me.
As we finished eating, I got the ten minute warning to get the galley clean and stowed for the bar crossing and get back on deck with all of my gear. The restlessness level was way up at this point. I cleaned and stowed the dishes to dry in the sink, then made a last round forward and aft in the cabin, trying to memorize where every piece of gear we had was stowed. Our aft anchor line from Louisiana was stowed in the shower compartment, on its original spool. If we came out of this needing a tow, that would be the line we'd use. I also made mental note of a line that could work for adding a monkey's fist to turn into a heaving line. I could tie one, in the dark, pretty dang quick. The Coasties would have one already made. A fishing boat probably wouldn't. I surreptitiously stuffed a few ziplock bags in my pocket, for wallets, keys and cell phones, and made my way up the companionway.
We slowly motored on as the sun set behind us. R continued to check the fuel levels every 15 minutes. R and FIL were discussing the appropriate course, with the handheld GPS helping to point the way and provide hints about the Hans' leeway due to the current and tide. I had bought it in Louisiana, in case we'd had to head in different directions on different boats for a hurricane. It was for my little catboat, really.
The course conversation revealed a few important details. There was a strong current pushing everything south. There was a strong tide pushing us away from the bar into the ocean. And there was a strong current flow from the river's massive flowrate. So... basically, we were headed directly against the grain. And if we couldn't hold the middle of channel, we would be pushed towards the South Jetty and it's shoals. Not spectacular news. And the crowning fact: the closer we got to the mouth of the river, the less speed over ground we were making.
We inched forward towards home. The North and South jetties loomed in front of us, almost seeming to never get closer. In fact, I spied various landmarks in the difference, and compared them to the stays, watching to see if the landmarks ever seemed to move aft. Boat after boat passed us, speeding towards the bar, a berth, a warm dinner, a cold beer. Ships moved in and out around us--two big dredge ships moving near the jetties, Ro-Ro after Ro-Ro bustling in, grain ships headed out, everyone stately and business-like. With the sun set, the sky began to darken, and the steep wave pattern from the meeting of the River and the Ocean seemed to get steeper, in tall close-packed following waves.
The crappy part of a double-ender's cockpit is that you're never far from the water. In some situations it seems a bit disturbing. The good part is that in spite of it, the water seems to know it isn't welcome in the cockpit. R went below at one point to turn the lights on. I felt like there was something funny about this... I pictured our transom in my mind, and couldn't for the life of me remember where our stern light was mounted.
The wait was making me absolutely antsy. I wanted to start yammering about anything, but FIL was zoned in on steering the boat, watching the waves, trying to minimize having the stern slewed around, minimize roll. R was staring at the GPS, the tank level indicator, and the horizon. What conversation there was happened to be limited towards the identification of various buoys in the distance. I wasn't familiar enough with them in the dark to really do more than help watch them, but R could spot them far sooner than I could.
And on we inched, sliding off course to port and starboard to allow the big ships to pass us, then clawing our way slowly back towards the center of the channel. R revealed that we were making only 0.5 knots good over land at this most optimal engine RPM. The night came on thick and dark in earnest.
We had promised MIL yesterday we'd be across the bar before dark. At what point would she draw the line and decide something was Wrong? And what would she do?
I had been sitting near the companionway. Just inside the hatch is the VHF--which had largely been suspiciously quiet for the most part all day. At some point, it squawked: "Sailing vessel crossing the bar! Sailing vessel crossing the bar!"
I picked up the mic and handed it to R, who couldn't hear the radio from where he was sitting, "we're being called"
A Ro-Ro from behind us was calling. We moved to 68. Everyone who had their radios on probably moved to 68 too... I listen in on any conversation I can--you never know when there might be cheap entertainment. The Ro-Ro called to tell us other ships had been trying to call, and we hadn't responded.
I looked up accusingly at R, who couldn't see my face in the dark anyway. "Yes, thanks, we're having a problem with our antenna."
"Well, they're calling to tell you they can't really see you--could you get some lights on?"
"Yes, sorry, having a few problems here."
"Even a flashlight would help."
"Thanks for letting us know."
At that point, a nearby dredge ship we'd dodged a few minutes before shined a huge floodlight directly down on us, then up at our sails. Indeed, everyone had moved to 68 for that embarrassing conversation. There'd be gossip in town next week about the idiot sailboaters with the dark sails...
R ran downstairs and rummaged, coming aft with his biggest maglite flashlight. "You've got to sit all the way back here, and hold it like this." He handed me the maglite, and scooted me aft, next to FIL at the helm. "But you've still got to keep an ear out for the radio too, I can't hear it." I sat obediently as he prodded me slightly to adjust my hold on the flashlight.
