This is not an ordinary blog post. It’s the story of something that nearly ended our cruising altogether, at least for one if not both of us. I hope other sailors will glean some helpful reminders from one of our worst days upon the sea. If you’re not inclined to read the post, here’s a spoiler alert: I (Bill) went overboard during a squall some 10 miles or so SE of Cape May, NJ. I survived. If you want the details, you gotta read on…
JO BETH was rumbling along under engine power, her mainsail and jib furled and stowed, some 10 miles southeast of the entrance channel at Cape May Harbor on New Jersey’s southern coast. Squalls were building rapidly around us; a small and very fast moving one had just raced across the Atlantic Ocean a mile or two in front of us. Winds were blowing from the South-Southwest at 25-28 knots, with a few lulls around 22 knots. The waves were short and choppy, around three feet or so, with an occasional five footer slamming our hull as they rolled in from the South. JO BETH rolled and yawed a bit, but we were doing fine, warm and reasonably comfortable in the cockpit enclosure.
We had passed Ocean City, Maryland a few hours earlier, close enough to the coast to have cell signal to listen to a low-bandwidth weather briefing. The forecast was unfolding pretty much as stated, the only thing off being the timing of the squalls and thunderstorms. They were not predicted to be in our area until much later in the day, around five or six o’clock, but they were on us now, at noon. The forecast also warned some of the thunderstorms could produce winds of 50, 60, or even 70 knots – bordering those of a strong tropical storm – and it was this which had us concerned most. Almost always, these strongest winds occur early in the squall and diminish rapidly.
Conditions pre-squall and pre-’event’ about 15 miles SE of Cape May, NJ…winds in the low 20 knot range…
We were now crossing the mouth of Delaware Bay, a busy commercial shipping highway for the ports of Baltimore and Philadelphia. We had already been passed by container ships, coal ships, bulk carriers and tankers. I made security calls on the VHF radio, advising all traffic of our presence and that we were crossing the designated traffic lanes.
Our hourly log entries over the prior few hours revealed a steadily falling barometer. Lisa and I had dropped all sail and secured JO BETH as best we could, ready for the inevitable hit that was coming. I was not happy with the way the mainsail had furled when dropped. The aft end of the sail had pressed down the aft most leg of the port side lazyjacks and partially spilled over the boom. I had tucked it away as best I could given the conditions, but was worried that, with enough wind, the sail might come billowing out of the cover and create problems. The solution was simple; I just had to clip in my safety harness to the starboard side jackline, a length of wide nylon webbing secured to the side decks of the boat, then stand on the cockpit coaming and while holding on with one hand, reach and grab the sail cover zipper pull with the other and close the sail cover. It’s something I’d done dozens and dozens of times with the boat underway, at anchor, and secured to a dock. No big deal.
Lisa disagreed with me. She felt the sail was secured well enough, and that if the wind did catch it, we’d deal with it accordingly. I argued that an ounce of prevention was always better than a pound of cure. Lisa relented and out I went onto the starboard side deck after clipping my life jacket harness onto the jackline.
A typical inflateable PFD and harness arrangment; the yellow manual activation handle is at the bottom of the vest and pictured below it is my double tether…
The boom was hauled in tight, but still swung from side to side a bit with the motion of the boat. I had a solid handhold on the grabrail on the side of the cockpit enclosure, and leaned over the frame of the cockpit enclosure reaching for the zipper pull with my left hand. The zipper pulled easily, and it was then I realized the zipper ends had separated and were no longer joined. The zipper is a basic pull-type, exactly like the ones on jackets and sweaters, just larger. ‘I only need a second,’ myself said to myself. I let go of the handhold and leaned further over the enclosure, my upper chest resting on the boom, and reached for the zipper, grabbing both sides of the cover and pulling them together. Then, in one split second, I was weightless, holding nothing.
It was at the moment I let go of the handrail that one of those five-foot waves rolled under the boat. JO BETH rolled to port, and then snap-rolled back to starboard. The swing of the boom came back into my upper chest and flung me backwards into the air. I was unaware of what happened until I was fully submerged in the Atlantic Ocean. I didn’t even have time to blink; I stared into a green-blue mix of bubbles and water. There was no panic, no ‘oh-shit.’ If anything, there was disbelief. That disbelief was soon cleared away.
