by Tom Lochhaas
“Won’t break any speed records today,” Dave said. “Too bad.”
Shannon stowed the last of her gear. “That’s better for Steve, anyway. Don’t want to scare the bejeebers out of him on his first sail.”
Dave laughed. It felt great to sneak away from work for a halfday sail, and there was maybe only one other thing he’d rather be doing with Shannon. He stepped down into the cockpit and gave her a quick kiss. “Maybe we shouldn’t wait for him after all,” he joked.
Steve arrived a few minutes later, but they barely recognized him at first under all that clothing. Dave had told him it would be cold on the water, but he hadn’t anticipated Steve would wear a ski parka, heavy gloves, and a winter stocking cap. He saw them looking at his cap—they, so experienced, in their high-tech miracle fabrics—and said, “Gotta stay warm! But I brought some cold beer in case we get too warm.”
Rusty trotted over to sniff Steve’s bag and then his boots.
Steve was older than both of them, in his forties, Shannon guessed. A whole generation older, almost. He was also a very big man. She stared at his heavy black-soled boots as he gingerly stepped over the rail and down onto the cockpit bench, imagining black scuff marks all over her new boat’s gleaming white deck. Oh, well.
Steve dropped his bag into the small cabin of the 18-foot sloop, and Shannon pointed to where he should sit. She swung the engine mount down to lower the outboard into the water and started it. She caught Steve’s eye and pointed at the life jacket on the seat. “Better put that on.”
Steve glanced at her, then at Dave. Dave was wearing his usual old, stained life jacket.
Dave untied the bow line and came aboard after releasing the stern line, holding on to a deck cleat to keep the boat from drifting.
Steve wasn’t able to get even one arm into the life jacket over his bulky parka. Shannon made a face at Dave, then said to Steve, “You’ll have to put it on underneath your coat. Loosen the adjustment straps first.”
A minute later they were motoring out of the marina into the fresh sunny air, and her spirits rose. It wasn’t far to open water and a clear breeze. There’s nothing half as fine, she used to say, as turning off a sailboat’s engine. She only half listened as Dave explained to Steve how sailing worked. Actually, she noticed, he wasn’t saying much about sailing but more about how Steve should keep out of their way and always sit where he was told. Good! On a boat displacing only 1,100 pounds, of which only 300 were ballast, the position of Steve’s weight mattered. From his puzzled eyes she guessed he’d never been on a sailboat and had no idea the boat would heel. She always got a kick out of seeing newbies’ faces the first time they thought the boat was tipping over.
Rusty finally settled down on the cockpit sole, resting his big square jaw on her feet. He was never an issue with just Dave and her, but today might be a problem. Maybe Dave could get him to stay in the cabin.
Once in open water, she turned up into the wind and Dave rattled up the mainsail and cleated off the halyard. With the mainsheet in tight, she fell off onto a starboard tack and shut off the outboard. As she eased down the centerboard, the sloop began making way, water gurgling at the stern. Ah, the feel of the tiller in her hand; she thought she could probably sail blindfolded just by the touch!
Dave unfurled the 150% genoa with the sheet in one hand while he let out the furling line with the other. Then he trimmed the sheet in hard and the boat heeled over and picked up speed—and there was the look of panic in Steve’s eyes as he grabbed at the lifeline at his back. She grinned.
The wind was forecast to be 10 to 15 knots but it couldn’t have been over 8 or 9 yet, and she was happy again that she had splurged for the big genoa. Summer winds in the Chesapeake were often light and she really needed it then, but she always looked forward to the better wind of fall and winter.
For a couple of hours they simply sailed about in big, lazy circles, Dave explaining about tacks and jibes and shifting your weight from one side to the other and keeping your head down below the boom. Steve caught on—he wasn’t stupid, she could tell—but he was big and slow moving. Tacking was like a circus fire drill. Steve sat on the windward side forward with Shannon at the tiller beside him, both their feet tangling with Rusty, who wouldn’t stay below. Dave took the leeward cockpit bench, leaning against the cabin bulkhead and keeping his feet out of the dog tangle. When they tacked, Steve lumbered across in front of Dave so he could keep his hold on the cabin top while Dave danced around trying to control the sheets from behind him and avoid stepping on Rusty.
