Suddenly Overboard (11 page)

Then she looked back at the Etchells. They'd come about to the other tack—good. She waved with her free arm and shouted, “Come around on our other side. Upwind side. Stall out and let the wind push you against us.”

At the helm Brenda waved her understanding, and the Etchells shot past to make its turn upwind. Sandra wondered whether she dared let go of the Swede's arm long enough to help secure the Etchells to the launch and decided no, she had to help Ryan or else he and the Swede might float way. The students could do it on their own.

She watched over her shoulder as the Etchells turned as if to tack in order to go in irons and drift back, but Karl didn't get the mainsheet loose fast enough, it seemed jammed in the cleat, and she swore as the sailboat passed the launch on the other tack, jib flapping loose, being blown back downwind. Damn it all! Now they'd have to set the sails, make way, tack back, and try it all over again! And it was getting gustier.

Abruptly the radio crackled. “Powerboat northeast of Yarmouth. Powerboat a mile offshore east of Yarmouth. This is the fishing vessel
Agatha
a half mile astern. Do you require assistance?”

She craned her neck to look back over the stern and saw a small rusty trawler steaming toward them. She didn't dare release the Swede to go to the radio; why hadn't they tied him to a line? She tore her cap off her head and waved it frantically at the fishing boat. A glint of light, maybe binoculars. The vessel was coming closer.

Two minutes later the trawler was close enough for her to see a face in the wheelhouse window and another man on deck positioning fenders as the boat steered for their windward side. She saw the Etchells returning now on a tack toward the fishing boat and she waved them off. They were too far away to hear her, but she prayed they would realize it would be easier to pull the Swede up into the Etchells than the launch or the fishing boat and would come right back.

Then the trawler bumped once against the launch, lightly, and one of the men stepped off and into the launch. “He's not breathing,” she explained hurriedly. “We can't get him back up.”

The fisherman looked over, then immediately dropped the end of the line they'd used earlier back into the water. “Tie it around him,” he said. “Let's pull him up.”

For a moment Sandra felt hope—they'd finally get him out, help was on the way—but then realized it was just the two of them—she and the fisherman—because Ryan couldn't stop the rescue breathing long enough to climb back aboard to help. And even if he did, she doubted the three of them could do it; it was just too much weight with no leverage.

They tried their best nonetheless, the fisherman straining until the tendons in his neck seemed about to burst, but without success.

“Your boat,” Sandra said, “you have winches, yes? Something like a boom we can swing over him to hoist?”

He looked at her, thought a moment, turned and looked at the trawler standing off some 30 meters to windward. “Yep,” he said. He gestured at the radio. “That thing work?” She nodded. “I'll call the boss, then.”

Sandra remembered the Etchells again and looked around to find it and wave them off again, get it out of the fishing boat's way. But as she raised her head to look, she heard the noise of an approaching helicopter.

Thank god.

The Coastguard was on the radio. The fisherman nodded at her and reached down for the Swede's arm. She dashed to the radio. It was the helicopter.

Then things happened very fast and she didn't have to think anymore but just do what they said. The helicopter hovered just to leeward, the downdraft from its blades whipping the water into froth, and a basket came down on a wire. The rescue swimmer was in the water already and quickly swam the basket over to the launch. Sandra and the fisherman helped steady the cables at each end of the basket while Ryan worked with the swimmer to maneuver the Swede into the basket. The last thing Sandra noticed was the look of surprise in the rescue swimmer's eyes as the cable was hoisted and he saw clearly for the first time the size of the victim.

Ryan was exhausted, but the fisherman got him back aboard with a jerk. He lay still a long moment, then sat up and started
slapping his arms and legs to get his blood flowing. The helicopter was already gone.

A minute later the fisherman stepped over the rail back to the rear deck of the trawler and the boat moved away. She hadn't even had time to thank him.

“Where are our students?” Ryan said.

God, she thought, spinning around, and spotted them well to windward, on the other side of the trawler. They hadn't capsized, and she could see the two of them aboard.

The radio crackled again. It was the sailing school's other rescue boat, still coming on fast, now about a nautical mile away. “It was the Swede,” Sandra explained. “They've got him in the helicopter.”

She was glad they asked no more questions except “Anything we can do to help?”

She and Ryan looked at each other, and she reached for the ignition key. “Yes,” she said, “the Etchells—can you take them back?”

“Roger that.”

She started the engine and shifted into forward. The helicopter was almost out of sight now, flying fast and low over the water. There was a hospital just a few miles away in Cowes, no need to waste time now gaining altitude.

The helicopter crew started CPR as soon as the basket was inside the helicopter. The Swede's body felt very cold, but that didn't mean much, and could be to his advantage. As soon as they got his chest dry they attached the defibrillator pads, but there were no electrical signals from the heart. They kept up CPR until EMTs took over when they landed.

The emergency department staff took over at the hospital and made every effort to resuscitate the Swede, but less than an hour after he'd been removed from the water he was pronounced dead.

The foregoing is a retelling from the facts described by the UK's Marine Accident Investigation Branch (MAIB), which thoroughly
investigated this incident. The pathologist who conducted the postmortem examination of the Swedish sailor stated the cause of death was hypothermia. The MAIB investigation, however, concluded that death by hypothermia was unlikely after only 24 minutes in the water and suspected heart irregularities
.

