Holding On

Holding On Emilie M Pryor

The day started like many others that August.  From below deck I climbed out into the salty air, said good morning to Dad, and hello to the captain.  Mom called up that breakfast was ready and we sat in the cockpit eating. Gulls swirled nearby. A light breeze pushed ripples over the slate blue surface.  Dad turned on the weather radio and we discussed the day’s plan. The marine weather forecast was constant presence when we sailed. Reporting was the same man with his monotone, almost mechanical voice.  The sequence never varied: air temperature, weather conditions, wind speed and direction, wave height. There was nothing unusual that day, just a light, steady breeze when often the mornings were still. 

We set off around 8:00 a.m., our destination about six hours sail.  We made this passage many, many times. It was familiar and easy - straight out of Padanaram harbor past waterfront houses and boats at mooring, then around a large red bell buoy, and south along the coast to Newport.  The buoy was rocking in the waves, and the bell slowly hitting back and forth, sending a deep clang. The wind picked up and we turned into it, then unfurled and raised the mainsail and jib. At first the sails flapped, shaking the lines and shackles at the end.  Then we grabbed each line and pulled around winches to tighten as Dad eased off to starboard and the huge white canvases filled with air. He reached down and turned off the engine, a moment we all treasured - when nature took over with her wind and waves and all mechanical noise ceased.

Marine forecasting was the same as earlier, but true conditions had changed.  After about an hour we hit stronger winds and higher seas. Eventually the marine radio updated, announcing three to five foot seas and 10-15 knot winds.  This seemed right. But after another hour it really started to blow and the seas built up; we had pulled away from the land break and shelter of the Elizabeth Islands.  Our boat was heavy and strong and we had been through rough seas before. But confidence was now mixing with caution as we watched the sea around us.

We started discussing closer destinations.  Newport was still pretty far away, but there actually wasn’t a good alternative.  Instead sails were trimmed. The boat heeled way over, taking water on the deck and pushing hard against the high waves, which also slowed us down.   Marine weather radio held steady at the earlier report: three to five foot seas; 10-15 knot winds. At this point we knew it was wrong. We just didn’t know when they would catch up with true conditions, or more importantly, what was ahead.  And quickly, almost out of nowhere, we were in a gale. Dad and the captain yelled to be heard, and decided to pull in the sails further and attempt Newport under power. The seas were enormous. Each wave sent us hard down into a huge gully, thrusted us back up the other side only to face another and then another.  The captain made his way, harnessed, out onto the deck, constantly awash and slippery from endless waves of water. He managed to hang on and get the sails down.  

Dad seemed completely in control at the helm, but he was soaking wet from the spray and uncharacteristically serious.  No talking. Just seeing everything, and holding hard onto the wheel. The waves towered and lurched - either a wall of water next to us or spreading across the sea, menacing.  Mom and I stayed sitting, almost glued motionless to our seats in the cockpit, listening to the marine radio and the howling wind. Soon we heard two may-days coming out from the radio - a 40 foot sailing vessel and then from a fishing boat.  We couldn’t see them, but feared the worst - a capsize in these seas. Our boat groaned, the rails dipping under the water on our starboard side, then pitching way over, rolling far to port. Again and again into the massive waves. It seemed impossible that we wouldn’t go over.   At one point I couldn’t take it any longer and staggered below deck to the floor and lay down, covering my head with my arms. I just couldn’t watch those waves threatening to capsize our beloved home. Each moment seemed to last forever, and all I could imagine was being thrown, gasping, into the ocean.  I was fourteen years old and terrified.

Finally Dad called out - he spotted the Newport light, a fixed mark lighthouse outside the main entrance to Narragansett Bay.  I rose slowly, still grasping the table and stair railing to steady against the rocking, and climbed up the steps into the cockpit.  He smiled at me tentatively and I sat, holding onto Mom. We were not yet out of danger. In the near distance a huge Coast Guard cutter was making its way into the storm, pitching way forward into the waves then back - even that large ship struggled to move forward.  But somehow seeing that rescue ship, on its way to help someone, and being closer to the Bay entrance gave a little relief, and hope. Eventually we made it into the wide bay opening. Land was on either side of us. My fear started to ease.  

The waves pushed us forward, rocking forward and back, a steadier rhythm without danger. Once safely at anchor Dad said he had never experienced such rough seas, and he too admitted to being scared.  We were lucky, he said. But ever since that day I have been afraid at sea, even if the conditions aren’t very rough. It was one of my favorite places to be. Now there is always fear just below my surface.  I can’t let go.