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

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СКАЧАТЬ through the rest of the day, the wind and the size of the swells steadily increased. White water blew off the crests of the waves, creating a constant shower of saltwater spray. The ocean appeared powdered, as if white feathers had burst out of a down pillow. Tropical Storm Raymond was now being classified as Hurricane Raymond. That meant the wind was a minimum of 75 miles an hour.

      At 0930 October 11, the present forecast put Hurricane Raymond at 12° N and spinning along a west-northwest course. Richard screamed at the radio, “WHY THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU TACKING TO THE NORTH? STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM US!” He had let down his stiff upper lip, and more than anger exploded—it was fear, raw bloody fear. My ribs constricted—an instinct to protect my heart and soul. Richard hurriedly recorded: “We’re on the firing line.” We flew every sail to its maximum capacity. I silently lamented over the useless torn genny; it was a sail we could have really used now because it was larger than the number-one jib. Richard told me to alter course to the southwest. If we couldn’t situate ourselves above Raymond, maybe within the next twenty-four hours we could sneak to the south of the center and reach the navigable semicircle—the safer quadrant that would push us out of the spinning vortex instead of sucking us in. There weren’t many options; we had to do something. It would be pointless to start the engine, for by now we were sailing way beyond hull speed as it was. Richard’s nervousness and fear were obvious. I had never seen him like this. He mumbled a lot to himself, and when I asked what he said, he’d shake his head and say, “Nothing love, nothing.”

      But how could I ignore the way he scanned the sea to our east and repeatedly adjusted the sails, desperate to gain even a smidgen of a knot away from the forging Raymond? Adrenaline surged through me—fight or flight. There was no way to fly out of this mess, so it was fight. Fight, fight, fight.

      At three o’clock that afternoon the updated weather report told us Raymond had altered its direction from west-northwest to due west with gusts to 140 knots. The afternoon sun sight gave us a second line of position. This indicated we would collide with Raymond if we continued on our southwest heading. We immediately came about and headed northeast again, trying to get as far away from Raymond as possible. The conditions were already rough enough. But to get clobbered by a hurricane would mean that we could lose the rig and really be disabled out here in the middle of nowhere. We did not fear for our lives, as we knew Trintellas were built to withstand the strongest of sea conditions, but the fact that one of us could get seriously hurt loomed unexpressed in both of our minds. With a shaky hand Richard inscribed, “All we can do is pray.”

      Later that night, the spinnaker pole’s top fitting broke loose from the mainmast and the pole came crashing down, trailing sideways in the water. Richard and I scrambled to the mainmast trying to save the spinnaker pole. He grabbed it before the force of the water could break the bottom fitting and suck the pole overboard. It took both of us to lash all of its fifteen feet down on the deck. Creeping back to the cockpit we saw that a portion of the mizzen sail had escaped from its slides and was now whipping frantically in the wind.

      “JESUS CHRIST, WHAT’S NEXT?” Richard roared. He stepped out of the cockpit, clipped his safety harness onto the mizzenmast, and released the mizzen halyard. Once the mizzen was down, he lashed it onto the mizzen boom.

      As he came back to me at the wheel, I noticed how dark the shadows were under his eyes. He tried not to sound sarcastic as he said, “Not much else can go wrong.”

      “We’ll be okay. We’ll be okay, love,” I said, trying to convince both of us.

      In the darkness, the ocean was highlighted with thick white caps of foam—a boiling cauldron. The barometer had dropped way down the scale as the wind’s wail steadily increased, the seas becoming even steeper, angrier, more aggressive. We were terrified Raymond was catching us, but there wasn’t a damn thing we could do about it but sail and motor as fast and as hard as possible.

      We stayed on watch, taking turns going below to get whatever rest we could. Our muscles ached from fighting the wheel while trying to negotiate the pounding, erratic seas. Night had never lasted so long.

      The next morning broke cinder gray with spotty sunlight shedding an overcast hue on brothy seas. Ocean spray slapped us constantly in the face. Wind was a steady forty knots. We reefed all sails and galloped with a handkerchief of a jib and mainsail. At least it helped steady the boat.

      About 1000 the seas arched into skyscrapers, looming over our boat. The anemometer—the wind speed gauge—now read a steady sixty knots and we were forced to take down all sails and maintain our position under bare poles with the engine running. By noon the wind was a sustained one hundred knots. The churning spray was ceaseless. Richard came topside and handed me the EPIRB (emergency position-indicating radio device), as he took the wheel. “HERE, I WANT YOU TO PUT THIS ON.”

      “WHAT ABOUT YOU?”

      “TAMI, IF WE HAD TWO I’D PUT ONE ON. JUST MAKE ME FEEL BETTER, AND PUT THE BLOODY THING ON.”

      So, I did. I fastened my safety harness tether to the binnacle and steered while Richard went below to try to figure out our location now and get an updated position of the hurricane. All he could hear between the pounding and screech of the wind was static. There was no way he could risk bringing the radio outside with the sea constantly cascading over the boat.

      Richard came topside, fastened his safety harness, and took the wheel. I sat huddled against the cockpit coaming, holding on with all my strength to the cleat where my tether was fastened. We were helpless while staring at the raging scene around us. The sound of the screaming wind was unnerving. The hull raised to dizzying heights and dove into chasms. Could the seas swallow us? The ascent of the boat over the monstrous waves sent the hull airborne into a free fall that smashed down with a shudder. I was horrified Hazana would split wide open. Finally I shouted to Richard, “IS THIS IT? CAN IT GET ANY WORSE?”

      “NO. HANG ON, LOVE; BE MY BRAVE GIRL. SOMEDAY WE’LL TELL OUR GRANDCHILDREN HOW WE SURVIVED HURRICANE RAYMOND.”

      “IF WE SURVIVE,” I hollered back.

      “WE WILL. GO BELOW AND TRY TO REST.”

      “WHAT HAPPENS IF WE ROLL OVER? I DON’T WANT TO LEAVE YOU ALONE.”

      “THE BOAT WOULD RIGHT ITSELF. LOOK, I’M SECURE,” he said, giving a sharp tug on his tether. “I’D COME RIGHT BACK UP WITH IT.”

      I looked at his tether secured to the cleat on the cockpit coaming.

      “GO BELOW,” he urged. “KEEP YOUR EYE ON THE BAROMETER. LET ME KNOW THE MINUTE IT STARTS RISING.”

      Reluctantly I got up, leaned out, and squeezed the back of Richard’s hand. The wind sounded like jet engines being thrown in reverse. I looked at the anemometer and gasped when I read 140 knots. With my mouth agape, I looked at Richard and followed his eyes up the mainmast in time to see the anemometer’s transducer fly into outer space.

      “HOLD ON,” he yelled and cranked the wheel. I tumbled sideways as the hull was knocked down. I fell against the cockpit coaming. An avalanche of white water hit us. The boat ominously shuddered from bow to stern.

      Richard anxiously glanced at me, water dripping down his face, fear jumping out of his intense blue eyes. Behind him rose sheer cliffs of white water, the tops blown into cyclones of spray by the ferocious wind. My eyes questioned his—I couldn’t hide my terror. He faltered, and then winked at me, thrusting his chin up, a signal for me to go below. His forced grin and lingering eye contact disappeared as I slammed the hatch shut.

      I clung to the grab rail of the companionway ladder as I СКАЧАТЬ