When I first went to sea, the concept of going onto deck after dark bothered me. The water was so dark, and no one would notice if you fell overboard. How would they ever find you, even if you screamed your lungs out? As my trips would go on, I learned how to work around it. I'd go on deck with a buddy, because frankly, I had a feeling that if I let my nerves get the better of me, I'd lock up and stay paralyzed in some spot, unable to move towards a watertight door and a cheery interior. Even as a liveaboard, I'd been funny about walking unfamiliar docks in the dark (and even some familiar unlit docks), to the extent that R had added bunches of solar garden lights to Peryton's cockpit. I forced myself to go along on Fire Rounds on my first sea-term. On my second sea-term, I'd go with the mates during the night watches as they walked forward on the centerline catwalk, and we'd look together for phosphorescence in the bow wave. I learned that if I could ignore the water I wouldn't get so nervous. I also noticed that if I was on deck before the sun set and stayed outside till it was dark, I wouldn't be nervous. But now I was out of the habit, and R had just stuck me in the aft end of the Hans' cockpit, pointing a flashlight aft, towards the waves. And I was cringing in horror.
While the stern continued to rise to meet each following wave, we were periodically getting swiped by a quartering wave, wallowing and rolling, before sorting out. But still, with a flashlight in hand, I couldn't ignore the water, by any means. The waves had built--the tops of them even with midway up the hardtop stanchions, some 3 feet above the deck I was sitting on. Worse, some were folding over into breaking waves. It either meant we were too close to the southern edge of the channel (and the Jetty), or that the waves were just so steep that they were piling into breakers all the way across the bar. Or both.
I sat staring at the waves, periodically looking up to check that I could still identify each ship aft of us by their lights. As each wave would approach, my grip with one hand tightened on the flashlight, while the other held fast to the caprail. With hundreds of waves to pass us before we ever made it though, it seemed like there was no way that the Hans would continue to meet each and every single one. At some point her stern might not rise fast enough. I had a feeling that if cold water inundated the flashlight it would burn itself out, so I had to keep it dry if it looked like we would be getting doused.
After we pulled out of one rolly-wallow, R moved aft. "You ok?"
"Yep." What was I supposed to say? Cold, nervous, upset, concerned, uncomfortable? Part of me thought I should be angry with him, but it wouldn't have helped. He was probably angry with himself. Anyone could have put themselves into a similar silly situation.
He hurried back to his spot on the forward end of the cockpit, spying on buoys and comparing it to the GPS. More conversation ensued between R & FIL, we seemed to be slipping slightly less to the south, and slowly making it inbound. A particular church on the Ilwaco side had always been easy to locate, and it seemed as though we'd gained some ground on it. It had been dark for hours, and from what I recognized of the land in the dark, we had a ways yet to go to be done with the bar.
The only buoy that I could pull up on the map in my head was Buoy 10. It's the infamous buoy used for marking "Buoy 10 Season"--a time during the Salmon Season where anyone and everyone with a vessel that floats (and not a few that don't seem to float without serious assistance) shows up in our town and proceeds to attempt fish for Salmon. All I knew was we hadn't passed it yet, and we didn't have cell phone coverage yet, not that anyone really had a hand free for their phone.
What and who would we call anyways? Local fishing buddies? "Hey, I realize it's past 10pm and tomorrow morning is church and all, but we were wondering if you'd come out and find us in the dark. Yeah, bring 10 gallons of diesel." The Coast Guard? "Hey, we're running low on fuel. We're not out yet, but we might run out. We're not sure. But we have less than we originally thought. Oh, and we're that sailboat with no lights on The Bar." R's MIL? "Hey. So... yeah, we're running a little late for dinner, but so far we haven't lost the boat yet. Just thought you'd like to know. No, sorry, no tuna. No, not really sure when or if we'll be home. Check the life insurance policies, would you?"
Normally The Bar is approximately 6 miles of messy water--the interaction of ocean swells, ocean current, wind driven water, river current, and tidal flow. With that many groups of water trying to have their say, it's no wonder it's a mess. At times the water behavior ascribed to the Bar can be longer, or shorter than that 6 miles. But knowing that at times we're only making 1/2 a knot to the good would keep this a ridiculously long slog.
We kept on. And on. My fingers and arms and legs were stiff and cramping from having held tight and held still for so long. And I was beyond cold, had been all day, even when napping. I knew it was sapping my energy. R had kept on checking the fuel tank levels periodically, and FIL was obviously getting tired at the helm. We were getting quartering waves more often, and rolling more.
There were many times in college that we were faced with difficult projects and unfortunate timelines. We would be forced to buckle down and settle in to long night after long night, stretching into a blurry week or more. Your personal propulsion is some type of zombie autopilot, that carries you from class to class, to the shower, to your room to change clothes, to the professors' offices, to the galley for food, to the coffee pot, and back to your computer and calculator. Failure wasn't an option for us--it meant being dismissed. You tamp down the screaming in the back of your head, asking for a moment's worth of sanity or comfort, block out what your classmates are up to, ignore the 10 messages from your mother asking to call home and the boyfriend that needed a serious dumping, and focus on the fight that's in front of you, whether it's the unfairable hull, the firemain project from hell, a propeller that Just Won't Propel. You don't stop; you don't have a choice. I recognized the old feeling, and knew R did too. We'd tried to explain it to his parents before, and they'd looked at us in confused disbelief. My parents, a doctor and a nurse from the old days, did, but their professions lived by different rules.
