toy soldiers at sea

I had not been beset long with the apprehension of having to man my own boat, and I was not about to afford myself the same impassive ease as befits most experienced sailors before setting off on a perilous journey  knowing that a possibly tragic and trying drowning awaits.

The nonchalance of your common sailor is an acquired defense against the sea’s torturous provocations that dare you to be caught with your pants down, and fortunately, followed by a vital collapse in the delusion of effectual panic.

Though generally bearded, indolent and appearing slovenly, their care-freeness is but a decorative and idle front concealing a trigger- response alertness – facilitated by a sublime and humble omniscience that pervades the far reaches of their floating universe with all the combined practical application of her pieces – the sum of her parts - an equation, that if well balanced, might equal survival.



Taken to its extreme, I mean, allow this attitude to mutate in a balmy environment such as the Caribbean, and following the brain pickling effect of innumerable rum snifters, perhaps, in time ( and I‘ve seen it happen) the morals, principles and mores upon which you base your sense of control could crumble and seep away with the frazzling and maddening heat of the sun.

Eventually, you might be far gone enough to distinguish some benefit in tottering aimlessly about all day like the locals in the wasteland of your teetering productivity, and given more time, have your garden enshrined in a helter-skelter pylon of articles and electrical appliances, not undeserving of remedial attention, but amounting rather to a sniggering daily reminder of your diminishing convictions.



And, so it was that after several years of my father living in the Caribbean, and I, for two years, we had not yet achieved this stage of depravity. Though, at times I did think him mad, particularly when, on occasions, he would see fit to go to sea often with no mind of the weather, in the most derelict of vessels that boasted little more in the way of safety than an aesthetically displeasing ‘slap on ‘n go’ reinforcement of the hull,  praying it would retain the keel and prevent it from becoming the object of a scuba divers befuddlement.

It seemed to matter little for we were to sail from Mystique, where we now sat in a shanty reggae bar, a mere 300 miles North West to St John of the Virgin Islands.

Each in our own boats we would hopefully remain close in tandem, and if we lost sight of each other there were always the flares, well my old man had them -  the same ones that I had attempted to dispose of in a massive boatyard, itching with fiberglass tumble weeds - so greasy and filth ridden, you might believe yourself wandering lost on the suppurating hind quarters of a giant mange ridden gerbil.

They were five years beyond there expiry date. “Nah, plenty of life left in them “interjected my old man.

“They’re yours man,” and that was that. I never did buy new ones.



My old man was a cowboy of the sea and I learnt early that panicking only gains its legitimacy when it begins with him. Sitting across from him, cool beers in hand, I could detect no fear or unease in his ever-tranquil eyes.

It was hurricane season – we both knew it, but, as if under unspoken oath, we dared not speak of it. Certain wild fancies of the imaginations are never a becoming indulgence between seamen about to venture out; for maritime history is steeped in myth and superstition that persist still – one we fervently adhere to: “Never leave on a Friday.” The few times we tempted it we quickly learned its efficacy and now obey it as though it were the first commandment.



We set out early the following morning, narrowly escaping the harbour master who demanded a fee for the nights mooring, and lolled comfortably downwind. Ah, this is what it’s all about: 10 knots of wind, autopilot purring, pot of coffee on the ready and nothing to do but tinker with the sails; little in here, little out there - Beautiful! Just you, the ocean and the calm inducing swish of the ocean.



The following morning I came on deck and pondered the colour of the sky. Storms occuring on land are normally preceded by masses of billowing cumulonimbus clouds, whereas at sea, I am often comforted by their presence, because the real harbinger of heavens fury, the true hell monger is a grey blue haziness much like the one I was now witnessing.

The wind had also increased in power since I was last awake an hour earlier, and I began making preparations for the worst. I tidied the boat and located my tools, including the ever-elusive size 10 and 13 spanners, checked the flashlights were working and located spare batteries.

It is imperative that, should something happen at sea, everything is easy to locate. Lastly, I plotted my position on the chart and radioed my old man, “This isn’t looking so good, I think were in for a ‘bliksem’ “

“Sh*t man, we should of checked the weather before we left.”

“When do we ever do that?”

“Um, we should probably start hey?”

“Ha ha ha, ya next time, later.”

