|
So after another wonderful day, we
heard on the radio that there was a norther coming on
Saturday morning, with expected winds from the northwest at
10-15. As we sat Friday night over the rum and oj, we
remarked to ourselves that heck, 10-15 was nothing, we were
on the south side of the cay, and we could handle it. We
snorkeled the anchorage, and found we were set in sand on
top of a hill in about 30 feet of water. The anchor chain
lay across the top of the hill and gently circled down to
the bottom at 50 feet before tracking back up to the boat.
We thought we’d be fine, as we had out 175 feet of chain.
About two miles away, in an area the
chart calls Bread and Butter Cays (but the cruising guide
calls Stewart Cay), we spotted another trawler, tried to
hail them on the radio, but they must have been otherwise
occupied.
At 11:00 p.m. on Friday night, Jan was
up on the computer and Ole had just gone to bed, when, out
of nowhere, the wind started blowing 25 with gusts to 30,
out of the northwest. So much for weather forecasting.
Ole shot out of bed, looked at the
plotter, and found we had slipped anchor and our adrenaline
kicked in.
This area is another of those where the
plotter, the chart, and the cruising guide differ as to
precise positions, so Ole started up the engines, and wisely
watched the radar and the plotter for about an hour. When
he saw that the anchor had dug in and we were holding
ground, he decided to stay up until the worst was over. Jan
cat-napped on the watch berth, periodically rising to
confirm we were still okay.
At 6:00 in the morning, the light
showed we had indeed traveled what we thought was
sickeningly close to the reef, but were still holding. The
winds had abated during the night, but picked up again with
daylight, producing quite a chop in our anchorage. As we
considered our options, we heard a call for “any vessel”
from the boat we had spotted the night before. They, too,
had slipped anchor, but were not so fortunate, as they had
been shoved up onto a sand bar and were hard aground. They
confirmed their boat was fine, the people were fine, and
requested some help in the form of a tow.
We were not at all sure we could help.
Our dinghy was still in the water, the wind was blowing a
steady 20 knots, and we were unsure about how to get out of
the zigzag entrance to our lagoon.
Once we decided to give it a shot, we
raised the dinghy, started the engines, and Jan went forward
to heave up the anchor. The switch for the anchor windlass
chose that precise moment to become non-functional. Ole ran
down to the chain locker to examine the switch, and tried to
jump-start it, to no avail. After about 10 minutes, we
found that by pressing on the switch with a thumb and
wiggling as we pressed, we could get some response, and the
chain crept up in fits and starts, allowing Ole to position
the boat on the track line we left coming in, and get us
safely out of Spruce Cay lagoon.
Once underway, we headed toward the
vessel in distress, and formulated a plan.
We took out our 300-foot, 1-inch
hurricane line, looped it through our two aft hawse cleats,
and made a makeshift bridle with a trusty bowline, allowing
the distressed vessel to send a party over by dinghy to pick
it up. He returned it to his boat, tied off to his two aft
deck cleats, and we started pulling, thinking we could
“back” him out of the sand bar. Even though we revved up to
a mighty 2000 rpm, we made no progress other than to rip out
one of his cleats and a chunk of railing.
That having failed, he opted to shift
the tow line forward, and asked us to maintain just a
constant low-rpm pull, with us headed into the wind, hoping
at best that the wave action would work his boat loose – at
least that we could keep him from being washed further
toward the mangrove until another boat en route could help
with the tow.
We found that each time we fell off the
wind and had to reposition the boat , we were creeping into
shallower and shallower water, until, when the depth sounder
crept below 4 feet and quit returning a signal, we decided
to add another 200 feet of line. Just as we requested
adding a third line, the other vessel showed up to help.
About 11:45, other boat added its heft
to the effort. Since the distressed vessel was losing
cleats left and right, they were advised to wrap one of the
tow lines around their house and send it to the other
assisting vessel. Once all lines were in place, we and the
assisting vessel coordinated a mighty pull, which snapped
the tow line attached around the house. We decided that
there was nothing more we could do, and to head for
Placencia.
