Disaster at Sea
The beach at Abreojos
Friday, December 14th 2012 – Abreojos
I don’t know how to write up this portion of my log without looking like an idiot. I have to accept the blame for what happened. After all, I’m the captain and the navigator. Let’s be honest up front: I screwed up.
I saw the white water. It seemed miles off. I thought I had lots of time to avoid it. I went below to check the chart and see if it said anything about a reef there.
I didn’t see any obstacles on our course. I had plotted a course between Punta Abreojos and Roca Balena (Whale Rock). The rock is almost five miles off shore. We should have plenty of clearance.
This is where I was an idiot. I had read about the hazards of Punto Abreojos, but the warning got lost in all the other clutter in my brain.
Confident in my navigation, I went forward to get my long Johns. The night chill was setting in. I had re-dressed and was putting on my shoes when we hit.
I could feel the hull knifing through the water, the power in her sails, the steadiness of her course in the roll of the boat as I was down below. There was no rush, we were miles from the white water.
Then the world went crazy. We slammed into something solid. It couldn’t have been another boat (I constantly keep an eye out for fishing pangas. They would be easy to miss and we’d cut them in half without knowing that they were there.) It was solid, like a wall.
These thoughts flashed through my mind as I flew across the cabin. The boat lay over on her port side and I was under a mountain of debris that a moment ago was neatly organized stowage. The boat shuddered, staggered, then came back upright.
I didn’t feel any fear or panic. I didn’t feel any pain from my injuries. I just needed to find out what had happened.
Meanwhile, back in the aft cabin, Dawn was in bed. The force of the crash threw her forward onto the cabin floor and everything that wasn’t secured rained down on her. She had no idea what happened.
I screamed her name as I made my way towards the companionway. I heard a scream in reply. She was still alive.
I had to find out what happened and if the boat was sinking.
I clawed my way to the deck and much to my horror, saw that we were surrounded by white water. We were going so fast when we hit that we ran up on the rocks while I was trying to figure out what they were. The collision was roughly equivalent of hitting a concrete wall in your car at sixty miles an hour.
Dawn staggered to the deck. A second wave hit us and rolled us back onto the rocks. Dawn lost her feet and went flying. She tells me that she thought she was going overboard at that instant, but she landed on her back on the deck.
I don’t know how to write up this portion of my log without looking like an idiot. I have to accept the blame for what happened. After all, I’m the captain and the navigator. Let’s be honest up front: I screwed up.
I saw the white water. It seemed miles off. I thought I had lots of time to avoid it. I went below to check the chart and see if it said anything about a reef there.
I didn’t see any obstacles on our course. I had plotted a course between Punta Abreojos and Roca Balena (Whale Rock). The rock is almost five miles off shore. We should have plenty of clearance.
This is where I was an idiot. I had read about the hazards of Punto Abreojos, but the warning got lost in all the other clutter in my brain.
Confident in my navigation, I went forward to get my long Johns. The night chill was setting in. I had re-dressed and was putting on my shoes when we hit.
I could feel the hull knifing through the water, the power in her sails, the steadiness of her course in the roll of the boat as I was down below. There was no rush, we were miles from the white water.
Then the world went crazy. We slammed into something solid. It couldn’t have been another boat (I constantly keep an eye out for fishing pangas. They would be easy to miss and we’d cut them in half without knowing that they were there.) It was solid, like a wall.
These thoughts flashed through my mind as I flew across the cabin. The boat lay over on her port side and I was under a mountain of debris that a moment ago was neatly organized stowage. The boat shuddered, staggered, then came back upright.
I didn’t feel any fear or panic. I didn’t feel any pain from my injuries. I just needed to find out what had happened.
Meanwhile, back in the aft cabin, Dawn was in bed. The force of the crash threw her forward onto the cabin floor and everything that wasn’t secured rained down on her. She had no idea what happened.
I screamed her name as I made my way towards the companionway. I heard a scream in reply. She was still alive.
I had to find out what happened and if the boat was sinking.
I clawed my way to the deck and much to my horror, saw that we were surrounded by white water. We were going so fast when we hit that we ran up on the rocks while I was trying to figure out what they were. The collision was roughly equivalent of hitting a concrete wall in your car at sixty miles an hour.
