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I awoke this morning to the sound of a gentle wakeup from the Chief Mate as he roused the focs’l dwellers from a nice sleep at anchor off of Fogo, Cabo Verde. We had about 20 minutes until breakfast, and slowly began to come to consciousness. The shout down the hatch for all hands to raise the anchor came what seemed like a minute later. We scrambled on deck, sleep still in our eyes to haul up the port anchor and get underway, making room for the ship that was returning to the small harbor. We have gotten some good practice hauling up the anchor since we left Sierra Leone, occasionally raising it a few times a day.
Yesterday, Freedom Schooner Amistad was living out her mission as we, people from Sierra Leone, the United States, England and Bermuda crowded around the port side table in the main salon to discuss the history of Amistad. Perhaps one of the most rewarding parts of this leg is to be able to share this experience with Sierra Leoneans, sharing in the history together. We kept getting interrupted due to a concern about our anchor and rocks on the bottom. Lunch was set up on deck, and we inhaled the delicious flavors of leftovers ranging from giant coconut shrimp to calzones and pasta salad. We then hurried to raise anchor, stomachs full. Amidst a few groans of “I’ll never eat like that again before hauling back,” we raised the anchor. One of my shipmates threw up her lunch and we continued with our day. A group went ashore to discover the history of Fogo. Mickey (my watch officer) and I drove them to the dock through choppy waves, an experience for me as I am only learning to drive the small boat, or the “rubber ducky” as my Bermudian watch officer calls it. We arrived back to Amistad and quickly jumped on deck to haul back once more. Ben, the engineer, and Paul the Sky Pilot (a reference you can ask clergy about) headed to shore in the small boat, only to have the fuel line fall off and into the water. The engine then died when salt water got into the line. Ben and Paul rowed like a place Christians wish not to go to, trying to reach us. Sia caught their line as we continued to crank on the anchor. We then tried to hold our position for about 45 minutes until we could return to our anchorage.
As the day wrapped up, Sia told us about the devils that live in the water around Freetown, Sierra Leone. She was on the Bunce Island ferry when it went aground, due to the water devil being upset that he hadn’t been fed in 5 years, even though the boats and their propellers continued to disturb his ocean home. A large snake appeared on the ship when they were trying to get the vessel off the bottom and they abandoned the process. Now, every year, a cow is sacrificed and eaten and the blood is given to the water devil. Apparently the water devil near the navy pier on Freetown (where we were
docked) likes children and is nice, something good to know in hindsight, That night we feasted on red snapper that Sia and Dani bought off of a boat that had come up to us earlier in the day: 5 fish for 1,000 Cabo Verdean Escudos. I helped Dani with my Spanish trying to make it pass for a conversation with Portuguese speakers. However, the fishermen must have understood English, as Sia asked them in English for two small fish for free so she could make soup, which they gave her. A local teacher named Fausto, his wife and son Flavio (11 years old) joined us for dinner. Fausto had helped introduce Cape Verdean history into the school system’s curriculum, seeing a need for islanders to embrace their mixed Portuguese and African roots. When asked about the future of his country he said he was hopeful, he had to be.
Our guests headed back to shore under the light of stars and excited flying fish jumping in the light of the moon and our spreader lights. Later we watched Spielberg’s Amistad film on deck. It felt special to sit next to my Sierra Leonean friends as they watched this film about their national hero for the first time. Samuel could understand as the actors spoke Mende, and laughed at the bits that the rest of us couldn’t understand unless he translated.
The harbor in Fogo is flanked by volcanic cliffs that cascade down to black, sandy beaches. We discovered that the water is a delightful temperature when we jumped in for a swim/salty bath the first day we arrived. The dry landscape heads skyward to a road that runs along the top of what we could see of the island, sharing space with a few green bushes. The first night at anchor was illuminated by a brilliant moon and bright stars and the crashing sound of the surf looming close to us. We kept a keen eye on bearings, GPS position and radar range to make sure we were not dragging. Our time on Fogo, as it does most places we visit, past far to quickly. Some of us never had a chance to go ashore, a common fact of shipboard life as you rotate through watches. I was at the helm as we left. I waved by to the island I only saw from a distance. I felt her waters and met a handful of her people. How often in life do we stand at the shore of an experience, never fully being in the moment, never touching the depths of it, the sands of the island of a single moment. The speed of the experiences we have on this ship remind us constantly to savor what is placed in front of us, as our surrounding will change and we often find our selves in places we are not likely to return to. It’s about that time in the voyage when one might get a little crabby. I’ve been feeling that a bit. I was standing lookout amidships so as not to get soaked. The seas had clamed a bit. I called to my spiritual insides and guides, asking to remember and be thankful for this special place in the universe we are granted. Like our dirty, damp laundry, we to get a chance to air out and breathe a fresher breath when the seas calm down. Embraced by the sunlight, air and vast embrace of the universe we shift from dirty and smelly to fresh and rejuvenated. No sooner did I begin to air myself out than two dolphins swam under the boat, starboard side to port.
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