by Tom Lochhaas
Lake Huron, Michigan, March 2010. The Coast Guard always urges boaters to carry a VHF radio rather than a cell phone in case of an emergency, but these three girls, ages 12 and 13, apparently weren’t thinking much about safety issues when they “borrowed” a small sailboat from the beach and went out on Lake Huron without PFDs or oars. They were blown a mile into the frigid lake and were unable to sail back. Lucky that her cell phone was still dry, the 13-year-old called 911 for help moments before the boat capsized on a wave and her wet phone died. They clung to the capsized hull and were rescued before hypothermia set in.
Little Sister Bay, Wisconsin, June 2007. A solo sailor capsized and stayed with his boat as long as he could, but he had no way to call for help. No one saw him or the boat. The next day his granddaughter reported him missing, and the following day another boater discovered and reported his overturned boat. His body was later found.
York River, Yorktown, Virginia, July 2012. Two sailors in a 14-foot sailboat capsized while sailing on the York River. They wore life jackets and clung to the overturned boat, but they were scared to try swimming the distance to shore and had no way to call for help. By chance, a Coast Guardsman from the West Coast, who had been attending a search-and-rescue school in Yorktown, was riding his bicycle along the river at dusk when he spotted the capsized sailboat and quickly telephoned for help. They were rescued before dark as a result of the kind of luck we all hope for but can scarcely expect.
St. Petersburg, Florida, February 2012. Two men in their midtwenties were sailing a 16-foot Hobie Cat off Pinellas Point when the boat capsized on a gust. They were unable to right the catamaran, and there were no other boats nearby to hail for help. They did have a submersible handheld VHF radio and were able to call the Coast Guard on channel 16. Twenty-five minutes later a rescue boat arrived, took the two aboard, and towed the Hobie back to port.
CHAPTER 9
A Thousand Ways to End Up in the Water
When boaters are asked in surveys about their use of PFDs, the largest group answers “Sometimes.” A minority always wear one and a few admit to never using one, but most feel confident they will be able to put one on when conditions worsen. Still, statistics reveal the huge majority of boating fatalities involve drownings when the person was not wearing a life jacket, suggesting he or she had little fear of suddenly ending up in the water. But even in calm conditions—the time most fatalities occur—there are a thousand ways to unexpectedly end up in the water.
To Save a Puppy
From the day they’d rescued Pepper, a mixed-breed puppy, from the local pound, Nick and Pepper were inseparable, to the point that Nick’s father, Scott, worried Nick wasn’t even trying to make friends at his new school. Every day Nick rushed home from middle school to play with the puppy in their backyard in a Houston suburb. It’s just a phase he’s going through, Scott told himself. Sooner or later he’ll find other interests and start making friends. But for now the most they could get Nick to do was take weekly swimming lessons at the local pool, and he’d gotten pretty good at it. As a bonus, he seemed to really enjoy the water.
On Saturday morning when Scott suggested they go for a sail at a nearby lake, he asked Nick if he wanted to ask a friend to come along.
“Can I bring Pepper instead?” the boy asked.
Scott sighed. “I guess so,” he said at last. “As long as you take care of him. I’ll be busy with the boat.”
Nick grinned. “Of course I will!”
It was a sunny day with light winds, a perfect day for an easy sail around the lake. Too bad his wife had to work, because she enjoyed sailing as much as he did. In fact, she was the one who had talked him into buying their used sailboat earlier in the spring.
He made sandwiches, packed a cooler, and hitched the trailer to his pickup, and they set off for the lake.
While Scott launched the boat, Nick and Pepper ran around on the shore. “Think I can teach Pepper to swim?” Nick called.
“Most dogs figure it out on their own.”
“I know, I can teach him to dog-paddle!” Nick shouted. He threw a stick in the water, but Pepper stopped at the water’s edge.
“Maybe when he’s bigger,” Scott said.
