Gilboy’s Quest

by Sam Ivey

Chapter II : In Poseidon’s Crucible
part 2 of 3

It was this very reasoning that brought back to his mind something he had read in the newspaper last year about this time. It had been something about the 61st anniversary of Missouri’s admittance to the Union as a slave state. Slave state, he thought with disgust. Slavery seemed so foolish to him, so irreverently unjust. Particularly was he sensitive to this issue as he remembered the mistreatment and ridicules that had been heaped upon his own forebears, the Irish immigrants, when they had come to this country. And it was this thinking that occupied his mind for a while.

It would be another four years before — on October 28th, 1886 — the Statue of Liberty would stand in New York harbor. And it cannot be stated with accuracy whether Bernard Gilboy ever became acquainted with its now famous inscription, words penned by Emma Lazarus: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free...” It is not unlikely that he did. And if so, the terrible mockery of the reality, the shameful disallowance of freedom for so many people — even in his own United States of America — would have caused those noble words to ring with a dreadful emptiness in his mind.

A jolting of the boat by an irregular wave caused mundane reality to suddenly flood back upon him, and with his reverie interrupted he returned his attention to matters at hand.

The wind continued steady from nearly dead west throughout the day, and the morning’s fair-weather promise was realized until that night when the squalls returned. But he sailed on through the night, on through the quiet blackness that was broken only by the whispering of the water as it sluiced along the side of the boat, and by the hiss and patter of the rain as the squalls came and went.

He could hear them coming. Out of the darkness would come the almost subliminal murmur of the downpour. Then it would be upon him, drenching him and battering him with its volume as he sat huddled over the tiller, sheltering under his oilskin coat, a coat that he would wear often in the days ahead. Then, like an aqueous specter it would be gone, only to be replaced by another. And so it continued throughout the night. Shortly after dawn, however, and even before he hove-to in order to sleep, clearing skies again uttered their mute prophecy of fair weather.

And now he longed for days of sunshine, for the warmth of summers such as he remembered as a child. As he lay down that night, he prayed that there be such warm days ahead. He gave prayerful thanks, also, for his good fortune thus far. Then he closed his eyes and Tuesday became a part of his memory.

For the next three days his prayer seemed to have been answered, and he recorded in his log that the weather was now more favorable and that he was making good time. Now he exhilarated in the sun as it shone with a glittering hardness on the ocean, its brilliant reflection from the cobalt-blue surface being nearly blinding at times.

The magnificent spread of seascape was now living up to its name, Pacific. It was as if the Hellenic god, Poseidon, had come by a change of heart — that the grinding in the crucible had been halted. But he knew that in the months ahead this mythical deity’s fickleness would show itself. The peacefulness implied by the ocean’s name would disappear, and the hard, exhausting grinding would resume. But for now the weather was a blessing, and he relished the pleasant days.

At noon on Saturday, in observation of one week at sea, he prepared a celebratory lunch of roast salmon, bread toasted over the flame of the kerosene stove, and coffee. As a dessert, he had peaches swimming in milk. He felt very good about his progress.

Before lunch he had taken the noon sight of the sun and had located himself at 29º, 23’ north, 12º, 32’ west. His patent log — trailing over the stern — showed him to have traveled 501 miles through the water. Over the bottom, however, he had covered — by actual measurement on the chart — 540 miles. Eight days out now, and his average speed had been nearly three knots. Considering, however, that his actual traveling time was about 18 hours out of every 24, his speed had been closer to four knots.

Throughout the balance of Saturday and on into Monday morning, the breeze continued fresh and the weather remained clear as he rode the favorable southeast current. But on Monday afternoon the wind became a problem, as it had begun to incline to the east. Of itself this did not trouble him. Such a wind would set him more to the west, and this would be to his liking. Additionally, it was likely the harbinger of continued fair weather.

The problem lie in the fact that for the rest of the afternoon it remained an awkwardly troublesome wind, fluky and inconsistent; one that required repeated changes of headings and constant trimming of the sails in order to maintain any reasonable headway. But by the following day the wind had settled down, varying somewhat from the north to northeast. He was now on a port tack, and his course remained steady as he drove ever southward.

Now another requirement manifested itself. With the beginning of this second week, he became more aware of the need for exercise. Since last Sunday, his first full day at sea, it had become a routine to take the day’s provisions, and those he would use shortly thereafter, from the forward compartment and move them to the cockpit for ready access. This afforded him some physical activity. But he knew that sitting at the helm for long periods, doing little more than shifting the tiller as need required, would eventually manifest itself in uncomfortable edema. And that, in time, could seriously, dangerously limit his physical abilities. So he undertook to establish a program of exercise.

