Tongan using charcoal to paint tapa cloth
Man Overboard!
Log Entry—June 20, 1990: Man Overboard!
We remained firm believers in the watch system. Four hours on, four hours off worked for us and we maintained that schedule throughout our trip. With only two people on board, it was an ideal arrangement.
If we did things right, Impunity took care of herself, making the night watch quite pleasant. Waves rose and fell, larger swells rose and fell, rocking the boat accordingly. It seemed that every hour and a half
Bruce with tonight’s dinner
a wave almost twice the normal size would present itself, definitely getting our attention, and then the seas would return to a regular pattern. Impunity’s heading wandered to port and starboard a bit, but stayed true to course, leaving our tasks to watch for problems, weather, or traffic. The weather was overcast with intermittent rain.
Around 3:00 a.m. Bruce called me from the deck. He needed my help. Our steering vane had become partially detached from the boat. If Bruce couldn’t repair it, or worse, if we lost it altogether, it would mean having to hand-steer for the rest of the journey. Hand-steering makes a watch a real chore because you can’t leave the wheel or tiller without going off course.
Working upside down in the dark, his face inches from the rolling sea, Bruce hung over the transom to replace bolts while I shined the flashlight for him and held onto the seat of his pants to keep him from falling in. After about 20 minutes of fitting and tightening bolts, all the while upside down, he made the repair and reset the wind vane, and we were off again. Losing the vane wouldn’t have been life-threatening, but it would have been extremely inconvenient.
Again, we were thankful for our strict watch system. If no one had been on deck keeping watch and making routine checks on the equipment, the problem would likely have gone unnoticed until it was too late to save the vane. This was yet another affirmation of having spare parts on board for all the important systems on the boat, and a reminder of the importance of a sailor knowing his boat intimately.
Although our lengthy stay in Tonga had ruled out stopping at some islands, we planned to visit the tiny island of Palmyra, the only incorporated territory of the United States. In World War II, it was used as a military base, but today it’s generally uninhabited except for scientific projects or brief visits by cruisers. Another couple we knew from Samoa was currently there and we were in radio contact with them. The weather was terrible they said, and suggested we not bother going out of our way to get there. During good weather Palmyra was a tropical delight, but it wasn’t much fun during stormy weather. We decided to sail on.
Bruce often put out the fish line and almost always caught a fish. One morning he pulled in a big yellowfin tuna, about five feet long and weighing about 100 pounds. We were afraid to bring it aboard for fear its thrashing around could injure one of us.
While Bruce hung on to the struggling fish, he called, “Mary, bring me my gun.” When at sea, we kept our weapons handy in the event of pirates. I quickly brought his handgun and he shot the big fish. For a couple of days we had tuna for breakfast (creamed on pan-fried toast), lunch (mixed with mayonnaise, served open face on pilot crackers) and dinner (tuna steaks with rice). We didn’t put out the fish line for a few days after that.
For a couple of days, the weather took a nice turn for the better and I enjoyed my favorite perch in the stern. My 10:00 to 2:00 night watch was blissful and I was thankful not to be bashed around. At 1:00, during my routine check, I spotted lights from a large ship on the horizon. Although we were the privileged vessel, because of our position relative to the ship and because we were under sail, I kept my eye on the ship. I took bearings repeatedly and after a period of time could see that we were on a collision course.
I hated to wake Bruce, but it was our rule. In situations like this, he never grumbled about being awakened. We monitored the approaching ship together, and it appeared as though they didn’t see us, even though we’d shown our deck lights. The ship made no attempt to change course.
Bruce called on the VHF radio. “To eastbound ship on my port bow, this is the sailing vessel Impunity. Over.” Nothing.
A few minutes later Bruce called again. “To east-bound ship on my port bow, this is the sailing vessel Impunity. Please state your intentions. Over.” No answer.
A third call and still no response.
Because we were the privileged vessel, we were obligated to maintain course and speed. But finally, when we could see that the ship was not going to change course, we had to alter our course in order to avoid a collision. We tacked and went around and behind the ship.
