Not many years ago I was privileged to become involved with the vernacular sloops of the Windward Islands while on the Caribbean island of Carriacou in the Grenadines. These cargo-carrying craft are built on the beach by families who have been doing it for generations. There are no plans, just the eye of the master shipwright to produce sailing boats of surprising performance, well able to withstand the boisterous conditions for which they are built.

The opening pages of Jon van Tamelen’s book Ancestor, from the excellent Seaworthy Publications in Florida, describe his purchase of the Carriacou sloop of the same name. The pages hark back to a better, simpler world as he buys her from her local owners with no broker, no advertisement, no paperwork. He saw her and had to have her, so he did.

Van Tamelen goes on to sail her to Hawaii without engine or electronics. He navigates by the stars and his boat delivers what she was born to do – to sail the seas in safety and with good speed. He doesn’t make a big deal about his simple arrangements. He just gets on with his voyage which, almost by default, makes the book challenging for the rest of us.

Challenging it may be, but the sheer charm of the writing carries us along as we join him and his shipmate Hilt in the classic horror show of the engineless vessel: no wind, a heavy swell, a strong current, and a rocky shore approaching. There’s no calling for help on a non-existent radio set for them. Instead, these guys demonstrate the very essence of great seamanship.

Extract from Ancestor – A Carriacou Sloop’s Voyage to Vancouver

Totally becalmed, we expected a breeze to come along soon, so I took the opportunity to inspect the rudder fittings. Donning my mask and snorkel, I entered the water and descended. To test the rudder fittings, I grabbed the rudder, top and bottom, jiggled it – and almost had a heart attack. A baby dolphin swam into my arms for a rest, pinkish on the sides and as playful as a pup. As I hugged him and as we drifted away from the boat, something nudged my right shoulder. When I turned to investigate, I was face to face with the baby’s mother.

We made eye contact. The mother gave me a gentle push with her nose. I released the baby and lightly rubbed the mother’s neck. She did not resist. If I had not needed air again, we might have enjoyed quite a long conversation. From the surface, I watched my new friends leaping out of the water. They made one pass close by, almost touching me, before they turned southward. I was a changed person when I climbed on deck.

Ancestor seemed committed to her drifting course, heading for the next island to the west. Clearly, she was on a mission.

Hilt was worried. We had no control of our ship’s direction whatsoever. Ancestor possessed no sweep oar, and it was unlikely that one person in the dinghy could tow us. Hilt’s greatest concern was that we would make landfall on Isla Marchena without wind to assist us.

He mouthed the word ‘disaster’ and shook his head repeatedly. He and I had discussed our predicament, a discussion which I believed had gone well but Hilt remained unconvinced.

I chided him for reading disaster stories about these islands. In turn, he quoted more passages, describing many of the islands’ unfortunate shipwrecks; some with complete loss of life.

“Hilt, you look like a Sunday parson preparing to deliver a lengthy and depressing sermon.”

My friend didn’t smile and at that moment it was obvious to me that he was truly frightened.

I said I regretted my flippancy and promised to treat the situation with the seriousness it deserved.

First thing to do, therefore, was check our drift. I shot a sun line for a longitude check. Measured against the noon fix, the shot revealed that we were drifting at two-and-a-half knots. If nothing changed in a few hours, we would fetch up along Marchena’s shoreline. By my estimate, this would occur around 1000 post meridian.

Well after sunset I agreed that our circumstances were indeed a bit darkish. Maybe we should re-analyse our problem and devise a survival plan. I spoke confidently, pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil and scribbled some notes. Hilt liked the results and I did too. There might be wind before we reached Marchena, in which case we would hoist our sails and go either north or south to clear the land.

Binoculars in hand, I climbed the mast and from that elevation the lee shore loomed. It appeared to be a vertical cliff. We were too far off to see any details distinctly but I sensed the sea rising and falling against the cliff with a great heave.

There was no evidence of rocks or reefs. Back on deck, I explained what I had seen and then I devoted my attention to the second issue; the weather dynamics along that coast. Our marine chart gave us only the basic shape of the island. The eastern shoreline jutted out boldly at Point Espejo and the coastline ran north-west and south-west from there.

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After we deliberated further, I came up with an idea. The water rose and fell vertically which meant there would be a corresponding movement of air. Maybe the air would develop into a wind – breeze – that would blow horizontally to the east, or north or south.

We could use that air to our advantage. We talked next about the currents. The current we had been riding since Panama had joined the Humboldt Current here and Ancestor was twisting and turning now in these ocean rivers, which added another dynamic to our drift. What part of the island would we be ‘visiting’? That question remained unanswered.

Wisely, Hilt decided we should at least have a nourishing meal before dark, in case the evening’s events required our energy and our strength.

After eating, and before nightfall, we reviewed how to launch the liferaft. We made certain that the raft’s inflation line was properly secured, we filled jerrycans with potable water, tied the cans together with 10ft of line, collected food bags, which I stitched shut with twine, and then we lashed the bags together.

We also filled personal survival packs with tools, fishing gear, matches and lighters, sun tan lotion and shaving gear. The spears we had made in Balboa were important items. They might make the difference between life and death if a shipwreck did occur. I cut a large section out of the old South African spinnaker sail. This material would be useful as a sun shelter or as a sail.

