When the scorched winds off the Sahara succumbed, a week and a half later, to some blustery Mediterranean wind of lore, we were somewhere off the south coast of Sicily. Unfortunately, the new wind relentlessly prevented Shadow from sailing west. “Fighting uphill, beating into a gale,” the sailors call it, “Bloody useless head bashing!” I called it and turned us around after several fruitless and conflict ridden attempts to make headway. Nothing weather-wise predicted when that wind would relent, so the Strait of Sicily was no longer an option in my books.
By giving up the fight with that particular wind and heading north I was counting on Sicily itself to provide a wind break. Tom didn’t bother hiding his concern or displeasure with my change of course. Sailing through the densely populated and highly patrolled Messina strait between Italy’s big toe and Sicily’s northeast corner was something he considered reckless and risky.
I was beginning to think any change we made in the plans, meticulously laid in Marmaris, pissed him off. His emails were taking on a decidedly ranting tone so I ignored them. We faced either a head-on constant gale in the shallow water of the Strait of Sicily or Tom’s electronic griping. Email can be ignored, weather can’t. At the time, countries and coast guards were reacting to the relentless tide of illegal immigration and smuggling. I finally told Tom we were taking on the Messina strait when we were sailing north past Mount Etna. Too late to turn back — we were committed to the strait — like it or not.
A hot dry headwind had us tacking back and forth between Sicily and Italy. Boxy faded pastel buildings on the Italian side exuded all the charm of cell-blocks, while up to a mile from shore jet skis and windsurfers jousted with us. There were some close calls accompanied by shouted Italian language lessons. I’m guessing it wasn’t the kind of language you’d use at the dinner table.
The sun was setting by the time we zigzagged our way into the narrowest part of the strait. Rusting ferries zipped back and forth along seemingly random trajectories while freighters and oil tankers endlessly line danced in the center of the channel. Their combining wakes churned up rogue waves smacking Shadow off course, while a strong current from the north did its best to flush us back into the Ionian basin. Newly honed sailing skills aside, we both had it. Time to fire up the engine and clear out of the strait before we got run over.
We were getting tossed around in the pitch dark, nasty chop and tidal currents when the autopilot self destructed with a stuttering grinding groan.
“Jeeeeeeeess?”
“Oh, what now!” We were so close to leaving the strait. Open water was right in front of us. I was so looking forward to standing down from high-alert.
“I think there’s something wrong with the autopilot.”
I poked at it. It caught, ran for a second or two, beeped a complaint and died. The boat, running under motor, burning up precious fuel, meandered off on its own trajectory. “Well, shit!”
The first sign its demise was going to be more than an inconvenience was raising the sails alone while Anna steered. Without the autopilot one of us was condemned to the exposed cockpit at all times. We shortened our watches, sleeping more often, but with less effect. Anna was, by then, competent in routine control of the yacht and agreed to take the night watches. While she steered, I crawled through lockers and access ports below the cockpit floor. Regardless of how much skin I left behind and bruises I added to my already impressive collection, I was unsuccessful in my quest to jury rig the autopilot. But eventually, covered with grease and mad as hell, I’d at least diagnosed the problem as failed electrical brushes in the hydraulic pump motor.
One of Harvey’s contraptions, an avant-garde metal sculpture called a wind vane self steering system, saved the day. In Marmaris I’d hated seeing Shadow’s clean racing lines broken up by what looked like a Mad Max fantasy gizmo bolted to the back end of a decent looking sleek white boat. But Tom insisted and I’d acquiesced. That it would actually work and steer the boat according to the wind, was something I never would have believed. “Ugly but effective.”
“Looks like crazy people are aboard.” Anna had said.
“They just might be at that.”
North of Sicily, the wind subsided and came from the west, the direction we needed to go. The harshest reality of sailing is that there are only two ways to take a sailboat upwind, tacking back and forth covering at least twice the distance, or running the motor. We were too far from Gibraltar to risk burning the fuel, so we zigzagged back and forth between volcanoes and Sicily’s north coast for what seemed like forever. Miraculously, the steam-punk tangle of ropes, pulleys, flaps and rudders called the wind vane managed to keep us on course.
Endlessly tacking into barely a hint of wind, less than half way across the Mediterranean, was demoralizing. “Self imposed solitary confinement in a prison on the edge of a grave.” I called it over and over.
Anna did not appreciate my waxing philosophic. “You want to make this worse than it is with all your moaning and bellyaching? You would prefer gales? At least we are safe out here, nobody’s going to get us.” She was right. We were alive, together and safely away from land and its inhabitants.
Tom’s upbeat emails assured me, though, that wind would come and to be ready for it. Around us, yachts, ferries and cruise ships — there for a good time and allowed to land — added to the sense of exile and isolation.
What little wind we got during the day died at night. With the setting sun we were left bobbing like a cork, drifting back over precious miles. It took several stressful weeks to finally leave Sicily behind. While those weeks of high pressure and oppressive heat gnawed at our souls, I usually slept through the midday furnace while Anna studied English and babysat the boat. She was helped along by watching old TV shows and movies from a collection of DVDs Gavin had included as part of the courier package he’d sent my new credit card in. A bushel sized care package stuffed with DVDs, computer games, books, and things he thought we might need. My own conscious hours had increasingly been consumed with jury rigging makeshift repairs, but I was glad Anna had some distraction and virtual escape from the tedium.
An explosive series of thunderstorms heralded a change of weather near the south end of Sardinia. The pace of everything picked up. Tom’s promised wind had arrived. At first it was a welcome break from the stultifying morass of inactivity, but it quickly crashed through limits we didn’t know we had, reminding us, once again, just how fast things can go very wrong.
Strong wind from behind felt great. Shadow surged along, but wallowed in waves overtaking us. “The wind can drag us through the water faster with the spinnaker.”
“Are you crazy? Are we not going fast enough? Besides, we’ve never used it before.” Anna wasn’t convinced it was a good idea.
But I was, and I wanted more speed. I suggested we might outrun the waves, add a few more knots of speed and make the ride more comfortable. With the spinnaker rigged and flying, the knot meter shot into the double digits. Dolphins came to play in our bow wave and Anna, clinging to the rail at the bow, shrieked with joy at their antics. The boat quivered with speed and sliced through the water like a knife. I engaged the wind vane self steering contraption and tentatively left the helm to admire the dolphins with Anna.
A crack followed by an ominous thunk, a microsecond later, brought the fun and games to an ignominious end. The rudder shaft on the self steering system had shattered like a clay pot. The yacht veered broadside to the wind and waves, pitched on its side and drowned the spinnaker. Anna was thrown into the water amidst tangled lines, brightly colored sailcloth, and curious dolphins goading us into taking up the chase once again. We weren’t exactly sinking, but Shadow wasn’t righting itself either. The part of the spinnaker left above water was filling with wind and dragging us sideways by the mast.