Barrington resident Neil Malik was asleep belowdeck on his 32-foot sailboat somewhere off the northeastern coast of Brazil when a thunderous, crashing sound jolted him awake.

He jumped out of his bunk, scrambled to the deck and “was greeted by a shocking sight.” His boat, the Wanti, was surrounded by breaking waves — each surge pushing it closer and closer to a deserted beach.

“I stood helplessly on the deck, bracing the cabin top as each surge knocked the fully canvassed boat toward the shore. I had hit a reef,” wrote Mr. Malik in a vivid account of the situation which occurred in July 2007.

More than a year later, Mr. Malik is already gearing up for his next big sailing adventure. He is rebuilding a different boat, a Freya 39, which needs extensive work. This time he plans to sail to the South Pacific.

Mr. Malik, an entrepreneur, said sailing on the open ocean is a challenging endeavor. Relying on yourself and crew and holding it together in a crisis is essential, he said. His crew, Cristina Sepede, a woman he had met while working and living in Australia, had never been sailing before she met Mr. Malik, but the Barrington resident said she possessed something important for the journey — courage and resourcefulness.

“It requires a whole set of characteristics; courage, focus, you’ve got to want it,” he said.

The beginning

His journey began on July 24, 2006, and ended abruptly with the crash almost exactly one year later, at midnight on July 27, 2007.

After departing from Riverside, the Wanti sailed to the Azores, mainland Portugal, the Madeira Islands, the Canary Islands, and Cape Verde Islands before making its way to the waters off Brazil.

Mr. Malik said he had been sailing without a chart; when he landed in Brazil he didn’t know the language and mistakenly assumed they were registered in customs at the same time they received their visas.

When it was discovered that his boat was not registered, he could only stay a week, and there wasn’t time to have a chart express-mailed. A chart of the area was not available locally.

“On midnight of July 27, 2007, at the start of my 38th birthday, my 32-foot sailboat slammed into a remote section of the Northeast Brazilian coast,” Mr. Malik wrote.

A full moon tide pushed the boat well up the shore, and when the water receded, the Wanti and its crew were stranded. For three days, Mr. Malik and a group of local villagers tried to drag the boat from the beach and into the water using a tractor, but their persistent effort went unrewarded.

The group was able to finally pull the boat to the shoreline, but with only the equipment available in the tiny village, they could not get it upright. Waves pounded the boat, flooding it, pulling it apart.

Mr. Malik ended up taking just a few basic items from the vessel, like clothes and his kite-surfing and wind-surfing equipment. He let the local villagers who helped him salvage what they could from the boat.

“It was very traumatic to see all this stuff. I think I had minor shock for the next 10 days,” he said.

Mr. Malik said he didn’t talk much about the crash for a long time, but now he has gained perspective.

“If you’re going to take risks, then there are times you are going to pay the price. I walked away with tremendous adventure, tremendous experience.”

He stayed for two more months in Brazil, then flew back home to Barrington.

Although he has not been out sailing since the transatlantic trip, Mr. Malik is often on the water. He recently returned from three months in Brazil, kite-surfing, a sport in which a large kite catches the wind and carries the surfer across the water.

Life on board

Mr. Malik was into sailing since he was a little boy.

His parents are not sailors and he has no idea where the desire to sail came from, but even as a child he would draw sailing ships. He first learned to sail on Cape Cod where his family owned a summer house.

Over the years, and during his latest journey, Mr. Malik has dealt with all kinds of situations. He said sailing in July and August is precarious. Often it requires dealing with tropical remnants out in the open waters of the Atlantic, and it requires spending a considerable amount of time recovering from storms, repairing whatever broke and putting everything on board back into place. But the worst part of the storm can be anticipating what’s on the way.

“The scariest times on the ocean were probably when it was dead calm. You knew, in 24 to 36 hours, it was coming.”

Mr. Malik said it’s essential to have a self-reliant attitude while dealing with storms at sea. He said there is no Starbucks around the corner to buy a comforting cup of hot coffee.

