by Tom Lochhaas
As soon as they met at the boatyard Friday morning, however, he relaxed. Carlyle seemed like a good egg who wouldn’t cause any trouble, and he clearly accepted Jonathan’s expertise and role as captain. They’d get along fine for a couple days, he was sure.
The boat, on the other hand, was more problematic than he had anticipated. First, the marina was late in launching it, making the owner worry about their schedule. Then the engine wouldn’t start and it took some time before the boatyard mechanic managed to get it running. When it was finally running, they motored to the fuel dock and filled the tank, but it took several attempts to dock back at the marina because the wind was blowing hard off the dock. Finally they got it tied up and set about getting familiar with the gear. Jonathan asked to see the owner’s pre-purchase survey of the boat and was a little dismayed to see the survey was only structural and hadn’t tested the engine and systems.
At last they were ready to depart midafternoon. Given the delay and the later tide change at the Needles channel at the Solent’s west end, they decided to motorsail to make better time. The forecast called for east and northeast winds of Force 5 to 7, so they started out with only a small jib and the engine, headed downwind down the Solent.
With the tidal current, engine, and wind at their back, they flew southwest at a speed over the bottom that the GPS clocked at almost 10 knots. It was cold—the water temperature was only 7°C—but at least they stayed dry in the cockpit. And the boat managed the rising seas well. Jonathan was happy enough to let Carlyle do most of the helming through the afternoon.
Before sunset they discussed a watch schedule for the night. Once they were out of the relatively sheltered Solent in the higher seas of the English Channel, they both admitted to feeling queasy whenever they went below in the cabin, so they decided they’d both stay in the cockpit and take turns trying to sleep there. The wind was still rising and the seas were growing, so Jonathan suggested that Carlyle tether himself in with his harness and safety line. Jonathan’s own harness and tether were still in his gear bag, but he wore his life jacket at all times in the cockpit.
Then the engine’s overheating alarm went off. Damn, Jonathan thought, there should’ve been an engine survey. At least they were a long way from being becalmed, although if the wind rose much more, they’d be caught in a gale sweeping the Channel. They shut off the engine and sailed on under the jib.
Thirty minutes later a pin fell out of the mainsheet traveler assembly and the boom started swinging wildly. Luckily they were able to control it quickly since the mainsail wasn’t up.
A little later the port and starboard running lights blinked off after a big wave crashed over the bow. Then all the cabin lights went off. Jonathan gritted his teeth against his queasiness and went below to work on the electrical panel, holding a flashlight between his teeth. Finally he was able to get power flowing again.
All was well for a couple hours, and then the power failed again. All the lights and instruments went down, including the GPS. This time, no matter what he tried, Jonathan couldn’t get electricity flowing again. They did have a backup handheld GPS unit, but it inexplicably failed to lock onto a position.
It was almost 11 P.M., and both men were exhausted, particularly Carlyle, who had done most of the steering. Jonathan took over the helm. It was tiring work, as the seas had grown and were knocking the boat about.
They were still sailing downwind on a starboard tack under just the jib, and sometimes Jonathan had trouble avoiding a broach when a wave or gust knocked the bow over. They were both seated on the low, port side, Carlyle hunkered down in the aft corner trying to sleep, Jonathan beside and just forward of him. Whenever the bow was pushed to starboard, the boat heeled dramatically and Jonathan had to force the tiller away hard to correct their course. He had become very weary.
At one point he realized he should probably be tethered in. But Carlyle had finally gotten to sleep, and he didn’t want to wake him to take the tiller so that Jonathan could go below for his harness and safety line.
Then a large wave struck and again the boat headed up and heeled sharply. Struggling to shove over the tiller to prevent a broach, Jonathan leaned forward and half rose from the cockpit seat. Abruptly the boat righted, pitching him forward off balance. As he crouched, struggling to regain his balance and footing, another wave heeled them to port and he fell backward and was pitched out of the cockpit over the rail, striking Carlyle’s head with his knee as he went overboard.
