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barometer was mounted, and gasped. There was water sloshing all over the floor of the cabin!
    â€œOh my God,” I screamed, “we’re sinking!” I jumped below, trying to trace the leak and threw open the cabinet behind which were the sea cocks and valves for the sink. “Daddy always said to check the sea cocks first,” I said aloud, remembering how he showed me where the cut-off valves were stationed, wherever intake and discharge holes passed through the hull of the boat—at the sink, atthe toilet, in the engine compartment and in the bilge. A broken sea cock could sink Varuna in minutes.
    His words rang in my ears as I located the two sea cocks under the sink. Miraculously, they seemed dry. Then I noticed a rivulet of water trickling from above, behind an upper locker, and pulled it open. Inside was one of the steel struts onto which were bolted the chain plates that passed through the deck. Chain plates were the hull attachment points for the rigging; they held up the mast and sustained a great deal of pressure. It was one of the six chain plates at deck level that was leaking; it was not an underwater problem and, therefore, not life-threatening.
    â€œElementary, my dear Watson,” I pronounced with a sigh of relief.
    In the last two weeks of preparations, my father had kept on bringing bags of different tools down to the boat—most of whose functions mystified me: caulkings, rivets, electrical tapes, glues and all sorts of synthetic troubleshooting materials. They always landed with a thump in the cockpit as he ran off to do more shopping. I was left to sort them out and, with a million and one other things to do, just dumped the bags into any free space available, figuring they would be pulled out and organized when I had some free time.
    With feet up in the air, and one hand holding on to prevent me from falling headfirst into the locker, I dragged out the underwater epoxy and remembered my father tossing it to me saying, “Hey, Tania, here’s something that I’ve never seen before—an epoxy that cures underwater. It might come in handy.” I opened up the two components, mixed them together, ruining my first spoon of many, and went up on deck to slather it around the base of the chain plate. It molded like so much Silly Putty and hardened; finally the leak dribbled to a stop.
    To celebrate my first evening at sea, dinner was spaghetti with pesto, one of the buckets of food donated by friends. I inaugurated my new pressure cooker, boiled up some water from Varuna’s tanks and threw in the pasta. The weather was calm; my first sunset was flashing brilliant, burnt-red shards of color across the sky and an occasional tanker meandered across the horizon. I shoveled a couple of forkfuls into my mouth, swallowed and immediately retched. What now? I thought, spitting out the last bits of pasta. Then it dawned on me. “Oh no. It can’t be.” I checked my water supply at the sink tap and moaned. It was true. The brand-new water tanks were contaminated with fiberglass from the factory and my entire water supply was useless. The only consolation was that I hadbrought aboard a supply of bottled mineral water, as well as sealed boxes of juice and soy milk. Making a mental tally of the potable liquid aboard, I figured that with rationing, it was possible to make do.
    The following morning the barometer had fallen from 1020 millibars to 1005; a low-pressure system was approaching and I began to prepare myself for the first storm of the trip. It started quietly with puffs of wind coming from random directions. By 8:00 A.M ., the sky had darkened and the wind piped up, bringing with it an icy chill. Putting on my foul-weather gear, I stuffed my hair into the hood, zipped up the jacket and went outside into the cockpit to wait. By 10:00 A.M ., a full-fledged gale arrived, knocking Varuna all the way over on her side and keeping her there for the duration of the