“When you’re out there in a gale and there’s 20- to 30-foot waves as far as you can see, nobody’s going to save you,” he said.

Mr. Malik has been sailing in larger boats since he was 24, but said nothing quite prepares you for your first gale, especially a tropical gale.

“You have waves breaking against and into the boat and sometimes into the engine. You just cannot believe what you see, massive waves. You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

At times, he has been in the middle of storms that would cause trees to topple if they had happened on land.

“There are times you’ve got to go out at three in the morning, pitch dark, with the wind going 30 knots plus, and you’ve got to reef the sail, and you’re clipped in and your crew has got to sail the boat,” he said.

Other days were dead calm, and the Wanti ran on motor power. Near the equator, they hit calm waters. Mr. Malik said there were days of calm with air temperatures so hot they had to water the deck about 20 times a day in order to walk on the boards. Help came from a passing ship.

“The wind cuts off, dead calm. I see huge tuna and dolphins and swordfish jump out of the water. We run out of fuel. I hail this huge tanker. They floated three or four 25 liter tanks, like five gallon canisters, off their stern and toward us,” he said.

He spoke to fishermen in the Azores, some of whom literally helped pull him in safely between a narrow wall of rocks in a lagoon in Flores.

Mr. Malik said it was an amazing experience, being able to sail from Riverside to the Azores, arriving in a port that has sheltered sailing boats for centuries. He said both he and Ms. Sepede are from humble beginnings, the children of immigrants, and he was thrilled to be able to take on such a journey.

Mr. Malik’s year long trip included spending Christmas of 2006 on the sailboat, and arriving in Cape Verde on New Year’s Eve. They fished while out on the open water, but mostly he and Ms. Sepede ate from cans while on the sailboat, because fishing was often unsuccessful.

While the journey was at times was uncomfortable, difficult, and challenging, he looked forward to arriving in port, having a beer or a whiskey, meeting new people and exploring a new country, knowing that he arrived there on his own power.

He arrived on the island of Fernando de Noronha, Brazil, in February of 2007. He spent months in Brazil exploring the country and kite-surfing.

He often goes kite-surfing, even locally in the winter. This time of year he wears a dry suit in local waters, but he still goes out and catches the wind.

He carries the same attitude about kite-surfing as he does about long sailing journeys.

“I’m crazy about kiting. I like extreme stuff but you’ve got to be careful,” he said.

Currently Mr. Malik is developing a sailboat rack of his own design. The prototype sailed with him on the Wanti. Information about the design can be found on www.sailboatrack.com.

In the captain's words

Shipwreck Account

Neil Malik, a Barrington resident, sailed across the Atlantic on a voyage that ended with a shipwreck in Brazil. Following is the account he wrote about the crash and the attempts to rescue the boat:

On midnight of July 27, 2007, at the start of my 38th birthday, my 32’ sailboat slammed into a remote section of the Northeast Brazilian coast.

Belowdecks, I was awoken by the sound of a thunderous, crunching sound. My first reaction was that I had hit a reef. I jumped from my bunk and quickly scrambled to the deck. Outside, I was greeted by a shocking sight –“Wanti” was surrounding by breaking waves which, with each surge, were pushing my beloved Westsail 32 closer and closer to the near-distant beach. I stood helplessly on the deck, bracing the cabin top as each surge knocked the fully canvassed boat toward the shore. My Brazilian crew member, Hosana Farias, called from below “O que e isso” (what is it?) I replied, “we’ve run aground. We hit the coast but the boat is OK.” Within two hours, we had been placed high upon the beach and were shipwrecked.

I had run aground countless times in my sailing history which spanned 20 years. In my early twenties, I don’t think I left a Cape Cod harbor unscathed by one of my groundings. In 1999, on another cruise down the Intercoastal Waterway, my crew Cristina and I counted 13 times on the journey where we’d run aground. In every case and in most cases unassisted, we were able to free ourselves and refloat the boat.

