Angel at the Helm
Please, God, give me a sign that You are with me!” I whispered as above me huge waves were breaking. The sky ahead was dark and angry, and the few stars visible began to disappear.
With my husband, Bob, I’d been sailing a 12-metre catamaran around the islands of Vanuatu for some months and now we were headed south to the capital, Port Vila, to pick up guests arriving by plane. At the time we had no weather fax facility aboard and relied on radio reports for weather news.
“Securité, securité, securité! A strong wind warning is current for the Vanuatu group . . .”
Port Vila Radio had been forecasting bad weather for several days, so we had been waiting in the safe haven of Port Sandwich on Malekula Island. Day after day we walked up the hill and looked out across the sea to see nothing but blue skies, sunshine and lazy seas. Finally we decided we had to leave, wind warning or not, because we had only three days before friends arrived. A gentle breeze filled the sails as we left that Thursday afternoon in August 2000.
We had been in the area performing humanitarian medical and dental work for isolated villages. Our time had been spent exploring, with a view to meeting as many of the people on inaccessible islands as possible. We would trade items, which they badly needed, for food, which we needed. We preferred to trade rather than give handouts. It’s one way of giving clothing and other needed goods without destroying self esteem. Sometimes, in areas where trading boats seldom went, we would give away things, but usually they were donated goods, courtesy of friends in Australia.
We’d been visiting the islands for a number of years doing such work, aiming to reach as many needy folk as possible.
Around sunset, we sighted a pod of pilot whales breaching as they made their way slowly north. They disappeared as the sun slid down in a blaze of gold.
The wind dropped to zero that night, so we turned on the anchor light and slept, relying on the GPS anchor alarm to warn us if we got anywhere near an island or a reef. Friday morning dawned bright and calm, but during the day the wind began to rise. It was “on the nose,” which meant a hard day’s sailing before we got far enough south to turn toward Port Vila. As the sun set, I suggested to Bob that he might want to get some sleep and I would take a rest later.
As the hours passed, the sea began to grow rougher and the wind started to howl through the rigging. One squall after another passed; salt spray smashed into my face with every wave. I was wet and cold and wished fervently to be somewhere else.
Bob surfaced after his rest. “This is the front that’s been forecast,” he announced. “We’re in the middle of it. Maybe we should tack now.” But after the tack, we seemed to be losing ground. Cats don’t sail particularly well to windward. We dropped the sails and began to motor at a painfully slow rate.
Suddenly the port engine stopped. With only one engine in windy conditions, a catamaran can’t maintain a course and simply swings further and further around in one direction. The motor had to be fixed.
Bob went below and discovered an air leak into the salt-water strainer on the affected engine. Every time the boat was thrust upward and came down with a bang, water was sucked out of the strainer and it filled with air. Then the engine would overheat and cut out.
To keep the engine going, Bob had to watch the strainer constantly. Every time it filled with air, he quickly loosened the cap to allow it to fill again before the motor stalled. Several times he had to call me to stop the engine, while we bobbed around at the mercy of the waves.
The wind by this stage was more than 40 knots, and four-metre waves were breaking above us. The autopilot was no longer able to keep the boat steady against the buffeting, so I switched to manual and wrestled the wheel, trying to keep direction by compass. Bob depended on me on deck, as he had his hands full below. I felt alone and afraid.
It was then I cried to God for assurance.
A small circle of stars appeared through a break in the clouds and gave me comfort. The clouds continued to part around those stars for the next hour, providing me with a focus.
Another squall loomed and to my dismay I realised that my guiding stars were disappearing in a sheet of rain that stung my face. My shoulders ached with the strain of the twisting wheel under my hands. As my tears mixed with the salt spray, I again begged God to give me a sign of His presence. I hoped I wasn’t demanding too much.
Then, without warning, the wheel held steady with no need to wrestle it, as if the auto pilot had been switched on. I glanced at the autopilot—the screen said “manual.” My hands rested lightly on the wheel as an Unseen Pilot guided us through the storm, the boat rising and falling rhythmically over the waves.
With this my mind felt entirely at peace. Although it was another 24 hours before we arrived in Port Vila, I felt I had company at the helm and, as we dropped anchor, I sent another prayer heavenward.
I’ve been in other storms since then and, although fear sometimes strikes, I carry on confidently, thinking of the time an Invisible Pilot kept watch with me. It gives me courage.
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