Suddenly Overboard (10 page)

Ryan and Sandra, the sailing academy instructors, followed close behind the Etchells in the fast chase boat, a 19-foot launch with a diesel inboard, occasionally pulling alongside to shout encouragement or instructions. Ryan was driving and doing most of the teaching, as Sandra, age 20, was new and seemed hesitant to say much. He wondered if she was as worried about the Swedish student as he was. Sandra had just started work Monday, 4 days ago, but surely she'd heard about the Swede's mishap last week.

No one knew quite what to make of the Swede. He was huge—over 1.8 meters tall and weighing over 120 kilograms—and was
in his mid-forties. He was a nice enough guy and a good learner, but why would someone that big want to sail a small boat? He'd surprised them all when he'd arrived at the academy in Cowes a week ago to start the professional crew course, and the first thing they'd had to do was take him shopping for gear since none of the academy's waterproof clothing or life jackets fit him. Wouldn't you think a guy that size, who supposedly already had some sailing experience, would have his own gear?

Worse yet, the Swede moved slowly, not a good attribute for a sailor. He was like a big, friendly bear, Ryan thought.

So Ryan hadn't been thrilled to be assigned to the Swede's first sail last Saturday in one of the training dinghies. At least he made good ballast with all that body weight, but it was a tight fit with Ryan and him in the boat. After they'd sailed off the floating dock and he'd explained everything to the Swede, it seemed to take forever for the big man to trade positions with him to take the tiller. Then in their first tack the Swede moved the tiller so slowly that the boat stalled in irons into the wind.

On the second tack it happened. Ryan was handling the jibsheets when the Swede muttered “Hard alee” and started to tack. He didn't quite see how the Swede had gotten tangled up in the mainsheet during the tack or how he'd managed to hook one of his legs over the tiller as the dinghy heeled over on the new tack, he just saw how the Swede, struggling to disentangle himself, half stood and then pitched overboard.

Thank god the chase boat was there in seconds. The Swede was unable to pull himself back on board the dinghy or the chase boat, so Ryan took the tiller and made sure the Swede hung on to the transom as the chase boat towed them some 90 meters back to the dock.

Later, the Swede laughed it off, but the instructors met and talked over the situation and decided to move him to one of the larger keelboats for the next steps of his training. And Ryan was happy now to be in the chase boat instead of in the sailboat with him.

Ryan turned to Sandra. “Since we're getting back early, we have to decide how to spend rest of the afternoon.”

But Sandra was watching the Etchells and now pointed. “They're pretty much on a dead run,” she said. “Should we have them jibe?”

The thought of it made Ryan nervous. The wind had gotten up some, closer now to Force 5 than the forecast 3 to 4, and the Etchells carried a big mainsail. “I think they better head up a little instead,” he said, and slid the throttle forward a notch to ease up alongside.

The Etchells was on starboard tack, the sails well out to port. The Swede sat forward on the starboard deck tending the mainsheet. Brenda and Karl, the other two students, both slight of build, sat to port to counterbalance the Swede's weight on the run. Karl was at the helm, Brenda playing the port jibsheet.

“Turn about 20 degrees starboard!” Ryan shouted as they came up behind the sailboat. “Broad reach!” He watched as Karl carefully shifted over to the starboard side and made the turn.

None of the three seemed to be having a very good time, Ryan thought. Was it just the normal jitters, or were they actually a bit scared?

According to their applications, both Karl and Brenda had sailed some but it had been a few years ago for both. In the classroom they seemed knowledgeable and confident, but on their first outing 2 days ago, neither of them—nor the Swede—had done very well in the other keelboat. From the chase boat Ryan and another experienced instructor had watched while the three glided toward shore in a light breeze. “Time to tack!” he'd shouted, and they'd started the move okay but had released the jibsheet way too soon and were much too slow to tighten the main, and they blew it. Their second attempt was even worse. Worried they'd go aground before finally getting turned away from shore, Ryan had pulled up alongside and boarded the keelboat to take control.

Back to the classroom.

Today, however, after many more hours of instruction, they seemed reasonably in control. The Etchells held a straight course on a starboard broad reach and the sails were trimmed well.

“Time for a new helm,” Sandra said to Ryan. “Brenda needs some tiller time.”

“Right,” he said, and began easing the launch closer to give them a shout.

An Etchells 22 is seldom used for beginning sail training for the same reasons it is an excellent race boat. The sleek hull and fin keel let it turn on a dime. Well ballasted, it is generally stable even in strong winds, but crew position is always important. The boom is low and long, providing for a large mainsail, but forcing crew to be nimble to duck below it on a tack or jibe. The cockpit is shallow but has room for the legs of three or four (average-size) crew. There are no stanchions or lifelines, and when close-hauled the crew sit on the windward rail hanging out over the water.

All of which means that a critical aspect of sailing an Etchells is the ability to move smoothly and quickly from one side of the boat to the other, ducking below the boom as it crosses while maintaining perfect control of the boat.

At the helm, Karl watched the launch approaching. Ryan shouted something. Karl cupped his free hand behind his ear, then turned and said something to Brenda, but she made an I-don't-know gesture. The Swede leaned back, apparently to listen.

As Ryan brought the launch closer and swung to starboard, Karl turned first to his left and then twisted all the way back and around to his right to watch the launch, inadvertently jerking the tiller behind him. The Etchells responded instantly by turning to port, swinging away from the launch where now both Ryan and Sandra were shouting, “Starboard!” Too late the crew realized they were jibing and Brenda and then Karl quickly leaned down just ahead of the boom snapping across the cockpit.

The Swede hadn't started to duck but instead had risen slightly as if to stand, and the boom swung into his ample belly and pushed him overboard.