Eighteen feet of overall length allowed precious little room for walking, but he made a practice of moving forward and back along the deck several times a day. Working his way along the boat’s windward side, moving almost chimpanzee-like from one shroud or stay to the next, he made the repeated little journeys to nowhere. And this he supplemented with isometric exercises, pitting one muscle against its opposite number. He was without doubt that the resulting strength and flexibility would be sorely needed later on.

Another week passed, a week of routine — a week of deliciously fine weather. But it had been another week of wordless days. During these few days, he had often found himself reflecting — as virtually all solo seamen invariably do — on the fact that companionship is a physiological necessity for humans. While there are times when solitude is the only thing to be desired, it is not in the normal makeup of the human specie to isolate oneself. And no more absolute isolation did there seem, than to be surrounded by an infinity of trackless water, extending out to an ever receding horizon.

And so his memory would at times conjure up vivid images of his mother and father, of his wife, Catherine, and of his little daughter, Mary. And he would wonder what they were doing, what they were thinking at those particular moments. Were they thinking of him? He particularly hoped that they were, on this Saturday morning. And it pleased him to imagine that the people he loved — though having left them behind for the moment — might be thinking of him.

He had risen before ten o’clock that morning. After breakfasting on roast beef, bread and milk, and coffee, he had begun the regimen of his third week in his own little isolated world. It was an extremely confining world, measuring at its widest points, 18 feet by 6 feet; a tiny microcosm whose existence was known to relatively few, and whose location was known to no one, save to himself... and to God.

His taffrail log on that morning showed him to have traveled 298 miles since last Saturday, and his noon sighting of the sun that day showed him at 24º, 33’ north; 128º, 26’ west. He drew his chart from its locker in the cockpit and spread it out on the deck beside the mainmast.

Locating himself on the chart’s featureless expanse, he found that the distance he had actually covered in the last seven days was 311 miles over-the-bottom, the set of the current adding to the distance traveled through the water. Although it was not a distance in which he took any great measure of satisfaction, it was nevertheless true that San Francisco now lay 851 miles to the northeast, with the peninsula of Baja California due east of him.

And it was now September, this day being the second. He altered course to southwest by south and put Pacific before the wind. He was beginning to pick up the northeast tradewinds now, that great atmospheric highway that would drive him to the southwest, hopefully with greater dispatch than had been the case throughout the past week. Then they would continue to carry him — again hopefully — through the Doldrums; that awkward, sometimes exasperating, and always unpredictable band of air that lay not far ahead along the Equator. After that there would come the southeast trades, the winds that would carry him to his goal.

The weekend passed uneventfully, with only a few rain squalls having returned to harass him on Monday. In his log he wrote, “Saturday and Monday of third week. Steady trade winds with passing rain squalls.” He entered no dates.

On Tuesday the skies cleared, the trades continued unchanged, and the sea remained easy. Then on Wednesday came a freshening wind, one that came sweeping up from his starboard quarter. Little Pacific’s response was immediate. Away she went, dancing over the sun-dappled waters, frisking like a young colt let out to run in a pasture. George Kneass had been right when he expressed his belief in having configured the hull correctly. She was indeed a fine boat off the wind. Going to weather she was somewhat ungainly — not being able to point very high into the wind — but on his southwesterly headings, Gilboy found her to move with the grace of a dolphin. Not remarkably fast, but very sea-kindly.

By Thursday the sea had become a bit boisterous, and he altered course to southwest by west. The wind continued to freshen and the sea was running heavy when he saw what sent a shiver of thrill through him.

“A ship!” He said it out loud for a second time. “A ship!”

There she was, hull down to the north and eastward of him, her towering cloud of sail bellied out hard, shining like curved pieces of armor; a golden reflection of the late afternoon sun. They were on slightly diverging courses, and she was bearing away from him, standing to the west-southwest at about nine miles distant.

Maintaining his balance with more than a little difficulty, he stood and waved both arms overhead. But there was no response. It was doubtful, he later entered in the log for that date, that they had even seen him, the sea being in such a way and he being against a gradually darkening horizon. But it was an excitement for him, and he felt a kinship with the persons aboard that ship, whomever they were. It was the first sail he had sighted since departing the Golden Gate, a refreshing break in the day-long monotony that had become the substance of his life, unbroken even by sea life or by birds.