When the 14-foot daysailer was rigged and tied up to the dock alongside the boat ramp, they stowed their gear and Nick put Pepper in the cockpit. Scott surveyed the treetops along shore, looking for wind. They’d have to stay close in, he thought, in case the light breeze died; otherwise it would be a slow trip back. They’d never been becalmed out on the lake before, but he’d been thinking about buying a trolling motor for the boat just in case they were. He should get some life jackets too.
Once they’d ghosted a few hundred yards from shore, the wind was better and soon they were sailing along just fine on a beam reach.
After a while Pepper got used to the boat and was trying to explore, climbing up onto the cockpit seats. “Better keep a hand on him,” Scott told Nick. “He’s still young and foolish.”
Nick tried to keep the puppy on his lap and hold on to the cockpit coaming at the same time. Pepper was just big enough to be hard to control with one hand.
Near the center of the mile-wide lake, Scott turned the boat to sail downwind, letting out the sails. As he’d learned, he raised the centerboard to reduce drag. As he was adjusting the sails he caught movement in the corner of his eye and turned to see Pepper claw free from Nick’s grasp, haul himself over the coaming, and promptly topple overboard with a splash.
“Dad!”
Nick had stood up and was reaching for the puppy, but already the boat had moved on.
“I’ll get him!” Nick said and stood on the seat.
“Wait!” Scott said, but Nick had already jumped in.
Scott froze for several seconds, watching. His first impulse was to jump in after Nick, but the boat was moving steadily away and it might be tough to swim back to it. He scanned the water all around; there was only one fishing boat against the far shore, too far away to hear him shout. He looked back to Nick, who had easily swum to Pepper and seemed to be treading water okay. “Got him, Dad!” he yelled.
So Scott sat back down, swung the tiller over all the way, and began trimming in the sails to return to Nick. The problem, he saw immediately, was that Nick was directly upwind; he would have to tack back.
The boat felt infuriatingly slow but at least it was moving, although not as much in the right direction as he wanted it to. He looked at Nick, who was trying to hold Pepper out of the water some 40 yards away, apparently treading water with just his legs.
The sailboat was being blown sideways as it angled back, so he turned the tiller more and hauled the sheets tighter, almost stalling the boat. Then he remembered the centerboard was still up.
“Dad! Help!” Nick shouted.
He looked and saw Nick splashing but couldn’t tell exactly what was happening.
Quickly he locked the helm with one knee over the tiller and fumbled with the centerboard line. The board hung up for a moment, then went down, and he checked that the sails were still drawing and got a hand back on the tiller to try to head up. The boat was moving better now. Nick was still splashing. Another minute and he could tack, then a minute more and he’d reach Nick, still faster than he could swim to him.
He couldn’t stand the wait. He pushed the tiller across, and the bow swung slowly over and into the wind. He let the jib back for a moment to help blow the bow across, then quickly released the sheet and hauled in the other.
He was watching ahead as the bow fell off onto the other tack, but he couldn’t see Nick where he thought he should be. He stood and surveyed the water all about—nothing.
He dropped the tiller and jumped to the cockpit seat to dive in, then caught himself. If the boat got away, they’d both drown. He looked around, sighted against a tall tree on the distant shore to calculate his position, and then rushed to the mast and released both halyards. The sails rattled down, and he dived into the water and swam tow
ard the tree.
As he swam and dived, feeling his way through murky water, his mind rejected the situation. Nick could not simply have vanished like that; he’d pop up somewhere nearby any moment.
He searched until he was so exhausted he was barely able to get back to the drifting boat. Part of him didn’t want to.
Once back on shore he telephoned for help from the truck, and the water-rescue people arrived quickly. They wouldn’t let him on the boat when they went out in the direction he pointed. The light breeze had all but died, and the waves were very small and wouldn’t conceal anything floating. He sat on the shore, dazed, watching.
When they came back later, he saw right away they had the dead puppy. Then they opened a plastic bag and showed him a pair of sneakers they’d found floating. He recognized them and nodded, and they put the bag away.
“We have a diver on the way,” they told him.
By dark the diver had found nothing. Numb, Scott still couldn’t accept it, still expected Nick to come walking up along the shore from where he’d swum out. He’d have to tell the boy he could get a new dog.
