Stowaway By Doris Taylor
M
y husband and I stored Exit Strategy, our Lagoon 42 catamaran, in Trinidad for hurricane season. After working on the boat for six weeks in sweltering heat, we were finally ready to head north. As we rounded the point of land that had protected us from the Atlantic Ocean, the sails filled, and a steady breeze refreshed our world. What a relief to be back on open water. I turned on the auto pilot to settle in for an overnight sail to Granada. The boat immediately took a hard, right turn. I turned it off and got back on course calling for Tom. I thought I may have forgotten to flip one of the switches on the electrical panel, but he checked and said it was all good. I tried again and was disappointed with another hard, right turn. Auto was out of commission. We would hand steer to Granada and hope to fix her there. I didn’t want to think about how we were starting a two-thousand-mile trip to Connecticut with no auto pilot. I chose to believe Tom would work his mechanical magic in Granada. When Tom came on watch, I was making his favorite night-watch snack of a peanut butter sandwich with hot tea, when I noticed a chunk missing from the corner of my freshly baked bread. At first, I thought Tom had torn off a piece, unusual for him. But on closer inspection, I saw teeth marks. We had a rat. Luckily, that hadn’t happened to us in more than thirty years of sailing...until now. I took the bread topside to show Tom. “I think we have a rat. Look. Teeth marks.” I was grossed out, but Tom simply said, “We’ll get a rat trap in Granada.” Convincing myself we’d be done with this varmint post haste, I relaxed into the trip. We enjoyed twenty knot trade winds on the beam, fueling a fun, fast pace. I determined not to let a little rat spoil this great passage.
Approaching Granada, I inhaled her beauty once again. Lush, green mountains rose gently out of the ocean, lifting the eye to the clouds. The people are as friendly as anyplace we’d ever been. Granada would be a relaxing treat. Our friend, Russell zoomed toward us in his dinghy as we motored by Hog Island. He recommended a protected spot to anchor in Clarks Court Bay, and we invited him to stop over after we set our hook. It would be fun to catch up. While we sat in the cockpit chatting with Russell, the rat popped up through the teak grate under the cabin sole and scurried onto the seat next to him. Mr. Rat paused there, sat back on his haunches, and looked up at Russell as if to join the conversation. Russel jumped in his seat, but expressed remarkable composure looking down at this little stowaway with startled amusement. After this display of personality, Tom dubbed the rat Philippe. He likes to name the little creatures who visit our lives. Russell told us where to find the hardware store for a trap, but also informed us nothing would be open until Monday. It was Friday. I would
have to live with Philippe for the whole weekend. I decided to leave food out in the cockpit for him. If I fed him in the cockpit, maybe he wouldn’t chew through all the provisions I’d painstakingly acquired and stowed below. I put bread on the cockpit floor. Tom laughed when he saw me feed him, but admitted it made some sense. In the evening, I spotted Philippe in the cockpit. Thinking that maybe he spent his days in a cockpit locker, I locked him out of the cabin the following evening before going to bed. Unfortunately, he found another way in. I heard a scratching very near my head during the night. I woke Tom “Do you hear that?” “Hear what?” he asked. “He’s in the boat. It’s like he’s right on the other side of this bulkhead. Or he may be right under our berth.” “Go to sleep. He won’t bother you.” Tom said as he rolled over onto his good ear. I laid there listening to Philippe for a long time. If I’d known what he was doing to make that noise, I would have ripped the boat apart to get him out of there. But instead, I calmed myself with thoughts of rat traps and fell into a restless sleep. Over the weekend we figured out that it was Philippe chewing through some wiring insulation, which caused the auto pilot failure. Tom was able to repair the damage while loudly using appropriate mechanics language. When Monday finally arrived, we bought a couple of old-fashioned rat traps. Tom baited one with the traditional cheese and set it out where I’d been leaving bread in the cockpit. Philippe took the cheese. I put peanut butter on the trap next. He ate that, too, and remained perfectly free, the useless trap unSee STOWAWAY continued on page 60
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