by Tom Lochhaas
A lake in Utah, 2008. A father and his two sons were sailing a small boat that capsized when the wind and waves increased. None of them wore a PFD. They succeeded in righting the boat and getting back in, but one of the boys noticed their paddle was floating away and jumped back in to retrieve it. The wind was blowing the boat away from him faster than he could swim back, so his father jumped in the water with a line to try to reach his son. He couldn’t get to him, so he returned to the boat to help his other son sail back to the boy in the water. They watched as he took off his shoes in order to swim better, but he disappeared under the surface before they could reach him. The recovery search was fruitless; his body was found when it surfaced 4 days later.
Phuket, Thailand, February 2012. An Australian woman was sailing offshore near Phuket with three other experienced sailors on a large cruising sailboat when she mysteriously disappeared at night when on deck alone. The others had no idea what happened or exactly when it happened during her watch, but they assumed she had fallen overboard. The extensive search operation turned up nothing. They could only imagine her horror as, alone in the water in the dark, she helplessly watched the boat sail away.
Lake Champlain, Vermont, 2007. Two people were sailing on the lake when one accidentally dropped a winch handle overboard. It was a warm day and he could swim, so he thought nothing of jumping in to fetch the floating handle. Without a PFD, however, he was unable to stay on the surface long enough for the other person to sail the boat back. Twelve days passed before his body was found.
Lake Michigan, Indiana, 2009. A husband and wife were out on their sailboat on a hot, windless day and decided to cool off by swimming beside the boat. The boat drifted off, and soon the man was struggling in the water. His wife tried to hold up his head, but by the time rescuers arrived he’d been facedown in the water for 30 minutes and could not be resuscitated.
Lake Erie, Presque Isle, Pennsylvania, July 2011. A small group was sailing 2 hours before sunset when one of them, a 27-year-old man, jumped in for a swim. When the others saw him struggling in the 78°F water, they threw him a life ring, but he couldn’t reach it and soon went under. They called for help and a Coast Guard boat arrived within minutes, but rescuers were unable to find him.
San Diego Bay, California, March 2011. There were ten people aboard the 26-foot water-ballasted sailboat when it capsized, likely because the boat was overloaded and the passengers’ weight was poorly distributed. Two men, ages 44 and 73, who were not wearing life jackets, drowned despite the immediate response of good Samaritans nearby and professional rescuers who were soon on the scene. The other eight people on board were rescued, some of whom had worn PFDs, and seven were taken to area hospitals; all survived. Investigators later commented that the boat contained life jackets that were not being used and, incidentally, that the mainsail was held together with duct tape and staples.
James River, Virginia, May 2011. Ten people in their twenties decided to cruise the broad coastal river on a 22-foot centerboard sailboat at midnight, following a party. For unclear reasons the boat capsized, throwing them all in the water. No one was wearing a life jacket. Five managed to swim several miles to shore, and three others clung to floating debris until they were rescued. Two drowned.
Lake Arthur, Pennsylvania, July 2010. A husband and wife were sailing their 22-foot sailboat when he decided to go for a swim. The boat began to drift away, and his wife tried to throw him a Type IV PFD, but he couldn’t reach it. He called to her for help, but she didn’t know how to start the boat’s engine or work the sails. She shouted to a nearby boat for help, which responded and got him aboard. Despite CPR on the boat and professional treatment by paramedics on shore and physicians later at the hospital, he did not survive.
Flathead Lake, Montana, September 2011. While sailing with friends, a 57-year-old man jumped in the water for a swim. After a time he was struggling to stay afloat. The others successfully turned the boat around and eventually got back to him and got him aboard, but he could not be revived.
CHAPTER 10
The Perils of Solo Sailing
Some sail only with friends or crew, or singlehandedly only reluctantly, while others actively enjoy sailing solo and the heightened feelings of competence and self-sufficiency it brings. For most experienced sailors, solo sailing on an appropriately equipped boat is no more dangerous than sailing with crew as long as they take precautions, such as using a tether to prevent falling overboard and having other safety and communications gear at hand. But some solo sailors, like some sailors with crew, seem either not to have thought about the inherent risks or to feel some certainty that disaster can’t happen to them. In many cases when a singlehanded sailing incident results in a fatality, there are no witnesses and we can only imagine what may have happened. But like almost all sailing disasters, these incidents could have been prevented or resolved successfully if only the sailor had considered everything that can happen and taken appropriate steps—especially important when sailing solo.
A Sailboat Comes Ashore
It was another nice Southern California day in September, a good day for sailing, when Jason decided to go fishing along the coast. He had his fishing gear on his 24-foot sloop, on which he had been living part-time since separating from his wife. All he needed to do was top off the fuel tank on his way out of the marina.
At age 57, sailing and fishing were Jason’s main passions, and either could make up for the other if they both weren’t great. Today he was optimistic; the forecast was a perfect 10 to 15 knots of wind, medium swells, and sunny. Maybe the fish would be biting too. If not, the sailing would be enough to keep his mind off his troubles.
