FRIENDS AT SEA

Michael J Frankel

During a sailing passage from Spain to the Bahamas Islands in company with 140 sailboats participating in the America 500 Rally, I made a discovery about camaraderie while re-creating Christopher Columbus's voyage of discovery. The excerpts from the log of the vessel Sabra reflect my growing appreciation for friendships at sea.

Las Palmas, Gran Canaria, Canary Islands, Spain.

I finally realized that this Rally isn't about the Columbus 500th anniversary, or ocean sailing, or an exciting outdoor adventure. It's about friends and fellowship. The constants in the ever-changing weather patterns and marina settings are the friends that I made and who I kept travelling with from port to port. Although for much of the time our worlds were isolated in fragile fibreglass or steel shells, often separated by miles of desolate and sometimes hostile ocean, we were part of a very close-knit group. We said temporary goodbyes and wished each other fair winds, and then looked forward to reuniting at the next port. At sea we became a widely separated community connected through a short wave radio network. On arrival, we exchanged horror stories about our recent passages, helped each other fix things, loaned or borrowed tools, held dockside pot-luck parties, and then it was off again to another port. Although not often talked about out loud, the element of danger in open ocean sailing added intensity to these separation and reunions.

Even the Columbus quin-centenary celebration was losing some of its importance. It was no longer important for me to have the log book signed by a local official at some historic Columbus site, or to visit every obscure nook and cranny visited by Columbus. What was important, however, was safely reuniting with Juan and Christina on Pirate, seeing Wilhelm and Christl's ever smiling faces on Solveig, and hearing from Bob and Judy over Hornblower's radio. It became important for me to know that Jim's voltage regulator was working on Nona Rosa, and to see if septuagenarian, `Old Man of the Sea' Hugh needed any help on Arcadia. I looked forward to the antics of ten-year-old Jo Jo on Freedom, to learn if Lois had yet convinced John on Topaz to continue sailing around the world after the Bahamas, hearing how hard Judy was pushing Leon on Straight Up to win the Atlantic race, and to see if those two crazy Slovenians on Hit, `Samo and Samo', were having fun. It was important to learn that everyone survived the last storm, and was heard from on the radio roll call. Even people I would be unlikely to ever meet socially on land had suddenly become especially important in my life.

Before leaving Las Palmas, Wilhelm and Christl begged me and my crew to have a `last supper' aboard Solveig. We were reluctant to have a rich meal accompanied by rounds of drinks before setting off, but how could we say no to such a gracious couple. Besides I had my doubts whether we would see them in the Bahamas. Wilhelm was concerned about the length of the voyage, and would probably opt for the closer islands of the Eastern Caribbean instead of heading northward to San Salvador.

Wilhelm poured a Croatian aperitif and Christl brought out a heaping platter of fried sardines and new potatoes. I was thankful for the light fish dish and sipped politely from my silver goblet. There were many toasts to friendships, good passages, fair winds, our health, and anything else we could think of that would be good for all of us. Between each public toast there was always a private toast between Wilhelm and Christl, whispered quietly in German, as they clinked their glasses and looked endearingly into each other's eyes. Wilhelm, at seventy-four, and Christl, at forty-two, have been happily together for twenty-four years.

I thought we were escaping with a light meal when suddenly Christl reappeared from the galley with another heaping platter, this time with a delicious breaded, deep fried white fish. Wilhelm, of course, was close behind with a freshly opened local Canarian rose. There was no escaping their warm hospitality. After many more toasts, and threats to have Sabra chained to the dock, we made our emotional goodbyes.

As the engine warmed up, several of our friends came by from Goatlocker, Freedom, Sunrise, Nona Rosa, Hornblower, Venturer, Arcadia, Solveig, Tejas ... to see us off. I was touched by their well wishes, their eagerness to see us safe and sound in the Bahamas, and their promise to keep in touch by radio. I was very reluctant to leave. I knew there was no way to repeat the camaraderie we had experienced in the passages to the Canaries and in the dockside friendships at ports along the way. From now on we would be spread out on a very wide ocean, each small boat pursuing its own race strategy toward the Bahamas and often out of reach by radio.

1000 miles west of Las Palmas. Our visual horizon from the deck of Sabra to the tip of a passing sailboat mast was only about five to seven nautical miles. Therefore, we are constantly sailing on a very small, lonely, patch of sea about ten or so miles in diameter. For several days I had been transmitting on the short range VHF radio with my now well practiced plea: "Any America 500 vessel ... Any America 500 vessel. This is Sabra ... Sabra." This transmission was generally followed by total silence. I would sadly put down the microphone and try again in a few hours.

Suddenly, the pre-dawn stillness in our cramped cabin was broken by a woman's voice with a raspy, no nonsense, and decidedly British accent, "Sabra ... Sabra. This is With Integrity. Switch to Six Eight. Over."

