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Tall ship pioneers sailing the oceans, discovering new worlds. The fear of squalls, hurricanes or bumping into a relative of Moby Dick, the whale, common dangers on the mind of every man that went to sea.

And while a ships’ crew may have been made up of men from many different countries, speaking many different languages, the common thread among all seaman was a great respect of the ocean and all those that sailed thereon. Combined with a strong dose of superstition for the Old Man of the Sea, this was an unwritten law of the sea in the days of old. Respect and superstition went hand in hand upon the sea.

Today, the new millennium sailor has the same natural obstacles to contend with as well as the hazards of modern man. What goes bump in the night may not necessarily be a whale or an uncharted reef. These days there is more chance of hitting a semi-submerged log or a buoyant freight container floating just below the surface, having dislodged itself from the deck shackles of a freighter.

Sailing through a north pacific high-pressure system you may see the logs, the shipping containers and the cousin mammal sleeping on the surface. You may also see a quagmire of plastic, Mac branded Styrofoam and other floating debris covering several square miles. Remember the old Styrofoam hamburger containers?

Well, there’s a museum of the non-biodegradable chemistry floating out there, moving with the weather cycles, as it will for eternity.

But beware; this is not all that lurks out on the vast ocean of obstacle courses.
Ten days out, on a passage from Hawaii to San Diego and believing the anti-cyclone would continue to move south, we set our course due east hoping to avoid being becalmed in the centre of it.

There were only two of us on the 32-foot Nunie for the 2500-mile passage. We’d already had a severe beating two days out from Kauai in 50 knot winds and with the gale now behind us, the fear of no wind at all was just as great as the fear of too much. Creeping around the outskirts of a high pressure system would keep wind in the sails, but passing through the centre of it would certainly land us in dead calm.

Our calculations were way off and we sailed into the middle of a high-pressure system, where we would sit becalmed in the doldrums for the next three days. 
On the third day at dusk, a tickle of breeze signalled relief and a sign that we had passed through the isobar graveyard of the ‘no wind zone’. From here on there should be wind enough to keep the sails full until we were close to the coast, still over a thousand miles away.

The passage thus far had been trying. Now with the wind in our favour our mood was somewhat jubilant and we voted to break with a standard rule at sea and have a Sundowner. As tradition dictates, the first drink went over the shoulder for the Old Man of the Sea. Respect and superstition, hand in hand at sea.
Our talk turned to crossing the halfway mark and making landfall in another ten days. The frosty beer, juicy steak, fresh garden salad and ice cream that awaited. Not to mention the bikini clad waitresses at the Red Onion Bar.
A steady breeze and a Sundowner can wipe away the frustrations of doldrums and the weariness of storms.

At last we were sailing along comfortably. The little boat heeling under trimmed sails and the windvane rudder leaving a twinkling path of silver phosphorescence trailing behind in our wake. With the sun an hour gone from the horizon we sipped our cocktails in the kind of euphoric state of camaraderie that only a long passage can breed between sailors.

The boat was heeled, the sails were full and at sea on a night like this, life is pretty good. Slowly, very slowly, the realisation began to dawn that something was amiss.
The music of sailing is one of silence only in the imagination. A symphony of whispers, gurgles and watery murmurs surrounds even the stillest boat on the stillest of nights. The stretching of rigging, creaking of bulkheads, the slosh of water passing over the hull and the fizzle of disturbed water left in a boats wake, all combine into a complex tune that is the sound of sailing.

Every sound was still there, except for the fizzle of wake, the trail of phosphorescence no longer sparkling either. How could the sails still be full, the boat heeled over, yet leaving no wake, making no way through the water?

In the moonless night we both rushed to look over the side, the stern and the bow. No sign of an obstacle could be seen. We looked at each other with concerned mystery. Our faces reflecting the look of the lost, who are surely to be lost, on a dark and, suddenly, very scary night at sea. What was in that Sundowner anyway?

With flashlights and lantern in hand, we shone downward trying to pierce the blackness of the sea, looking for what, we did not know. Nothing was immediately obvious. It had to be the Sundowners.

Finally, we hung out over the bowsprit and discovered what appeared to be a long rope caught on the bobstay fitting just above the water line. A closer inspection indicated the rope stretched off into the distance as far away as the eye could see. Then we saw the floats attached to the line. It was indeed, a net.

We were hooked up on a very long, stray net, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
Afraid to start the engine for fear of getting further entangled we decided to trim the sails, use the boat hook to push the line off the bow fitting and sail away. Our logic was that the net would slip down the stem, under the full keel and we’d sail over this high sea hazard and off into the night.

