Overboard at night in the Caribbean
By Christian Pschorr

“Man overboard!” yelled Rex.

After years of delivering boats in the Atlantic, I could not believe
my ears. Suddenly, the stars over the Caribbean lost their beauty.
Finding a swimmer in 8-foot seas with wind to 30 knots during
daylight would have been challenging enough. At night, we faced
a daunting task. The darkness was suffocating as we scrambled to
turn the boat around.

Who knows what a passage has in store? Those of us who sail a
lot grow accustomed to the various events that occur over a
passage. We develop guidelines that help us manage challenges
like gales, equipment failure and the like. If we become too
comfortable, however, arrogance and complacency can become
dangerous liabilities. Just when you think you’ve figured it all out,
the ocean has a way of humbling you.

Let me invite you aboard, and introduce you to the beautiful boat,
and its willing crew, that set sail on this particular Caribbean
adventure. It was the very beginning of hurricane season, so the
plan was to sail south from the BVI to Bonaire, where tropical
storms are rare. Then we would sail west along the coast of South
America bound for Panama where the boat would wait out the
hurricane season. We provisioned the day before, and sailed out of
Tortola into a southeastern breeze and beautiful sunshine.

“Yellow Shoes,” a Hylas 54, stands out in any fleet of boats. Her
bright yellow hull and gleaming deck hardware draw all eyes and
bring smiles to passers by. The colorful flag of the Marshall
Islands flies high on her stern, though she has yet to visit her
homeport of Bikini. “Yellow Shoes” spent her first year sailing the
Caribbean, and her island coloring adds a festive flair to every
harbor she visits.

Her cheerful appearance reminds us of local island craft, which are
often painted with pastels or bright colors. However, her
resemblance to these wooden relics ends there. “Yellow Shoes” is
a modern, luxury, ocean cruiser. She features electric winches,
satellite communications, and fancy navigation electronics. She
also boasts such wonderful conveniences as air conditioning,
washer/dryer, a gushing watermaker, trash compactor, ice
machine, central vacuum, and huge TV screen. Although I have
yet to find it, apparently, she even has a snow cone machine! The
one thing she doesn’t have is a dishwasher, thank goodness,
because that’s my job.

My name is Christian. I was hired as delivery skipper aboard this
fine yacht, and I often find myself compelled to do dishes because
I’m passionate about conserving water. You see, when my family
and I started cruising, we conserved out of necessity since we
carried only 35 gallons aboard. Most of the boats I work on these
days have watermakers that produce hundreds of gallons in a
matter of hours. That’s enough for a couple of showers per person
as well as a deck wash down, not to mention full-pressure
dishwashing. The water is real, it’s plentiful, and yet my stubborn,
traditionalist tendencies make it impossible for me to enjoy it fully.

Simply take one look at my boat, and you would agree, after first
feeling a bit sorry for me, that I am a traditionalist at heart. I live
aboard “Truant,” a 1941 Newfoundland fishing schooner, not
unlike Farley Mowat’s “The Boat that Wouldn’t Float.” I have an
undeniable love for wooden boats, especially gaffers. The more
trouble I have with women, and I’ve had my share of ordeals, the
more affection I have for wooden boats, which inexorably leads to
more women troubles.

Anyway, I attribute the good fortune of landing this job to the fact
that I do a lot of delivery work for Hylas Yachts, and because Jake,
the boat’s owner, hired me on a previous delivery from Florida to
Trinidad, on which we all got along famously.

Jake’s nickname is Yellow Shoes, hence the boat’s name. You
may have met him in the Caribbean or at boat shows. Maybe
you’ve heard the song Yellow Shoes, which his friend, Eric Stone,
wrote in his honor. Without fail, Jake sports yellow shoes on his
feet. His hairstyle has been compared with Einstein’s, yet his
handlebar mustache distinguishes him from that particular genius.
One’s first impression of the man is quite accurate—Jake’s a laid-
back guy.

