When I was a young boy I used to go to Arpoador rock, the promontory that separates the Copacabana and Ipanema beaches, where I spent hours looking at the sea, imagining adventures I intended to have some day. The horizon ahead seemed to be unattainable, penetrable only in my imagination. Very early I was fascinated by books on the sea literature, such as the classics Moby Dick by Herman Melville, The Sea Wolf by Jack London and many others that fell into my hands. A little later I discovered the narratives of the great navigators, those of Magellan, Cook and Bouganville, and the world of cruising under sail in the books of Joshua Slocum, Alain Gerbault, Harry Pidgeon, Vito Dumas… A vague desire for adventure then began to transform into an obsession. One of the first sea stories I read was Joshua Slocum lesser known The Voyage of the Liberdade in which he relates the saga after the loss of his third clipper in the Bay of Paranaguá some 400 miles southwest of Rio, a mishap that would bar him from the command of any other commercial vessel. Stranded in that remote place, he built an open decked sailing canoe to take his wife and children back to Massachusetts. The name Liberdade commemorated the day of their departure, 18 May 1888, which was also the date of the abolition of slavery in Brazil. Slocum’s transformation of failure into a successful feat was a key factor in forming my character at the time. I dreamed of possessing a canoe, having a table cloth for a sail and voyaging over the seven seas, preferably in the company of a future beloved one. Already a teenager I read the book Trekka around the World. That story exerted the most profound influence on my young soul, feeding the most exciting, but more realistic, cruising dreams. The account of the circumnavigation accomplished by that simple man, having his own work as the only means of support, was an example worth 7 following. The fact that he chose a twenty foot ocean sailing boat for his travels, agreed entirely with my own thoughts, that a boat didnt need to be large to be seaworthy and that happiness wasnt necessarily proportional to boats length. John Guzzwells description of his adventurous passages simply fascinated me, and from then on that became my reference book. Amazingly, in this world of billions, destiny would bring me in contact with my two heroes, directly in the case of John Guzzwell, when we worked together and became friends while building the largest cold-moulded yacht yet, the impressive ketch Antonia constructed in Porto Alegre, Southern Brazil and being acquainted with Christian Lundgreen, the great grandson of the man who freed Slocum from jail in Recife, the city that would receive us with open arms nine decades later. He had been arrested under the charge of not having paid dockage in a previous call at that port. . When I was nineteen I managed to join the Yacht Club Rio de Janeiro as a sailingmember and, with the savings from my first job, I bought a second-hand centreboard boat, a Snipe one-design named Batuque+. [+ ‘Batuque’ means drumbeat, referring to the rhythmic drumbeat of the samba] The purchase was a bargain but she required major repairs. I had to learn how to stop a troublesome leakage where the bottom planks joined, lapping the leaking seams by applying butt straps with phenolic glue. This was my first important lesson - a carvel-built+ [+The planks of a carvel built hull are flush, whereas the planks of a clinker-built hull overlaps] hull is something of the past and should be avoided. A hull must be watertight above all else! At that time the masts were wooden, and the sails cotton. In my Snipe the groove in the mast was a bit tight, on humid days requiring the help of a second person just to hoist the mainsail. This handicap would become a source of concern during my apprenticeship. I did my best to improve the Snipe. When I thought it was sufficiently prepared to start going out, I invited a friend, another totally inexperienced sailor, to join me for the first trial. We arrived at the club late in the afternoon, hoping to be ready to go sailing without delay. It was during the week, and such was my urge to start using the new acquisition, that I intended spending the whole night at sea and return to work on the following morning. We began preparing the boat straightaway. After making various mistakes and having difficulties with cotter pins that didn’t fit and halyards that refused to turn around in sheaves, finally, six hours later, we felt it was time to launch the boat. Using the clubs crane, we managed to get the Snipe down into the clubs basin and jumped aboard in a hurry. That was a magic moment! For the first time I held the tiller of my own boat with the right to go wherever I pleased. At the clubs basin there was not a breath of wind, which is frequently the case in Rio at night. Once freed from the crane belts, we drifted for about half an hour just to cross the first thirty meters of water to the basin entrance, which would leave us in Botafogo Cove. Despite the long time spent in assembling the boat, we found we had forgotten to put the anchor aboard. This caused me a terrible feeling of anxiety and just for peace of mind I decided to return for it. My friend used the paddle, while I held the helm in the direction of the steps in front of the clubs verandah. With only a meter or so to reach the quay, I went forward and jumped ashore. But I didn’t take into account the law of action and reaction. With the impulse, the boat went backwards and I slipped on 8 the wet cement, falling into the water and hitting my chin against the sharp edge of the first step. When I