Why Astrid disaster made me count my lucky stars
After the textbook rescue for sailors on the ill-fated Astrid which sunk off the coast of Cork recently, Louise Roseingrave recalls her many bizarre brushes with death and dodgy skippers on the high seas
The German was the first to get seasick. I was next. Later the captain succumbed. We retched until our insides were empty
THE stars of the southern hemisphere twinkled brightly in the sky as my backpack landed on the sand with a thump. I’d just been ordered off a 32ft yacht by the captain, a retired US air force pilot. We’d had an almighty row.
Sitting down on the hastily packed rucksack I lit a cigarette and watched him turn the dinghy seawards. He’d given up life on land to sail out his retirement, travelling the world on board a yacht. I’d been backpacking across Indonesia when I met the captain on the Gili Islands off the coast of Bali. He was looking for crew to sail across the Java Sea to Borneo.
Having hitched a lift on a wooden cargo ship from Darwin to East Timor three weeks previously, I was anxious to get back on the water, this time as crew. Aside from that 10-day trip, I had zero experience sailing.
The captain and I spent 12 tumultuous days on the yacht together before it emerged, during a routine row, that he’d been telling fellow ‘yachties’ on board two accompanying boats that my services extended to more than standard sailing duties. Caught out in his seedy lie and unwilling to tell them the truth, he dumped me off on a remote standalone island in the Java Sea in the middle of the night. I’d offered my hand as we parted on the beach and wished him well on his journey. “Fuck you,” he’d said, adding, “You will never amount to anything”.
For weeks I dreamed of tracking him down and planting rats on board. Or cutting a tiny, fatal wound in his dinghy. These things I didn’t manage. But I did write a letter telling the yachties the truth of what happened which islanders promised to deliver the following day. For five years since I’ve longed to get back to sea. This year, I took the plunge.
I used international yacht crew websites to find a female captain who was seeking crew to help sail her yacht around the Greek islands. It offered the perfect prospect of learning to sail in spectacular waters without the threat of a horny old guy lurking a little too close for comfort.
The plan was I’d arrive in Greece in May, help ready the boat for the water and then go sailing. Unfortunately, when May rolled around, the captain’s plans were behind schedule. Consulting websites for alternative options, an ad with an amazing replacement trip flashed up. A 50-foot yacht was departing Sardinia for the UK in four days’ time calling at Ibiza, Majorca, Gibraltar, Madeira and the remote Portuguese Atlantic archipelago of the Azores. I booked a flight and landed in the port town of Alghero in northern Sardinia on a Friday. By Saturday, we had set sail after a night on the town with the third crewmember, a 67-year-old sailor from Germany with more than 60,000 nautical miles under his belt. But within two hours of departing the harbour we were in trouble.
We’d sailed into a mistral — a strong, squally, northerly wind of polar origin. The seas were rough and choppy, the wind howled around the sails. Below deck, we were flung around the cabins with force. The German was the first to get seasick. I was next. Later the captain succumbed. Collectively we barfed and retched until our insides were empty. The trip that was dogged by disasters and ultimately ill-fated, much like the journey to Borneo.
On the third day I was roused before dawn for my turn on watch to see a fantastic pink sunrise breaking over glossy calm waters in the Mediterranean Sea. Then the engine chugged itself out and all went quiet. We drifted aimlessly for hours without power, with no wind to fill the sails that morning. Jack the skipper spent the first of many hours banging around in the engine room that day. The German looked pensive. By the time we reached Majorca, relations between them had soured. By Ibiza, the German was jumping ship — his mother was ill. We’d had an adventurous crossing between the two islands, the engine failed during a lightning storm in a busy shipping route in the middle of the night.
We watched a sister ship of the Costa Concordia cruise by on the horizon. Then the GPS beeped a warning: a 900ft cruise vessel was oncoming, the coordinates indicated a collision. Without power and sail we were sitting ducks in its path. I sat watching the massive vessel’s approach as I’d been ordered to by the German while Jack banged frantically in the engine room.
“Watch that ship! Don’t take your eyes off it!” he yelled through the driving rain. Flashes of lightning lit up the frothy waves as the cruise ship closed in.
“I’m watching!” I yelled back. “It’s coming straight for us!”
When the engine refused to cooperate, bobbing helpless in the storm, Jack radioed the ship’s captain to confirm he’d seen us and would change course to avoid us. Afterwards, the German spoke of the incident as a bad dream and we laughed about our boat’s bad-tempered engine. I got to like him so much I cried when he left because I knew that to sail with just two crew was a different kettle of fish altogether.
We put out of Cala de San Vicente on Ibiza on a beautifully calm summer’s night at 3am. At sea, the stars shine brighter because of the lack of light pollution and the beautiful thing about sailing is the sound of nothing but the flapping of the sails and the slapping of waves against the hull. In calm seas, the motion of the boat rocks you to sleep in your bunk.
I was nervous about the 400 nautical mile crossing to Gibraltar, the longest leg to date. But the sea was calm and the great hulking cliffs of Ibiza’s jagged coastline rose from darkened waters as we cruised by.
Two days later we were adrift again, this time at the edge of one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world. We were motoring along under engine because the wind was no use to us when we jerked to a sudden halt with a shudder. We made a desperate bid to get the sails up to turn the yacht but the wind was pushing us further out into the danger zone. We were drifting right into the path of a handful of giant cargo ships cruising between 15 and 20 knots. Poor Jack was flapping about in a panic, trying to figure out how to fix the engine.
“On a scale of one to ten, how bad is this situation?” I asked. He barked at me not to panic but to hang onto the helm and keep the boat pointed toward the coast.
Seething quietly, I did as I was told. We never made it to Gibraltar. After calling at Cartagena on Spain’s south east coast for a fix-up and some parts, our boat sprung a fuel leak on the next leg. Jack thought it better not to tell me straight away.
When he did two days later, I decided I’d had enough and jumped ship at the next marina; Fuengirola on Spain’s south coast.
Crewing on board a yacht offers fantastic opportunities to see remote and inaccessible locations but it’s never an exact science. Anything can happen. If you’re up for adventure, it’ll be worth it. But seeing how easily the Dutch training ship Astrid foundered on rocks near Kinsale makes me think I’m a lot luckier than I realise.
* www.crewseekers.net
* www.floatplan.com
* www.findacrew.net
* www.internationalyachtcrew.com
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