Last time we do it this way! she thought. Now she was glad there were no other boats around to see their little zoo in action.
She put them on a long beam reach out and down the bay, and they ate sandwiches and Steve had a beer. Gradually the wind was coming up, maybe 12 to 13 knots now, and she was enjoying their speed on the fast reach. She leaned back and felt the sun on her face while Dave and Steve talked. The combination of chilly air and warm sun was delightful.
But all too soon it was time to head back. They came about and trimmed to a beam reach on port tack. Rusty was getting restless now—he had to pee but wouldn’t on the boat—and kept standing up and trying to climb onto the cockpit seats. The boat just wasn’t big enough for all of them. Fortunately the wind was up now and they were zipping back; well, she thought, what passes for zipping in an 18-footer with a stubby keel. It had gotten gusty, too, and she was having fun playing the tiller, falling off and heading up to avoid too much heeling. Dave was teaching Steve about sail trim now, explaining what to do with the sheets when you changed course or the wind changed.
Steve had the mainsheet in his hand when the first harder gust hit them. Shannon didn’t have time to respond with the tiller, and they heeled hard over for a long moment. Someone’s foot kicked Rusty, and he squealed and tried to climb up onto Steve’s lap on the windward side. Steve was trying to stand and push Rusty off and eased the mainsheet without noticing what he was doing. The boat flattened and slowed. Steve stood up in the middle of the cockpit and had just brought the sheet back in some when the next gust hit.
“Let out the sheet!” Shannon shouted. Steve looked at the line in his hand as the boat started to heel, and then Rusty was sliding across the cockpit bench, nails screeching on the fiberglass as he banged into Steve. Holding the sheet firmly, Steve lost his balance as the boat heeled and pitched leeward on top of Dave.
Steve’s hand had a death grip on the mainsheet, and the weight of his body pulled the sail in all the way.
Feet braced across the cockpit, her weight now the only ballast to windward, Shannon instinctively pulled with all her strength on the tiller to fall off before the boat went over. There was no time for the awareness to sink in that with the main tight, it would’ve been better just to turn into the wind. But it was already too late. Steve was struggling to hold on as the rail went under, Rusty was flailing against the leeward lifeline, Dave was trying to grab Rusty before the water washed him off, the cockpit was flooding, and the rudder had no bite as it lifted out of the water and they went over.
It happened so fast and the water was so cold that when she broke the surface a moment later she was utterly confused, unsure where she was. Where was the boat? Treading water, she twisted and found it behind her. It had not bounced back upright as it should have but had settled on its side like a seagull with a broken wing.
Abruptly she was shocked into awareness. In his PFD, Dave was beside the hull, holding on to something with one hand, fumbling in the water with his other. Beside him Rusty scratched at the hull with his front paws, trying to climb up the smooth fiberglass.
Then Dave was shouting “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday!” and she saw the handheld radio at his mouth. A moment later, Rusty gave up on the hull and tried to put his paws on Dave’s shoulders—as they had played so often in the water—and then Dave wasn’t shouting and she couldn’t see the radio anymore.
The water was really, really cold and she couldn’t
think.
Then Dave swam to her side and pulled her back to the boat, but it had settled much lower in the water and seemed to be going down. Sailboats aren’t supposed to sink, she thought dully. They always say just stay with the boat until rescue comes. But somehow this one was filling with water and sinking.
Suddenly she realized she hadn’t seen Steve. There he was, farther along the hull, his head barely held out of the water by the life jacket. His eyes were open and slowly blinking, his face pale; he was just floating, not speaking. At least he seemed okay.
“Here!” Dave was shouting in her ear. “Take it—put it on!” She turned back to him as he shoved his life jacket to her. “Put it on—I can swim forever.”
