Only one of the crew was allowed to be idle — Stella Artois — and she was always idle. With nothing much to bark at out on the open ocean, she spent the rougher days curled up on my bed down in the cabin. When it was fine and calm, though, she’d usually be found on watch up at the bow, alert for something, anything that wasn’t just water. You could be sure that if there was anything out there, she’d spot it soon enough — an escort of porpoises, perhaps, diving in and out of the waves, a family of dolphins swimming alongside, so close that you could reach out and touch them. Whales, sharks, even turtles — we saw them all. My mother would be taking photographs, video and still, while my father and I fought over the binoculars. But Stella Artois was in her element, a proper sheepdog again, barking her commands at the creatures of the sea, herding them up from the deep.
Annoying though she could be — she would bring her smelly wetness with her everywhere — we never once regretted bringing her along with us. She was our greatest comfort. When the sea tossed and churned us, and my mother felt like death from sea-sickness, she’d sit down below, white to the gills, with Stella on her lap, cuddling and being cuddled. And when I was terrified by the mountainous seas and the screaming wind, I would curl up with Stella on my bunk, bury my head in her neck, and hold her tight. At times like that — and I don’t suppose they were that frequent, it’s just that I remember them so vividly — I always kept Eddie’s soccer ball close beside me as well.
The soccer ball had become a sort of talisman for me, a lucky charm, and it really seemed to work, too. After all, every storm did blow itself out in the end and, afterward, we were always still there, still alive and still afloat.
I had hoped my mother and father might forget all about the planned schoolwork. And to begin with, it seemed as if they had. But once we had weathered a few storms, once we were settled and well into our voyage, they sat me down and told me the unwelcome news. Like it or not, I was going to have to keep up with my schoolwork. My mother was adamant about it.
I could see that any appeals to my father would be pointless. He just shrugged and said, “Mom’s the skipper.” And that was the end of the matter. At least at home she had been my mother and I could argue with her, but not on the Peggy Sue, not anymore.
It was a conspiracy. Between them, they had devised an entire program of work. There were math books to get through — my father would help me with that if I got stuck, he said. For geography and history I was to find out and record all I could about every country we visited as we went around the world. For environmental studies and art I was to note down and draw all the birds we saw, all the creatures and plants we came across.
My mother made a particular point of teaching me navigation, too. “Barnacle Bill taught me,” she said, “I’m teaching you. I know it’s not on the curriculum, but so what? It could come in handy, you never know.” She taught me how to use the sextant, take compass bearings, plot a course on the chart. I had to fill in the longitude and latitude in the ship’s log, every morning, every evening, without fail.
I don’t think I had ever really noticed stars before. Now, whenever I was on watch in the cockpit at night, with the Peggy Sue on her wind-vane self-steering, the others asleep below, the stars would be my only company. Gazing up at them I felt sometimes that we were the last people alive on the whole planet. There was just us, and the dark sea around us and the millions of stars above.
It was on watch at night that I would often do my “English” homework. This was my own version of the ship’s log. I didn’t have to show it to them, but I was encouraged to write in it every few weeks. It would be, they said, my own personal, private record of our voyage.
At school I had never been much good at writing. I could never think of what to write or how to begin. But on the Peggy Sue I found I could open up my log and just write. There was always so much I wanted to say. And that’s the thing. I found I didn’t really write it down at all. Rather, I said it. I spoke it from my head, down my arm, through my fingers and my pencil, and onto the page. And that’s how it reads to me now, all these years later, like me talking.
I’m looking at my log now. The paper is a bit crinkled and the pages are yellowed with age. My scribbly writing is a little faded, but it’s mostly quite legible. What follows are just a few chosen extracts from this log. The entries are quite short, but they tell the tale. This is how I recorded our great journey. This is how it was for an eleven-year-old boy as we rode the wide oceans of the world onboard the Peggy Sue.
September 20
It’s five in the morning. I’m on watch in the cockpit and no one else is awake. We left Southampton ten days ago now. The Channel was full of tankers. There were dozens of them. So, either Mom or Dad took turns on watch the first two nights. They wouldn’t let me. I don’t know why not. There wasn’t any fog, and I can see as well as they can.