It was noon when he motored out of the Redondo Beach marina on a southerly breeze. With the engine still running and the autopilot engaged, he turned south into the wind to raise the mainsail, and then fell off the wind some 50 degrees and unfurled the jib. Then he reset the autopilot to sail due west, out to sea, on a comfortable beam reach.
While he enjoyed fishing, Jason had to admit he wasn’t very scientific about it, and he chose his location and course more for the sailing than for the fishing. He seldom messed with live bait but had an assortment of lures and plastic squid in a variety of colors, and usually he’d just troll a long line from a rod lashed to a stern stanchion and see what happened. It was probably too late in the season for white sea bass, but there was always a chance of happening upon a halibut or even a yellowtail.
He chose a yellow squid and cast, letting the boat’s movement carry out the line. He set the drag at medium so he’d hear it if a fish took the lure. Then he trimmed the mainsail and furled in the jib a few wraps so the boat wouldn’t be going too fast if he got a strike. In the past he’d tried to stop the boat when he had a fish by heaving-to or stalling out into the wind, but that usually caused trouble if the fish ran one way or the other, and he would have to climb all over the boat to keep the line from wrapping the keel, prop, or rudder. Now he just kept on sailing, sometimes easing the sheets to spill wind and slow down, and tried to keep the boat moving forward and the fish off the stern. It was harder to reel in against the movement, but at least the line stayed behind the boat most of the time.
Nothing was happening. After an hour he changed course so he was close-hauled to the southwest as he ate lunch, and then went to a broad reach back to the northwest. He was now several miles offshore, the Los Angeles coastline a distant blur of haze and smog. At three o’clock he jibed around to an easterly course to jog back toward shore. Then—finally!—at about four thirty the rod tip jerked and the line started out, the drag singing.
He glanced quickly at the autopilot and sails, then grabbed the rod and began playing the fish. It felt big, or at least feisty. It turned in and ran sometimes and he’d reel in furiously, but then it turned again and he had to give up line. No way he could put the rod down now to slow the boat, he had to keep playing the fish.
It jumped once about 50 feet back; it was a barracuda, and
a big one! Not good for eating, but fun to wrestle with. It seemed to take forever to wear down this monster and get it to the side of the boat. Jason crouched on his knees on the cockpit seat and reached down with the net. Now the barracuda came back alive, kicking. It was hard to control the rod with one hand and the net with the other; the fish was just too big and fast, jaws open and teeth flashing. Finally it held still right at the surface, and Jason leaned out farther, reaching down, and had just about netted the fish when it jerked the rod again and he lost his balance and tumbled off the boat.
His first thought after the shock of cold water was the barracuda—where was it? He’d dropped the net and now quickly released the rod, hoping the barracuda with its rows of razor-sharp teeth would swim away. He spun around as he treaded water, looking for the fish.
Then he saw his sailboat sailing away. Immediately he started swimming hard, pulling with long strokes, head down, not worrying about breathing, racing wildly to try to catch up. When at last he had to bring his face up for air, he saw the boat was farther away still, sails full and well trimmed, leaving a straight-line wake as it sailed east. He forced himself to stop and relax, treading water slowly.
He started thinking, calmer now. He studied the coastline when a swell lifted him; it was at least 2 miles away, maybe 3. Could he swim that far? Yes, he was sure of it, because he was good at floating on his back and could take a break whenever he got tired. He’d make it, he was sure. He kicked off his shoes in order to swim better.
But he was so cold.
At five o’clock the bar at Old Tony’s on the Redondo Beach pier was just starting to fill up, a few tourists tired of shopping and the first locals off work early. It was a favorite spot for watching people on the pier and boats passing nearby. Sunlight glistened off the water, and the sails were prettily backlit by the orange sun. In the distance a small sloop was coming in toward one of the marinas just north of the pier. As it approached on a beam reach, a sailor at the bar approvingly noted its straight wake. He sipped his beer, watching, waiting for the inevitable swing north for the marina.
Jason set his mind on making a thousand strokes and counted to himself, trying to breathe regularly. As long as he kept swimming, the cold was not as bad. But at number 290 he had to pause to rest, and then the cold squeezed him like a vise. He wasn’t in as good a shape as he’d once been. Floating for a minute, trying to relax and stop shivering, he suddenly wondered if there was an ocean current here. From a swell top he checked the shore, which looked no closer, and thought maybe he was being swept off course. With a spurt of panic he started swimming again, trying to pace himself, trying to relax his muscles.
What the hell? The sailor at the bar watched the sloop approaching the section of the pier broadside to the waves. It should have turned by now, even if the sailors on board were “buzzing” the tourists on the pier. The helmsman was cutting it pretty close. He stood and walked to the window. The sloop’s hull disappeared from sight below the angle of the pier, but the masthead came straight on. He turned and ran down the stairs and out the door that opened out on to the pier and sprinted down the pier. Then he heard the metallic crash of the mast and saw the masthead with its wind vane swinging wildly as the hull bashed against the pylons below. He reached the rail and looked down at the boat but could see no one on deck. He took out his cell phone and punched in the three digits.