Dawn staggered to the deck. A second wave hit us and rolled us back onto the rocks. Dawn lost her feet and went flying. She tells me that she thought she was going overboard at that instant, but she landed on her back on the deck.
Pangas on the beach at Abreojos
Here’s Dawn’s perception of the accident:
I was lying in bed. We were heeling over and I was lying across the bed so I wouldn’t roll out. I had just gotten in bed and thought how comfortable it was. I was enjoying watching the water out the aft cabin window.
I heard a huge thump and it felt as if we had run over a small car. It threw me out of bed and onto the settee. I remembered that when I was on watch, the wind was picking up and the boat was really moving. When I came below and took off my boots and PFD, I wondered if it was safe because I took all my safety gear off.
Then it was quiet. My initial thought was that Penn had run over a crab pot. But it was so loud that I knew we must have done some damage.
I stood up in the aft cabin and the boat hit again. I could feel the impact on the center of the hull. I was thrown into the galley and the boat was thrown onto its side. It sounded like three cars grinding together. The noise was overwhelming.
I yelled “Penn, what’s going on. Make it stop.” I knew that it was completely irrational to tell him to make it stop, but I couldn’t control mouth.
“We’re on the rocks,” he yelled back.
Then the boat was flipped up and I was tossed into the galley table. I felt like I was being thrown around in a cement mixer. I’ll never forget the noise because it was so loud and destructive.
It reminded me of when I was in a hurricane. You never forget the sound of the wind. It’s like a freight train going right over the top of you. The sound of destruction, grinding metal. We were totally out of control.
It went on forever, then the boat came back upright. We hit again. I could hear the grinding on the hull. I knew we were in trouble.
I climbed up on deck , barefoot with no gear on. We hit again and I was knocked from my feet. I almost slid out of the cockpit because I had nothing to hold on to.
“Get below,” Penn yelled. “Get your life jacket on.”
I felt the water rushing over me as I lay on the cockpit floor.
“Start the engine,” he screamed.
I couldn’t move. What do I do? How do I start the engine?
He finally came over and turned the key.
He put on full throttle and tried to get us off the rocks.
The boat was upright and I could hear Penn yelling at me.
“Get your life jacket on.”
I fumbled my way down the stairs and put on my sea boots and life jacket.
When I came back on deck, I was in panic for a few seconds.
“Are we off the rocks? Are we safe?”
“Are we taking on water?” Penn yelled.
“Just get us away from the rock “ I screamed.
I went back below and pulled up the floor boards in the aft cabin. It was OK.
I looked in the bilge in the galley. There was water in it and water on the galley floor, but it seemed to be fine. I hoped that the water from the floor had come from the sink. I yelled my report up to Penn.
Penn looked below and said “There’s water in the cabin, it’s coming from somewhere.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t seem to be filling up.”
“Fine. Let’s get the sails down”.
We both went on deck and I took the helm and put her into the wind.
I was surprised that all the systems were working. I put her on autopilot and went forward to help Penn.
When we got the sails down, Penn told me to stay on the helm and head out to sea, then he went below to check the bilges.
I tried to go as far to starboard as I could to get away from the rock. Whenever I turned the wheel, I heard a “clang, clang, clang” sound.
Penn came back on deck and said, “We’re taking on water. I’m declaring a May Day.”
I couldn’t believe it. A half an hour ago, all systems were working and everything was fine.
Penn picked up the microphone and called a May Day. There was no response.
I tried to turn the boat towards Abreojos and nothing happened. “The steering doesn’t work,” I shouted.
Penn took the wheel and couldn’t get the boat to turn either.
He went below again and tried calling May Day again. When he came on deck and took the wheel, I ran below to put together a ditch kit.
I knew that the dinghy was holed. We would have to take the kayaks. I grabbed my knife to cut the kayaks’ ropes.
I grabbed the boat papers, our wallets, cash we had stowed on the boat, our medicines, my jewelry, our cell phones, our lap tops, granola bars and water.
Penn said that we were taking on water. Where was it coming from? I opened the cleaning cabinet door and water flooded out. It was like someone had punctured an above ground pool.
