Page 5 of All The Way Under
CHAPTER THREE
saylor
“The hydrofoils are failing,” I say to myself as I check the gauge for the tenth time.
Hydrofoils are underwater wings that lift the hull out of the water and lessen the drag, allowing me to sail quicker.
“Sea Tracker is also failing,” I whisper in absolute horror.
That’s the newest mod Dad and I installed before I set sail.
Sea Tracker is an AI GPS that sails autonomously, so I can sleep with more regularity.
Sea Tracker makes real-time adjustments for weather conditions and the wind.
Without it, I’m completely self-reliant.
It’s still doable, but it’s much harder.
This is something I didn’t anticipate doing without a crew. I can do hard things, I remind myself.
I’m crouched down in front of the control panel, sweat pouring down my face as I stare at the worst-case scenario unfolding.
I’ll be facing the toughest, most powerful current in the world, the Agulhas current, without the equipment I’ll need for safety.
Even though I can see land, it’s not friendly territory.
I pulled up the charts of my friendly ports, and I’m still a few days away from being close to a port that I’d be comfortable docking at.
There was a storm last night, and while I didn’t think it was anything concerning at the time, I now realize it did more damage than I thought.
My VHF radio is working, though there seems to be a jam in the lines.
Channel sixteen, which is only used for emergency situations, would work, but this wouldn’t qualify as life-threatening. Not yet, at least.
Come on, Saylor. Pull your shit together. You can do this. You’ve trained for this.
The Mozambique Channel is wildly dangerous, filled with pirates, and it requires a lot of technical sailing, but it’s the closest route to get out of open water to try to repair my GPS.
It’s the patch of water in between Africa and Madagascar.
Wiping the sweat from my forehead on the hem of my shirt, I head back up to the deck for fresh air.
At the helm, I catch my breath as my heart hammers.
This journey has been mildly challenging up until now.
I had all the luxury items money could buy to make my job easier.
I squint in the distance to recognize land shapes and the entrance to the channel.
I give myself a mental pep talk. I can fix this when I get to the next port. This doesn’t have to set me off track.
Yeah, but can I get to the next safe port before another storm hits, without sleeping, and sailing at a lower knot without my hydrofoils? At night?
“Damn it,” I hiss, slamming my fist down.
My mom always says if you’re feeling angry, eat. If you’re feeling sorry for yourself, take a shower. If you’re feeling confused, sleep. What if I’m all these things at once?
The winds are shifting, and I won’t have time to do any of those things soon.
I decide to pause before the next storm comes in.
I do need to eat and shower. Sleep probably won’t be something I’ll have time for, though.
Grabbing the boom, I adjust the main sail before setting my anchor.
I shovel a meal down and then hit the button to turn on my hot water to shower.
This is when I need to think and weigh my options.
Showering in this small tube is one of the only true comforts of sailing for this amount of time.
I do pick up fresh fruit when in port, but that runs out quickly, so the freeze-dried meals and shelf-stable canned stuff are what I live off of in between.
My nose is continuously sunburnt, no matter how much H Mart sunblock I use, and my body hurts from sleeping in the berth.
My bed isn’t as comfortable as the one at home, and the constant rocking from the variable sea states makes for a lot of rolling around instead of deep sleep.
I turn off the water as I lather my hair and body with my shampoo and soap from home. I mean, a girl has her standards, and if this were to be my only guilty pleasure, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to bring the good stuff. I turn on the hot water to rinse, then off again to shave and wash my face.
I could reach Mozambique before nightfall, I think, doing the math in my head. The wind will be in my favor. Even if it’s not a friendly port I marked on my plan, it doesn’t mean they wouldn’t welcome me. It just means it has a higher risk factor for a single woman sailing an expensive boat.
When I’m clean, I slather on sunblock and dress in a light pink long-sleeved SPF shirt and a black stretchy skort. I put on my socks and sneakers and pull my satellite phone off the charger to call my dad. He answers on the first ring because he’s on alert, given my situation.
“Sweet Pea, is everything okay?”
I try to call him when things are good and when I have a small issue, so he doesn’t have a heart attack every time he sees my number.
