AND THAT IS THE WIND

AND THAT IS THE WIND

By Jeff McDonald

Jake sits on the rear deck of his sailboat enjoying the last Chinese takeout from Ho’s on the big island on his return trip to Baja. A gentle wind blows across his face but barely even ruffles his sails.

“He will go nowhere if this keeps up,” he thinks as he sips from his water bottle.

Any open-ocean crossing is dangerous, he knows this. You need a properly provisioned vessel, a good background in blue water sailing, the ability to read weather maps, and so forth and so on.

“But the one thing you need for sure to sail is the freaking wind!” he screams at the sky above.

The wind went calm about two weeks out from Hawaii, and he has been still for days. There is still another week of sailing ahead if he ever moves again. The more time he sits with no wind in his sails becomes a much bigger problem as the days begin to add up. To keep from using up the stored foods he fishes for his dinner today, bright rays of heat rain on him from above and drain him of what little energy he has to accomplish anything even remotely physical. He sits on the rails of the pulpit, the furthest forward part of the sailboat with his legs dangling as he leans lifelessly forward holding onto his fishing pole praying to a God he barely knows for a fish he desperately wants. Hours go by and not so much as a bite, he falls in and out of a troubled sleep so bored he thinks of going for a swim.

“That would be when the winds came, just as I got good and wet!” he mumbles.

The sweat rolls down his back and from every pore in his body, but that is his indicator of feeling the slightest breeze begin. Suddenly a chill runs down his spine as a light breeze blows up and cools the sweat glistening on his back and floats a tiny piece of paper to his lap. Desperate to take advantage he quickly tucks the paper in his pants pocket and reels in his line because the wind seems to have returned. Walking the deck with a tether is a hassle but a necessary one, and he makes quick work of it. He stows his rod and then takes his place at the steering wheel on the aft deck. He can see, but more importantly, feel the wind increasing. His sails are full, and he is pushing through the water like a champ, the smile on his face says it all.

With the sudden steady stream of precious air filling his sails, happiness drives out the melancholy that had begun to take root. Strange how something you seldom even think of can be so important, or is it important because we have created a dependence upon it? He shakes the thoughts from his head and enjoys the experience of cutting through the deep blue water, as the spray from the bow smashing into the waves wisps through the wind into his hair. A smile bigger than any smile that has ever risen from his normally cool demeanor appears, and he is a little embarrassed when he realizes he is so emotional. The one thing he always tells those he teaches to sail is not to be emotional, to be cool. But today he is happy and heading for home.

The thought comes to his now panicked mind that he forgot to check his bearing before getting behind the wheel, his battery had run out and with no wind, there was no chance of recharging it. He may be wildly off course or sailing in the wrong direction, oh why did he let his emotions get the better of him? He pulls the lock over and latches the wheel so he can go turn on his equipment, the wind turbine atop the mast should have recharged it by now. In the cabin amongst his sleeping and dining areas is a shelf cluttered with equipment and radios, it resembles the cockpit of a small airplane. With a silent prayer, he presses a large blue button and the machines come to life emitting squeaks and bleeps only a trained sailor could recognize, and a worried one love. He quickly takes readings off the small LCD screen and begins to plot his position on the map laid out on the table.

“That can’t be…” he states bewildered, running his fingers through his hair.

He quickly double-checks the coordinates again and then sits back with the realization that he is tremendously off course. Sitting there he knows he must plot a new course if he will make it back to Baja, but how could he be four hundred miles off course? Disgusted he pulls a bag of nuts from the shelf above, opens and begins to munch as he ponders his next move. He could change course, but what if his instruments are wrong? He could stay on course, but what if his instruments are right? The next land he might see is Peru, or none at all. One crunch after another he knows the answer but doesn’t like it, he knows what he must do, but he doesn’t want to do it. Then for some unknown reason, he remembers that piece of paper in his pocket, that’s what he needs, a distraction! He slides his hand in his pocket and removes the paper, it is about six inches long and six inches wide, white on one side with writing on the other.

“There's no wind there! The Doldrums is a low-pressure area from 5°N to 5°S of the Equator. Winds are famously calm there, with prevailing breeze disappearing altogether at times, making it extremely difficult to...” he reads from a torn magazine page.

This tiny scrap of paper that he had in the pocket of his shorts held the answer to the question he asked over and over to himself while strewn out on the pulpit railings, he was in the Doldrums.

“The Doldrums is also known as the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ) because it's where two sets of trade winds meet – and that's why conditions can be so shifty.” he finishes reading.

“Or shitty is more like it…”

From the shelf below be pulls out a large book on sailing and turns the pages until he finds what he is looking for. On the page of the textbook he teaches where it explains about the area known as the Doldrums he has written something in his handwriting.

“It has a bit of a reputation. In fact, a bad one. The Doldrums hold a distinct place in maritime history, having developed a reputation as a potentially deadly zone that could strand ships for weeks on end, causing them to run out of food and drinking water. In the old days, with supplies running low, fear of scurvy, delirium, starvation, and cabin fever, and getting through this mysterious patch of the Atlantic Ocean quickly becomes a matter of life and death.”

Now he knows why he didn’t think of this place because he was on his way back from Hawaii, and if he hasn’t entered an alternate dimension, Hawaii is in the Pacific Ocean.

“What the hell is happening to me?”

He sits silently for hours as his sailboat glides effortlessly along its chosen path, he feels like he is losing his mind. He is better than this, sure of himself, confident, not confused. A gentle breeze wisps past his face and wakes him from a well-deserved rest, his nostrils flare at the smell of new, fresh aromas. He leans forward to slide open a window and take in more of the pleasures the winds have blessed him with today when a seagull lands and stares at him and then down at the open bag of nuts.

“Hungry, are we?” he asks the bird setting a few nuts in the window track.

“Oh no, Birds! Smells! That could only mean... Land!” he screams excitedly.

He bounds out of the cabin and onto the back deck intent to discover if he is correct, and land is nearby, hopefully close by.

“Oh Shit!” he screams as panic ensues.

He frantically pulls at a rope and drops his main sail suddenly to slow his impending collision with cliffs a hundred feet tall and large rocks growing ever closer. He cranks hard left on the wheel as his desperate actions turn the sailboat slowly racing ever closer to disaster. If he had spent any more time enjoying the soft wind that danced with his senses, he would have danced with the rocks and probably a sure death. Racing along the boat grinds against a few rocks and is leaning so hard that he is sure it will capsize but he pulls it out. He is safe, and now that he is comfortable it is time to get his bearings again. The LCD screen on the GPS is blank and now he might have a whole new set of problems. He taps on the screen and the GPS beeps a few times, comes to life, and flashes “RECALCULATING”. Looking away in utter disgust at his bad luck he begins to recognize the cliffs and white sand beaches flying past the window behind him. This is a little south of where he usually drops anchor, but he has been here before.

When he had left out, he had questioned why he was even making another trip, he had done it so many times. He had let his own pride, ego, and years of experience make him think he was the best sailor there is, that he could handle anything. Nature brought him back to reality, even the best sailor is dependent on something, and that is the wind.

The End