We were planning on sailing about two hundred miles a day — that’s about eight knots. But in the first week we were lucky if we made fifty miles a day.
Barnacle Bill warned us about the Bay of Biscay, so we were expecting it to be bad, and it was. Force 9 gale. Force 10 sometimes. We were slammed all over the place. I thought we’d sink. I really did. Once, when we came to the top of a wave, I saw the bow of the Peggy Sue pointing straight up at the moon. It was like she was going to take off. Then we were hurled down the other side so fast, I was sure we were going to the bottom. It was bad. I mean, it was horrible, really horrible. But the Peggy Sue didn’t fall apart, and we made it to Spain.
Mom gets quite snappy with us sometimes when we don’t do things right. Dad doesn’t seem to mind, not out here, not at sea. He just winks at me and we forget about it. They play a lot of chess together, when it’s calm enough. Dad’s winning so far, five games to three. Mom says it doesn’t bother her, but it does. I can tell.
We only spent a couple of days in La Coruña. Mom slept a lot. She was really tired. Dad did some work on the rudder cable while we were there. He’s still not happy with it, though. We set off for the Azores two days ago.
Yesterday was the best day we’ve had for sailing. Strong breeze, blue sky, and warm sun to dry things out. My blue shorts blew off the clothesline into the sea. It doesn’t matter. I never liked them much, anyway. We saw gannets slicing into the sea all around us this afternoon. Really excellent. Stella Artois went crazy.
I’m sick of baked beans already, and there’s still stacks of them down below.
* * *
October 11
Today I saw Africa! It was in the distance, but Mom said it was definitely Africa. We’re going down the west coast. Mom showed me on the chart. The wind will take us down the coast for a few hundred miles, then across the Atlantic to South America. We mustn’t drift off course, or else we’ll get into the Doldrums. There’s no wind there at all, and we could just sit there becalmed for weeks, maybe forever.
It’s the hottest day we’ve had. Dad’s very red in the face, and the tops of his ears are peeling. I’m more nutty brown, like Mom.
Saw flying fish early this morning and so did Stella. Then Mom spotted a shark off the port bow. A basking shark, she thought. I got the binoculars out, but I never saw it. She said I had to write it down in my notebook, anyway, and then draw it. I looked them up. They’re massive, but they don’t eat people, just fish and plankton. I like doing my drawings. My best one so far is a flying fish.
I sent a card to Eddie from the Cape Verde Islands. I wish he could be here. We’d have a great time.
Stella loves to chase the soccer ball around the cabin and pounce on it. She’ll puncture it one day, I know she will.
Dad’s been a bit gloomy, and Mom’s gone to lie down. She’s got a headache. I think they’ve had a bit of a tiff. Don’t know what about, exactly, but I think it’s about chess.
* * *
November 16
We’ve just left Recife. That’s in Brazil. We were there four days. We had a lot of repairs to do on the boat. Somethi
ng was wrong with the wind generator, and the rudder cable’s still sticking.
I’ve played soccer in Brazil! Did you hear that, Eddie? I’ve played soccer in Brazil, and with your lucky ball. Dad and me were just kicking it around on the beach, and before we knew it we had a dozen kids joining in. It was a proper game. Dad set it up. We picked sides. I called my side Mudlarks and he called his Brazil, so they all wanted to play on his side, of course.
But Mom joined in on my side and we won. Mudlarks 5 — Brazil 3. Mom invited them back for a Coke onboard afterward. Stella growled at them and bared her teeth, so we had to shut her down in the cabin. They tried out their English on us. They only knew two words: “Goal” and “Manchester United.” That’s three, I suppose.
Mom had her film developed. There’s a picture of some leaping dolphins, another of me at the winch. There’s one of Mom at the wheel, another of Dad hauling down the mainsail and making a mess of it. There’s one of me diving off a rock into the sea when we stopped in the Canaries. There’s one of Dad fast asleep and sunbathing on deck and Mom giggling. She’s about to dribble the sunblock all over his tummy. (I took that one, my best photo.) Then there’s one of me doing my math, sulking and sticking my tongue out.
