Excerpt: Seahawk
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On watch, Laura makes note of the apparent wind, the boat speed and heading, before lumbering down to the galley for a fresh cup of coffee. It is a balmy night at sea, and the wind whistles through the rigging while it soothes her with the refreshing scent of the ocean. The cockpit is bathed in red light – allowing her to see under illumination that will not blind her as she steps carefully over the hand lines that bind the mainsail to the cleat. On her way to the ship's galley she doffs her jacket on the peg, and bounds down the gangway toward the coffee pot. Then, with a fresh steaming cup of Joe, she sits down at her chart table to engage in one of her favorite rituals of the day. The ship's log. Her entry reads the following:
"Captain's log, October 15th., 1998. SV time 0300 hours. Latitude 12 degrees North, longitude 62 degrees W. I am six hours out of St. George's, Grenada, on a beam reach bearing 310.5 WNW with a steady wind at 7.5 knots. The sea state is calm, and the forecast is clear for the 8 to 10-day passage. I am making my way, quickly and quietly, off the coast of Venezuela – setting a wide course around those dangerous waters – cruising toward Panama."
She double checks her bearings, then sits back to sip her cup and think about the past few days.
“While making final preparations to leave Grenada, locals told me a story about a fishing vessel that was boarded by pirates, somewhere off the coast of Caracas. This is a fairly common occurrence the closer you sail along those coastal waters. I am trying not to dwell on it, or I might talk myself right out of going. I am cruising with my running lights off –to avoid attracting attention – using the red lights sparingly, and only if I need to move about topside. I have turned the AIS off too. It will be days before I am truly in the Panamanian shipping lanes moving toward the canal, so it is worth the risk. It will be a game of cat and mouse. Thankfully, the autopilot is working well. Ever since I replaced the wind vane. It was a good idea to have it flown in, just in time to install before departure.”
With the last entry into the log still playing in her head, Laura makes her way to the main stay on the foredeck. There, she pauses to savor the breeze in her hair, and the salty mist on her face, as the waves crash tumultuously over the scuppers.
“For the first time, since leaving North Carolina, I am afraid – really afraid. I am far, far from home and friendly shores – and I am a woman alone. For years, the local legends tell of sailors who have gone missing while trying to navigate these waters. I am not the first person to second guess my decision to make this dangerous 1400-mile passage, but this is the course I must take if I expect to make it to Colon by the end of the month. With a little luck, I will pass by downwind and unnoticed in my little boat, and be on my merry way. Through the canal, down the West coast of Colombia, and on to the French Polynesians. Easy. One nautical mile at a time. And there is one last thing. Something that, in all my years back at Trinity Prep, or being the trophy wife married to a successful man I never thought I would ever have to consider. A talisman of what my life has become. The 12 gauge is loaded and at arms-reach. I pray to God I will not need it...
Laura, Captain – SV Seahawk”
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End of excerpt.