She realized then that she was barely able to keep treading water, her arms and legs moving slowly. Water splashed in her mouth and she spat it out, then she grabbed the life jacket and hugged it to her chest, grateful just to hang on for a moment.
Dave was calling for Rusty as he swam off. She turned slowly in the water. The boat, her boat, was gone!
Only with difficulty could she see Steve, still bobbing silently in place.
But you’re supposed to stay with the boat, she kept thinking, so it’s easier for the rescuers to see you. The rescuers. How would they see them now? Then a sickening realization: Dave had not had time to tell them where they were.
Out of the morass of cold and confusion and growing terror came a thought: her cell phone. In her pants pocket. Inside a ziplock bag to protect against spray and splashes.
She had to get the life jacket on first so she could call. The rescuers didn’t know where they were. She had to tell them. She had to get the life jacket on.
She fought to get one arm through, her head going underwater. But it hung up on her jacket, she couldn’t get her other arm in, she had to breathe, and she jerked it off to clutch it again to her chest as she tried to catch her breath. Her fingers were getting numb, she suddenly realized, and she was seized by a new terror of not being able to push the right buttons on the phone.
She couldn’t wait. Clutching the life jacket tight with one arm, she fished in her pocket with the other hand and felt the slick plastic around the phone. Carefully she drew it out and raised it out of the water. Held it against the sky, shaking off the water; it looked dry inside.
Don’t fuck it up now, she ordered herself, and took a moment to plan her moves. The waves were only a foot high, only sometimes splashing her face, so if she opened the bag and held it over her head it should stay dry. She could shout at them, she didn’t have to put it to her ear to listen.
Moving slowly, she maneuvered the life jacket under her left arm and squeezed it tight in her armpit. She had to lean over to balance her head above the water with both her hands raised, but it worked. She waited a moment, calming herself. She could get her left hand only a few inches over the water, but she carefully opened the ziplock bag, then held the cell higher in her free right hand. With her thumb she keyed 9-1-1, then raised the cell and started shouting. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! Our boat has sunk! We’re in the water! We’re about 2 miles west of Hardy’s Marina. Mayday! Two miles west of Hardy’s Marina. We’re in the water. . .” she shouted until a wave splashed in her mouth and she coughed.
When she caught her breath again, she looked up at the phone. Its screen was blank. It was wet. She pressed keys and nothing happened.
Had it worked? Had they heard?
She didn’t know. She was so cold she couldn’t think straight. Then it struck her like a blinding pain in the head: why had she opened the bag at all, why didn’t she just talk through the plastic? God!
She lowered her hand slowly and looked at the cell. Wet. She let it slip from her fingers and watched it spiral down into the depths.
Dave? She spun, losing the life jacket for a moment and frantically clawing at the water to get it back, then kicked her legs to rise up and looked all around. Dave and Rusty were both gone. Where?
Some 20 feet away, Steve bobbed quietly. She thought of swimming to him, but there was nothing she could do if he needed help.
It was the cold that would kill her, she knew. She tried to draw her knees up and wrapped her arms around her torso and the life jacket to conserve heat. She couldn’t think what to do. Couldn’t think. Her blood roared in her ears.
And after a long time there was a different roaring. She was barely conscious when they pulled her out.
Some 45 minutes passed before rescuers reached the site and pulled Shannon and Steve from the water. Both their radio and cell Mayday calls had been received but both were cut off before a location was heard. Helicopters and rescue craft immediately started a search, but without a location they were fighting long odds. In the dispatch center technicians rushed to work and were able to triangulate the brief cell call to narrow the search area. A fast Coast Guard vessel was first on the scene.
Shannon was hypothermic and almost incoherent, and it took a while to establish that there had been three people on the boat.
Steve was unresponsive. They administered CPR as the boat sped for shore, then turned him over to waiting EMTs who continued resuscitation efforts en route to the hospital, where he was pronounced dead.
A massive air and water search continued for Dave, with no luck. After a day the rescue mission became a recovery mission, but still with no luck. Eventually it was called off.
Two weeks later Rusty’s body was found.
Almost a month later, police were called to a home along the shore where Dave’s body had washed up.