* * *
December 25
Christmas Day at sea. Dad found some carols on the radio. We had crackers, all of them a bit soggy so none of them cracked, and we had the Christmas pudding Gran made for us. I gave them a drawing each — my flying fish, for Dad, and one of the skipper, in her hat, at the wheel, for Mom. They gave me a really cool knife they’d bought in Rio. So I gave a coin back. You’re supposed to do that. It’s for luck.
When we were in Rio we gave the Peggy Sue a good scrub down. She was looking a bit gross inside and outside, but she’s not anymore. We packed up a lot of supplies and water for the long haul to South Africa. Mom says we’re doing fine, just so long as we keep south, so long as we stay in the west-to-east South Atlantic current.
We passed south of an island called St. Helena a few days ago. No need to stop. Nothing much there, except it’s the place where Napoléon was exiled. He died there. Lonely place to die. So, of course, I had to do a history project on Napoléon. I had to look him up in the encyclopedia and write about him. It was quite interesting, really, but I didn’t tell them that.
Stella’s sulking on my bunk. Maybe it’s because no one gave her a Christmas present. I offered her a taste of Gran’s Christmas pudding, but she hardly gave it a sniff. Can’t say I blame her.
I saw a sail today, another yacht. We shouted Merry Christmas and waved, and Stella barked her head off, but they were too far away. When the sail disappeared, the sea felt suddenly very empty.
Mom won the chess game this evening. She’s ahead now, twenty-one games to twenty. Dad said he let her win because it was Christmas. They joke about it, but they both want to win.
* * *
January 1
Africa again! Cape Town. Table Mountain. And this time we’re not just sailing by — we’re going to stop for a while. They told me this evening. They didn’t want to tell me before, in case we couldn’t afford it, but we can. We’re going to stay for a couple of weeks, maybe more. We’re going to see elephants and lions in the wild. I can’t believe it. I don’t think they can, either. When they told me, they were like a couple of kids, all laughing and happy. They were never like this at home. These days they really smile at each other.
Mom’s getting stomach cramps. Dad wants her to see a doctor in Cape Town, but she won’t. I reckon it’s the baked beans. The good news is the baked beans have at last run out. The bad news is we had sardines for supper. Yuck!
* * *
February 7
We’re hundreds of miles out in the Indian Ocean, and then this happens. Stella hardly ever comes up on deck unless it’s flat calm. I don’t know why she came up. I don’t know why she was there. We were all busy, I suppose. Dad was down in the galley, and Mom was at the wheel. I was doing one of my navigation lessons, taking bearings with the sextant. The Peggy Sue was pitching and rolling a bit. I had to steady myself. I looked up and I saw Stella up at the bow of the boat. One moment she was just standing there, the next she was gone.
We had practiced the “man overboard” drill dozens of times back in The Solent with Barnacle Bill. Shout and point. Keep shouting. Keep pointing. Turn into the wind. Get the sails down quick. Engine on. By the time Dad had the mainsail and the jib down, we were already heading back toward her. I was doing the pointing, and the shouting, too. She was paddling for her life in the green of a looming wave. Dad was leaning over the side and reaching for her, but he didn’t have his safety harness on, and Mom was going crazy. She was trying to bring the boat in as close and as slow as she could, but a wave took Stella away from us at the last moment. We had to turn and come back again. All the time I was pointing and shouting.
Three times we came in, but each time we passed her by. Either we were going too fast or she was out of reach. She was weak by now. She was hardly paddling. She was going under. We had one last chance. We came in again, perfectly this time and close enough for Dad to be able to reach out and grab her. Among the three of us we managed to haul Stella back into the boat by her collar, by her tail. I got a, “Well done, monkey face,” from Dad, and Dad got a huge lecture from Mom for not wearing his safety harness. Dad just put his arms around her and she cried. Stella shook herself and went below as if nothing at all had happened.
