The Native Iowan

Chapter 1

It seemed like a good idea. At the time, all things considered, it seemed like a damn good idea. At the time I must have been stricken with a form of momentary dementia. Must have lost my marbles. Something must have slipped. It did seem like a good idea, A fine idea, at the time.

Now, it was all a bad, bad mistake. I wanted to take it all back. Recant my decision. Be automatically transported away from here. Back to where I was safe. Dry. Well. Not threatened. Not beaten. Not battered. Not freezing. I wanted out. Away. Away from this rolling, heaving deck. Away. From this angry sea.

I look up at Kev. He’s hanging on to the ship’s wheel. Hanging on for grim death. Every time a wave kicks us. Beats us. Batters us.  Kev hangs onto the wheel to keep from being washed over board. The wheel wobbles rocks in its pedestal. At what point? Kev, wheel, all. Going over board?

I lie on the deck. Arms wrapped around a small alloy rail. Another wave washes the decks. Attempts to clear all, everything from this very small craft. I keep my head pressed to the deck. Lifted it once. Earlier. A wave hit. Smacked my head to the timbers. Scrambled my brains. I almost let go.

Charlie hollers from below decks. I scoot over to the hatch. He’s lifting up a bucket. Dirty, oil tainted water. I take it. Spilling some on my legs. It’s warm. Feels good. I toss it overboard. Give the bucket back to Charlie. The oily water up to his shins. He fills it again. And again.

I lie back. Wrap my arms around the rail. Another wave. Kev’s feet wash out from under him. More water into the boat. I am freezing. I am sick. I hate this. I want out. Away. Now. I made the wrong decision. And it’s all too late. The sea will win if we give up.

The sea will take this vessel and drive it to the briny deep. It will take our soft skinned bodies and turn them into wrinkled cartoon versions of us. It will feed our sweet flesh to the creatures of the deep. It will freeze us. Beat us. Torture us. Humiliate us. Humble us. Before it finally drowns us. 

Charlie calls. I hug the warm bucket. Let the oily, liquidy brine spill down my front. It feels good. For a moment. But, like the sea, it lies. Promising warmth I smile. Then it changes, quickly. The chill of my skin. My bones. I empty the bucket. Pass it back to Charlie. Continuing his labors.

His task? To keep the boat afloat. A liter water bottle in hand. It’s top cut off. The boat filling up. Sinking. Sinking. A red bucket. He must empty the boat. Keep it afloat. The bilge too narrow for the bucket. Use the water bottle. One liter at a time. Fill the red bucket. Again.

How much longer? How many hours? Now? How many days? How much longer? Soaked through. For an eternity. So sick there is nothing left to regurgitate. I lie. Still. Cling to the deck. Wretch. Stomach muscles knotting. Straining. Nothing there. Pain. Suffering. I wish. Long. That I had been a bit smarter. Not so stupid.

How did this happen? Me? Who hates boats. Gets seasick easily. The farm boy. Never this stupid before. What happened to me? Why the digression? What could have changed? To make me think this was a good idea? Another wave. Washes my body across the decks. I hold on. Soaked through. Freezing. I don’t understand. How?

It seemed like a good idea. At the time, all things considered, it seemed like a damn good idea. At the time I must have been stricken with a form of momentary dementia. Must have lost my marbles. Something must have slipped. It did seem like a good idea, A fine idea, at the time.

My buddy Big Kev had been talking of moving his yacht from Gizo to Honiara for ages.  Damn near every time I saw him he spoke of the trip. Talked of what a good sail it would be. “Thirty hours in a straight line. Leave on Saturday and be to work Monday morning. Not a problem.”

Kev. One of these guys whom you automatically trust. He’s big. Robust more than big. Robust and big. He knows a lot about a lot. Is eager, even generous, to share what he knows. He often travels fast and lose with the facts but, when the crunch comes, he knows a lot about a lot.

Kev’s had a multitude of experiences Crock hunter, ship-owner, miner, baker, farmer, butcher, candle stick maker… you get the idea. He’s interesting. Has a good sense of humor. Well, It may suffice to say that he is one of those characters that you tend to meet in a little back water spot like Gizo: Definitely larger than life.

Kev had sailed to Gizo in early 1998. He had set up shop next door to my depot. At the fisheries center. He had rented the wharf and shop space to work on his boat. I’d seen the boat come in. I’d seen a big guy walking through town. But paid little notice of it.

