Of Brava, Tramp Steamers and Black Coffee

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Author's note: Since this piece was written in 2007, Brava is now served by a modern 'Fast Ferry' which has made the island more accessable to the rest of the archipelago. But this story should give the reader an idea of how things "used to be."

We weren't taking any chances. Checking out of Pensao Paulo, in the old crater town of Vila Nova Sintra, my wife, daughter and I caught a ride taking us down the narrow, winding mountain road to Furna, the port of this island of Brava. Being the most remote island in the Cape Verde's, we thought it prudent to arrive early to hang in Furna and wait for the twice weekly ship to Brava to dock. In 2007, this was to only public transport to and from the island. Schedules are sketchy. The locals had given us all kinds of time frames to expect the arrival of the Sotavento, (the namesake for the leeward southern arm of the archipelago) our 'ride' back to Praia on Santiago Island. Times ranged from 3pm to midnight on this Saturday so we played it safe and hung at the harborside cafe Di Nos (Our Place).

The 'harbor' is nothing more than an egg shaped breakwater just big enough to accommodate a couple of sail boats and our incoming tramp steamer that will tie up on a' concrete pier carved from Brava's cliffs. Furna is truly the only port in the storm in northern Brava as the rest of the coast consist of sheer steep headlands plunging into an ocean whose waves relentlessly crash, climb and dissolve into countless ravines. For mariners, one miscalculation would reduce a sailboat or ship into splinters or shards in seconds. Across the street from the sea wall, we dine on fresh octopus, bread and vino verde on the sidewalk and watch waves wallop and send spray over the seawall occasionally marinating our food. The thunder of it all forsakes any notion of a quiet conversation. We eat in silence and I think of our journey at hand.

At mid day, Furna is quiet save for mangy mutts and plucky chickens cruising the streets searching for crumbs hidden in between the cracks of the cobblestone road. Mid day turns to late afternoon and afternoon turns to night and still no Sotavento. It seems Brava is last in everything. The last island in the

archipelago's southern arm as well as last to yet have an airport and the last to be electrified. Brava seems to be first in blackouts and Furna is dark save for a flickering candle at our table and kerosene lanterns glimmering through flimsy curtains in some of the windows of the unpainted cinderblock homes in town. A battery powered boom-box pumps rhythms into the air and pied-piper like, the music brings residents out into the streets who seem more than content walking up and down the promenade.

I think of the Sotavento out there somewhere in the straits of Brava having left volcanic Fogo some 15 miles to the northeast and plying her way to Furna. Thank God for 'auto pilot' as there are no navagational aids on the Bravanese coast. Or so I thought.

Sometime around 11pm, a flare is lit, glows orange against the cliffs and illuminates a silhouette who carries it to the end of the pier and holds it aloft like a Creole Statue of Liberty. Within minutes, a tiny knot of red, green and white lights materializes from the ink and makes towards the harbor. A ship coming to this far

off port energizes Furna. Bars are abandoned and pick-up trucks and people, along with us, make for the pier. There's a buzz in the air. It's the buzz of anticipation. It's the buzz of goods and people about to disembark and the opportunity to transport them to the far flung villages of this ancient, verdant volcano island.

The Sotavento, small by freighter standards but still the largest structure in Brava, surfs the invisible but loud breakers and creeps towards the wharf. Her spotlights reveal a blue hull and white superstructure topped by a yellow stack with booms fore and aft. The sea is big tonight. Even in the calm of the harbor, she bobs wildly as if Neptune himself was alternately twitching marionette strings attached to stem and stern.

Safely moored, a dozen or so passengers exit on a bouncy, corrugated steel gang plank. Once disembarked, stevedores wearing yellow hard hats, orange jump suits and flip flops, run up the plank and soon re-appear with suitcases and bags of fruit and produce balanced on their heads. Then with a great mechanical scraping, the fore and aft holds fold open and boom operators pull nets of goods from deep inside the hull and deliver them to the pier. A casual survey of the forward hold suggests that at least half of the product in the nets bear the red and white insignia of Sagres and Super Bock beers. With little or no employment and days of boredom on end, Brava is a thirsty place. All people do in Brava is wait. Wait for dark. Wait for the boat. Wait for the possibility of work. Finally, vans are loaded with people and pick-up trucks with goods and all rumble off into the Bravenese night. We, of course, are still waiting.

