Dead Reckoning Read online

  Technically, the RY was a 40-foot Bristol, single-hulled, sloop (which meant it had a single mast), with a 35 horsepower engine for those lovely days with no wind. It was one of the last few that had a gasoline engine instead of diesel. It would cost us more in fuel with a gas engine, but gas would be easier to find than diesel in most places. Jeff had retrofitted the fuel tank to hold 100 gallons, and with the inclusion of twenty-six five-gallon fuel cans, we had enough fuel to conservatively motor for about two-hundred and thirty hours. In perfect conditions, the RY was capable of sailing at 8 knots, but the engine was only able to propel the boat at about 6 knots. Jeff calculated that we had enough fuel to motor for about 1,600 miles. This was a very important consideration because it would allow us to take a much more direct route to the U.S. than if we had to sail by wind alone.

  To sail by wind all the way to Seattle, we would have had to go west and then north to avoid the doldrums (which normally hung out between 20° and 30° north latitude) possibly as far as Japan where we could catch the mid-latitude westerlies that would take us home. The great circle route (shortest route on a sphere) from Kwaj to Seattle was about 4,800 miles, but if we had to go by sail alone, it could have nearly doubled our trip. By powering through the doldrums, picking up the westerlies due north of Kwaj, and with a lot of luck, we could arrive in Hawaii in a couple of weeks. Maybe we’d catch a plane there, but if not, we should be able to make Seattle in just over a month. We all knew that everything would have to be perfect for that result, but we held out hope.

  The deep trades extended north to approximately 25° north latitude after which the dreaded doldrums existed north to approximately 32° north latitude. North of that point, weak westerlies kicked in. The last time I had checked the weather models they showed that pattern holding for several days, beyond which the models were worthless out over the open ocean. The boat was capable of sailing up to 50° toward the wind so with easterly trades we could set a course of 030 and cross our fingers. If the weather held, we’d only have to motor for about 500 miles to break into the westerlies, and we would be home free after that. At least that was the plan.

  As I stood at the galley sink that evening, I noticed the little stow-away. A fly buzzed between the blind and the window above the sink. I poked my finger at him but missed. He buzzed my face, and I swatted again and got nothing but air. Little bastard! This far from land and the things were still annoying the hell out of me.

  On the second day, he landed on a sandwich I was making. I grunted as I took a swipe at the bugger. He evaded me again, but I made contact with my plate and knocked it to the floor, my sandwich coming apart and naturally landing mayonnaise side down on the floor. I ate my new sandwich topside, because I knew the fly would not come up into the wind.

  I asked Jeff: “Have you seen that fly?”

  “What fly?”

  “There’s a freaking fly still on board.”

  “Oh, leave him alone. Maybe he has family stateside too.”

  I spotted the fly twice on the third day and again on the fourth day. I tried to get him each time, but he was living a charmed life. I got close on day four. I actually hit him with my hand, but he was moving in the same direction as my hand, so he actually got a boost. Must be getting weaker what with no feces on board, I thought.

  9

  DAY 5 AT SEA, 30 MILES ESE OF WAKE ATOLL (GPS POSITION: 19.1°N, 167.1°E)

  Ferdinand Magellan was not the first man to sail the Pacific Ocean. In fact, he was not even the first European to do so. But he was the man who bestowed upon the world’s largest ocean the name of Mare Pacificum, or Peaceful Sea. It must have been an unusually nice day when he crossed through the Straits of Magellan and into the Pacific Ocean, otherwise I can’t imagine where he got the idea that the Pacific was peaceful. My experience during our first five days at sea, as well as that of the thousands of captains whose ships lie at the bottom of the merciless beast of an ocean, was that it was anything but peaceful.

  The trade winds blew at a constant and fairly typical 15-20 knots the entire time, which when combined with chaotic and shifting currents, churned the sea into a frothy 8-10 feet combined. Although I spent much of the first four days feeding my insides to the sharks over the gunwale the hard way, the work of preparing the boat for the long journey helped take my mind off the seasickness, which finally waned significantly on day five.

