The Vagabond. Frank Rautenbach

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СКАЧАТЬ was now growing stronger, our close encounter with the freighter was more than we could handle, and we decided to bunk down for the night.

      None of us slept well that night. The storm kept battering and bashing us back up the coast.

      We were all up by sunrise on Sunday, the third day of being out at sea. Significantly, we could see land for the first time in two days. It lifted our spirits slightly.

      The ocean had turned an ugly brown colour, with dirty yellow foam whipped around by the wind floating everywhere. The swells were so big that, when we were at the trough of a wave, all we could see was a wall of water in front of us. Then, as we made our way up the back end of these monsters, the water would lift us high above the ocean surface, and hurl us sideways down the face.

      Between the three of us, we were trying to steer the boat. Unlike the steering wheel of a car that responds immediately, a yacht’s steering takes a lot longer to respond. We never did manage to straighten the yacht enough to counter us from careening sideways down the swell. Whenever we’d whip the wheel in the other direction, in a few minutes it became obvious that we had completely overcorrected. We were tired. Traumatised. The exchanges between us became very heated – until we spotted what looked like two large rocks sticking out of the ocean.

      We called the captain.

      His eyes widened immediately, and he grabbed the wheel from us. It was two colossal adult whales. They were side by side. He said they were mating. If the whales felt threatened in any way, they could destroy the yacht, much like two mating elephants might feel about a bolshie 4x4. He desperately tried to steer us away from the mating mammals.

      The wind and the waves, however, kept driving us in the direction of their looming bodies. We got so close we could clearly see the barnacles and scuff marks on the sides of their huge bodies.

      The tension on the boat was unbearable.

      We were moving at a snail’s pace, about 4 to 5 knots. With every excruciating minute that passed, we hoped and prayed. We could barely breathe. It literally felt like we were tiptoeing our way around them.

      As the ocean kept hoisting and lowering us, we could see the whales disappearing into the distance. Once we got in the clear, there was a little moment of relief. Until we realised we were still lost at sea.

      At lunchtime, I started feeling the first real pangs of hunger. Our food supplies had consisted of a two-litre bottle of Coke and a humble bag of Ghost Pops chips. The captain said there was food in the galley, but all I could find was mouldy brown bread and something that resembled smelly ham. Nonetheless, Miles and Eyeball would join me and lunch would be ham and chip sandwiches. I took my first bite. I gagged as I tasted the mould. But I was too hungry and soldiered on with the eating. Eyeball’s eye twitched slowly as he tried to chomp his way through the mouldy sandwich.

      It lightened the mood considerably.

      We heard the Captain shouting from the deck. We all went up.

      He was shouting and waving at a fishing trawler making its way towards us. It was painted bright white. The crew signalled from the control deck that we should get onto the radio. Finally, the radio made contact. Why in the world we were in the ocean during such a terrible storm, they asked. It had become too rough for them – they were making their way in. Our captain explained. They promised to contact the port authorities in East London to send out a rescue boat.

      I started feeling some hope.

      We made our way to the centre of the deck. We tied ourselves to the lifeline with pieces of rope and soaked up some of the sunshine that finally broke through. Buoyed by anticipation, we tried to see who could stand the longest without holding on to anything. We were trying to ‘surf’ the yacht, but it turned more into a contest of falling around than anything else.

      Later that afternoon, we heard the sound of a small propeller plane. It was flying low and directly towards us. Eyeball and I danced around and waved like crazy. Miles, ever the conscientious one, made the international signal for a boat in distress – slowing and repeatedly raising and lowering his outstretched arms.

      Thank God he did, as the pilot would then hopefully identify us as the boat in distress.

      The plane passed us.

      Then it turned to bank for another flyover. The pilot waved at us the second time.

      Apparently, he reported that we were fine and had been suntanning on the deck. He also reported our coordinates to the National Sea Rescue Institute.

      Unbeknownst to us, Miles’s and Eyeball’s parents had been desperately looking for someone with a private plane to fly out and search for us. They eventually got hold of my girlfriend’s uncle, who volunteered to fly out and search down the coastline.

      The NSRI would set up a search-and-rescue team and send out several vessels to find and retrieve us. The southwesterly had driven us hard through the night and that whole day. We had made a lot of progress back up the coast.

      When the NSRI found us, we were about 10 to 15 nautical miles from the East London harbour. It was early evening as they towed us in.

      It felt strange being in the calm waters behind the harbour wall again. My mind was still pitching and rolling, even though the hull was cutting gently through the water.

      I saw Miles’s father first. He was running along the dock wall as we made our way in, angrily shaking his fist at the captain.

      We finally got to our mooring on the eastern dock. We were exhausted, but happy to be back.

      When I saw Miles’s mother, I was expecting a big smile of relief and happiness. Instead, she was crying, and her face was the picture of pure anger. Also clearly directed at the captain.

      I remember disembarking and standing on solid ground for the first time in three days. It made the pitching and rolling motion in my head even worse. We all stumbled around trying to shake off our sea legs. I was confused by Miles’s parents’ reaction towards the captain.

      He seemed like a meek old man who had just survived a terrible ordeal. There was a reporter from the local newspaper. Miles’s mother confronted him and said that they would sue him if he wrote a single word about the incident. This was way too much tension for me to handle. I grabbed my stuff, got on my bike and rode home.

      I casually walked in through the front door. My gran asked how the weekend was. I said it was fine, but we didn’t get much surf. I dumped my board in the my room and with everything still swaying about me I stepped into the best shower of my life.

      We were all back at school the next day. As I sat at my desk, I could still feel The Vagabond’s pitching and rolling motion in my head. I looked up, and saw Miles and Eyeball. They, too, were battling to sit up straight. Joking about our ordeal on The Vagabond with our classmates, they gave us the usual ribbing one can expect from teenage boys.

      Everyone burst out laughing after hearing we had got lost on a boat called The Vagabond.

      Miles, Eyeball and I would never really take the time to talk about what had happened to us.

      We just kind of moved on. I think we just didn’t want to remember such a traumatic experience. Years later, Miles told me that when he got home that night he went straight to the bathroom to take a shower. He said he just stood there and cried his eyes out for a long time.

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