The “Wanti” had set sail a year and three days earlier from Barrington, RI on a trip that would take us to the Azores, Portugal, Porto Santo, Madeira, the Canary Islands, Cape Verde, and finally Brazil. We had weathered five gales, several violent squalls and had recovered from a knockdown off the African coast. I could not imagine that a simple and fundamental navigation error would spell the final chapter in the wonderful history of the “Wanti.”

The unbearable thought that I had lost my boat consumed me through the night. As dawn approached, it was clear that the receding tide had left us high and dry upon the coast. Wanti lay on her side, deck loaded with gear, sails lowered. Oddly, I filled with an empowering sense of optimism recognizing that the salvation of my boat may in fact be possible. But we’d need assistance.

A quick scan of my charts and the coast made it clear that we were grounded in a remote section of Lencois National Park in the state of Marranhao. Lencois National park is one of the jewels of Brazil. Composed of high, sweeping dunes, the landscape appears like a massive desert speckled with random pools of water that collect in the valleys between the sand dunes. As far as the eye could see was sand and it felt as if we had suddenly landed at the edge of the Sahara. We were approximately 180 miles from the capital city of Sao Luis which was our final destination. The only signs of life were a smattering of thatched lean-tos which appeared to be uninhabited.

By 6 a.m., we were greeted by a local fisherman and his nephew who had spotted our stranded vessel from his lean-to from the shoreline. The fisherman was a welcome sight and he advised us that his village existed several miles away and that we might be able to find assistance in the larger city of Santa Maria. I knew I’d need some type of portable travel lift or tractors to try to get Wanti refloated. This would be a tall order given our remote location. The full moon had brought us upon the shore to the maximum height of the tide and the tidal range left us 150 feet from the ocean at low tide. This was a huge distance to move the boat and to make matters more disparaging, we’d have to make all rescue efforts within a short six hour span before the tide turned.

The fisherman kindly offered his nephew as our guide and we proceeded onward. The fisherman agreed to watch our boat as we set off. The possibility of looting was very real – an abandoned, foreign sailboat would quickly gain the attention of other local inhabitants. In Brazil, ‘abandoned’ meant that your property became public. I knew that the chances of my boat being pilfered increased with every hour we spent away. We hadn’t a moment to lose.

Our journey by foot took us across splendid dunes and cliffs of sand from which the eye could survey a massive range of sand mountains. Our guide, a nine year old Brazilian boy named Neto, glided through the landscape with ease pausing occasionally to wait for Hosana and myself who struggled to gain traction in the soft ground. There were no roads, no signs, no paths, no people. After two hours, we came upon the young boy’s village. Here, finally, was some civilization and we happily paused for a short rest. The local village quickly gathered around to stare at these two aliens that had been dropped into their world. Here there were no cars, no electricity, no stores – the only way to access the village was by foot. Villagers were kind people offering us drinks and a snack. They lived simply in thatched roof homes made of dried mud, and they lived together as a community. One fisherman told me that he could earn $R50 ($US25) in a good month from fishing but that he normally earned $R35 ($US18). Incredible.

After our brief respite, we carried on gaining with the added assistance of another young Brazilian boy who was good friend of our guide. We walked for another three hours through more dunes and through small patches of green jungle that had sprawled up between the dunes. After some time, we came upon a wide riverbed and had to wade through the river up to our chest in water to reach the shoreline _ mile on the other side. I carried Hosana on my back and the kids, being too small to keep their heads above the water, pogoed themselves along using the river’s mud bottom as a spring board to launch each step. Thankfully, as time passed, we started to see more signs of life. An occasional house could be spotted in the distance and a foot path started to form.

From the time we had left our boat to the time we arrived at the outskirts of Santa Maria, five hours had passed. Needless to say, we were slightly exhausted. We quickly set out to find help.