I went back on deck to get Penn.
Then we got a response from someone on our May Day.
Through the whole incident, I felt in control. Once I got over the initial panic, I felt more awake and more alive than ever. Once I realized that I had no broken bones or bleeding, I felt in complete control. I was able to think clear headedly and help Penn.
I was lying in bed. We were heeling over and I was lying across the bed so I wouldn’t roll out. I had just gotten in bed and thought how comfortable it was. I was enjoying watching the water out the aft cabin window.
I heard a huge thump and it felt as if we had run over a small car. It threw me out of bed and onto the settee. I remembered that when I was on watch, the wind was picking up and the boat was really moving. When I came below and took off my boots and PFD, I wondered if it was safe because I took all my safety gear off.
Then it was quiet. My initial thought was that Penn had run over a crab pot. But it was so loud that I knew we must have done some damage.
I stood up in the aft cabin and the boat hit again. I could feel the impact on the center of the hull. I was thrown into the galley and the boat was thrown onto its side. It sounded like three cars grinding together. The noise was overwhelming.
I yelled “Penn, what’s going on. Make it stop.” I knew that it was completely irrational to tell him to make it stop, but I couldn’t control mouth.
“We’re on the rocks,” he yelled back.
Then the boat was flipped up and I was tossed into the galley table. I felt like I was being thrown around in a cement mixer. I’ll never forget the noise because it was so loud and destructive.
It reminded me of when I was in a hurricane. You never forget the sound of the wind. It’s like a freight train going right over the top of you. The sound of destruction, grinding metal. We were totally out of control.
It went on forever, then the boat came back upright. We hit again. I could hear the grinding on the hull. I knew we were in trouble.
I climbed up on deck , barefoot with no gear on. We hit again and I was knocked from my feet. I almost slid out of the cockpit because I had nothing to hold on to.
“Get below,” Penn yelled. “Get your life jacket on.”
I felt the water rushing over me as I lay on the cockpit floor.
“Start the engine,” he screamed.
I couldn’t move. What do I do? How do I start the engine?
He finally came over and turned the key.
He put on full throttle and tried to get us off the rocks.
The boat was upright and I could hear Penn yelling at me.
“Get your life jacket on.”
I fumbled my way down the stairs and put on my sea boots and life jacket.
When I came back on deck, I was in panic for a few seconds.
“Are we off the rocks? Are we safe?”
“Are we taking on water?” Penn yelled.
“Just get us away from the rock “ I screamed.
I went back below and pulled up the floor boards in the aft cabin. It was OK.
I looked in the bilge in the galley. There was water in it and water on the galley floor, but it seemed to be fine. I hoped that the water from the floor had come from the sink. I yelled my report up to Penn.
Penn looked below and said “There’s water in the cabin, it’s coming from somewhere.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t seem to be filling up.”
“Fine. Let’s get the sails down”.
We both went on deck and I took the helm and put her into the wind.
I was surprised that all the systems were working. I put her on autopilot and went forward to help Penn.
When we got the sails down, Penn told me to stay on the helm and head out to sea, then he went below to check the bilges.
I tried to go as far to starboard as I could to get away from the rock. Whenever I turned the wheel, I heard a “clang, clang, clang” sound.
Penn came back on deck and said, “We’re taking on water. I’m declaring a May Day.”
I couldn’t believe it. A half an hour ago, all systems were working and everything was fine.
Penn picked up the microphone and called a May Day. There was no response.
I tried to turn the boat towards Abreojos and nothing happened. “The steering doesn’t work,” I shouted.
Penn took the wheel and couldn’t get the boat to turn either.
He went below again and tried calling May Day again. When he came on deck and took the wheel, I ran below to put together a ditch kit.
I knew that the dinghy was holed. We would have to take the kayaks. I grabbed my knife to cut the kayaks’ ropes.
I grabbed the boat papers, our wallets, cash we had stowed on the boat, our medicines, my jewelry, our cell phones, our lap tops, granola bars and water.
Penn said that we were taking on water. Where was it coming from? I opened the cleaning cabinet door and water flooded out. It was like someone had punctured an above ground pool.
I went back on deck to get Penn.
Then we got a response from someone on our May Day.