Investigators also carefully considered all actions, decisions, and the boats and equipment used by the sailing academy, including the background and experience of the students and instructors. No faults were found, and in normal circumstances survival could have been expected for at least 45 minutes or longer in the water, during which rescue by academy resources would have occurred. The only deficiency found was that they had not foreseen possible problems recovering a man of this victim's size from the water, particularly given the “high risk” of falling from the type of boat he was sailing on. The academy thereafter took new measures in its safety management program, and the MAIB made no further recommendations. The actions of the instructors were praised
.

In the end, what we can learn from this incident, as in so many others, is the importance of constantly being prepared by questioning “what if” such a thing happens
.

The English Channel, May 2011
.
It wasn't stormy, but a west wind of about 25 knots had raised moderate seas in the channel. Aboard the 40-foot Beneteau were the skipper, mate, and eight paying crew, among them a relatively inexperienced woman in her early twenties. They were running downwind under a spinnaker when the sail tore. The mate and two crew rushed forward, lowered and gathered up the sail, and began to hoist a heavier spinnaker, which slipped out of control and wrapped around the forestay. Over the noise of the wind and the flapping sail those on the bow couldn't hear the skipper's shouted instructions, so he turned the helm over to the nearest crew, the young woman, and went forward himself. Minutes later she became worried about a fishing boat close ahead
and shouted to the skipper for instructions, but she couldn't hear what he said. In the confusion she moved the helm slightly and the boat instantly jibed. As the main and boom swung across the cockpit, the mainsheet tackle smashed into her, sending her to the deck, unconscious and bleeding from a head wound. A rescue call was made, and she was evacuated by helicopter and then hospitalized with head and spinal injuries. The unlucky incident had occurred within seconds, but luckily she was not knocked into the water, although her injuries did require 2 months of hospitalization followed by physical therapy.

North Carolina, October 2010
.
The sailboat's owner was a member of the Coast Guard Auxiliary, an organization of experienced boaters whose mission includes teaching boating safety courses. He was sailing today with his wife and some friends, including another auxiliary member. It was a pleasant day and they were enjoying themselves when the boat jibed. Perhaps it was a sudden wind shift, or perhaps the bow was pushed over suddenly by a wave, or perhaps the person at the helm looked aside for a moment in conversation or to check the chart, for the skipper would not have been standing where he was if he had foreseen the risk. The mainsail slammed across the cockpit in the jibe, and the boom struck the skipper's head and knocked him overboard. Immediately a friend dived in to get the unconscious man, and they got him up into a nearby powerboat and rushed him to shore. A waiting Coast Guard boat transported him to medical care. Tragically, however, his injury proved fatal.

Columbia River, Oregon, October 2011
.
A solo sailor, age 81, had owned his Tartan 33 sailboat for only 4 weeks. He was on the broad Columbia River near Portland, an easy enough place to navigate if you pay attention to the chart, but he didn't have one on board. He should have, because he couldn't see deep enough into the water to spy the sandbars. Three or maybe four times already he'd felt that grinding shudder as the keel struck bottom, but at least it was sand and mud and the current pushed him right off and into deeper water. Then there was that railroad bridge ahead.

A swing bridge, it would open if he radioed to request it, assuming there wasn't a train coming, but it really looked high enough that he could get under it. He was so sure about that that he was shocked by the impact when his mast struck the bridge. The boat skewed around at an angle and heeled over as the current under the bridge pushed on the hull, but the mast was caught in the bridge structure. He had his life jacket on and was able to hold on. Water swirled over the coaming and partly filled the cockpit, some splashing down the companionway, and he had time to wonder if he'd live long enough to make it to shore if the boat filled and went down, but almost immediately he heard sirens. Soon a fireboat raced up and firefighters clambered aboard and were able to get him off without too much trouble. The boat—well, he didn't want to think about what the repairs were going to cost him. He felt lucky enough this time just to be alive. And next time, he'd make sure he had the right charts aboard.

M
any sailors who are safety conscious and take steps to stay safe when sailing tend to relax when the boat is near land or coming to a stop. It is as if we let down our guard because we no longer anticipate any risk. After all, shore's right there, and what could possibly go wrong now? Surprisingly, however, statistics show that collectively these situations are as dangerous as any other on the water—and perhaps more so if you let down your guard too far
.

Man, was he cold! Despite the balmy July evening air, he just couldn't get warm. Comes from 6 days at sea, he thought; his muscles just weren't moving enough to generate heat sufficient to combat the last 2 cold days after crossing the Gulf Stream into frigid New England waters. And he was tired, dead tired, deep to his bones.

From the cockpit of his 43-foot sloop swinging gently on a rented mooring, he looked across the quiet harbor to shore. Three kids at the water's edge were throwing bread crumbs to some ducks while seagulls screeched overhead in the dusk. In the light of a streetlamp just above the harbor, a couple paused in their stroll to kiss. For the hundredth time he missed his wife and kids, whom he hadn't seen since he'd sailed for Bermuda some three weeks ago. Their voices on his cell phone when he'd arrived just made him feel lonelier. Well,
he'd be home soon enough. If he slept well tonight and the weather held, he'd leave tomorrow for the easy passage home.

He thought about just crawling into his sleeping bag in the quarter berth right now. But, as always, he felt the call of land after days at sea. He just wanted to walk a bit along the shore, stretch his cold, cramped legs. Warm up. Maybe find a pub nearby and have a beer, just one that he would sip slowly while listening to human sounds and shore life, gradually easing back into “normal” life. Hear what regular folks talked about instead of radio reports of weather, wind, and waves. He smiled; the sailor come ashore, such a stereotype—and so true!