We spent the next three days walking all over town trying to locate assistance of any kind. We spoke with anyone and everyone who might have the remotest possibility of helping us. We tried to convince tractor owners but they weren’t interested. We spoke with 4x4 dune guide operators but they were only willing to negotiate a ride to a neighboring city. We discovered that a fishing village known as Travis had tractors and had apparently been involved with rescuing a stranded European vessel last year. Travis was only accessible by 4 x 4 as the fishing village had no roads and no phones — access in and out as by 4 x 4 or tractor.

After much negotiation and time, we finally paid the price for the 90 minute ride to Travis: $R500 ($U.S. 250). Ouch.

We left the following day. The 4 x 4 traveled for an hour and a half. The guide seated in the passenger front seat would occasionally gesture ‘left’ or ‘right’ with a quick wave of the hand in either direction. He didn’t use a map, GPS, a compass or anything for that matter. He worked based on visual recognition of landmarks and topography. I now understood why we needed a guide. Navigating through the dunes without one would have been impossible. Atop sand cliffs, I could not spot the ocean and I knew the shoreline still lay many, many miles ahead.

After 90 minutes of driving, we came upon a rough path which eventually took us into the tiny village of Travoso. The town’s population numbered around 150 people, mostly fishermen and their families. Travoso had no roads, no medical facilities, no phones. Only a very basic town store existed. They did have a generator which lit several street lamps and the town store. We were brought to a small mud house on the edge of an inlet that led out to the ocean. My eyes caught sight of a weathered, red tractor parked in front and my enthusiasm perked. The owner was Hermano Cruz and his wife Cecelia.

They heard our story and, with some persuasion and diplomacy, we were able to convince the couple to look at our boat. From Travoso, our boat lay about 12 miles south. Hermano loaded up the tractor with a crew of male villagers, fired up the rusty red tractor and off we were. It took us about one hour and a half to arrive at the Wanti. Seeing my mast in the distance, my heart jumped for joy — but did I expect her to simply float off the shore and disappear into the ocean like the beached whale in the movie “Whale Rider?”

As we approached, I could see that everything onboard was intact. The dinghy and surf equipment were still lashed to my deck, the cabin lock was attached, my sails were still on the boom and my Max-Prop propeller still in the shaft. This was a relief. Half of me had expected the decks to be stripped and the interior of the boat to be plundered. By the time we had arrived, Wanti had been sitting on the shoreline for over three days.

Hermano scanned the boat from all angles. He exchanged words with his crew, seeking opinions and after a 15 minute survey, he announced, “Vamos voltar amanha sair seus barco (we will return tomorrow and free your boat).” My heart lifted and I felt that we did have a chance. The odds were 50:50 at this stage but I’d have taken lesser odds with a smile. The fact that we were doing something made me feel empowered, that we were taking action and that we might succeed lifted my spirits after three days of torture. The villagers once again packed onto the tractor and the tractor departed leaving Hosana and myself alone again with our stranded vessel. The village had agreed to return tomorrow morning at 10 a.m. to start work. We had not discussed any cost for the efforts and I was reluctant to set a price without seeing what type of progress we could make. In Brazil, everything is negotiable.

Hosana and I had chosen to stay behind as a security measure. We had plenty of food and water. I also had a tent onboard which we could set up for sleeping on the beach. Living inside the boat was extremely uncomfortable given the extreme heel of the boat.

Clambering below, the settee now became the floor and the floor became a wall. By evening time, we were greeted by the fisherman who had assisted us on the first morning that we beached. He invited us to join him for dinner at this hut just inland. Hosana and I grabbed a few bottles of the Sao Braz wine we had onboard. We were treated to a feast of salted fish grilled over a small fire with wooden sticks used as spits. The fisherman had his daughter and his nephew (our guide!) there to join us. Despite recent events, my surroundings provided a curious relief: The undulating desert landscape, the brilliant canopy of stars, the distant sound of crashing surf and the orange moon that hovered just above the ocean. I would sleep well tonight for a change.