Through the whole incident, I felt in control. Once I got over the initial panic, I felt more awake and more alive than ever. Once I realized that I had no broken bones or bleeding, I felt in complete control. I was able to think clear headedly and help Penn.
Our saviors, the panqueros of Abreojos
Back to Penn’s Narrative:
I called to Dawn to start the engine. She didn’t respond. I left the wheel and fired the engine up, then dashed back to the wheel.
I put her in reverse and gave it full throttle. I needed to back her off the rocks. No good. She wouldn’t budge.
Another wave broke over us and rolled us back on our side. I screamed at Dawn to put on her life jacket. Mine was in the pilot house. I took it off when I went below to check the charts.
I climbed down the stairs and grabbed my life jacket, then bounced back up.
A third wave hit us. This one knocked Dawn on her back. The boat rolled over and let out a shriek. The Victory came back up and I tried to get her off the rocks again, to no avail.
“Look out!” I shouted. A fourth monster wave was coming at us. “Hold on.”
The wave rolled us on our side, then lifted us over the rock. The Victory was floating again. But for how long?
I don’t really know how many waves hit us. It seemed to take hours. Water flowing back and forth across the deck and cockpit.
I have been in several emergency situations before and time seems to stop. It seems surreal, but I remember thinking how beautiful the water was.
We were in the middle of the breakers. I could see light shining through the tops of the waves, giving it an iridescent color before they crashed in upon themselves. They seemed to be alive, luring us onward to our doom.
Dawn appeared from out of nowhere.
“Take the wheel,” I cried.
I went below to access the damage. There was water in the bilge, but the bilge pump was keeping up. Dawn told me to open the cleaning cabinet door.
Water flooded into the boat.
We needed help.
I picked up the microphone and called “Pan, Pan, Pan, this is the American sailing vessel Victory with two people aboard, five miles west of Punto Abreojos. We’ve just run on a rock and are taking on water.”
No response.
“Let’s get the sails down,” I yelled.
I felt that we would have better control of the boat without the sails and that if someone came to rescue us, the sails would only be in the way.
As usual, Dawn put the boat into the wind and I climbed out onto the bow sprit to douse the jib. Heavy waves broke over me as I wrestled the sail to the deck and secured it.
My heart was in my throat while I fought with the jib. Back on deck my pulse settled down and I brought down the stays’l.
I paid no heed to neatness or proper sail handling and stowage as I got the main and mizzen down. All that mattered is that they were down and secured.
Then I went back to the radio. It took about a half hour to lower the sails and still no one responded to my call.
I never really thought about the weather and how it might affect smaller boats. The wind had freshened and the swells were about eight or ten feet high. Not a problem for a boat like the Victory, but life threatening to the small pangas the fishermen used.
I upped the ante and called a May Day. Calling a Pan means that you are in trouble but in no imminent danger of losing lives. May Day means your lives are in danger. At this point it time, I didn’t know if we would survive or not.
I went back on deck and took the wheel while Dawn prepared a ditch kit.
“Penn, someone’s calling on the radio,” she shouted up to me.
I didn’t hear the call on my hand held VHF. They must be too far away. The stationary radio in the pilot house has an antenna seventy-five feet off the deck and a much longer range.
I called to Dawn to start the engine. She didn’t respond. I left the wheel and fired the engine up, then dashed back to the wheel.
I put her in reverse and gave it full throttle. I needed to back her off the rocks. No good. She wouldn’t budge.
Another wave broke over us and rolled us back on our side. I screamed at Dawn to put on her life jacket. Mine was in the pilot house. I took it off when I went below to check the charts.
I climbed down the stairs and grabbed my life jacket, then bounced back up.
A third wave hit us. This one knocked Dawn on her back. The boat rolled over and let out a shriek. The Victory came back up and I tried to get her off the rocks again, to no avail.
“Look out!” I shouted. A fourth monster wave was coming at us. “Hold on.”
The wave rolled us on our side, then lifted us over the rock. The Victory was floating again. But for how long?
I don’t really know how many waves hit us. It seemed to take hours. Water flowing back and forth across the deck and cockpit.
I have been in several emergency situations before and time seems to stop. It seems surreal, but I remember thinking how beautiful the water was.
