Honolulu Star-Advertiser © Susan Scott
December 3, 2012
On a moving sailboat, darkness hides danger. At night I can’t see rocks, reefs or debris in the water. Small lights in the distance might be a nearby dinghy that I should veer to avoid, or a distant container ship speeding my way.
Another negative about nighttime sailing is that I can’t see the whales, seabirds and leaping fish that are the reasons I’m out there in the first place.
On those grounds, and also because I never totally lost my childhood fear of the dark, I dread sailing at night. But on a boat that averages 5 to 6 mph, I have no choice. If I want to go farther than 40 miles, I have to sail in darkness.
Last week I wanted to go twice that distance. My destination was Mexico’s Isla Isabela, a national park and wildlife refuge 80 miles from my starting point, La Cruz Marina in Banderas Bay. That meant leaving around midnight to ensure a daytime landfall, crucial at this volcanic island surrounded by jutting ridges of rock.
With the boat in good working order and my husband, Craig, rested from his flight from Hawaii to Puerto Vallarta, we set out at 12:30 a.m.
The voyage started in flat, calm water under the light of a half moon. With Honu’s engine pushing us along at a whiplashing 6 to 7 mph, and the autopilot driving, we settled down for the night. Craig took the first watch and I went below to nap.
When I relieved Craig at 4 a.m., the night was different from the one I left. The moon had set, leaving the water inky black with a smattering of stars peeking through patchy clouds.
I settled into the cockpit cushions, not to enjoy the night, but start the countdown to dawn.
A half-hour later I heard a chuffing gasp from the side of the boat. A flash of light appeared, and seconds later — bombs away — an arsenal of underwater torpedoes zoomed toward Honu’s hull.
The planet will never have more charming missiles. Dolphins were coming, not to kill, but to cavort.
I could see their trails because during their race to the boat, the dolphins bumped tiny drifting organisms that produce light when disturbed. The jostling combines enzymes and oxygen, and the resulting chemical reaction produces either a flash or a glow, depending on the species.
As if twinkling trajectories weren’t enough magic for one night, other kinds of light-makers stuck to the dolphins’ skin, outlining their bodies in pale pulsing green. In the hour before daybreak, three pods of glorious glowing dolphins arrived to surf Honu’s wake. At the same time, the clouds gradually parted, showing the Milky Way, and behind it an inconceivable infinity.
When I take the time to think about it, I know that I am just a tiny spark of life on a spinning ball in endless space. But that night, while staring at galaxies above with pods of radiant dolphins below, I truly felt my minuscule place in the universe. With that reality, the cares and concerns of daily life fizzled away like the spent chemical reactions of the bioluminescent creatures around me.
When plankton, dolphins and stars line up to create such perfect moments, I pay attention.
It’s time to reconsider my aversion of nighttime sailing.