Dawn, Tuesday the 24th of May. Over the course of the night a few more miles had been gained, most of which were pounded out tacking into the east winds. Our luck was holding, though. The seas averaged a maximum of four feet and only a few breaking waves crossed the bow. Eric's bunk saw the worst of the little water we'd shipped (though if you ask him he'd probably equate it to a monsoon with a personal vendetta against his sleeping quarters.) We'd scratched out mile after mile, creeping along the northern coast of Honduras, keeping a sharp eye out for pirates as per Tim's advice. Brian came up for his shift on watch that morning and announced in a ragged voice, "Just so you guys know, I feel like absolute shit." An exam by the ship's doctor (yours truly) brought to light the sad fact: Brian was experiencing all the symptoms of a bad case of the flu. General achyness, headache, fatigue, loss of appetite, low grade fever, and mild nausea were plaguing him to the point where he wasn't sure he could maintain his tiller shift. I advised liquids, vitamin C, and fever reducing aspirin followed by lots of rest – Eric and I would handle his shift. Well, Brian would hear none of our taking him out of the lineup unless absolutely necessary. He managed to get down the aspirin but couldn't so much as stomach a cup of water. Then Eric, and an hour later myself, began to experience similar symptoms albeit to lesser degree. We continued eating and drinking regularly but were both getting head pain and feeling run down. At the end of his shift Brian collapsed wearily into his bunk to writhe in that half-delirious not-quite-sleep reserved for those who badly need it but are too ill to get any. Eric and I manned the vessel, suffering under the brutal, searing rays of the afternoon sun. There was no shade available; the unrelenting heat compounded the effects of our ailments. I began to feel real concern for Brian. Knowing how terrible I felt it seemed he must be on the very brink of his endurance. Should we turn back to French Harbor, preemptively avoiding a real medical emergency at sea? What if things continued to get worse while we got farther away from any realistic possibility for rescue?
I mussed these things over in my head as I poured sweat onto the deck. The base concern was Brian's inability to drink. Dehydration can become deadly extremely quickly under these conditions. Heat stroke could come on without anyone realizing it. After that the victim would stand next to no chance of escaping without a trip to an ICU, at best. If things didn't change… The sun came down on the water like a fiery hammer into the quenching vat. I sighed, my breath coming hot between my lips. I could taste the malady; a peculiar, insipid flavor that instinct tells you to spit out. But expectoration would do no good. Only time and water, food and rest. The last was not to be. We passed a nervous night with some hope: the wind came around to blow from the southeast, aiding our northeast tack. At least we were making some headway toward our goal of Cayo Vivarillo, the much-fantasized tropical paradise of waving palms, white sand beaches and healing climate. The weather was our ally on this day and that probably made all the difference. Had it been stormy over the water instead of on shore where lightening played beneath cell after cell of inclement gloom, I would have turned us back. Had the wind died out entirely or blown a gale we'd have called it a loss and skated back to Roatan. (A nice, cooling, sweet rain – agua dulche – that, now, would have been appreciated!) But the wind continued steadily from the east southeast and we continued with it. It was to my vast relief when my brother broke out the big bottle of V8 juice in the morning and proceeded to nurse it over the next couple of hours. Meanwhile, the second mate and I went on double water rations, forcing liquid into our bodies even when not particularly thirsty. The sun climbed into the sky, the day grew hotter, and covered ourselves in white clothing to combat the treacherous radiance. And I made sure everyone continued to sweat. When you stop sweating you're in trouble, it's one of the first red alert signs of heat stroke. I had just recently reread Joshua Slocum's "Sailing Alone Around The World" in which he details his adventures during the first solo circumnavigation of the globe. He refers to the ease with which his vessel, the Spray (only ten feet longer than Faith!), maintains course while her helm is lashed. I had tried it weeks ago while on tiller duty to no avail –Brian caught me in the act and pointed out that we were not, in fact, aboard the Spray. (Eric read the book just after I finished it and I busted him doing the same.) The night before, tired, worried and with several chores needing yet to be done, I had aimed to give it another go. Taking a little four foot section of line I made fast one end to the car (a movable attachment for controlling the jib sheets, one located on either side of the tiller) and used a slipknot to attach the other end to the tiller. By adjusting the position of the slipknot I was gradually able to find the perfect angle for the tiller to hold our course. Then I walked away from the helm. For the first time in Faith's history, she was essentially sailing herself! The line required only an occasional adjustment to keep a steady bead on our bearing. Oh the simplicity! Oh the freedom!