An Unforgettable Salute June, 1990 Atlantic Ocean

It was the summer of 1990.  The aura of glasnost had warmed relations between the US and Soviet Union.  Iraq had invaded Kuwait and Soviet leaders applauded the moves our country was making to counter it.  

I was sailing my 48 foot aluminum sailboat, Simba, back to the US from Spain.  I had a crew of two to help.  The first three days we were in dead calm and had to motor.  Then one night we were listening to the 11:00 PM daily Coast Guard weather forecast out of Portsmouth, Virginia on our shortwave radio.  Although it was June, the most favorable time to cross the Atlantic according to the historic weather information sources I had consulted, we were warned that an unusual dangerous storm was forming over the Eastern US and was likely to come straight across the Atlantic at us, arriving in two days.  The storm was predicted to gain force and have hurricane force winds.  The diameter of the low was predicted to expand to 1400 miles, a very large storm indeed, and one we were unlikely to be able to avoid unless we took quick action.  I turned the boat due south and kept that heading for two days, not wanting to have anything to do with this huge storm.

We successfully avoided the low and, when we finally turned west, we were treated to a strong breeze out of the north northwest which enabled us to make a fast 8 knots directly toward Maine, our destination.
 

We held this course, and enjoyed the favorable wind for seven days.  However, one of the crew developed a urinary tract infection which rendered him virtually comotose, so the other crewman and I had to run the boat.  We reduced sail every night as a precaution against a sudden wind force increase, and stood watch, on the lookout for wind direction shifts and other ships.  Even though it was June, it was cold at night, out on deck at the wheel and handling the sails.  I remember cursing one night at the discomfort I felt, shivering in the strong wind even though wearing sweaters and foul weather gear.

One afternoon as we approached Sable Island, east of Canada, my active crewman called down the companionway to me that we were being followed.  "Followed?", I shouted back as I dunned my foul weather gear, "What do you mean?"  He explained that a ship, the size of a small freighter, had been sailing south when he first saw it, but had changed to our westerly course and was slowly approaching us from astern.  He asked if he could hail the ship on the VHF. 

He hopped on channel 16, announced that he was aboard a sailing vessel headed west, and gave our approximate lattitude and longitude.  He asked the identity of the motor vessel following our boat.  Over the VHF we heard a babble of voices for a half minute or so, and then an authoritative deep voice asked for the name and nationality of our vessel in broken English.  At this point my crewman gave me the mike.  I said "Captain, we are the American sailing vessel Simba with a crew of three, bound for Islesboro, Maine."  Again we heard a babel of voices in a foreign language and then, "Shimba, Shimba, you only three out here?  Is true? Brave Americans you! Brave Americans you!"

After another chorus of background voices, the captain said "We are motor vessel Skapeta, scientific research ship, with 150 scientists and 150 crew."  After more background chatter, the captain said, "Shimba, Shimba, is.... okay we come closer?"  I said "Yes, please do."  The ship, approximately 300 feet long with three decks, came within a few hundred yards of us and then, "Shimba, Shimba, is okay we pass you to...(background babbel)...to schtarboard?"  I assured the captain he could do so, and slowly the ship drew abreast.  It was only some 50 yards to starboard, and we saw that apparently all the scientists, men and women, plus most of the crew, were lining the railings.  They were waving and applauding and cheering us, honoring us with a marvelous celebration.  First stunned, we then waved enthusiastically and shouted back inane greetings like "We love you too, we do!"  Suddenly the Russian ship's horn let out a mighty prolonged blast...and then two more.  I reached inside the doghouse, grabbed my little compressed air horn, and gave three weak "bleeps" in reply.

Skapeta forged ahead a half mile or so and then turned south onto her original course.  Only then did I become aware of how grubby we looked. We were unshaven and clad in soiled foul weather gear.  I shouted to the crew in dismay, "And we didn't even have our colors flying!"

Just then a familiar voice hailed us on the VHF: "Shimba,Shimba, is there...(babble babble) is anyting ve can do for you,... food, schlupplies?"  I thought a moment and replied, "Captain, thank you so much!  As a matter of fact after such recent heavy weather our boat is a mess.  Do you suppose you could spare us three young ladies to offer assistance?"  There was silence, then babble, then apparently laughter -- but no girls.  A minor disappointment in an amazing day.