Somewhere along the line, while walking past the fisheries, I heard a tirade of verbal abuse being thrown about. Being nosey I rubber necked to see what was happening. It was the big yachtie I’d seen. Was going ballistic on an employee. I was to learn later that Kev has a habit of going ballistic.

We all got to know Kev quickly. He’d bought the yacht in PNG. It’s a 46-foot fiberglass hull with a ketch rig. The hull of good pedigree. You could tell at a glance that it had been a pretty snazzy vessel in its day. You could also tell “that day” had been some time ago.

Kev was around Gizo a bit over six months. He bought timber. Re-did the boat’s decks. Worked on replacing much of the hardware. Started renovating the interior. Basically was doing a refit in our quiet little backwater. I learned that he had recently sold a big cattle “station” (Australian for a “Ranch”) in West Queensland.

He had also been working in PNG. There he’d bought the yacht. Somewhere along the line he’d decided to come to Gizo and fix it up. He was no stranger to the Solomons. He’d run ships through these islands in the 70’s. By the sounds of it he was coming back for an early retirement.

Eventually he had flown to Honiara to get things for the boat. Then not returned. We all thought it odd. Later found out that he had been offered a job working for a guy he knew from the “old days”. So there he was in Honiara. Running a hardware business, his yacht sitting in Gizo.

Damn near every time I saw Kev he’d talk of sailing from Gizo to Honiara. Talk of what a good trip it would be. “Thirty hours in a straight line. Leave on Saturday and be to work Monday morning. Not a problem.” It was one of those subjects that were fun, interesting if not repetitive.

So the months go by. Kev’s settling well into Honiara. I see him on my frequent trips to town. Perhaps I needle him about the boat sitting in Gizo. Perhaps I get tired of hearing him talk about the trip. Eventually I decide: If he gets it organized, and soon, I’ll sail back with him.

Chapter 2

And It seemed like a good idea. At the time, all things considered, it seemed like a damn good idea. At the time I must have been stricken with a form of momentary dementia. Must have lost my marbles. Something must have slipped. It did seem like a good idea, A fine idea, at the time.

My cold, miserable state. Not comforted. Suffering. The thought: – I brought this all upon myself. I am to blame. Solely. Completely. Utterly. It is my fault. –  I had forced Kev’s hand. Had goaded him too many times in public. For a laugh. At his expense. To the delight of others. Now I pay.

The cock pit area is recessed into the deck about eight inches. It is self-bailing with scuppers all around. It fills up like a bathtub when the waves crash upon us. I lie crammed up against the starboard side. Trying to hide from the wind. Making myself less than eight inches high. Hiding.

Hiding from the wind. From the waves. Hiding from the cold and the misery. From my sore, wrenched guts. Hiding from the boat heaving. From the sail flapping. Hiding from the rigging screaming. From the sound of the engine. Hiding from the smell of the exhaust. From everything. Especially my thoughts. Yes. Especially my thoughts.

I hear the engine mocking me. The rhythmic wop – wop – wop – wop – wop… is laughing at my suffering. I hear it say – you had a plane ticket – Again and again. I hear it laugh as another wave crashes upon us. Another wave patiently tries to suck me off the ship. Suck me into the sea.

The long ago catholic in me tries to remember the act of contrition. The words are lost. But I want to be contrite. I am sorry. I didn’t really mean it. I was only joking. All those times I’d rib Kev about the boat. Sitting in Gizo… It was all a joke. A playful joke…

I’d pester him whenever I could… If I had some free time, knew I’d be in Gizo, I’d get after him. Send him faxes. Say I was ready for this “great trip”. I’d frequently “have a go” at him about the yacht just sitting.  About this “great trip” we were missing. The missed adventure.

 It was the weekend of the 4th of July. Kev finally called my bluff.    ” The 4th” was a Friday.     The   ” 7th   (Independence Day in the Solomons) was on Monday we had a long, weekend filled public holiday.  Just what we needed.  Kev flew up Saturday.   We were to sail early Sunday.

 Kev arrived to find his boat less than ” ship shape “.     He had left a young Choiseul guy.   Charlie.   In charge of things.  Charlie had been a bit lax with his work ethic. Kev arrived to find all six ship’s batteries discharged. The engine would not start. Our trip was in peril of never beginning.

  Charlie’s instructions had been simple. Move the solar panel leads that charged the batteries from one battery to another.  For some reason this proved too hard. Instead he had drained them all.  Only one battery held any charge.  Though it did not have enough juice to start the four-cylinder engine.