We were in the middle of the breakers. I could see light shining through the tops of the waves, giving it an iridescent color before they crashed in upon themselves. They seemed to be alive, luring us onward to our doom.
Dawn appeared from out of nowhere.
“Take the wheel,” I cried.
I went below to access the damage. There was water in the bilge, but the bilge pump was keeping up. Dawn told me to open the cleaning cabinet door.
Water flooded into the boat.
We needed help.
I picked up the microphone and called “Pan, Pan, Pan, this is the American sailing vessel Victory with two people aboard, five miles west of Punto Abreojos. We’ve just run on a rock and are taking on water.”
No response.
“Let’s get the sails down,” I yelled.
I felt that we would have better control of the boat without the sails and that if someone came to rescue us, the sails would only be in the way.
As usual, Dawn put the boat into the wind and I climbed out onto the bow sprit to douse the jib. Heavy waves broke over me as I wrestled the sail to the deck and secured it.
My heart was in my throat while I fought with the jib. Back on deck my pulse settled down and I brought down the stays’l.
I paid no heed to neatness or proper sail handling and stowage as I got the main and mizzen down. All that mattered is that they were down and secured.
Then I went back to the radio. It took about a half hour to lower the sails and still no one responded to my call.
I never really thought about the weather and how it might affect smaller boats. The wind had freshened and the swells were about eight or ten feet high. Not a problem for a boat like the Victory, but life threatening to the small pangas the fishermen used.
I upped the ante and called a May Day. Calling a Pan means that you are in trouble but in no imminent danger of losing lives. May Day means your lives are in danger. At this point it time, I didn’t know if we would survive or not.
I went back on deck and took the wheel while Dawn prepared a ditch kit.
“Penn, someone’s calling on the radio,” she shouted up to me.
I didn’t hear the call on my hand held VHF. They must be too far away. The stationary radio in the pilot house has an antenna seventy-five feet off the deck and a much longer range.
Our only link to the outside world
There is no Mexican Coast Guard presence on this stretch of water. We were six hundred miles down the coast and the American Coast Guard couldn’t come after us. Our cruising guide said that there was a Navy base in Abreojos.
“Vessel calling, this is the Victory, over.”
The response was in Spanish and followed no radio protocol.
It was hard to make out what they were saying over the radio and in my current state of shock.
I finally managed to communicate to them that we had run on the rocks and needed assistance.
They said they would launch a boat in about twenty minutes. I told them to hurry.
Sometime later, an American woman came on the line speaking English. I was able to communicate to her more clearly.
She said that they would launch a patrol boat. Great, I thought. This must be the Mexican Navy. I have never heard the American Navy use such lax radio protocol though. Oh well, ees Mejico.
We had some time before the rescue boat arrived. We both went below and started packing sea bags in case we had to abandon ship.
A Mexican man came on the radio with heavily accented English. He said that they were rounding up a crew for the patrol boat and would come out after us.
Time stretched on forever. The bilge pumps were keeping up and the water was going out as fast as it was coming in, but our lives depended on these small electric motors. If the cracks got larger and the water came in faster, we were done.
The man on the radio (I later learned his name was Eduardo, but he said to call him Raul) came back on. He said the boat was out, but couldn’t find us.
Dawn saw his spot light. I gave the man directions and he communicated with the boat in Spanish. No good, they still couldn’t find us through the wind and seas.
“How about the flare gun?” Dawn asked
“Good idea.”
A moment later she appeared on deck with the flare gun in her hand.
“How does this work?”
She handed the pistol to me and I inserted a shell and fired into the night sky. It was just like in the movies. A red comet rocketed into the sky arched over the patrol boat and dropped into the sea. I expected it to hang in the air longer. It was only there for an instant.
“They see you,” came the voice on the radio. “Start coming closer to them.”
“I can’t, the rudder won’t work.”
“OK, but come closer to them.”
We had a failure to communicate.
After about twenty minutes, the patrol boat came along side. It was a panga with a big outboard and a little cabin built on it. This was their rescue boat?