It's been an uncomfortable 3 hours sitting on dockside cinder blocks while the Sotavento is being disgorged. Coupled with the 8 hours we spent at Di Nos, my girls and I know a little about boredom. We're tired and cranky, too. Finally, around 2am, the Sotavento is finally ready to be boarded. This 20 year old Hamburg built boat is made for freight and not passengers which becomes obvious when we're greeted by old wooden, slatty benches located port, starboard and aft and quickly occupied by a rush of passengers and the few goods (mostly goats and chickens) they bought with them. With benches filled, we're a little concerned for our daughters comfort when gray haired man wearing a Sotavento jersey and jeans calls from down below and beckons us down the ladder. We do so and he ushers us into a cabin with a bunk and couch. It's the Chief Engineers quarters. That's him. His name is Manuel Pires and in conversation it turns out that he too has a 4 year old daughter and he takes pity on us and since he is working all night, we are welcome to use his cabin.

This is the last leg of the Sotavento's run that took her from Cape Verde's capital and main port of Praia laden with goods and passengers departing for Fogo, then Brava and now an 11 hour steam back to Praia. We lie down and hear the horn blast signaling the Sotavento's departure. Once we clear the breakwater, it's evident that this will be no casual cruise as the ship is greeted with waves that move our water glasses across the table. Being pitch black, it is impossible to anticipate the waves and get a feeling for the rhythm of this sea. We fall off to a sleep that is as shallow as the ocean is deep. Our lullaby, and not much of one, is the drone of the Sotavento's engine and her bow splashing through the waves. The Sotavento pitches and rolls her way through the night amplified by the fact her hull is empty so she rides on the waves like a propeller driven cork.

At first sign of light, I am up and make my way topside as for me, there is nothing like a ride at sea. I pick my way towards the bridge and around people outstretched on the benches. The waves control my progress--three steps forward, one step sideways--three steps forward, one step sideways. I notice that every passenger has a 'barf bucket' and all have used them with more than a few missing their mark. It dawns on me that island people and seafaring people are not always one and the same.

The brightening sky reveals the island of Fogo now behind us to the southwest. Most of this 9300' volcano is shrouded in mist save for the lava black cone now golden courtesy of the new dawn. At sunrise, the once invisible Atlantic takes on the color of a bruise dappled by a brisk northeast wind. Waves roll under and away from our ship in a steady procession that reminds me of soldiers marching to meet their inevitable fate against the cliffs of Brava or the shores of Senegal some 400 miles to the east. The wind sculpts whitecaps out of the largest of the waves which I can literally see coming at us from a mile away and when wave and craft collide, the bow of the Sotavento slides down the back side and digs deep into the trough sending a wall of spray against the bridge and the passageway where I stand. The momentary chill immediately gives way to the comfortable warmth of the new tropical sun. Near the point of the bow a brass bell on a swiveled davit 'clangs' when such a large wave passes. The door to the bridge swings open and I am greeted by Manuel Pires who invites me inside. After introductions to the Captain and First Officer, I am offered a cup of coffee which I happily accept. All are surprised when I decline milk or sugar, but I come by it honestly. I recall being told of a young sailor some 65 years ago who at the age of 19, set sail from San Francisco aboard the Liberty Ship, John Bartram, transporting soldiers and supplies to Sydney for the war effort. Liberty Ships are not the fleetest of boats and this sailor, my father, told me one of his great pleasures on that slow boat to Sydney was to take a cup of black coffee out on the fantail and dig the sunrise as the John Bartram climbed and rappelled the Pacific swells. Years later he would take his 3 sons 'deep sea fishing' off the Jersey Coast and I still recall the early morning rides off shore and along with my brothers delighting in bouncing on the waves while inside the cabin, Dad enjoyed his black coffee and rigged our fishing lines.

Manuel pours me another cup of joe and informs that the wind is expected to stiffen before we arrive in Praia. It turns out the entire crew of the Sotavento is from the island of Sao Vicente which is part of the northern arm (Barlevento) of the Cape Verdes and most have crewed on ships that have cruised the world. To drive the point home, Manuel recites the names of all the ports in my home state of Maine he has visited. He tells me the cook, Joseph, has also tied up in ports in Maine and he brings me down to the galley to meet him. Once again, I pick my way around heaving passengers who moan and groan in misery. The wind has now created a sea crowded with whitecaps and the brass bell now rings with regularity.

