Poseidon’s Protection by Deborah Hall

 

Anchored off one of the many uninhabited islands, we finally tackled the job of scraping and cleaning the hull of Sun Angel, John’s 32-foot cozy, wooden yacht that he called home.  We had to prepare her for the 60-mile crossing of the Gulf Stream and the trip back. 

John looked ashen.  I swam to him, pushing the dive mask up off my face, making sure not to drop the scraper I was holding. “What’s wrong?”  I’d never seen him look like that before and it frightened me.  “Get on the boat, we have to go.”  His shaky but determined voice sent an icy chill through me.

The beginning of our adventure found us slowly sailing down the Intracoastal Waterway, meandering past mangrove islands thick with bird life, massive, rolling manatees near the banks, sleek pods of dolphin, swimming in our wake and other creatures that make their home here.  After two days, we anchored, waiting in Palm Beach at the inlet where the Indian River meets the Atlantic Ocean.  I was born along the shores of the Indian River, named after the Ais Indians.  My homeland is rich in Native American history, and when I hear the names of tribes and chiefs, Cherokee, Osceola, Seminole, Okeechobee, Ocala, and the Blackfoot tribe, of which I descend, I hear an echo of who I am.

It was here at the mouth of the inlet, floating under a cream-colored full moon, that we popped the cork off a bottle of champagne in celebration of our first year anniversary and the beginning of a nice long holiday cruising through the Abaco Islands in the Bahamas.   

Crossing the churning Gulf Stream is risky in bad weather.  Every summer day a storm threatened and we couldn’t take the chance, so we waited.  Unlike some of the powerboats who were able to make it in a few hours, we relied on sails and a 20-horse power engine.  We had to have calm weather.  John taught me what he could in the time we had before leaving, but I was a novice sailor and not very confident. 

Usually, when crossing the Gulf Stream, sailboats leave in the middle of the night, and often together.  They want to be sure to make the entrance to the Bahamas in daylight and have some company along the way in case of emergency.  Grand Bahama Island has a reef that surrounds it called the Bahama Banks.  Although slightly tricky to navigate in daylight, we were told never to attempt the narrow passage at night.

After a few days waiting in Palm Beach for the weather to clear, we head out at 3:00 a.m.  At the mouth of the inlet, we smelled something burning.  Quickly setting the anchor, John went down below to check the engine.  After poking and prodding around, he discovered a slipped belt. Three hours later, we’re on our way.  Other yachts left this day as well, but none as late as we did. 

We are on our own as we leave the shelter of the river and head out to open sea.

The wind is barely a whisper, so we motor-sail.  Soon after heading out, beautiful streaks of hot pink, yellow, orange and purple softly beckon the sunrise.  We call John’s father and let him know about our late start.  He said the weather is supposed to be perfect, no storms in sight.   

The Gulf Stream is a colossal current of ocean water, 100 kilometers wide on average, which cuts through the sea like a monstrous river.  Off the coast of Florida, although warm, it’s the clear blue color of an iceberg.  It churns out an amazing 30 million cubic meters of water a second through the Florida Straights.  You know when you reach it; its strength and power are awesome.  We motor-sail along, then suddenly feel the incredible underwater current of the mighty Gulf Stream.  All my life I’d heard maritime stories about the Gulf Stream, that churning, raging river of ocean, with terribly high seas, but today it’s calm.

I try not to have negative thoughts, for instance, if we lose the engine we’re in serious danger, or, oh, God, we’re within a tip of the Bermuda Triangle, or Devil’s Triangle as some people call it, the nautical area that forms a 500,000 square mile invisible triangle off the coast.

I watched a program on TV about it before we left.  Scientists may now know the reason for dozens of airplanes and possibly hundreds of yachts suddenly disappearing within this triangular area.  Some people say there must be a paranormal reason for it.  Others say it’s a magnetic pull that causes electronics to haywire.  One fact is, statistically, it’s impossible that it’s human error in all these cases.

The program I watched proved that the earth releases huge pockets of gas on the sea floor, which billows up in an underwater ballet of frothy bubbles.  Methane hydrates has the power to cut the engine of an airplane flying overhead.  Spewing streams of methane bubbles create areas in which a boat suddenly cannot stay buoyant, and without warning, sinks.  When friends of mine disappeared while cruising their motorboat through the Bermuda Triangle to the Bahamas, and another couple we knew vanished while flying their Piper twin engine, everyone had the same thought; the Devil’s Triangle. 