JO BETH was still moving through the water under motor power at five and a half or six knots. Our harnesses use a double tether system; one is a no-stretch tether which measures one meter, a little more than three feet; and one is a ‘stretchy’ tether, which measures two meters when fully stretched, around six and a half feet. When I clipped my harness to the jackline on the deck, I used the ‘stretchy’ tether. Now being drug through the water by our eight ton sailboat, the tether pulled taught with a snap, yanking me forward and slamming me chest-first into the bottom of the boat. The pressure of JO BETH’s slipstream simultaneously pinned me against the hull, while pushing me back towards the surface. The wind was coming over the portside, and was heeling the boat to starboard, placing the caprail a bit lower than if she were floating fully upright. Still facing forward, I was able to reach up and grab the caprail, pulling my head from the water, where I promptly was hit in the face by two waves, swallowing mouthfuls of ocean. I spun myself around so my back was to the bow and looked up into Lisa’s stone faced expression, her eyes wide with shock, peering back at me.
It was now that I realized my automatic inflating PFD (PFD = Personal Flotation Device, or lifejacket) had not deployed. I had been in the water for perhaps 30 seconds. The PFD inflation system should have activated within the first 5 or 10 seconds; 15 seconds at most. The vest is fitted with a manual inflation activation system as a back-up to the auto function, but I didn’t think of that at the time. My entire focus, and that of Lisa, was getting me back onto the boat.
This is the actual vest inside the covering panels; you can see reflective tape on the life preserver portion which is deployed by a water activated Co2 cartridge in the gray housing on the vest panel in the upper portion of the picture; the black line secures a (very loud!) whistle to the vest; in addition, we have electronic locator beacons and lights that will also be attached…
Lisa had moved back to the cockpit and put the motor into neutral idle. Almost immediately, the incredible pressure of the slipstream eased, but JO BETH didn’t come to a stop. The strong winds and waves still pushed her along at a knot or two. Lisa then slacked and lowered a jib sheet (a ‘sheet’ in sailing terms is a line used to control a sail; on most sailboats, the jib is the large sail at the bow end of the boat) into the water and then tensioned it to form a ‘dip’ for me to use as a step to get my chest and shoulders clear of the water. When this was done, I asked her to grab my harness and pull me up so I could get a better hold on the rails by wrapping my arms fully around them. I had tried pulling myself up and swinging my legs to the rails. It wasn’t happening. I’m too short, and the pressure created by water dragging against my legs and torso eliminated that as a recovery option. Once I had a more secure hold with my arms and was standing on the jib sheet, I began to relax a little. It was then I realized Lisa was on deck without her vest or harness.
“Get your harness on,” I told her.
“No,” she answered, “we don’t have time. I’ve got to get the ladder moved to this side.” JO BETH’s boarding ladder was fitted on the port side of the boat, but it can be easily moved to either side.
“Get your harness on,” I said more urgently, adding, “if you go in, this is over for both of us.”
She went and quickly slipped into her harness. My arm grip on the rails was weakening.
“Hurry!” I yelled.
Once the ladder was set and lowered, I found it incredibly difficult to release my grip on the rails. This was partially out of a literal fear of letting go, but due more to the fact my arms and hands were cramping intensely. I had been overboard three or more minutes now, and I had no choice. Now wearing her vest and clipped in, Lisa grabbed my harness as I reached for the ladder with my right hand. Together, we pulled me over, and after finding the lower rung with my right foot, I swung the rest of the way and was fully on the ladder. We hadn’t deployed the ladder legs, which would have stood the ladder off from the hull, as I was afraid I couldn’t maintain my hold long enough. The ladder rungs were against the hull, which meant only my toes were on them. I found the next rung, and the next, and was then able to reach a handrail of the deckhouse and pull myself back on deck. I was safe.
It took me a few seconds to get situated. My mouth and eyes stung with salt water, and my arms and hands were shaking from the exertion of holding on to the boat. (And from adrenaline!) Lisa helped me back into the cockpit and zipped the enclosure fully closed. “My vest didn’t deploy,” I stammered. We then recovered and secured the starboard jib sheet from the water and put the engine back into gear. Not a minute later, the full force of the squall hit, with a peak wind of 52 knots observed – that’s just under 60 miles per hour; comparable to a strong tropical storm. The rain pounded down hard, and visibility dropped to mere feet. The waves built into a steep six foot chop, and were more like moving walls of water than ocean waves. Blinding streaks of lightning flashed and thunder boomed. The strongest winds lasted just a few minutes, quickly dropping to the forty knot range, and then into the thirties.
