Sorry, the photo is so fucking big, you need stadium seating to see it. But this is the antique model schooner that hangs above my desk. I love the furled sails, yellowed with age, and the web of black threads that dangle on dust-covered decks. A miniature anchor drags on the bottom of the primitive ocean backdrop and I wonder if the man who made it was someone like myself. Someone marooned at home with a landlocked love of the sea and sailing.
I don’t actually know how to sail, of course. But I’ve always reveled in this image of a windswept sea self. I long to hoist the jib, winch in the mizzenmast, and stand watch–all before bedding down in a womb-like berth. Or I did until a short while ago when I boarded a 35 ft. sloop on the island of Guadeloupe and set off on a cruise of the Caribbean. It was a cruise that left me with barely enough time to vomit before I abandoned ship, like the proverbial rat, and tottered ashore.
The adventure began with R. and a crew of visiting Frenchmen in a marina outside the city of Basse Terre. In return for several rounds of p’tit punch (small glasses of 100 proof sugar cane rum with a squeeze of fresh lime), we were regaled with stories of La Transat. Ah yes, La transat! I thought. The romance, the glamour, of this annual transatlantic race from Casablanca to Pointe a Pitre. Every sailor’s dream. A dream of Outre Mer that conjures up the days of Empire when everyone returned home to the Metropole. (A term still used by older island locals when referring to France, the mother country.) Just one night of tall tales and a slightly tipsy tour of yawls and ketches convinced us. Now was the moment to lay in the stores and head out to sea.
The next morning, we hired a skipper and his gleaming white sloop, the Rene Coussel, for a one week trip. After haggling over an early morning p’tit punch (the skipper not us)
we charted a course for Antiqua. Charted is a gross exaggeration. None of us, except the skipper, had ever handled anything larger than a Sunfish. Never mind a compass or a marine map. There would be six of us at about $100 a day. Which seemed a very small price to pay for the fulfillment of our fantasies.
The laying in of stores began the next day. It was pouring rain. The more seasoned sailors at the marina had suggested eggs and water. “So easy to prepare,” I thought. “A perfect choice.” I had visions of the late Pat Buckley buying dozens and whipping up omelettes and souffles for Bill. 84 eggs later, we remembered water. “Synonymous with survival,” I said, thinking of Tallulujah Bankhead in Lifeboat. Remember that movie? She lured and lost a fish with a diamond encrusted watch. “Six cases will either save us or sink us,” said R. And so it went. Five cans of cassoulet, four cans of beans and franks, pate, fifteen cans of fruit juice (enough to ward off an epidemic of scurvy), danish mussels, and sixteen rolls of toilet paper. Our skippers only request? Three litres of Boulogne Rum.
The day of departure dawned. Still raining. Freezing cold. Ignoring the weather, we loaded up two cars for the drive to the marina. I’d packed enough fancy clothing for a ball at Buckingham Palace: silk shirts, a cocktail dress, high heels, silk pyjamas. The French crew was still swallowing punch and choking back guffaws as we slid down the dock towards our slip. (Notice all my nautical language?) One glimpse of our skipper, drenched to the skin and clutching a mainsail, ripped in half, put a knot in my stomach. He was screaming at some stranger in Creole. Creole. Just another omen, like the rum and the rain, we chose to overlook…
For the novice sailor, stepping aboard a boat tied into her slip is similar to walking a circus tightrope. Raucous laughter and applause accompanied me as I grabbed the halyard (more nautical language) and teetered across the mooring line. The deck seemed pretty cramped with six of us crawling and clinging to the sopping wet sides. I retired below in the hopes of carefully stowing stores…
More tomorrow.