  Late on day five, a tremendous squall blew through, and the wind shifted to the northwest and howled at better than forty knots for three hours and then stopped—dead calm—the doldrums. When we got up the next morning, Jeff had bad news.

  “There is something wrong with the rudder.”

  “I told you I didn’t think we should tie the wheel down,” said Sonny.

  Sonny was referring to Jeff’s practice of literally tying the wheel in a certain position rather than engaging the auto-steering mechanism. Jeff believed there was too much drift in the auto steering system.

  “It had nothing to do with that!” Jeff snapped back.

  “Then, what happened?” I asked, cutting off the argument.

  “Feel it,” he said.

  I took hold of the wheel, and it was vibrating.

  “I think it’s bent. We must have hit something in the water. It will create drag and slow us down. Not to mention that it will deteriorate over time like that.”

  Now in the doldrums, the seas were flattening out quickly. Jeff decided to go into the water and check it out. He tied a rope around his waist and jumped over the side. Sonny and I watched for sharks while Jeff inspected the underside of the RY. The rudder had been knocked slightly out of whack, bending the shear pin which held it in place in the process. Not keen on trying to fix the rudder in the open sea, we decided to make for the harbor of Wake Atoll where we could more easily affect the repair.

  It took five hours to reach Wake Atoll, which consists of three long, narrow islands in the shape of a horseshoe. Peale Island on the northwest side of the atoll, Wake Island on the east side, and Wilkes Island on the south side encircled a harbor of approximately three square miles. Having been to Wake Atoll myself, I knew the harbor was too shallow to accommodate the RY but that a little alcove on the lee side of the atoll would offer nearly the same protection. The winds were calm, so our only concern was protecting ourselves from the east-northeast swell.

  Having already reinstalled the radar reflector on the mast to make sure we were visible to large ships at night, we expected contact from Wake Island security at around ten miles out. I knew they did not have an “Over-The-Horizon” radar on Wake Island, so ten miles was the maximum practical range of their conventional radar on a boat of our size. However, contact did not come until we were within visual range.

  “This is U.S. Air Force Station, Wake Island to unknown vessel. Identify yourself. Over.”

  Not wanting to be fired upon but at the same time wanting to remain as anonymous as possible, Jeff responded:

  “This is Whiskey November One Nine Six Eight Alpha with three souls aboard, requesting safe harbor to complete repairs. Over.”

  Despite having been in the Marshall Islands for many years, the RY was still registered in Washington State, thus the WN call sign.

  “Are you in distress? Over.”

  “Negative. Over.”

  “This is a United States military installation, and we are under a high threat condition. You may anchor no closer than one hundred meters from the low-water line on the southwest side of the atoll. You may not, repeat NOT, come ashore. You have forty-eight, repeat four-eight hours to make your repairs and get underway, and you will be monitored. Do you understand? Over.”

  We knew that we could probably get ashore if we truly identified ourselves. But we also knew that we may be arrested or detained for having left Kwaj in direct contravention of the Commander’s standing orders, so we agreed. They notified us that they would contact us every six hours to determine our status.

  As we pulled around the souther
n tip of Wilkes Island, we saw another sailboat at anchor. Although it was dark by that time, the boat was a well-lit, magnificent yacht of a sailboat that looked as if it measured a good eighty feet in length. We were all exhausted and glad for some rest after five days of thrashing by the “peaceful sea” and it would have been difficult, if not dangerous, to make repairs in the dark, so we decided to bed down for the night. I slept topside as a security measure and gave Jeff, our tireless skipper and coach, a much-deserved full night in one of the bunks below.

  . . .

  DAY 6 - WAKE ISLAND, CENTRAL PACIFIC OCEAN

  The only interruption that night came from Wake Island security, five hours and fifty-nine minutes after we’d arrived, but I otherwise slept like a baby. I awoke the next morning sweating in the full sunshine to the shouts of: “Ahoy there!”

