Swirling water sloshed up to my knees as I made my way into the main salon of Live Now. Two midnight knockdowns in 75 knot winds and an inadvertently open port light nearly brought our 15 year cruising life, our life itself for that matter, to an end.
May 10, 2017, just over 350 NM offshore, half way to Bermuda, Pat called me out of a light sleep around midnight, "Looks like we might get some rain. Just saw some lightning off to the west." I came on deck in time to see lightning knifing across a pitch black sky. We had left Charleston 3 days earlier for Bermuda on our way to the Med. Fifteen to 20 knot winds from the WSW and 1 to 2 feet seas, had made for perfect downwind sailing. As has been our practice at dusk, we had already reduced sail on our stay-sail ketch, down to the mizzen and Yankee, sailing comfortably at 5 to 7 knots so I didn't see a need to reduce sail further. The weather forecast remained pleasantly unchanged. "I'll get the back panels and close up the cockpit, no sense in getting soaked," I said as I headed back below.
Pat had been on duty for 6 hours and midnight started my watch. After securing the cockpit closures, I took the helm, checked our heading and sail instruments. We started getting a bit more wind as the rain approached....and then we got, well, then we got knocked on our beams. With no warning, the wind slammed into us and Live Now began a gentle, slow-motion heel to starboard. Pat and I found ourselves standing on the backs of the cockpit seats in disbelief as the sails dipped into the sea. One moment we're sailing perfectly upright with no seas to speak of and then we're on beams-end! Pat started the engine as I immediately turned the helm into the erratic, swirling wind as Live Now started an agonizingly slow return upright. The wind had jumped to a "tornadic" 75 knots. Five minutes later, we're down again, masts horizontal to the water for a long minute or two. I looked at Pat as the Live Now began regaining her feet. "We're going to be okay. You alright?" Pat stared at me, "I'm scared shitless!" Moments later, "There's water in the cabin!" she shouted, as we both stared in disbelief as water waved above the floor boards, racing back and forth as the boat rolled. All of Live Now's electronics (batteries, circuit panel, newly installed inverter, radar, autohelm) are on the starboard side, the leeward side as the boat heeled. From the cockpit we could see the water covering the navigation station settee and watched in horror as the status lights for each electronic component winked briefly under water and went out. No battery power, lights, nav aids, no VHF radio, no Single Side Band radio. Our newly purchased IridiumGo sat phone, placed in the nav station for "safe keeping", submerged, useless.
Keeping Live Now steady into the now somewhat reduced but still fierce winds, Pat keep her under control as I struggled with a series of crises on deck. The Yankee's jib sheet had somehow wrapped around the Man Overboard Pole and carried it about halfway up the mast! I finally got the pole loose which promptly went overboard (without a man, fortunately) and tried to bring the sail in using the roller furling. The furling line jammed requiring me to hang on with one hand at the bow and untangle 100 feet of line, then re-wrap it around the furling drum. Green water swamped me repeatedly as the boat pitched in the now 4-5 foot waves. Finally securing the head-sail, I returned aft and struggled to get the now torn mizzen sail down with the wind gusting and the deck pitching wildly. All this had happened so fast and as I had been below sleeping, I had no time to don a life jacket, let alone safety harness and tether. It did occur to me that taking the time to put on a life jacket would have been the prudent course of action.
The wind now suddenly dropped to a near calm as I returned to the cockpit. It was then that I realized that the wetness on my head was more than sea water. Either the mizzen boom or a snapping line had struck my forehead and blood was running copiously down the side of my head. I covered my face with one hand as I entered the cockpit. Pat looked at me and I said, "This isn't as bad as it's going to look." As I removed my hand, Pat's face, pale in contrast to the night's darkness, said, "No, it's probably worst than it looks."
With Pat in control at the helm, I went below. The engine was still running with water sloshing just below the oil pan. Water slammed from one side of the boat to the other and debris and loose floor boards made walking more than a bit hazardous, but we were pretty stable nevertheless. All the water that came into the boat had come through two open portals in the main salon. In hot, mild weather and smooth sailing we normally leave these ports open for ventilation. The storm hit within moments of my coming on deck and to my great regret, it didn't dawn on me to shut them. Assured that no more water was getting into the boat, although the turbulent water and darkness made this difficult to determine at first, I returned to the cockpit.
Pat had us heading due west. Calm as usual in a crisis (unless it involves blood and my bleeding had pretty much stopped), Pat had quickly determined that returning to the States was our only option. We had a hand-held VHF radio, GPS and functioning compass, with no damage to the rigging or hull, we should be okay, so as long as the boat stayed afloat. One concern was that without electricity, we had no running lights and being a fiberglass boat we were pretty much invisible to marine traffic at night. Still, with our handheld VHF we could notify and any ships we saw and give them our position. In shock from the magnitude of this near disaster, it took a minute or two to notice steam rising from the engine room below. Before we realized that it wasn't just seawater steaming off the manifold, the engine stopped. Upon inspection, the cause of the problem, while a bit bizarre, was obvious. A liter bottle of Pepsi had come adrift and found its way to the water pump pulley and had wedged itself between the pulley and the belt causing the belt to come off. With no coolant circulating, the engine quickly overheated and stopped! Dead in the water.
