Cruising World - June 2018

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33

june/july 2018

cruisingworld.com

could be better?
Now, our Monitor windvane lives low
on our boat’s generous transom. Re-
reeving the control line was diffi cult in a
shipyard, and rather more so in 18-foot
waves. Plus, I had to hang upside down,
practically by my ankles. Occasionally, a
tumbling sea boarded and made me won-
der if that pain in my chest was my ribs
breaking, my back straining or both.
Carolyn came out into the wave-
dashed cockpit just in case she could
help. I felt a surge of love. How lucky can
one man be?
Finally, I managed to get the control
line routed through the long stainless-
steel tube and out the turning block.
Then I had to thread it through the
rudder hole and secure it, with the wild
gyrating rudder still mostly immersed in
large seas.
“Ten,” I said aloud. “Ten.” Then a bit
later, “10!”
“Meaning?” Carolyn asked from
forward and above in the cockpit.
“Meaning I want to end this process
with the same number of fi ngers I began
it with!” I replied.
“You are such a wuss,” she chuckled.
Finally, I completed the task, crawled
back into the cockpit, shut off the autopilot

and engaged the Monitor. It held course.

I was too tired to do anything but

collapse in Carolyn’s arms.

“My hero,” she said simply as she patted

my head. We stayed that way for a long

time. I was utterly content to remain

within throbbing distance of her heart.

Bang! The Monitor’s other control line

snapped.

This time I was quicker, and caught

the wheel before we jibed.

“You didn’t think it was going to be

that easy, did you?” Carolyn asked.

“Well, a man can hope,” I said wearily

as I crawled aft again. It turns out the

problem wasn’t chafe so much as age and

sun damage to the synthetic cordage. I

guess hoping for two circs with the same

steering lines is one too many.

A few days later, the wind was down

to 25 knots and we were steering for

a persistent smudge on the horizon.

Carolyn, my Pactor babe, was twiddling

the dials of her single-sideband radio.

Her ham call sign is NP2MU, aka Miss

Universe. There was an email from Herb

McCormick at Cruising World. One of my

fans (Andrew B) had messaged him to give

us a heads up: There were riots in Colón.

“That smudge is tires, police cars and

at least one major building downtown in

fl ames,” Carolyn said.

I smiled. It was a test, just another

cosmic trial. The gods were toying with

us. Nothing new, really.

I shrugged, just as I’d seen Bogie do

to Katharine Hepburn in the movie The

African Queen.

“You ready for the pandemonium of

civilization, Panamanian-style?”

asked Carolyn.

I mimed rolling up my sleeves and

taking the cheap wristwatch off my arm

and putting it in my pocket, something

that males born on the south side of

Chicago are all-too familiar with doing.

“Let me at ’em,” I said confi dently.

After an April transit of the Panama Canal, the

Goodlanders pointed Ganesh’s bow straight at

the Marquesas and French Polynesia.

ON WATCH

Occasionally, a tumbling

sea boarded and made

me wonder if that pain

in my chest was my

ribs breaking, my back

straining or both.