I wasn’t up for a storm, but, I suppose, when is anyone ever up for a storm? I had never experienced one, and apart from a few worrying nuisances tapping the of edge my thoughts, now was as good a time as any! By 1pm the rain was coming in torrents and driven by a constant 40 knot wind. The visibility was horrific and the old man and I were struggling to keep abreast of each other. Our boats were of completely different hull design and though, both fast, his performed well in lighter conditions and mine zippier in heavier winds. Furthermore, where he had a small storm jib, I had only an inner sail which was far too large for the strengthening wind. This meant that I kept running ahead of him, and in order to slow myself, I would have to sail in long winding arcs.

The heavens were unleashing their fury. The sky looked ever gloomy and while tucked away cozily with a cup of ‘joe’ to warm the cudgels of my heart, I began to peruse the last years of my life in search of any immoral, unethical and downright wrong karmic-inducing endeavor I had involved myself in to warrant this vindictive vengeance of Zeus or God or, whatever puppet master was up there holding my existence in the sway.

There was that time I sawed the legs off Phil’s mother’s antique table and carefully balanced it back on, so that given the slightest touch, it would come crashing to the floor, but how was I to know that poor Mr. Ears  would come prancing along in that instant a mug of coffee was placed on it. Poor kitty never did think the world of me after that. Or, maybe it was that pile of turds (compliments of Mr. Ears) wrapped in newspaper that we set aflame on the doorstep of a cop that shared my street.

It’s said that the karmic return of an unrighteous act usually comes back in a nature similar to that of the act committed, so perhaps then it was the hundreds of toy soldiers, some with promising futures, that drowned needlessly in the bath – harmless enough, but what of the survivors being torn asunder by large firecrackers?



Suddenly, I felt the boat turning off course and flew through the companionway to inspect the autopilot. The bracket had snapped clean off and with it, the idea of a smug and helmless night out of the pelting rain, which, at this point, was being driven so hard it was firing horizontally and making it difficult to breath.        I took the bracket below and attempted a quick reattachment with epoxy steel. It didn’t hold. There was no way out of the prospect of an entire night of navigating hell’s gates where I thought the pelting bullets of rain might render me holey, like Swiss cheese, not god, for tonight I was the toy soldier.

I had no heavy weather gear save a hoodless raincoat. The water was seeping down my neck, and within an hour, I had the entirety of my wardrobe, blankets and sheets included, piled on the sink; and there I stood shivering behind the wheel, peering over at Gary, who I thought no doubt had a better handle on things, and I fancied how, from his perspective, I must look a drowned rat! In these times of crises and fear nothing epiphanous comes to mind, only arbitrary and quite ridiculous quandaries: I caught myself wondering how nobody immersed in the Superman epic, acknowledged the striking physical resemblance between Clark Kent and Superman; and why, if a country needed more money, it couldn’t just print more. I thought of ex-girlfriends and how, with each one, it had it gone so terribly pear shaped.



With the mainsail down, I had a clear view of the inner sail and the rip that was reestablishing itself along its luff where it had previously, under the command of the previous owner, been torn and repaired with a length of tape that ran from top to bottom .It would only be a matter of time before I’d be without a sail sufficiently small; and soon, I’d either have to go bare-pole, or make do with a jerry rig sail constructed of filthy underwear.

My bilge pump retired soon there after. True to the whims of sailing, problems at sea are gregarious and only occur with a cumulative snowball effect. My situation was coming undone. The wind carried its ascent into the fifties and by nightfall it had leveled off at sixty knots.

Fear sets in, and I can now tell it’s a good time to panic, partly due to the slight tremble in my Petes voice, but I was mostly convinced by his statement, “The hurricane plane is flying over. Now’s a good time to panic.” He was even toying with the idea of abandoning ship and joining me on my far more ‘sea worthy’ boat should the wind reach hurricane speed.

I welcomed the consensus to drop all sails, tie up the helm, and just go to sleep. It was quite safe; there would be no ocean traffic because, surely, we were the only idiots out there.

I slept a full 6 hrs. Pete was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t respond all morning to my radio transmissions. I figured it could be the loose aerial where it attaches to the radio, so, in actual fact, I was never quiet sure when, and if, I was transmitting. Eventually we made contact, “I’ll set the flares off.”

“Oh krikey, the infamous flares! Ok, try some now” In an hour he had set them all off and I had not seen a single one. Turns out, the few that worked, rocketed upward for all of a meter and then made a sudden plummeting turn for the water: the spectacle lasting approximately a second, would have transpired unnoticed had I been tied to the opposite side of his boat.