got up, I wiped my hand on my shirt and felt blood gushing down over my chest. My friend, who was laughing at my fall, suddenly became silent. Jumping out of the boat and forgetting to tie it to the bollards ashore, he went with me to the clubs social saloon in search of help. We passed a table where a few members were playing cards. Seeing me covered in blood, a woman in the group almost fainted. Not wanting to upset anybody, my friend and I took a taxi to the nearest hospital, where, after having stitched my chin, the doctors wanted to know how I had managed to get such a bad wound. Meanwhile, the boat, which represented all my savings, went sailing around the bay like a resurrected Flying Dutchman. By sheer luck some sailors found her drifting unattended and brought her back to the club. As soon as my chin had healed, I called my friend for another trial. This time we planned a daring trip to Jurubaíba, a lonely island deep inside the bay. For this trip we prepared the boat less chaotically, leaving the quay with the afternoon breeze, attempting to accomplish the most exiting adventure of our lives. At nightfall the wind fell but Jurubaíba was still a mile ahead of us. Using the paddles and taking advantage of any puff of wind, we finally arrived there at about 10 o’clock. Proudly we dropped anchor in the lee of the island, feeling like corsairs arriving on a deserted beach. After tidying the deck, we ate our last sandwiches and went ashore. There we found a couple that had arrived a few hours earlier in a kayak smaller in size than our boat, made of waterproof canvas and wooden ribs. Seeing how comfortably they were installed in their camping tent made us realise how unprepared we were for that journey. We couldnt help feeling humble, dazzled with their efficiency. During the course of our conversation, we found out that our neighbours were Frank Schaeffer and his wife, well- known painters and seasoned sailors. After listening to many interesting stories, we wished them good luck and returned to our boat. Once aboard we improvised a makeshift tent, using the mainsail as cover, stretching it over the boom. It was July and the night was chilly. We tried to sleep on deck, but started feeling terribly cold. Not being able to put up with it any longer, we tried for a better shelter under the after deck, but didnt count on the discomfort of the frames pressing against our ribs. At dawn the temperature was unbearable, so, the only thing left for us to do was to blame our own stupidity and wait for the rising sun to heat our chilled bones. If that was what cruising was all about, what a hell of a night we had to remember! As soon as the sun rose we hoisted sails, dying to return home. When we arrived we found our parents on the clubs verandah terribly worried, since my friend hadnt warned his family that he was going to spend the night out. They were so desperate that they considered hiring a helicopter to search for us. A few days after the excursion to the deserted island, there arrived in Rio from England on his way to South Africa, a solitary sailor. His boat was called Collin Archer, in honour of the famous Scottish designer who immortalised the double-ended Scandinavian hull shape. Donald Shave, ironically a bearded man, instantly became a friend of mine, or so I thought. I frequently called by his boat on my way home to listen to his stories and to absorb what I could of his experience. I would stay till late in that cosy cabin, illuminated by the light of a paraffin lamp, drinking tea prepared on a gimballed Primus stove, all being absolutely new experiences for me. Only after many yawns would I leave, promising to be returning the next evening. 9 That atmosphere of adventure excited my imagination and, during one of these visits, I confided to him my intention of sailing alone from Rio to Cabo Frio aboard my Snipe. Cabo Frio was his landfall when reaching South America and there he endured the brunt of a violent cold front that lasted for the remaining eighty miles of his trip. I expected him to discourage me, but instead he just said: “You must be a brave man!” That was a dangerous statement. To be considered a brave man for something I had still to do, put me in the difficult position of having to go ahead so as not to be called a liar. I began to consider going to Cabo Frio in a Snipe for various reasons. In the first place it was a training for future adventures. I also believed that a small boat would be capable of going out to the open sea, a claim that was considered heresy among the masters of the clubs verandah. In spite of other peoples opinions, I was already using Batuque as an ocean sail boat. The trips to Copacabana, Ipanema and the islands in front of Rio were frequent, and my sailing abilities were improving rapidly. In all those excursions, no matter the weather, the Snipe behaved surprisingly well, reinforcing my feeling that she was sufficiently seaworthy to be trusted when sailing on the open sea. In January 1958, six months after acquiring my valiant Snipe, I left Yacht Club Rio de Janeiro in absolute secrecy, intending to sail to Cabo Frio. My club mates, accustomed as they were to my constant escapades, didnt suspect that the abnormally large storage of supplies under the Snipes fore deck weren’t compatible with a day sail. That afternoon a hard easterly breeze created a sea of white caps just at the entrance to the bay. With difficulty I rounded the point near the Sugar Loaf and started tacking painfully in the direction of Itaipu beach at the other side of the bar. During the worst gusts the boat nearly capsized and each time a wave broke on the