“Thank God the sun has come up,” a person commented.
“Yes, given that the search will be in daylight gives us the comfort that some of the crew will be saved in the violent conditions.”
Some? Some will be saved? Claudio couldn’t breathe.
“What about Vainqueur, why can’t they come to Vincitore’s aid?” Abigail called out over the crowd.
“The yacht Vainqueur, sail number FRA26635, cannot be reached via radio, and we expect they were stuck in the same squall and have lost radio contact.”
“Are they safe?” Abigail called back.
“At this stage, we don’t know. No EPIRB has been set off by Vainqueur. For now, we must concentrate on the rescue of the twenty crew of Vincitore. Canna Medici and twelve of her crew members have been through significant survival training, and the boat met all safety regulations without fault. They have a very strong chance of survival.”
The crowd slipped into a soft murmur of conversation, but Claudio couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Canna may not come home. She was in sixty foot waves, in nothing more than a blow-up life-raft with a rain hood attached. Canna may not have even made it to the life-raft. Maybe she had become trapped in the rapidly-filling hull. Perhaps the life-raft left without her. Every moment of not knowing crushed Claudio’s soul. Canna had done her best with the mayday call, managing to follow the protocol for distress despite the fact she would be standing in freezing water inside a dark yacht and scared. Even with the poor radio reception, Claudio could hear she was shivering; she sounded weak, maybe from the injury she had sustained. Had she stayed behind to radio for help, letting all the others jump into the life-raft? Hopefully it wasn’t a sacrifice that would cost Canna her life.
‘Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Pierre Ballad, navigator of the vessel Vainqueur, sail number Foxtrot-Romeo-Alpha two six six tree fife.’
CHAPTER 48
SYDNEY
Canna took a few short breaths of cold air. The radio was dead in her hands. The EPRIB had gone off without a hitch, so at least Search and Rescue had some idea of where the broken yacht was sinking out in the ocean. With the waves, they would drift away from their current position, and the search area would have to be a thousand square miles.
Trapped in darkness. The yacht had filled with ice water up to Canna’s knees, the interior destroyed when the yacht rolled. Canna clung to what she thought had been the galley sink, and tried to steady herself. Every cupboard had opened, letting loose every single item on board. Clothes and sailing gear littered the place. Several bunk beds had been torn of the inside of the hull. Vincitore was 100 feet long, and all Canna had was the space the size of a telephone box to move around. She had fallen down the wet stairs into the yacht, to find the radio in the damaged navigation station. As the water continued to rise, she wondered how the hell she was going to get back on deck.
A towering wave smashed against the outside of the hull, and she heard someone scream in absolute terror. Who or why was impossible to tell. A huge shower of water poured inside the hatch, soaking Canna yet again. Everything was in darkness, but at least the water gave her an idea of the only way to escape.
Canna fumbled in the dark as her hands found the stairs. The wind whistled past the open hatch as she climbed up, getting soaked again as waves rolled over the deck. As she poked her head out into the open, she noticed the sky had begun to turn grey. The sun was about to rise. Thank God.
“Canna!” cried a voice. A hand touched hers and Canna grabbed the man, who pulled her out of the hatch and onto the deck. With their faces together she could see it was Ryan, one of her British sailors. “Canna,” he yelled, his voice whipped away by the winds, “one of the life-rafts is gone!”
Canna looked around; in the darkness everything was impossible to see. A torch was moving around in the abyss, waved by a crew member who stood on the back of the broken boat. “What happened?” she yelled.
“The lifeline snapped,” Ryan screamed in her ear. “Ten of the guys were inside, including Mitchell and his broken leg. I tried to grab them, but a wave just pulled them away. They’re gone.”
Canna took a few deep breaths. Each life-raft could survive alone; each had all the necessary safety equipment on board. But their chance of rescue was much higher if the life-rafts were tied together. At least the guys were away from the yacht. The vessel was minutes from sinking, and ropes tangled around each other in the black water, ready to snare and drown any sailor who went near them. Ten of her crewmen were already in the water and away from the death-trap that was once the Vincitore.
