To revisit the rudder is to encapsulate the journey. Barney felt up by big waves, riding the drogue, on the far reaches of Hurricane Henri. The stern started to kick out a bit further, unusual, "Ryen stick your head out the back", "Fuccckkk" the reply. "It's gone!" "What's gone?" I shouted. "The whole thing." Rudder and bracket ripped from the back of the boat. If there was a safety manual it would say this is bad.
Countering we deployed the sea anchor whipping us around bow to wave, but without the rudder our backside still swung. Seas growing further, we hunker down in the cabin. Huge waves hit multiple bearings, and Barney nearly goes over, rolling up to the very top of her pitch, the cabin thrown asunder, gear flying, all of us heaped on top of each other.
Day turns to night and we brace by sound not sight from the shelling of mountainous waves. The whitecaps quickening sound like a low static growl, louder and louder approaching, hands shoot up to grab a rail, feet against any surface before Barney gets rocked again. Over and over. The boys hold fast.
The seas quelled come morning and there was no great panic or even discussion. I said it was time and we went to work. Foresight had graced us with a spare rudder and we rebuilt a bracket with scraps from the old one, stronger bolted straight to the steel, mounted whilst lurching out a hatch in a moving sea and completed we rowed. I can ask no more than that.
Misneach agus Dilseacht are words tattooed on the boat, Courage and Loyalty, something to live by I said to the boys way back in Rockaway. They held true. Spirits are high on the Magnolia Express, tis not the end only a plot twist, we have no doubt the Hard Way men will be tested again.
It was harder than I thought to cut her loose. Our home, our safety. She was named after my father who passed last year. Last words with him on zoom, denied his wake by covid, the people of our village lined the street to salute his funeral procession, apart but together, a heartfelt respect.
To land her at home, I thought to give him that proper send off taken away. His people and stories told of the character he was. The tanker crew beckoned me inside. A moment more I asked to watch her drift. Who knows where she goes, it’s tough to say goodbye. I’ll see you on the other side Barney.
With the generator only offering up errors rather than power we were left with solar pulling in little through a cloudy sky. Unsustainable to travel onwards or even backwards, a couple of days juice at best. Our risk tolerance was high, we had planned to row a month into hurricane season to finish, but there was no Ireland anymore. Calling the Canadian Coast Guard they advised to take action while we had those days left. The call was made and action was swift. An hour after requesting assistance that morning, the Coast Guard had requested and Captain Sandeep accepted that the Magnolia Express would come scoop us up from the Atlantic seas. Unsure of how we would board we packed what we could and before sunset the great tanker came over the horizon. They stopped a half mile out and we rowed our last to them. Even on a five foot day the boarding was challenging with Barney crashing against her beam. A tanker's ropes are a tanker's size and don't fit a rowboat's cleats. We were pulled feet into the air trying to hold on. The tanker's crew managed to get the basket to us and Ryen climbed in and we tossed luggage up as we were tossed around below, Chris and myself to follow. Our Barney adrift, heartbreaking but her crew safe and sound aboard the Magnolia Express, where they have washed and eaten and slept properly for the first time in two months. Exemplary hospitality and our gratitude forever. The Magnolia Express was enthralled by our story which one man summed up by saying - "It is a good journey, if it was perfect it would be God."
After dodging so many bullets and coming up with solution after solution to keep it moving we’ve unfortunately run out of luck. This week has been testing — a massive wave ripped the rudder right off the back of the boat and we fully rebuilt the bracket stronger and replaced it while moving in big seas. Water into wine. We’ve been rocked and nearly capsized a couple of times, awake all night bracing for the next big one to hit. Not a problem, onwards. But the new power system started to display ominous error messages, comes back on but breaks again the following day. Full fix it mode as usual but this time per tech support I don’t have a spare motherboard for the unit. It’s maintenance free unless it needs maintenance, they said. We can’t go on with communications and safety systems dark, so while obviously disappointing, it’s a decision that makes itself. Still processing it all but I know we have gained everything but the glory and are better men than the day we departed. Your support has meant the world to us and we are heartfelt in our thanks. We’ll follow up with what’s next once we have the details. (The adventure continues on an oil tanker to god knows where)
A guide to rainy nights. You should set your alarm for ten to the AM hour. It takes seven minutes to get ready.
There will be a lot of noise. The loud clacking sound on the sheet of fiberglass that separates you from ten thousand feet of water is the rudder bracket slapping the stern. You cannot call the authorities. There is no one to complain to. You may wear earplugs to offset your bedmate’s snoring. The relentless rat a tat tatting is the rain.
Put on your clothes. Feel around for them, it’s dark. You will find them in the trash bag. Yes they’re soaking wet. Where would they dry in the few hours since you took them off? You must get them on in a cramped flat legged seated rocking position with your neck craned down. Life vest on.
Open the cabin door out into the elements. Tether immediately. If you fall off the boat you’re dead. You exchange a mumble and fist bump with your crew mate coming off. Rain beats against your face, waves crash and splash, the clammy cabin looks ever appealing. Focus. Get your ass down stable on the row seat, now snap them oars.
Fondest memories of when we had enough water to wash clothes by hand, a time of abundance and plenty when the watermaker just produced. Now we have to hand pump auld Phil four hours a day for minimum needs, clothes wait to be rained on and we try to steam clean our jocks on the exhaust pipe of the methanol generator.
The fog has thickened enough to glisten on my glasses and drip down the lenses and onto my nose. We have reached the Grand Banks. No trepidation, time has been served, although night remains disorientating in the shroud. I try and keep a decent line whilst struggling to see the instruments a few feet away. At home in this netherworld a whale exhales close off the starboard bow, feeling like a giant asleep beside me.