foredeck water cascaded into the bilge. After hours of steering and bailing simultaneously I managed to reach Itaipu, anchoring there to get some rest. I felt so exhausted, it wasnt difficult to sleep curled up on top of the stern deck, with my feet hanging overboard and holding onto the jib sheet so as not to fall into the sea. At daybreak, after eating a sandwich for breakfast, I hoisted sails to carry on. With the morning land breeze, it was a fantastic run. In less than six hours I was in Ponta Negra, some eighteen miles ahead. It was lunchtime and the easterly wind that blew so hard the day before, started blowing again with the same strength. Unable to beat against that stiff wind, I decided to anchor and save my energy for the next stretch. At that time, the community of fishermen who lived on the lee of that point used sailing canoes for their daily work. What a privilege it was to witness their going to sea early in the afternoon, watching their canoes gliding towards the horizon. It was also a scene of rare beauty to see them coming from the blue, their white sails tinted pink by the last rays of the sun. When reaching the breakers, they doused their sails in seconds, removed the masts and, without loss of speed, surfed for the last few metres, having the help of all the community to draw their canoes up the beach. Even though the rocking was intense, I slept a lot better that night, maybe because of the poor rest of the night before. At daybreak, I raised anchor and left with the 10 morning land breeze. As I expected however, the afternoon southeaster came back with the same strength as on the previous days. A coaster overtook me with its deck washed by the waves that hit its topsides, while my brave dinghy climbed them with great liveliness, only tumbling when a white cap broke right on top of us. It was then necessary to bail frantically to keep the water in the bilge at an acceptable level, ensuring that food and other belongings remained dry. Night fell without the slightest relief in the weather. With the passing hours, I began to feel terribly tired and, for the first time in my life, had hallucinations. Suddenly I found myself talking to a little dark boy who was hiding behind the jib. He would ask me things and I would answer, Im not sure if dreaming or talking aloud. A sharper jerk, or a wave breaking on my face, and I would be jolted into consciousness. Later, during the early hours, a large fire on the coastal hills was cause for other fantasies. Then I was comfortably installed in a house not very far away, while a fire threatened the place where I was. During the short spells of consciousness, I tried to understand what that intense light ahead of me meant. At dawn, my drowsiness diminished, and I could distinguish Saquarema Church, a prominent landmark of my intended next stop. Around midday I dropped anchor in front of the village, beyond the line of breakers. Symbolically that was the point of no return, since it was more than half the distance from Rio to Cabo Frio. My arrival caused a commotion in that little place. It seemed that everybody left their houses and gathered on the beach to see the little boat that arrived from God knows where. Seeing that crowd there, I jumped overboard and swam in their direction. When I finally stepped ashore after three days aboard my nutshell, I felt like a drunkard, seeing everything spinning around me. Among the crowd there was a lady, dressed in a tourist fashion, who undoubtedly didnt belong to the local community. Showing no embarrassment, she invited me for lunch at her beach house, where she was spending the summer holidays. She wanted to hear first-hand the unusual story I certainly had to tell. I tried however to convince her about the inadequacy of the anchorage and the risk of loosing my boat if left unattended on that unsheltered shore. Taking control of the situation, she called an elderly man who seemed to be the local leader, and after talking to him, returned to tell me about the fishermens offer to haul the boat up the beach, keeping her safe from any danger. That was all I could ask for, and I promptly agreed. Less enthusiastically than when arriving, I swam back to the boat to bring her ashore. After lifting the centreboard and removing the rudder, I raised anchor and started paddling towards the surf. Concerned about the implacable sequence of breakers that Batuque would inevitably have to pass through, I paddled towards the surf line, unable to recede if a freak wave happened to break at that exact moment. But that day luck was on my side. With the help of about thirty men, I felt the boat being lifted and pushed up the beach slope until I could jump out without wetting my feet. After a delicious lunch, when I hardly said a word, since my first concern was savouring that gorgeous meal, I was asked to recount my little odyssey in every detail. Perhaps from pity, or just for the fun of having a crazy chap at her home, my hostess invited me to stay the night. Once again the offer was accepted with alacrity. How could I say no to such a gentle invitation, especially after being introduced to her charming daughter? They offered me the guestroom over the houses garage and, with very bad manners, I asked 11 permission to leave right away and get some sleep. This was about two p.m. and I asked them not to worry if I didnt wake up for supper. Late at night, I was awoken by the noise of youngsters entering the room, enquiring about whom was that stranger sleeping in one of the beds. I pretended not to hear them, and immediately fell asleep again. The boys were part of the family and had been expected for the