It’s 2 am and one moment I am deeply sleeping, my body slightly
rolling with the waves. The next moment I am at the helm, starting engines,
blinking wildly to get the eyes to focus. The harsh rocky coastline of Fowl Cay
was beautiful in the day when we anchored into the prevailing east winds, and
tucked ourselves nicely up in her lee.
At 2 am when the wind has swung against all predictions to
the west, and the frantic sound of waves slamming against sharp defiant rock is
now just a few feet from the back of the boat – not so beautiful. We have to
move. Now.
As JW balances up front, his headlamp blinding me as he
moves around lifting the anchor, I reflect on the bizarre reality we live in.
There are no 6 am alarm bells or morning traffic for us. A
Sunday is the same as a Monday. There is a lot of laughter and freedom and of
course rum punch. But there are nights like this. Sleep is not sacred on a
boat. It’s the shut-eye you catch when the seas allow. In the very early days
of my sailing career I would meet these interruptions to my nights with
exasperation and fear. Being woken to an impending disaster that requires
immediate action, is something you have to develop a taste for. Tonight I
realise that I have. It’s exactly what has happened. Expect the unexpected.
Deal with it as it comes.
I gun the engines into forward and leave the crashing
slamming disaster looming all behind us. We are blind navigating and choose a
spot just far enough away from the island and before the ocean floor dips
further out. Apart from our buddy boat Alley Cat, we’re alone out here. It’s
another one of those strange realities. We spend much time socializing, either
on boats or partially submerged, treading water by countless beaches, a beer in
hand. But only one sail away, we can be totally alone. And it’s an amazing
feeling. Like camping deep in the woods. You hear all nature’s sounds. You see
things that are invisible in a city.
Tonight, the charcoal sky has been torn in one small spot
and the moon peeks through. It’s only half exposed but it’s enough to make out
our surroundings. We drop the anchor,
tug back the engines in reverse and wait for it to grip. We are set.
It’s all over and the excitement has died down but sleep is
now a distant memory. In the morning we’ll be diving with the sharks who prowl
the reefs just around the corner if all goes well.
For now I ponder the world we discovered earlier in the
evening. Sundowners on the tiny beach, after the boat loads of happy rowdy
tourists have made their way back to marinas and resorts and we had Fowl Cay to
ourselves. The terrain is other worldly. Sharp towers of spiky rock poke out
from the soft sand, making walking treacherous. We made our way to the little
shelter built as a vista – or a bus stop where no bus will ever arrive?!
Tiny hermit crabs, who like us, take their little homes with
them as they go, made their way along the sand. To destinations unknown, they
made patterns between the huge science fiction style rocky mountains. I was
fascinated. Filled with wonder. As if I’d shrunk and seen their world from
their height. A new adventure. Another of natures amazing mysteries. I close my
eyes now and smile. And sleep comes.
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| The other-wordly landscape of Fowl Cay |
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| Sundowners in the Fowl Cay shelter |
What were the clues that your boat was in danger? Anchor alarm? Changes in sounds and/or movement? Glad you were able to protect your boat and yourselves.
ReplyDeleteThanks for replying Sarah! Both the sounds and movement changed as we were swung toward the rocks.
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