When Corroboree left Cape Town and set out across the South Atlantic for the Caribbean in early March, Eric and I were buoyant. This final, 5,400 miles of our circumnavigation was unanimously proclaimed by both the cruising guides and veteran sailors to be a “milk run.” “Once you escape the Cape Town weather, it’s southeast trade winds all the way,” they enthused. “You can take rest stops at St. Helena and Fernando de Noronha, and okay, you might encounter some doldrums and squalls near the equator. But overall, it’s going to be the best sailing of your entire voyage.”
Music to our ears! And indeed, the first leg to St. Helena had gone pretty much as promised. On 1 April our second leg of 1,700 miles to Fernando de Noronha, a marine sanctuary island 250 miles off the coast of Brazil, got off to a fine start—a sometimes light but steady southeast wind, the seas remarkably well-behaved, the sun glittering on the splendid expanse of blue ocean. On 5 April, a text from our son Dane in Atlanta announced the arrival of our second grandchild, mom Gray and baby Claire both doing well. How could it get any better?
We therefore shrugged the next day when the drive belt on our autopilot broke. We had a spare belt on board and could install it when we reached Fernando. We’d simply hand steer meanwhile. Then on the windy night of 10 April—because it always happens at night—I was jerked awake from a dead sleep by a frantic shout from the cockpit.
“Arliss! Wake up! Forget your harness! Get up here now!”
Heart pounding, I clambered up to find Corroboree slewing in the waves, her sails flailing, and Eric white-faced at the wheel. “We’ve lost the steering” he yelled, throwing up his hands in demonstration. “I heard a snap!, and the wheel went loose. We have to get the emergency tiller!”
In a tizzy, we yanked open the lid to the cockpit locker, and Eric grabbed the metal tiller and inserted it into the top of the rudder stock. I took the tiller while Eric fought to bring the sails under control, and between us we got Corroboree back on course. In these horrible few minutes, there was no time to think, only to react. Now, with me pressing against the emergency tiller for all I was worth, we stared at each other in the dark cockpit and processed the unbelievable news. No steering. The wheel useless. Only one possible explanation: One of the wire cables that links the wheel to the rudder had snapped in two. We were 1,100 miles from Fernando de Noronha, and in the blink of an eye our steering had vanished.
No. Oh no, no, no.
How could this have happened? Eric had installed the cable new in Australia in 2019 when he discovered the existing wire was fraying. Thankfully, he caught the potential failure while we were in port, and the close call had made him even more diligent in his inspections. The cable was completely intact when we left St. Helena, and we’d been sailing conservatively under a double-reefed main and jib, so there was minimal stress on the wire or any other part of the boat. As for the emergency tiller, this vital piece of equipment had been missing from Corroboree’s inventory when we purchased her, so we had one fabricated in Antigua in 2017 while dodging hurricanes there. Without it, we would be floundering helplessly now.
But the emergency tiller was never meant for traversing such a distance, and the physical effort required to hold it in place, night and day for 1,100 miles, felt impossible. We’d have to effect a repair underway, and as we overcame our shock, Eric outlined two options. First, the leftover cable from Australia, if long enough, could replace the snapped length. If not, our spare Dyneema headstay could be sacrificed to do the job. Dyneema is an incredibly strong synthetic rope, and we had already used it to replace our breakage-prone wire headstay and the wire lazyjacks that had held up the boom. It had worked beautifully in both instances and might do so now.
The problem with either option, however, was that Eric would have to do this complicated job single-handed in the bowels of a rocking boat while I stayed glued to the tiller. Moreover, we’d have to wait until daylight to begin, giving us a long, exhausting night alternating at the tiller to contemplate the ordeal ahead. Why, so close to the finish, had this happened? Was it random or had we somehow brought down upon ourselves some bad karma?
“Should we contact the family?” Eric asked.
