Adrift: A True Story of Love, Loss and Survival at Sea

“This delivery sounds like fun,” Bridget said. “It’s a state-of-the-art racing sloop bound for the Big Boat Series at the St. Francis Yacht Club in San Francisco. Wish I could take it.”

“Well, thanks for thinking of me again.”

“The skipper is a South African named Eric. He’s tall, dark, and handsome, but cool—no hanky-panky, unless, of course, you start it.”

“Not me, not on the job.”

“Smart girl. He’d like to meet you at seven thirty tomorrow morning at the Red Sails Inn restaurant to discuss the details. Can you make it?”

“Absolutely, Bridge-deck, thanks for the lead.”

“Us first mates gotta stick together. Later.”

When I walked into the restaurant I spotted Eric by the description Bridget had given me over the phone. Eric was sitting with two other guys whose backs were to me. I walked up and introduced myself. They had been there for a while and had almost finished eating.

Eric introduced me to Dan, the American, and then Richard, the Brit.

I thought I’d keel over. Blood rushed to my cheeks. Oh, not this revealing blush again, I thought. But there was nothing I could do to stop it. Richard smiled knowingly and halfway stood up while I took a seat across from him. Being this close to him, out of the bright sun, I noticed his eyes were not exactly baby blue, but darker—lapis lazuli. I had to look away, for if I stared any longer I’d swoon. He was definitely affecting me in a way no man ever had before.

Eric asked me about my sailing history. “I’ve sailed from California, all through the South Pacific to New Zealand,” I answered.

As Richard took a last bite of his omelet, I noticed his hands were rough, callused. He ate the European way, the fork upside down in his left hand, the knife in his right hand. He was older than I thought—thirties. What a doll.

The delivery crew would be Eric, Dan, and me, if I decided to take the job. I was disappointed to learn Richard wouldn’t be going. He had a work deadline to meet on Gypsy.

As we talked about the delivery, my green eyes would wander to Richard’s blue ones and discover them looking back at me. As the conversation wound down, in walked a petite, blond woman of about thirty. She came up behind Richard and put her hand on his back. I was crushed. I could tell he was attracted to me, but he was obviously taken. What was he doing flirting with me? Damn, I hated to be led on.

Her name was Lizzie, and she had a British accent too. She had come to deliver a message to Richard about work. I watched as Richard and Lizzie left together, and hoped my disappointment didn’t show. Eric, Dan, and I made plans for the departure of the delivery cruise, which would be in five days.

Delivering the boat was a piece of cake. Even rounding notorious Point Conception, the water was flat calm. I was rather discouraged, because I had been eager to sail this hotshot racing sloop, having never sailed with hydraulics before, let alone a stowaway mainsail. Dan and Eric were charming: Dan’s sense of humor kept us laughing, and Eric’s deadpan demeanor and boating skills kept us on track.

The elite St. Francis Yacht Club was right on the bay in downtown San Francisco. The location was spectacular, but the ambiance was unwelcoming—I felt out of it. The club was overrun by beauties wearing the latest fashion in boating attire. Through overheard conversations and a few conversations of my own, it didn’t take long to figure out I had clocked more blue water nautical miles than seventy-five percent of the sailors there. I mused over the amount of money people would spend on trinkets like diamond rings, earrings, and pendants. The fancy gold-braided replicas of nautical symbols must have cost a fortune. Rolexes were on practically every wrist. It’s a wonder the mirror in the ladies room didn’t break from all the jealous glaring going on. It was obvious the competition wasn’t just on the water. It didn’t take me long to realize these sled-type racing yachts and the accompanying lifestyle weren’t for me.

During the entire week of the delivery, I hadn’t been able to get Richard off my mind. I subtly asked Dan questions about Richard and learned that he was thirty-four years old and that his relationship with Lizzie was on the rocks. Dan told me Richard had built his sailboat in South Africa and was circumnavigating the world when he decided to make a brief stop in San Diego to do a few repairs and earn a few bucks. This information piqued my interest again.

After cruising the South Pacific I had learned I had an artist’s touch for varnishing. When I returned home from New Zealand and found there was a demand for yacht refinishers, I created a brightwork business. With the delivery over, Dan and I flew home. He was between jobs, so I hired him to help Deb and me in my thriving business. About a week after we returned from the delivery, Richard came by the job and asked Dan and me to join him for lunch; Deb was off that day. I stashed my brown bag and said sure, as casually as possible. I felt his eyes on me as I climbed down the ladder. He reached out and took my elbow as I stepped off the bottom rung. What a gentleman. My heart was caught—hook, line, and sinker.

