south instead of north of our goal. There’s an error. When
replotted, this line, too, puts us north of Tarawa. Craig, on
the bowsprit, can still see nothing to the north. Finally
convinced, we turn south and start the engine, power
sailing at seven-and-a-half knots, hoping to make Tarawa
before dark. We’ve wasted three-and-a-half hours.
I can only attribute my irrational behaviour to extreme
disorien tation, something I’d read about but never
experienced. Back in the early days of aviation, pilots used
to tell of actually flying upside down, but feeling so
strongly that they were right side up they disbelieved
their instruments. Those who survived were ada mant in
describing the overwhelming strength of their feelings.
The moral of each of these tales was: trust your
instruments. And yet instinct, no matter how often
wrong, can be compelling.
Personal war
Other factors that contributed to our dilemma:
inadequate charts; failure to check the sextant thoroughly
from a known position; misreading the stopwatch and a
brutal northerly current of well over two knots that made
any conclusion regarding our position, even the correct
one, seem illogical.
We steam past Abaiang’s south-west corner and see
another cause of our confusion. The reef, which from the
northern view point extends due east as far as we can see,
is revealed to bend south-east and continue for ten miles.
It’s from the south-east tip that Tarawa can be seen. Hours
earlier, if we had continued south for another 20 minutes,
our situation would have been plain.
At last light we pick up the islands on the far side of the
Tarawa lagoon, but it’s 9pm before we raise the Betio
beacon. By 11pm I raised the lights of the waterfront and
estimate that we are three or four miles north-west of the
beacon. I heave to, wake Nancy, and tell her to wake me in
three hours or when the light has nearly disappeared,
whichever comes first. At 2am she wakes me. The light is
only visible on the swells, bearing east-south-east.
I decide that the safest thing is to power due south. After
an hour of apparently holding my own, I realise the light is
gradually getting farther away. Current must be pushing
me west. I come about and power-sail east on the
starboard tack. Now I’m heading straight at the 17 miles of
submerged reef that is the western side of Tarawa atoll. As
long as the light bears no further south than 150 degrees
magnetic, I’ll be well off the reef. Still, it takes every ounce
of self-control to continue. The light comes closer. The
shore lights come into view. Over and over I check the
bearing and persuade myself that I have to trust my
piloting, even if it does only depend on a fragile card,
swinging lethargically in liquid and glowing red in the
cockpit. My instinct warns we’re getting close to the reef,
that I should come about. The compass says “Keep cool,
you’ve plenty of dis tance off yet.” I neither come about
nor keep cool, but continue toward the reef, sweating.
I’m still sweating when dawn comes. No need. We’re
three miles off the reef and four from the pass. I wake
Craig and Nancy. Neither has any idea
of what I’ve been through, my
personal war, and I’m too elated to tell
them. Although neither of them likes
me much when I’m depressed, they
consider me impossible when I’m
manic. I suggest a rum punch
breakfast, which is vetoed.
Never mind. I have enough
natural high for us all.Above: a squall to
starboard.
Above right: on
the radio with the
ship’s cat standing
by. Right: Herb
working on board
on his laptopSwell couple: the
late Herb Payson
and his wife Nancy