HomePestilence At Sea
by
Laurie
Corbett, AP
“Being a little anal,
aren’t you John?” This is not
the way a good captain should address his only remaining crewmember out at sea!
Sunday,
June 2nd finds us on a 35-foot catamaran, just out of sight of land, having left
the Chesapeake Bay Bridge just behind us. John
Fallon and I were the remaining crew trying to get this boat back to Canada,
having sailed from Martinique and having lost our other crewmembers, Grant
Sinclair and Doug Chown to their own busy schedules back in Beaufort.
We had
awakened at 6 AM, in the Intercoastal Waterway below Norfolk, and had determined
that we were going to sea by the end of the day.
We had called, searched, and cried for rigging parts that would allow us
to replace our fraying starboard shroud to no avail.
It was a 5/16” nineteen strand wire, with five strands broken (that we
could tell). Everybody said they
could fix it – as long as we had ten days to wait.
Catalogue sales have destroyed the chandlery industry, and nobody stocks
even the basics any more.
In the
early morning light, John, my 64 year old retired communications expert, hauled
me up the mast to do what I could to get a rig we could trust to Canada.
I took ˝” double-braid dacron up, and found a way to weave it through
the forestay tang with no room to spare. Two
strands of it replaced the 1” nylon hawser that I had wrapped around the mast
at sea when we had first noticed the damage.
We
then had a magical voyage through Norfolk and the Chesapeake; working at the
fixing and stowing that sailors must do when bent on an ocean voyage.
We also got a good look at the big warship that almost ran us down a week
earlier, below Cape Hatteras.
Now back to John and my
disrespectful remark. I was at the
wheel, trying to get the most out of the sails.
I was happily clear of mind, committed to a long trip on the briny blue. John, however, was suddenly a bundle of activity; slamming
and swinging a foot mat all around the navigation station.
I should have been happy he was getting some exercise, but the particular
tool he was using to kill flies was not the best thing to fling around our
salon, nav. station, and galley. The
foot mat was a filthy piece of rag that had served us from the day we found the
boat on land, over three weeks earlier. It
was well anointed with Martinique mud, dead bug, fast food sauces, sea-sickness
spray, salt and weed, droppings and seed. With
me being a rather picky “clean freak”, what I said was the epitome of self
control, as the dust flew and every surface was slammed hard by the rag.
“…
After all, John, they’re just house flies!”
John’s response was less controlled:
“Horse Sh&t! These
bastards take bigger bites than any moose fly ever did!”
I hit
the autopilot, and went down to see if I could restore the peace or at least
control the war. There were only
ten flies, all just the size and countenance of a small housefly.
I was a nonbeliever, and said so. Just
then, two flies I hadn’t counted struck me at the same time on the back of the
leg. Corbett the Hunter jumped into
action, and one was killed. John
was right. There was blood in the
bug, blood on my hand, and blood running down my leg. I too was outraged, although I did get John a cleaner weapon
before joining the fray.
We
spent over an hour killing these buggers, and more arrived while we did.
We never got the upper hand until after dusk. Neither of us wanted to go
to bed while these man-eaters were aboard.
As well, I had contacted an aluminum window sill with my knuckle during
one daring swipe, and ended up with a wide open cut that didn’t heal for 3
weeks. The cocktail hour had been
ruined, and so had the cabin’s cleanliness.
I offered to cook supper, only to ensure I could clean the galley of the
mess before food got laid out.
Two men facing an ocean voyage, trying to manage a 24-hour operation for the next week, and our first challenge was man-eating houseflies. Were we up to this?