Rowboat in a Hurricane (28 page)

As Zeta approached, eerie conditions blanketed the sea. Cirrus clouds streaked the sky, the winds stopped, and the sea calmed, except for an enormous swell hinting of distant chaos.

We went through our very well-rehearsed routine of preparing for the storm and plotting the cyclone’s movement. As gale-force winds drove three-storey waves into our boat, we cocooned in the cabin. The centre of the storm was a mere five hundred kilometres away—uncomfortably close.

Not surprisingly, by this time we were terribly sick of hurricanes, tropical storms, contrary currents, and dysfunctional winds. The tremendous fear we’d experienced at our first hurricane was still there, but it had been dulled. We felt reasonably confident that we would survive, but we knew how much discomfort we would soon be in and that the storm would delay us at least several days.

Just as we had with Vince, Delta, and Epsilon, we spent the worst of the weather lying in the cabin wishing we were elsewhere. We dreamed about living on Vancouver Island and growing a vegetable garden. Our makeshift drogue still trailed in the water, and occasionally we went out to check that it was still there. Waves broke over our boat; with our bilge pump, we removed the water that collected in the cockpit. We ate crackers and cookies and obsessively peered out the window hatches looking for shipping and diminished waves. When conditions improved slightly, Colin tried rowing, but he gave up after a series of waves knocked him off his seat and almost broke the oars. Instead we took turns sitting in the rowing seat, steering the boat with the rudder to keep it from broaching. We tied ourselves to the boat to prevent being washed overboard, but the waves still sluiced over us, often with sufficient force to knock us onto the deck.

Eventually Zeta quieted enough for us to resume rowing, and by the time the storm finally dissipated on January
9
, we were rowing full days again. We breathed a sigh of relief when the National Hurricane Center once again bid farewell to the
2005
hurricane season. The official discussion for Tropical Storm Zeta ended with these parting words: “I suppose it is only fitting that the record-breaking
2005
Atlantic hurricane season ends with a record-breaking storm. Today Zeta surpassed
1954
Alice #
2
as the longest-lived tropical cyclone to form in December and cross over into the next year. Zeta was also the longest-lived January tropical cyclone. In addition, Zeta resulted in the
2005
season having the largest accumulated cyclone energy, or
ACE
, surpassing the
1950
season. So, until the
2006
season begins, unless Zeta somehow makes an unlikely miracle comeback, this is the National Hurricane Center signing off for
2005
. . . finally.”

All in all, it had been an unbelievable year for hurricanes and tropical storms, and once again, I hoped this would be the end of it.

14
       
MAGNIFICENT FRIGATEBIRDS
AND FLYING FISH
      

A
S WE CONTINUED
rowing towards Costa Rica, the sky and sea began to look more benign. Small white clouds dotted the sky, and light winds blew from the east. Occasionally, waves broke against our boat, but rarely with enough force to soak me and even when they did, it felt pleasant, like a refreshing break on a hot day. I washed my hair and Colin detangled my one obscene dreadlock, which had formed during Zeta’s visit. I did the same for him. Each day we went swimming, taking turns jumping overboard for a quick dip while the other stood on shark watch. Fred and Ted still swam with us, as did a handful of dorado and a collection of smaller fish. Whenever we dove in, Fred and Ted and the other smaller fish made a beeline towards us, but scattered when they realized we were not edible.

“Julie, there are insects out here,” Colin yelled one sunny day.

“Oh, no,” I groaned. Did this mean another tropical storm?

“No, these are different. They’re sea skaters.”

I looked outside to find dozens of tiny sculling insects on the water’s surface. They walked on water, just like the striders I used to see on the surfaces of lakes and ponds. Their light weight, distributed across six long legs, helps them use the water’s surface tension to stay afloat, and the hydrophobic hairs on their legs repel water. But what we found most interesting was how they moved
across
the water’s surface. They row. Their two middle legs act like a sculler’s oars, while their front and back legs remain stationary, helping with balance and direction. Although I couldn’t actually see them rowing—these sea skaters were too small—I quite liked the idea of being surrounded by other rowers.