Day 1

With gleeful enthusiasm, we greeted the arriving red tractor in the morning. 14 people had accompanied Hermano – all men from Travoso. They had come to help. I was ecstatic. I quickly got to work explaining my game plan. My idea was to inch the boat closer and closer to the shore’s edge which reach low tide at about noon time. We planned to secure two separate loops around the bow and stern sections using the hawsepipes as anchoring points. Using the might of the tractor, we would first pull on the bow and then on the stern and slowly scissor the Wanti down the beach.

Before we could even attach warps, we first had the task of digging out Wanti’s keel from the wet sand which had embedded it. With all men working, we were able to remove the engulfing sand and expose the keel. Then, we used a series of 4 wooden logs to wedge under the keel. These would provide a platform for the keel to roll over with each pull of the tractor.

Having positioned the logs, a long warp was secured from the bow loop to the trailer hitch. The warp was around 100 feet long and, once in place, it came time to see how successful we’d be at trying to scissor the boat down the beach. With fingers crossed and tension in the work, the men gave a yell “Embora!!!” meaning “Go!” and the tractor powered up. All watched as the tractor wheels dug in and smoke bellowed from the tractor stack. The bow moved slightly and started to swing but it was clear the single tractor was having trouble managing Wanti’s counter weight. This pattern continued for the next four hours. Men worked busily securing logs and pushing on Wanti’s bow to assist the tractor’s pull. Once some progress was made to move the bow, the warp was then set on the stern loop and the men began to push on the stern as the rallying cry of “Embora!!” sent the tractor hauling.

To my dismay, after five hours of effort, the vessel had moved a mere seven feet down the beach. By 5 p.m., the incoming tide made it impossible for the tractor to set its wheels in the soft sand and efforts were abandoned for the day. It was clear that two tractors would be needed. Hermano told me that there was a second tractor in Travoso that was owned by the municipality. He believed the tractor could be used tomorrow.

We joined the villagers for the tractor ride back to the house. Hermano had invited us to spend the night at his modest house and we accepted. I left the site with a positive attitude knowing and believing that two tractors would solve our problem. Simply use two tractors to pull the bow, then pull the stern and soon we’d be at the water’s edge and refloated. I was convinced that we would succeed and passed the night convincing other villagers that we would be successful.

Day 2

The sight of two tractors at the beach the next day was enough cause for my enthusiasm. In addition, we had a larger crew with word spreading in the village of a “prize” for freeing my boat. The team was now almost 25 men. There, before us, lay our ultimate goal – to refloat the “Wanti.” Now, with twice the horsepower, the team of Travoso villagers bound to action. We found “Wanti” in the same position that I had beached it with the stern facing the ocean and the bow pointed to the beach. The tide had again pushed the vessel onto the beach and the crew began to remove the sand bed blanketing the keel.

Two warps each were respectively secured to the bow and to the stern. The other ends of the warps were secured to the tractor hitches which were positioned adjacent to equalize and maximize the pulling force. With the intermittent hail of “Embora!!” the tractors would surge forward digging, wheels biting, clawing for ground, eventually digging their large wheels deep into the sandbed. A pause would ensue, lines would be reset, the tractors repositioned and then again, the tractors would steam with full force. Progress was clearly evident as the additional horsepower scissored the bow and then the stern slowly down the beach. By 11 a.m., we had moved 20 feet which was almost three times the distance of the day before. I made a quick measurement and figured we need to move at least 150 feet in total. My stress levels heightened recognizing that it was 11 a.m. and we still have 130 feet to cover. I began to become anxious, nervous that we would not reach the water’s edge, scared that we would not advance, deathly afraid deep within my soul that my boat would not be freed.