Then curiously, as if the passing ship had been some kind of catalyst, numbers of albatrosses appeared the following day. And they remained his companions throughout Friday, when he awoke to resume his southwest by south course. They were there still on Saturday, while the seas continued to build and the rain squalls returned. In those clear moments between the rains, he would sit and watch them in wonder — these immaculately pristine white birds — as they soared with such effortless elegance.

With wings arched and strong pinions spread, they would go spiraling upward on powerful, sometimes almost imperceptible, strokes of those wings. Then swooping down in exquisitely graceful curves, they would allow those wings to tease the waves, almost brushing them. And he marveled at their sense of proximity. With these, too, he felt a kinship, for like himself they were free spirits.

Yet he knew that both he and they were limited in their freedom. And wisely so, he thought. For even within the freedom that humankind had, they had done wretchedly horrible things. And he reasoned that absolute freedom would be a curse, as it would undoubtedly result in absolute anarchy. And that would be freedom for no one.

He was still watching these splendid aerialists at noon on that Saturday. Sitting braced between the fore and main masts, sextant in hand, he took his midday sighting of the sun. It required several minutes, as Pacific was bounding about in a very lively fashion in the above-moderate sea. But having measured the elevation with reasonable accuracy, he spread the chart on the deck, made his calculations, and marked himself as having made a satisfying 511-mile passage during the past week. He had improved the previous week by 200 nautical miles, and his speed throughout the current week had averaged comfortably over 4 knots. The winds had been kind.

Through a squally Sunday and Monday, the strong trades continued, while his being wet most of the time — and often cold in the bargain — had now become an accepted way of life. Even so, he had been able to keep his books and supplies in a dry state thus far, and he was appreciative of that.

His clothing however, comprising a necessarily limited wardrobe, was another matter altogether. By now it was quite saturated with salt, and there was, of course, no way of fully correcting that problem. He could, and he did, hang garments in the rigging to be rinsed by the rain — a practice that was helpful to a degree. But there was always some residue of salt left, and that was invariably added to the next time they were worn. Consequently, the fabrics having inherited a noticeably abrasive texture and the weather permitting, he had taken to wearing as little as possible.

The following morning he was still sleeping at a late hour when there was a loud thump. He was immediately awake. What had he hit? What was the condition of the hull? Was he in danger of sinking? He rubbed the Tuesday morning sleep from his eyes as a measure of calm replaced his initial panic. He realized that he could not have struck anything very hard; he had been hove-to since around four o’clock that morning. But he had hit, or had been hit by, something. It took a while for him to bring the world into focus, but then he saw it: a sea tortoise, a large sea tortoise. It was swimming about and nudging itself against the boat.

What a wonderful source of food, he thought, and he quickly took the fish spear from its storage. Standing on the deck, spear in one hand and the other grasping the mainmast shrouds, he struck twice at the quarry. Missing the vulnerable head, the spear’s barbed tines glanced harmlessly from the hard shell. Disappointed, he watched as his intended victim swam away.

But now he was up. The day had begun, the turtle had escaped, and the thought of food had made him hungry. However, the need to replenish the supplies in the cockpit occupied his attention first. Going forward to the storage compartment, he took out provisions and water for the next couple of days.

Following that he made a breakfast of coffee, some roast chicken and bread. With the vessel still hove-to, he ate in the cockpit and enjoyed the leisure of the morning. As he ate, the fish spear remained at his side. There was the possibility that the turtle might return and he might have better success. He regretted its loss, as it would have made a delightful change of diet.

At noon he brought the drogue aboard, hoisted sail and got underway. The wind had veered somewhat, more to the east now, and he was running wing and wing for the first time. The jib had been poled out to the starboard side; the foresail stood full out to port; and the mainsail was boomed out to starboard as well. Each, with the exception of the jib, was secured with a preventer line to disallow an accidental gybe. If the wind — quite crisp now on this September afternoon — were to shift measurably to the north, the mainsail could very possibly be slammed across the boat with a violence that could tear the main boom from the mast. The result could be the destruction of the main boom, and of his only mainsail as well. He lived with the subliminal fear of such a happening, since he was equipped with no extra spars. Indeed, any loss of the boat’s seaworthiness would seriously threaten his welfare; it could be virtually a death sentence.

Proceed to part 3...