Jake’s lifelong friend and business associate, Frank, signed aboard
as crew for the first leg of the passage. New to ocean sailing,
Frank took my advice and popped some seasick medication ahead
of time. Although out of his element, he handled himself well, and
warmed to the experience. Once in a while, especially at night, his
questions revealed some anxiety. “The radar would pick up a
container floating on the water, right?” I did my best to calm him
with talk of odds and collision bulkheads and so forth. Frank’s
significant contribution to the passage was the introduction of a
“drink of the day.” We’ll always be thankful for that.

Now Jake also sails near his home of Springfield, Missouri, on
Stockton Lake, where he befriended the two other crewmembers
onboard with whom I had the pleasure of sailing to Trinidad a year
ago. Rex races an F-31 trimaran competitively, and brought along
a great deal of experience. Rex loves a good tale, especially if it
gets folks smiling. With Rex, the more outrageous the story, the
more likely it’s true. His sailing prowess, engaging stories, and
uniquely positive philosophies are surpassed only by his boyish
good looks.

Rex describes Wendy, our coveted female crewmember, as a
delicate flower. This delicate flower retired as a Kansas City
motorcycle cop at the age of 40. Fame touched her when she
appeared in a number of “Cops” episodes. She also did a 5-year
stint on SWAT, which is rare for women, and even rarer for
flowers.

Wendy signed on to build ocean experience before she and her
husband finished outfitting their boat to set sail for the Caribbean
themselves. This was her 2nd ocean experience, as she sailed
“Yellow Shoes’” maiden voyage as I mentioned, and she eagerly
applied herself to all tasks. Her ability to learn quickly, combined
with her physical strength and agility, make it all the more
mystifying that she would be the first of my crewmembers,
hopefully the last, to fall overboard at sea.

Sailing a close reach, we made good time sailing to Bonaire. The
wind did not fall below 20 knots, and the heel made it tough for
Frank to acclimate, but he did quite well. The rest adjusted quickly
as they recognized conditions nicer than those of the Thorny Path
from Florida, over which we sailed the previous year. Our two
regrets during this leg were that we did not catch a fish, and that
Frank didn’t introduce his drink-of-the-day idea until we followed
a pod of dolphin around the north end of Bonaire.

A daring Laughing Gull greeted us as we approached the island. It
thrilled us with amazing agility as it plucked crackers from our
fingers. Not impressed with my good looks, apparently, the gull
refused to take a piece of bread from my mouth, however patiently
I waited with puckered lips.

We said our goodbyes to Frank, who had managed only a short
break from work, and barely enjoyed a taste of Bonaire after
merely a day’s visit. Remarkable coral surrounds this lovely, arid
island. The friendly people and gorgeous water would entice
anyone to return, and we all hope to find ourselves there again.

Our Laughing Gull found us once more upon departure as we
headed up to set the main. She had no patience for our
preoccupation with the sails, and I regret that she did not stick
around long enough for me to attempt to express my affection a
second time. Such is the misunderstood life of the lone sailor.

We rolled along before a hot Caribbean Easterly. A few jibes
brought us around Curacao by late afternoon. The spinnaker, red
and blue with huge yellow shoes on it, flew much of the time until
one unfortunate gust brought it down prematurely. We stowed the
damaged sail, but were determined not to allow the disappointment
to ruin a wonderful day. As evening fell, we sat down in the
cockpit to enjoy a fine meal.

Once the sun sets, my rule of safety forbids anyone to leave the
cockpit untethered nor without someone else on deck. In rough
conditions, we tether in the cockpit as well. The wind was rising,
and the eight footers rolled us a bit, but the Hylas sails quite
comfortably in such weather.

Jake headed for his cabin to get some sleep before his watch while
the rest of us tidied up the cockpit after dinner. As Wendy pulled
down some canvas on the weather side of the cockpit to keep
things dry for the night, a larger-than-usual wave lifted the stern
and heeled us sharply over. About to descend the companionway,
I paused for balance. Jake later recalled he felt the wave crash over
the deck and thought, “That was a heck of a jolt!”