Shortly after 11 a.m., the group effort continued. However, it was clear that the rudder was acting as a brake and it needed to be removed. Hermano insisted that it would be fine and, despite my rantings, signaled to the team and the tractors to pull. Suddenly, a large cracking sound could be heard and a closer inspection of the rudder showed that the tail of the rudder had been split down the middle from top to bottom. Already under considerable duress, I could not control my anger. I threw off my baseball cap in disgust and I began to yell viscerally at Hermano, swearing at the top of my lungs, gesturing at the rudder and pointing to my head shouting “How could you be so goddamn mindless? I told you to take off the rudder! Why didn’t you listen?” Thankfully, my visceral reaction forced a brief but incredible slurry of English profanity and, though incomprehensible to the entire audience of villagers, I must have looked like a foreigner possessed by the devil. The situation was deteriorating.

By 5 p.m., we had moved 60 feet. The tide had risen and as it continued to flood, it was apparent that the three feet of water that by now had covered the once exposed sand would not be sufficient. The “Wanti” would not refloat today.

Dejected, the crew of villagers and myself returned to the village that evening on the tractors. An eerie silence infected the exhausted group.

It would be an uncomfortable night at Hermano’s house given the day’s tensions.

Day 3

Day three quickly arrived and began with confusion. It was unclear whether the villagers were going to rally to make a third trip to the boat. After yesterday’s efforts, I believe morale had sunk and the villagers did not think they would be able to free the boat. They had spent two full days in exhausting labor without result .

Without the villagers and the tractors, my boat was a certain loss. I knew that we needed to take action immediately or enthusiasm for my plight may disappear. The villagers knew that a cash prize was only possible if they succeeded in freeing my boat.

I had suggested the night before that we obtain an additional two tractors from the neighboring city 20 miles away. With four tractors, we could more efficiently move the vessel given our experience over the last two days. This would take time and time was a luxury we did not have right now. After some convincing and coaxing, we managed to round up the troops and start again for the boat. At this stage, some effort was better than none and I was growing desperate. I felt a relief knowing that we were at least trying to do something. But it was a very late start. By the time we arrived at the boat, it was already 11 a.m. We would need to work fast.

The crew quickly set to action in a performance that I had grown used to orchestrating – securing bow and stern lines, connecting up the tractors to the warps, putting the tractors in gear with the resultant slide of my hull down the beach and then a repeat of the process from the stern end.

During one attempt, a warp snapped. Hermano and his wife demanded that I pay for a new warp. I argued with him that this should be his cost. We had agreed the night before that I would pay some price even if the boat was not salvaged. I made it clear that costs for the labor and the materials would be his and were not ancillary to our deal. Given my refusal, the situation began to escalate as Hermano and I found ourselves screaming at each other in Portuguese and nearly coming to blows. Furious, he began disengaging all warps and packing up his supplies in his tractor. I noticed that he was only aided by his wife, son and father in law. The other men refused to pitch in.

I gathered a small and separate crowd of men and pleaded with them. Hermano was risking losing the large cash prize over a $R80 ($U.S. 40) cable. Did the men want to go home with nothing after three days of hard work? The men listened attentively and, surprisingly, I found that my speech had its intended effect as a small party approached Hermano and told him, “Queremos trabalhar. Queremos sair o barco de Gringo ( ‘We want to work, We want to free the gringo’s boat.”) I was desperate in my pleading and had entered a psychological state of survival. The chances of success were rapidly diminishing but I still had a sliver of luck.

The next five hours passed quickly. The team worked with absolute focus and concentration. Finally, we arrived at the water’s edge. We were (had been)150 feet down the beach. It was 5 p.m. and the sun was beginning to set. I was convinced that we would have sufficient water to re-float the boat. With water tanks emptied and all gear removed from the deck, the heavy displacement sailboat would be lighter and would respond to the advancing tide. Two long warps off the bow kept us facing toward the ocean. One warp made use of the 200’ of chain and my 35 pound CQR.