I was overjoyed at hearing a voice. A woman's voice. It was Rosie. Sweet Rosie. She's one of the leaders, a tough, diminutive old salt, skippering the maxi-racer With Integrity and passing us at twice our speed about five miles ahead, unseen in the dark. It was the loveliest sound, and all thoughts of loneliness suddenly melted away. I switched to Channel 68 and reached out to `touch' Rosie. I silently gave her a big electronic hug, and asked her to relay our position with her more powerful transmitter during the radio roll call later that day. She was all business and probably had her hands full commanding a 75 footer with a neophyte crew of twelve, hell bent on winning the Atlantic race. I forgave her for not being chattier. I was so pleased to have the `friendlies' around again. I had begun to use that term to distinguish our sailboat fleet from the unfriendly freighters and tankers we were trying so hard to avoid. The larger racing boats were catching up to our five day head start. We were part of the Rally again.

The previous day we had listened in on the roll call to plot our position relative to the rest of the approaching fleet. As they called, "Boat One One Three ... Sabra?" We sat helplessly staring at our short wave receiver, unable to respond. One of the few gadgets that we didn't have on board was a Single Side Band short wave transmitter. Following roll call, we had carefully plotted the position of all the `friendlies' heard over the radio. After staring at the resulting scatter diagram of boat blips across more than a 1000 miles of open ocean, we decided to alter our course slightly in the hopes of intersecting one of the leaders on the following day to get within range of our limited VHF transmitter. It was a good strategy for the slow Chinese junk-rigged Sabra and Rosie, with her distinctively low, gravelly radio voice, was the proof of the pudding.

Georgetown, Great Exuma, Bahamas Islands. I was saddened by the Rally's end and the loss of my new friends as we glided over the still, blue-green waters of the Bahamas Banks towards Florida. There was some consolation in knowing that several `friendlies' were headed in the same direction for the Riviera Beach Marina. I was also looking forward to our first reunion party in Miami hosted by Charles on Freedom. I knew it would be difficult to maintain contact with the crews as some dispersed on further adventures and others returned home. I hoped to remain in touch with many America 500 Rally participants, but the intensity of the fellowship experienced at sea would undoubtedly diminish once on land and with the separation of time and distance.

I'll forget the many dockside parties, the welcoming and bon voyage speeches by local officials on Columbus's route, the helpful advice I received on preferred routes and equipment problems, the beautiful sunrises and sunsets, the frustrating calms and contrary winds, the radio chatter on a lonely ocean, who came in first and who came in last in the Atlantic race, and many other details of the Rally. What I'll never forget are the brownies baked by Judy on Nona Rosa and thrown to our dispirited crew in mid-ocean following our dismasting. I'll never forget the extra fuel transferred to us by Dave on Sunrise to help us make the last few agonizing miles to San Salvador on our one remaining mast and sail. I'll never forget Rosie's raspy voice coming to us from With Integrity after the first twelve lonely days at sea with no radio contact. I'll never forget New Chance and Contessa making a special effort to rendezvous with us to make sure we were all right after the dismasting. And I'll never forget the hugging and kissing among friends after each arrival and before each departure along the Columbus route.

The America 500 Rally was much more than an ocean sailing adventure or a re-creation of an historic voyage. It was an unrivalled experience in high seas fellowship. I'll proudly fly my America 500 burgee on future voyages hoping to meet the `friendlies' again and rekindle the camaraderie of the 1992 Atlantic crossing.

Somewhere in my Daydreams. Although I found the Bahamas in re-creating the Columbus voyage, I did not find myself. I had hoped the discovery voyage would lead to new insights and new directions, but that was not the case.

I loved the rally part of this sailing adventure so much so that I began dreaming of more distant voyages and, of course, more `friendlies'. I did not want the camaraderie to end. At the same time I wondered how realistic it was to just keep on travelling. Most of us are brought up to be rooted. The word rootless has acquired a negative spirit. Yet we also value the broadening cultural experience of travel. It's a dilemma which I had hoped would clarify itself somewhere among the trade wind swells of the wide Atlantic. Instead it intensified. I was feeling like a saltwater version of a tumbleweed Ä a lonely floating sargassum weed.

One of my favorite movie lines was uttered by Meryl Streep in Out of Africa. "When the Gods want to punish you, they grant you your dreams". This was sounding all too appropriate.

Sabra provides me with the dream of unlimited horizons. I have a front and backyard stretching around the globe. But having no limits can be as unsettling as cramped quarters. The beauty of a borderless environment is sometimes offset by loneliness. The warmth of friendships come from closeness and borders help capture and concentrate those feelings. In spite of all the modern on-board communications gadgets, it's still difficult to stay in touch from afar. The telephone company's slogan `reach out and touch someone' only works in developed countries. More than 90 percent of the world is still relatively `untouchable'.

There is talk of a Round the World Hong Kong Rally to commemorate the island's transition from Great Britain to China. Like the Columbus `hook' this sounds like another great excuse for the camaraderie of a rally and, who knows, maybe the even wider Pacific and more desolate Indian Oceans hold the answers to the meaning of life.