With the wind pulsating like a
giant fan continually alternating between high and low, we work above deck
unfastening everything that can be removed, eventually stowing it all in the small
cabin below. Hurricane-force winds can rip even the most securely rolled
and tied sails from their lashings and shred them within minutes. No one talks
much. Even the typical chatter on the VHF radio is quiet. Everyone works with a
nervous busyness, dealing with his or her own private fears.
Eventually, all of the sails, diesel fuel containers, lines, cushions, long aluminum booms and loose hardware make their way to our living space below deck. The tiny cabin starts to look like a cut-rate hardware store and has a musty, damp smell. The only space left is a narrow path to the propane stove and a similar one to the head. We’re all exhausted so we try to find a spot big enough to lie down and get some sleep before Bertha arrives.
The heavy wind and rain starts about midnight. Bertha is less than 75 miles from Great Abaco Island. Wild Goose wallows in the growing swells and jerks against two of her anchor lines while the third line lies slack, trailing out of sight underneath the boats’ keel.
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| Samantha swinging in the fruit hammock |
Samantha, Tracy’s cat, begins to look for a stable
platform. Suddenly, she leaps into a small hammock hanging in the galley that
holds our fresh fruit. The hammock swings freely with the motion of the boat.
Samantha seems content to rock in sequence with the motion of the boat rather
than fighting to hold herself in one spot. The four of us have learned to live
in rhythm with the boat rather than battle the motion of the boat.
Mark reminds us we must take a
triangulated bearing every half-hour to confirm our position has not changed. When
it’s time to take our first triangulation check, Mark slides the hatch open and
pokes his baldhead outside. The wind drives raindrops into the cabin that feel like
sharp darts and Mark is unable to see in the stinging rain. He ducks back
inside and closes the hatch with a snap; so much for great plans. I mop up the
puddles with a towel while Mark begins digging in a locker.
 |
| I don't know what you're laughing about! |
“Ah ha!” he declares like Sherlock Holmes
finding a clue. He puts on a red cap and pulls a mask and snorkel over top of
the cap. He looks like a cross between a space alien and a cartoon character.
With protective gear in place and the snorkel mouthpiece in his mouth, he
once again opens the overhead hatch and emerges into the rain victorious. The
bizarre scene is elevated to hysterics when Mark garbles the triangulation
angles through the snorkel and we fall across the sail bags laughing. He turns
and stares through the lens of the diving mask with indignation until Tracy
snorts a suppressed laugh and grabs the spreadsheet from the table. Still
giggling under her breath, she records the numbers. The angles to our
stationary objects on land remain the same as the previous day and, for the moment,
we’re staying in place. Mark huffs back into the cabin without looking at any
of us.
The winds inside the rotating
hurricane alternate between 75-80 mph sustained and blasting gusts that exceed
110 mph. Each gust of wind brings a deafening sound and the boat shudders. As each
gust of wind subsides, the sustained winds now feel like a short lull with an
eerie silence only to fall victim to the next gust.
It’s been four hours since Bertha
began and the anchors on Wild
Goose hold firm to the bottom. The wind suddenly stops as the eye,
or center core, of Hurricane Bertha crosses over the island. Blue skies reign overhead,
but after the deafening noise and constant lurching of Wild Goose, the
sudden quiet seems foreboding. Harried boaters and islanders emerge from
the burrows of their safety and check for broken equipment or damage. The local
merchant serving as central command reports on the radio there are no injuries
and only one boat has blown onto the shore.
As quickly as the wind stopped, Bertha begins to blow about a half hour later and this time from the opposite direction. Wild Goose wallows back and forth raising her bow and thrusting against the two forward anchors before shifting her stern and pointing her nose into the new direction riding hard on her previously slack anchor.
By late afternoon, the sustained winds moderate to 55 mph and gusts clock in at 90 mph. Although the wind hardly seems moderated, I’m relieved to think it’s almost over. My relief is short lived when Mat stands up and proclaims he suffers from cabin fever and claustrophobia. To relieve this malevolent condition, he’s going on deck to take a shower. He starts peeling off his clothes.
“A 50-mph wind can blow a person overboard,” I lecture. Mark is no help standing in the open hatch looking like a space alien as he hunts for triangulation points.
Donning a bright blue harness that fastens around
the chest and connects to a safety line, Mat grabs a bar of soap and heads up
the stairs and out onto the cabin top. Standing naked in a pressure wash
of driving rain, he sings Willie Nelson’s “Crazy” at top of his
lungs like Pavarotti on stage at the Met. Horns blow and voices shout over the
radio encouraging Mat’s opus. It seems everyone could use a little levity
at this point.
Evening arrives and Bertha bids her good-bye. The
final tally for Marsh Harbor: two sailboats blew onto the shore inside the
harbor, scores of homes and businesses had significant damage and six people
were injured. Wild Goose and her fledgling crew persevered Bertha’s
attack unscathed. It was our first test, one of many over the next six years
and forty-thousand miles we sailed aboard Wild Goose. Hauling the sail
back up the mast, we prepared to leave Marsh Harbor and continue our cruising
in the Bahamas Islands. I know there will be other rounds to battle and more storms
to endure, but now that I’ve met Bertha, I have a new confidence that stems
from experience. Just the same, I’d prefer not meeting another wild
Bahamian named Bertha anytime soon.