Carlyle woke to Jonathan’s shout as he was toppling, but the sudden blow to his head knocked him out for a few seconds.
When he came to, Carlyle saw he was alone in the cockpit. He was wet all over and his PFD had inflated. In a panic he looked back at the water and saw a light in the darkness some 40 meters back; could that be the light on Jonathan’s life jacket?
He reacted quickly and grabbed the horseshoe buoy from its rail mount and threw it in the direction of the light in the water. He swung the tiller and started winching in the jibsheet as he turned the boat back toward the wind. He soon realized it was hopeless, however; with just the small jib and the high wind and waves, it would take forever to claw his way back upwind toward Jonathan’s position. He’d lost sight of the light already and couldn’t mark his position without the GPS.
Pastime at the time of recovery the day after the incident. (Courtesy of MAIB)
He went to start the engine, hoping to be able to motor back into the wind, but the engine wouldn’t turn over. Probably not enough juice left in the batteries to power the starter.
But there was enough power for the VHF radio, which still seemed to be working, and he was able to reach the Portland Coastguard station with a Mayday call. Without the GPS, however, and not knowing how far they’d come since their last known position, he was not able to estimate their current position.
Carlyle was able to make four brief transmissions before the batteries failed. He gave what information he could about their course and what time they’d passed the Needles, but when the radio went silent he didn’t know what the Coastguard would be able to do.
Now he could only wait and try to stay roughly in the same area, tacking back and forth but making little headway upwind, straining his eyes into the darkness in the hope of seeing Jonathan’s light.
The Coastguard, meanwhile, had been able to triangulate an approximate position from his radio signals and the course data he’d provided. They put out an all-ships bulletin, and five merchant ships responded and began searching. Lifeboats were launched from multiple locations, and a SAR helicopter took off.
Carlyle didn’t know a search had begun, but he was planning to carefully shoot off a series of flares, hoping someone would be close enough to see them. He had a number of handheld red parachute flares, which he was going to use at intervals of 20 minutes. Without good light and with his reading glasses down below, he couldn’t read the instructions printed on the flares, however. He couldn’t ignite two of the flares at all, and a third burned his hand badly when it went off. But he did manage to fire off the others, one of which was seen by the helicopter as it approached the area.
It was after 1:30 A.M. when the helicopter sighted the boat and started a search pattern upwind of it after radioing the position to the lifeboats. Ten minutes later the first lifeboat reached the sailboat. Its crew immediately took Carlyle off, who was suffering from exhaustion and shock, and set out for shore.
Time was everyone’s concern. It was now 2 hours since Jonathan had gone into the cold water, a dangerous length of time even for a man floating in a life jacket. Research has shown the time limit for survival at that temperature (7°C) is a little over 3 hours. Full consciousness, and the ability to work to keep from drowning, is usually less than 2 hours. An unconscious victim is more likely to drown in splashing waves than to succumb to hypothermia.
So the searchers were as quick and efficient as they could be with the information they had. At 2:34 A.M., after Jonathan had been in the wat
er about 3 hours, the rescue helicopter spotted him, and 13 minutes later they had him on board a lifeboat, but he could not be resuscitated. The coroner later ruled the cause of death as drowning. It was impossible to know whether he had taken in water in a reflexive gasp on entering the cold water or had drowned later after becoming unconscious. But as the subsequent investigation made clear, survival would have been more likely if he had used his tether or if electrical failure had not caused the engine and GPS problems.
Take It Easy
As soon as the sun set, and even before its glow faded and the coastal lights south of Cape Canaveral, Florida, showed, he realized how exhausted he was, and how long this night in March would be. He hadn’t expected the wind to come up this much or to shift around this far to the north. The way he’d planned it weeks ago, he was simply going to sail a few miles farther offshore and ride the Gulf Stream north for a nice extra boost and a pleasant night’s sail on a tropical breeze.