All of this took place in less than 2 hours!
As dawn approached, I rigged the main and stay-sail (the Yankee and mizzen sails torn and unusable). Now we had almost no wind, maybe 5 knots as we sailed along making 1 to 2 knots on a beam reach toward Charleston, SC, the boat sluggish but stable. Our immediate need was to start removing the tons of water we had taken on. Pat had to stay at the helm, hand steering and the chaos below made the boat uninhabitable. I tried rigging a spare electric bilge pump to the solar panel but the pump drew too many amps and proved unworkable. I have several manual bilge pumps, but with a year's supply of now waterlogged toilet paper, paper towels and miscellaneous packaging that had come adrift quickly clogged them. So, a five gallon bucket on a rope proved the only effective system. I stood over the open forward hatch, dropped the inverted bucket with a line attached into the cabin; hoist, dump, repeat; drop, hoist, dump, repeat; drop, hoist, dump repeat...for 6 days; finally getting the water below the floorboards. While I busied myself with water removal, Pat hand steered the whole time with my spelling her when I could!
For six days and nights we lived in the cockpit. All our food (stored mostly on the port side) including the refrigerated food remained eatable. We still could use the propane stove and, fortunately, I had 36 reserve gallons of fresh water stored on deck (the water in the water tanks below probably contaminated by seawater and, of course, the electric water pumps weren't functioning). I hooked up our VHS radio to the solar panel which proved invaluable (at least during daylight hours) when our handheld battery died. Our Porta-Potti, temporarily installed in the cockpit, came in handy as well.
The weather gods, perhaps now in regret for visiting this catastrophe upon us, gave us calm weather for our slow journey back. We had flat water and no more than 10 knots of wind, usually less. While this made for extremely slow progress, we rejoiced in the placid seas and clear skies. On one occasion, Pat turned to me and said, "Actually, I'm kinda enjoying this." However, as we neared the U.S. coast and the Gulf Stream, our plodding progress found us unable to make good toward our goal. The Gulf Stream, running 1 or 2 knots pushed us gradually to the NE. Originally, we hoped to make Charleston for repairs. However, we needed to make a little 'southing' to get there and that wasn't happening. Georgetown looked possible but we soon found ourselves drifting too far north. So, then, we thought, Southport, a bit north of Georgetown. But it became clear that Southport presented a potentially serious problem. We may have made it but the inlet for Southport is guarded to the north by Frying Pan Shoals. With a light wind from the south and leeway, we could easily find ourselves on the reef. So, we elected to head north of the shoals for the Mason Inlet near Wrightsville Beach.
Our plan was to get within towing distance and contact Tow Boat US. However, first, we called the USCG on the radio as soon as we were within range, worried that our children would be concerned if we hadn't contacted them when we were expected to arrive in Bermuda. The Charleston Coast Guard was great. We explained that what had happened, advised them of our location and that we had no running lights but were in no immediate danger. They agreed to contact our daughter and just let her know that we had run into some technical difficulties and were returning to the States but were OK. As it turned out, they weren't worried at all, much to our dismay (our children maintain their lack of worry was due to an abiding, if misplaced, confidence in our capability, not a lack of concern) .
Fifteen NM off the coast, we contacted Tow Boat US around dusk on May 21st and arranged a tow. We dropped anchor about 10:00 PM in the Wrightsville Beach anchorage. Our troubles weren't over. All the marinas within 50 miles were full! It was several days and a 30 NM tow to Wilmington NC before we could finally get into a marina that could address our repair needs. After two more nights on Live Now in the cockpit, we finally broke down and rented a car, found a motel, had several good meals and had a good cry (well, I didn't cry, of course, I'm the captain, captains don't cry, we just obsess over our mistakes and 'shoulda's')
The insurance surveyor totaled Live Now. Estimated repair costs exceeded the insurance max. They would have sold her back to us for as little as $5000 after the settlement which I believe would have more than covered the cost but given the time it would take to make the extensive repairs, and given the blood and treasure we had put into outfitting her for our transatlantic trip, as well as, the trauma of this adventure, we elected to let Live Now go.
Had I closed those portals, we'd be posting about our transatlantic undertaking from an exotic port on the Mediterranean. But all in all, we we feel pretty lucky. Sadly, there was one fatality, however. Inexplicably, a tiny frog had somehow found it's way onto the boat. We discovered the little stowaway the day after the storm. We have no idea where it came from or how it got aboard. Unfortunately, she was apparently lost at sea the next day and never seen again.
After Nearly 6 Days Bailing