Before heading to the galley, I check in on my family. Until now my wife has only been queasy but she finally gives in to the building seas and surrenders her octopus to the bucket. Through the power of suggestion, my daughter follows suit. There's nothing I can do but console and offer encouragement until she shoots me a look that says "Ka la boca (shut up). I'll deal with you later for talking me into this trip."

Well, at least I'm not Axel Jacobsen. Axel was a Norwegian fisherman who made his way to the fishing town of Barnegat Light, NJ and began a charter boat angling enterprise. On fine September day a few years back, my brothers, some of our friends and yours truly chartered Axel's boat in search of Albacore. The fish were thick and hungry that day and we were not disappointed save for our buddy, Steve Hayes, because as soon as the lines were untied from the cleats, thrown onto the dock were cast off and we nosed our way into the placid waters of Barnegat Bay, Steve was overcome with the mal de mer. Once in the ocean, poor Steve went down below heaving, suffering and pleading for Axel to get close enough to shore so he could dive off and swim to the beach. He even offered Axel money but the old Captain paid no attention and continued to motor east. Finally, in a moment of passion, Axel called down to Steve and suggested it may best for him to come topside and breath some fresh air and why doesn't he join him on the flying bridge? Steve did so and actually felt better until Axel unwrapped an aluminum foil package revealing a cold meatloaf sandwich. He took a bite and chased it with some black coffee from a thermos and with catchup and mustard dribbling from the sides of his mouth he extended his sandwich towards Steve and asked "Would you like some?" Damming his mouth, Steve fled to the head below and that was the last we saw of him the rest of the trip.

Dressed in white pants and T Shirt the Sotavento's short, stocky cook, Joseph, did not offer me a meatloaf sandwich but rather ham and cheese which I eagerly accepted and happily devoured. He too, told me about his Maine ports of call as well as a litany of other ports on all three US coasts. "Gosto o mar" (I like the sea) this 63 year old sailor told me. The love affair began on his first trans-Atlantic voyage as a cabin boy at the age of 14 aboard the Essex schooner Ernestina. During the trip, a squall came up so sudden, so furious that no one had time to take down the sails. With pitched deck and sails unfurled, the Ernestina was in real danger of capsizing. Young Joseph grabbed an axe and on hands and knees inched his way across the deck until reaching the mast where he hooked his legs around the base and with more than a little fear and determination swung and swung his blade until all the rigging was cut and fell to the deck. "The Captain told me I saved the ship and from that day on I knew I was going to be a sailor." Joseph poured us all another cup of coffee and continued "Back then ships were made of wood and men of steel." As if on cue, the Sotavento flies up a bell ringer of wave and plummets down there other side crashing into the trough. Moans, groans and heaves ring out from above. Joseph smiles "And now ships are made of fiberglass and men of plastic."

In between the hurling, cries of "Gracias Adeus!" breakout from the passengers and Manuel summons me to follow him up to the bridge and there we see the cause of the passengers relief: Santiago island dead ahead. The Sotavento turns to and parallels the coast. Against the backdrop of an arid Utah-like landscape are white tiled homes with orange, terracotta rooves. A small remote cluster of homes reveals the fishing village of Porto Mosquito and a bit further down the coast was Cape Verde's first settlement: Cidade Velha. Cidade Velha remained colonial Cape Verde's capital until repeated raids and rampages by pirates with names like Francis Drake and Jacques Cassert forced the Portuguese to move their capital further down the coast to modern day Praia which was naturally protected by it's plateau high above the harbor. Praia, now a big city, comes into view and my wife and child are well enough to join me on deck. At the head of Praia's harbor, named Gamboa, we see outlined against the azure sea the square walled white lighthouse named 'Farol' (Light House) built over 100 years ago courtesy of the free and cheap that abounded from this one time slaving port. Modern mariners, no doubt, freely offer prayers of thanks to these laborers because directly below the light house are some reefy shoals that present the voyage's last danger before entering the calm safety of Gamboa's waters.

We arrive, disembark and search out Manuel Pires. We are eternally grateful to him for his kindness and offer to take him to dinner. He tells us he would enjoy that very much. But, he says, nodding his head towards the dozens of crates on the pier, there is Fogo-bound cargo waiting to be loaded in the holds. And the Sotavento sails at midnight.

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