While sailing from Gibralter to the Canary Islands we were becalmed off the coast of Morocco. Sometimes, we just cut the motor and lay adrift until wind came our way, voted by the family who preferred this to the noise of the motor for hours on end.
A version of this story was printed in Yachting Monthly in 2006. Editor Paul Gelder noted ‘Like Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Colin Lowe finds himself afloat with neither breath nor motion … as idle as a painted ship upon a painted .’ He called the story ‘Dead Calm’ and here it is, slightly tweaked up eight years later. (It’s amazing how 8 years mulling in the subconcious can bring to the surface improvements.)
Becalmed off Moroccan coast. Midnight near the Oasis.
One hundred miles off a coast in the North Atlantic, a yacht wallows, becalmed at night. Inside, three people are deep asleep, their breathing barely audible. A structural piece of woodwork under stress groans softly. The chart table reflects a dim red light. Visible perceptions of movement are the fruit bowl gently swinging its load of apples and the curtains swinging in unison. The dark cabin interior looks motionless, but is rhythmically accelerating to the port and then to the starboard, while also pitching slowly fore and aft. I only realise this because I need to balance, gripping the furniture as I gently pad through the yacht during the graveyard watch. I hear water gently sloshing outside, mast halyards tapping to the swing of the boat, loose pots clanging and the oven squeaking on its gimbals. My muscles are involved in calisthenics tonight, although I am not acutely aware of this as we have been at sea for five nights. My body unconsciously anticipates the rhythmical and perpetual motion.
Wild Bird under sail. Cutter rigged sloop.
When I go on deck, there is no sound of wind, but I imagine that I can hear the faint Brownian hiss of air particles on my ear drums. However in the distance a ship’s engine rumbles and far above a passenger jet whines as it descends to unseen islands. The stainless steel self-steering paddle tinkles as it stirs the still black water. Water also gurgles around the stern as the transom dips then rises. Something mysterious creaks as the yacht continues its non-stop motion, encouraged by the long languorous ocean swell lifting and falling.
Tonight an anonymous (and probably curious) cetacean dozing on the surface nearby exhales a subdued whoosh of pulmonary air and moisture into the inky night.
Next, I am leaning on the pushpit, staring open-mouthed at the cosmos. The deck is wet, and all surfaces are clammy under my clenched fist. The cool air is a pleasant contrast to the heat of bright daytime sun. In this unusual hushed world, the thresholds of my senses are extended to accommodate many subtle stimuli. My imagination also runs free.
The night vista is an inverted black bowl peppered with holes of various sizes through which light shines through. Some are so big that the light casts a shimmering path to our boat. Above, the bright port and starboard lights of a jet plane change to bright fixed white plus a white strobe as it begins its descent towards my destination. If I were lost, I would follow these trailblazers in the sky. On this moonless night there are so many holes in the bowl the deck is illuminated in a ghostly pale version of daylight.
Moved by ocean swells, the mast scribes a crazy arc across the black sky. The wind indicator at the top of this wild pendulum glows luminescent orange, illuminated by the light of the mast tricolour.
Destination, Grasiosa Is, Lanzarote. Massive volcanic layered island strata in background.
The horizon is indiscernible. The bowl and its holes fuzzes out where the water horizon should be, not like the distinct sharp edge I saw on other nights. Some of the dots near the horizon may be ships, defined only if you see one move. When it does, a dim green light appears below the two motor lights of a phantom ship.
The ocean is the murky portion of the universe below the inverted bowl. Ephemeral bursts of light appear where a gentle wash from the boat activates bioluminescence from sea creatures. A slosh of water from the yacht will traced out by thousands of green spots. Sometimes, a large spontaneous blob of soft green luminescence will suddenly explode then fade. The best views are out on the periphery.
Meanwhile, the ship is getting closer and its green light becomes paired to a red light. Then the green disappears and the red becomes quite distinct along with two whites above. Curse the great steel behemoth in the dark. When I start the engine all sensations are ruled out by the grumbling, the indistinct whirring, the vibrations, the hum of the engine blower, the crunch of the gear change, the smell of the exhaust, the squeak of the pitching lever, the rattle of cogs and all the horrible imagined sounds that come from an engine compartment at night.
The magic is shattered… until the next time we are becalmed somewhere at night on an ocean.
