The Captain Is Always Right

Morning, 20 February. The storm has long since been spitting with rage somewhere behind us, but we are still heading north. So hard north, in fact, that we are already heading west. And it pains me to watch the miles being lost. Over the past two days, we have drawn only 20 miles closer to Australia, because for the past twenty-four hours we have actually been moving away from it. That is the captain’s strategic plan—to get up to the calms at the beginning of the forties and repair the engine, the starter motor and, as we discovered yesterday, the freshwater pump. In the evening, our water supply unexpectedly dried up, so we are washing from a bottle. The tanks are full, but no water is coming out of the tap; the cause is still unclear. We checked whether the starter motor’s brushes were sticking, for which purpose the captain dutifully hit it with a hammer. It even helped once, but the next time it failed, that stopped working. And this is already the third time it has played up in the period before and after the storm. “Andryusha, look, we’re already heading back to Africa—let’s tack!” I wave the chartplotter map over the sleeping captain’s head. “There’ll be a calm to the north-east tomorrow too, so why the hell are we crawling north-west?” “No. If we tack, it’ll carry us south, and it’s still stormy down there. We’re doing the right thing.” A Passionate Night and a Good Morning Disappointed, I trudge to the wheelhouse, where the children and I watch a film before bed. After the film, Ladunya reads aloud something about life in Prostokvashino, and everyone disperses to their sea berths. I wake up from time to time, read, and watch us veer farther and farther to the north-west (when we need to be going south-east). I sigh. Two in the morning. The captain comes out to the wheelhouse to check how things are going. “Andryusha, I passionately want to tack!” I whisper fervently into the darkness. Andryusha silently looks at the instruments, kisses me on the cheek, and disappears behind the salt-encrusted foul-weather gear into the depths of the sleeping quarters. The yacht keeps crawling off somewhere towards the Arabian Peninsula. The southern constellations stare in bewilderment at our secret manoeuvre, “Do Not Tack,” while I once again mourn the lost miles. The sun rises, unusually, on the starboard side. “Good morning, my love!” That is me trying to keep my spirits up. Morning is my time. Everyone is asleep. I persuade myself to wash using a cup, slice some apples, and put the kettle on. I turn on Japanese music. I sit down to write again—my diary, the book, letters. I can already set the laptop on the table’s rubber mat and hold on to it less tightly than yesterday. Time to Go Home To the strains of “Blossoming Sakura,” I remember a morning in our Gingerbread House in Altai. In the kitchen, the stove is crackling; on the table, a candle; beyond the mountain, the stars are fading. Nastya has gone to school; the young sailor and the captain are asleep upstairs. I am doing my exercises. On the glass table are fruit, a cup of coffee, a Thai tea set, and the laptop. Flames dance beneath the Japanese music in the crystal vases. Dawn is breaking in the panoramic window. Nadenka, our second mother, is running through the snow in boots pulled over bare feet. Once, she and Sasha pulled our family back from the brink and, through love, brought Nastya back from an incurable illness. They are the reason we bought this particular plot of land. There is no fence between our houses. The firewood crackles, and the aroma lamp wraps everything in spicy warmth... Soon Nadya will be frying pancakes, and when Andrei wakes up, he will run over to their place “just for a minute to say hello” so he can snatch pancakes straight from the frying pan. And Nadya will scold him: “Andryushka, get out of here!” I scroll through our WhatsApp chats and realise once again how desperately I miss home! I examine every detail in the photographs. Messages from three years ago, when we were last at home: “Olcha, my surname’s Klochkova. Come on, let’s go for a walk ;)” — “Wow! My surname’s Repairs. Workshop.” “What does your surname have to do with it?” “I’m repairing everything in sight, sewing, altering, washing.” The next morning, another message arrives: “‘Whoever visits friends in the morning...’” — “What, is it time already?” “Just right. There’s still time to make coffee before 9:40...” — “Are they cutting the power at 9:40?” — “What, you didn’t know? Until 17:00.” — “OK. I’m on my way.” In Altai, it is just like South Africa: they can cut the power for the whole day a couple of times a week. For maintenance, though, with no political motives—unlike Cape Town. Repairs on the Yacht It warms my heart to think that from Australia we will fly home for the whole summer. We need to renew a pile of documents, see our doctors, and spend time with our loved ones. Although by the time we reach the Green Continent, the list of repairs needed on the yacht will be off the charts. In Africa, we replaced all the standing and running rigging, the stays, the solar panels and some of the wiring, reinforced the sails, welded the stay fitting, and did some cosmetic work. But there are minor deck leaks that cannot be fixed with localised repairs. The old teak decking is probably to blame. Every plank is fastened with self-tapping screws, and after 30 years the screw holes have begun to leak. All the teak needs to come off; the deck must be sanded and sealed, then made non-slip and beautiful—but without teak this time. A couple of months’ work. I think it is going to be awful. Lady Mary glances at us uneasily—what do you mean, no teak on deck? The window assemblies need replacing too. Two months at sea will see a whole host of other small things fail. All in all, we risk not making it through the dangerous tropical waters into safe equatorial waters before hurricane season. We are working out a Plan B in case of delays. On Board The sails are slatting in the calm. Soon the crew will wake up, and we will dismantle the yacht’s main dining-living-room-office area. And after Andryusha applies his mechanical expertise, the engine will start, the pump will come on, and the heater will be working again. Then, at last, we will get back on course and finally head for Australia. Update: the captain has heeded my pleas and ordered us to set something more substantial than the small jib. During the operation, some bad news emerged. The lower inner-stay fitting had snapped. The 8 mm steel had broken in two, and the sail had finished its job held by one stud instead of two. The captain grew serious and sank into deep thought. Yesterday, Valery L. sent a really wonderful letter through the form on the website; as usual, we read it aloud with smiles on our faces. Friends, thank you for being there for us! Thank you for your letters and comments! Your support gives all of us wings. Our thanks to Dmitry M. for topping up the expedition’s ship’s kitty via PayPal and Yandex Money. You keep us motivated. Our track and current weather conditions are still under the “Route” tab. From our hardworking Iridium tracker. Transmitted by satellite. To be continued.