ADVENTURE

Zia Emami-Ahari is an Iranian-born retired orthopaedic surgeon. After retirement at the age of 63, he set out to realize a boyhood dream and test the resilience of mind and body of a person at his age. He undertook a mainly single-handed sailing journey on board Athesa a 31-foot sailing boat. The journey took him from Västerås in Sweden to the San Francisco Bay in the US. Following the termination of the journey, he continues sailing. He has in the meantime written a book about his adventures. In this book he describes his experiences while crossing the oceans alone, facing quite precarious situations and enduring harrowing feats. His, are not tales of bravado or dare-devilry. It is the story of a man trying to discover his real self, his fears and his shortcomings. It is the story of an ordinary man who wishes to accomplish something extraordinary by winning over these fears and shortcomings. En route, by challenging the conventional wisdom he presents views that are controversial and sometimes debatable. The story is told in a witty and self deprecating fashion making the book a page turner. Below are excerpts from some sections of this readable and sometime amusing book. The title of the book is "Resolve: Diaries of a Sea Voyage". it may be ordered here.

EXCERPT

"He who Goes to Sea for Pleasure Goes to Hell for Respite"
Since early childhood, I was always tempted to do something silly and spectacular. An early retirement and the disillusionment that came with it, provided an excuse to do just that: go sailing single-handed. Here are a few notes from that period of my life:

“The wave tops break by the screaming wind creating a thunderous roar and a smoky spray. The sun shining behind the rising crest of the deep blue waves illuminates the top of the wave. It looks like a seemingly peaceful, stained glass window of a church. The deep drumbeat of the roar and the whistling of the wind in the rigging makes the background music of this spectacular show. This is a breathtaking performance by Mother Nature. It is amazing how she takes air and water, two of the softest elements at her disposal, mixes them up and creates the cruel power of the ocean. One has to come here to witness this overwhelming beauty. As the saying goes “No pain, No Gain!”

I am caught in an Atlantic storm. I am trying to go through the necessary activities of daily living. I am being thrown about and am not able to move securely. The outcome of all movements is unpredictable. Using the grab-rails, I imitate the apes swinging between the tree branches. The grab-rails in the boat are placed for this purpose. I have nicknamed my moving about the boat "The Ape Walk”. Performing even the simplest tasks requiring the use of both hands is next to impossible. These tasks are many and varied; putting on pants, cooking and washing up afterwards are amongst just a few. They all become frustrating and sometimes quite dangerous. Even if one succeeds, they make a suitable script for a slapstick comedy.

As an example, let us take the simple act of eating when the boat is careening over the wave tops. For the sake of argument, let us break down the process of eating into stages: preparation, eating, and washing up. To get the hang of it let us imagine a box tied to the back of a bucking rodeo horse inside of which one is trying to accomplish these tasks. If you could imagine that, then you may begin to get the feeling of how these tasks are accomplished not once but three times a day.

Now let us take the practical details of these stages. To prepare a hot meal, one needs to heat the food in a pot. To achieve this goal, one needs to establish a fairly constant contact between the flame and the pot. Need I explain that achieving this essential requirement, considering the conditions described above is quite a challenge? Maintaining a close proximity between the pot and the flames—a very necessary part of cooking—and to prevent their contents from flying in all directions is one of the charming aspects of life at sea. Usually a boat stove is gimbaled, and counteracts some of the movements, but not all of them. A fully effective gimbaled contraption to predict and respond to all the movements on a bucking pony or a she camel in heat is yet to be invented. I have found that the simplest solution to the problem is to tie the pot with its lid onto the stove with a piece of wire. Using this trick, one may keep the pot on the stove. However to find a way of keeping the food inside the pot, calls for a more fruitful mind than mine.

