Suddenly Overboard

by Tom Lochhaas

  North Carolina, October 2010. The sailboat’s owner was a member of the Coast Guard Auxiliary, an organization of experienced boaters whose mission includes teaching boating safety courses. He was sailing today with his wife and some friends, including another auxiliary member. It was a pleasant day and they were enjoying themselves when the boat jibed. Perhaps it was a sudden wind shift, or perhaps the bow was pushed over suddenly by a wave, or perhaps the person at the helm looked aside for a moment in conversation or to check the chart, for the skipper would not have been standing where he was if he had foreseen the risk. The mainsail slammed across the cockpit in the jibe, and the boom struck the skipper’s head and knocked him overboard. Immediately a friend dived in to get the unconscious man, and they got him up into a nearby powerboat and rushed him to shore. A waiting Coast Guard boat transported him to medical care. Tragically, however, his injury proved fatal.

  Columbia River, Oregon, October 2011. A solo sailor, age 81, had owned his Tartan 33 sailboat for only 4 weeks. He was on the broad Columbia River near Portland, an easy enough place to navigate if you pay attention to the chart, but he didn’t have one on board. He should have, because he couldn’t see deep enough into the water to spy the sandbars. Three or maybe four times already he’d felt that grinding shudder as the keel struck bottom, but at least it was sand and mud and the current pushed him right off and into deeper water. Then there was that railroad bridge ahead.

  A swing bridge, it would open if he radioed to request it, assuming there wasn’t a train coming, but it really looked high enough that he could get under it. He was so sure about that that he was shocked by the impact when his mast struck the bridge. The boat skewed around at an angle and heeled over as the current under the bridge pushed on the hull, but the mast was caught in the bridge structure. He had his life jacket on and was able to hold on. Water swirled over the coaming and partly filled the cockpit, some splashing down the companionway, and he had time to wonder if he’d live long enough to make it to shore if the boat filled and went down, but almost immediately he heard sirens. Soon a fireboat raced up and firefighters clambered aboard and were able to get him off without too much trouble. The boat—well, he didn’t want to think about what the repairs were going to cost him. He felt lucky enough this time just to be alive. And next time, he’d make sure he had the right charts aboard.

  CHAPTER 4

  Anchoring, Docking, Dinghying

  Many sailors who are safety conscious and take steps to stay safe when sailing tend to relax when the boat is near land or coming to a stop. It is as if we let down our guard because we no longer anticipate any risk. After all, shore’s right there, and what could possibly go wrong now? Surprisingly, however, statistics show that collectively these situations are as dangerous as any other on the water—and perhaps more so if you let down your guard too far.

  Long Voyage, Quiet Harbor

  Man, was he cold! Despite the balmy July evening air, he just couldn’t get warm. Comes from 6 days at sea, he thought; his muscles just weren’t moving enough to generate heat sufficient to combat the last 2 cold days after crossing the Gulf Stream into frigid New England waters. And he was tired, dead tired, deep to his bones.

  From the cockpit of his 43-foot sloop swinging gently on a rented mooring, he looked across the quiet harbor to shore. Three kids at the water’s edge were throwing bread crumbs to some ducks while seagulls screeched overhead in the dusk. In the light of a streetlamp just above the harbor, a couple paused in their stroll to kiss. For the hundredth time he missed his wife and kids, whom he hadn’t seen since he’d sailed for Bermuda some three weeks ago. Their voices on his cell phone when he’d arrived just made him feel lonelier. Well, he’d be home soon enough. If he slept well tonight and the weather held, he’d leave tomorrow for the easy passage home.

  He thought about just crawling into his sleeping bag in the quarter berth right now. But, as always, he felt the call of land after days at sea. He just wanted to walk a bit along the shore, stretch his cold, cramped legs. Warm up. Maybe find a pub nearby and have a beer, just one that he would sip slowly while listening to human sounds and shore life, gradually easing back into “normal” life. Hear what regular folks talked about instead of radio reports of weather, wind, and waves. He smiled; the sailor come ashore, such a stereotype—and so true!

  But he delayed a little longer, feeling so at home in the cockpit that it was difficult to leave. He sat still a while, twirling an empty beer bottle in his hands. The token beer, the only one he brought back on the boat from Bermuda, carefully saved for the ritual of making landfall. With a grin he’d poured the first ounce overboard in thanks to Neptune, then had drunk the rest of it down, feeling it rush straight to his head, amazed it didn’t put him straight to sleep. Six days of seldom more than an hour of sleep at a time, the singlehanded sailor’s plight. He hated running the engine just to power the batteries so he could run the radar to use its alarm function to alert him if a ship came too close. Better to use the timer to wake him every 20 minutes for a quick check of the horizon.

  It wasn’t as easy as when he was younger, but he was a long way from being old. At 48, he was looking forward to decades more sailing.

  He looked at the shore again. The boys had vanished, the lovers had walked on. Lights were coming on in homes above the harbor. And only 60 yards away or so, there was a dock where he could tie up the dinghy and go ashore.

  Rowing will help warm me up, he thought drowsily. Wake me up, too.