I forced myself to change positions, forcing myself to move around and work the kinks out, considering each joint in turn, head to toe. My eyes felt full of sand. Then settled in and tried to re-focus--the waves, the ships behind us, and the squawks of the radio, holding that flashlight tight.
R finally began to note that our speed was picking up ever so slightly. Every few minutes he updated us with a new speed. The mainsail was still lifeless above us, but the engine kept chugging along. We kept watching. Waiting. The fuel tanks showed a little bit left. Our speed over ground continued to creep up slowly... and maybe it wasn't my imagination that the lights ashore seemed to suggest we were making headway.
But the fuel... still not enough to make it home for certain though. They discussed their options. There were two marinas closer than our own. One was Hammond, a few minutes down the road from ours, a few miles closer. The other was Ilwaco. Ilwaco had an entrance we'd never done in the dark, but boasted a fuel dock. While we'd need to stay till morning to add fuel to the tanks, we could find a transient slip and tie up. We could wake up first thing, get our fuel, and make the short hop home.
Ilwaco, hopefully, it was then. And if we couldn't quite make it to Ilwaco, the Coast Guard station was there--if they came to help, at least we'd be closer to their berths. R grabbed the chart, and we focused on our unexpected Port of Call. As we edged towards Ilwaco and away from the large commercial traffic, R took the flashlight from me to look at the map and search our surroundings for channel markers. No one else would be watching for us. I headed into the cabin, to warm up for a few minutes, and watched out the companionway.
We slowed our speed even more as we made the turn to enter the channel. The guys had rarely tied up in Ilwaco, and never with these deeper sailboats. As we nosed our way up the channel towards Ilwaco, at times I felt the boat begin to squat--hints we were close to grounding. I pulled out the boat hook and laid it handy, and glanced around for spare dockline before remembering it was stored on deck. Then I settled to clearing the berths.
With amusement I saw all of my weekend bags on our pullman berth. R had grumbled that morning that I wasn't "packing light." But my bags held PJ's, a change of clothes, my usual complement of toiletries including a fresh washcloth and a hairbrush. Hah. If I could warm up, which seemed like it might never happen, I might just sleep decent. I laid out toothpaste, facewash, a bar of soap, and my hairbrush. It they felt like cleaning up slightly prior to sleeping, they could. I straightened out the sheets and comforter, noticing a damp spot in line with one of the portlights. I flipped on the overhead light and felt around, then retrieved a towel and laid it between the sheets in the damp area.
The quarterberth was partly clear, since I'd snoozed there most of the day, but some of R's toolbags remained on it, and the fishing gear had been laid there prior to our return bar crossing. I pulled the toolbags out, one by one, carefully, and moved them in the same order to one of the settees. I moved the fishing gear next, poles, gaff, net, spare hooks, divers for salmon fishing.
On deck, the search to remain in the channel and gain the entrance to the actual marina went on, ever so slowly. I paced below, hoping we'd actually make the marina and find an appropriate slip prior to the fuel tank finally giving out. Finally the call came for me to get on deck. R backed slowly into a slip, a pair of long "Walk the Dog" docklines at the ready to become both breast and spring lines. Once the first few docklines were up and the engine shut down, I could feel us all begin to breathe.
Just then, a cell phone rang. MIL. Despite the phone not being on speaker, we could hear her yammering away, hammer and tongs, at FIL. We were supposed to be back by dark, yes. No, things were mostly ok. We were tied up in Ilwaco. No we weren't coming home tonight. No, the plan was... well we'd run out of fuel. The plan was... yes we'd had something to eat. The plan was... no we wouldn't make it home tomorrow in time for church.... The plan was.... no, she didn't need to come get us. The plan was... to get fuel first thing in the morning and come home. Yes, we knew it was late. No, we couldn't really help it. No we couldn't call and let her know, there hadn't been cell phone reception. Oh. She'd decided to call the Coast Guard if she didn't hear from us in the next half hour. It was 11pm.
We tidied the boat somewhat, and ourselves... and eventually went to bed. I told R about the damp spot in our berth, then snuggled in next to him in my PJs, pausing to grab him familiarly. Would he sleep, or would he be too keyed up? Would I sleep?
I started with the obvious: "You okay?"
"Yep."
"Well, I'm Cold."
"You're Always Cold." It was his usual retort to my usual statement of affliction, but over the years, it was just a language for "I love you." He wrapped an arm around me and we tucked the blankets in around us.
I reflected. Where he would go, I would follow, even when I was pretty terrified. The worst would have been to have been stuck behind on land, not knowing what was happening to him: not being there to see his face if he gaffed a tuna finally, not being there to back him up, literally, with food or a flashlight. He had always been the guy you'd want on a deserted island with you--he would sort it out. And he had. We all made it back fine, the boat was fine, silly old girl. The dogs were safe and sound with MIL, and we'd see them tomorrow. Sure, feelings and pride may have suffered, but we didn't lose anything that couldn't be replaced.
Everything Was Fine.
I kissed his beat-up hand and tucked it tight against me. "Mmm-hmm" he answered, and he grabbed tight for a second, then I felt him relax and pass out. I tucked the sheets down a last time, and followed.