As the water level rose, “Wanti” would periodically teeter along its keel from port to starboard and then from starboard to port – the keel lying on the sand bottom. A grouping of men were positioned astern, and as the waves surged, the men would attempt to push the hull in unison screaming “Embora.” As the tide rose, the men soon found the water up to their chest and shoulders. The water level was starting to look adequate. Water would flood the gunwale and pour over the toe rail surging the length of the deck. I needed five feet to meet the draft requirement of the Westsail 32 , and, in surges, I could feel the keel pick up off the ground and then bounce along the bottom. It was the troughs of waves where the water level was less than five feet, probably four feet at best.

Part of our strategy was to have a fishing boat placed 300 feet offshore. A long warp would be secured from the bow of the “Wanti” to the fishing boat. By now, waves were breaking consistently around three to four feet in sets, and launching the dinghy to ferry the warp to the fishing boat would require considerable skill. Four villagers courageously boarded a beached wooden dinghy and attempted to paddle through the surf with the untaught warp in hand. Soon, the men found their dinghy overturned by the incessant surf and their launch humbly smacked onto the beach. Efforts to launch the dinghy continued and after several more failed attempts, the four-man team pushed through waves using the force of four paddles. After some time, the warp was delivered to the fishing boat and we at the boat again prepared ourselves for the tow.

As the waves surged and the “Wanti” lifted, the tension of the offshore warp was supposed to provide forward motion for the vessel. Standing alone on the deck, I could not feel the effect of the fishing boat, not even so much as a nudge, a slight skip, a minor advance. Meanwhile, the tide was advancing to a dangerous level. Soon, the water level had risen so high that the onslaught of each set caused water to begin to flood the cockpit. With each surge, gallons of water began to pour into the cockpit. The fiberglass cockpit floor cover began to lift and as such, since it was not sealed, the water began to flood the engine room.

Outside, the situation went from bad to horrific. The fishing boat essayed to force a tow and despite visible tension in the warp, no forward progress resulted. Finally, on the sixth attempt to drive us forward, the tensioned warp suddenly disappeared into the surf – the tow line had snapped.

In the meantime, the surging waves had increased in size and power. Waves were burying the bowsprit as they broke with full force over the hatches and cabin top. Seawater continued to flood the engine room and I knew that my Volvo motor was fried. I clung to a tiny thread of hope that perhaps we could secure a second warp and position the fishing boat once again. This thread was snapped as I witnessed the incredible power of the ocean – the forward hatch was the first to go. The hatch had been locked in place by a solid stainless steel 5/16” threaded bolt and the hatch itself was made of one inch solid teak. I watched as the force of the waves lifted the hatch, breaking the lock causing the hatch to flip violently open. Standing alone, I watched helplessly as water poured through the forward hatch. I made an effort to close the forward hatch but it was almost impossible to get any footing on the forward deck against the waves superior force. Seawater began to flood into the cabin and I could see a large pool developing.

The water level below had risen to the height of the settees. I knew with each surge, that the weight of the seawater would increase the weight of the hull. With the engine room and the cabin filled, the chances of freeing the water-laden hull disappeared.

On deck, the waves continued to pound the cabin top. I watched as the teak hand rails were ripped off the cabin top along with my rack system which had so faithfully housed all of my gear. The middle hatch which acted as a skylight was also ripped off and it floated into the sea. The surge was so violent that it became dangerous for anyone to be onboard. I shut the cabin aft hatch, kissed the cabin top, and jumped in to the sea. Wading to the neighboring shore, the large crowd of villagers gathered on the beach was my sole audience.

I reached the shore in shock. I was cold, numb, empty, speechless. The villagers gathered up their belongings and loaded themselves onto the tractor. Within ten minutes, they had left me and Hosana alone on the lonely and desolate beach.

Today would not be my day. My dream was over. There would be no onward sails to Venezuela and the Caribbean, to Bermuda and then to New England. There would be no glorious arrival in Narragansett Bay, no champagne corks flying at dockside in Newport, no closure for this fantastic adventure.

No – my dream would die hard and fast on the sands of the northeast Brazilian coastline.

The sea giveth and the sea taketh life.

