Atlantic Voices

In July 2012, I crossed the Atlantic Ocean in a 42 ft sailboat, a Catalina 42 Mark II called, ironically enough, Common Sense. I can’t take a lot of credit for the technicalities of sailing – that was mostly my husband Terry and our Irish crewman Padraig, but I navigated, stood my watches day and night, through turbulent seas and calm. And I did a lot of cooking under somewhat challenging circumstances.

Imagine preparing your dinner braced against the wall with the kitchen heeling to starboard at 40 degrees. Every few minutes a violent shock sends your ingredients and utensils flying to the other side of the room. To even reach this stage, you have played an extended game of Jenga with the contents of your fridge and dry store: on a boat you always need to move at least four things to find the one thing you are looking for. During a bad squall eight hundred miles from anywhere, I remember huddling on the floor in a corner while the entire contents of the cabin crashed around me. It really did feel like being under fire!

The hardest part of the voyage was near the start; the passage from Marsh Harbour to Bermuda was a six-day trip that took us nine. Squalls kept pushing us into the ‘Triangle’, and I have to say, my scepticism about its reputation was severely tested.

Firstly, the weather was terrible, much worse than the meteorological reports we studied so carefully. There were flat calms and sudden intense squalls, one of which gusted to 55 knots and knocked us down so the shrouds were in the water.  Then there was the effect on our instruments. There is always some variation between ‘magnetic’ and ‘true’ bearings on a compass, but in these parts there were dramatic and changing variations – not the classic spinning compass dial you see in the movies, but enough to be very cautious with our navigation.

And that was not the worst of it. I hesitate to write this, being the rational, level-headed individual I hope I am, but I swear I heard voices. The first episode happened while I was trying to catch a bit of sleep between watches, as Common Sense pitched and rolled on her sluggish way to Bermuda. There was a lot of noise, I admit - waves slapping, lines creaking, the straining of the sails – but I know I heard sobbing and then a woman’s voice saying the Lord’s Prayer in a clear English accent. I was very unsettled by this, but put it down to sleep deprivation and the noises of the boat.

The next time was harder to dismiss. I was wide awake at the wheel on night watch at about 10 pm. It was a rare beautiful night, with the stars reflecting on the water and the boat zipping along at five knots. I heard a man’s deep voice giving the command to fire, then a cacophony of dreadful screams and calls for help. Then silence and the swishing of our wake. There was absolutely nothing in sight.

The last time it happened I was lying in my bunk reading when I heard an Irish voice singing a song that I recognised, ‘The Black Velvet Band’. Naturally I thought it was Padraig awake and starting his chores, but when I went to ask if he wanted a coffee, I saw he was still fast asleep in his cabin. Terry was at the wheel and I said to him, “I like the Irish folk CD!’ He looked at me sideways and said, ‘CD? What are you on about?’ I started to answer but noticed that the singing had stopped. I didn’t pursue the conversation.

I have never had a so-called paranormal experience before or since, but I do wonder about those voices. I researched wrecks in the area, but there have been so many and few have a precise location. I wonder, was I hearing the voices of long-dead travellers on this strange and treacherous body of water? Perhaps even the last words of those who had met their fate here, and whose bones now lie many fathoms deep, at the bottom of the cold grey Atlantic.