Knock-Down from The Last Sea Dog
Book Extract
With the regularity of a cathedral bell, the waves crash against the starboard side of my boat. Powerful and vicious at the same time, they are not only violent, but the noise they create inside the dark cabin, turn it into a giant, echoing drum, further increase the level of threat and stress.
I’m on high alert. My boat rocks from side to side with the relentless determination of a metronome. This is not the first time I’ve faced a storm in these vast expanses of the Southern Pacific Ocean, far from any land. I have confidence in my boat, my floating safe. Nevertheless, the situation is worrisome, and it’s only because I’m exhausted from the sleepless night before, that I manage to close one eye.
The respite is short-lived. Without warning, all at once, I’m thrown out of my bunk.
I roll and get squashed – like a fly – with all my weight (all 90 kilos of me) against a locker. Another second and I find myself stuck to the ceiling of the cabin. I’m half-conscious. Between dream and reality, I hear heaps of objects falling in an indescribable chaos and clamour, until the fridge door opens, releasing a cascade of provisions suddenly turned into projectiles.
As proof of the ferocity of this onslaught, the floor hatches, covering the batteries in the bilges, burst open despite the safety latch and the heavy bag of medical kit placed on top of them. There’s no doubt, I’ve capsized, or at least performed a serious somersault. From 130-140 degrees? Or 150 degrees? It doesn’t matter. My brave Rustler 36 was hit hard and took a blow, insidious but formidable. A real uppercut.
In an instant, the boat rolls in the opposite direction and I find myself upright again. By some miracle? The heavy keel, which represents almost half the weight of the boat on its own, played its role. Thank God. I move and regain my senses. Nothing seems to be broken, minor bruises perhaps, but no serious injuries.
In the chaos, I locate my boots and my wet weather jacket, climb on deck and peer into the darkness to see what damage has been done. The mast is still standing but the shrouds are slack and the mast rocks from side to side in the menacing Southern Pacific Ocean swells.
The canvas companionway dodger, which allows me to steer in shelter, is literally torn apart, its stainless-steel frame twisted like pieces of flimsy wire. I’m not feeling great, but I pull myself together. Now is not the time to be demoralised. I grab the flashlight at the bottom of the companionway steps and head back onto the deck for a thorough inspection.
The night is pitch black. The wind is blowing furiously. I roughly estimate the waves to be around nine metres. I hang on to my bucking bronco of a boat. ‘One hand for you, one hand for the boat’. The saying is more relevant than ever – especially since I’m not connected to any lifeline and I’m not wearing a lifejacket. I know it’s not sensible, but I didn’t have time to put it on, and anyway, in this situation, it wouldn’t be very useful since I’m alone on board, and the nearest competitor is more than two weeks away from my position.