Three days later a fisherman found Nick’s floating body.
Gone Fishing
“Three old farts on a boat,” Scully’s wife called them. Well, maybe the other two, Scully thought, since Nolan and Geoff were both older and retired. He was just between jobs; it wasn’t his fault the older guys were his only friends free to sail on a weekday.
“Your unemployment’s going to run out soon,” his wife reminded Scully again in the morning when he told her they were taking the boat out on Long Island Sound.
“All the more reason to enjoy it while I can,” he told her. “Besides, I’ll bring home fish for dinner. Some blues, maybe a striper.”
“Like that will pay for the beer,” she said, watching him pack ice around the case in the big cooler.
But she smiled. She didn’t really begrudge him his time on the water. It seemed about the only thing he enjoyed these days.
Scully picked up Nolan and Geoff at their houses on the way to the marina where his 22-foot pocket cruiser was docked. When the checks stopped he’d have to keep it at home on its trailer, but until then he planned to enjoy the marina’s convenience as often as possible.
“We headin’ toward Fishers?” Nolan asked.
“I heard the blues are running,” Geoff added.
“That’s the plan,” Scully said. “Wind’s supposed to be light, just right for sailing at trolling speed.” He glanced into the back seat at the pile of stuff they’d brought along. “One of you old farts remember sandwiches?”
Nolan and Geoff looked at each other and broke out laughing. From the back seat Geoff twisted around and lifted the lid of the cooler in back. “Doesn’t look like much room in here for sandwiches, anyway. Sure you got enough beer?”
Scully snorted. “It’s gonna be hot this afternoon, trust me. I’ll sell ‘em to you a buck a can and you’ll be begging for more.”
“Okay,” Nolan sighed. “Stop somewhere and I’ll pay for the sandwiches.”
“I’ll kick in for gas,” Geoff offered. “So’s you don’t keep calling me old fart.”
It was after 11 A.M. by the time they parked at the marina and loaded everything into Scully’s old sloop.
“Geez, ever think of hosing this thing off once in a while?” Nolan said, surveying the deck.
“That’s what rain’s for.” Scully unscrewed the cap of the outboard gas tank with its busted gauge and looked inside. “Got enough gas, so you can kick in for the beer,” he told Geoff. “Put that cooler down below out of the sun.”
“Pretty hot already,” Nolan said.
“Have a beer, then.”
They opened three cans, and Scully set to work starting the old Johnson two-stroke outboard. As usually happened, his arm got tired from pulling the cord and the thing had only coughed a couple times.
“It’s that ethanol,” Geoff said. “Gums up the carb on old motors.”
“Thanks,” Scully said. “Real helpful.”
Finally the outboard started with a big puff of blue smoke.
“Let’s get out on the river before it dies again,” Nolan said. “Tide’s runnin’ out, right?”
Geoff untied the lines and Scully backed out of the slip, keeping up the rpm. When he shifted into forward with a roar, the boat lurched and Nolan, who was still stowing gear, dropped his beer and almost fell over.
They watched the foamy liquid swirl down the cockpit drain as they cleared the last floating dock and turned down the Thames River through New London Harbor for the 3-mile run out into Long Island Sound.
“Get me another beer,” Scully said, “and get that sail cover off.” He was hot already, the cooler breeze of the sound still far ahead.
Geoff rigged a lure and cast far out to port. “Won’t catch anything in here,” Nolan said.
“You never know.”
“Well, for all that,” Scully said, settled back on his cushion, “you never know about nothin’.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
An hour later the harbor mouth had widened out and the boat was rising and falling on lazy swells rolling in from the sound. The air was cooler now but not much. Through the haze ahead they could see the western end of Fishers Island. When they cleared the last of the inshore ledges Scully directed them to raise the sails and then shut off the noisy outboard.
“Ah, the quiet!” he exclaimed. “It’s what I live for these days.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
The wind was about 8 knots west-southwest, letting Scully sail on a beam reach toward Fishers. They had two lines in the water, Nolan and Geoff holding the rods out to either side. Scully watched the sails and the tips of the rods. It was a fine day, and it wouldn’t matter much if they never got a bite, though he’d like to take home a couple of fish for his wife.
