Cap'n Fatty wins two first place awards at the Boating Writer's International contest for Best Boating Stories of Year
February 17, 2012
Top marine journalists in the U.S. and beyond were recognized February 17 at the Miami International Boat Show in an annual writing contest conducted by the membership of Boating Writers International (BWI).
In its 19th year, the BWI contest attracted 113 participants submitting 301 entries. All submissions to the contest were published in 2011. Each of the categories (noted below along with sponsors) was judged by four active journalists in the first few weeks of the New Year.

2011 Annual Contest Results:

1. Boating Columns sponsored by KVH Industries, Inc.

1st place, On Watch by Gary Capn Fatty Goodlander (Cruising World); 2nd place, On the Wind by Chris Caswell (Sailing); 3rd place, Off Watch by Wendy Clarke (Cruising World). In this category, entrants are required to submit three related columns to be judged. Describing the top choices, category chair Marlin Bree says, Here are grabber openings, building reader involvement, twisting plot points all followed up with such a satisfying climax that you know they are all surely from a master writers toolbox.

5. Boating Adventures sponsored by Yamaha Marine Group.

1st, The Voyage in Between by Gary Goodlander (Cruising World, Jan.); 2nd, Emergency Exit by Chris Caswell (Yachting, Aug.); 3rd, From Penguins to Palm Trees by Beth Leonard (Cruising World, April). Said judge Lenny Rudow, Voyage drew me into the world of sailing adventures, from the first line to the last, with a mix of real-world experience, history, and geography. I read, I learned, I was entertained.

The Voyage in Between

Carolyn Goodlander

The backdrop to a hard-won Middle East transit north to the Med features camels, sand, and swords.

Enlarge Photo

Like most sailors, Im apolitical. I prefer to avoid the squabbles of dirt dwellers. Plus, as a long-term world cruiser, Im usually a guest in a foreign country. I dont believe a guest should criticize his or her hosts. If I dont like a destination, I show it my transom. I leave. I vote with my keel.

One of the places that my wife, Carolyn, and I love dearly and keep coming back to is Southeast Asia. Its a very exciting, very stimulating cruising destination. There are thousands of safe harbors, with the vast majority completely devoid of yachts. Most Asians are friendly, honest, hardworking, and nonviolent. The area is rich in diversity: the Buddhists of Thailand, the Muslims of Malaysia, the capitalists of Singapore, the Hindus of India, and the Chinese of Hong Kong are all vastly different people. Yet they manage tomostlyget along just fine.

Another popular cruising area we love is Europe. It also teems with life, with passion, with history. Carolyn was deeply interested in anthropology when I snatched her away from academia. Shes still fascinated by Greek, Roman, and Turkish culture. Ruins continue to enthrall her. Shes mesmerized by ancient tombs and dusty works of art. Eastern Europe is history heaven for Carolyn.

Unfortunately, in between Southeast Asia and Europe is the dreaded Mideast. This is an unsettled, war-torn area where, in my humble opinion, racism and intolerance are glorified. I had no desire to visit Egypt, none. I had to, in order to transit the Suez Canal. This isnt an ideal recipe for carefree, recreational cruising.
There are three major challenges to transiting the Red Sea area: the Somali pirates, the adverse winds in the northern Red Sea, and the regional politics.

Surprisingly, the threat from the sea pirates of Somalia turned out to be easier for us to deal with psychologically than the reality of the land pirates.

Ill drop you at the Suez Canal Authority dock in one minute, from the portside, I told our final Suez pilot, curtly. Be ready.

No, no, captain, the pilot started hollering as he saw the dock approaching. I must get off on pilot boat only. And you need to pay them baksheesh money, too!
My heart sank. I caught sight of the swift, 55-foot pilot boat rushing betweenWild Cardand the dock. Its scarred, dented topsides were high and flared, making it impossible to come alongside without damaging our low-freeboard sloop. Baksheesh! the pilot boats Egyptian crew screamed at me as it slid alongside with gunning engine. Hey, skipper! Baksheesh!

No more money! I shouted. I have no more money! None!

This was the moment Id dreaded. Theyd intimidated me with their heavy-displacement vessel by getting closer and closer as they demanded money. But perhaps our pilot wasnt that heartless. The surge from a wave pushed both vessels together. The pilot jumped. I yanked the helm over hard aportand at the same time I fended off the giant pilot boat as its starboard quarter slid into, and over, us. It was dangerous of me to do this, perhaps stupidly so, and it took all of my strength, but I managed to get us separated without damage toWild Card.