We hesitated. Prior to setting forth on any major leg, Eric prepares and sends our children and siblings a detailed Float Plan of our projected route, including emergency contact numbers such as the local Coast Guard and rescue services. These would be used as a last resort—if Corroboree was sinking and we had to take to the liferaft—and that was not the case at present. But we were seriously disabled, and if anything else went wrong, we at least wanted someone to know where we were. Thus, we phoned, and in a very calm voice Eric assured them we could handle it. Equally calmly, they accepted the news. I don’t know if they truly believed him or were just doing their part to sustain our morale.
At sunup, we began. First to gain access to the steering assemblage, Eric crouched in the cockpit locker, emptied our starboard water tank bucket by bucket, and dumped the water overboard. We cringed at the waste. He then detached the tank, boosted it over his head and wedged it out into the cockpit. This enabled him to reach and detach one half of the broken wire. Back in the cockpit, he unbolted the compass from its pedestal and extracted the other half of the broken wire from the steering pedestal.
Now some good news—the leftover Australia cable, when measured against the broken lengths, was long enough to do the job. However, as a leftover, it did not have factory-made end fittings. Working in the cockpit, Eric bent one end of the new cable around an eye thimble and secured it in place with a U-bolt clamp, plastic cable ties and vinyl tape. He attached that end of the cable to the steering chain and fed the other end down through the pedestal. Then, in the aft cabin, he continued to feed the cable through the three pulleys leading to the steering quadrant. At that point, he affixed another eye thimble and connecting eyebolt to the free end. Finally, on his back and working by headlamp in the cramped space below deck, he attached the eyebolt to the steering quadrant, which is mounted on the rudder.
“It’s in!” he yelled, and at the same instant I felt the emergency tiller loosen in my hands and the steering wheel resume control. Tears of joy and relief spurted to my eyes, and I dropped onto the helm seat, my legs quivering from exhaustion. Eric spent a few more minutes below, adjusting the tension in the new wire. When he reemerged into the cockpit, dirty and sweaty, the glow on his face said it all. Though it sounds straightforward, the process took 6 hours. During that time, except to confirm each step, we barely spoke. We had to stay focused, me on the sea state, Eric on his task. Throughout, he remained calm and unfaltering. He was magnificent, and I mean that with all my heart.
It should be noted that our “milk run” did not turn sour due to the weather, and now, still reefed down, we resumed our way with only a slight wind at our back. But we did so with bated breath. Would the repair hold? Yes! Day by day, mile by mile, the stress bled off and we breathed easier. But a week later, as we closed in on Fernando de Noronha, the weather dealt its own blow. At sundown on 14 April, cumulonimbus clouds gathered behind us and sheet lightning flared. I was almost through my first watch when the wind leapt from 12k to 33k in less than two minutes and sideways rain strafed the cockpit, exploding like bullets all around. Now it was my turn to shriek for Eric.
“Get up here! Get up here!”
As Corroboree bucked forward, we rode it out with me at the helm and Eric standing ready to grab the sails if they ripped loose or came crashing down. The scenario was repeated on my second watch, each furious squall holding us in its grip for a tense half hour. When the second one finally passed, Eric turned our spotlight on the sails. The replacement steering cable had held, but what about our sails?
“Is everything okay?” I asked, dreading the answer.
Eric exhaled. “Amazingly, yes. I thought we’d be shredded for sure.”
When dawn arrived, only an innocent breeze remained. We were 130 miles from Fernando de Noronha and had two choices: We could wallow along for another 48 hours, possibly exposing ourselves to two more nights of squalls, or we could flip on the engine and reduce our risk to 24 hours. On went the motor. We sneaked through the final night with no further storm cells, anchored in mid-afternoon, and sat down to lick our wounds. Only to learn from the other cruising boat in the harbor that the port charges were exorbitant and the bountiful, fresh produce supposedly available at this rest stop was nonexistent.
“Never mind, we made it,” Eric said. “Maybe tomorrow will be better.” Wearily, we tumbled into bed.