Diamonds and Ghosts of the Skeleton Coast

I took in my surroundings: The main sail was triple reefed, along with the jib - now no bigger than a diaper. Bright moonlight illuminated crests of waves with shimmering silver, and high winds chorused through the rigging. It sucked the liquid caffeine out of my mug faster than I could drink it – I tossed it away into the depths of the cockpit, giving up. Gazing behind me, leviathan spouts of spray rushed to claw at our stern. Scud raced before it like a majestic swan, gathering feet beneath her for take-off. She steeple-chased up the wall of a wave for lift-off, then slid down its slope into a yawing abyss with a gut-swooping drop, only to rise up again to repeat the cycle. You go girl! I yelled into the raging winds. Suddenly, I felt transformed, empowered with this strong vessel beneath me - and myself.

A brain-fart suddenly clicked: Peter always did this odd ‘thing’ before every passage. He rummaged thru my panty drawer for heavy items like stacks of books and my beloved nautical magazines. “To keep her light,” he avidly maintained with a twinkle in his eyes whenever our ‘debate’ grew heated. Going light meant more speed, and no one likes getting sooner to port than me! So, after a few rounds, I threw in the towel, albeit grudgingly. Having passed more than a few cruising cats in our company at sea, word spread about our light payload. Soon, wives were telling how their mates did this odd ‘thing’ before passage. Eyes wide, I nodded in disbelief and horror.

It was my dogwatch. I was taken aback when I clambered into the cockpit of our cat, a St Francis 44’, dubbed, Scud - meaning to move fast: A whirling chaos unfolded before me; the foggy night was a tumultuous blur of wind and waves. My husband Peter gripped the helm, his white knuckles flashing like a stage lamps, as his face split in half with a peculiar grin, his eyes crinkled shut in the bright moonlight.

“Ah, but a fine night it is for sailing, my lassie!” he cooed. Was he kidding? Looking astern, my eyes were drawn up and up, as a large wave uncurled, then pushed our cat forward like a speed train. Rooster-tails of spray shot off our sugar-scoops; my knees felt weak. I leaned against the closed doors for support, taking it all in…very slowly, breathing in and out, in and out.

Wits gathered, I strolled over to seize the helm with earnest – still shaky and appearing more confident than I felt. Peter gave me a rundown of prevailing conditions and potential hazards, while I adjusted the helm-strap to tie myself in. After his last warning of ‘keep a sharp look-out for unlit things’, he then kissed me goodnight, and disappeared into the warmth of the main salon, bolting the doors in his wake to block wandering spray. I wanted to ask him to leave behind an imaginary red emergency button for nerves only, but I prided myself on handling passages well. It’s just that….well, it’d been awhile since we’d seen gale conditions. There would definitely be ‘attitude adjustment’ on this one!

All was not dire straits on Scud, however. My reverie snapped back to attention when a whistling sound snorted in the near gale, and I peered to see porpoise cutting the dark surface through the swells, a ghostly glow of phosphoresce spinning off their underwater tracks, forming an ephemeral luminescence that turned the surface to radiating ginger-beer bubbles. They darted beneath our twin hulls, and back again, teasing me with their mischievous grins of pure pleasure that shimmered in the moonlight - their beauty moved me to tears. Maybe they were an augury of better things to come, I hoped.

SKELETON COAST GHOSTS

We were en route to Namibia from South Africa, having collected our new boat from the St. Francis boatyard on the southeast coast of Africa. Onboard were our teen sons, Adam and Warren, along with their cruising chums, Sky and Grant Olson. Our sons were reared aboard our yachts in the central Bahamas - they often felt more comfortable at sea, than on land. With such capable crew, rounding the horn had been uneventful - a piece of cake - I had radio-emailed to family and friends back at home. This passage was altogether different, though.

A grey, soupy fog blanketed us against the Namibian desert, reducing visibility to .5 nm, because of the Benguela Current. It sweeps frigid waters up from the Antarctic, merges with warm Atlantic waters, and runs all the way to Angola, Namibia’s northern neighbor. The resulting thick, impenetrable fog tormented our souls. In addition, ever-changing sea-beds, and unpredictable currents with their sudden arrival, then sudden disappearance, made charting with accuracy difficult.