After several attempts, the line slipped under the bow and down the leading edge of the keel, only to resurface again at the stern, between the main rudder and the autopilot/windvane rudder. Now, on this short-handed voyage, the wind-operated pilot was considered our third crewman and our most precious piece of equipment.
The pressure from the net that pulled on the vane was so great it threatened to separate the unit from the hull and mounting brackets began twisting under its force.
Immediately we eased the sails to relieve the pressure and once again were left staring at each other with that combination of mystery and fear. What now?

Even with the sails eased the pressure on the vane remained. The net that stretched off over the horizon appeared to be pulling, dragging us backwards.  By the light of the lantern we noticed a teeming mass of fish caught up in the webbing of the net about a metre under water. Only then did the realisation hit us that this was not just a stray rogue or discarded piece of fishing net.

We were caught, snagged, hooked and helpless like all the shiny fish bouncing off the torchlight, in a drift net that was being hauled in by its mother ship ten miles away, somewhere over the horizon.

With panic setting in, and again using the boat hook, we tried pushing down on the float line to free the vanes rudder. Regardless of our efforts it became evident the entire unit would be torn from its mounts before the boat was freed.   There was nothing for it but that the net had to be cut. After a brief discussion about the retribution we would surely incur for destroying a million dollar net, more fear set in. Fear so great we decided to save the net by attaching a spring line to the nets’ float line before cutting it. This would allow our precious vane rudder to slip through and still keep the net intact. Unable to reach the net from the deck it became obvious that someone was going to have to get in the water to do the job.

Who was going to jump into the ocean, in the middle of nowhere, with all those fish and the likelihood there would also be an opportunist, razor toothed predator lurking somewhere, just waiting to nibble on for a toe or two?

After tossing a coin to choose the lucky winner, my crewmate won but opted to jump in. Deciding that if something happened to the skipper, he wouldn’t make it anyway.
With a safety line secured to his harness and attached to a winch, he eased over the transom into the frenzied mass of trapped fish. It took some time and effort to attach a 3-metre spring line to the net’s line, leaving a slack loop for the vane to slip through once the net was cut. In the dim light of the lantern my frightened crewman desperately treaded water and fish while I watched on anxiously waiting for his signal.

With the spring line finally attached, the sails were sheeted in to harness the breeze and power the boat up, ensuring our best chance of instant escape before cutting the net. In theory, it would be like releasing the lock to catapult a fighter plane off the deck of an aircraft carrier. The pressure of the net being pulled in would only give us a split second before the slack in the spring line was taken up and our chance of escape would be gone.

With one swift slash the float line was cut, the net parted, the rudder slipped through and the boat took off. Suddenly, the safety line connected to my crew tightened. Now he was caught in the net with the fish. His legs tangled up in a drift net that was hauling in the catch, in the middle of the ocean on a black and moonless night.
On the verge of panic for the umpteenth time that night, I released the sheets with a life and death urgency to dump the air from the sails and relieve the pressure. After a few frantic thrashes and a string of very foul expletives, he untangled himself and I pulled him in on the winch. The moment of panic over, we stood on the stern out of breath and on the verge of adrenalin overload, watching the net disappear off into the night. Just at that moment, a sleek, grey shadow reflected in the light of the lantern, the dorsal fin barely leaving a trail.

At sea, Sundowners are at the discretion of the Skipper and any Captain worth his weight in salt would never over-indulge nor, allow his crew to do so. However, in need of something to slow our racing pulse we both agreed, that on this night, we were well deserving of a second cocktail. Besides, we felt the Old Man of the Sea would certainly agree and he duly got his shot over the shoulder. Respect and superstition, hand in hand at sea.

EPILOGUE:
The events above are factual, though occurred sometime ago. We took a considerable risk to free our boat and save a million dollar drift net. However, we both agree, that if it happened to us today we would just cut the damn net and sail away.
When a boat can be trapped using such a predatory method of harvesting as a drift net, it is small wonder that some of our marine species are already extinct.
“Save the Planet” takes on a whole new meaning and suddenly hits home with a sane urgency when you’re literally caught up in the middle of its destruction. The sailors of old had the natural hazards at sea to contend with. They also had the man-made hazard of piracy to battle against.

Today there is a new scourge of pirate on the high seas. The drift-netters, long-liners and border trespassers that are ravaging our oceans resources with voracious greed and destructive carelessness, arrogantly oblivious to the plundering of our oceans ecology and the future of our planet.   

A shot over the shoulder to toast the Old Man of the Sea may be traditional as a superstitious prayer to ward off danger, but it is mostly done as a sign of respect for the ocean.

Respect and superstition still go hand in hand at sea amongst sailors, though its a great shame not all those who sail upon her share that respect, nor fear the dangers of ignoring it. Mankind has become Man-unkind in a senseless pursuit of greed, ignorant exploitation and destruction.

Superstition or not, The Old Man of the Sea would agree that; for as sure as the sun rises on one horizon and sets over another, it is just a matter of time until it all catches up with us. And that’s not an old superstition; it’s a new and certain reality.

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