It’s Saturday. Kev’s running around.  Screwing with his batteries.  Replacing the compass that had been stolen.   Digging sails out of the locker.   Starting and checking the engine.   Somewhere around noon he motored the boat to my wharf.   Fill up with fuel. Fill the eskie with ice. Load supplies.  Load beer.   Started drinking.

 Hell, this sailing business is easy.  Tie up to a wharf, sit back and pop another beer.   Damn, the beer ain’t real cold . . . run over   (Charlie!)   To fisheries.  Buy a bucket of ice for a dollar.   Fill the icebox to the brim.   Beer and flaked ice.   Hell I could sail forever.

 Hell. What do I know about sailing?   Nothing!  Nothing at all.  But this wharf side drinking is sure easy to learn. I think I could get good at this… Saturday passes us by.   Kev complaining, between beers – really should do more to the boat  -…   not technically ready to sail… – I open him another beer.

Kev fretted… The portholes had been removed.  They were somewhere below decks.  The forward hatch’s dogs   (the things that lock it down) had been removed.   They were somewhere with the missing portholes. The ship’s wheel had been taken out and not properly replaced. It wobbled a lot but the rudder turned.

 The new compass had a light.   But with flat batteries we could not check to ensure it had been hooked up correctly.  The engine ran. The batteries were in bad shape.  Kev had rigged a Genoa so we had sails.    We had cold beer.  Hell!  I figured we were ready to roll.

The wharf side drinking session. A bon voyage party. Several of the town’s worthy guzzlers. Visit. What’s up? Have a chat. Drink the ship’s supplies. We sit on the stern. Popping beers. Telling stories. Pat Purcell figured we were not yet ready. Peter Pabulu figured he’’ go too. His wife would have none of it.

 Kev, Peter and I decided to go to the hotel for supper.   We were pretty far-gone when we left the boat.  We walked / staggered to the hotel.   Once there, like true sailors about to leave port, we had a huge meal drank dozens of beers and prepared for the next day’s adventure.

 Somewhere in it all Peter decided that he needed to get Kev  “weighed”. We were all drunk. Now, Peter has a drunken habit of trying to chew his tongue and speak at the same time. He’s often hard to understand. I was drunk. He was drunk. Kev was drunk. Our chances of communication were slim.

– All the time you’ve spent here – Peter slurred  – I’ve never got you weighed. –  Kev and I exchange strange glances.   –  Mi like fo helpem you get weighed – Peter slurred on.  – Hem easi tu mus for me gettim you weighed. Mi savy, mi savy – he insisted time and time again.

I had a strange image of Peter deciding he needed to weigh Kev. Of more beers in the workshop. Ropes and weights. Pulleys and a chain block. Hanging things from the rafters. Peter getting caught up with his new project. Taking it scientifically. Playing the game of problem solver. Having fun. Until somebody gets hurt.

 – Mi savy one fella girlie.  – Peter’s head bobs drunkenly as he leers conspiratorially at Kev.   – By me go lukoutem hem. Hem young girlie.   By mi help gettem you weighed. – Kev and I both burst out laughing at the same time. Peter wants to get Kev laid, not weighed. The mystery solved.

We split up after supper.  Kev and Peter heading down the street. Arm in arm. Me, up hill. On my motorbike. Peter still slurring about getting Kev weighed. Kev still laughing at the impossible prospect (in such a drunken state) and the fun we’d had trying to figure out what Peter had been talking about.

And as we split up. Drunken. Safe, Sound. It still seemed like a good idea. It seemed like a damn good idea. At the time I was very drunk. Not ill with a form of momentary dementia. Good ol’ fashioned drunk. And it did seem like a good idea, A fine idea, at the time.

I woke feeling less than healthy. The first, of many, bad omens. I don’t care for boats. Don’t like being on them. They do not make me feel good. I get sick, quite easily, on boats. As I lay in my bed. Bile in my throat. Head pounding. I knew this was a jinxed trip.

It was later than 10:am when I got to the boat. Kev was up but moving slowly. Very slowly. – So much for an early start.– we both laughed. Set about getting ready to sail. For Kev this meant messing with the batteries. Charlie had re-drained the battery. We were back where we had started.

Kev is blowing his cool. Again. Ranting and raving at Charlie. Charlie looking perplexed. All he’d done is carried on with the party Kev and I had started. He’d just stayed on the boat. Turned the engine off. 12v Lights on. Drinking the beer we’d bought. And draining the battery we’d spent all day charging.