But the wind was too northerly and had raised furious standing waves in the Florida Current where it merged with the Gulf Stream. He’d sailed out not long after dawn just to see what the conditions were, but after clearing the Ft. Pierce Inlet into the Atlantic he almost immediately had found himself in 8-foot breaking seas that almost broached Take It Easy, his tired old 36-foot sloop, when he tried to escape back toward the coast with a quick tack. Yikes! It felt like it took him hours to reach calm water again, and he was worn out long before noon. Of course, being up half the night dealing with provisioning and last-minute boat issues hadn’t helped.
Now it was dark again already, he hadn’t even reached Cape Canaveral, and the wind and waves were still rising. Waves must be over 25, close to 30 feet now, he thought. He furled in a couple more wraps of the jib but was just too tired to get up and put a second reef in the main. Surely the wind would drop soon. At least it wasn’t raining.
He pulled his iPhone out of his jeans pocket and thumbed open the chart app. There he was, a tiny red dot on the small screen, hovering an inch from the featureless coastline. He leaned against the wheel so he could steer with his elbows and keep both hands on the phone, the left holding it steady while he swiped and pinched with his right thumb and forefinger to move around on the screen and zoom in on what looked like Cape Canaveral somewhere ahead to the north. He looked up, hoping to see the lighthouse beacon in the distance, just as the bow fell off a wave and a sheet of spray soaked his face. Damn. He wiped the salt water from the face of the iPhone and stuck it back in his pocket.
More spray; the wind was still rising. The smart thing, he thought, would be to put in to shore, find a harbor, and get some rest. He didn’t absolutely have to make it to St. Augustine by tomorrow night just because he’d planned it that way. A harbor would be nice. Just grab a beer and go to sleep.
Problem was he couldn’t find what looked like a good harbor nearby. The long barrier islands were almost unbroken until he got farther north, and it would be sheer foolishness to anchor off the beach on a lee shore with this wind.
He took out his phone again and slid his finger around on the chart. Just below the tip of the cape was what looked like an inlet—or more probably a canal, since it seemed to be a straight line—that cut through the island to the broad Banana River inside. Along the canal were what looked like three dredged basins; maybe that was an anchorage? He zoomed in and tried to read the tiny type on the screen as he scrolled along the canal. “Restricted area” and “Security zone” labels were prominent, but he couldn’t read the smaller type beneath them. The boat was moving too wildly in the waves, and he continually had to wipe spray from the screen. Near the entrance to the canal he saw a little sailboat symbol on the vector chart, finally got the crosshairs centered over it, and tapped for information. A marina! He tapped again. “Transient berths: No” appeared. And it looked like no room for anchoring.
Another burst of spray and he stuck the phone back in his pocket. He really should have brought a paper chart, he thought again, or at least a cruising guide. But he hadn’t planned on stopping before St. Augustine, and he’d sailed all last summer with just the phone chart app, so how was he to know he’d need a paper chart? The old ones were getting mildewed anyway, so he’d left them at home.
The other thing about entering an unfamiliar inlet at night was that he didn’t know if he’d pass a Coast Guard station or a local harbormaster in there, and there was that problem with the running lights. He’d been sure that he would have time during the day to find the broken circuit or blown fuse and get them working before dark, but the autopilot wasn’t working either so he’d been stuck hand-steering all day. He didn’t know for sure but thought there might be a pretty hefty fine for no running lights. And then they might start looking for other things, like charts, fire extinguishers, and all that stuff he planned to install on the boat once he restored or replaced the big things. The trouble with boats, he thought, was that you never get caught up.
Man, was he exhausted. The wind seemed to have shifted even farther north and was driving him a little west of north, toward land, regardless of how much he pinched it. In the distance ahead, just starboard of the bow, he saw a tiny light. Damn. Now he’d have to tack east again to clear the cape. Had he worked in that close to the coast already? Was he already west of the cape’s longitude?
He should have bought that new compass for the boat. The phone’s compass was terrible for navigation.