Plus, they were a fun distraction from the growing discomfort in my hands. Every night, my hands swelled and became like claws, and each morning I uncurled my fat fingers one by one. After a few minutes of rubbing and stretching, they straightened enough to be of use, but they still hurt and seemed to be aching more than usual.

Finally I confided my worries to Colin.

“I think I’m getting arthritis,” I said.

“What makes you say that?” Colin asked.

“Look at my hands,” I said. “I can’t straighten my fingers. They’re swollen and they hurt.”

Colin looked at my hands closely. “Does anyone in your family have arthritis?”

“Yes,” I said with dismay. “My mom, my aunt, my grandmother when she was alive . . . Hmmm, I’m not sure about my dad’s family . . .”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I think it’s just your ligaments thickening. I had the same thing happen to me when I was tree-planting.”

Colin’s hands looked fine now—apparently holding a shovel all day was harder on his digits than rowing—and he didn’t even wear gloves to protect his fingers like I did. My hands looked like they belonged to an eighty-year-old construction worker. Thick calluses, which had thankfully replaced earlier painful blisters, caked my palms, while my fingers had become plump sausages. My engagement ring was a tourniquet that I’d spent hours struggling to remove a month before.

Besides plump fingers, sunburns, salt sores, and the occasional unidentifiable ache, we were actually doing quite well. But this didn’t stop me from worrying, and Colin wasn’t much better. Minor pains in our sides became appendicitis; extended headaches became brain tumours. So many serious things could have gone wrong—broken bones, botulism, infections, dental mishaps—and since the nearest medical help was an ocean away, fretting about our health was easy. Invariably, however, the pain would dissipate, and then the “life-threatening” condition would be forgotten.

My menstrual cycle was still on hiatus, but I was now sure it was due to ongoing physical stress. With no morning sickness, swollen or tender breasts, or cravings for olives, I felt confident we’d reach shore as a party of two. Still, a pee-on-a-strip test would have been nice.

Our suboptimal nutrition became a growing concern as the months ticked by. A friend of mine, Christine Leakey, sought advice for me from the nutritional company she worked for, Truestar Health. Their
CEO
, Tim Mulcahy, became intrigued by our trip. He realized we would benefit from their nutritional supplements, and that’s how Truestar Health joined our expedition as lead sponsor. They designed a health care plan for us and arranged to deliver the vitamins and supplements. Since we had changed our course to Limón, Costa Rica, we would travel through the Caribbean Islands, making it possible for a boat from the islands to meet us or for us to go ashore.

This new development, which transpired within the digital corridors of our satellite communications equipment, was reason to celebrate. We could now look forward to improved health and an easing of our financial crisis. We toasted our new partnership with Truestar Health with cups of Cplus drink and American cookies.

The Caribbean islands were still a thousand kilometres away, but I was enraptured by the prospect of stopping and visiting one of these tropical jewels. Colin, on the other hand, felt such a visit was too risky and would jeopardize our vessel. Although I knew making landfall in such a low-powered boat held risks, I felt these could be negated if we watched the weather closely and adjusted our course correspondingly. We discussed the pros and cons of making an island landing, and finally decided to stop at the island of St. Lucia. There we could not only meet with Truestar, but re-provision and experience the idyllic bliss of an island oasis. Equally important, we could pick up large-scale charts for the trip to Costa Rica. We had charts for Miami, but not for Costa Rica, and we reasoned that having proper charts for the journey ahead would make up for the risks associated with landing on St. Lucia.

As I daydreamed about margaritas and fruit salad, a huge bird unlike any we had seen before began circling our boat. It was completely black, except for a red sack hanging from its neck, with a forked tail and enormous pointed, bat-like wings. It stayed high in the air, effortlessly propelling itself not with the subtle gliding movement of shearwaters, but with the dramatic soaring movement of eagles, hawks, and other great birds of prey.

