the Skateboard

A Day at Sea
by Sylvia Perales

Friday 30th of August, 700 hours, the alarm clock attempts to wake us up. That's my cue to turn on the VHF radio. I get up, walk three steps to the navigation table, press the on button, set channel 80, shuffle five more steps to cross the main cabin and reach the head. Everything on a boat has a different name. Never tell a sailor the head is just a bathroom.

The meteo, or weather report, airs at 703, sometimes a few minutes later. CROSSMED, the French agency responsible for safety at the Mediterranean Sea, transmits three reports daily. We can't miss any of them if we are sailing.

I am back in bed before the report begins. Luis is immediately up when we hear the familiar calling "sécurité, sécurité, sécurité, ici le CROSSMED" ("security, here CROSSMED"). CROSSMED works better than the alarm clock. He sits at the navigation table, turns the recorder on, and jots down a few notes in the logbook while listening to the transmission. When it is over, he changes the channel to 16, where emergency bulletins are broadcast.

I listen from the bunk but don't understand all of the French, even as Luis replays the recording. When he returns to the aft cabin he gives me a kiss and whispers in my ear, "We can go. The wind will be against us almost all the time, but it shouldn't be too bad."

"YAY!" This time I jump out of bed.

We are berthed at Carry-Le-Rouet, a port in the Mediterranean French Coast. We left Marines des Cogolin, located in the Gulf of Saint-Tropez a week ago, and are sailing west towards Spain on Matilda, our 39-foot sloop. A trip that by car or train would take 6 hours, takes at least 6 days of sailing along the coast an average of 6 hours a day.

I put the coffee on, get out two mugs with lids, and get dressed. Each of us start doing our share of our parting routine: throw the trash out; disconnect electric current; put air horn in basket in the cockpit; take charts and logbook out to cockpit; be sure all things are securely in place; all drawers, doors, and cabinets well closed; turn on switches of autopilot, bow propeller, anchor windlass and GPS. Sometimes we exchange chores without even noticing. All of these morning jobs have become habit to both of us.

"Where is that flange we bought yesterday?" Luis asks while searching for the part he needs to exchange.

"Where did you leave it?" I answer from the galley. I wonder how he manages to lose things in such a small place. The area that comprises the main cabin and the navigation table is 15 feet long and 6 feet wide at its widest. Luckily he retrieves the piece before I need to help him search.

"It shouldn't take long." He gives me a quick kiss, lips stuck out so as to not have his beard scrape my chin, then climbs the 4 steps of the ladder that leads him to the cockpit.

"OK, I will arrange things in the fridge and wash the coffeepot.

I hate it when it stays in the sink while we sail." I watch him from the companionway as he walks towards the stern. I know he isn't listening; his mind is on the repair the boat needs. The galley has a "J" shape and with two steps you are out of it. The fridge is a cavity in the corner of the counter that has access through a hatch of about 15x 12 inches. It is about 30 inches deep and about 6 inches wider at the bottom. The box has no shelves, just a plastic basket where we put things that can spill. This doesn't avoid leakage, it only limits the area that becomes a mess. Even with my long arms it is difficult to clean the bottom.

When Luis gets back he checks the motor that is just across the navigation table. "A quart of oil is missing and we have none left."

"Oh, no, another trip to the store. You just came back!"

He checks his watch, "It is getting late. It will be better if we stop at the fuel station on our way out." We go to the cockpit where Luis turns the motor and bow propeller on. He walks fore releases the line that is holding the bow in the mooring, and strides back to the cockpit. I step down to the quay from the stern to untie the aft mooring lines, then quickly jump into the boat.

"We are free." I let him know we are underway, while I lift the bridge and secure it in place.

Luis helms the boat using the propeller at the bow to cause her to turn. Matilda is a heavy sloop and isn't easy to veer at low speed and in exiguous areas without this propeller. I watch out not to hit the boats on both of our sides and push them if we get too close.

A few minutes later we are docked at the station to buy the oil and fill the diesel tank. Once we get out of the port's channel I lift the fenders into the boat and organize the mooring lines. It is past 900 hours when we are finally sailing west and have our breakfast: coffee and a croissant with fig jam.

"This coffee tastes like plastic." Luis looks at the cup as if searching for answers.

"I know, I have been telling you. We definitely have to buy some new thermal metal mugs."

"We have other mugs, we can try using those."

"They are all the same type, they won't be different."

"You think?"

Luis tends to be exhaustive even with mugs. For him anything that has to do with Matilda is part of the gear.

We would like to cross the Gulf of Lion directly to Spain but think we may have to continue sailing near the coast. The passage would be more than 100 nautical miles, which depending on the wind means sailing between 16 and 25 hours. According to the meteorological report a Mistral is expected between Sunday and Monday, yet there is always a risk that these strong northwest winds begin sooner.