There was a supply boat just ahead, and I rudely cut across its onrushing bow as its horn blared angrily. I now had some separation from the pilot boat and ducked behind an anchored freighter. I felt a surge of hope; I could see freedom ahead in the deep-blue waters of the Med.

A green fishing boat towing a long net chugged past. We slid along its starboard side and surreptitiously reached the Mediterranean Sea. We felt our bow dip and curtsy. We were free of the tyranny of Egypt. Never again, I said to Carolyn with a huge sigh of relief.

She concurred. Rounding the Cape of Good Hope was 10 times easier, she said with a shake of her head.

Now you may ask, dear reader, what tropic-loving, nearly penniless sea gypsies who hate cold weather are doing cruising northward into the expensive, chilly Med. The answer is the pitter-patter of tiny feet. Thats right, our daughter, Roma Orion, is preggers. Were going to be (doting) grandparents. And so we decided to move our floating home closer to Europe, where Roma and her husband, Christian live, love, and play. Excellent! said our daughter when she heard the news. That will make it easier for you to teach the kid to sail.

I could almost see her beaming over the phone.

And weve already acquired an infant-sized P.F.D. and a gimbaled bassinet for our first grand cruise together, I told her. And your mothers so excited that shes hyperventilating with joy!

So we left Southeast Asia, transited the Indian Ocean, and even tiptoed our way through the Gulf of Aden, right under the noses of the napping Somali pirates. But the Red Sea transit presented an entirely different challenge from, say, the empty, wave-tossed Indian Ocean passage. Suddenly, the twin factors of politics and religion reared their ugly heads. Mideast war intruded. The U.S. State Department warned us, via our shipboard email, not to step ashore in Eritreajust as we were about to clear into the specifically mentioned dangerous port of Massawa, where U.S. citizens were being tossed into jail without charge or trial. Sudan was under United Nations-imposed sanctions. And Egypt was, well, Egypt.

Are you sure youre ready for the culture shock? asked Carolyn, who, after our 40 years of cruising together under sail, knows me better than I do myself. The Med is filled with marinas and with rules, neither of which are your favorite things, Fatty.

Change is good, I said. We took our job as parents seriously, and I think we should be equally conscientious about raising our grandkids. Theyll need to know that everyone isnt a shore hugger. Theyll need to learn the lessons of the sea. Well teach themshow them that there are alternatives to dirt dwelling and clock punching. After all, a floating playpen is the best playpen of all.

The southern entrance to the Red Sea is a strait called Bab al Mandab; the name means Gate of Tears. Its said that the wind, seas, and current will be against you no matter what time of year it is or which direction you transit. Our weather forecast called for a north wind; our plan was to anchor just outside, then wait for a wind shift before entering at morning.

Weather forecasting in the Red Sea is often less than accurate. Actually, thats not true; its usually wrong. Or to put it another way, when the GRIBS are correct, its the exception to the rule. So we ended up not being able to anchor (it was a dead lee, in the southerly breeze); instead, we shot through the strait at midnight in windy, squally conditions.

Carolyn was down below, scanning our charts, watching our depth sounder, monitoring our A.I.S., and fine-tuning our radar. Suddenly, she said, Small target, dead ahead, and very close!

Visibility was poor, in heavy murk and blown spume.

Within something like a quarter of a mile? I asked.

More like about a hundred yards, she said casually.

Carolyn is always quite calm from the comfort of her nav station. Its only on deck that the real world of close-quarters action is so scary to her. When I pointed our searchlight dead ahead into the blackness, it picked up a swaying Yemeni fisherman standing up in a small outboard fishing vessel; he was hauling an illegal surface net. The vessel was completely unlit. And I knew that type of net.Wild Cardmight sail right over it as it raked our stem or, if we were unlucky, catch it on her Max-Prop.

Dog poop! I said, or something similar, and jibed to starboard while releasing my permanently rigged boom preventer. I hadnt gotten her squared away when Carolyn said with a yawn, Similar targets, closing fast, starboard bow.

This time there were two small, unlit fishing vessels; I hoped they were tending a different net. We were in the narrowest part of the channel. The current opposed the waves. They were all humped-up white horses. We were wallowing sickeningly in the troughs.

Damn it! I hissed and crash-tacked back to port. Its like a cautionary drivers ed training film for yachts!

Youre doing fine, Carolyn mused, as if polishing her nails in boredom. Itll open up soon. No worries, Fatty.

Nothing fazes Carolyn. Shes always confident of her equipment and my abilities. Im far more cautious. Together, my timid yin and her brave yang have managed to survive many a dark and stormy night at sea.