Now it was occurring to Jason that he might not make it after all. It was like his body had a will of its own and just wanted to stop moving and sink. He had to force his arms and legs to take each stroke. If he stopped to rest, he might not be able to get started again. One stroke, then another. He was thinking of his elderly mother, who expected him for dinner tonight. How long would it take before someone called her?
The city police arrived first, the harbor patrol a minute later by boat. They quickly checked the sloop. Men in uniform on the pier and men in the boat below were busy on their radios. The sailor from the bar watched a while from the periphery, then stood looking at the long glare of the orange-red sun on the water to the west. Somewhere out there, he couldn’t help thinking, there was somebody without a boat. He shuddered at the thought of it. Then he heard the sound of a helicopter and saw one of the lifeguard choppers rushing down the shore from the north. It reached the pier and hovered a moment, then continued south just offshore.
For some reason it was easier to swim with his eyes closed, as if not seeing the distant shore made it closer, more possible. But once when he opened his eyes again, as he fought to keep moving in a slow crawl, he saw the sun low in front of him, and the shock of that snapped alert him as if from a dream. He turned east again, grimly opening his eyes when he raised his head to breathe. It wouldn’t be long until dark, he thought, when it would feel natural just to go to sleep.
The Coast Guard helicopter, its crew better trained for search and rescue, took over the air search and started a grid pattern. A half-dozen watercraft went west into the ocean to search. The lifeguard helicopter stayed low to sweep the beach areas north and south. The radio had informed the searchers that the police had traced the boat by its registration numbers and spoken to someone at the marina who had seen the boat leave with just one man aboard.
It was almost dark now, and he knew some sort of end would be coming. The sun was down, the sky behind him a fading red. He took a slow stroke, grabbed air, paused a few seconds, tried to stroke again. The stars were coming out now, one star at least. Low in the sky to the east. It was moving, or maybe he was moving, he couldn’t tell anymore. Just one lonely star in the sky and him in the water. It seemed sad. Then he choked, gasped, threw up his head and coughed out water. He’d let his head go under with his mouth open. There was that star again. He tried to swim toward it but found he couldn’t move his arms anymore.
With its bright searchlight, the helicopter continued its grid search, now about 2 miles offshore. It had been almost 3 hours since the sailboat had crashed into the pier. Though no one said it, the four crew on board were thinking of the effects of hypothermia on anyone in the water. The water was just too cold. Hopefully the guy in the water was wearing a PFD that kept his head up even if he was unconscious. They were thinking too that if he’d been in a dinghy or life raft, they should’ve spotted him already, unless he was way out in the Pacific somewhere. So he was likely in the water and would be nearly impossible to see.
About eight o’clock they spotted someone floating in the water below. Not moving, apparently not wearing a PFD, facedown in the water. They radioed the nearest rescue boat, which could reach the person sooner than their rescue swimmer, and in less than a minute the boat’s crew were bringing the man on deck. The radio crackled; someone thought they felt a weak pulse. The boat shot off for shore at top speed.
It was only a matter of minutes before Jason was transferred to paramedics in an ambulance and rushed to the hospital, CPR continuing the whole way. But at 8:15, as the last of twilight faded, Jason was pronounced dead.
The Fouled Halyard
Zimmerman was sitting in the cockpit of his Catalina 30 sailboat on the outer dock of the Manatee River marina enjoying a midmorning cup of coffee when he heard a sputtering outboard out on the broad river. He turned to look; yep, it was that older guy, Wylie, or whatever his name was, puttering about in his open daysailer. He was a couple hundred yards from shore, moving slowly down away from the bridge, no sails up, his little two-stroke outboard blowing blue smoke. Wylie himself was at the tiller, his back toward Zimmerman, the boat noticeably heeling to starboard under the man’s weight. Well, something to watch, anyway; better than the powerboats zipping around throwing their wakes in this no-wake zone in downtown Palmetto.
Zimmerman sipped his coffee and watched.
Wylie was barely making headway even downwind. There was little current in this broad stretch of the river where the Manatee opens up before spilling into the Gulf of Mexico. The water was calm, the wind maybe 10 knots.
Zimmerman’s
eyes drifted over to the big ketch anchored 100 yards out from the marina. A pretty boat, he thought. You could really cruise in a boat like that, go down around the keys and head for the islands.
He was daydreaming about the Bahamas when he heard the outboard stop, and then he saw Wylie stand and move to the mast. Maybe he was actually going to get the sails up today, he thought. The little boat drifted forward slowly as Wylie seemed to be straightening out his halyards, staring up at the masthead, hanging on to the mast with one hand.
A powerboat went by, too close to the little sailboat, and Zimmerman watched it rock back and forth on the wake and imagined Wylie hurling obscenities.
The mainsail started up slowly as Wylie pulled down on the halyard and fed the boltrope into the slot, but about halfway up it seemed to jam. It would help if he’d use the outboard to point the bow into the wind, Zimmerman thought. Even though he’d never seen the boat up close, he wondered how well it was maintained. It had a tired look from a distance. You can’t let the halyards get frayed, he thought, or sometime you won’t be able to get the sail down when you really need to. He knew, as it had happened to him once on his own boat—but only once.
