Numbered Days
by: Ralph E. Ahseln  10/2014

Part Three......

Veni Vidi Pravus

"I am Västlig, ...Listen to ME!"

That strident voice continued more hateful as each minute passed . The winds remained strong virtually closing off any chance to continue forward. He had to get away from the voice. He wanted to maintain this cruise and his sanity. The decision had to be either, motor out of the storm or sail and reach across the onslaught. Since he'd made the mistake of using Skälm's engine earlier, the fuel reserves were low. Sailing seemed the only option. It meant that he'd have to deviate from the 38 degree course, but it was a small price to pay to get away from the sound of that Witch's torment in the winds.

Venturing on deck, he managed to hank on the small jib. Carefully he walked back to the cockpit. Once there, he would have to choose the direction of his escape. In this part of the Pacific, heading North, he felt, might mean he'd face a stronger storm at the higher latitudes.
He forced the wheel over to Port.

The jib filled and bit into the wind. Slowly at first, then picking up way, the bow moved to the left and Skälm heeled a bit as the boat came to a Starboard tack. They were going away, finally, from that awful voice.....

The boat sailed for just a few minutes before the winds backed. Settling on due South, it was as strong as it had been before. Like the West winds with its terrible voice, it was bow on. Because it was directly in front of him, the boat stopped any forward movement and sat there, in Irons.

"Not again!" he shouted!

Faintly at first, from the center of a fog bank he'd not seen before, another strange voice came. It flowed out of the foggy wind that washed over him. Strong , but now, warm winds carrying a voice that penetrated the boat. It flowed over him with a deep , masculine, bubbling sound that had a trace of the same accent the others had.

"I am Söder, ...Listen to ME!"

This voice rang with jovial chuckles and husky tones. Deep roaring laughter that continued for a time, then it began yet another.... narration.

It spoke to the sailor of things past. It was as forceful and as loud as the Harpy of the West wind had been, and though terrified, he was transfixed by its messages. Words from the winds brought back memories. As he listened, he began to laugh, so much so that his sides ached. Tales of rowdy parties and roughhouse games played with friends whose names he'd forgotten long ago. Island Bars with steel drum bands playing Jimmy Buffet songs. Sailing fantasy songs about warm latitudes and carefree attitudes. Songs meant to lure him into a vagabond life. He heard rhymes bout his being wasted on Rum and the hangovers afterwards. Then, there were the stories he'd told others about times with lovely girls and love making he had done on sandy beaches. Some of the stories were true, but, most were boastful lies to keep his buddies entertained. There were tales of Besting unwary, and cheating the gullible and bragging about his skills and daring. Most of which were untrue.

He sat in the cockpit lost in thought about those forbidden pleasures.

He laughed out loud and dreamed of those times. HIS past. Transfixed and fascinated, he listened to the sonorous voice. The wind spoke to him in "Manly" praise. He basked in the selfish pleasures he'd known. All this, while he and the boat remained on the 38 degree line not moving. He listened, unaware that the jib had flogged itself to shreds during his reverie. He listened, .. to tales of his wasteful and profligate days . ..
His shame grew.

The voice in the winds had told the story of his past debauchery and falsehood. Only he knew what a heavy toll it had cost friends and acquaintances." After all, Only the best survive" he thought. But, he knew in his gut, it had cost him as dearly as it had those close to him. Friends discovered he was a liar and a cheat.
Now, the sailor had no friends.

He'd lost track of time. How long had he sat in the cockpit listening? He had no idea. A quick look at his log book shocked him. The last entry was made when he changed course. That had been a week ago ! He panicked. Where was he? How far had he gone? Grabbing the handheld GPS, he touched the ON button and waited the minute until it found enough satellites. Amazed, he saw the digital display read his latitude as.... 38° 05.0' North.

After all the stormy conditions, and after leaving Point Reyes California, to still be on line, or at least close to it, was miraculous. But then, he saw that as far as Longitude, they had moved only a few miles away from the last logged position. That wouldn't do. He'd have to shake off the sound of the wind's words and get away, just as he had done when the West winds had trapped him.

It was then he realized that the jib was useless. He did have the big Genoa below, and it did have reefing lines. He'd have to get what remained of the jib down and hoist the bigger sail, reefed. The storm WAS still fierce. He managed, with some difficulty, to get the new head sail bent on. He knew that there was only one way to go now. He had to go East.
Back the way he had come.

Again the wheel was turned to Port, and again the boat slowly moved picking up way. The South winds grew louder, calling the sailor to return and remember all of his good times. He listened, but, he HAD to keep moving.

Now a full 24 hours had past and he was sure that he and his boat finally would be gone from that evil place behind him.. He no longer heard the gruff jovial voice that he'd left the day before. He'd managed to eat a bit of leftover chili, and a handful of tasty kelp had rounded out the menu for that day. He felt better.

...It came in the middle of the night.

A fickle wind from the East that buffeted the boat so badly, it woke him. He heard the reefed Genny rip apart! It was so dark out he could barely make out the bow of Skälm. Winds were fluky and swung several degrees at each gust. Listening to his last headsail being torn to ribbons was devastating, but there was nothing he could do about it. Green water was flooding over the bow. The winds and waves were so unpredictable, that to try to get to the foredeck would be suicidal. He would just have to let this pass for now. Hopefully in the morning, he could salvage what was left. He still had a mainsail, but it would be too much to carry in these conditions. Maybe he could sew some of the shreds of the Genoa into a working sail. But that would have to wait.

He pulled some cushions tighter against his body and started to drift off. A few minutes of fitful sleep, and then,...

.... a new sound began.

" Listen! I am Östra. ... Söt öster"

"Oh no !" The sailor cried,

The new storm winds fell until it was just a breeze that carried the new voice. Not a powerful sound this time, a gentle one. As gusts veered and backed, the tone and pitch of the voice varied. At times Childlike, then changing to the melodious timbre of a mature woman. Again there was that same accent , but this time, sweet and inviting, seductive.

It teased, it promised, it whispered little lies in his ears. The sailor heard the same words he'd used a hundred times in the many temporary love affairs he’d had. The wind was trying to seduce HIM.

It pleaded, it cried great sobs , it whimpered the familiar threats to "find another". The lie he'd used a dozen times before. Then the promise of Fantasies that could be fulfilled, "If he only would stay"! He cringed each time he heard promises that HE had made, and broken so many times before.

Hours past and the voice continued its seductive theme. Words spoken in such a way that they made him weep. He began to remember names of those he'd romanced and broken, and he wished he could speak to them all now. He would tell them that it was, "A Game we all play. Just a game.". But now, Trying to justify all that had turned sour in his throat. He knew that as soon as he could, he MUST leave this torture. Leave behind the scores of heartbreaks he had been responsible for.

The mainsail could be bent on because the winds were so light . With luck, he might be able to claw his way out of this place. But to where? A sense of foreboding was palpable, but the decision had to be made. Fear caused the Bile to rise and go bitter in his mouth. But,.....Now, he knew. There was only one place left for him.

He must sail Skälm on... a heading of....360 degrees!
He must go North...

end: part three

Part 1

Part 2

Part 4