Morningstar, can you hear me?

Recollections of our first voyage on Chiron… second day (excerpt from WINTER PASSAGE)

Our friend Allen suffered greatly from seasickness during the three-day passage. After spending a brief spell in the cabin, he opted never to go below again. He slept on the teak bench in the cockpit, and offered to take some of our watches because it kept his mind occupied and the seasickness at bay. While I sat with Bob during his 3 to 6 pm watch, a heavy squall hit bringing wind, rain, and a pitching sea. I went below to make peanut butter sandwiches and hot cider. Reaching for the bread was the last thing I remember until Bob’s voice came to me from a great distance…

“Morningstar, can you hear me?” I struggled to open my eyes, as if waking from a dream. Bob’s two hands cradled my face as he looked into my eyes. “Do you remember who you are?” he asked. “Do you know where you are?” I felt disembodied, like I was observing the scene from some detached space, but I dutifully gave the answers that would reassure him that I had no concussion. I reached around to touch the back of my head. A gigantic and painful lump had formed there. Bob put me to bed and I slept for the next few hours. Whenever I woke I found him there beside the bed, his head resting near mine.

Later Bob filled in the details.

I was at the wheel and we were running through high seas. The ship was taking some serious rolls. The transit captain was asleep below and our friend Allen was asleep in the cockpit. Morningstar was in the galley on the starboard side. I could occasionally see her move about as she fixed a sandwich, when we suddenly took a major wave and Chiron canted to port, burying the rail. I watched Morningstar fall past the companionway opening. As the boat righted itself, she lay on the floor, not moving. I called to Allen to take the wheel, which he did unquestioning, hearing the urgency in my voice. I cleared the ladder and was at her side. In that instant I faced the loss of my friend and love. I held her close – no breath, no movement – I called her name. I would not let her go. Later she told me that she dreamed of going away, of being off somewhere, and then she heard me calling her name, calling her back.

Hours later I shared with Bob his 9 pm to midnight watch. While the others slept we motored on in the darkness of night… a small speck on a very large sea. Less than twenty-four hours before I had stood alone at the helm of Chiron, enthralled with the new experience of handling a big boat by myself. Now I had a new respect for the sea, and our fragile grip on life.

A line of squalls approached. Jagged bolts of lightening struck the water with a responding clap of thunder. Briefly but dramatically, the sea churned into a tumultuous tempest. Nothing makes you feel so small and infinitesimal than being in the throes of Mother Nature. It is awesome. When the squall moved on we could see the Milky Way in a shining swath across the nighttime sky, and the pinpoints of light in Orion’s Belt. A shower of falling stars. It was a magical night that made me all the more glad to be alive. I could well understand the words of Caroline C. Leighton describing her voyage across the Straits of Juan de Fuca in 1866. “It was all too wonderful for us to be afraid; it was like a new existence, as if we had cast off all connection with the old one, and were spirits only.” (West Coast Journeys 1865 – 1879… The Travelogue of a Remarkable Woman)

... PLM