I tossed them a hundred feet of one inch line. They made it fast and tried to pull us towards shore. The little panga shuddered and strained, then slacked off and came around the boat. They shouted at us, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Raul came back on the radio. “They can’t tow you. It’s too rough. The can take you off of your boat.”
“No, we’ve got to save the boat.”
“Eets a sailboat, si? Why don’t you raise the sails and sail in?”
“You don’t understand, we don’t have a rudder.”
“Well, we can take off the boat. That’s all I can offer.”
We thrown together a couple of bags with our clothes. Now we hauled them and the ditch kit, along with my computer bag, to the deck.
“The water’s not that deep, can we anchor?” Dawn asked.
It never occurred to me. I was getting ready to abandon ship for the last time.
“Of course. It may not hold, but it might.”
I hurried to the foredeck and loosed the anchor. All three hundred feet of chain rolled out the hawse pipe.
Could it possibly hold? The principles of good seamanship say you need a scope of at least five times as much anchor chain as you have depth. At one hundred and forty feet deep, we needed at least seven hundred feet of chain.
Either it held or it didn’t. We couldn’t do anything about it now.
Then the panga came alongside.
The seas were about ten feet high. The little pangas have high bows to ride the waves, but theirs was coming up and smashing into our rail. I tossed our bags across, then when the boats were both on the same wave, shoved Dawn over the side.
She made it safely and I jumped. I lost my footing on the panga’s little deck and fell, sliding to the bulwark. For an instant, I thought I was going over. I managed to jam my feet against the bulwark and stop my slide.
The poor little panga was getting smashed about in the seas. The crew made us go below in the little cabin and hang on. I took one last look at the Victory wallowing in the waves. Would this be the last time I saw her?
The panga’s crew navigated the waves with professional confidence, but were still getting beat up. They wore thigh-high sea boots and foul weather gear with sweat shirts under their jackets. They looked more like fisherman than Navy seamen to me, but any port in a storm.
We had a wild ride on the panga. It would leap in the air at the top of the wave, then crash down into the trough. I was afraid it would shake my fillings loose. There were no hand holds in the little bed in the cuddy cabin. Dawn and I clung to the sides of the boat and to each other. We hardly spoke. The roar of the outboard fought with the wind to make communication impossible.
It seemed to take hours to reach the shore. The boat almost slewed sideways into the trough several times, but our helmsman managed to catch her and bring her back.
Finally, the helmsman yelled down to us to hang on. He thrust the throttle forward to full speed and the panga leapt forward. Then came a hard crash that jarred our bones. The boat was aground. Then she was floating again and the helmsman gunned the throttle. Another crash and we came to rest on the beach.
The crew shouted to get out now. I grabbed my computer bag and shoved Dawn ahead of me out of the cabin.
There was an eerie scene on the shore. We were on a dark beach, lit only by the lights of half a dozen pickup trucks. A large blue tractor with a little crane in front of it sped towards us. I thought I made out a white building somewhere in the background. Everything else was pitch black.
“Go now,” I shouted to Dawn. We both flopped over the side of the boat into ankle deep water. Before I could take a step the next wave swarmed ashore, soaking me to the hips.
We staggered forward where waiting hands grabbed us.
We were ashore, but we were castaways. Shipwrecked on a lonesome strip of Mexican beach.
“Vessel calling, this is the Victory, over.”
The response was in Spanish and followed no radio protocol.
It was hard to make out what they were saying over the radio and in my current state of shock.
I finally managed to communicate to them that we had run on the rocks and needed assistance.
They said they would launch a boat in about twenty minutes. I told them to hurry.
Sometime later, an American woman came on the line speaking English. I was able to communicate to her more clearly.
She said that they would launch a patrol boat. Great, I thought. This must be the Mexican Navy. I have never heard the American Navy use such lax radio protocol though. Oh well, ees Mejico.
We had some time before the rescue boat arrived. We both went below and started packing sea bags in case we had to abandon ship.
A Mexican man came on the radio with heavily accented English. He said that they were rounding up a crew for the patrol boat and would come out after us.
Time stretched on forever. The bilge pumps were keeping up and the water was going out as fast as it was coming in, but our lives depended on these small electric motors. If the cracks got larger and the water came in faster, we were done.