night but, as my friends in the house were already asleep when they arrived, they werent aware who I was. In the morning it was an occasion for mutual teasing when we were introduced. I hadn’t the slightest inclination to leave next day. After going for a walk with my hostesss pretty daughter, I played a game of volleyball and went for a swim. After another excellent lunch, I once again asked permission to take a siesta. If they had not woken me up, I would have slept till next day. After dinner my hostesss daughter and I went for another walk under a starry sky, such as you don’t see in big cities. Later on, there were serenades. That night when I was close to fall asleep, I realised that if I didn’t leave soon I wouldnt do it by my own volition. In spite of the appeals for me not to continue the trip, I managed to assemble some fishermen and put the Snipe back into the sea. As soon as it was deep enough, I fixed the rudder in place, brought the centreboard down and hoisted the sails. The wind was of average strength, so it wasnt difficult to get clear of the frightening swell. The whole community, including my new friends, gathered on the beach to wish me bon voyage, even though, deep in their hearts, they thought they were waving good bye to somebody leaving for the other world. The boat romped through two or three big swells and started gaining speed. I felt a great relief feeling the Snipe in its natural element. At that moment I trusted in my good luck and was more confident than ever that I would achieve my goal. Suddenly, to my horror, I felt the tiller free in my hand. The gudgeon bolts that held the rudder to the transom had parted and the boat was drifting ashore with nothing that I could do to save her from destruction. I was being washed into the breakers, when by miracle a runabout which was going out fishing came to my rescue and saved the boat at the last minute. When lashing the towing line I let the rudder slip from my hands, and helplessly saw it floating away. Before towing the Snipe back to the place of launching, my guardian angels went in pursuit of the fleeing rudder. For the second time the kind-hearted fishermen hauled the Snipe out leaving her well above the tide reach. The repair was quickly accomplished, since only two bolts had parted on the transom, possibly caused by electrolyses. At that time, stainless steel bolts were a luxury and my poor dinghy didnt posses any of them. Now, two glittering new brass bolts replaced the torn ones, and the rudder was ready to endure any demanding load. But it was hard to resist accepting another invitation to spend the night in that soft bed, dry and comfortable, although being less tired, I had to stand the noise of my messy room-mates. Next morning, the farewells weren’t so effusive. Some of my companions were sceptic about my real intentions of leaving. That should also be the last time I had the courage to ask for any favour from them. Without hesitation that friendly community gathered once more to carry the boat to the water. Accustomed now to this manoeuvre, I had no problem in climbing aboard and to start sailing towards the open sea. This time there was an ironic attitude in those on shore, obviously justified by a flat calm, for after many repetitive farewells, nothing really happened and the boat remained stationary just beyond the surf line. 12 Since I couldn’t do much to remedy that ridiculous situation except give a few strokes with the paddle to keep the boat away from the breakers, amid jokes and laughter, the spectators started to disperse. When people lost interest in the event, I was blessed by a light breeze blowing from southwest, the best thing I could expect. In my turn to be scornful, I frantically waved to the remaining people ashore, leaving Saquarema rapidly behind, of which only fond memories remained. The wind increased in strength, the church becoming just a small dot astern, soon to be hidden by the beach dunes. Hours later, when I was already anticipating a successful arrival at Cabo Frio, the welcomed southwest wind gave way to a northeasterly, my tormentor of the first days. In short tacks, I managed to make some progress, but fearing the lee shore, at nightfall I preferred to tack out to sea. The powerful Cabo Frio light gave the impression that there were only a few miles to go, and as I felt in good shape, my morale was very high. At daybreak, I tacked inshore again and to my dismay, the progress was less than I had expected, the strong current accounting for the poor performance. But I had still managed to make landfall where the beach curves in the direction of the island of Cabo Frio, which meant that 7/8 of the trip had been accomplished. I again tacked out to sea, but when sailing seawards, the weather conditions seemed to get worse. The boat was taking on lots of water from waves that washed over the deck, obliging me to keep bailing ceaselessly, leaving me absolutely exhausted. With nightfall, when I was at a great distance from land and with the point of the Cape presumably athwart, I tacked back towards the mainland, hoping that this time I would round The Cape. The wind was terribly gusty, and the waves enormous. In the darkness of that moonless night, a swarm of stars in a cloudless sky, allied to that persistent humming of the wind in the rigging, made me feel a strange sensation of being in dire straits. The waves that continuously washed the deck also contributed to affect my already depressed state of mind. The fatigue was almost unbearable and for the first time I had doubts about my chances of rounding that accursed cape. I imagined the boat capsizing at any