A whale is a moving mountain. This one, to my mind, squandered our little boat's pale fortune of bulk in a show of mass equal only to the aforementioned boast of geology ashore, only we could be reasonably assured that those noble shoulders would have no predilection for shrugging us out of existence at a whim of circumstance putting us abaft their tail.... The whale coursing alongside could.
And alongside us it coursed. A whale is an island that breathes. To Eric's mind it seethed beneath the surface until it breached calamitously, plowing a fertile crescent of poetic morbidity at its brow. A five second party, he claims, could be had upon its back, if it was intense enough. The party, that is. Morbidity has poetic resonance. But I agree. Maybe the whale did, too. It labored alongside Faith with porpoises and seals flinging themselves left and right along its massive sides as if this cetacean where a swimming rave. Our elation was matched only by the apprehension that our cruising partner could upend our bark almost without realizing it, smash us to pieces with an accidental caudal flip...or crush us on purpose if it felt threatened. Everyone knows the story of Moby Dick, but few are aware that it's based on the true tale of a whale attacking the whaler
Essex, sinking it, and sending the hapless sailors adrift on the whaleboats in the midst of the Pacific....one of the crews was forced to resort to cannibalism to survive. When you're already drifting around on a ship the size of one of those whale-killers, how far off is cannibalism, really?
Such premonistic thoughts were subdued, however, as our friendly neighborhood leviathan switched course during one submarine plunge and headed back south and west � away from our course, our boat, and our peace of mind. An albatross floated down from the heavens to circle us once as if warding Faith from the perditions of the seas. We thanked her with relieved sighs....not that we're superstitious or anything (knock on wood).
Night. And just when you thought we'd get through a long sail without a single major malfunction.
The Cook and I swished along under power, the wind having fallen with the sun. I was refilling the main gas tank with one of our two gallon backups when Eric suddenly drew the tiller to his chest. Crinkling my brow in question at this occurrence � not unusual but usually heralding some minor brush with disaster � I swung my head, flashlight in teeth, at his surprised countenance. Registering incomprehension there I brought the source of illumination down the length of the tiller to its base. My initial thought was, "spit the light into the ocean, if you can't see this maybe it's not happening." Too bad that's not how it works. Way too bad.
At the base of the tiller, where it connects to the shaft of the rudder, there simply was no connection. The shaft wasn't there. "Oh, SHIT!" I advised Eric. He drew the pole up, holding it like a horizontal talisman before disbelieving eyes � both of ours. "Oh, shit," he concurred.
There are two integral parts of my boat that scare the hell out of me. The loss of either means we're dead in the water....or dead. Period. One is the mast. If it goes we cease to be a sailboat and likely cease to be mariners or anything else. The other is the rudder. If it goes we cease to be able to steer. That's a bad thing. And here it was.
Suppressing the natural urge to panic, I focused the light on the problem area at the tiller base, then took the flashlight out of my mouth so I could swear without hindrance. Eric was already way ahead of me. "Son of a BITCH," he suggested.
Son of a bitch, indeed. If the thing connecting the rudder to the tiller was gone then that meant the rudder itself must be gone, too...but, wait! There in the pale glow of the electric torch, flush with the casing of the rudder shaft, was the top of the shaft! We hadn't lost the rudder, the brass rod had just slipped its fitting!
Eric brought out the boat hook while I dug out my ratchet set. I loosened the bolt on the fitting that should have grasped the rod, opening the receiving end of the steering complex. Eric found the base of the rudder with the hook, pulled it up to force the shaft back above giving me time to refasten the tiller carriage. Viola! Steerage!
We wiped our brows and settled back into the journey until Brian came above to take the watch and I descended to the cabin for a rendezvous with much deserved sleep.
The Cook and Navigator guided Faith through the last dregs of night while I tossed fitfully in my bunk. The problem we'd had with the tiller was bothering me. Why would the rod slip down like that? Even if the carriage on the tiller came completely off on its own the shaft should still remain in place, shouldn't it? Yeah, it should � I'd been painting the bottom of the boat to prepare for each new season on the Lake for years; I knew that rudder....I'd repaired it in Panama and all the bolts had been solid....hadn't they? Damn it, something was definitely wrong. But at least for the present everything was working. Get some rest, I told myself.
When the sun bleached the stain of night from the sky I assumed the watch as Brian relieved Eric at the helm. What very little wind we'd had was gone. The sea was a mirror reflecting my apprehension when I peered down from the stern to reassure myself that the rudder was still attached. Powering at this point was out of the question � we had enough fuel left to bring us, oh, maybe twenty, maybe twenty five miles. Certainly not the forty that stood between our position and Turtle Bay, the nearest port. "Well, Brian," I suggested to my brother, "let's take advantage. I think I can get the tiller mounted better while there's light." Brian thought this was a good idea, especially since we weren't moving anyway.
I gave the tiller a couple of swings, noting more play than usual. Could be the loose connection to the rudder shaft....right? Right. I cut up an aluminum can for a shim to wrap around the shaft, placed the tiller carriage into position and smacked it a few times with the hammer to seat the fitting securely. This may have been what broke the proverbial camel's back. Whether it was or not, when I once again gave the tiller a swing to test the proficiency of the repair it pivoted almost frictionlessly. My stomach dropped to the deck but sent a farewell throatful of gorge that dried my mouth instantly and made me fight to suck in a breath. Now we really had a problem.
Get a grip, I demanded of my frantic brain, everyone's safe, there's no weather on the horizon, the sun's out, the sea's flat. Hell, this is the best possible time for this to happen. Ok, now get in the water.
Easier said � thought � than done. Much easier. The water temperature had dropped precipitously (20 degrees!) since we'd rounded Cabo Falso. Good for killing hurricanes, bad for swimming.
Oh well. I pulled on some shorts, donned the flippers and mask, sat on the gunrail for a moment....then another....then consigned my skin to its fate as I splashed into the chilling, salty cocktail. Ohhhh Jesssssuuuusssss! I involuntarily flailed around as if drowning while the cold encased me. Acceptance of it probably coincided with onset of the early stages of hypothermia. Or so I told myself sardonically as I put flippers to the surface and dove below Faith's waterline for an explanation. It took perhaps five seconds for understanding to bloom, releasing me from my submarine obligations. Temporarily.
Shivering violently on deck (it's amazing how much faster getting out of frigid water takes than getting in) I discussed our options with Brian.
"It's the bolts," I told him from between clenched teeth, "they're all sheared at the rod. W-w-wait. Th-there's one that�s only broken halfway into the r-rudder. I think I can sc-screw a p-plate to hold it....or s-something." Brian frowned at me in concern, probably less worried about the mechanics than about my reaction to the cold. "What do you need me to do?" he asked. "I need a wetsuit," I responded to his inquiry. Shaking myself to get blood flowing back into my rigid limbs, I went below to put on a fleece sweatshirt with a hood. Not exactly a made to order wetsuit, but fleece retains warmth even if it's wet. Brian fished out our supply of extra MRE heaters (the heaters we use to warm up our military Meals Ready to Eat � just add water and they get hot. We'd been saving the unused ones for events just like this.) "Do you need me down there?" he valiantly offered. "No," I'd have loved to tell him yes!, "there's no reason for both of us to freeze...you know how to revive someone who's in shock because of cold, right?" He did. Damn.