On and on went our preparations, until the tropic night arrived and we were suspended in an extraordinary and unfamiliar world, alone with our fears and praying for wind. Marchena Island was less than six miles distant and our boat and her crew were aiming straight for the cliffs. Even the night held its breath.

Hilt was calmer than he had been earlier that day but as the waxing moon illuminated the scene, aided by stars and planets, he became agitated once again.

I stayed calm and optimistic, which many have described as my normal demeanour. Hilt said: “Jon, right here, on the east shore of this island, in 1807, the Ann Alexander, a whaler, was sunk by a whale. There were no survivors.”

I countered by explaining what I had read. “A few burros, plus some dogs, goats and pigs survived the wrecks and they are living on Marchena. If we are cast upon these shores, Hilt, we’ll have the burros for transportation, dogs and cats for pets, goats for target practice and pigs for a continuous supply of bacon and ham.” Hilt was not appeased.

Cloud blanket

The island now looked eerie, draped as it was beneath a blanket of dark clouds. Were we travelling exactly in the same direction as we had been all afternoon? Inexorably toward the cliffs? The time had come for some intense sailor talk. I lit my pipe. Hilt peeled a banana. Then he and I stood on the main hatch and tackled our dilemma head on.

Yes, we agreed, our circumstances are grim. Land is fast approaching. Yet, if Ancestor chooses to behave like a well-mannered lady, she will turn before we near the cliffs and before the sea drags her along the shore. Right? The current is forcing the water against the land and on impact, those crashing waves have to veer either north or south.

If luck is with us, the underwater shape of the island is steep and the crashing waves will create a shove-back motion, thereby – hopefully – preventing us from slamming into the rocks. We need to be in the south or north stream of water with a good offing for safety. Hilt and I analysed the dynamics of our boat, the shore in front of us and the powerful ocean carrying us forward.

When we had examined every aspect of our situation for over an hour, we concocted a plan: we’ll get the mainsail and jib hoisted and ready. Hilt will position himself on the foredeck and I will handle the main and the tiller. Our 16ft bamboo pole will be placed athwartships so it won’t get tangled in the rigging.

As we near shore the current, deflected from the rock face, should give us a shove and prevent us from colliding with anything. We’ll use the pole to fend us off and we’ll back the sails to use whatever wind is available. We hope to reach the coastline where there are cliffs and not just a shallow, rocky bottom. The anchor will be accessible and deployed if needed.

Hilt, the professional hockey player, stretched himself out on deck and began a calisthenic workout. I, on the other hand, went below to brew a pot of black coffee, as strong and black as this black night, and while I was down there I inventoried all the survival stuff which would need to be hauled to the liferaft. Our dinghy was prepared for an emergency launching and its painter was lengthened and positioned so we could find and secure it to the liferaft when – or if – we had to abandon ship.

Then, without warning, the moon disappeared, leaving us blind. With my other four senses, I ‘looked’ ahead to identify the sloughing sound of water surging against the cliffs and the pounding waterfall of waves falling back into the ocean. The currents were indiscriminate! Our crisis meant nothing to them. They were carrying us onward, into the dungeon of the night. I could feel the surface waters changing. There did appear to be some push-back from shore.

A tumult of water

At 2300 the sails were raised, the sheets were arranged and the pole was positioned within easy reach of either of us. As we strained to see the island, we were perhaps 400ft from the cliffs. The cloud cover was total. Heaving seas tumbled against the cliff. The depth and height of the ocean’s rise and fall were difficult to judge. Later we decided that the surge rise must have been 20ft and, when the water dropped, it was an even greater distance. The water’s power here was incalculable. Unsettling.

Ancestor was being rammed into this massive machine.

Within a few minutes – or was it half an hour? – a tumult of water cranked Ancestor sideways to the cliff, pointing her bow northward. We were about to be dashed against the rocks. The noises surrounding us were like those of a giant clearing his throat. I had to yell: “Hilt, be prepared for a breeze. I think there’s movement in the air.”

My friend was forward, just ahead of the mast, well braced, and clutching the bamboo pole. Time and my breathing stopped. The sensation was horrifying and yet wonderful.

We were broadside to the island, being repeatedly lifted and dropped 30 vertical feet. Ancestor was scarcely two boatlengths from disaster. Then I felt a definite breeze, coming from above, on the upper cliff! Wild with adrenaline, I shouted: “Hilt, back the jib!” I hauled the main boom to weather to allow the air to touch our canvas. As the boat came up on the next swell, the breeze exerted pressure on the sails and Ancestor advanced. Ever so slightly. We were gaining steerage!

Lightly but persistently, I massaged the tiller and rudder until we finally started to turn north. We called back and forth, screaming our relief and happiness. Our planning had paid off. We would survive!

The breeze freshened, to only a knot or two, but that was enough to keep us sailing and easing Ancestor away from shore. When the wind backed into the south, we gybed smartly and pointed the bow north-east. Just moments later, the wind exhausted itself and promptly died and we found ourselves a quarter of a mile offshore and drifting on a safe, north-westerly course. Have there ever been happier sailors? I’m sure there have been, but we claimed the gold medal that night. Hilt and I hugged one another.

He said: “So! What was all that anxiety and fear about? Piece of cake, I’d say.”

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