One afternoon Richard came by the boat I was varnishing and asked me to have dinner with him that night. I hesitated and then told him I would be uncomfortable spending time with him while he was with Lizzie. He said he was asking me to dinner so we could talk and that he’d explain his relationship with her. Also, we could talk about the South Pacific. He would be sailing there next year, without her, and he’d love to pick my brain about it in a peaceful setting—like a quiet restaurant. I thought about saying no, but after all, I did know a lot about the South Pacific. And how could I say no, when my heart was sending a Morse code “Y-E-S?” I agreed to have dinner with him later that night.

I could hardly wait. The whole day I dreamed about Richard, his attractive good looks and buff body. I decided to wear my new peach-colored dress. It was simple, but I knew the spaghetti straps showed off my sculpted shoulders and arms—features I was proud of.

That evening over dinner, Richard explained to me that he and Lizzie had split up, but that she was still living on his boat while she made plans to return to England. He said that after meeting me he’d finally had enough of keeping his life and feelings on hold. After I had accepted his dinner invitation, he told her about it. She didn’t like it, he confessed, but he explained to her he was ready to get on with his life and she should get on with hers. He apologized for her showing up and hoped it hadn’t embarrassed me. The electricity between us, I’m sure, could be felt throughout the restaurant.

I felt much better, actually greatly relieved, that he would soon not be entangled with anyone. We had a wonderful evening and learned a lot about each other. He was an only child, with a half-sister, Susie, thirteen years older than he. I told him about my family and that I had been an only child until I was twenty-two, when my father had a son, Dane. But, more important, we learned of each other’s great passion for the sea.

Richard had been born in England, in 1949, to an upper-middle-class family. His father was a retired navy man who did well after the war. His mother, unfortunately, had committed suicide when he was seven. His father soon remarried, and Richard thought of his stepmother as his “mum.”

He was enrolled in a naval academy near London, being prepped as an officer in the navy. But once of age, he started to rebel against his father’s wishes and the officers’ demands and got kicked out for insubordination. He finished his schooling in another private school, but felt his father had never forgiven him for going against his wishes.

After Richard graduated he went to work for Olivetti, a manufacturing and sales company for electronic office equipment. He was good at sales and ended up buying a flat in London. He gathered a fine wardrobe and went through a few racy cars (and a few racy women too, I’m sure). But with a faraway look in his eyes, he admitted he had still felt unfulfilled. When a position in the company opened up in South Africa, Richard grabbed it. He adjusted quickly to South Africa and began to thrive on its beauty and diversity. But he despised apartheid and the way it limited people.

While with Olivetti, Richard met a man at a boatyard that built ferro-cement boats. They became fast friends, and soon Richard was offered a partnership in the yard. He eagerly took the job, quitting Olivetti with no regret. He loved being involved in building the thirty- to fifty-foot yachts. It was at this point that Richard met Eric, the skipper who had hired me to help deliver the racing sailboat to San Francisco.

I asked when Lizzie had come into the picture. Richard said he had met her in the Caribbean while he was waiting out the hurricane season. They hit it off, and Lizzie had decided to sail to San Diego with him. He had chosen San Diego after receiving a letter from Eric telling him what a great place it was to “winter over.” Richard also was told he could prepare his boat for the South Pacific there and, with his skills, could easily find work on boats.

If Richard could have read my mind just then, he would have heard me thinking, You came here because you were meant to find me.

Richard totally captured my attention when his electric blue eyes penetrated mine, and he confessed Lizzie just wasn’t the one—they weren’t cut from the same cloth. He was born to see the world, and nothing—nobody—would stop him. It was clear he wanted me to know this right from the start.

I wondered what his plans would be after he’d sailed around the world. Would he just keep going around and around? I found a subtle way of asking this, and he said he didn’t know for sure, but thought he would like to have a family one day. Maybe he’d even buy a little boatyard he’d seen in the south of England, if it went up for sale. But first, the South Pacific. He asked somewhat cavalierly whether I would like to go with him.