“Did you make a mayday call?” Ryan yelled.
Canna nodded just as another massive wave smashed against the hull and poured over the deck. Canna let go of Ryan’s hand and lost her footing. She spun around, surrounded by water before a huge whack to the stomach made her scream in agony. Canna felt the exact moment her ribs cracked inside her chest. She landed on her back and hit her head against the steering wheel. The grinding pedestal in the centre of the yacht, built of solid carbon fibre, must have stopped her from flying over the side. It crushed her ribs as the power of the ocean forced her against the waist-high carbon pole. Canna screamed again, the pain like a wild fire inside her body. This was it. Not long ago, Canna had been driving the yacht in the dark, trying to navigate every wave. Nine people had been on board, when in the moonlight, she saw a wave approach from side on, larger than the mast of the yacht. There was nothing she could do; Canna’s screams to her teammates unheard over the roar of the wave. The boat flipped, and Canna clung to the steering wheel as she watched the yacht roll onto its side, the mast in the water. She dangled in the air as over they all went, the deck smashed upside down in the sea. Silence. The boat stayed upside down in the water for a second before the next wave forced them to roll again, and in less than thirty seconds the boat was upright. Canna had gasped for air the moment she got plunged back into a world of howling winds and rolling waves. The mast had been ripped away. Vincitore bobbed and shuddered with an eerie creak slicing through carbon hull. The keel, the only stabilising weight on the bottom the yacht had broken. All of the crew had been tied on by lifelines and by some miracle, all dragged through the sea and pulled back to the surface, left soaked, cut up and battered. It was a blur as injured crewmen appeared from below decks, struggling up the stairs one by one as Canna made the automatic decision to abandon ship. As they had deployed the large life-rafts and began the dangerous jump into the water, Canna fought her way downstairs to locate the EPIRB and made her mayday call. Now, with smashed ribs, Canna knew she couldn’t carry on and make it to the remaining life-raft.
Ryan’s face appeared over Canna. In the faint light that began to creep over the disaster zone, Canna saw blood running down his face. “We’re not going to die today, Canna!” he cried. He pulled Canna up and she screamed; the pain of her ribs too much to bear. Ryan struggled to drag her along the cracked hull to the stern of the boat, where Doug stood, clinging to the wire lifeline. Canna peered out from under her jacket rain hood to see the faces of her crewmen, lit up by torches. They were in the life-raft about a metre away from the boat, held on by a single rope.
Canna sat with her legs dangling over the back of the yacht, her body slumped against Ryan as the yacht wobbled in the choppy sea. He tried to hold her upright as Doug made the dangerous jump into the life-raft. The seven sailors in the raft all reached out and grabbed the young man, who landed face first in the life-raft, safe at last.
“You have to jump!” Canna groaned to Ryan.
“I can’t leave you here!” Ryan replied as another cold wave washed over the bloodied pair.
“I’m the skipper, and I must be last off the boat!”
“I’m not taking any of that ‘captain goes down with the ship’ crap, Canna! I told you, we’re not going to die today!”
Canna sat helpless as Ryan pulled at the rope of the life-raft, to bring it as close to the stricken vessel as possible. Freezing and in
sheer pain, Canna felt the hands of her crewmen pulling at her wet weather gear as she slid off the yacht and into the inflatable life-raft. The roar of the sea seemed just a fraction quieter inside the raft which had a cover over the top to stop water coming in and sinking them. The raft jolted as she screamed in pain against her teammates, and she knew the movement meant Ryan too had made the leap of faith and was safe. Canna looked up to see the faces of all her crew looking back, all in a similar state of pain, terror and exhaustion. In a matter of minutes, they had gone from premier race leader, to alone and stranded at sea, their boat headed for the bottom of the Southern Ocean. Ten more sailors were out there somewhere, and Canna prayed that the Vainqueur, who had been a few miles behind, had heard the radio call. Another yacht, Maximum Velocity, was another thirty miles back. With luck, the bright orange rafts could be spotted from the air. Canna prayed that daylight would violently banish the night and save them all. Perhaps a search and rescue helicopter would be able to winch them from the sea, one by one. They were alone, at the full mercy of the ocean.
