Work in progress

The 30-foot waves swamping the yacht didn’t scare Adrienne the most — it was the grotesque angle of her mast. Bent at a sick 45-degree angle every time a 60-mile wind gust struck, the upper spreaders tangoed with the angry froth, stretching like limber gymnasts. Although the boat magnificently recovered each time in the hurricane winds, rogue waves continued to attack from all sides. Unpredictable like water spouts, the rogues had sunk many a ship. And she didn’t desire to be the next victim. She braced herself against the zero-degree wind-chill and pondered her fate minute by minute.

Son-of-a-bitch! Baby, hold together. For God’s sake, don’t wimp out on me now. After all we’ve been through. And Adrienne knew it was true – she probably loved her boat more than her own child. Perhaps God would finally punish her for forsaking her family and plunge her weathered frame into the churning blackness. It could happen, but not now. After all, she was winning this leg and she ruled in the 60-foot Class A category. Out of the six Class A skippers who started this Around Alone sailing race from Charleston to Charleston, only three remained. She didn’t care about the nine or so 50-foot Class B boats, since they lagged far behind her French-built Finot yacht.

The unforgiving Southern Ocean caught novices and world-class solo distance sailors alike in its claws, permitting the latter to founder with a grain of dignity. She immersed her prisoners, tortured them until they became shells of their former competent selves and then spat them out with a tongue-lashing they’d remember for eternity or hell, whichever came first.

Despite the goggles, tears burned Adrienne’s vision and the wind forced her to hunker low in the stern. She attempted to fall into a rhythmic steering pattern. At least it wasn’t raining or snowing, but the walls of water made her lose contact with her tiller every three minutes. And it was bitter cold. Even with a pound of chap stick caked on her lips, they peeled like ribbons. Another monster crashed onto her streamlined deck and she tightened her grip on the tiller. She gazed for a second at her raw red fingers poking through her Kevlar sailing gloves. Hocking a hill of salty spit downwind, Adrienne imagined it turning into ice before hitting the depths with a plunk.

She considered sending out an EPIRB – an electronic tracking beacon that would let Race HQ know where she was, but that would mean she had given up and her boat was lost. The Race Director would know she was in deep trouble. Adrienne could imagine Geoff barking on four phones while wiping his wide brow. Didn’t he tell her about his bad dreams, foretelling a capsize? He’d generate a rescue starting from the other competitors, but who knew where they were? Protocol instructed all sailors to help each other, even if picking up a fallen comrade slowed them down. Her chief competitor, Augustine “Gus” Jeantot, last pursued her from the northeast, but he might be 200 miles away. He’d won the first leg and she’d won the second, and they were never more than twenty-four hours away from each other. They both took risks in their navigation, while the others plotted more conservative routes to Cape Horn.

Fear crept into her legs and lower back. It wanted to multiply and soften her up for the kill. No. Today is not the day I die. I’m not ready. Not ready. No!But what if she didn’t make it? Was she just a crazy 40-year-old dreamer who only cared about the challenge, the win and the bragging rights? What if she never saw her daughter Gwen again or told her that she loved her. Told her all was forgiven. But Gwen didn’t know who her father was and would never know if Adrienne died. She’d been told he was dead, but that was a lie – why the lie? So many reasons, but mainly because I wanted to be the only parent. Gwen didn’t deserve to have two parents who were competitive sailors and had a good chance of dying every time they left shore. The giant mast groaned again and Adrienne imagined the gooseneck pins popping out one by one, severing ties with their load, unable to keep up their end of the arrangement. She stopped thinking about Gwen to preserve her mental strength.

Unclamping her safety tether, Adrienne lashed the tiller with rope the size of her arms and darted through the hatch, her blast door from the wicked chaos. She slammed the hatch sleeve behind her and turned to her navigation station to flip on the autopilot. Desperate, Adrienne hailed Augustine on the radio, figuring only he could help her. According to her computer, Gus, her closest competitor, lay 160 miles to the northwest, while the three others sailed at least 500 miles away from her and the Cape Horn shipping lanes.

Hissing like a pissed off snake, the radio startled Adrienne and she jumped back and then forward, ready send her voice out to the black wilderness. “Gus, it’s L’Oreal. Over.”

“This is Gus. Young lady, what are you doing so far away from us? Have you found the storm already? What’s your position? Over.”

She gave out her precise location – two degrees from Hell and one hundred eighty from salvation and sputtering several curses in French. Maybe sailing so close to Antarctica wasn’t such a good idea, but her route tied into her winning strategy: No risk, no silver. “The waves keep careening the boat. My mast isn’t sounding right. I need to let you know. In case….” Static cut her off, but Gus caught her meaning. He was keenly intuitive and smart enough not to marry her fifteen years ago.

“Mademoiselle, sounds like you’re in a bit of a jam. And I bet we’ll be all in the soup when we catch up to you. If the sheete hits the fan, I’ll be ready to help and we can share space aboard my fabulous yacht.” Although Gus had been living on Long Island for half his life, he pronounced “shit” with an Inspector Clouseau accent. But, according to Gwen, her French accent was also strong.