LANDFALL

Purple hues faded into orange with the arrival of dawn, and sunlight thrust the ghostly grey fog back into its genie bottle. In its place rode a sea breeze, heavy with fish odor that jetted from shore. As we entered Luderitz Bay, crimson flamingos danced on spindly legs, and spectacular rock formations rose before us. Like plums fallen beneath a tree, Hansel and Gretel fairy-tale architecture peeked out from the quaint German village of Luderitz.

Over tea and biscuits, we met our neighbor Ian, a former cruiser and Canadian merchant mariner. He had jumped ship years ago, and married Sophie, the lighthouse keeper’s daughter. Reared in the remote desert, her pals were fur seals, flamingos and lizards, which often wandered into the tiny kitchen to steal food. Vipers were the worst, she told us. They often hid under her bed for warmth. Every afternoon after homeschooling lessons, she climbed the 500 spiral-steps to the lighthouse summit to give her father tea, often with two or three sisters in tow.

They drove us to the lighthouse on Diaz Point, so named after the Portuguese navigator, Bartolomeu Diaz, who landed here after opening a new sea-trading route around Africa to the Orient. Today, the lighthouse is automated, a sign of modern times when Luderitz exploded into the 20th century on a single day by one lone boy on a remote railway track back in 1907.

While shoveling sand from tracks, the boy discovered a mere sparkling pebble of 21 carats! Word spread, and the rush was on. Fortune seekers arrived in ox-carts with brooms, shovels, and enamel basins. During full moon nights with tin cans tied around their necks, villagers scoured desert sands after high winds had abated to find exposed, glittering diamonds sitting atop sand dunes. Coinage temporarily disappeared, and diamonds were used instead, to barter for flour and sugar.

When the big guys arrived –the De Beers conglomerate - the valuable industry became organized, and the hunting of diamonds outlawed Theft became rampant: Employed native miners hid diamonds in suitcase handles, hems of skirts, inside cut-away heels, and holed books; homing pigeons carted off heavy bundles of un-cut diamonds. For every $3 million worth of hand-mined diamonds, 90% went on walk-about.

We became fast friends with Ian and Sophie. They adopted us as their ‘visiting family’. Tomorrow - a drive into the desert for some dune-surfing! After days at sea, our 4 testosterone-driven teens needed some serious sport.

This intrepid stretch of desert coastline is labeled the infamous ‘Skeleton Coast’ - notorious amongst raconteurs of the South African yacht clubs as being a sailor’s graveyard. Rumor has it, thousands of rusty hulks from shipwrecks, and the lives of many more sailors, have littered this desolate coast for centuries: we saw more than a few rusting hulks abandoned on the coast.

As if to support this ghostly theory, the Moeb, a 120’ fishing boat crewed by 19 townspeople from Luderitz, sank the day after we arrived in Namibia. Unmarked, unlit mooring lines are set in deep waters off the Namibian coast for the diamond mining vessels, which mine the seafloor. The Moeb had fowled one in her prop, and once yanked abeam of steep seas, it had rapidly sank. ‘Worst in Maritime History’, reported the local paper.

The nutrient rich Benguela Current had brought the good, and the bad, but not altogether the ugly. An extra knot of speed raced Scud north, and once the gale abated, abundant sealife began to appear: jackass penguins, right whales on cruise to breed in warmer waters, and fur seals with liquid brown eyes that entertained us with their hilarious antics.

DESERT DIAMONDS

At daybreak, we clambered into Ian’s roomy van. We embraced the empty desert sooner than I could finish my takeaway coffee. Only a single, narrow road led into white oblivion. Sky and sand merged together into one mysterious flat haze. We drove until shouts from the guys in back trumpeted the appearance of colossal sand dunes in the far distance. When all six of us spilled out of the van, I took in the stout shovel that protruded beneath Ian’s seat. “In case we get stranded,” he said. High winds spring up without warning, he told me, moving giant sand dunes across roads like creeping caterpillars. “If you’re not home before nightfall, the road is buried and you with it!” he explained. Crikey! I hustled the rambunctious guys into the void to hurry things along.

We trampled over hot sands to the 200’ dunes. The guys mustered atrophied leg muscles up to the top, while we hung at the bottom listening to Sophie’s childhood tales during the last big diamond rush. The sun arched, and Warren suddenly landed at my feet in a dusty heap, a tornado of whirling sands collapsing over him. We looked up to see Sky close behind, barreling down with his entire linebacker frame, galloping on a fast descent with imaginary ski poles. His brother, Grant, followed, leaping into a spectacular cartwheel. Time to go.