After the collision danger was past and we were back on course, Impunity received a call on the VHF. The caller spoke in a heavily accented voice. He identified his ship as a Japanese freighter heading for the Panama Canal. The captain, possibly the only English-speaking person on board, was apparently asleep when we first called on the radio. Afterward, Bruce, relieved, joked to me, “I thought they were going to make sushi out of us.” In truth, they could easily have hit us, and it is entirely possible that they would not even have known it. They apparently were keeping neither a visual, nor radar, nor radio watch. To them we might have been merely a bump in the night.
The weather turned rough again. As we beat windward against the 25- to 30-knot trade winds, the boat’s bone-jarring action became almost intolerable, with the bow climbing up and then crashing down with every wave. Bruce struggled to achieve easting to keep us on the course to Hawaii, adjusting sails and our course to make the most progress east while sailing north. Each day seemed to get rougher. We donned our foul weather gear, not because of cold, but to protect our skin that had grown sensitive from continuous salt spray.
Cooking was tough. As a routine procedure, I strapped myself into the galley, but still had to hang on to the counter with one hand while trying to prepare a meal. During one bad-weather patch, I handed up our plates of beef hash with a side of green beans to Bruce in the cockpit. I sat down beside him on the starboard bench, a cushion-covered cockpit locker, and started to eat when a wave came over the side and drenched my plate. I didn’t have the strength or desire to cook something else. I simply poured the saltwater off my plate and ate what I could. Bruce’s food was untouched by spray and he shared his with me. Neither one of us even spoke about it—it was too grim for words. We were tired of fighting the weather, fighting for easting, even having to fight just to eat dinner.
A tropical storm passed south of us, making our lives more difficult. By this time we were seasoned sailors, but this crappy weather made it tough going. Everything we did took supreme effort. Of the many legs of our journey, this 3,000-mile Pago Pago to Hawaii run was turning out to be the worst. More than once I thought that if this had been the first leg of the journey it would have been our last.
On June 6 we crossed the Equator and said hello to the North Pacific. It was a sure sign that we were on our way home.
I noticed a strange feeling when I knelt on my right knee. I saw that my leg from shin to knee was swollen. I didn’t recall a particular blow, but we were getting bashed around on a regular basis. I must have bumped my leg. It didn’t really hurt, but my leg had a tight, swollen feeling and felt spongy to the touch.
On the 29th day, at the end of my morning 6:00 to 10:00 watch, I was anxious to get Bruce up on deck. Impunity hummed with built-up pressure. Over the last several hours, the wind had steadily built to 30-plus knots. Seas were getting larger, the lee rail was nearly always under water. Every few seconds we punched through yet another swell and crashed into the trough behind it. We were pushing the boat too hard, causing stress on the gear.
At sea, we again alternated sleeping in the mid-ship bunk. I gently touched Bruce’s shoulder. His eyes flew open as he immediately awoke. I doubted if he ever slept soundly while at sea. He’d only slept an hour, but that would have to last until he could sleep during my late afternoon watch.
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br /> “We need to shorten sail, we’re going too fast,” I said.
He climbed out of the bunk, holding the overhead railing to steady himself. “Okay, I’ll be right up.”
On deck, Bruce slipped on his life vest and harness, glanced at the compass to confirm our course, watched the rough seas for a moment, noting steaks of foam atop 10- to 12-foot waves, and surveyed the already shortened mainsail. He stepped to the upper deck, and eased the halyard. Leaning against the boom to free both hands, he pulled the mainsail down, preparing to take in another reef.
I remained in the cockpit to handle the halyard. I heard a loud bang, a noise I’d never heard on the boat.
I looked up. “Bruce, what was that?” He wasn’t there. “Bruce!” The upper deck was empty.
I let out a garbled scream. My worst nightmare! The thought of being alone on the boat terrified me. I could never manage the boat without Bruce. I didn’t want to manage without Bruce.