  I sat up, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, and tried to focus in the brilliant sunshine. I could have sworn that Thurston Howell III from Gilligan’s Island was bobbing up and down in the ten-foot Zodiac yacht tender next to us. Despite the tropical heat and humidity, the man wore long pants and a sport coat. His hard-brimmed captain’s hat cast a shadow across his pasty-white face which added depth to his chiseled facial features. Wiry, coarse, salt and pepper hair bushed out from under the hat.

  “Mind if I come aboard, chap?” the man said in a thick British accent.

  “Actually, I do—The Red Plague and all,” I responded.

  “Whatever are you talking about man? We’ve been on the high seas for nearly three months now and haven’t seen another living soul since my ship mate drove the remaining crew off in Kiribati, or what you might know as the Gilberts, over a month ago. We’re in dreadful need of help—our engine is broken down. These blinkered military types won’t even allow us ashore, much less help us. Thus, here we sit. Whatever illness you think we might have young man, you can rest assured that we have no such thing.”

  “You don’t know?” I questioned, ignoring the fact that I knew Kiribati quite well and would not have referred to them as “The Gilberts.”

  “Know about what, young man?”

  “So you haven’t seen anyone in over a month?”

  “Quite right.”

  “How many are there aboard your ship?” I asked.

  “Just two of us: yours truly, Alastair Campbell, and my partner, Rowland Finlay the fourth. I would extend my hand like a gentleman, but alas I am here and you are there.”

  Ignoring his comment and motioning toward the yacht that dwarfed our own, I asked: “You are sailing that boat with just two of you?”

  “Trying to, but I’m afraid not succeeding.”

  “You said you need help. What’s the matter?”

  “We’re simply broken down. The engine won’t run.”

  “Why don’t you sail from here?”

  “A full crew puts out a fair bit of effort to sail Horatio, and even though I earned my stripes in her Majesty’s Royal Navy, I am but one man. And my ship mate is no help whatsoever.”

  He sat bobbing up and down, waiting for a response.

  “I’ll discuss it with my shipmates when they get up,” I said.

  “I can assure you that you will be well compensated if you’re able to fix the old tub.”

  Of that, I had little doubt.

  Our discussion must have roused Jeff and Sonny because they came topside just as Alastair arrived back at the Horatio. We decided that out of a sense of common decency, Jeff would at least take a look at their engine. We wouldn’t waste any time, but perhaps it was something simple. We didn’t need or want anything from them, but we could use the karma that helping someone out could conceivably bring.

  It took Jeff about two hours to work the RY’s rudder off the shaft, pound the shear pin back into form, and refit all the pieces. As Jeff worked, Sonny and I took turns watching the Horatio. Alastair and the man we presumed to be Rowland sat topside much of the time watching us as well. Rowland seemed to be drinking, but otherwise there was nothing out of the ordinary.

  Jeff reinstalled the rudder and re-boarded. This prompted Alastair to return in his zodiac to repeat his plea for help. Rowland remained aboard the Horatio.

  Jeff questioned Alastair about the symptoms of boat trouble and thought that it might be something he could fix. The three of us talked privately once more and decided they were probably safe, but as a precaution, I would accompany Jeff, we would go armed, and Sonny would stay aboard the RY.

  Alastair pulled up alongside the RY. Jeff jumped aboard the zodiac with a small set of tools, and I followed.

  Alastair motioned to Sonny and said: “Well, come along then.”

  “I’ll stay,” Sonny responded.

  “Oh nonsense! We’ve got plenty of food and drink. It’s the least we can do.”

  I sensed something odd about Alastair and began to reconsider agreeing to his request. But with this being our first encounter with strangers since the calamity began, my tendency to suppress the wisdom of the stream out of courtesy had yet to be beaten out of me by experience.

  “We’ll bring some back for him,” I said.

  “Very well then,” Alastair said nervously as he gunned the engine and whipped us around toward the Horatio.

  The sea had begun to roughen and salty mist sprayed over us during the short trip over.

  “Where are you two headed?” Jeff yelled over the noise of the engine.

