Rob Campbell

Rob Campbell
(inducted 2008)

My dad’s warning was prophetic, “You could die on this trip!” but the picture and caption in the brochure captured my soul: “32 days, 19 Ports of Call, 500 nautical miles of open ocean sailing, 10 students, two instructors - the trip of a lifetime!” To me it sounded like the perfect vacation, while my father envisioned his only son in big waves and big storms in the middle of the tropics. I was convinced it would surely be a time to relax, bask in the Caribbean sun, swim in the beautiful, azure sea and test my growing sailing knowledge.

School was out for the summer and I was headed to the islands for a month of rest and relaxation before the start of my senior year of high school. Packing was easy: I filled my small black duffel bag to the brim with bathing suits and t-shirts. I wasn’t going to the Caribbean to impress people with my fashion sense; on the contrary, I wanted to be the best sailor on the boat. I read ferociously before the trip, consuming every sailing magazine and book scattered around the house. My dad had to many books on the subject, he could probably start a library. I knew the material cold, but how would I do on the water?

I had grown up sailing with my father in Charleston harbor. My father dragged me to every marina up and down the east coast growing up. Sailing was his passion, but it quickly evolved into mine. He had always encouraged me to sail but I was quickly outpacing him with my adventurous trip. He was more of an armchair sailor who preferred reading about boats and quick day sails, than extended trips.

My voyage began with a long day of travel from Charlotte, NC. I arrived on the French side of St. Maarten, the northern most island of the Leeward Island chain. Because of plane delays, I was the last camper to arrive and was immediately whisked away to our awaiting sailing vessel, Malanga. My floating chariot sat motionless, tethered to the pylons that kept her safe when not galloping over on the high seas.

Malanga’s name was much prettier than her actual existence. She was an old charter boat that had weathered much abuse from foolish charterers over her lifetime. She belonged to everyone and thus was taken care of by no one. Her once smooth and bright gelcoat finish was now chalky and dull, giving into the glaring rays from the Caribbean sun. The teak of her floor, once dark and rich, was now cracked and grey; leading you to wonder if it had ever looked ship-shape. She was native to the islands, registered out of Pointe-a-Pitre, Guadeloupe. We would sail directly past her home as we made our arc of the Caribbean.

The night before we set to sea, I lay motionless on the deck gazing at the stars above. It was much to hot and humid to sleep below deck. The topside should have been cooler with a slight breeze, but the hurricane hole bay blocked any chance of wind on this still night. The mosquitoes were out in full force, swarming and suckling at the new and ripe bodies that lay about. Even without motion, Malanga was bursting with noise: waves lapping the hull, halyards slapping the mast, ropes grinding the cleats, and the bilge pump hiccupping water. This was surely going to be the longest night of the trip. Everyone wanted the night to end and the morning to come.

When it did, we made a quick tour of the vessel, cast our lines and headed out into the Atlantic Ocean for our first day on the water. Today everyone would take their turn at the helm to gain confidence and comfort with the boat as we navigated south towards Nevis. We practiced countless maneuvers like tacks, gibes, man-over-boards, setting the sails and releasing them. The crew had been thrust together without design or agenda, but we created durable relationships that worked when we needed each other. On several occasions during man over-board drills, my life was in the hands of my new mates and never once did they let me down. Everyone needed to be an able body on this boat, when at any time our lives could depend on the actions of our fellow crewmembers.

We reached Nevis and painstakingly set our anchor into the white sand to hold us for the night. Dinner was prepared on the swinging stove as we rejoiced over the completion of our first successful day in the Caribbean. It would surely be followed by thirty more glorious days in this idyllic paradise. Tomorrow would be filled with fun activities on land during the day and then our first true test of skills as we made our way to our next anchorage.

Malanga begrudgingly pulled up her anchor and we turned the helm south on our way to Guadeloupe. This ninety-mile voyage would take over sixteen hours of sailing so it was imperative to begin at dusk to arrive in the daylight. Attempting to anchor in the dark near shoals and rocks would be much more dangerous than open water sailing at night, so we thought. I took the first 4-hour watch and caught a steady breeze from the east. This point of sail would take us all the way to Guadeloupe, I just had to watch out for other boats that might cross our path, shrouded by darkness.

As the hours passed, the wind stiffened and the waves grew. My first mate was busy monitoring the radar and GPS to maintain a clear course, but failed to listen to the ever-important weather report. The increasing gusts caused as no alarm, because the wind usually picked up as the oppressive temperatures declined and the cool summer air helped speed up the wind currents.

Then, as if we had broken through an imaginary wall of weather, the sky collapsed around us. The wind immediately gusted to forty-five miles per hour and rain gushed from the heavens. The waves period and height were increasing at an alarming pace. Malanga was bucking like bull at a rodeo as her bow followed waves up to their crest, penetrated the curl and then careened down the backside, only to hit another ascending wave.

My camp counselor, Fritz, instinctively threw a lifejacket at me and I donned it immediately. The situation was getting uglier by the second. I was quickly losing control at the helm from planing down waves. The speed created from the overpowered sails made the rudder useless in steering Malanga. We needed to shorten sail immediately, less windage would decrease her speed but who in their right mind would go on deck in these seas?

Fritz couldn’t risk the lives of anyone else going on deck and thus scurried below to retrieve his harness, to lash himself onto the boat. He would tether himself to the boat when he climbed up onto the cabin house to bring down the sails. Being dragged behind the boat was a much better alternative than being swept overboard and never seen again. Just as his head appeared from the companionway, the unthinkable occurred.

It sounded like a gunshot, followed by an eerie whoosh of stainless steel perilously close to my head. Our forestay and backstay cables had sheared off. Two of the four cable supports for our entire rig were flailing dangerously about the deck. The seventy-five foot aluminum mast carrying more than a thousand square feet of sail was about to be ripped from the heart of the yacht. Meanwhile no one could safely reduce the sails because the quarter inch steel cable could slice anyone in the cockpit, as it flailed about from the top of the mast.

This doesn’t happen. Sailors don’t loose their forestay and backstay at night and live to tell about it. The sails were coming down, whether we wanted them down or not. I instinctually swung the boat to port while my counselor bounded onto the slippery deck. This was either going to work or I was going to kill my counselor in the process. If the boat swung further to port on a wave while he stood on deck, the sail would tack, sending the boom hurtling across the cabin promptly catapulting my counselor and then slamming into the portside shroud (one of two remaining supports of the mast). Fritz released the halyard and the sail plunged into the lazy-jacks.

He scampered back into the cockpit and we let Malanga bob in the storm as if she were a tiny cork in the water. There was nothing more we could do until the storm let up. The forty horsepower engine would not give enough propulsion to overcome the seas and we needed a moment to review the unbelievable circumstances that had flashed before our eyes just moments prior.

Minutes passed like hours as other campers down below cried with fear, not sure of what was happening on deck as pots and pans smashed about in their cupboards. The storm passed and the clouds gave way to the night sky. Battered but afloat, we started our diesel motor and nursed the crippled yacht back to our destination some eighteen hours away.

Although our nightmare delayed our itinerary down the Leewards, we escaped with no injuries and a boat with a mast. The damage was significant but repairable and we would soon set sail again in Malanga. She had gotten us this far; no use in turning back. What began as a simple sailing trip turned into one of the most memorable experiences of my life. Without a doubt, this trip delivered everything it promised, but more importantly, it gave me the confidence that as a team, we could overcome unthinkable conditions and live to tell about them.

Regards, Rob Campbell