  With one last look around the cockpit, he stood and wedged the beer bottle between two cushions where he could find it later to put below in the recycling bin. Everything looked shipshape.

  His habit was to neaten things up on the approach into a harbor so he wouldn’t have a mess to deal with later.

  Knowing how fatigue would set in as soon as he slowed down, he’d pumped up the inflatable dinghy shortly after picking up the mooring, and it now bobbed on its painter just off the stern. He reached down the companionway and grabbed a flashlight for the row back to the boat later. Then he took out the hatchboards and the padlock from its hook on the aft bulkhead and secured the boat.

  As he unclipped the swim ladder on the stern, he saw the ducks had now swum out to beg from him. He smiled again, remembering how his own kids when little had always wanted to feed the ducks and gulls.

  He looked at the dinghy outboard mounted on the stern rail and thought it goofy to even think of using it; it was just a short row to the dock.

  The ladder swung down and made a splash, sending the ducks scooting away. He shivered and was surprised again that he still felt cold. For the last 2 days he’d worn heavy wool pants and fleeces under his foul-weather gear, thick socks of Icelandic wool under his boots, and silk long underwear—a present from his wife—under all that, and had still been cold. Once moored, he’d stripped it all off and now wore only shorts and a T-shirt and the new hat he’d received as one of the race finishers, the better to soak up warmth from the air, but he still felt chilled.

  Halfway down the swim ladder, pulling in the painter to bring the dinghy up to the hull, he paused and surveyed the cockpit again, an ingrained habit. It was part of staying safe out there, he’d lectured the kids; if you have to move fast all of a sudden you don’t want to trip on a loose line. One of the too many lectures he’d given the kids, he reflected—like always wearing your life jacket and always clipping in with your tether when alone on a boat—and hoped that wasn’t why none of them shared his passion for sailing. Like a religion, those safety rules had kept him safe while sailing, including the last 6 days alone on a big ocean.

  All lines and halyards were neatly coiled and hung in place. She was a well-found ship, and he was proud of her. Everything was in its place.

  Then he noticed his inflatable PFD crammed to one side under the dodger where he’d put it after securing the mooring pendant on a bow cleat. It was the one thing out of place, an aggravating detail. He should stow it away below
, or better yet put it on for the dinghy ride. But shore was so close, the dock only 60 yards away, and he was tired. He let it be.

  From the bottom rung of the ladder he swung the dinghy around with one foot and carefully stepped in. With his elbow crooked around the ladder, he coiled the painter and laid it forward out of the way, another longtime habit. Then he slipped the oars into the oarlocks and, after a final glance around, pushed away from the boat.

  A bit of breeze had come up, ruffling the water’s surface. It was colder right down next to the water. He rowed slowly, waiting for his muscles to start warming up.

  When he was halfway to the dock, the ducks reappeared. He paused, and they swam right up to him, so close he shortened his starboard oar to avoid hitting one of them with his next stroke. The oar slipped in the oarlock when he moved it back in position, and when he leaned to his left to adjust it his new hat blew off into the water.

  Gimme a break, he thought as he yanked the oar out of the lock and reached out for his hat. The breeze was moving the dinghy farther away from it and he almost put the oar back in the oarlock again to row to the hat, but it looked like it was starting to sink. He grabbed the oar at the end of the handle and leaned out.

  He was in the water before he knew it.

  It was so shockingly cold he didn’t get his mouth closed, so cold his chest muscles spasmed and sucked in. It all happened so blindingly fast that he wasn’t thinking at all as he went under.

  The breeze pushed the dinghy slowly across the remaining distance to the dock, where it fetched up against a skiff tied up along the dock.

  A short time later, another small boat brought a group of people up to the dock, where they found and secured an empty inflatable dinghy. Then they saw the body in the water and immediately radioed for help. The harbor patrol boat responded within minutes, but it was already much too late.

  Late to the Slip

  Just as Billy completed his turn down the row of finger piers and went into reverse, his cell phone rang. He couldn’t hear it over the noise of the diesel, but he felt it vibrate in his pocket. Not a good time, he thought, and tried to ignore it. He was sure it was his wife wondering where he and Joe were and why they weren’t on time—as he’d sworn they would be—for Joe’s birthday dinner.

  He glanced forward to the side deck where Joe was carrying back the bitter end of the cleated bow line, outside the lifelines. He figured Joe’s cell would be ringing in about 10 seconds. Oh well. They’d call their wives back in about a minute once they got tied up.

  He looked astern again as he backed toward the slip. The tide was running and the river had some current, but his new-to-him 36-foot sloop was backing smoothly under the little 13-hp diesel. No wind, so at least the bow wasn’t blown sideways like last time.

  No wind was also the reason they were late. The afternoon sail, a birthday day off work for Joe, had been leisurely and relaxed. At 46, Joe was several years younger than Billy, but they agreed about taking it easy on the water, accepting the light wind for what it was. So it had taken them longer than anticipated to get back in since Billy hated using the noisy engine and delayed starting it as long as he could. Way too long, he thought, checking his watch. It was after nine o’clock already, and the women were probably pretty aggravated.

  This was his first time coming into the slip after dark, but the marina had good lighting and he had no trouble seeing what he was doing.