CHAPTER 49
SYDNEY
A man can’t cope with another person’s grief when paralysed with fear. Claudio sat alone, on the second floor of the yacht club and shivered. With his back to the window, his navy blue t-shirt gathered the rays of warm sunshine but didn’t warm his body. Downstairs, the yacht club was a hive of activity, but upstairs was off limits to the public. The powers that be needed privacy to assess the shambles their yacht race had become, all thanks to the freak weather. John let Claudio sit upstairs away from the bustle and confusion, but Claudio was ready to crawl into bed and cry. The yachting world knew of the disaster that had struck the yacht Vincitore, and mainstream media outlets were picking up the story as it developed. Claudio’s phone continued to ring: his parents, Veena, Henri and Erik. Even a message from Francesca in Milan; Canna’s brother Mario in New Zealand was looking for someone to talk to, someone who could tell the Medici family the fate of their not-so-loved only daughter. Claudio ignored all the calls. Another person’s worry meant nothing compared to the torment in his own mind.
Claudio sat like a lost child in a world full of strange adults, afraid and bewildered. Six hours had passed since Canna’s fateful mayday call, and nothing had been found out in the treacherous seas. Canna had admitted to being scared, and joked about dying at sea. Now it could be real. Canna could have been dead of hours and Claudio had no idea. Canna could have drowned, her last moments cold and suffocating. She could have been trapped in an upturned hull, hurt and forgotten, unable to free herself. Anything could have happened. Anything.
Claudio shivered again as he recalled Abigail Troublé crying. Her fear had already all come true. Vainqueur had retired from the race, carrying the body of its skipper, Christophe, who had suffered a fatal heart attack while battling the storm. The mayday call came in, and told of the story of the Frenchman, who went downstairs to help with the failing electronics. He then suffered chest pains and collapsed, and in less than a minute, Christophe was dead. The crew got the radio working and called for help, knowing there was nothing that could be done. All Vainqueur could do was continue to sail, unable to turn back to the Australian mainland in the bad weather. Poor Abigail had got the grim news in a terrible way, overhearing the stricken yacht’s mayday call. She didn’t get a chance to prepare, no soothing words, just the raw facts of her husband dying hundreds of miles away. Claudio watched in a fog of dread and anxiety as the tearful French woman left the clubhouse. She departed with wives of other Vainqueur sailors, back to the house they had rented down the street. Claudio considered doing something, saying something, but couldn’t. He needed all his energy just to stay upright and hold Canna’s ruby wedding ring in his hands.
Claudio glanced at Canna’s Mickey Mouse watch on his wrist yet again. 11:45. Not even lunchtime yet. It was the longest day of his life. He could hear voices; John, the yacht club commodore, was in a huddle with other staff members across the room. They all discussed what to do next as they scrambled to make sure other yachts were safe from the storm. Fortunately, the smaller yachts were much slower and hadn’t entered Bass Strait, instead able to take shelter along the Australian coastline. Only Vincitore and Vainqueur had been in mortal danger. His precious Canna was in mortal danger.
Claudio closed his eyes and listened to the blood rushing past his ears, thumping to the beat of his heart. It was odd to feel the hot sun on your skin but feel so cold on the inside. He could hear sounds, murmuring voices, the clink of glasses from the downstairs bar, the scrap of chairs on the wooden floor, the incessant ringing of phones. But for Claudio, the world was on hold. The world had become a tiny bubble, and the only thing that fit inside was Claudio and his fear. Nothing outside the bubble could get in, held back by worry. The realisation that Canna was already dead lurked nearby, but Claudio wouldn’t let the notion anywhere near him. Even time had become lost in a sea of panic; there was no future if Canna had perished out at sea.
“We found them!”
Claudio spun in his seat to see one of the yacht club staff members run to John and his group of helpers. “They’ve found them!” he cried again. “One of the life-rafts has been spotted by Vainqueur, which has been depowered and is under motor. They were able to pull alongside the life-raft in the rough sea and pull all ten crewmen on board! There are a number of serious injuries and hyperthermia, but all ten are alive.”
