Gone Coastal (part III)

07:50

I refill my cup with stout fine coffee, the kind I personally find too expensive to drink. It is an offering from the Vallero brothers, San Francisco coffee importers who are aboard the ship and must maintain their caffeine standards. The steam roils above the mug as I emerge from the companionway. The plume does not whip away, but slowly swirls, confirming there is still no wind. We should round Point Conception at the end of our forenoon watch. There, we are told by Eleanor with a small degree of glee, “the conditions will change.” NOAA, in a droning electronic voice, corroborates her forecast. “Forty-five knots … at twelve feet … building…midnight…” For the moment though, there is not a breath of wind. The sea rises before us in swelling heaps. Visibility is poor. Beyond the bow the world is gray, featureless and void.

Amí, the crew member who Eleanor stood for, seems to have recovered enough to finish her watch, or on second thought, she has chosen the spot for seasickness convenience. She lies curled on the starboard side of the cockpit, a red blanket pulled around her full body and stuffed below her knit cap. She opens her eyes, checks her watch as she hears me say good morning, and announces to the sleepy crew that there are ten minutes left in their watch. Clearly this is not news to the cold men. One nods in silence as the helmsman cranes his neck to see the trays of eggs, potatoes and flapjacks laid out below.

I walk forward, balancing myself with the jackline, and sit on the dog house. Everything is wet and slick. My yellow foul weather pants — not fancy high-tech bibs with fleece lining, but once Ed’s, 1970s working-in-the-rain gear, cut at the ankle to fit me — are a hundred percent water proof. They are anything but cute, but I will stay dry. I sit in boat-world solitude, close to my shipmates but alone, to reflect on what I can see of the ocean. Nothing, considering its vastness. The spray rises and falls as we tip and fall from the top of each silky dome and our bow wave recedes into the fog.

In the moments before the forenoon watch begins, I go below and dig out a fleece cap. In a gesture of hopefulness, I stuff sunglasses into my float-coat’s pocket, refill my cup, then return to the cockpit and wait to be assigned to duty along with the three men coming on watch, Ed, Sam and John. Amí has sat up to make room for the shift change, and I assume to hasten her trip below. Michael, the older of the Vallero brothers, holds his bowed head in both hands. The helmsman, Paul, alternately glances at the compass, the grayness before him, and below where his breakfast and bed await. Two crew are forward, hanging on shrouds, one on port, one on starboard. They stand facing the sea like nautical bookends. Both men sweep their heads to survey the passing foam as the boat races down a mound.

08:00

Eleanor, standing with her legs far apart and her belly pushed into the chart table, glances to the radar screen then back to the paper chart before her. She questions Paul, “What’s your heading?”

“Three-five-zero.” He watches while the numbers roll past the Lubber’s line as we slide down the next wave. He turns the large wheel hand over hand and corrects the course as we climb the next watery hill. The rudder digs deeper as we crest, but the enormous force of the moving wave again bullies the boat off course.

“Debbie, take the helm and hold three-five-zero,” Eleanor commands from below. I slide next to Paul and wait until he steadies the heading. He pushes away as I call back to Eleanor, “Three-five-zero aye.” During our exchange, quick and smooth, the compass has run past three-five-zero to zero-zero-zero to zero-one-zero. I spin the wheel and watch the next smooth roller grow. It looms gray and glossy but broken in the trough by a dark dart, then another. I look to the port and wait for a sneeze of water to erupt vertically.

“Whale! To port. I think there are two.” I do not watch, but attend to rediscovering the heading while I image two California Grays leaving a dashed line of brief appearances fading into the fog. The featurelessness leaves me unsure how much the boat is turning. I watch the compass.

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