  Joe had coiled the end of the bow dockline on the deck beside the starboard lifeline gate, just as Billy had asked. Now he stood with the stern line a few feet aft of the gate, ready to step down onto the dock.

  The stern eased between the finger pier to starboard and the 36-footer tied up to port, the engine running slow as Billy went into neutral. He looked forward again to check that Joe was ready and saw him lift one leg over the lifeline. Joe had already taken off his bulky life jacket and tossed it on the cabin top near the mast.

  The sailboat slid back through the dark water, quieter in neutral, and Billy heard Joe’s cell ringing. They grinned at each other. “Don’t answer it!” Billy called.

  “Right. Just checking the caller ID.”

  Billy looked astern and darn it, they were still going a little too fast. He didn’t like having to use forward gear to stop, since the prop walk pushed the stern to port. He was still looking back over his left shoulder as he engaged forward with a short noisy burst of power, belatedly swinging the wheel a quarter turn, hoping to compensate. He looked back again; still 10 feet to go before hitting the pier but slowing now. He threw the gear lever back into neutral, then rushed around the wheel pedestal and up out of the cockpit to take the bow line forward to tie off the boat. The boat was light enough that he could stop its motion with a cleat if needed.

  At the gate he stooped and grabbed the line. Joe had already gotten off with the stern line, but . . .

  He didn’t see Joe anywhere. For a long couple of seconds Billy just stood there, stunned, wondering where Joe could have gone.

  He snapped out of it only when the motion of the drifting boat caught his attention. He ran a few feet forward and quickly wrapped the dockline around a cleat.

  “Joe?” It felt weird, like shouting to himself; there was nowhere Joe could be hiding. The shadows weren’t that deep. He ran down the finger pier, part of his mind noticing the boat’s stern swinging slowly farther out from the dock from the prop walk momentum.

  Then he saw the aft dockline hanging down the hull from the starboard stern cleat, straight down into the dark water. The stern had slid out too far from the dock now for him to reach it, so he ran back amidships and grabbed a stanchion to pull the boat in. Then he worked his way back to the stern and grabbed the dockline and pulled.

  It slid easily up and out of the water, and he realized he’d half expected a grinning Joe to emerge with it.

  He looked all around. Except for the rumbling of the diesel the night was quiet, the water still but for the sliding ripples that showed a deeper current. Nothing anywhere.

  Joe had to be in the water. But how? Where? He crouched down to scan all along the finger pier. Its smooth wood was the only interruption in the water’s surface, not a sign, no one there—unless he’d somehow gone under?

  Billy stood and raced up the pier to where it joined the main dock, then turned right and ran to where he could see the other side of his boat. Then he ran farther and checked both sides of the 36-footer, then checked again along the finger pier.

  Oh god. Where else to look?

  The phone in his pocket rang again. He jerked it out and saw his wife’s name on the display. He hit the ignore key to send her to voicemail and punched in 911.

  He never understood, later—not an hour later when the police divers brought up Joe’s body, nor 2 days later after the postmortem was done—why he hadn’t heard a splash. It was as if Joe had gone into the water like an expert diver without a ripple, had gone straight down without a struggle. They found a bruise on his forehead that might have come from hitting the dock or from striking the hull underwater. Worse, Billy was haunted by thoughts of the propeller, which Joe’s shirt had been tangled on when the divers found him. He was certain he’d put the engine in neutral before Joe stepped off, he knew he had, and one of the divers told him later when he was sitting in the police car that the shirt wasn’t actually twisted on the shaft, just caught on the prop, and the coroner did not find any slashes in the flesh, but could the prop have been turning nonetheless and caught him and held him down?

  The transmission had been in neutral when he’d gone back aboard after making the 911 call to get the boathook to probe the water around the docks. He’d shut the engine down then. But he’d heard about props slowly spinning even in neutral if the clutch plates were too tight. He didn’t know; he was still too new to this boat.

  But what really bothered him was the thought that if he’d been watching and had seen Joe fall—or heard the splash—he could have gone after him. He could have brought
him up before he drowned.

  That thought, and wondering whether Joe would have kept his life jacket on a minute longer if he’d insisted, would haunt him forever.

  The Season’s Last Sail

  Late-summer sailing can be a delicious treat in coastal New England. The crowds are gone, back to work and school, and the air is still tantalizingly warm. You can almost set your watch to the freshening southwest breeze, and when the halyards slap the masts, it’s time to sail! There are days when you swear you are the only boat on the ocean and the late September slanting sunlight makes the tops of the waves sparkle like jewels. These truly can be the hazy, lazy days of late summer.

  But late-summer sailing also has a bittersweet feel that can settle in your heart and bring on a tinge of sadness. After all, the weather won’t hold forever and each sail could be the last of the season. Soon, maybe even tomorrow, it will be time to haul the boat, button it down, and spend the long New England winter reminiscing about the past season’s adventures and planning next season’s.

  Maybe that’s why this experienced sailor was a little preoccupied on this late September day. He and the first love of his life planned to spend the day on another love of his life—their 40-foot Bristol sloop—and end their sail where the boat would spend the next several months sleeping under a blanket of snow.