After shoveling the guys back into Ian’s van, we clattered off to Kolmanskop, the diamond ghost town. We passed miles of fenced land with a yellow sign affixed every 100 meters that announced: “Fine of N$100,000 and imprisonment of two years if illegal entry without valid permit.” We were in the Sperrgebiet - the ‘forbidden territory’. These were vast tracks of land, closed off after the discovery of diamonds. Conscious of the reckless tendencies of youth, Ian abruptly turned in his seat to stare intently at the guys in back, and trumpeted, “Never go in there!”

Kolmanskop resembled an abandoned stage set: Dilapidated buildings were flooded with sands, discarded furniture adorned old boardwalks, and remnants of rusty railways lay scattered. The guys scaled walls and ladders onto loading platforms to swing from ropes onto mattresses of sands, as we nosed about the ruins with Ian and Sophie. They led us into an empty theater and dance hall, left perfectly intact, as if the last dance had ended and the party over. An eerie draft wafted between the walls, whispering ghostly notes of reverie.

Back in the van, the floor was beginning to look like a shallow beach – sand stuck to our shoes, clothes, and body. High winds shoved it in, quicker than we could hand-sweep it out. Heading back into town, Ian abruptly skidded to a stop when Sophie shouted, “Look!” We mashed our faces against the windows to peer into the void, jostling for position, but saw nothing. What looked to be a cross between a horse and an antelope, suddenly materialized out of the grey curtain, and loped towards us. A gemsbok! Long, sharp horns stretched above its magnificent head, striped in narrow black and white ribbons of fur. We sat mute in utter silence and reverence. Sensing our intrusion, it bolted off into white infinity.

WALK-ABOUT

Next morning, I awakened to the disappearance of Warren and Grant. A cursory glance revealed surfboards stowed in the bow lockers, beds made, but a missing dinghy. With the binoculars, I scanned a vacant landing dock at the town quay.

Casually - appearing calm and collected - I queried Adam and Sky. Seated at the salon table, they were crafting the world’s largest model cat out of cereal boxes, sushi mats, mounds of duck tape, and AAA batteries. I knew they’d fid, as bros do, but I gave it a shot anyway. “Seen Warren and Grant?” “Nope,” they chorused together. Peter, pre-occupied with charts, hadn’t a clue either. I was baffled. Could they be in … the diamond fields? The ‘forbidden territory’? Surely not!

Filled with mirth, they told of their escapade like regular raconteurs: In early morning mist, they had rowed away without engaging the outboard until out of earshot. Once sighting the Sperrgebiet beach, they had ventured ashore to explore. In the unfolding of their escapade, Peter’s eyes danced with amusement, but Warren caught my livid scowl. Knowing how my heart swells for him, he teased me, “No one saw us, Mom! I swear!”

I remained in mental disarray the rest of the day. Grant’s mother would kill me, if anything happened to her son. But, without a dinghy, I was stranded. Ian’s dire warning raced through my mind, as I threw myself into provisioning lists, knowing it was hopeless: With five men onboard - one a football linebacker - we went through so much food, lists were useless.

At dusk, Warren and Grant roared up. My heart hammered in my mouth, and epitaphs were ready to explode from my sweet, motherly lips. Clambering aboard, they collapsed into mischievous giggles in the salon, like naughty school boys, and then began to empty their pockets. Semi-precious gemstones spilled out onto the table, glistening in a rainbow of shiny colors: leopard skin jasper, green adventurine, and black obsidian. I was astounded! Alarm seized me, however: They had sneaked into the ‘forbidden territory’, and smuggled out ‘rocks’!

Aware of the sun sinking lower, Ian hurried us off further into the desert to an abandoned whaling station. American whaling ships in the 18th and 19th centuries frequented this popular whaling port. A corroded ship hull lay partially submerged in water, and a giant sun-bleached whale carcass protruded from sands, its bones reaching into the blue sky; tools of the whaling trade littered the site - an enormous black cauldron, boiling utensils. Ancient railways led from the whale bones and into the bay, where they disappeared in shallow waters alongside the ship, as if the last whale had been cranked, boiled, and sold to the highest bidder.