I turn it on speaker phone as I braid my hair into two long pigtails in the small mirror in the saloon.
“Everything is going well, but I do need to make some repairs, Dad. I’m going to have to stop in Maputo or Beira.” I say it all so he can soak it in. “The AI GPS and the hydrofoils are down,” I add so he knows I’m not being outrageous for no reason.
I hear his breathing rate increase.
“It’ll be daylight when I make it there. Which port do you think is the better option?”
“How many nautical miles is it to the Mozambique Channel, hon? I don’t have my computer in front of me, so I’m not sure where you’re at exactly.”
My phone has a tracking device so he can keep tabs on me, but he’s only able to get a precise location on his computer because of the software that’s required for pinpoint accuracy.
I exhale when he doesn’t question anything. It tells me I’m making the right decision.
“At six knots, which is doable without the hydrofoils, about five hours. Plenty of daylight left if I start when I get off the phone with you. Which port?”
Dad blows out a long breath. “Neither if you had another option, but it’s unpredictable on the Madagascar side, so I wouldn’t recommend porting there.
Maputo is a big city and will have more sailors and foreign folks who could help you, but it’s dangerous, Saylor.
The pirates cruise those waters no matter the time of day. Do you have the .22?”
“I always have it on me, don’t worry. So…Maputo over Beria. Got it.”
“Your boat is worth more than some of the locals make in a lifetime. I hate giving you this advice, but I don’t think it’s safe until you have everything back online.
You’re between a rock and a hard place, for sure.
Any idea how the GPS went down? Was the storm that bad last night? Was cloud coverage severe?”
He tracks everything from home, and I love him for it.
I shake my head, back in front of the control panel.
“It wasn’t. It seems like a hardware malfunction. Maybe a geomagnetic disturbance? Sea Tracker relies on the satellites, and my phone is working, so that doesn’t track either.”
I don’t say it, but it could be caused by jamming or spoofing, which is terrifying because that means there’s a ship or a boat somewhere doing this to me intentionally.
Many military ships jam to block interference from enemies.
To a military ship, my equipment may seem too high-tech to be a civilian sailing.
This is something I spent time worrying about.
“When you port and troubleshoot, let me know how long it will take to fix. I’ll reserve our jet and put our pilot on alert so I can get to you if there’s enough time, Sweet Pea. Please be careful.”
“Promise. I’m going to make it all the way around, Dad. Just you wait!” I offer a little optimism because his worry is evident from the tremor in his voice. I hate to hear it. “Don’t tell Mom until you have to. I love you!”
He explains what to expect at the port and where I should go for help.
He tells me a few phrases to use in Portuguese, a language I can understand and speak a little, and tells me the indigenous language is Xichangana in case I encounter it and need to translate on my phone. Then he bids me farewell.
“I love you. Fair winds, Sweet Pea,” he says, then clicks off the call.
The large phone trembles in my hand. It’s my only link to civilization when I’m out here.
The only love I feel. My world lives inside this heavy, ancient-seeming technology.
Extending my arm, I connect it back to its Velcro home and plug it into the charging cable.
One of the improvements I made before I set sail was the addition of solar power.
I always have electricity in plentiful amounts because of the conversion system we installed.
Now it’s time to get to work. I strap the .22 into the leg harness and pull it up high so my skirt covers it, raise the anchor, and change course to head toward the Mozambique Channel. Words that would have seemed impossible to even think about before I left.
Mom would be throwing a fit if she knew I was going off course, but I doubt she’d understand the risks involved with it.
She’s always just thrown money at a problem to make it go away.
She’s never done anything like this before, but I’m comforted knowing that if the worst happens and some random ass pirates succeed in kidnapping my ornery ass, they’ll have to deal with Bianca Wyndham for the ransom money.
She’ll drive the hardest bargain they’ve ever encountered.
They’ll rue the day they chose me. She’ll ask if they have wealthy sons and what their real estate portfolio looks like.
Bianca will make them regret they were born.
The morbid, yet enthralling thought keeps me occupied as I sail.
As the port comes into view, the AI GPS flickers on and off once or twice, my heart swelling each time, but it’s dark again, without any signs of coming back online.