Lisa steered us on a course to the east, putting the wind and waves on our stern quarter, and ran off. After about forty-five minutes, the rain had all but stopped and winds were down to 10 knots or so. A heavy, black cloud hung over us, and the horizon to the east was an unsettling green-gray, like a bad bruise on the sky. The skies to the west however, were bright and clearing. JO BETH heaved on the nearly windless sea, though the winds quickly returned to the lower twenty knot range from the north. The seas were settling back to the three to five foot range and we resumed our course for the entrance to Cape May Harbor. I was cold and opted for a change of dry clothes.
“I’m sorry,” I said after things were calmer.
Lisa looked at me. “Me too,” she said, worry still etched on her face.
“Thank you for getting me back on board,” I told her.
“You got yourself back aboard,” she said.
“We did it, both of us. Together,” I emphasized.
A moment passed and the skies brightened a bit more. JO BETH rolled in the swell. The motor purred, an unseen current giving us a boost towards the coast. We opened some of the enclosure panels to let in fresh air.
“Did I look scared?” I asked.
“No,” Lisa answered. “You looked pissed off and determined.” I think she sugar coated her answer. A lot.
“We need to call River Services and let them know about your vest not deploying,” she said.
We definitely did. They needed to know and would want to know. “I’ll call them when we’re in the entrance channel,” I said. “But yeah, they gotta know about this.”
“Let’s try for a marina slip,” Lisa added. “You need a fresh water rinse, and we could both use the break.” I agreed.
Unfortunately, we couldn’t get a slip until Tuesday, the following week. Until then, we would be anchored in the crowded harbor anchorage, which was fine. We couldn’t carry on to New England until my vest was replaced with a new unit. Once in the channel entrance and free of the ocean swell, I called River Services.
River Services is a business in Savannah, GA, which specializes in the sales and service of life saving equipment for commercial ships, yachts, and aircraft. We’ve done business with them for years and trust them completely. (And for the record, we’ll continue to work with them.) We have no reason whatsoever to believe any of the services or maintenance they performed contributed to the failure of my vest.
I spoke to the facility manager and president, Stephen. The concern in his voice was evident as I described what had happened. I went over the event in detail. I gave him the timetable of our most recent service and he promised to pull the service records and get back to me. In less than ten minutes, he called back. He asked that we ship the vest back to him for inspection and testing to figure out what had gone wrong; in the meantime, he arranged for a new vest and harness system to be shipped directly to me from the manufacturer. I could use this replacement harness as long as needed until I could return it to River Services when we sailed south in the fall.
Fast forward to Tuesday, the following week. We’re in a slip in South Jersey Marina, at the far western end of Cape May Harbor. A near gale is howling outside and periodic rain squalls sweep over us every so often, an actual nor’easter in June! The winds should ease by Thursday, and we’ll likely return to the harbor anchorage Thursday or Friday – marinas can be expensive – hopefully resume our course for New England by Saturday. The weather determines all, and will require close monitoring. The replacement vest has arrived, and Lisa and I overstuffed ourselves at dinner last night at The Cape May Lobster House. Today, we have to get laundry done, an Instacart order filled and delivered, and send the failed vest back to River Services for examination.
We’ve had discussions as to whether or not this ‘event’ (as we’ve taken to calling it) has put us off sailing and cruising. It hasn’t. What happened, happened because of a poor decision on my part – multiple poor decisions actually. Something I learned in my years a as marine surveyor investigating boating accidents is that accidents rarely happen because of a single event. It is almost always a series of oversights and lack of action, or taking the wrong action, and repeated lack of appropriate judgements and actions that lead to an accident. What happened to me in the Atlantic Ocean could have just as easily happened on a placid pond. It was not the fault of the weather, of JO BETH, or the ocean. I violated the age old sailor’s rule of, ‘one hand for the ship, one hand for yourself,’ and paid the price. This is and was, all on me.