Day 4

On the morning of the fourth day, we awoke to the incredulous sight of my flooded boat on its side, bow facing the ocean, sails in tatters ripped from the staysail and boom, toerail slowly sinking deeper into the sand. I climbed aboard to see the extent of the damage. By now, the water level had risen to four feet swamping the space between the ceiling 6’3” ceiling and the cabin sole. The engine was under water and the forward V-berth was flooded. I picked up my computer case to find my waterlogged Fujitsu laptop and soggy digital camera. Memories of the last year had not been spared.

The beach was littered with hundreds of items that had floated out of the boat and that had beached on the shore as the tide receded. I began a slow march down the beach. I could walk no further than five feet without coming upon something which once held its proper place in my boat – contact lenses, toiletries, clothes, shoes, doors, cabin sole sections, boat cushions, drawers, books, charts. The carnage spread for almost two miles. I collected only contact lenses which were still sealed in the packaging and were unharmed. I would need these to see. Everything else was a casualty of circumstance – a complete loss.

I slowly made my way back to the boat. The Brazilian villagers would be here soon, I knew it. The boat was a loss and they would return to claim their loot. I scavenged a few T-shirts, a pair of boots and a pair of jeans. That would be enough clothing for the next month. I salvaged three kites, my kiteboard, some windsurfing sails, my windsurf mast, boom and board. This gear was expensive but light and portable, and I knew I would use these in the future. Everything else, I abandoned.

As anticipated, the Brazilian villagers from Travoso led by Hermano arrived at 10 a.m. and began their dissection of my boat. They came prepared, armed with tools and saws. Oddly enough, I did not react angrily. I surprised myself by assisting them to un-secure items that had taken me years to save up for. Winches, blocks, running rigging, my Monitor wind vane, my sailboat rack, the windlass, the anchor chain, the anchor quiver, cushions, oil lamps, my sextant, the Volvo MD-2 engine, the faithful dinghy. In my mind, it was a complete loss. Most gear was too heavy to take home and it was better in the hands of less fortunate villagers who might be able to use it or sell it to improve their lives. I knew I had the possibility to rebuild and one day sail again…these poor villagers did not have that option.

By midday, my heart weighed heavy and I could no longer stomach watching my Wanti being raped. I insisted on my final request – that Hosana and I be brought back to the village at once. The boat was yours, Brazil. But my pride would always be mine.

I spent the next week suffering from minor shock. The events of the prior week had taken their toll and I managed minor tasks with difficulty. We made a quick departure from Travoso and headed to the capital city of Sao Luis to use the Internet and to make calls to friends and family.

One day, I received an encouraging e-mail from my mother. She wrote, “ What is meant to be is meant to be and losing your boat is your fate. Be grateful that you are alive, and healthy, be grateful for the wonderful experience you’ve been given and look forward to the future.”

Mothers are always right. I had sailed across the Atlantic two times – first to Europe and then from Europe to Brazil. What a remarkable trip filled with so much color, camaraderie and adventure. I would return again, I would sail again. This was not the end but the beginning because now I knew I had the skill, the confidence and more importantly, the courage to venture to the far side of the world. The point was not that I had lost something but rather that I had gained something,- something intangible. By simply setting sail, I did what most sailors only dream of doing. I took risks and with those risks come consequences. In doing so, I had become a “sailor.” And, this in itself was awesome.

Neil Malik is 38 years old and lives in Barrington, Rhode Island. Upon his return from Brazil, he started a new company called Barrington Marine which will be introducing a new line of sailboat rack systems (www.sailboatrack.com) in May, 2008. Malik can be reached by e-mail at barringtonmarine@aol.com. Malik spends his spare time planning his next adventure – a sail across the Pacific via rounding of Cape Horn.

Ironically, I scavenged five rolls of film on the beach that had floated out of my boat – when I got back to the United States, I developed them for kicks …all five rolls were perfect.

Westsail 32 for Sale – located in middle of Lencois National Park – hull only, price: Free. Delivery at expense of the owner.