“Colin, come see this bird,” I yelled.

Colin came out of the cabin just in time to see it plummet in a spiralling descent. With its highly acute vision, the bird had spotted a fish or small turtle from hundreds of metres away, and was going in for the kill. I nervously peered into the waters surrounding our boat, looking for Fred, Ted, and friends. They were no match for this ferocious predator, and I hoped they’d stay close to the boat. The bird soared back to the skies and continued its hunt for food.

“Wow,” Colin said with a low whistle. “That is one acrobatic bird. What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen a bird like that. The red sack reminds me of a turkey vulture, but the wings are so unusual.”

Colin flipped through the pages of our guidebook and, after a few minutes, he announced, “It’s a magnificent frigatebird, also known as a man o’war or pirate bird because it attacks other birds and steals their food.” Colin went on to explain that the magnificent frigatebird’s wingspan can reach two and a half metres, and that they are the lightest birds in the world—meaning that they have the longest wingspan-to-body-weight ratio. Essentially they are airbound; they can’t walk well, but can stay aloft for over a week.

“I think it must have come from the Caribbean islands,” I said. “Given that they live on the open ocean, I wonder why we haven’t seen any before.” I’d first assumed seeing this bird meant we were close to land and was mildly disappointed to learn otherwise.

“You’re partially right,” Colin said. “They do breed in the Caribbean islands, as well as Florida and the Cape Verde islands. But they’re tropical birds, and I guess until now, our latitude has been too northerly. But maybe this guy has a nest in the Caribbean; it says here they feed their chicks until they’re one year old. Oh, wait. It’s only the female that feeds her chicks that long. The male ducks out after three months and tries to find another breeding female.”

“Men.”

“And that was a male we saw—you can tell by the red throat pouch, which puffs up like a balloon during mating season. Females don’t have that, and they also have a white patch on their bellies.”

Two shearwaters now joined the magnificent frigatebird in the skies overhead, each occasionally diving into the ocean to grab a small fish or shrimp. But the frigatebird soon overshadowed the shearwaters’ success. It turned its attention from the fish in the ocean to that in the smaller bird’s possession. With a few deft aerial movements, the frigatebird asserted its dominance and, when the shearwater dropped its catch, the frigatebird quickly claimed it. So that’s how it had earned its warring nicknames.

Our boat had long been a magnet for birds, almost certainly because of the fish following our boat. The birds seemed to have no interest in the smaller pilot fish and triggerfish; only the larger dorado captured their attentions. The frigatebirds would follow the dorado, observing their actions from above. When the dorado gave chase to a school of flying fish, the birds spiralled down to the ocean’s surface and raced after the airborne dorado. I was amazed to see these birds with almost three-metre wingspans perform such elaborate aerobatics. At the same time, I couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the flying fish, which had spent millions of years developing a unique defence mechanism to escape from underwater predators, only to be picked off by these miniature fighter jets.

When chased, flying fish race through the water at top speed before launching into the air, giving the water a final flick with their forked tails to increase their velocity. The timing of the final flick is an important part of the process. In the instant when most of its body is in the air (where resistance is negligible) and its tail pushes off the water, the flying fish doubles its speed to approximately sixty kilometres an hour, allowing it to glide thirty to forty metres.

We saw some flying fish extend their glide without fully re-entering the water. As they arced downward near what I thought was the end of their flight, they dipped their tails into the water and vigorously propelled themselves back to gliding speed. A few times we saw them stay above the ocean’s surface for two hundred to four hundred metres, with nothing more than an occasional tail-dip to maintain forward speed.

On his previous journeys, Colin had had flying fish accidentally hit the sail of his old boat during the night. (During the day, they would see the boat and take evasive measures, but their eyesight failed them in the dark.) After they fell into the boat, he had no choice but to pan-fry them for breakfast. Unfortunately, the only flying fish that landed on our vessel were less than three inches long; the larger ones had sufficient power to clear our decks.