The lurch threw Wendy across the cockpit into the leeward
winches. She struggled to grab something to stop her fall, but
found nothing. Within an instant, she found herself in the dark
water. Thank goodness Rex saw her go over the side.

“Man overboard!” Rex yelled a second time.

Rex and I bumped into each other. “We have GOT to get that girl
back,” he said desperately. I began to focus as I took the helm
from the autopilot. As I headed up to a beam reach, I looked for a
steering frame of reference—the wind and waves, the lights of
Curacao, all to the east, the wind instrument, the masthead fly.

Rex wanted to throw out the Lifesling, a float tied to the boat with
floating line, but I yelled not to as I worried that we might run over
it, entangling ourselves, if deployed too soon. I should have
redirected him to deploy the MOM, an inflatable overboard device
that is not attached to the boat, but I had just hit the MOB button
on the chart plotter, which marks our position, and was
preoccupied with the beginning of a figure-eight maneuver. “Furl
the genny!” I yelled, and flipped on the deck light so he could see
what was happening. As Rex furled, I steered.

As a sailing instructor, I’ve practiced thousands of overboard-
recovery drills, some at night. Yet still, I felt unprepared for this
reality. In this breeze, I worried that we’d drift to leeward too fast
when we tried to stop near Wendy, so I wanted to reduce sail. I
fired up the engine, determined to use every tool at hand. Rex
rolled up much of the mainsail until the boom-furling system
jammed.

Mother Nature had been neither kind nor cruel, but simply
indifferent. Her waves marched along as they have for an eternity,
sometimes at peace, at times furiously, always without
consideration of creatures such as our little crew. We left the
coast; we left civilization; we had to take care of ourselves. That is
the price for such freedom, and we came close to paying dearly
that night.

Jake came up with a spotlight as we finished the figure eight, and
we heard the lovely sound of Wendy’s shouting to leeward. I
noticed that we were somewhat downwind of the man-overboard
position on the plotter, which suggested a strong current.

Wendy remembers the event as follows:

Without warning I felt the boat pitch up at an angle that
was different from the motion that we had been dealing
with. It was as though the starboard side of the boat
had just been hit by a fast-moving train.

A wave broke over the high side and struck me square
in the chest. I found myself knocked backwards across
the cockpit to the low side of the boat. I felt the port
side winches as my shoulder and legs made contact. I
sprawled out as best I could in an attempt to get a hold
of something…there was nothing. I heard someone on
deck scream, “Man Overboard! Man Overboard!” The
ocean accepted me with its open arms.

As I surfaced, I noticed how quiet the night was, and
gained some composure. I looked for the boat. She
was sailing away from me quickly. I saw Christian and
Rex hustling about on deck. The spreader lights came
on, and the boat seemed to stop on a dime. “Yes, they
are coming back for me,” I thought to myself. I yelled
to them, “I’m OK, I’m OK, I’m over here,” as I swam
towards them.

Huge swells and waves crashing over my head would
sometimes cause me to lose sight of the boat
completely. Panic tried to creep into my mind, and I
did my best to remain calm. I realized I didn’t have a
sailing harness on, and I would have to conserve as
much energy as possible to stay afloat until, or if, they
found me.

I watched the guys on deck as the boat continued to
move away. Then the decks went black, and the only
light I could see was the tri-color on top of the mast.

My mind went into overload. “They don’t hear me,” I
thought. “They think I have already drowned. They’re
not going to risk their lives to save mine!” That’s when
I realized I was breaking down emotionally. I knew I
needed to find something to hold onto, anything, just to
keep me focused on my survival, however long that
might be.

I reached deep down inside, and found the one and only
thing that could get me through this--my “True North.”
The love that I felt from my husband who was so far
away from me was overwhelming. The thought of his
love calmed and soothed me. I was able to clear my
head. I was able to concentrate on what I needed to do
to survive.