Once our decision was made, we agreed
to lend the vessel our lines, and decided to let him haul
them in from his end. Trying to untie the bowline in our
towing bridle proved impossible – given the strain of
pulling a 10-ton boat with a 24-ton boat with
saltwater-drenched line. Out came the trusty knife.
Once the line was cut, Emma Jo drifted
backward, and in spite of furious pulling on the line by the
distressed vessel, we ended up with tow line wrapped around
both our propellers – in 20 knot wind, in 7 feet of water,
in 2 foot chop. Jan rushed up to drop the anchor, which did
not set. Using the less-than-effective thumb-wiggling
anchor retrieval technique, once the anchor came up we saw
it had a huge rock wedged into it.
Since we had no other choice, we
dropped the anchor yet again, and fortunately, the anchor
hitting the bottom knocked the rock loose, and it held. The
distressed vessel helped cut the line off our shafts, Jan
thumb-wiggled the anchor windlass switch and we were off.
The assisting vessel remained nearby in case they could be
of service.
Once we got safely anchored in
Placencia, we had a nap and a meal, and turned in early.
Sunday lunchtime we decided to meet
some of the people who had been hovering on-site or
coordinating radio communication from Placencia during
Saturday’s efforts. We took the dinghy over and met some
wonderful people for lunch – and debriefed the situation.
When Ole heard that there was to be a commercial tugboat
dispatched to help the distressed vessel, there was no
question but that he would ride along with them.
There was quite the vicarious sense of
adventure listening in on the radio, which for some reason,
was louder and clearer than it had been the previous couple
of days. When it was announced just after high tide that
the vessel was floating, had intact running gear, and could
motor on her own, in spite of snapping a 2-inch tow line in
the process of getting free, you could almost hear the
cheers from 20 miles away.
So this adventure raises a few moral
questions:
Should we put our own vessel at risk to
help another? When is it time to abandon an assistance
effort? When, in a third-world country whose Coast Guard
doesn’t have any ships, is it appropriate to alert the
authorities? How much detail about another’s predicament
should one provide on a public website?
In the first case, each boater must
assess his own abilities, equipment, and resources. There
is, of course, a long tradition of Samaritanship at sea –
and an international treaty which requires commercial ships
to render assistance when possible – Safety of Life at Sea,
or SOLAS. While we seriously contemplated denying the
request because of the conditions in which we found
ourselves, each decision and consequence allowed us to
rethink the situation and choose anew. Several times during
the 5 hours we stood by the distressed vessel, we thought to
end the effort, but found that we could do more, take more
than our fears would have us. After all – it could just as
easily have happened to us – and very nearly did. The key
seemed to be to stay present, stay rational, and adjust as
necessary, avoiding the temptation to let panic or
adrenaline decide. Another factor is, of course, Ole’s
profession and training, allowing him to take the emotional
lead on our boat.
We felt thoroughly terrible saying
goodbye and turning our back on the distressed vessel. But
we had tried for nearly 5 hours, through high and
approaching low tide. The addition of a second vessel with
a similar power plant to ours seemed to make no difference
to the result. We had been up all night, and maneuvering in
bad conditions for 6 hours from the time we left our
anchorage to the time we left the site -- and fatigue was
setting in. It sounds harsh to me – but taking care of
oneself needs to be the prime directive when taking on
helping another.
The third consideration is
interesting. As decent, law-abiding cruisers, we should
make every effort to deal honestly with the governments of
the waters we cruise. We do not want to be ugly Americans
(or otherwise) while guests in foreign waters. But in a
part of the world where a vessel blown aground onto a reef
was recently faced with a fine of $30,000 and a jail term of
3 years, one has to determine individually whether honesty
is in the best interest of captain, crew and vessel.
And finally, because of the previous
moral consideration as well as the last, as the webmaster
and diarist of this website, it falls to me to make the
decision about how much detail to make publicly available.
I have attempted to include as much detail as is pertinent
to us, the crew of Emma Jo, while eliminating any detail
that would positively identify the vessel in distress or
other parties who might have assisted in her rescue.
Moral questions aside, it has been an
interesting few days, and has not only added to our cruising
repertoire but also to our sense of community within the
cruising world.
|
