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

I pulled myself to my feet, but had barely taken a step when the heel of my foul-weather boot slid. I fell against the salon table and threw up again. I looked at the ship’s clock once more and desperately tried to concentrate on its second hand jumping: one thousand one, one thousand two. It read 1600 hours—4 P.M. Wait, that’s not right! my rattled mind screamed. It had been one—one in the afternoon. “My God. . . . Oh, Richard . . . RICHAAARRRD?” I wailed as I crawled toward the companionway ladder, my hands splashing water in every direction as I knocked food, cushions, books, whatever, out of my way.

“RICHARD? RICHARD?” I screamed over and over, choking on my words.

The companionway ladder had broken off its latches—it lay sideways against the nav station seat. I pushed it to the floor, out of my way, and climbed up on the back of the settee, screaming Richard’s name. The companionway’s main hatch was torn from its sliding tracks, leaving a gaping hole. As I hoisted myself up into the cockpit, I hit my head on the boom, which was blocking the entryway. “GODDAMN IT!” I howled and then painfully climbed over it.

There I saw Richard’s safety line secured to the cleat on the cockpit coaming. The tether hung over the side of the hull. My God, could he be on the other end?

I lunged for the safety line, grabbed it tight, and yanked hard. It flew into the cockpit, the metal making a sharp craaack against the fiberglass. There lay the bitter end—the D-ring had parted.

Desperately I looked in every direction. Where was the howling wind? Where was the pelting rain? Where had it all gone? The ocean swell was a slow rolling six-feet, not monstrous like it had been.

I became a lunatic. Forcing the seat lockers open, I threw cushions, anything that would float, overboard. He’s out there somewhere. Maybe he’s alive. Oh God, please . . .

“Take this. And this. And this . . . HOLD ON RICHARD, I’LL FIND YOU.”

I clambered below and grabbed more cushions, pushing them up through the main entry. Crawling back topside, I heaved it all overboard. The debris undulated in the otherwise empty sea. Adrenaline raced through my body, causing my heart to pound furiously.

Spotting the man-overboard pole attached to the mangled stern rail, I raced to it and struggled desperately to get it untied. I threw the pole as far out into the sea as I could. I was so weak. The orange flag bobbed in the swells.

He could be alive; it’s only been three hours.

His last plea, “Ohmigod,” roared in my brain. It must have been a huge wave. Larger than those forty-five-foot monsters. A rogue wave. We rolled, and Richard . . . Oh, my love . . . God, you wouldn’t—you couldn’t . . .

“RICHARD? RICHARD, WHERE ARE YOU?” I surveyed the ocean all around me, to the edge of the hazy horizon. Nothing encroached on the battleship gray sea—the troughs were empty, shallow bowls. “PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE.” He was nowhere to be seen.

Hazana was ravaged. The mainmast was gone except for a four-foot piece still attached to the main boom. The tabernacle, a metal housing used to raise and lower the mainmast, lay on its side, a huge five-foot piece of torn deck attached to it. The large two-inch clevis pin that had been holding the foot of the mast in the tabernacle lay on the deck, sheared in half. “Oh my God,” I wailed as I looked down through the gaping hole into the main cabin, seeing the hammock I had been lying in and all the floating debris. The mizzen mast was in the water, banging against the hull, held on by the starboard—right side—shroud. Stainless steel rigging hung overboard, with the roller-furling jib and staysail trailing in the water. A couple of stainless steel one-inch stanchions were tweaked like soda-pop cans. The rest were snapped in half like toothpicks. The lid to the in-deck propane locker was missing, and the propane tanks were gone.

“MY GOD . . . RICHARD? RICHARD?” I howled.

I looked all around. “‘Richard? Richard?’”

Oh please, God, please. My legs gave way—I hung onto the boom and retched again.

He couldn’t be gone. The dry heaves choked me. In total fear I clung to the boom and lay dazed, my cheek against the cold aluminum.

GET UP. MOVE. An inner voice slammed into my thoughts.

Bawling, I crept over the broken-down boom, reached into the companionway, and groped for the binoculars. Miraculously, they were still strapped in their place.

After slithering back over the boom, I stood bracing myself, thinking, “I can save him, I can save him,” as I scanned the ocean around me with the binocks. I could not stop trembling: The eye holes of the magnifying glasses pressed hard against my skull, drumming against my eyebrows.

I peered in every direction. All I saw was a vast desolate sea, with rolling six-foot swells. Nothing, not one goddamned thing, was out there.

Try the engine! the inner voice barked.

