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Not Child's Play. Dave Muller
Читать онлайн.Название Not Child's Play
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781928420866
Автор произведения Dave Muller
Жанр Биографии и Мемуары
Издательство Ingram
At two in the morning my dead reckoning places our position slightly north of the Bazaruto Archipelago and well out to sea. I turn Arwen through 90 degrees, leaving the sails set as they are. Arwen is stalled, and will slowly drift sideways downwind at a speed of about half a knot. I climb below and, keeping my safety harness on, settle down on the bunk opposite Sandy, intending to climb up on deck every half-hour to check that there are no approaching ships. After 26 years I’ve finally achieved my dream of sailing to a tropical island. Feeling content, I relax – and that is a mistake.
Chapter Three
A lurch, and the slightest of tremors passing through Arwen’s hull, wakes me.
Sandy feels it too. ‘David, we’re touching bottom!’
Instantly I’m on my feet, flinging off a foggy blanket of sleep as I lunge for the companionway ladder.
‘Start the motor!’ I shout.
As I step into the cockpit, Arwen lurches unnaturally upwards and I brace myself, knowing what is coming. With a tremendous reverberation, she drops to the seabed and heels violently over onto her port side. A wave breaks over the stern, sending a fan of sparkling phosphorescent spray into the mainsail. Water, glowing with phytoplankton, swirls along her decks and off the trailing edge of the boom.
The engine starts on the first turn of the key but I’m still disorientated and disbelieving. Arwen is hove-to and I waste valuable seconds uncleating the foresails. Sails free, I spin the wheel, slam the motor into forward gear and open the throttle, hoping to pivot Arwen on her keel to face the waves. The stern lurches skyward again, followed by another bone-jarring thump. A wave crashes over the side, causing Arwen to jolt sideways, throwing me off my feet into the side railings.
This time she stays on her side. A fearful whining vibration comes from the prop as it spins in air. We are aground.
The most important goal now is to stop us washing further ashore. We have to get an anchor out into deeper water. Crawling up to the bow along the steeply canted deck, I call to Sandy to bring the windlass handle. My fingers tear at the knot securing the plough anchor to the bow roller. The need to be fast and methodical conflicts with sheer disbelief. Obviously we are aground, but where, and how? In the darkness I can see phosphorescent-lit waves passing by, but it’s incomprehensible that we can be anywhere near land. Even though I fell asleep, we should have had kilometres of deep sea around us and hours of safe sailing time before we got anywhere near shallow water.
We carry three anchors on board Arwen. In anticipation of lots of anchoring around the islands, I’d replaced our small plough-type anchor with a heavier version while moored in Maputo. A smaller Danforth anchor and 100 metres of 20-millimetre diameter nylon rope are stowed beneath our bunk as an emergency backup.
It’s impossible to stand on the sloping deck so, while struggling to free the anchor, I’m forced to kneel in the cleft between the guardrail netting and the deck. Small waves jostle Arwen and suddenly another huge, glowing breaker looms out of the darkness and thuds into her midriff. The violent lurch flips me onto my back, wedging me between deck and netting. The phosphorescent firework spray slowly curves over Arwen’s deck and the wave washes back from what must be a shelving beach, sucking Arwen with it, momentarily pivoting her upright on her keel before flopping her onto her port side like a stranded fish.
In the distance I hear Sandy shouting, ‘Are you okay? You need anything?’
‘Yes. Can you bring the windlass handle?’
In near despair, I grapple with the anchor and chain and drop it over the bows. Sandy crawls up and hands me the windlass handle. I ask her to pull out all the chain while I jump over the side into chest-deep water and try to carry the anchor into deeper water.
The water is startlingly warm, like a bath. It does not take long to realise there’s no chance of my carrying the 60-pound anchor underwater as well as dragging the chain. Our only hope is going to be the small Danforth anchor and our 100-metre nylon line. I climb back on board and ask Sandy to fetch them while I clear the plough anchor and chain. With fiendish intent, the Danforth gets itself wedged in the timber framework below the bed and Sandy shouts for help. Turbo-charged by terror and desperation, we manage to wrest it free. Tammy and Seth huddle at the foot of the bed. We snatch a few moments to reassure them we will not allow them to get hurt, and instruct them to remain in the cabin.
Moving around Arwen has become an exercise in gymnastics. There are no level surfaces. Everything is canted at 45 degrees, forcing us to either crawl on our hands and knees or swing from overhead handholds like apes. We’re acutely aware of the urgency, but also of the overriding concern to not injure ourselves.
In the frenetic outpouring of physical and mental activity, strength drains from my body as I carry the anchor to the bows. In my head, a voice is telling me to just give up, give up, give up – Sandy and I can’t move 12 tons of steel against the power of the waves and gravity. I curse that voice. It’s distracting, draining me of vital energy, so I begin to talk to myself, my brain explaining to my body what I expect it to do. ‘Now, David, you need to get a large shackle from the locker. That is the locker next to the chart table, not the one below the spare bunk.’
It helps. My body responds like a robot, working calmly, methodically. My words soothe and slow me, helping to ward off panic while allowing Sandy to hear my thought process.
On deck, I tie the warp to the large eye-shaped shackle on the shank of the Danforth and drop the anchor over the bows. Arwen’s hull is still buoyed by the passing waves. I discover I can walk underwater while carrying the anchor and, between having to surface for breaths, manage to walk it out the full 100 metres of the warp into deeper water. I know it is spring tide; there had been just the faintest sliver of new moon the previous evening. If low tide is around midday, then it will now be approaching high tide. It’s the worst possible time to have run aground – not that there is ever a best.
Back in the bow, the winch handle in my hand, the hopeless voices rally. My body goes limp and I collapse on the deck, tears mingling with the spray. Arwen weighs 12 000 kilograms. Between us, Sandy and I weigh 140 kilograms total. What hope is there?
The waves rush past in the dark, each still buoying Arwen’s hull, which hinges on the keel before dropping back onto the sand. Sandy sits beside me and puts her arms around my shoulders. ‘Don’t give up,’ she whispers, ‘There is still life in Arwen. There is always hope.’ Together we set about winching Arwen’s bow seaward in readiness for the high tide.
Sandy braces herself on the deck with the warp belayed around her back, mountaineering style, while I lean back and forth on the winch handle with all my strength. The nylon line stretches until it is pencil thin and I’m terrified it will snap, but, millimetre by millimetre, the line reels in and Arwen slowly swings around till her bow points to the thin tinge of pink sky lighting the east.
With daylight comes orientation. We are aground on a featureless beach backed by low scrub-covered dunes. Attracted by the light, the children stick their heads out of the main hatch. They look like chicks in a nest, demanding the early worm. The sun spills over the horizon, welcoming Seth’s fifth birthday. Tammy spots the myriad large crabs scuttling about on the beach and asks if she and Seth can go ashore and catch some. They jump into knee-deep water and run off, laughing with joy as the crabs flee beneath the sand before them. Their carefree happiness exhibits far greater confidence in their parents’