Not Child's Play - Dave Muller

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leaving us becalmed in a slow, sloppy swell. I drop the sails and start up our trusty Perkins diesel engine. Arwen motors over the undulating swells at a sedate five knots.

      An hour later, Ponta da Barra Falsa is still abeam. We’ve barely moved. I sit in the cockpit looking for guidance in the East Africa Admiralty Sailing Directions. The entry for Ponta da Barra Falsa records a south-flowing current of one to two knots, and sometimes as much as four knots offshore from the Cape. Clearly we have chosen to arrive on a four-knot day and will make little progress until we move closer to the shore where, the Sailing Directions tantalisingly mention, there is sometimes a weak north-flowing counter-current.

      I enjoy navigating and find satisfaction in using my handheld compass to take a bearing off whatever identifiable object happens to be within sight. To port, the defunct lighthouse on Ponta da Barra Falsa represents one such landmark, beyond our bow a conspicuous line of orange cliffs another.

      Tomorrow, our friend Mike is flying to Magaruque Island, one of the archipelagos, to join us. Our timing will be perfect. High tide is around midday, allowing us to navigate the channel leading to the anchorage on a rising tide with the sun almost overhead, thus reducing reflection and making the deeper blue water of the channel visible. Once we reach the islands tonight, I’ll apply the brakes and wait till daylight before approaching land. There is no need to rush.

      Shortly after, I’m distracted by a pinging sound from outside the hull: a school of common dolphins is surfing Arwen’s bow wave. I join Tammy and Seth at the pulpit rail where they peer into the blue depths as dolphins weave between the shimmering curtains of light from the sun’s rays.

      Since we have time to spare, I turn off the Perkins, allowing Arwen to glide to a stop on a slow, heaving sky-blue mirror. Deprived of their fun, the dolphins head off, but the calm water is irresistible and in no time four piles of clothing lie on the deck as, shrieking with delight, we take turns bomb-dropping into the warm water.

      After an hour of splashing about, we head north again, diesel thumping. I want to fix our exact position and the chart indicates the ideal marker for doing this. About six kilometres offshore from the orange escarpment, which the Sailing Directions identify as the Shivala Cliffs, lies a coral reef called Baxio Zambia. I aim Arwen’s bow towards the cliffs, intending to get a definite fix by passing over the reef, which is deep enough to pose no risk of our running aground. As we near the cliffs the depth sounder shows a steady depth of between 30 and 25 metres beneath our keel. Suddenly it drops to eight and the sea lightens to a pale blue. We are over the reef. I make a cross on our chart above the reef and write the time – 14:00 hrs. Back on deck I turn Arwen onto a new course that will take us away from the coast until, around about 02:00, offshore and slightly north of the islands, we’ll heave-to and await daybreak.

      With the wind-powered self-steering damaged beyond repair by the storm, Sandy and I have been taking turns steering Arwen. While Sandy takes the helm, I install our backup electric-powered autopilot. We seldom use it, preferring to conserve electricity and use wind power. The backup has an inbuilt compass to keep Arwen on course, and takes an hour to fit. After all the parts are in place and the electricity connected, Sandy sits back, takes her hands off the wheel and the electric motor comes alive. It emits reassuring whirling sounds and jiggles the wheel back and forth as Arwen wanders either side of our course.

      Back on deck, another landmark is coming into view. The Sailing Directions identify it as the 135-metre hill named Maxecane, the last landmark of any significance before we reach the islands. With the Shivala Cliffs slowly disappearing astern, I take bearings on this hill and calculate that we still have a current of one knot flowing against us. Throughout the afternoon I continue to plot our dead-reckoning position every hour, adjusting the distance travelled to allow for this current. Slowly the line of crosses marked on the chart move north into deeper water, corresponding with the depths flashing on our depth sounder.

      Freed from watch-keeping duty, Sandy prepares supper. Tomorrow, while safely anchored off Magaruque Island, we’re going to celebrate Seth’s fifth birthday and are looking forward to a slap-up meal, complete with cake, but tonight it’s mashed potatoes and sausages. The aroma of frying meat wafts from the main hatch and causes the children to chirp like hungry fledglings.

      Sailing brings our family together in an especially intimate way seldom possible on land, where so many activities vie for attention. Tammy and Seth are robust, healthy, inquisitive kids. We try to raise them to question almost everything and they are taking full advantage of this freedom. It’s hard work and although they are able to entertain themselves, inevitably they challenge all attempts at discipline. Neither is particularly good about personal hygiene or cleaning up but, hey, what child is? This is our fourth, albeit longest and most adventurous ‘voyage’ on Arwen, so they are at home at sea. Our plan is to circumnavigate the world one day.

      Sandy appears with steaming plates, but there’s no opportunity to sit back, cold beer in hand, savouring the moment and watching the sun disappear in a red blaze over Africa.

      ‘Everybody in the cockpit,’ I command. ‘Tammy, pack away that book. Seth, move up and give Tammy some room.’

      ‘Aww, Dad, I was here first.’

      ‘Come on. Move up!’

      ‘Move up, Seth,’ Tammy shouts.

      ‘Sit down, everyone.’ The captain’s word, at least in theory, is law. ‘Tammy, it’s your turn to give thanks.’

      Tammy, in the breathless little voice she uses when speaking to God, says, ‘Thank you, God, for the dolphins … er … for keeping us safe … er … and thank you for this food. Amen.’ Mouths are filled and peace reigns, but only for a few minutes.

      ‘Mom! Seth’s taken my knife.’

      ‘It’s mine, and give me back my sausie.’

      The sun drops, the sea turns slate grey and the comforting assurance of visibility fades with the day. Nights, with no reference other than from the stars, compass and depth sounder, always seem menacing to me. During the long hours of darkness one is truly adrift on a featureless sea. Satellite navigation is still in its infancy and beyond our budget. After dark, without lighthouses or other coastal lights as reference, there is no way of pinpointing one’s position other than to project a line forward on the chart, trusting we are actually sailing along that line.

      After supper, the cockpit cleared and the kids asleep, the self-steering happily buzzing away, Sandy and I sit together chatting about our plans for the next day, glad we’ve almost reached our destination and will soon be able to relax in the safety of a sheltered anchorage. Inevitably we reminisce, chuckling how providence in the form of a broken hair-dryer brought us together.

      Because I worked in an office nearby, Sandy had assumed I was the caretaker of the block of flats in Grahamstown where we both lived. I’d been designing at my drawing board when this harridan with wild wet hair burst in and demanded I immediately repair her electricity. Intrigued by her presumptuousness, I calmly went and turned on the circuit breaker in her flat, pointing out that the loose wire sticking out of her hairdryer probably had something to do with the problem. I was smitten and although Sandy, the all-action, scuba-diving marine biologist considered me an arty-farty dweeb, I persevered and we soon discovered we had much in common.

      With a kiss Sandy slips below to knead more dough for breakfast before getting some sleep. We usually sleep in the aft cabin, but to be available should I need any help during the night, she stretches out on the main salon bunk and is soon asleep. Up on deck drops of condensation dislodged by Arwen’s gentle rocking plink around me. We have a rule on board that, irrespective of conditions, safety harnesses must be worn when on deck at night. The risk of one of us falling overboard while the other sleeps is simply too horrible to contemplate. I clip myself to one of the spare cleats and spend some time tidying up the piles of damp rope lying about. This done, I clear a space on the port bench where I can lie sheltered from the wind while still keeping an eye on the compass. It slowly swings five degrees either side of our course as the autopilot whirs, guiding Arwen along the pencil line I’ve

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