We would continue alone, grateful the wind had abated and that night, 30 miles from St John I made contact with El Savantes Del Mar. By this time he was out of diesel and virtually without power, save the dregs of his batteries - enough to power his halogen in short flashes, other than that, he was in complete darkness like a caveman at sea. I followed his light and noted the compass heading, and continued along that point into the after-flash darkness. Seconds later the flash appeared at my side or behind and I was to spend many hours motoring in circles in pursuit of what seemed a glow fly weaving circles around my head. When I finally approached him, he appeared more destitute than I, so I tossed a towline over. I had a few gallons of diesel left and was quite prepared to burn it. The swell was still big and confused and made towing difficult as the constant slackening and tensioning of the line caused dangerous pressure on the cleat. Then I heard my old man screaming “Cut me loose! cut me loose!“ The rope had wrapped around his propeller and it was by this purchase that he was being towed. “I’m trying!” I’m trying!” I yelled back as I struggled to work loose the folds of rope on the cleat.

He responded by violently flailing his limbs about like a mad man, swearing with incredible gusto and in that moment, I thought him truly and utterly insane, a ‘humgruffin’ about to loose his final footing on the  diminishing island of his sanity.

I stood there, leaning on the push pit, mouth agape and astonished at how my father, a sometimes rational individual, could be reduced within minutes, to an imbecile bereft of all reason; his nudity adding veracity to the apparition. Later I learned that while I was shouting “I’m trying! I’m trying!” he was hearing “I’m tired! I’m tired!”- obviously infuriated by my apparent abandoned concern for his well being.

Arriving at an impasse, he resolved to wait the night out adrift in the channel between the scattered Virgin Islands where each is almost a stone throw from the next. He was plagued all night by an over zealously lit cruise ship, which are notorious for appearing like massive slow moving Christmas trees, the glow of there running lights snubbing out the visibility of there navigation lights, and therefore making it impossible to determine their direction. I imagine he stood most of the night playing with that halogen wishing it a laser beam that could sever the heads of those cruise ship pilots. I left him to his own devises and punched on past islands with steep falling cliffs that lead easterly toward St John, and in the dark moonless night, they  appeared like lurching black monsters towering over me with claws ready to snatch me up and digest me in their dank caves. Their proximity was stifling and I felt immured within a pressing darkness. My fatigue was indomitable and after a total of 24 hours of helming I was desperately fighting to stay awake, catching and retrieving my head each time it slumped onto my chest, while supporting my senseless hulk with my arms entangled in the wheel. 

I believe I might even have fallen asleep for minutes at a time, and my subconscious mind’s devise for perpetuating sleep was to supply me with dreams of steering a boat, but as with my conscious mind it was also consumed by fatigue and did a shoddy job of maintaining an accurate dreamscape of a simulated real life situation; various props were amiss such a yellow steering wheel in place of a blue one and a t- shirt that I wouldn’t sport at a bingo festival.



The relief I felt at the biting of my anchor on the seabed was inexplicable, and though I didn’t pray or count the days before its next arrival, in time I couldn’t deny the growing urge to experience it all over again. Following that storm I had felt reborn, and I believe that it was through this experience that I ultimately achieved my manhood. To begin, at one end of a bad storm and be spat out the other, was to pass through a food processing unit of the self where the delusions and self deceits, that have you believing your life’s path is in accordance with the dictates of your true nature, are sloughed off at each sudden foul turn of event.  Every torturous assault of the ocean batters the fortitude of your hubristic self, each nerve jolting flog of the sail, each summons from the warmth below to face a maelstrom of heavens arsenal, and so suddenly disorienting, like a sleeping soldier wrenched from his bed by the alarm of an air raid on his camp, unable to bridge the rift between the lingering images of his dreams and the cold steel of the gun in his hand, between the visions of the life his wife would soon bear and the lives he would soon take.



The sustenance of survival at sea lends itself no postponements or deferments of responsibility, but demands a regimental enaction of immediate procedure. Cry, fuss and moan ‘till earth freezes over, but there, like dog surprises left in the garden, the problems still remain and only, with a pragmatic and cool headed approach, and a few Mcguyver-style tricks up the sleeve, can they be effectively solved. The teachings of the ocean are many, but they do come with a small price – a touch of lunacy that never quite rubs off, and the birth of an adventuring demon that craves a battle of wits against a sea of troubles.