As the morning progressed, the speed of the wind crept up. By midday the jangada was skipping along at a good four knots — not exactly warp speed, but close enough after being stuck on a windless sea for two days straight. Ze came on deck and the first thing he did was grab the aguador to water the sail. Watching his effortless swing as he wet the canvas from top to bottom, I vowed never to touch that can again. Once he was finished, Ze slapped the side of the coaming and shouted down into the hold, “João, time for lunch!”
There were no culinary surprises that day, just the regular fish stew. Um peixezinho, they affectionately call it (a small fish). And along with the small fish they had a big pan of sticky pirão. As it was my last meal eating the stuff, I tried to keep an open mind about it. I tried — I really did try. . . After the meal, João returned to the hold to get more sleep while Ze sat dozing on deck, his back against the partially raised daggerboard, knees drawn up to his chest, head resting on crossed forearms.
Mamede climbed on top of the steering bench to get a better view. It was still too early to spot land, but gazing forward, I saw what he was looking at: another jangada, its sail barely visible on the horizon. For half an hour he watched it, steering with his feet, and then he called down to me.
“Do you still want to steer?”
“Yes!” I replied, without hesitation.
“That jangada is going to Prainha. You just need to follow him.”
“I can do that,” I said, not believing my luck.
Stepping off the bench, Mamede eyed me like a father handing over the car keys for the first time. I half expected him to say, It’s all yours, kid, but all he did was wink. He stood nearby for a few minutes, making sure I wouldn’t sink his boat, then climbed into the hold for some badly needed rest. And there I was — finally steering a jangada!
How many times had I dreamed of it as a boy? How many times had I played with that little model and imagined myself there — right there — with that tiller in my hand? We don’t always get the chance to live out our childhood dreams; we grow older and our priorities change. And even when we do get the chance, seldom does the adult reality match the youthful fantasy. But sometimes it does. Sometimes we get lucky.
The first thing I noticed was how heavy the tiller was, and thick, as if I was holding the business end of a large baseball bat. I didn’t have to hold the tiller up — it rested on the back edge of the steering bench where it had worn a smooth arc over the years. But if I really wanted to feel what it was like to steer a jangada, then best to have the tiller directly in my hand — mano a cana, as they say.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t as direct as I hoped. The steering was sloppy. With no pins or bolts holding the tiller head to the rudder post, the joint had worked loose over time. Having steered for so long, Mamede probably didn’t even notice the play. But I sure noticed it. With each push and pull of the tiller I noticed it: slip—CLUNK! slip—CLUNK! And it just about drove me nuts.
Along with the sloppy tiller, the rudder itself was far from efficient. Hanging from the transom like an old barn door, the blade had no balance or lift — relied solely on the push of water against its big flat side. Every time I swung the tiller one way or the other I imagined great eddies churning below — tons of seawater thrust aside to keep us on track. And what a track it was at first, swaying back and forth like the sinuous stone curves in a Carioca sidewalk. I was very happy the jangadeiros were all off in never-never land while I learned how to steer in a straight line.
It didn’t take me long, and as the wind speed increased, the jangada’s idiosyncrasies quickly faded into the background. After a couple of hours it even got a little boring, as most steering does. At least we were gaining on the jangada out ahead, and I did what I could to keep up the pace. With no other canvas to hoist or sail shaping tackle to maximize lift — and all of the rail meat fast asleep — this basically amounted to steering as cleanly as I could through the waves that were running up from behind. But then something happened that caught me completely by surprise. Call it a small miracle, a nautical miracle, which lifted me even closer to my childhood dream.
Next chapter: Bits of Stuff