Going overboard at sea is typically a death sentence; even in calm conditions, even if the crew sees you, even in good weather. Certainly, the chances of recovery are better in those conditions, but they are far from guaranteed. If you’re single handing, going over the side is a done deal; if you’re harnessed and tethered to the boat, the PFD/harness and tether become a body recovery system. If you’re not tethered, even when sailing with a crew, your chances of being recovered alive are further diminished. Going overboard at night, or without anyone knowing you’re gone, is most certainly the end of days. There are the miracle stories of lost crew being found alive after hours, even days in the water. Know that these are far and away the exception and not the rule.
These are facts all sailors accept as part of the cruising risk versus reward equation. The best thing is to do all you have to do to stay aboard the boat. Had our mainsail actually come unfurled in the squall, we could have dealt with it from the deck. Yes, it would have been a problem, and yes, it could have caused damage. But my decision to try and prevent what I now understand was a relatively unlikely scenario, (outside of my ‘prudent mariner’ thought process, such as it was), brought about an infinitely worse set of circumstances. Had I hit my head, had I broken a bone, had I become entangled under the boat, the outcome would have certainly been much worse.
We know many cruising sailors, several single handing, who trail a length of knotted line behind their boat. The idea is, if they fall overboard, they can grab the line and pull themselves back aboard. Plain and simple, they’re fooling themselves. Worse, they’re creating a tremendous false sense of security. Even if they can grab a wet line, with wet hands, streaming past them at six miles-per-hour or faster, and hang on, they’re not likely to be able to keep their hold on the line, much less pull themselves back to boat which would require repeated grab and release actions. It’s just not within the realm of capability for 99.99% of the sailors out there.
Once again, the best course of action is: do nothing which increases your risk of separation from the boat. Nothing.
I did experience a severe strain in my right hand. Five days beyond the event, I’m just now able to make a tightly closed fist and hold something like a pot or saucepan, without grimacing. My forearms are still bruised and sore, and my left bicep is strained. I received an ‘ocean manicure,’ as almost all of my fingernail tips have been peeled away, a couple of them down to the quick, and I have a bruise under my right ring finger nail. I’m very fortunate in that I didn’t hit my head. In our post analysis of the event, I offered the opinion that had I been clipped with the short tether, or clipped onto one of the two pad-eyes fitted in the cockpit, I might not have gone in the water, at least not fully. Lisa quickly pointed out that in either of those situations, the tether would have likely flipped me into a head down position, greatly increasing the chances of me hitting my head on the hull or deck. It also occurred to me that had the vest inflated, the drag it would have created would have been exponential. Additionally, had the vest inflated while I was clinging to the railings with my arms, the force of the inflation would have most certainly caused me to loose my grip. On the other hand, the inflated vest would have provided substantial buoyancy, possibly making it easier to get back on board. Of course, these are all suppositions.
I don’t want to think about what would’ve happened had any other part of the PFD harness/tether system failed; had my tether released or broke; had the manual activation of the vest also failed, and so on. I am extremely fortunate and I know it.
It bears repeating: do nothing which increases your risk of separation from the boat. Nothing.
We have a friend on another Pacific Seacraft 34, who is single handing, and left the Chesapeake the same time we did. She was a bit further east of us when the squalls hit and had some minor damage to her boom and canvas. She also is in Cape May, in the same marina, a few docks over from where we sit listening to the howling winds and pelting rain. When she heard about what happened with us, she revealed she had some concerns about damage to her her boom during the same squall which had steamrolled JO BETH. Fortunately, she had the smarts not to leave the shelter of the cockpit to investigate. It was unnerving when we couldn’t raise her on VHF for a couple of hours. She and her boat are fine.
As unlikely as it seems, there are good things to come from this. I know now that I was trusting my life to a defective piece of equipment. This was realized without injury, loss of life, or damage to the boat. Lisa and I now know we’re more capable than we thought to handle an emergency at sea, at least one of this nature. And we both understand how complacency has crept slowly into our shipboard routines over time.
The calm after the storm - Cape May Harbor anchorage…
I’m OK. Lisa’s OK. Ocean cruising on a yacht is often said to be hours of boredom punctuated by moments of terror. We couldn’t agree more. We’re through this and, for the most part, none the worse for wear. We’re back to something of our routine; boat chores, laundry, cleaning, provisioning, and monitoring weather forecasts. I still need a bit more rest; sleep has been a bit fitful at times. I have to be careful how I use my right hand. But mostly, we’re through this and ready to sail on.
I’ll post a more ‘regular’ update in the next couple of weeks.