The Storm

Anxious eyes look into mine as I awake. “Skipper jy moet kom kyk'' the words soft, the tone quavering. My brain registers the movement of the bunk. Big sea running I think. Quickly I pull my sea boots on and stick my head outside. One look at the heaving sea and my bowels turn to water. First stop the head, look outside again, and back to the head. With a purged intestine and a hollow feeling in my chest I run up the stairs to the wheelhouse.?

Looking around I take stock of the situation. Position, 40 nautical miles southwest of Cape St Blaise. Course 235 degrees magnetic. Wind North Westerly approximately 30 knots. A huge Southerly swell is being whipped into a frenzy by the wind blowing across it. The raging sea is a series of mountainous peaks breaking in all directions with foaming spume being torn off the tops by the howling wind.?

The 65 ft trawler rears up the mountain of water rushing toward it, the stern clear of the trough and the crest of the wave hanging menacingly over the bow. The bow cleaves the curling crest and the trawler stops dead in the water as tons of white water crash over the forecastle and the deck disappears under foaming water. I can see the deck partitions breaking loose and see pieces of broken timber carried overboard by the rushing water. The great weight of water forces the trawler down into the back of the wave. Timbers groaning the ship rises to the surface just to take more white water over the bow. She can’t take much more of this I think and start to try to ensure our continued survival.??

First things first, throttle back and disengage the autopilot. The sea is a confused tangle of crests breaking in all directions. As the next series of crests race towards us I need to decide which I will turn and face and which to shrug off and hope for the best. Big swell from the south… spin the wheel to port and ram the throttle forward… amidships the wheel and as the bow starts to rise close the throttle and shift the gear lever into neutral… feeling the thud of the crest sledging into the bows… see the white water crash on board two meters deep… the moment of weightlessness breaking free from the weight of water followed by the stomach hollowing plunge down the back of the swell to plunge deep into the trough with the next monster bearing down on us. Ram the gearbox into gear and open the throttle… decide which foaming peak I don’t want to receive broadside on and spin the wheel to face the lesser evil… feel the rushing lift of the bow… tense for the crash of the weight of water and the terrifying plunge into the trough… expecting with each one to hear the rending of timbers as the ancient trawler disintegrates?

Hurried forays below decks snatched when conditions permit to check the levels of water in the bilges. Closing your mind to the squirts of water from where the caulking is being forced from between the flexing timbers. The water falling like rain through the peeling strips of caulking hanging from the deck beams onto the straining machinery below. Ignore the thought that if the falling water shorts out the roaring generator and the pumps stop, we are doomed.?

Over and over, mind numbing hour after mind numbing hour. Hours of watching?

Cape Agullhas creeping ever so slowly nearer on the active radar plotter. Relief when the anchor roars over the side in 8 fathoms in the lee of Cape Agullhas. Ignoring the first hot food or drink for 2 days I utter a heartfelt prayer of thanks before falling into an exhausted sleep.?