At 12° 32.20’ N, 69° 29.52’ W, with no moonlight,
black seas, and waves crashing over your head, you
would be surprised how peaceful yet lonely one can be.
With every motion of my arms and legs in the water,
the phosphorescence gleamed like a million emeralds.

I looked for the boat again. What I saw brought tears to
my eyes. She was coming around hard and fast towards
me, just as black as the night. A newfound hope filled
me. They were coming back for me! As the boat got
about 100 feet upwind, I could see Rex and Jake on
deck, I yelled at them again, “I’m over here!” At that
moment, Jake’s 2-million-candlepower light blinded
me. I heard Rex yelling, “The Lifesling is coming over
your shoulder…grab it!”

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw the yellow
line, and grabbed it. It traveled so fast, I was
concerned that I might miss the sling as it whizzed past.
As the sling approached, I hooked an arm into it.
Immediately, it spun me around, and I was headed for
the boat. I placed both arms through the sling, and
turned backwards to limit ingesting any more saltwater.

The next thing I saw was Rex standing on the transom
steps reaching down to grab my hand. He locked on to
me, and I knew I was safe. On the stern of that pitching
boat, Rex pulled me from the ocean’s grasp, and stood
like a mountain refusing to let go.

Once we saw her illuminated by Jake’s spotlight, we knew we had
her. She was not far to leeward. I killed the engine, and tied the
wheel hard to windward as we drifted closer. Life was never more
precious.

For several days, we reflected on this horrific night. Landfall was
particularly moving. By the time we reached the San Blas islands,
days after Wendy fell, the experience nagged like a bad dream.

“Yellow Shoes,” resembled a spaceship anchored off the beaches
of the Kuna Indians’ modest palm-frond homes. Jake bought molas
and other crafts from the Kuna in their dugout canoes. His
contributions probably supported the entire village for months. I
focused on boat issues, and the challenges of using my limited
Spanish to negotiate with the locals. Rex gradually began to recite
fantastic trivia once again, such as the little-known mountains of
the Bahamas and amazing dwarfish island animals. Wendy
worked hard at everything, smiling thankfully.

Kuna villagers in one San Blas island all dropped what they were
doing and came running when Wendy showed off her dazzling
collection of nautical tattoos. Some of the usually hidden skin
artwork brought smiles and joy all around. She’s added a new one
since the passage. On her thigh, cresting waves bracket the words
“Hold Fast” along with the lat and long of a most memorable
swim.

Hold fast--advice worth living by. There are many times when I
have less experienced, or less physically capable, crews. Once in
every so many passages, I find myself on the foredeck in rough
conditions, reminding myself of Irving Johnson’s guidance, “you’d
be a fool to let go.” I accept that the odds of such crews finding
me at night in rough seas are slight at best, much as we all accept
the everyday dangers of driving on the highway, so I clip on and
hold on--usually. I always imagined, that given enough time, I
would be the one to go over the side first. At once, I was both
horrified and relieved that this was not my time.

There will be other passages, and any decent sailor learns from
experience. What will we do differently? The obvious answer is
to clip on more often, if not always. There are two things I would
encourage readers to take from our experience. For one, take
responsibility for yourself. Each crewmember should access the
measures of safety they want to accept above and beyond the rules
of a particular passage, and be encouraged to do so. No skipper
will mind crewmembers wearing a lifejacket or harness even if it’s
not required during calm weather. Secondly, and most
importantly, please practice overboard recovery often. It’s fun,
actually, to throw a float over and practice picking it up, and it’s a
fantastic skill builder. When the time comes, and someone goes
over for real, that’s not the time to be practicing.

Few things provoke deep reflection more than a close call, and this
was no exception. Who really knows why we’re here on this
watery world, never mind why we sail? All I know for sure is that
if Jake, Rex and I were put here to pluck Wendy from the sea on a
moonless Caribbean night, that purpose is good enough for me.

Christian Pschorr, founder of Bluewater Miles, teaches ocean-
sailing courses and delivers boats to and from the Caribbean.
www.BluewaterMiles.com