The Boat’s Log
Log: 21st September, Wednesday.
Wind Easterly 3-4. Fair. 11 C. South Atlantic Latitude -45.56 Longitude -32.12.
The storm has finally ended. Slight tear to my jib sail that will needs repairing. Down to my last tin of coffee. Mood: improved.
In the cockpit, I sip soup. The squally weather has abated; I feel the weak sun struggling to warm my face. I smile. A lone albatross flies overhead– that’s a good omen, isn’t it? I check the compass and gently nudge the wheel windward. It is peaceful; gentle waves stroke the boat.
The clouds clear and in the distance I notice something on the starboard bow. I take a while to realise what it is – a boat. What are the chances?
The boat is not sailing; it is bobbing; its mast is broken. I tack over and place fenders on the side of my boat. I come alongside the Blue Cuckoo, and tie my boat to its cleats, aft and stern. The boat looks empty. I shout, but there is no reply. I fear what I will find, a boat bereft of crew – or worse.
My pulse is racing. I’m ready to go aboard, but I hesitate. I scan the cabin as best I can. I look behind me, as if I need encouragement to go aboard. I step onto the desolate vessel. The wheel is tied off, but the cockpit is tidy. I venture into the cabin; there are some charts on the floor. I call out, but there is no reply. There are two cabins, both empty, one crammed full of discarded clothes.
I check the log; the last entry was two weeks ago. The main mast broke and damaged the jib. Both sails gone, a series of unlucky events. I wondered who the unfortunate sailor was. At the bottom of the page is scribbled, ‘there is no hope’. I knew the storm was bad; I was caught in it as well. I wonder if they could have fitted a temporary sail. We are not tested when things go right; we are tested when things go wrong.
The engine would not be much use; even if there is fuel, it would not be enough. There is water on board; I could see a few tins of food. I pick up a tin of coffee— almost empty.
I take the log book and go up to the cockpit; the boat is like my own. I glance across to my boat; I glance to the other side. My boat, where was my boat? Then I see it. It has drifted off; it is now ten metres away. I am sure the lines were securely fixed. Should I swim for it? Get this wrong and it would be the last thing I ever did. I contemplate jumping, but as I do the main sail swings out and catches the wind. I can’t see anyone on the boat. Wait; is that a hand, low down on the wheel?