Donning my harness strapped to a cable that ran the length of Sun Angel, I walked to the bow again.  “What are you doing up there?  What are you looking for?”  John asked.   “Just looking.”  Secretly, I was on the lookout for bubbles.

Our cell phones lost reception somewhere in the middle of the Gulf Stream.  Every hour or so I took the binoculars and did a 360.  We were completely alone and without means of contacting anyone; all was blue, blue sea and blue sky, only a few whispy white clouds watched over us.  Once, a huge powerboat passed us and I was happy for the temporary company. 

There is something tranquil and beautiful knowing that you’re alone, floating on a clear sea.  Sparkling light glitters on the surface.  Our skin soaks it up and turns a smooth bronze.  I bath with seawater on the deck. 

For most of the way, we chugged along at no more than 2 knots.  Darkness came, and still no land.  When we finally spotted it on the horizon, we picked up speed.  It was as if Sun Angel saw a resting place and got a bolt of energy.

We reached the Bahama Banks about 9:30 that night.  We relied on the light of the moon as we tacked back and forth, perilously close to the reef.  We radioed in to West End Marina for guidance coming into the harbor.  Entering through the shallow reef is dangerous without help.  Anchoring out to wait until morning wasn’t an option.  It was too deep.  Just beyond the shallow reef that surrounds the islands is the Tongue of the Ocean, a branch of the Bahama Canyon.  We were floating over an underwater abyss where the sea floor plunged to an astonishing three miles, double that of the Grand Canyon.

No one responded.  Finally, there was a voice.  It was from a fellow sailor already safely docked inside who’d heard my pleading on the radio.  He talked us through as I stood on the bow, slowly swinging the huge spotlight from the rocks on one side of the inlet to the rocks on the other.

After a couple of good night’s sleep, and some exploring of Grand Bahama Island, we left and spent the next month sailing from one dreamy spot to another in the Abaco Islands.  We anchored near palm-stuffed shores, usually alone, and awoke every morning to sip hot coffee on the small deck, and dive in the transparent blue-green water for a morning swim.  Afterwards, we’d load Cherub, our dinghy, and explore the quiet beaches.

Nights were more difficult, and found us awake most of the time.  Every movement of the boat woke us… had the anchor come loose, was it dragging us too close to a reef, had the wind changed, swinging us in the wrong direction?  We constantly checked the anchor and were on alert.  One night a tropical storm swept through about 2:00 am.  The lightning terrified me, and we were dragging anchor.  John had to re-set it.  We had promised each other that any time we were at sea and outside of the cabin, we’d wear our harnesses, clipped to Sun Angel.  John grabbed a flashlight, rushed outside and made his way to the bow without taking time to attach his harness.  I squinted and tried to watch him through the pouring rain and the black, black night.  Occasionally I would see the light from his torch, or I had a flash of him when lightning struck, working on the anchor.  Then, I couldn’t see his flashlight.  A bolt of lightning revealed nothing.  Icy fear grabbed me.  If he goes overboard here, I’ll never find him.  The storm clouds concealed any moonlight.  The night was black.  Suddenly, he was in the cabin, wet but safe.  The next day we spoke to a sailor whose yacht had been punctured by a catamaran, dragging anchor.   

One day, we packed Cherub with our empty fuel tanks and headed toward one of the island’s marina’s.  While filling up we saw a huge fishing boat and spoke with her owner.  The name of the yacht was Deborah and she was from my home town of Vero Beach, Florida.  He asked us if we had caught any fish, and when we said no, gave us a tremendous amount of fresh mai mai.  We grilled it with a splash of lemon on our tiny Weber, which was lashed to the deck’s railing.  It was delicious and flaky. 

 

“Hey, let’s take Cherub and see what’s on the other side.”  I said upon arrival at the next island, jumping down below to change and gather some water and a couple of things to take.  We found a footpath that led to an open-air beach shack facing the sea.  It had a thatch roof and stood alone on the edge of a forest of tall palms.

Hanging from the rafters were items that sailors left, each had the name of the owners and their yachts, a single flipper, a broken oar, an old life preserver, even a battery.  We didn’t bring anything that we could leave, so we added our names and the date, next to many others, carved into the worn wood of a table.  We decided that by carving the date and our names there, it bound us to return one day.  We swam in the calm, warm sea, and suddenly found ourselves surrounded by about 30 rays, each a good three feet around.  The water was limpid and clear and I felt an amazing peace wash over me as the rays glided, as in a ballet, slowly around us.