I forced myself to think. I had mentally rehearsed the man overboard scenario often enough. I always knew our reciprocal course—180 degrees from the direction we were headed—so I’d know how to reverse our direction. I had to start the engine. I had to drop the sails or they would work against me. I had to throw out the man-overboard pole, but I had to see him first, so he could get to it. Wait a minute! Was there an electronic signal on the pole that I was supposed to set? Oh, God, I can’t remember! My mind screamed with panic, even as I thought through the steps to be taken. I visually swept the seas behind Impunity.
If one of us had to fall overboard, I’d hoped it would be me. I knew Bruce could find me. I wasn’t so sure I had the skills to find him.
And now, where was he? I scanned the rough seas. I’d lost him already! Something yellow caught my eye. I ran to the railing and there he was, under water but struggling to reach the surface. His lifeline still held him, but it was wrapped around his leg and dragging him feet first at six to seven knots. As a large wave brought him to within reaching distance of me, I frantically grabbed the shoulder strap of his harness and strained to keep his head out of the water. The first thing he saw was my terrified face. He gasped for air, but I saw relief in his eyes.
The lifeline that was wrapped around his leg made it difficult to maneuver. I pulled him by the shoulder strap past the cockpit winches where the railing wasn’t so high. Luckily, we were heeled to port so the distance between us wasn’t as great as it would have been had he fallen off the starboard side.
Bruce freed his leg while I desperately hung on to his harness. In dead calm, Impunity’s deck was three feet from the water, but this sea wasn’t calm. Bruce took advantage of a rising swell and grabbed the toe rail, allowing me to reach the front of his harness. Leaning against the winch, I pulled his harness with both hands with all my strength while he hoisted himself up. Together, we pulled him aboard, exhausted. Neither of us could have done it alone.
It was the happiest day of my life. As Impunity sailed under jib alone, we clung to one another for several minutes, laughing, kissing and marveling how lucky we were. I thanked God for His help.
The boom rested on the railing. The topping lift, a line from the masthead to the outboard end of the boom, had broken while Bruce began tying the third row of reef points. The noise I’d heard was the boom hitting the railing. When the boom dropped, it flipped Bruce into the sea.
To continue sailing, Bruce lifted the boom and settled it on a notch on top of the dodger, but because of the weather we weren’t using the mainsail anyway. We were doing six knots with the jib alone.
Nothing seemed so bad after that close brush with disaster. We endured the rough seas, happy in the knowledge we had each other and that we were less than 300 miles from Hawaii. When we could both be on deck, we talked about our future, or read aloud from our James Herriott books.
We kept our daily Maritime Mobile Net schedule via ham radio, reporting our position and weather conditions. After the net, we occasionally made contact with the family through helpful land-based ham operators. We didn’t indicate to the family how tough the conditions were, or about Bruce falling overboard. Each day Bruce listened to at least two high seas weather reports.
Our twice-daily contact with Jack told us he was wearing down. His voice slurred from exhaustion. He wasn’t getting nearly enough sleep, only minutes at a time. We worried about him. This leg of the journey was tough for two of us. We couldn’t imagine doing it alone.
We encountered more ship traffic as we neared Hawaii. The weather was warm, at times downright hot. We shed our foul-weather gear
We began to see cumulus with some patches of stratus clouds, indications of islands close by. Sea birds flew overhead, another indication of land.
The wind dropped as we passed through the wind shadow of the “big Island” of Hawaii, and we motored for several hours. At midnight, June 23, we sighted the island of Oahu! We stood off for the rest of the night so that we could approach Ali Wai Yacht Harbor in daylight.
We were in America! After clearing customs and immigration, we stepped ashore, letting our legs adjust to a solid surface. We had been in radio contact with Donna, and she met us at the Ali Wai Harbor. She was obviously worried about Jack. She, too, knew how exhausted he was and was anxious to get him home.
A nurse, Donna looked at my leg and said I really needed to see a doctor. She suggested one that was within walking distance of the harbor and, using a pay phone, I made an appointment for the next morning.