I laughed, but deep down inside, I tingled. Was he serious? “It’s late; we need to slow down,” I said, even though one part of me wanted to jump on his boat and leave for the South Pacific that night.

When we walked to my car, he leaned over and gave me a light kiss good night. It was like heaven, but hell too. I was dying to abandon all “good girl” protocol and throw my arms around him and never let him go. But, to my dismay, the sensible side of me won out, as it usually does. Lizzie needed to be out of his life before I could let myself in.

As I drove home I was smiling from ear to ear. I had never felt this way about any man before. I knew then and there I was going back to the South Pacific. “Mauruuru, mauruuru, mauruuru roa, atua. Thank you, thank you, thank you very much, God.”

About a week later, Richard told me his grandmother had passed away in England, and he needed to go home for the funeral. Lizzie would be on the same flight. I felt he was trying to tell me it was over between us. Clenching my fists, I politely offered my condolences, turned around, and walked away. He caught up to me and explained Lizzie was going home to England and not returning to America, but he would be back soon. As Richard said good-bye to me, he said, “Tami, now that I’ve found you, I’ll never let you go.”

Three (#ulink_2d99bc7b-d610-5089-add3-d9c83e798723)

Coming To (#ulink_2d99bc7b-d610-5089-add3-d9c83e798723)

I opened my eyes and saw blue sky and wispy, white clouds. My head throbbed. I went to touch it, but things, I didn’t know what, lay on top of me, smothering me, crushing me. What was going on? I couldn’t think, I couldn’t remember. Where was I? My hammock hung cockeyed. I dangled near the floor. A can of WD-40 clanged against the table post. I moved, and a book splashed into the water.

I struggled to free myself. Dead weight pinned me down. Cans of food, books, pillows, clothes, a door, and panels of the main salon’s overhead liner spilled off me as I struggled to sit up. I recoiled for I was covered in blood. I could feel a horrendous cut burning my left shin.

Where was I? What had happened? I was confused. I couldn’t orient myself. The clock on the wall ticked a beat. 4 P.M.? That didn’t seem right . . . My tether, still clipped onto the table post, confined me. I was obviously on a boat—what boat? My weakened hands frantically tried to unclip the tether.

Once unclipped, I strained to see around me. My vision was blurry; the pain in my head excruciating. Putting hand to brow, I flinched. I looked at my hand and saw crimson. Uncontrollable shivers engulfed me.

Laboriously, I crawled out of the labyrinth of wreckage. I stood up unsteadily. My back was wet and the water was over knee high. I felt faint. Slowly, one careful step at a time, I waded, negotiating my way through the obstacles floating in the two feet of water that lapped above the floor frames. This was crazy. The interior of the boat was chaotic. My God, what had happened? Books, charts, pillows, silverware, floorboards, cups, clothing, cans of food, spare parts, beans, flour, oatmeal—everything was either floating or stuck to the overhead, or to the bulkheads, or to the hull. The oven had been ripped from the starboard side of the boat and was now wedged into the nav station’s bookshelf on the port side. What boat is this? Where am I?

I headed for the forward cabin—the V-berth. “Hello?” I called out. My voice sounded strange. I gaped at the turmoil in every nook and cranny. Cautiously moving toward the bow, I peeked in the head. There, in the mirror, I saw a frazzled image, its face covered in blood, the forehead cut wide open. Long strands of hair, wild and matted with blood, shot out from its skull. In fear, my hands flew to my mouth. I screamed. Then I screamed again. The ungodly sight was me.

“No!” I shouted, crashing into the bulkhead as I tried to escape.

I stumbled into the V-berth. Everything there too was topsy-turvy. The storage hammocks that hung on each side of the berth were overturned; spilled clothes lay every which way. Paperback books were off their shelves. The long mattress for the bunk was kinked, out of its place. Cans of food and even broken dishes lay strewn about.

I shook my head and wondered how the food and dishes got into the V-berth. In disbelief I backed into the main salon.

“Ray?” I apprehensively called.

Ray? I wondered where that had come from. It’s not Ray. Ray’s the hurricane. Hurricane? Hurricane Ray—Raymond. Where’s Richard? Richard . . . “Oh my God . . .” But that’s what he had said. . . .

Fear dropped me to my knees. I retched. Bilge water splashed against my cheek. Richard had not come below with me.

“RICHARD?” I screamed. “RICHAAARRRD!”