The Red Sea presents a challenging platform, with threats of piracy, headwinds from the Med, sandstorms, and corrupt Suez Canal officials. Any respite, like the one offered by this secluded anchorage off a barren, dramatic island, is welcome.

The Red Sea is a puzzle. We transited northward in March and April, which is considered prime time. The longer you wait, the harder the north winds blow as you close with the Med. So theres a tendency to rush northward with good tactical reason. However, the marsa anchorageslovely, lonely pots of water suspended between the vast emptiness of the desert and the unending combers of the Red Sea; marsa is an Arabic word for bayare among the best, most stunning anchorages in the world. And the diving is superb. So you want to linger. But youre always torn in the Red Sea, torn between hope and dread. This cruising area is full of surprises: I expected to hate primitive Sudan, and it turned out to be one of our finest stops ever.

Yes, we wanted a change from the tranquil tropicsand we certainly got it. Sailors of old always hugged the eastern shore of the Red Sea while working north to avoid the worst of the wind and adverse currents. But they currently shoot at you if you poke your bowsprit into some of the harbors in northern Yemen, and the Saudis dont welcome yachts, to make an understatement. So politics plays a role in almost everything in the Red Sea.

Security is an issue as well. One of our first Red Sea anchorages was in the lee of Suyul, a small but dramatic island just off the larger Hanish island. We expected it to be deserted. It wasnt. There was a makeshift, primitive army base perched precariously on the lofty cliffwhose army, we werent sure. As we attempted to anchor in the narrow shelf of shallow water below, the thin, tattered soldiers stared down at us with hard eyes. We waved gaily and sang out hello in a variety of local languages. They continued to stare down, to frown, to refrain from responding. So we put on our sail cover and nervously hid below.

The following day, we learned that at that moment there was a pirate attack on a southbound freighter not five miles to the west of uswithin sight of the garrison.
The Red Sea isnt a place to grow lax.

Our game plan was simple: Sail northward on a south wind, then tuck into a safe harbor on a northerly breeze. The problem was that each step north meant more and stronger norwesterly breezes. By midway up the Red Sea, the wind was almost always directly, relentlessly on the nose.
This norwester became our implacable enemy.

Just to add spice, there were sandstorms. Our first took place in Khor Nawarat, in the lee of Bushy Island. With a deteriorating weather window, we pulled into the large, deserted bay that was completely surrounded by desert. The wind quickly rose to 35 knots, and the air turned orangethats right, orange, from all the suspended sand particles. Soon our decks were covered with sand. I noticed it clinging to the grease on our winches, windlass, and roller chocks. Our Monitor windvanes delicate plastic bearings were clogged with the sharp, gritty abrasive. It gathered on the spreader tops and cascaded down when the rig shook in the wind. I couldnt look upsand was raining down into my eyes.

Each piece of running rigging became tubular sandpaper and began wearing away at whatever it ran through.

It made me ill just to think about ita minute in the Red Sea is like a month of normal wear and tear. I never thought about it, but having your vessel sandblasted 24/7 is a rather expensive way to wait out a blow. Within a few days of arriving in the Red Sea, you want to get out. Now. Soon. Immediately.

But scattered amid the misery of the sand and the relentlessness of the headwinds are the breathtaking marsa anchorages. There were hundreds of them, each more beautiful, lonelier, and more visually stunning than the previous.

Ive never loved the desert. Ive read books written by those who have. I know that its possible to feel about the desert as I feel about the open sea, but the passion wasnt in me. Then. Now it is. The sea and the desert are very similarboth empty and full, both dangerous and supportive, both welcoming and threatening.

Picture an empty sea alongside an empty desertand a single pot of dazzlingly clear water punched into the coast. Our first lovely marsa in Sudan was like anchoring betwixt and between two completely different but almost identical worlds.

Forget timenothing has changed here since the birth of man.

Animals frequently come upon the marsas after theyve wandered across the endless desert sands, gradually dying of thirst. They see mirages and probably hallucinate water all the time. Here in the marsas, the shore is low. Theres a beach. The thirsty, wobbly creatures wander down, cant believe their eyes, and cant stop themselves. They gorge on the salt water. The water is delicious, for a moment or two. Then they cramp. Fall over. Paw the sandfrantic at first, then more feebly. Then they go dim.

Thus the beach was littered with corpses of donkeys, dogs, goats, sheep, and animals too far gone to identify.

Camels wander by. They prefer to avoid you, but failing that, taking a deep bite of your tender flesh is a delicious second option. Trust me, a spitting camel is best to be avoided if you dont want to temporarily end up on the wrong side of the food chain.
Deserts are famous for both mirages and visions.