“That’s a big rescue operation for a yacht already nursing a death,” John replied.
“Yes, but Christophe’s body has been carefully placed near the bow of the yacht, allowing enough room to get all ten injured Vincitore crewmembers downstairs.”
“Who are they?” Claudio called across the room. “Which ten from Vincitore survived?”
“Um, I don’t know,” the man replied, now aware a relative was in the room. “They’re still relaying all the names and injuries via radio, so the rescue chopper can get out there and help.”
“Did they mention if a woman was on board?” Claudio asked, a lump in his throat.
The young man looked at his hands, and then threw a look to John. Claudio knew in an instant that no, no woman had been found. “Sorry, all I know is that ten men were found alive.”
Claudio just sunk his face in his hands. A moment later he felt a presence nearby; John had crossed the room. “This is good news, Claudio,” the man said with a gentle but practical tone. “The two life-rafts got deployed together and should be in the same stretch of ocean. The men on board Vainqueur are all safe, so that means rescue personnel can concentrate on the other life-raft. They may be able to tell us more about what happened in the moments leading up to the sinking of Vincitore.”
Claudio opened his mouth to agree with John, but no sound emerged. John just patted his shoulder. “No worries, mate. We’ll find your wife. Why don’t you go back to your place for a while? There is nothing to do here.”
“I might just go and get showered and changed.”
“I’ll call you if anything changes.”
Claudio got out of his chair and headed downstairs. He felt numb, each step, each breath difficult. All that time with Canna just wasted; stupid fights, overblown egos, selfish desires. Now for all their effort and sacrifices, they could end up with nothing.
Claudio noticed Doug’s parents, Brendan and Michelle near the entrance to the club and they waved to him. “I hear they found one life-raft,” Brendan said.
“Yeah,” Claudio sighed.
“Our boy wasn’t on board,” Michelle added.
“No, my wife wasn’t either.”
“Still, it’s a good sign. Maybe they will be able to tell us what happened to the second life-raft. I guess Doug and Canna have stuck together, friends helping each other out,” Brendan replied, in an attempt to sound positive.
“Why don’t we exchange numbers to keep in contact as we get news?” Claudio suggested and saw Michelle smile in appreciation.
Claudio t
ook Brendan’s number and headed out of the club onto the quiet street. He almost didn’t want to know what happened to the second life-raft; the news would change his life, no matter what news he received.
Back on the top level of the crew house, Claudio went into the bedroom and looked around the place. Canna’s things were all still unpacked. She planned to come back to Sydney after the race to get her belongings, just a small bag of essentials sent down to Hobart ahead of time. Claudio shuffled into the bathroom and looked at her things, her shampoos in the shower, perfume on the vanity unit. He took a deep breath and could smell his Canna.
Claudio wasn’t sure who cried out more water, the hot shower he stood under, or his own eyes. He could sob and blubber in the ensuite bathroom, and no one would hear him. He fell back into bed and smelled Canna against the pillow. Last night he had gone to bed alone, nervous and excited about the race, and the night before he had been making love to his wife. The wife he had just been reunited with after yet another stupid fight. Now, the air filled with trepidation; there might not be any more happy days left.
The phone rang again, and Claudio jolted upright. He had fallen asleep in the centre of the bed, holding one of Canna’s summer dresses. He scrambled to grab the phone from his jeans’ pocket. This could be it.
“Claudio, John here. I trust everything is okay, you never made it back to the clubhouse.”
Claudio glanced up, the sun was low in the sky. He picked up Mickey Mouse on the desk; 17:47. Canna had been in the water for twelve hours.
“Claudio, the second life-raft was spotted about half an hour ago by a passing plane.”
“Oh my God,” Claudio said with a sigh of relief. “What happens now?”
“Two large rescue helicopters have been called to go out and see if they can hoist any of the members to safety. With the fading sunlight, they may not all get rescued. The weather is still violent. We can be sure there is at least one person alive on the raft, they set off a flare when they spotted the plane.”
Violent Daylight Page 48