I pulled out the choke, adjusted the throttle, and pushed the engine’s start button. Nothing. Not even a grunt or grind. I didn’t realize how much hope I was holding that the engine would start. My nerves spasmed and my stomach convulsed. When I hugged myself I felt the EPIRB still attached to my waist. I fumbled to unbuckle it. I couldn’t center my mind. How does this thing work?

Remove the guard. Press the switch. Nothing. I stood up and held the radio device in the air. Nothing. I turned it in circles. Nothing. I sat down and started over.

With jittery hands I put the guard back on and then took it off. I pressed the switch and held the EPIRB up. Fumbling, I pulled out the batteries. With trembling fingers I wiped off the connectors and then put everything back together. Nothing. Damn it!

Water. The EPIRB needs water. Yanking open the seat locker I could see the bucket lying deep in the hole. It was the bucket Richard and I had used to pour saltwater over each other to cool off. Stretching, I grabbed the line on the bucket.

Holding the stern rail I threw the bucket into the water, scooped up as much saltwater as I could lift and heaved the bucket into the cockpit. I dropped the EPIRB into it. Bubbles rose, but nothing else happened. No lights or beeps. I yanked the EPIRB out of the water and shook it. Nothing. Disgusted, I threw it back into the bucket. Saltwater splashed all over, burning the deep cut on my shin.

I couldn’t think clearly. My head throbbed and my body ached with every movement. There was nothing else I could think to do, short of jumping overboard and ending this nightmare. If Richard had beckoned, I would have jumped.

Don’t, he could be alive.

“How in the hell can he be alive? Is he alive? Where is he?” I looked frantically in every direction. “Is he below? IS HE BELOW?” I shouted, expecting God to answer.

“WHERE IS HE? DOWN BELOW?” I struggled to get below as quickly as possible.

Four (#ulink_f1f7c227-be3a-527e-846b-2c40e86d7827)

Sinking (#ulink_f1f7c227-be3a-527e-846b-2c40e86d7827)

I fell down into a deep puddle. A good twenty inches of water covered the exposed bilge. “RICHARD, RICHARD,” I bellowed. “WHERE ARE YOU?”

I knew he wasn’t forward; I’d already been there, so I turned aft. Stumbling past the galley, throwing floating debris over my shoulders, I plowed into the aft cabin door that was hanging cockeyed off its hinges. I pushed and shoved and kicked, trying to get it out of my way, screaming, “RICHARD, RICHARD, I’M COMING I’LL HELP YOU. JUST WAIT, JUST WAIT. . . .”

The goddamn door wouldn’t budge. I beat on it and rammed my body into it over and over and over. Finally things started falling away and the door fell backwards, creating its own tidal wave. I scrambled over it desperately searching—praying for Richard. I couldn’t believe he wasn’t in there. I looked in the aft head. I raised the toppled cushions. I even lifted the fallen door and ran my hand under the water to see if he was there.

“Oh why, why, why, didn’t you come below?” In total despair I sank to my knees and became submerged in water up to my waist. I gasped and thought, My God, the boat’s sinking, I’ve got to get out of here.

Struggling to lift my drenched, injured body, I staggered to the companionway and boosted myself up. Frantically I struggled to move the heavy life raft from the back of the cockpit to the middle of the boat, where I secured it to the cabin-top handrail. Instinctively I grabbed the rigging knife I kept on my belt, slid the sharp blade under a strap that held the raft shut, and started cutting upward. It was too tough—I was too weak. I resorted to hacking away at the straps.

As the last strap split, the life raft inflated and flung itself open. Inside I found fishing gear, hand flares, a miniature medical kit, a half dozen cans of water, and a sponge. Something was wrong, something was missing. I tried to think . . . fishing gear, flares, medical kit, sponge, food and water. Food? There’s no food. There’s cans of water but no opener for the cans. How can a life raft have no food and no way to open the water?

Going back over the boom, I banged the deep gash on my left shin. It started bleeding again. I ignored it. It was nothing compared to . . .

I went below to get food. Wading through the river, kicking everything in my way aside, I picked up a duffel bag. Grabbing biscuits, cans of beans, tuna and peaches, I threw them into the bag. I took hold of the portable world band radio receiver and a can opener, and threw them in too. I pushed a blanket and a pillow up the companionway into the cockpit.

Water. I must have more water.

I looked around and saw the solar shower bag dangling from a shelf. It could hold two and a half gallons of water. “Richard will be thirsty when I find him,” I said out loud. Grabbing the bag, I took it to the galley and began to fill it using the pressurized freshwater system. As the bag was filling, the stream of water started slowing down. It became a sputter, then a spit. “My God, I don’t have any water!” Wait—the water filter’s canister, there’s bound to be at least a half gallon of water in it.