Today the weather is good, and there is a light breeze from northwest that is expected to increase up to 10 knots in the morning and diminish to less than 4 knots in the afternoon. The sky is totally cloudless, the sea has no waves, but the swell is about 3 feet of height. We sail for the first half hour still undecided on the exact course to follow. The swell increases as we move away from the coast. When the swell surpasses a height of 5 feet we decide to sail near the coast to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. We know that rough seas predict strong winds. We don't want to risk traveling through the night with 40 or 50 knot gusts against us.

I get our position from the GPS, mark the point as a fix and our heading. With this we begin the dead reckoning, which according to good sailors is the only reliable method to estimate the position of a ship.

After a few miles of traveling the landscape becomes plain. We are now in the Camargue, a region that is confined by the Petite and the Grand Rhône. It is a zone of swamps with abundant wild life: white horses, bulls, flamingos. We try to see these from the boat but cannot distinguish them; especially since we have to sail at least 10 miles off the coast, closer there are lots of sand beds. All we observe are endless marshes that extend into the sea. It is a big change from the rough landscape we have enjoyed since we left Cogolin; where at times the cliffs border the sea forming fjords that are not accessible by land.

This part of the Mediterranean is especially difficult to cross, without mountains to diminish the wind it comes from the north funneling and increasing its force at an amazing speed. It is here, at Le Bouche du Rhône (the mouth of the Rhone) where the famous Mistral strikes first.

Every hour we register basic data in the logbook such as speed, oil temperature and pressure, bilge status, wind speed and direction, cloud type and percentage, atmospheric pressure and water temperature. With the speed we estimate the distance we have traveled and enter the information in the chart to continue the dead reckoning. The rest of the data is helpful in predicting weather and taking care of the boat. Between chores we read, write or just enjoy the ride. Often our readings consist of sailing or nautical literature; we always have more learning to do.

At 1100 hours it is my turn to steer; we usually change shifts every two hours. The one of us at the helm has to be aware of what is happening around the boat even if we use the autopilot.

At around noon the direction of the wind changes from northwest, just opposite the direction we are traveling, to west. We can now fly our sails.

"Up wind," Luis directs me as he paces to the mast.

"Ready," I inform him when I see the wind indicator at the top of the mast points to the bow.

Luis turns the winch clockwise and the mainsail starts to unroll. The boat has a roller furling, which means the sail is inside the mast and slides out, instead of being lifted as in most sailboats. When the sail is out I redirect the boat to our course and he hurries back to the cockpit. From there he unrolls the jib that has a roller furling too.

Both of our white sails are flying. We can now turn off the motor and stop smelling diesel fumes. It is always surprising to feel these two pieces of cloth move 10 tons. Without the motor on all the sounds become audible. The boat opens its way in the water with a splashing sound. When the sails have the wind they need, they purr like a cat does. The sunlight illuminates the shaking sails. I can feel the wind as it cools my uncovered arms and legs and plays with the hair that has escaped from my ponytail. It is then that it becomes clear what Kenneth Grahame meant when he said, "There is nothing- absolutely nothing- half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats."

Soon after the sails are out, the GPS alarm signals an antenna error. As with every electronic device, we begin the troubleshooting by switching it off and back on. We do this several times and the problem continues. When we find no instructions concerning our problem in the manual, we realize we can no longer rely on the GPS to tell us our position.

Sailing occupies us more than using the motor. It usually requires that we adjust the sails to improve the performance or to change directions. Besides, it is so enjoyable to helm a boat on sails that we rarely use the autopilot. Today we have a greener sea, different from the midnight blue of deeper seas. The sun is more luminous as it reflects more on this light sea.

At around 1300 hours, Luis takes the helm. I watch him with his white t-shirt, khaki shorts, and green bandana around his neck, and revel in the certainty his hands at the wheel give me. I go below to prepare lunch: ham and Swiss cheese in a baguette with lettuce and tomato, lemonade to drink. While eating we spot two buoys ahead of us.

"Show me where we are according to the dead reckoning."

"Here is the last mark." I lift the chart so Luis can see it and point our position. "We have traveled over 15 minutes from there."

"Should there be any buoys around?" his brown-green eyes look at me questioningly.

I look for the signs of buoys on the chart and find them, "yes but about 5 nautical miles away from where we are supposed to be."

"What do you mean?" he says, raising his eyebrows beneath the baseball cap he just put on to protect him from the sun. I see work coming, finish my sandwich quickly, take the plates to the galley and come back to measure again and confirm the distance in the chart. "It is correct," I say.

"Can't be, our speed has been 5 knots in average, that would mean we have traveled one more hour."

"I know, it doesn't make any sense."

"Can you give me the logbook please?"

