Free Rowboat in a Hurricane by Julie Angus Page B

anchor would also cause the boat to swing into the wind and waves, but of course, using a conventional anchor isn’t feasible in the middle of the ocean’s depths.
    I struggled to the front of the boat through driving rain and spray and opened the forward compartment where the drogue was stored. Our boat was currently broaching (sitting sideways to the waves) and in a very vulnerable position. Waves crashed over the boat, rocking it violently. I tied the loose end of the rope to an eye ring on the bow and then slipped the conical canvas drogue into the water. The ghostly shape slipped into the distance until it reached the end of the line. Suddenly there was tension on the line, and the boat began nosing into the waves. The result was a little disappointing. We had hoped that, with the drogue, the boat would be perpendicular to the waves. Instead, it sat at about a sixty-degree angle to the ideal angle of attack.
    I climbed back into the cabin, absolutely drenched, and huddled against Colin’s warmth as the whistling wind increased in intensity. We ate our breakfast of salted soda crackers, cheese, and cured ham. Neither of us felt like doing any of our daily chores (plotting our position on the charts, writing in our journals, making water with the desalinator). Instead we lay sandwiched together in the cabin, bumping into each other and the walls as waves collided with our boat.
    “I have to go pee,” I informed Colin glumly.
    “Yeah, I have to offload some cargo myself, but I think I’ll . . .”
    Colin was interrupted by the thunderous explosion of an enormous breaking wave. Our vessel rolled almost ninety degrees, and I was thrown on top of Colin. Books, charts, boxes of crackers, and waterproof electronic cases toppled onto us. Slowly the boat righted, and I could see the water gushing off the decks through the scuppers.
    “Holy shit, that was a big one,” I said.
    The pressure in my bladder was greater than ever, and I feared another giant wave might trigger the inevitable. There was no way I could pee in a bucket in the cabin. (I had trouble peeing in those little jars doctors issued, and that was in the privacy of an immobile bathroom.) Even when the weather was calm, I’d had trouble dealing with my toilet needs on this trip. Initially, I’d imagined we would use a bucket on the deck. (Colin always talked about the “bucket and chuck it” days back in his sailboat. He forgot to mention the importance of partially filling the bucket with water in advance, and my first attempt had been very messy indeed.)
    I soon learned that the best way to go to the bathroom on a rowboat was to hang my derriere over the side while sitting on the outer rail. The lifelines made a secure backrest, and it was much more relaxing than using the bucket. Now, however, in gale-force winds, just being outside was a precarious experience.
    “I’m going out. I can’t hold my bladder any longer,” I informed Colin.
    “Just make sure you tie yourself on,” Colin said, looking worried.
    I nodded. We had a thick six-metre length of rope with one end secured to the boat for conditions like this. I tied the free end around my waist with a secure bowline knot. If I was washed off the decks, this would be my umbilical cord to safety. I waited for a lull between waves and quickly dashed out of the cabin, shutting the hatch securely behind me. I sat on the outer rail and relaxed my bladder—relief. Momentarily incapacitated by nature’s call, I watched in disbelief as a perfectly formed cresting wave reared towards me. I tightened my grip on the safety line. The wave poured over me and the boat rolled portside from the impact, dipping me up to my waist in the ocean. I clung to the lifeline while the boat slowly righted, and then I pulled up my dripping spandex shorts and scurried back into the cabin.
    “All is well?” Colin asked.
    “Better than well.” I was feeling invigorated. “I’ve learned that our classy bathroom is not