Quarantine and the call of home
Iremember swelling with pride when dad asked me to pull up the yellow flag as a foreign shore rose above the horizon. ‘I am a foreign vessel requesting free pratique’ seemed gobblegook but sounded cool. Since then I have raised it too many times to remember, humming the relevant national anthem as the courtesy flag keeps it company. A symbolic moment steeped in history that marks the end of a successful passage and the start of another land to explore.
This time it feels different, the flag has meaning and I question the frivolity of humming Uncle Sam’s familiar rendition. We are on the run but we don’t quite know what from for the pandemic is taking on many guises. All we know is that we should stay ahead of the curve, be proactive, maintain options, surf the wave.
The freedom of a cancelled job in Finland prompts immediate action with a late shopping run and a dawn departure from the Bahamas to Florida. We consider the virus, obviously, but also societal restrictions. Hurricane season isn’t far off and we don’t want to be trapped by a bureaucratic lee shore. We need to get north of Cape Fear for below it insurance is void during the hurricane season. Chesapeake offers unlimited safe anchorages where we can isolate with a fully-stocked boat. Pearl is a safe haven but so is our little corner of Cornish woodland. The UK has the lure of being closer to family and we’ll have plenty to keep us occupied. The sand bar to cross, in terms of risk, is transiting between the two.
We decide to push as hard as we can for Chesapeake, book flights and make the ultimate decision to fly on the day. We sense the virus on our heels. We sail offshore as much as we can but dip into the ICW when the wind is against us. We arrive in Charleston at 0400 after three nights at sea with a pit stop in Florida to clear customs.
A full engine service follows a couple of hours sleep and bleary eyed we are off again. Six hours later we develop a lot of engine vibration, a local stops me diving in the soup-like water because of aligators.
A yard offers a quick hoist and we find it’s a stubborn lump of rope that wouldn’t clear in reverse. In a bar that night we watch the governor begin the South Carolina lockdown – time to get out of dodge before state borders close. Another night at sea takes us to Beaufort where we pop back into the ICW. Fate helps at every lifting bridge perfectly to gain us a precious day, Chesapeake is ours.
BA, our national carrier, seems the safest option. The pattern of cancellations suggests that Wednesdays and Saturdays are favoured, Saturday it is. We arrive at our destination on Tuesday evening. Sensing that getting to the airport could be a weak link, we hire a car. The company closes indefinitely two hours after collection. Pearl is decommissioned for lift out but the yard is coming to grips with new restrictions. People are going to ground, we sense a vacuum and decide to fly.
An air mile upgrade to premium economy ensures we can sit on our own. Loaded with gloves, masks and antibacterial gel we glide down empty freeways and echo our way through the airport. NY is shut down as we board, the flight is empty and infection risk seems minimal. In Heathrow we strip, bin bag our flight clothes and wipe down before getting into the hire car for home. It reminds me of nuclear warfare training in the Marines.
It’s taken 19 relentless days to make Cornwall; sleep deprivation and jetlag wipes us out. On day two of selfisolation Pearl is lifted out. Today is day 14 without symptoms – the last piece of the jigsaw in place. The birds are singing and we feel so grateful to be home as the wave we have surfed starts to peak with devastating consequences. Tomorrow I shall volunteer my services to the cause and look forward to the many adventures that await us all once the wave dissipates.
Loaded with gloves, masks and antibacterial gel we glide down empty freeways and echo our way through the airport