He sets the autopilot while I get him the book He revises the data we have registered throughout the morning then asks for the chart.

"Can you measure the distance again?" he tells me as he hands me back the chart.

I do as he asks even though I am sure the measurements are correct; I had just checked them. A few minutes later we pass beside the buoys and register the time at the chart. This will help us understand what is happening with our calculations. We travel the next hour trying to figure out where we are, making estimates that indicate we have been sailing at a speed of about 1 more mile per hour than what we have thought.

Our only way to know where we are is from watching the coastline. We see in the chart there is only one port at this part of the Camargue, and there won't be another for 30 more miles. Our GPS still isn't working and won't work for the remainder of the trip. Until we get back to Cogolin we will fix loosened cable connections, and even then we will have the antenna error when the boat is on sails. A technician eventually explains the instrument is too far up in the mast and is affected by the tilting of the boat.

We have seen that our dead reckoning isn't reliable. In the evening when we calculate the distance traveled and compare it to the log of the boat, the instrument that measure distance and speed, we will see that it underestimates the distance by about 30%. An error this big in a 100 mile trip would have led us to think we were 25 miles away from the coastline when we would have already run aground. At this moment, still without completely understanding the discrepancies, we are happy we didn't sail through the night.

It is slightly after 1400 hours when, after miles of nothing but wilderness, suddenly we spot Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. From the boat we see a white church in the middle of the town. The sun is high and illuminates the stone walls distinctively. The patrons of the church are sainte Sara (patron of the "Gitans"), sainte Marie Jacobe and Marie Salome. According to the Provençal tradition, the two Maries, who were being persecuted by Jews, fled from Jerusalem on a boat without sail, oars or supplies, and drifted across the Mediterranean until it arrived at this site: an island in the heart of the Camargue, where the Petit Rhône joins the sea. Once established in the kingdom that had venerated the Egyptian god Râ the two saintes evangelized the people of the country, the Roman occupants, and the Gypsies. Each year during May, thousands of Gypsies make a pilgrimage to the city.

I descend to the cabin; change the channel of the VHF to 9 to reach the port authorities. "Capitanerie Port Gardian, Capitanerie Port Gardian, Capitanerie Port Gardian, ici bateau Matilda."

"Here Port Gardian, over." They reply after a few seconds, when I am about to repeat the call.

"We would like to know if you have a place for our 12 meter sailboat," I try to structure my French into their accustomed polite forms, hoping they don't ask questions I don't understand.

"Affirmative, Matilda. How far are you from the port?"

"About 30 minutes," I guess.

"Go directly to the fuel station at the port side of the entrance."

"Merci beaucoup, à bien tôt." I manage to thank them and tell them we will meet soon. I leap to the cockpit excited that we have a place for the night.

I show Luis the plan of the port and point out where we have to dock. What will take us by surprise is the shallowness of the water at the entrance. It's time to go back to our iron sail and prepare our entrance. From the cockpit I pull the line of the roller furling and watch our jib disappear. Luis takes Matilda into the wind while I take a few steps on the deck and stand just above the main cabin. With the help of a winch I hide the mainsail inside the mast. It is always with a longing that we put our sails in, and only because of the promise of arriving at a new port or bay.

As we near Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer the smell of fish and salt becomes stronger and we hear the seagulls cry and see them fly each time closer to us. I place the fenders to protect the hull of the boat and prepare the lines for mooring.

A young lad of about 15 approaches to help us. I throw him a line attached at a cleat that he ties to a bitt at the fuel station; I repeat the procedure with another line near the stern. When the boat is docked I get off and walk toward the port office.

The boy runs after me and says he is the one that will assign us our place. He asks the length of the boat and directs us to the quay at starboard; then runs along the channel to the end of the pier, turns right, reaches the pier at other side of the channel, and runs back to complete a U and wait for us exactly in front of the fuel station. We maneuver Matilda so we enter our place stern first. I hand the mooring lines to the young French and watch him tie them to the bitts, then he hands me a line secured to a chain in the bottom of the sea that will hold the boat in place from the bow. When we finish the procedure I ask him if everything is ok to which he answers "imppecable," impeccable, and gives us a thumbs up. He is so young and takes his responsibility so seriously he makes me smile inside.

Luis turns off the motor and diligently writes down in the logbook the arrival information, and adds to our job list that we need to revise the instruments of Matilda. I go to lower the swimming ladder that is our bridge to port.

We start our mooring routine. Take into the cabin all the things we took out for sailing; connect electrical current; turn autopilot, motor, and anchor switches off; get out hose and connect it. The salt is terrible on metals and teak, it is important to wash the boat with freshwater every time we can.

Our work is done; we have time to go for a quick dip in the sea. I anticipate the taste of the salt on my lips, and the feeling of the cool water refreshing my heated skin after the long hours under the sun.