Here is an excerpt in need of your review from Chapter One of Ocean of Insight: A Sailor’s Voyage Deep into the Climate Crisis (Parallax Press, Fall 2016). What does the writer in you say about the tale? Is it suspenseful? Is the action clear? Do you feel like you’re part of the action? Do you have a sense of place? Don’t be shy about telling me what you think; your ideas will make for a better book.
To set the scene, you should know a storm is approaching, night is falling, and sailing vessel Wild Hair is disabled by a busted throttle cable. The ship is inching backward, closing the distance to shore, because our anchors can’t penetrate the stony bottom. Dave and I are desperate to save our ship. Enjoy–and may the writer in you flower!
We cannot drive out of this spot without an engine, and we can’t sail into the wind. Shallow waters frame the exit so tacking through the direction of the gale is impossible. The only thing I know to do in an emergency is call for help. The seed of an idea pierces the thickening shell of my brain. The Bahamian Air and Sea Rescue Association–BASRA–aids distressed sailors. Sea-hearty volunteers stand by to protect life and property, which they do more than five-hundred times a year. Someone there will tow us from the menacing shore to penetrable sand and safety.
“What do you think about radioing BASRA?” I ask. “Is it time to ask for help?”
“Well,” Dave says slowly, “we’re not able to drive ourselves out of this mess and we’re not staying put. Yeah, I think now is why BASRA exists.”
“It’s an emergency?”
“Yes,” his certainty increasing. “Our property and our lives are definitely threatened.”
My thumb squeezes the button on the VHF radio. “BASRA, BASRA, BASRA, this is sailing vessel Wild Hair, Wild Hair, Wild Hair.” Silence. I try again. And again. No one in a twelve-mile radius hears my call.
This is impossible. Within hailing distance there are at least six populated islands with harbors shielding as many as a thousand boats. There are three towns with restaurants, resorts, dive shops, and vacation apartments. Nearly everyone in the Abaco Islands communicates with VHF radios. If only a fraction is tuned-in to the common hailing channel, several hundred souls must be listening. BASRA should answer. If they don’t, someone else should come back and tell me how to reach the rescue team because people at sea butt into each other’s goings on. The lifestyle is dangerous and sailors cannot afford privacy or pride. The culture of meddling saves lives.
Abandoning the VHF, I drop through the companionway into the teak-paneled salon to lay hands on nautical charts with the phone number of BASRA Headquarters. The office is far away—it’s one-hundred-and-forty nautical miles to Nassau—but I’m confident they can contact with a local provider, mobilize help. The phone rings too long. Bile coats my throat. The next big gust rattles the ship’s canvas covers and the entire boat shudders. I resist the obvious fact: it is dusk on New Year’s Eve and no Bahamian volunteer is standing by.
To be continued…