The afternoon got hotter as the wind dropped. They turned east through Fishers Sound, passing the Dumplings, sailing downwind now, just ghosting along. The problem with downwind sailing, though, was that you felt no breeze at all and there was no shade from the sails. Fortunately they had lots of cold beer.
After a while Geoff went down in the cabin to take a nap. Nolan looked at his line and said, “It’s just hanging straight down,” and reeled it in.
Scully decided to turn for the slow sail back. At this rate it might take until dark.
But there wasn’t enough wind to move forward against the tide through the sound. “Screw it,” he said at last. “Let’s motor-sail a while.”
But the outboard wouldn’t start, and pretty soon both his and Nolan’s arms were tired from pulling the cord.
“Get me my toolbox,” Scully said.
Nolan climbed below and found the toolbox. “It’s cooler down there in the shade,” he said. “You need my help with the motor?”
“Nah, I’m just gonna clean the plug, check the fuel filter.”
“I think I’ll lie down for a while, then,” Nolan said. “Get out of the sun.”
“Get me a beer first.”
Scully opened the toolbox and spread out some tools on the cockpit seat. Then he bent over the transom to the outboard on its low mount and worked off the top cover. Getting to the motor from the cockpit was a real bitch. It didn’t fit on the small mount well and couldn’t be rotated around to make it easier. To reach the spark plug to the rear, he practically had to lie prone with his legs on the bench seat, his stomach pressed uncomfortably against the aft cockpit wall, and then reach way out and around, feeling with his fingers—all without dropping the wrench in the water. What a hassle!
He got the plug out and wormed back into the cockpit. It looked pretty dirty and was oily at the tip. He wiped it with a rag, then brushed it off with a wire brush and checked the gap.
He drank the rest of his beer and squinted up at the sun. Then he moved some tools out of his way and crawled back out over the transom with the plug and wrench.
/> Just as he was working the plug back in, fumbling with the wrench, he felt his sunglasses slipping off. With his other hand he let go of the transom to grab them before they fell.
Neither Geoff nor Nolan had any idea how long they’d slept. Geoff woke first, groggy, and climbed out the companionway to look around. The sun was lower but it was still hot, and the boat bobbed in the low swells without wind. He looked around the boat and took in the tools spread over the cockpit seat.
“Hey, Nolan, where’s Scully?” he yelled back down the companionway.
Nolan was slow to wake. “What?”
“Where’d Scully go?”
He rubbed his eyes. “What do you mean, where’d he go?”
“He’s not here.”
Nolan climbed out, and together they looked all around the boat and scanned the water.
“Some kind of joke?” They looked at each other. “Like he got off on another boat?”
But they knew Scully wouldn’t do that. There was no explanation, he was just gone. Geoff moved back and looked at the open outboard. “He was going to check the plug,” Nolan said. “That’s what he was doing when I went below.”
Then it occurred to them that maybe he’d fallen overboard and that they should do something. Geoff took out his cell phone and looked at Nolan. “What am I supposed to say?”
Scully’s body was found 3 days later. There was no sign of injury, and he was not wearing a life jacket. The autopsy showed he had drowned, and it was presumed he’d fallen overboard and become separated from the boat.
Briefly
The Mediterranean, October 2011. French sailor Florence Arthaud, famed solo sailor, was sailing singlehanded off the coast of France. Like many sailors she likely knew the more-than-half-true Coast Guard joke that drowned (male) boaters are always found with their zipper down, the result of falling in while urinating overboard. (This is actually more true of powerboaters, who lack stays, shrouds, and lifelines to grab as needed.) But she was apparently not thinking about this when one night, as she later said, she was “having a tinkle over the rail without attaching myself as usual” and was unluckily bounced overboard by a wave. Luckily, however, she’d just bought a waterproof case for her cell phone before starting the voyage, and luckily the phone had a signal. She got a call through and was found in the dark after an hour and a half suffering from hypothermia, but was released from the hospital later without harm.