One morning, while Im writing my On Watch column in the cockpit, I glance up. A human figure in billowing white is walking toward Wild Card from across the desert. He shimmers in the flickering heat waves. He is tall, very black, and carries a majestic staff. At the shore, he drops the staff and walks into the water with arms outstretched, and he only stops when the water is chest high. Hes close but utters not a sound. Hes staring at me intently, a combination of horror, fascination, and amazement on his beatific countenance.

I wait for him to do something. He does nothing. Hes a statue. I want to talk to him, befriend him, crack some nomadic jokes, but Im scared. Hes frozen. I cant tell if hes breathing. Eventually, I glance at my watch and take a sip of my lukewarm tea. When I look back, hes gone. Disappeared, without even a puff of smoke.
I grab the binoculars and scan a dozen miles of empty coast. Nothing. I cant even make out footprints. I mentally kick myself for not snapping a photograph, but that wouldve killed the moment, a bigger crime than missing its recording.

A manatee levitates to the surface and makes kissing sounds with its bearded, macerating mouth. Pink flamingos flap past. The word enchanted pops into my reeling brain.

A few days later, we follow a flock of fishing dhows back through time and into Suakin, on the coast of Sudan: no electricity, no roads, no radio, no television. Just a market, a mosque, and some simple dwellings.

The first person I see is carrying a sword. Using pantomime, I convey to him that I want to buy one, and maybe a knife, too. Soon, groups of strangers are dashing up to show me their swords. By the following day, everywhere we go, were met with groups of young men rushing toward us with swords drawn.
It takes awhile to stop flinching, but we manage.

The villagers dont know where were from, nor do they care. They sell us bread, fruits, and shriveled vegetables. We drink coffee together. They are poorer than dirt because they dont have dirt, only non-fertile sand. Still, they survive, smile, laugh, and die.

One day, a young boy is kicked in the stomach by an animal in the market. Hes silent. Hes scared. Hes bleeding from the mouth. They rush him away on a cart drawn by a donkey. Later, I ask if they got him to a hospital in time. Yes, someone says sadly. We got him home to his parents before he died.
Life and death are hard in Sudan.

We spend a couple of weeks there and are the toast of the town. Swords in the hands of dark, turbaned men flash above our heads constantly. The local equivalent of a mayor tells usI thinkto keep an eye out for the landmark signs that, evidently, point out things of interest to the visiting tourist. Once we see one such sign up close, however, we realize weve misunderstood him. The signs dont advertise landmarksthey warn of landmines!
Not all the fruits of Sudan are sweet.

The forceful northwest wind takes on a personality. We struggle against it. We claw. We power. We tack. Any progress is good. Sometimes were beaten back. Other times, we barely manage to maintain our place.

Yes, the norwest wind is our enemy. We leave the safe harbor at 0200 and inch our way northward until 1000, when we seek the protection of the next marsa. Weeks go by. We measure our progress in miles, meters, and, eventually, inches. Finally the Red Sea is astern, and we begin tacking up the Gulf of Suez, playing the lifts, hiding from the currents, sneaking along the frothing reef edge. We forget all about our ultimate destination. We chip away at it; we take what we can. Our latitude increases. It gets colder.

We arrive at the modern port town at Suez. Supposedly, were in civilization again, but this characterization seems completely wrong to us. Were surrounded by greedy jackals. We miss our warm, wonderful Suakin friends.

Our agent conspires with the measurer to overcharge us, then generously knocks off a few dollars when we loudly complain. Were supposed to thank him. Everyoneevery single person, employed or just laying aboutat the Suez Yacht Club demands baksheeshin addition to the ridiculously high dockage fees.
Egypt is surreal. Im walking across a desert and a policemen approaches me on a camel. We stop. He dismounts, approaches, puts out his hand, and demands baksheesh. I angrily demand to know why he even thinks Id give him money. He shrugs. This is how it is, he seems to say. I shake my head negatively, with vehemence, and stalk away.

The canal itself is a boring 100-mile-long drainage ditch. Theres not even a lock to go through to allow you to pretend all the abuse was worth it.
But we did it. Were goal-oriented sailors. Some voyages are better than others, and the Red Sea, we learned, is a bittersweet ride.

With the rest of our lives before us, Carolyn hoisted the mainsail and we were roaring along under sail again. We were free of the land sharks. The Mediterranean Sea lay at our feet. I hooked up the Monitor self-steering gear, then Carolyn and I met in the middle of the boat on the starboard side for a much-needed hug.

What do you hear? I asked Carolyn after wed kissed.

The pitter-patter of tiny feet! she said with a giggle.