Mom has made a strict rule: Stella Artois is never to go out on deck — whatever the weather — without a safety harness clipped on, like the rest of us. Dad’s going to make one for her.
I still dream of the elephants in South Africa. I loved how slow they are, and thoughtful. I loved their wise, weepy eyes. I can still see those snooty giraffes looking down at me, and the lion cub sleeping with his mother’s tail in his mouth. I did lots of drawings and I keep looking at them to remind me. The sun in Africa is so big, so red.
Australia next. Kangaroos and possums and wombats. Uncle John’s going to meet us in Perth. I’ve seen photos of him but I’ve never met him. Dad said this evening he’s only a distant uncle. “Very distant,” Mom said, and they both laughed. I didn’t get the joke till I thought about it again when I came on watch.
The stars are so bright, and Stella was saved. I think I’m happier than I have ever been in my life.
* * *
April 3
Off Perth, Australia. Until today it has been nothing but empty ocean all the way from Africa. I love it more and more when it’s just us and Peggy Sue and the sea. We all do, I think. But then, when we sight land, we always get so excited. When we saw Australia for the first time, we hugged one another and jumped up and down. It’s like we’re the first sailors ever to discover it. Stella Artois barked at us as if we were crazy as loons, which we probably are. But we’ve done it. We’ve sailed all the way from England to Australia. That’s halfway around the world. And we did it on our own.
Mom’s been getting her stomach cramps again. She’s definitely going to see a doctor in Australia. She’s promised us, and we’ll make her keep to it.
* * *
May 28
At sea again after nearly six weeks with Uncle John. We thought we were going to stay in Perth for just a few days, but he said we had to see Australia properly while we were there. He took us to stay with his family on a huge farm. Thousands of sheep. He’s got tons of horses, so I went riding a lot with my two little cousins, Beth and Liza. They’re only seven and eight, but they could really ride. They called me Mikey, and by the time we left they both wanted to marry me. We’re going to be pen pals instead.
I saw a snake called a copperhead. Uncle John said it could have killed me if I’d stepped on it. He told me to watch out for Redback spiders in the bathroom. I didn’t go to the bathroom very often after that.
They called us their “pommy cousins” and we had barbecues every evening. We had a great time with them. Bu
t I was happy to get back to the Peggy Sue. I missed her while I was gone, like I miss Eddie. I’ve been sending him cards, funny animal cards, if I can find them. I sent him one of a wombat. I saw a wombat too, and hundreds of possums and tons of kangaroos. And they’ve got white cockatoos in Australia like we’ve got sparrows at home — millions of them.
But out here it’s gulls again. Wherever we’ve been in the world there’s always gulls. The plan is we’re going to stop in Sydney, explore the Great Barrier Reef for a bit, then go through the Coral Sea and up toward Papua New Guinea.
Mom’s stomach cramps are much better. The doctor in Australia said that it was most probably something she’d eaten. Anyway, she’s better now.
It’s really hot and heavy. It’s calm too. No wind. We’re hardly moving. I can’t see any clouds, but I’m sure a storm is coming. I can feel it.
* * *
July 28
I look around me. It’s a dark, dark night. No moon. No stars. But it’s calm again, at last. I’ll be twelve tomorrow, but I don’t think anyone except me will remember it.
We’ve had a terrible time, far worse even than in the Bay of Biscay. Ever since we left Sydney, it’s been just storm after storm, and each one blows us farther north across the Coral Sea. The rudder cable has snapped. Dad’s done what he can, but it’s still not right. The self-steering doesn’t work anymore, so someone’s got to be at the wheel all the time. And that means Dad or me, because Mom is sick. It’s her stomach cramps again, but they’re a lot worse. She doesn’t want to eat at all. All she has is sugared water. She hasn’t been able to look at the charts for three days. Dad wants to put out a Mayday call, but Mom won’t let him. She says that’s giving in, and she’s never giving in. Dad and I have been doing the navigation together. We’ve been doing our best, but I don’t think we know where we are anymore.