We promised Donna we’d be there for Jack when he came in, probably two days hence.
We used the harbor’s shower, cut each other’s hair, and the next morning I saw the doctor. My leg hadn’t gotten worse, but it was still swollen and discolored.
The doctor looked at my leg from the doorway as he entered the examination room, raised his eyebrows and said, “This is how people lose legs. If that leg isn’t better within 24 hours, you’ll be admitted into the hospital.”
Yikes! “But it doesn’t even hurt!”
The doctor shook his head. It was mysterious because there was no broken skin. He examined it and asked about a possible injury while at sea.
“It’s hard to say. We were both getting bashed around out there, but I don’t remember any specific time when I injured my leg.”
“Something is causing this swelling and we can’t ignore it.” He prescribed a strong antibiotic, ordered me to elevate the leg for several hours each day, and to apply cold packs. He told me to come back the next day. I followed his orders, but the next day it wasn’t noticeably improved. He agreed to give it another day. Thankfully, by the next day the swelling was down enough that he felt I was past danger. It continued to improve. We never did find out what had caused the swelling.
Jack radioed that he was outside the harbor, and Bruce replied we were there to take his lines. The poor guy was almost incoherent with exhaustion. He steered Zingara unsteadily to the slip, tossed his lines to Bruce, who secured the lines, then climbed aboard Zingara to shut off the engine and electronics.
Jack and Donna had a poignant reunion and she took him home. They invited us to visit them, after giving Jack a few days to recover.
Having known Jack and Donna so well while in Samoa and Tonga, I loved seeing their home in Hawaii. It was large and airy and we luxuriated in having space and enjoying Donna’s wonderful cooking.
Jack recovered from his ordeal quickly. He was a strong, well built man, who took good care of himself. He was a retired school superintendent, having come up from the ranks as a teacher.
We discussed the 32-day Samoa to Hawaii ordeal. Jack looked very serious. “I’ve sailed single-handed around the world, but these last 32 days were the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” He shook his head. “It was really tough.”
I looked at him in disbelief. “Tough? Jack, it was a fucking nightmare!”
The “f” word isn’t really a part of my vocabulary. Jack and Donna both looked startled. So did Bruce.
Ja
ck nodded. “It was. It was a fucking nightmare.”
Mary picking from a stalk of bananas
A Dream Fulfilled
Log Entry—August 5, 1990: Land Ho! We can just make out the mountains of Vancouver Island.
Our two weeks in Hawaii passed quickly. This wasn’t a touristy visit, but rather a time for recuperation and preparation. I had previously lived in Hawaii for two years, and Bruce and I had taken the girls to Hawaii more recently. This time in Hawaii was merely a stopover to get things done for the next leg of the journey. We readied the boat, got together with Jack and Donna, and managed a couple of shopping excursions for boat supplies.
After studying our pilot charts for the northeastern Pacific, it was clear that July and August were the foggiest months. Celestial navigation requires a clear, definite horizon so we knew we could not rely on celestial alone when approaching the rugged northwest U.S. coastline. Bruce felt we needed a Loran-C to navigate through the fog for those times when celestial navigation would not be possible. We discounted GPS as a practical option since those in current use were far from reliable and much more expensive than Loran-C.
Bruce repaired the topping lift, going aloft in the bosun’s chair. I again arranged our supplies so that they’d be handy at sea. We topped up our propane, water and fuel, and put in a supply of fresh fruits, vegetables, and bread.
We departed Ali Wai Yacht Harbor at noon, July 8, 1990 with Jack handling our lines. Turning west out of Ali Wai Harbor, we made good time in brisk trade winds. Soon we swung to the north in the Kauai Channel, keeping a few miles off Oahu’s west coast. Kaena Point slid behind us as we settled back into our four on, four off watch routine. Only 2,280 nautical miles to Cape Flattery, Washington. Chicken soup simmered in the pressure cooker. Donna had sent raspberry scones for the next morning’s breakfast.
Sailing with Impunity Page 14
