and later tuck the first reef into the main. The boat is doing well and I am proud of her as she works her way up the face of an incoming swell then slides down its back in rhythm with the sea. I am glad to be here with my brother, too. He confidently works the deck, making the sail changes quickly, topping them off with a little more downhaul here, a little less jib sheet there, until they are set perfectly. He is an intuitive helmsman with a great feel for my baby. Whenever I come up from some errand below, he’s got her in the groove to windward, using almost no tiller to keep her on course, letting her show us the way. We take turns crewing for each other on the tacks throughout the day as we crawl pass Willapa Bay and evening approaches. Matt remains prone on the cabin
sole with his bucket buddy. We pitched its nasty contents over the side several times earlier, but he is pretty well empty now and his dry heaves are only producing little dabs of bilious green fluid. I have never seen anyone so seasick and am amazed he didn’t seem to know he had a problem with it. When we get in tonight, for we are averaging maybe three knots over the ground against wind and current and will not get into Westport until well after sunset, I think he should call his wife and have her drive up from Portland to pick him up tomorrow. Eric is below making fresh coffee
for the thermos. “How fast do you think we are going?” he calls up to me through the companionway. Before I can answer, Matt croaks, “About two pukes an hour…,” and we all chuckle. There may be hope for him after all, I think.
The sun is setting and the wind is
blowing as hard as it has all day, all of the advertised 20 knots. I am by myself in the cockpit, tiller in hand, rocking with the motion of the boat as it rides through the swells, like some numb commuter on a New York subway at the end of the workday. It is completely dark now and the running lights are on, the red glow from the compass binnacle creating an illusion of warmth. Spray is blowing over the bow with each sea we crest, and though I duck each time to avoid it, I am still wet and cold in spite of all my foul-weather gear. I huddle against the aft cabin bulkhead close to
Suddenly, about half way in, a motionless presence rises from the darkness over the bow, instantly morphing out to both port and starboard. I jerk the tiller over bringing the boat into the wind and I’m shaking. Christ, I almost T-boned a friggin breakwater!
the compass. The cabin lights are on and their warm glow spills out of the companion way. Matt remains on the cabin sole; I haven’t seen him get up once all day, not even to pee let alone eat. Eric is below in the lee settee, his back against the hull, reading, looking way too comfortable. “Hey, Bro,” I call down, “Your turn.” He pulls on his foulweather jacket, watch cap and gloves, and comes up to relieve me. “Look,” I say, pointing north. “The Grays Harbor light. We should be there in a few hours.” The Grays Harbor light is drawing
us on like a magnet, its cadenced searching beam growing more brilliant as we approach. The wind is
slackening, the swells are becoming smaller and the seas disappear entirely. We shake out the reef to keep sailing as long as possible as Westport appears as a low, multi-colored strip of lights on the beach a few miles to starboard. An occasional car becomes a small, two-eyed imitation of the lighthouse as it rounds a corner, its headlights momentarily flashing out to sea. Soon the breeze is a mere whisper and we can see the blinking lights and hear the regular clangs and low moans of the buoys marking the south side of the channel to the harbor’s entrance. It’s time to furl the sails and fire up the outboard! As soon as the sails come down,
the boat begins bobbing in a nautical St. Vitas dance, as we motor our way through the nervously heaving water around us, the residue of the winds and waves of the day. Past the welcoming arms of the jetties the water flattens out. We turn south, find an empty slip and tie up for the night. We knock back a few beers, eat dinner and talk. The conversation turns to Matt’s sea
sickness. Eric and I suggest he give the trip up, but he says no, he’ll take some
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Marine@universityswaging.com 48° NORTH, SEPTEMBER 2010 PAGE 57
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