Let us imagine that after all the trials and tribulations the meal is ready and is served. Remember that the table where the sailor sits to eat, the plate, the cutlery and the contents of the plate are each independent objects that follow the laws of the physics, and if subjected, they may slide, tilt, and on occasions jump. If we believe in the fact that at least one hand is needed to transport the food from the plate to the mouth, it would be a folly to think that the other hand alone might be able to control all the other object involved in the action. The hand feeding the mouth has its own problems; it is holding a spoon or a fork waiting for an opportune moment to rapidly transfer a morsel to the mouth. As the body is also subjected to the forces applied to everything else, despite all calculated planning, the travel time between the plate and the mouth is sufficient to allow a shift in the positions of the hand or the mouth. It is long enough for the hand to miss its target—in this case the mouth—with rather messy outcome. It is rather a frustrating and sometimes a painful experience to find out that the mouth has been replaced by an eye, a nose or a cheek. A few missed attempts and one can picture the state of affairs on the table and the cabin sole. At the end of the meal, the sailor is faced with an empty dish, a half full stomach and soiled surroundings. After the third or fourth day at sea, the sailor comes to realize that to eat sufficient amounts, keep himself and his residence clean and tidy, certain rules should be followed. For instance: consumption of hot runny food from anything but a pot should be avoided at all costs, that food containers should never be filled to more than a quarter and that solid foods tend to take a flying leap from the plate to the cabin sole to absorb grime. One learns the differences between the taste of spaghetti mixed with carpet grime and grime mixed with spaghetti. One also learns that foul weather clothing is not only necessary in bad weather to keep the rain out but also useful when cooking and eating.

A Beach Party
This was our last night in Porto Santos. We had to provision for perishable stores like greens and dairy. The shopping also included material for the traditional last-dinner-in-port meal. For some reason, probably in my physical or mental absence, the others had decided that the dinner should be held in the form of a cookout on the beach, meaning eating on the SAND. As I was always in the unenviable position of the minority of one on any decision, I did not protest too strongly when crews of the other boats started to prepare for the festivity and agreed to participate in the party.

It is prudent to say that I have rather strong views on the subject of beach parties. The procedure begins by sitting uncomfortably on a blanket, initially spread nice and square. As one settles down one starts to squirm to relieve the pain of unaccustomed legs and back. In the meantime, through the fact that the blanket has the tendencies to adhere to the body parts it is in contact with rather than the sand underneath, the blanket starts to move around and become increasingly crumpled. As one sinks deeper, the sand grains climb over the edges of the blanket and in time cover its entire surface. Then begins the main purpose of coming and sitting here: eating and drinking. In this particular day, the menu consisted of marinated steaks with baked potatoes and wine. What we received was part burnt, mostly raw meat covered in sand, marinated in sauce mixed with more sand, half baked potatoes covered in sand, washed down with wine from a glass coated in even more sand. For good measure, the strong Atlantic onshore wind that was blowing into our campsite covered and gradually filled all our unprotected orifices with sand.

This evening was no exception from my previous experiences. As usual, I ended the meal with a sigh of relief, probably interpreted by the others as a sign of satisfaction. I lied that I had enjoyed every minute of our moonlight beach party and left the scene of my torment as quickly as politeness would allow. My first station to stop at was to use the little bathing bag I had hidden in a cleft on the harbor wall, take a hot shower and wash off the grease, the soot, and the sand off before returning to the boat.

In my mind, a moonlit beach party is another one of the presumed symbols of luxuries, sold in brochures and movie clips to the unsuspecting public. It may be envied by many but is certainly disliked by me. Simply put, I abhor even the thought of spending time on the sand and calling it a pleasant pastime, filling my sensitive parts with sand and have sand mixed with my food. To get gritty food is not my idea of having fun!