moment. I knew that if that happened, I was lost. I watched Orion rising on the horizon, passing through zenith, to sink in the ocean on the far side of the sea. Sadly, when I approached land, the cape was still to windward. Forty-eight hours had passed without any sleep, an inglorious fight against the sea, current and gale force winds. But I was determined not to give up so easily, so once more I tacked out to sea. In this region the winds are as strong at night as during the day, and the month that it blows least is February, with only its twenty-eight days. There were no concessions other than that blessed southwester for the first hours after leaving Saquarema. Then we suffered a serious accident which I was somehow expecting. During one of those innumerable occasions when I let the sails flap free in order to avoid tipping over, one of the seams of the mainsail ripped from luff to leach, removing any hope of beating to windward. With much difficulty I managed to go about without the help of the mainsail, taking the shortest run towards the beach. The wind was blowing so hard that I couldnt leave the tiller for the time it took to lower the torn sail. Sailing without the assistance of the main, all the windward so hardly obtained was rapidly being lost. It was imperative to reach land as soon as possible if some shelter was to be obtained from Cabo Frio Island. I considered returning to Rio under bare pole, but when I tried 13 to bear off, I realised that with those gigantic seas pooping the Snipe, she would soon pitch-pole, and that would be the end of us. The only remaining chance was to reach the nearest possible land. At two oclock in the afternoon the boat rose up on a wave and ran aground on the beach. Up until then my dear little Batuque had been unharmed and I was confident that somehow I would succeed in saving her. I jumped out promptly and grabbing the anchor, dug it further up the beach, lashing the cable to the fore deck cleat. “So far, so good”, I thought. “Now all thats required to is to drag the boat a metre or so up the beach and everything will be all right.” As I was wondering how to accomplish this task with the few resources available on board, a breaker larger than all the others reached the after deck and flooded the cockpit with an unbelievable amount of water. The boat became so heavy that without bailing her out, it would be impossible to move her a single inch, if that. The tide must have been flooding, since with every new wave the deck was covered with green water. Then I began removing my belongings from under the fore deck and taking them further up the beach. Suddenly a huge wave broke over the deck, floating the hull and pushing the stern upwards. When the stern started turning, the boom end dug into the sand and its middle pinched my shinbone. With the fulcrum of the boat being lifted, the boom started pressing against my leg till I heard a loud crack. To my great relief it was the boom that had broken, not my leg. Next, a tube wave broke over the boat ripping off the after deck, opening it up from the hull like a crocodiles mouth, exposing hundreds of nails and screws. At that moment I realised that my dear Batuque was finished. The next wave took away bags, my money wallet, food stores, a small short-wave radio, my Rolley-Flex camera, and all the remaining equipment I had stored below-decks and hadnt had time to remove. I managed to save the compass, the jib, some sheets and very little else. Brokenhearted, I watched the following breakers shredding the Snipe into bits, ensuring its total destruction. My first reaction was to throw myself down flat on my stomach and go to sleep on that burning sand. This would have been a bad mistake, for I would certainly wake up cooked by the sun. I was saved by a swarm of mosquitoes that attacked me with voracity, obliging me to stand up and leave the place in a hurry. Moving like a sleepwalker, I threw away the expensive compass bought for the trip as well as the few other equipments I had managed to save. Dragging myself along, I arrived at the road that led to Arraial do Cabo, the closest village to the island of Cabo Frio. The first human being I saw since leaving Saquarema was a boy riding a scooter. He was so impressed with my appearance of a castaway, that he promptly offered me a lift to the city of Cabo Frio, some fifteen kilometres north. On arrival, I thanked him for his help and only then began to realise the extent of my actual situation. There I was, dressed in shorts and wet-suit jacket, barefooted and without a penny in my pocket. I noticed that people were looking at my odd appearance. My lips were so sunburnt that they were swollen and bleeding, which probably was the reason why people in the streets demonstrated a feeling of nausea when looking at me. Not far away, I saw a group of young men who didnt look like locals. I asked them if they lived in Rio. I then briefly told them my story and asked if they could lend me some money, so I could buy a bus ticket back to Rio. 14 “Say no more”, one of them replied. “Ill give you the money you need to go home”. My last energy was spent arguing with the bus driver who didn’t want to let me on, just wearing shorts and oilskins, and especially without shoes. An acquaintance I met at the bus station lent me some sandals a size much smaller than my feet and only then did the narrow-minded driver allow me on. Without delay I climbed on the bus and sat in the last row of seats. A kind soul woke me up at the other end, and from then on I ambled back home.
Posted on: Thu, 10 Apr 2014 05:04:15 +0000
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