The Coast Guard reminds all boaters to wear PFDs at all times, to file a float plan before going boating, to have and use appropriate safety and communication equipment, and not to depend on a cell phone.
Too Much Freeboard
The Etchells 22 is a fast 30-foot sailboat designed for racing, and it was sailing fast today in the Solent off the Isle of Wight with three sailing students aboard. They’d departed Cowes in the morning for a full day’s sail, with a lunch break in Yarmouth, but had turned back early because Brenda, one of the students, was getting cold. The wind was stronger than forecast, the sea was about 10°C, and Ryan had already given his sailing jacket to Brenda, so he was happy enough to turn back.
Ryan and Sandra, the sailing academy instructors, followed close behind the Etchells in the fast chase boat, a 19-foot launch with a diesel inboard, occasionally pulling alongside to shout encouragement or instructions. Ryan was driving and doing most of the teaching, as Sandra, age 20, was new and seemed hesitant to say much. He wondered if she was as worried about the Swedish student as he was. Sandra had just started work Monday, 4 days ago, but surely she’d heard about the Swede’s mishap last week.
No one knew quite what to make of the Swede. He was huge—over 1.8 meters tall and weighing over 120 kilograms—and was in his mid-forties. He was a nice enough guy and a good learner, but why would someone that big want to sail a small boat? He’d surprised them all when he’d arrived at the academy in Cowes a week ago to start the professional crew course, and the first thing they’d had to do was take him shopping for gear since none of the academy’s waterproof clothing or life jackets fit him. Wouldn’t you think a guy that size, who supposedly already had some sailing experience, would have his own gear?
Worse yet, the Swede moved slowly, not a good attribute for a sailor. He was like a big, friendly bear, Ryan thought.
So Ryan hadn’t been thrilled to be assigned to the Swede’s first sail last Saturday in one of the training dinghies. At least he made good ballast with all that body weight, but it was a tight fit with Ryan and him in the boat. After they’d sailed off the floating dock and he’d explained everything to the Swede, it seemed to take forever for the big man to trade positions with him to take the tiller. Then in their first tack the Swede moved the tiller so slowly that the boat stalled in irons into the wind.
On the second tack it happened. Ryan was handling the jibsheets when the Swede muttered “Hard a
lee” and started to tack. He didn’t quite see how the Swede had gotten tangled up in the mainsheet during the tack or how he’d managed to hook one of his legs over the tiller as the dinghy heeled over on the new tack, he just saw how the Swede, struggling to disentangle himself, half stood and then pitched overboard.
Thank god the chase boat was there in seconds. The Swede was unable to pull himself back on board the dinghy or the chase boat, so Ryan took the tiller and made sure the Swede hung on to the transom as the chase boat towed them some 90 meters back to the dock.
Later, the Swede laughed it off, but the instructors met and talked over the situation and decided to move him to one of the larger keelboats for the next steps of his training. And Ryan was happy now to be in the chase boat instead of in the sailboat with him.
Ryan turned to Sandra. “Since we’re getting back early, we have to decide how to spend rest of the afternoon.”
But Sandra was watching the Etchells and now pointed. “They’re pretty much on a dead run,” she said. “Should we have them jibe?”
The thought of it made Ryan nervous. The wind had gotten up some, closer now to Force 5 than the forecast 3 to 4, and the Etchells carried a big mainsail. “I think they better head up a little instead,” he said, and slid the throttle forward a notch to ease up alongside.
The Etchells was on starboard tack, the sails well out to port. The Swede sat forward on the starboard deck tending the mainsheet. Brenda and Karl, the other two students, both slight of build, sat to port to counterbalance the Swede’s weight on the run. Karl was at the helm, Brenda playing the port jibsheet.
“Turn about 20 degrees starboard!” Ryan shouted as they came up behind the sailboat. “Broad reach!” He watched as Karl carefully shifted over to the starboard side and made the turn.
None of the three seemed to be having a very good time, Ryan thought. Was it just the normal jitters, or were they actually a bit scared?