Logbook entry, somewhere in northeast Atlantic
Wind N.E. 60 knots. Course 240º - After the brief period of calm, a strong northeasterly is blowing and churning the sea into a boiling cauldron. Top of the waves are blown into a white powdery stuff that disappears in the wind. Waves break constantly and are increasing in height. They are full of froth and fury. The wind blowing through the rigging sound like the screams of a tormented animal. The thunderous sound of the waves beating on the hull and the screaming of the rigging create a frightening cacophony of sound. I reckon some waves are 8-10 meters high. It is a roller coaster ride. Athesa slides in a big rush down into the troughs, gets almost becalmed and climbs the other face of the wave until on the way up she meets the full force of the wind. I am afraid that if she ever buried the bows we might pitch pole.

I am lying in my bunk fully clothed. It is my routine that at nights, I allow myself sleep periods of no longer than 45 minutes. I have to go on deck regularly and check the surrounding ocean for signs of shipping and to look for eventual damages. Only the thickness of the hull separates me from the fury outside. It feels as if I am lying in a lorry driving fast through a cobble-stoned street. Sometimes after a climb, Athesa goes flying, the hull lifts off and then slams the trough so hard that I begin to doubt if she can take the abuse for long. On deck, it is a dark, starless night. We are running in front of a huge storm. The waves are like gaping monsters trying to catch us in their fangs. Thanks to the clever and unerring wind vane, Athesa manages to escape the onslaught. God help us if the self-steering wind vane fails. This is the worse weather I have experienced so far. Its enormity and raw power is astonishing. In spite of the fury outside, I doze off for a few minutes. I suddenly awaken with a sickening sudden lurch. It feels as if a giant hand has turned Athesa around and is trying to make her lie on her side. I feel that the angle of heel continues to increase. It finally reaches a degree where I know she is beyond recovery and we broach. The mast hits the water and we lay on our side. I get thrown out of my bunk, ricochet back, hit my chest and head and pass out.

I come to and realize we are still afloat an upright. I cannot breathe properly. I feel I have cracked a few ribs and there is a painful bump on my head. I know that to survive I have to ignore the pain and look after Athesa. My turn for attention will have to wait for later. All around me is a chaos of books, cutlery and glass. I crawl on deck and see the devastation. The foresail is in tatters and the whisker pole is trying to shear off the stays. I find the reason for Athesa’s strange behavior. My wind vane has failed and allowed Athesa to come about, beam to the wind.

Another logbook entry some weeks later
Course 270º. Wind NE. 20 knots. Total distance so far, 1075 miles. The boom is to port and tied down firmly with preventers. The new genoa that has replaced the tattered one is whiskered to starboard. Athesa is galloping along. We are skimming the waves. Our wake appears as two parallel froth lines behind us. There are many flying fish about. The day’s distance has been 140 miles, the best so far. It is an average of six nautical miles per hour, a very satisfactory performance for little Athesa.

I have totally neglected the pain caused by the broken ribs. I have had to. The choices have been to pamper the pain and feel sorry for myself or suffer and look after the boat and myself. I have not taken any analgesics either. It is not because I am a masochist but in order to finish what I have started, I need all my wits about me. Application of an elastic spinal belt around my chest has done the trick

It is the end of a beautiful day. To keep everything in their perspective it is time for a drink. I never imagined that the day would come when I would be looking forward to having a glass of a fizzy, non-alcoholic, evening drink. However, the intensely colorful tropical sunset, and the stark lonely ocean make up for the shortcoming. These evening sessions are open-ended meetings with my soul. The sojourn is permitted to take whatever time it needs. It allows me to relax and enjoy being alive. I truly enjoy these unimagined moments of bliss. I count my blessings and am thankful to have them. I have no living company but I have my music and my books. A short or a long trip into the world of Shamse Tabrizee, a few lines of Hafez and a sonata or two of Bach make good companions.

During these contented periods, I take an unhurried and careful audit of the inner corridors of my mind. It allows me to ponder on the longer past, the present and the short future I have ahead of me.

I realize these moments, however short and far in between, are the reasons why people keep going to sea…

Dr. Zia E. Ahari lives in San Rafel California and is busy sailing and writing. He may be contacted by E- mail athesa@gmail.com.