He thought about tacking. He thought about putting a second reef in first, but it was blowing pretty hard now and he was heeled over about 30 degrees close-hauled, and it would be impossible to do the reef without help from the autopilot. He might start the engine and motor straight into the wind long enough to reef, but he wasn’t sure if the engine would start and he just didn’t want to deal with that right now. Tomorrow it would be easier in the sunlight and with lighter wind. He could go offshore a bit, ride the Gulf Stream up as he’d planned, get the boat fixed up, and grab some catnaps along the way.
Meanwhile, the wind continued to drive him toward a lee shore. He was so tired. He just wanted a 5-minute nap, but he wasn’t dumb enough to close his eyes on this course.
So he got ready to tack. He wrapped the starboard lazy jibsheet around its winch and moved the winch handle to the pocket on that side. With his feet braced and his right hand clutching the wheel, he carefully uncleated the port sheet and shook out its tangles so it would run free. He peered forward into the dark and caught another sheet of spray in the face. Damn, just do it.
He spun the wheel to starboard and the boat began turning immediately. It was head to wind faster than he’d anticipated, however, and he was too slow to release the port sheet. The jib backed, the bow blew across rapidly with the help of the waves now slamming its port side, and the sheet jammed. In a flash the boat was broadside to the wind, and with the jib backwinded and the mainsheet still tight, he lost all steering. The boat heeled far over to starboard, and he lost his footing and tumbled to the rail. The water was almost at the level of the cockpit coaming. He reached back, his fingers found the binnacle guard, and he pulled himself upright. For a terrible long moment he thought the boat was going over, a complete knockdown, but it steadied long enough for him to claw up to the high port winch and free the jibsheet. With a roar the sail blew across and cracked in the wind like a demon. But the boat stayed pinned over until he reached the mainsheet, which was under terrific tension now, and finally managed to release it also.
The boat came up to a heel of only 20 degrees and, his arms and legs shaking, his muscles limp, he collapsed on the lower cockpit seat and covered his head and ears with his hands to block the furor of flapping sails and flailing lines.
For a long minute he just sat and waited for something more to happen, feeling certain some final awful thing was about to occur. He had almost capsized during a simple tack. Now the mast would likely come down or the hull would split open beneath him.
But all that happened was the furious noise
of the sails flogging. Eventually he moved slowly to the mainsheet, got it wrapped on the winch drum, and found a winch handle. He started cranking it in just to ease the ruckus, not even sure where the bow was pointed or how the rudder was set.
It took what felt like an hour before he’d regained control and had Take It Easy sailing again. Judging from the coast lights at his back and the wind on the port beam, he was apparently sailing southeast. Maybe toward Bimini. Definitely toward the Gulf Stream, which wasn’t all that many miles away.
The wind had not dropped, though.
He would have to go back hard on the wind again to continue north.
He leaned against the wheel and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he reached into his pocket for his phone. It wouldn’t come on. He knew the battery wasn’t that low yet. He felt the wet fabric of his jeans and realized the phone had gotten soaked in salt water.
In the dark he couldn’t read his watch to see how long it was until dawn. Somewhere down below he had a flashlight, which he hadn’t thought to keep in the cockpit because he always had his phone, with its nifty flashlight app, on him.
He didn’t dare lock the wheel and go below. With these waves the boat would almost immediately jibe or tack if left unattended and the whole nightmare would start all over again.
He looked around the cockpit, trying to imagine another 6 to 7 hours of this in the dark. He took a moment to coil the sheet ends and straighten up the cockpit. He sat on the high side, one hand on the wheel, and watched the waves. Then he looked back around the boat, eyes coming to rest on the new handheld VHF clipped to the binnacle, a recent Christmas gift from his parents. He looked at it a long time. It hadn’t been on today, so the charge should be good. It was a submersible type, so the spray shouldn’t have affected it. And it was brand new, so it shouldn’t have broken yet.
He didn’t think he was supposed to make a Mayday call if he wasn’t actually sinking or something. He waited a minute to think about what to say if he was lucky enough to be heard. But he couldn’t think; he was too exhausted.