“I’ll call. Count on it. It may be sooner than later. Got to go and see if it’s gotten worse. Merci. I’m out.” Oh, God, she thought. She heard a brisk banging coming from above her head. She didn’t want to imagine her eighty-five foot mast snapping and falling on her like an oak in a lightening storm.

She sat down on her nav table stool and unlaced her calf-high ocean boots, smelling damp wool. She couldn’t do anything rational with wet feet, so she doffed the socks, revealing swollen red ankles and feet. And trench foot wasn’t pretty, they said. At least the space heater Gwen gave her still worked. She stuck her feet near the glowing grate, while ripping open a drawer containing precious new socks and hats. Another bang, this time it sounded hollow. She poured the excess water from her boots, and found a spare pair tucked underneath her bunk. She laced them up and threw off her cap. It landed near the heater to dry. The thing had icicles around the brim. Adrienne donned a dry hat and exhaled, fingering her gold St. Christopher chain. I want to sleep. Instead, she threw on her red survival suit, which would normally be too hot to work in. She switched off the autopilot, maybe for the last time.

Willing her wobbly legs to rise, she mashed open her cabin door and got assaulted by a vicious windblast inflicting sharp pain all over her face and neck. Where did the sky begin or where did the ocean stop? They were all one gray-green entity, managing a pact to stop the L’Oreal and place a hit on her life. She almost forgot to reclip her tether, but remembered it when she thought of Gwen and then Pop. She had people she needed to come back to. In every e-mail he wrote, “Are you wearing your safety harness? Don’t be selfish with your life.” She resisted yet another sadistic windblast.

She unlashed the tiller, sunk down on her haunches and tried to steer with the waves. The jib was already rolled and the main reefed, so she could use some of the canvas to race, but not too much to have it compromised. Who am I kidding? The wind is a steady 45 miles per hour; the waves aim to swamp us at every interval and I’m too old for this shit….

Adrienne drained her goggles for the third time since she returned to the cockpit and eased her main sail, staring at multiple tears along its graceful expanse. Not good, not good. Her mainsail, or a sailboat’s engine, provided her the necessary speed to keep ahead of her fleet. Flying on bare poles would be prudent, but stupid for a racer. She was staring at a softball-sized tear, when a blast and wave swept her off the deck, pinching her hand off the tiller. She landed hard against a winch on the starboard railing, dicing pain sweeping over and under her left wrist. Clutching her injury, she carefully slid her body away from the salt-stiff lifelines. Her index finger had to be broken and she couldn’t look. More important issues demanded her attention.

The boom swung at her in a death jibe, while her body slammed again into the deck’s bathtub-like anti-slip material. She gathered her footing, but the starboard side punched the water. Now the boom was in the soup and it wouldn’t be long before her giant mast also submitted.

The boat leaned at 90 degrees as she climbed to port and threw open her hatch to slide into safety. Her boat was in a death roll and she closed her eyes to get through it. Locking it closed, she gripped her nav stool as it swung upside down. Luckily the builders had nailed it to the floor. Instead of unrelenting gray, her windows reflected blackness, and instead of her gritty flooring, she crawled upon smooth fiberglass. Adrienne scooted to the controls to engage her movable keel, hoping this maneuver might right her. No good, they were too far gone. She didn’t panic — her mind checked against her final contingency list and her first fantasy priority: Get me the hell out of my sinking boat. Against instinct, Adrienne knew she had to stay on her boat for optimal survival. Up was down and down was up. She heard pots and pans clinking against her keyboard — a skillet hit her on the head and her logbook bounced off her shoulder. She tucked it away into the pants pocket of her survival suit. At least she could still write her words with her good hand. Adrienne looked around her photo album, but couldn’t find it. Maybe it would be displaced by the boat’s heavy rocking. She had to find one photo and look at it again. The boat moaned and the waves sounded like demons against the hull. She lost her footing and sank to her knees. How long could she last with her keel praying to the sky?

She sucked on her damaged finger, feeling the bone protruding. She kept a rudimentary First Aid kit tucked in her PFD pocket. Applying an ACE bandage, she wrapped her index with her middle finger, spitting out her agony with each spin. She clicked on her COMSAT phone to call Race HQ, but it shorted out. She then mashed the EPIRB button with her bandages until she couldn’t feel her fingers. But her despair resurfaced: My boat, my boat. I killed her. There’s no way to right it. Shit, shit, shit.

According to the blips on her screen, Gus lay 130 miles due west. She hailed him again, realizing her electric generator power had maybe a half hour of life. Nothing but static for the first minute.

“Gus. Gus. This is Adrienne. Capsize! I’ve capsized! Do you read me? I’m sending out a Mayday. Now. Over!”

She repeated this cry over and over, her voice rising each time and catching hard in her throat. Still no answer from him, her once-lover. But he’d come get her. She had to believe that. The bandages calmed her finger’s pain, turning it into a dull ache. God, I could use a bourbon shot. Gwen, if I lose you, it’s all my fault. Again. But then I said things I can’t take back. Ever. Of me. After everything I never did for you…But I want to live, say what I have to say, because we’re not finished. I’m not finished. She touched St. Christopher buried under thick layers of Lycra and Gortex. He would be with her now. Her false saint. God is the ocean and isn’t that funny?

The cabin grew colder and the lights dimmed. All she could do was wait and pray and think. And live with regret.

Novel