Pea-Soup Fog

Pea-Soup Fog                                                  

        The cold salt spray stung my face, keeping me awake. This 60-degree ocean is no place to be without a wetsuit on. How long have I been in the water and how did this happen to me?

     Heading back home alone after a beautiful day out on the water, I enjoyed listening to the luffing of the sails. Whop, whop, whop ─ music to my ears. Close to rounding the familiar rocky point ahead, I decided to drop the mainsail and enter the harbor using just the smaller jib. 

     While untying the mainsail ropes, a gust of wind suddenly came up out of nowhere. Clinging to the loosened ropes, my mind shifted into panic mode as I slid to the deck. The sloop suddenly veered toward the rocky outcrop of granite, towering 50 feet above the ocean. What is going on? I’ve sailed by here many times before with no problem. Worried, I struggled to my feet just as the mainsail collapsed onto the deck, burying me underneath. 

     The Endeavor was usually so easy to handle at the end of the day when calmness settled in over the bay. Yes, I had to round Rocky Point, but using just the jib should have glided us in. I was wrong, I surmised, while freeing myself from this heavy cocoon. How long was I under this sail?

    Struggling to my feet, I surveyed the situation. Daylight closing fast. Boat out of my control. Mainsail disabled. Boat listing in choppy water. Little time left to assess what to do.

     Suddenly, the hull of my 28-foot wooden sailboat began scraping the rocky ocean floor. Oh no! Bad sound. What should I do? 

    As the craft ground to a halt, a thundering crack announced the hull ripping open. Racing down the galley steps, I saw water gushing through a huge tear in front of the rudder. Nothing can plug that hole. The boat’s going down. I can’t save it, but maybe I save myself. Stay calm and think clearly. Don’t have much time. 

     The Endeavor began to list toward the granite cliff as I raced back up the stairs. She rolled about 30-degrees and I slid toward the stern on the wet mahogany deck. Grabbing for anything to stabilize myself, I saw the life raft rope dangling near my left arm. With every bit of strength in me, I grabbed onto the rope, pulled myself close to the knot tethering it to the boat and managed to untie it. No time for a wet suit and I don’t have my phone.

    As the ship twisted and groaned like an injured beast, the rising tidal waves shoved it deeper onto the rocks I slipped into the ocean, praying to maintain my grip on the rope. That’s my only lifeline. Hang onto that rope! Don’t let go. Hand-over-hand I moved along the rope, dragging myself toward the life raft. Hang on or die. Tie the rope around my waist before I attempt to get in. Done.

     Leg up, over the side. Grab an oarlock and pull hard. I was able to climb inside just before a wave drove the raft towards the wreckage. Get the raft away from the rocks and the splintering boat. Where are all these thoughts coming from?

     I located the oars, strapped inside, gripping them tightly as I secured them into the oarlocks before dipping them into the ocean. After the next wave breaks over the rocks, begin paddling HARD. I was really paying attention to each thought that came into my head.

Amazingly, I was able to row out beyond the breaking waves. The sun had set. I saw no lights and no other boats. Fog now ruled my chances of being rescued.

     It’s so cold. Will anyone come looking for me when I don’t return? The harbormaster might notify the coastguard that The Endeavor is missing. It’s almost high tide. When the tide turns, I’ll drift farther out to sea. Keep as close to shore as possible. Rescuers will search that area first.

     I lost track of time as I struggled to keep the raft from drifting too far out. Tiring, my hope of rescue began to wane. Fog was dense. The Endeavor had vanished from sight. Silence ruled. 

     The sea swells subsided and the raft began to drift. Suddenly, I remembered a compass had come with the raft. I found the compass pocket; inside was a small, cold brass object. Opening the cover, the compass face illuminated! Now I could begin to paddle west, toward land, through pea-soup fog. I might have a chance of surviving; the compass might help save me if I can stay close to land.

     My arms ached. The salt spray was freezing cold. Water began to slosh into the raft, slapping against my soaking wet shoes. My cold hands throbbed in pain. Just when I didn’t know how much longer I could go on, I thought I saw a light through the fog. Is it a mirage? Then I saw a second light and finally a third, moving up high, above the water. Am I hallucinating? Should I yell?

     Then I heard what sounded like men’s voices, just barely audible. I tried to answer, but the salt spray made my efforts to yell sound like raspy whispers. I banged the two oars together, loudly, over and over. Crack them as hard as you can. Don’t stop. Do it in rhythm, over and over. One, two, three, rest, rest, rest. One, two, three, rest, rest, rest. I must have repeated this pattern 10-15 times before I thought I heard a reply.

     The search party, perched on the cliff above the wrecked Endeavor, had picked up the cracking sound of the oars. “Is that you, Brendan?” 

    Banging the oars rapidly now, my voice let out a shrill yell. "HELP!" I heard a reply, “The Coast Guard is on the way. They’ll arrive in a few minutes.”

     Those search lights on their hats are going to save my life. The Coast Guard is coming. I’m alive! These were my thoughts as I heard the helicopter approaching to lift me out of the raft.

    That moment changed my life forever. While I was proud of the way I had kept calm enough to think, there was something that had guided my thoughts. Was it my training, my parents’ concern, or God? I’ll never know for sure. And although The Endeavor couldn’t be rescued, I was.