  “The Philippines,” Alastair replied. “Rowland and I retired last year and decided to sail around the world on Horatio. We got as far as Kiribati before the crew took their fill of Rowland’s antics and abandoned ship. I attempted to sail on, but it took us over a month to get here, and now we are up the proverbial river without a paddle. We should have hired another bloody crew in Kiribati, but we thought we could make it that far.”

  The closer we got to the Horatio, the larger it seemed. It was obviously old but in fantastic repair and clearly well kept. As we pulled around the stern of the yacht, we saw the name Horatio stenciled on the stern with its homeport of Portsmouth, U.K. written underneath.

  We boarded Horatio via the after-market dive platform and Alistair invited us inside with a simple hand gesture pointing the way and a robot-like bow from the waist. Clearly proud of the ship, Alastair insisted on taking us on a guided tour before Jeff began work. We begrudgingly agreed.

  As Alastair strolled stiff legged through boat, heels clicking across the hardwood floors, he explained that the Horatio was twenty-six meters in length (or eight-six feet, making my original guess close enough to bolster my ego) and was a Stow and Sons Classic Yawl built in 1904. It had a wooden hull, slept eight with additional quarters for a crew of four, and sported a supplemental diesel engine. He further explained that a yawl was similar to a ketch in that it had two masts, but that on a yawl, the smaller mizzen mast was aft of the rudder. Whereas Jeff could apparently already differentiate between a yawl and a ketch, I found the information enlightening.

  “Where did it get the name Horatio?” I asked. “I thought all boats were named after women.”

  “I thought you would never ask!” said Alastair. “She was originally purchased by Lord Victor Earl Wathen, whom you might know was a wealthy British writer and oilman. He was also very old at the time of the purchase and held to the convention of naming vessels after men, which was common in the 1800s, don’t you know. Lord Wathen was an heir to the British war hero, Lord Nelson.”

  Jeff and I stared blankly at Alastair.

  “Lord Horatio Nelson?” Alastair repeated, insulted that we didn’t recognize the name.

  Alastair recovered from the shock and then continued with an air of great pride: “Lord Nelson, despite being very slight in stature, won many battles against the Spanish, Danish, and those bloody French as an Admiral in the British navy. However, no victory was greater than the battle of Trafalgar where Admiral Nelson’s fleet lost not a single ship while destroying twenty-two French and Spanish ships. It was Britain’s finest moment
at sea and cemented Lord Nelson as one of our greatest heroes.”

  “A number of wealthy but rather unknown chaps subsequently owned Horatio until my father purchased it in 1955. It came into my possession upon his death in 1983.”

  As we walked around the topside, I stopped to admire a large bank of solar panels and two medium sized wind turbines.

  Alastair noticed my interest. “Keeps the lights on and the wine room cool but it is not much for propulsion.”

  We entered the galley, the final stop on our tour, and made the acquaintance of Alastair’s shipmate as he sat at a table, sipping a tumbler of some sort of doubtlessly expensive liquor.

  “May I present to you, Mister Rowland Finlay the fourth, Esquire?”

  Jeff and I introduced ourselves, after which he nodded and replied: “Charmed, I’m sure.” He conspicuously refrained from extending his hand for a shake, which was fine by us.

  Rowland Finlay was a short, pudgy, balding man in his late fifties. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, which fit so tightly against his face that the skin around his ears closed up over them, nearly to the point of obscuration. He had a penetrating air of superiority about him.

  “I suppose Alastair has told you quite a bit about me,” said Rowland. “Did he say that I drink too much?”

  “Rowland, bloody please!” shouted Alastair. “Are you already buggered up?”

  “Such a foul mouth for a man with your breeding, Alastair.”

  Jeff and I stared cautiously at the two. They sounded like husband and wife.

  “Rowland was my attorney and subsequently became my business partner. We splashed out in your American stock exchanges during the internet craze and let us just say that we overstayed our welcome. We exited too late and really fagged our investors. It was time to get out of town as neither of us was welcome there any longer. We decided to retire and sail the seven seas, and now you’ve found us here in sea number two.”