I check to see what the beer situation may be. We’d left a couple crates. Hadn’t thought that Charlie and the guys would finish it off. Hadn’t thought of no beer sales on Sunday. The prospect of a dry ship. I dig around the deep eskie. My hand freezing. I grasp an ice cold one.

I feel a couple more. Hell. Plenty buried deep. Deep and cold. Looks enticing. All night on ice… – Hey Kev. – I say as I pop the beer open. – Catch. – I delicately toss the open beer to him. Another magically appears in my hand. It sounds so good being popped. Tastes so good going down.

I’m amazed how well I take to this sailing stuff. And I was worried… felt jinxed… naw… no reason for worries. The boat is in fine shape. Who needs batteries? Who needs port holes? Or a compass with a light. Hell. Pass me another cold beer. I’m a sailor. I don’t know what worry means.

So the day passes. Readiness prevails. We steal the battery from my tractor. Charlie puts some cardboard over the portholes. – It’ll keep the water from dripping on your bed. – We scam another crate from a Chinese shop. We stop for lunch. (Working not drinking) The day is ending. Captain Kev reckons we’re ready to sail.

Chapter 3

And it still seemed like a good idea. Damn straight. At that time, right then. Drunk and happy. It seemed like a damn good idea. I admit it. I must have lost my marbles. I know something definitely slipped. Not like me. At all. Because it did seem like a good idea, at that time.

Either: I am getting better at hanging on to this toy boat getting kicked to hell in a very serious sea. Or, The seas are backing down. I lift my head to look around. A wave catches my head and tries to carry it away. My body aches. I am wet through. Froze through. I’m dying.

I am dying. Dying of stupidity. Insanity. I have lost track how long we’ve been having the hell kicked out of our scrawny asses. I remember leaving Gizo Sunday around 3pm. The trip out of Gizo was magic. A fantastic sun set. Good running seas. Brisk wind. The boat doing 10 knots. Motor sailing. Out, through the harbor.

Cold beer. Warm dusk. Sailing along nicely. The genoa pulled close. Filled with wind. The engine thumping. Happy for the help. 10 knots in a brisk following sea. We are running faster than the waves. It’s like surfing. Comfortable surfing.  Big boat surfing. Cold beer surfing. I’m in the captain’s chair. Steering with my foot.

My shirt is off. Balmy wind feels good. Old cut offs enough for my needs. Kev and Charlie are dressed similar. Shirtless with shorts. I leisurely puff a cigarette. Sip a cold beer. Steer with my foot. What a life. Sun setting behind us. Lighting up the Eastern sky. A light show. Just for us.

I had volunteered to be first round, chief cook. Figured we’d need a good feed the first night out. I had brought what I needed for my most basic one-pot-wonders. Noodles, onions, taiyo. Charlie took the wheel. Kev refreshes everyone’s beer. I head to the galley. Chatting how – sailing ain’t that bad. –

I do my wonders in fry pans. I put six onions in Kev’s little pan. Browned ‘em real good. Added soy. Pepper. Taragon. Get everything smelling good. Poured in some water. Mixed in the instant noodles. Added Taiyo. Stirred it all up. Cooked it until the bottom was crispy. Served it smothered in chili sauce. 

It’s dark. Stars are out. We’re into the new moon. It will be a moonless night. Kev hangs a small light above the compass. – It’s no light; no lookee where you go. – laughs Kev. –But it’s ok. The seas are fine… And I brought heaps of spare batteries. – We like his joke. Everyone laughs.

Life is good. The one pot wonder went down well. The sea is fine. I’m laying on the deck. To the starboard side of the wheel. Kev is steering easily. Charlie sits on the cabin. The stars shine like jewels. The small flash light Kev hung swings to and fro. Hypnotically. A gentle, contented swing.

Kev sets the watches… four hours at the wheel. Four hours on the deck keeping the helmsman awake. Four hours in the bunk. Charlie takes the wheel. I stay on the deck. Kev heads to his bunk. Charlie and I speak little. We smoke. I keep checking his heading. It’s a starry, starry night. Beautiful.

Charlie and I are still shirtless. The air is warm. The breeze fills the sail. Makes things comfortable. The engine’s throaty wop, wop, wop is pleasing to the ear. We hear Kev rustling around. I check my watch. Right on Midnight. Kev appears. Pantomime of a bear stretching. I head below. Rack time for Mike.

Chapter 4 …