Linda Kenyon - Sea Over Bow: A North Atlantic Crossing

SEA OVER BOW

A NORTH ATLANTIC CROSSING

Linda Kenyon

2018, Linda Kenyon

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, without the permission of the publisher.

Cover design by Doowah Design.

Photo of Linda Kenyon by Chris Hatton.

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Manitoba Arts Council for our publishing program.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Kenyon, Linda J. (Linda Jean), 1956-, author

Sea over bow : a North Atlantic crossing / Linda Kenyon.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-77324-040-4 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-77324-041-1 (EPUB)

1. Kenyon, Linda J. (Linda Jean), 1956- --Travel--North Atlantic

Ocean. 2. Transatlantic voyages. 3. Sailing--North Atlantic Ocean.

4. Sailors--Canada--Biography. 5. Authors, Canadian (English)-

Biography. I. Title.

G530.K35K46 2018 910.91631 C2018-905150-7

C2018-905151-5

Signature Editions

P.O. Box 206, RPO Corydon, Winnipeg, Manitoba, R3M 3S7

www.signature-editions.com

Send me out into another life

lord because this one is growing faint

I do not think it goes all the way

W.S. Merwin

Contents

Prologue

I am braced in the companionway with just my head and shoulders above deck, holding on so tightly my fingernails will leave marks in the wood. The cockpit enclosure protects me from the wind, which howls through the rigging. But it doesnt protect me from the salt spray, not entirely. Water drips through every little gap in the canvas, around the zippers, between the snaps. A wave breaks over the boat, drenching the cockpit completely, and for a minute I cant see anything through the plastic windows. Then they clear.

Im not sure which is better, seeing or not seeing.

When were in a trough, all I can see is a wall of water moving towards us. Its hard to tell how big the waves are. Three metres? Four? Sometimes they just lift us up, pass beneath the boat, set us back down more or less gently. When were on the crest of a wave, all I see is confusion in every direction, waves crashing into each other sending plumes of salt spray into the air. Sometimes a wave breaks beside the boat and we slew as the water boils around us. Its worse when a wave slams against the side with a heavy thud and the boat rolls sharply, then rights itself.

But not as bad as when a wave breaks right over us with a mighty crash. The boat shudders sickeningly, then is still for a moment, and water pours out through the scuppers. Then it all starts again.

I look down through the companionway. Chris is stretched out on the starboard settee, asleep, I think. How is that possible? His face is relaxed, peaceful almost, his greying hair a tousled mess. Who is this man? And what am I doing here? I could be back at my condo right now, sitting beside the fire, a glass of wine in hand, a big fat book open on my lap.

What am I doing?

NO TURNING BACK

May 22

Day 1

We havent set the anchor properly, just dropped it over the side to keep us more or less in the same place while Chris finishes scrubbing the bottom. He couldnt see the hull clearly in the murky waters of English Harbour and wants it to be as smooth and clean as possible for the crossing a dirty bottom can take up to a knot off our speed, hes mentioned several times. So although technically were underway, weve pulled into a shallow, sandy bay on the southeastern tip of Antigua while he gives the hull one more going over. Perhaps hes a little more apprehensive about the crossing than he lets on.

Im down below making lunch and keeping an eye on a tall palm tree on shore, making sure we dont drift too far. I slice into a red pepper, holding it over the sink to catch the drips, core it, scrape out the seeds, dice it into a bowl, not the pottery bowl I usually make salads in thats tucked away in a sweater somewhere. Im using a stainless steel bowl, part of a nested set I use when were underway. Theyre absolutely indestructible. At least they have been so far.

But compared to what were about to do, the trip from Lake Erie to Antigua was a Sunday afternoon sail. We motored down the Erie Canal, tying up at the end of each day for a good nights sleep, then down the Hudson River to New York City, where we waited for the right weather to set out into the ocean. We hugged the coast from New York to Miami, never out of sight of shore, for the most part, and slipping into the intracoastal waterway, an inland passage running all the way from Norfolk to the Florida Keys, when we needed a break from ocean sailing. From Miami, it was just an overnight sail to the Bahamas, then after an easy sail to the British Virgin Islands, we pretty much island-hopped our way to Antigua.

My dad has been following our progress on a big map hes thumbtacked to the corkboard in Moms room at the nursing home. Whenever he hears from us, he marks our position with a pushpin, loops a piece of red yarn around it. Dad tells anyone who comes in what were doing, where we are now, how he would have done it. I can see the personal care worker nodding as she helps Mom onto the commode. Uh huh. Is that right? A little to the left. Joan, I need you to move to the left.

When shes back in her chair, Mom wheels up to the map, leans forward, peers at it.

Oh my god! I can hear her saying when she sees weve headed out into the ocean, or Jesus! which is kind of funny. We kids were never allowed to take the Lords name in vain, as she called it. I guess she has a whole lifetime of profanity saved up. And a lot to curse.

Mom was in her mid-sixties when she had a massive stroke. One minute she was passing the Christmas cake and the next the plate clattered to the floor, her arm gone limp and half her face collapsed. She never regained use of her right arm and had only a handful of one-syllable words left to her. Yes. No. I dont know, she would say, when she couldnt find the words she wanted, which was most of the time. I dont care, when she gave up trying. She would lock eyes with you then, try to get you to understand what she was trying to say. And sometimes you could.

One night, when she was having a particularly bad night and we were taking turns sitting with her, I watched her sleeping, reached over and wiped a line of dribble from her chin. It was too much for me. I put my head on my hands on the rail of her bed and let the tears run silently down my cheeks. She couldnt have heard me, but then I felt her hand softly stroking my hair. I looked up and her dark eyes were fixed on me.

I know, she said quietly. I know.

Jesus! is probably the right response to what we are about to do. When we set out this time, there will be no more island-hopping. We wont be able to stop until we reach Bermuda, which should take us about ten days. Our plan is to rest there briefly before making the fifteen-day crossing to the Azores.

The magnitude of what Im doing, what Ive done, really began to sink in as we started provisioning for the ocean crossing. Chris, an engineer, has a wealth of theoretical knowledge. Hes been reading books about ocean sailing all his life.

So heres how you do it, he instructed me. Its roughly 2,300 miles to the Azores, the way were planning to go. If we make good 100 miles a day, thats twenty-three days at sea. Make it twenty-five. We should count on a storm every five days, easy sailing two days out of five, and rougher weather the other two. So thats five storm days, ten calm days, and ten rough days.