The man on the radio (I later learned his name was Eduardo, but he said to call him Raul) came back on. He said the boat was out, but couldn’t find us.
Dawn saw his spot light. I gave the man directions and he communicated with the boat in Spanish. No good, they still couldn’t find us through the wind and seas.
“How about the flare gun?” Dawn asked
“Good idea.”
A moment later she appeared on deck with the flare gun in her hand.
“How does this work?”
She handed the pistol to me and I inserted a shell and fired into the night sky. It was just like in the movies. A red comet rocketed into the sky arched over the patrol boat and dropped into the sea. I expected it to hang in the air longer. It was only there for an instant.
“They see you,” came the voice on the radio. “Start coming closer to them.”
“I can’t, the rudder won’t work.”
“OK, but come closer to them.”
We had a failure to communicate.
After about twenty minutes, the patrol boat came along side. It was a panga with a big outboard and a little cabin built on it. This was their rescue boat?
I tossed them a hundred feet of one inch line. They made it fast and tried to pull us towards shore. The little panga shuddered and strained, then slacked off and came around the boat. They shouted at us, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Raul came back on the radio. “They can’t tow you. It’s too rough. The can take you off of your boat.”
“No, we’ve got to save the boat.”
“Eets a sailboat, si? Why don’t you raise the sails and sail in?”
“You don’t understand, we don’t have a rudder.”
“Well, we can take off the boat. That’s all I can offer.”
We thrown together a couple of bags with our clothes. Now we hauled them and the ditch kit, along with my computer bag, to the deck.
“The water’s not that deep, can we anchor?” Dawn asked.
It never occurred to me. I was getting ready to abandon ship for the last time.
“Of course. It may not hold, but it might.”
I hurried to the foredeck and loosed the anchor. All three hundred feet of chain rolled out the hawse pipe.
Could it possibly hold? The principles of good seamanship say you need a scope of at least five times as much anchor chain as you have depth. At one hundred and forty feet deep, we needed at least seven hundred feet of chain.
Either it held or it didn’t. We couldn’t do anything about it now.
Then the panga came alongside.
The seas were about ten feet high. The little pangas have high bows to ride the waves, but theirs was coming up and smashing into our rail. I tossed our bags across, then when the boats were both on the same wave, shoved Dawn over the side.
She made it safely and I jumped. I lost my footing on the panga’s little deck and fell, sliding to the bulwark. For an instant, I thought I was going over. I managed to jam my feet against the bulwark and stop my slide.
The poor little panga was getting smashed about in the seas. The crew made us go below in the little cabin and hang on. I took one last look at the Victory wallowing in the waves. Would this be the last time I saw her?
The panga’s crew navigated the waves with professional confidence, but were still getting beat up. They wore thigh-high sea boots and foul weather gear with sweat shirts under their jackets. They looked more like fisherman than Navy seamen to me, but any port in a storm.
We had a wild ride on the panga. It would leap in the air at the top of the wave, then crash down into the trough. I was afraid it would shake my fillings loose. There were no hand holds in the little bed in the cuddy cabin. Dawn and I clung to the sides of the boat and to each other. We hardly spoke. The roar of the outboard fought with the wind to make communication impossible.
It seemed to take hours to reach the shore. The boat almost slewed sideways into the trough several times, but our helmsman managed to catch her and bring her back.
Finally, the helmsman yelled down to us to hang on. He thrust the throttle forward to full speed and the panga leapt forward. Then came a hard crash that jarred our bones. The boat was aground. Then she was floating again and the helmsman gunned the throttle. Another crash and we came to rest on the beach.
The crew shouted to get out now. I grabbed my computer bag and shoved Dawn ahead of me out of the cabin.
There was an eerie scene on the shore. We were on a dark beach, lit only by the lights of half a dozen pickup trucks. A large blue tractor with a little crane in front of it sped towards us. I thought I made out a white building somewhere in the background. Everything else was pitch black.
“Go now,” I shouted to Dawn. We both flopped over the side of the boat into ankle deep water. Before I could take a step the next wave swarmed ashore, soaking me to the hips.
We staggered forward where waiting hands grabbed us.
We were ashore, but we were castaways. Shipwrecked on a lonesome strip of Mexican beach.