 In time, we started talking about cleaning the hull.  Both of us being procrastinators, we almost didn’t do it, but decided we’d better since we would soon make our way back across the Gulf Stream, and home.

John showed me how.  I made my way around the edges of the boat, dipping my face under occasionally to watch the scraped algae and barnacles float away.  I was swimming in a constant cloud of it and I was sure a rush of fish would come soon to partake in the free meal.  Another reason to poke my face under was to be sure there was nothing too big swimming around with me.  John had the harder job, diving down to scrape under the boat.  He probably should have used the scuba tank we had on board, but he preferred to free dive. 

“We have to go.” he said, trying to rush me onto Sun Angel.  The first thing I thought of were sharks, but John isn’t afraid of sharks.  He surfs Sebastian Inlet and sees them all the time, and in South Africa where there are great whites.  I didn’t think anything here could really scare him.  “What is it, sharks?”  I ask, shaken, climbing onboard.  I put my mask and scraper in a corner and quickly took his as he came aboard.  “No, worse, it’s the boat.  There’s a crack in the hull.  There’s no way she’ll make it back to the States.  We have to hurry up and get to Green Turtle Cay. It is a well known island, if anything happens we’ll be safe there.”   “What do you mean?  How much water are we taking on?”  I asked.   I felt safe close to the islands, but I wasn’t happy about being in between where we were in the open sea in a yacht with a hole in it.  “How far away is Green Turtle Cay?”  “About 3 hours, we should be fine.”  He said.  I wasn’t sure he sounded convincing. 

We took all the precautions, putting emergency gear in Cherub just in case and pulled anchor.  I came out of the galley with a knife, which I placed snuggly near the rope tying Cherub to Sun Angel.  If Sun Angel sinks, I want to be able to cut the rope quickly, I don’t want to have to worry about untying knots.  I was scuba diving once and saw a boat sink.  It took all of about one minute.

We made it safely to Green Turtle Cay, then on to Freeport, where we watched as Sun Angel, massive straps around her belly, was hauled to the dry.  My heart skipped a beat when they told us the crack was directly under the mast, and was caused from jackhammer-like constant pressure while sailing through choppy water, and I recalled the days when the sailing was anything but smooth.  They were convinced that if Sun Angel had sailed through even the slightest chop more, the mast would have punched right through the bottom of the boat, leaving a gaping hole, and us to sink.  Since we were on our way home, it would have happened in the middle of the vast, empty Gulf Stream.

We packed what we could carry in pillowcases, and looking like hobos, walked and caught taxis to a hotel.  At dawn, we hopped onboard a massive cruise ship headed for Miami and home, and as we sipped margeritas on the deck with sunburned tourists from the north, I spotted a sailboat on the horizon.  I thought about our holiday.  We’d gone from the bliss of sailing clear, turquoise water to sleepless nights of worry, from the sweet solitude exploring palm-tree stuffed shorelines to the icy fear of the possibility of sinking.  Full of adventure, and wrought with one near disaster after another, our holiday was over.  We were ready to go home.

Two weeks later, a horrendous hurricane ripped through the Bahamas, leaving Sun Angel with an enormous jagged hole, lying on her side alongside other damaged yachts.

Initially, I was upset with Poseidon and the Gods of the four winds, to whom we asked safe passage before leaving.  Our holiday had been magical, but it wasn’t without an enormous amount of stress.  We barely slept.  There were many situations that could have become dangerous, even fatal.    Why was poor Sun Angel smashed to pieces?  However, upon reflection, I reconsidered and thought how incredibly fortuitous we’d been.  We’d crossed the mighty Gulf Stream and the Bermuda Triangle.  We made it safely through the Bahama Banks, and we did it at night.  Seeing the wreckage of those who didn’t make it when we looked the next morning made us realize how lucky we were.  By a miracle, we discovered a worsening crack in the hull, which would have sunk us.  And, we narrowly missed sailing in a hurricane. 

As they’d been throughout so many of my life’s experiences, there they were again, the Gods, Lady Luck, our guardian angels, whoever or whatever it was, I knew once more, they were watching over me.