Ryan reacted immediately and brought the launch near where the Swede, wearing a life jacket, floated in the chop. Sandra watched the Etchells moving away, now on a port tack with the mainsail out full and the jib backwinded, the students making ineffectual adjustments as they stared back at the launch. Oh, well, they'd either get it under control or they wouldn't, but at least the Etchells shouldn't capsize.

Ryan throttled down and slipped into neutral. “Are you okay?” he yelled to the Swede. “Are you hurt?”

“Okay,” came his reply. “Just cold!”

Thinking of the launch's propeller, Ryan eased back into gear and idled up to the Swede, then cut the engine. At midships he knelt at the gunwale and leaned down and grasped the arm the Swede raised. “Okay, good. Now let's get you out of there.”

Fortunately the launch was big and well balanced with the ballast of its diesel inboard, so they didn't have to worry about tipping or taking on water with the weight of all three of them on one side. But it had a freeboard of about 1 meter, making it impossible for the Swede to climb aboard by himself.

Sandra joined him at the rail. “Give me your other hand,” she told the Swede. She took hold.

“On three,” Ryan said, and they both pulled as they strained their leg muscles to stand with the Swede's weight.

His hands rose in the air above the rail, but they lost leverage as more of his body left the water and he grew heavier, and he slipped back into the water.

“Okay, again,” Ryan said. “This time, grab the rail with your hands. Got that? You hold on so we can let go a moment and grab you down lower.”

The Swede nodded. His teeth were chattering audibly and his eyes were rapidly moving around.

They pulled again and were able to get the Swede's hands on the rail. He curled his fingers and held on while Ryan leaned far over, feeling along the side of the Swede's torso for something to hold on to. Finally he just grabbed a handful of cloth and pulled. He had the
lower part of the Swede's jacket, below his life jacket, and it rode up on him when he pulled—then nothing. Leaning over with almost no leverage, he couldn't raise him more than a few inches.

Sandra was frantically searching the launch, tossing aside fenders and coiled lines and kicking jerry cans. “There isn't a rope ladder? Why isn't there a rope ladder?”

Ryan knew why but didn't say it aloud; most of their students weighed less than the Swede and usually it would be faster to pull a person aboard than get a rope ladder and put it over the side. “Just get a heavy line,” he called back over his shoulder, still holding on to the Swede. “Hurry!”

She uncoiled a dock line and threw one end over the rail beside Ryan.

“Hey!” he called to get the Swede to look at him. “Tie this around your waist.”

The Swede stared at him. He had been in the water only a couple of minutes but he seemed to be losing touch already. But he took the end of the line in one hand and let go of the boat with the other, dropping back into the water. Ryan bent and reached down and held the collar of his life jacket to steady him as he fumbled with the rope underwater.

It took a long minute, but then the Swede raised both hands back up.

Ryan and Sandra grasped the rope and pulled. The Swede twisted in the water and then reached both hands back down. His life jacket rose up his torso, and they could see the rope had slid up his chest to his armpits. “Keep your elbows down!” Ryan shouted, and they pulled with all their might.

But his body rose no higher than it had before, and still they had no leverage. Ryan stepped back, braced both feet against the inner hull, and leaned back with all his weight, but it made no difference. His mind racing, he tried to think of anything from his training. On a sailboat they'd bring the boom over and above the victim and winch him straight up from the water, but nothing on the launch gave them height or leverage.

“I've got an idea,” Sandra was saying. “We make a loop in another line for his foot and cleat it off when he steps into it. Maybe we can get him to stand up, work the line up. Or even one for each foot, tightening them alternately.”

“Do it,” Ryan said. When she released her hold on the first line to get another, he could no longer hold the Swede, who again slid down the hull.

Now the Swede was panicking, clawing at the hull with his hands, his mouth open and bubbling. He was fumbling with the line around his chest. “Leave it!” Ryan shouted at him, but the Swede suddenly raised both arms to reach for the rail and the loop slipped up and off his body. Ryan bent over and was able to grab one of his arms.

Sandra had tied a quick bowline loop and lowered it over the side. “Grab it!” she directed the Swede. “Get your foot in it, like a rope ladder.”

The Swede seemed to stare at the loop but made no move for it, and they saw his eyes suddenly roll back and close and Ryan felt his heavy weight go limp. “Oh god, he's unconscious!” he said. Sandra briefly locked eyes with him, then she jerked away from the rail and ran to the helm.

A second later he heard her shouting Mayday into the radio. Three times, just like they were taught, then the name of the boat and the longitude and latitude from the GPS. “Man in the water! Can't get him aboard! We need help fast!” She repeated the longitude and latitude, then paused. The radio crackled back; the Coastguard had heard her. A few more quick questions while Ryan held the Swede as high as he could to keep his open mouth above the waves slapping the hull, and then the school's other fast boat broke in on the radio and said they were on their way too.

“I think he's stopped breathing!” she heard Ryan yell above the sound of the radio. “Gotta do rescue breathing.”

Sandra made a last transmission to inform the Coastguard she had to get off to help the victim.

“Hold his arm,” Ryan said when she reached him. “I'm going to lean way down so hang on to my belt.”

With her left hand she held the Swede's arm as high as she could, and with her right she grabbed the waistband of Ryan's pants as he leaned over and eased down, getting as close to the Swede as he could. He had trained in rescue breathing from the side of a pool and on a low dock, but that had been a long time ago, and trying to do it from 1 meter away while hanging over the side of a boat was very different. After a moment he found and grasped the collar of the Swede's jacket below his throat with his left hand, then pinched his nose closed with his right. Another wiggle and he got closer and put his mouth over the Swede's and blew in, counting one long beat. Release. Repeat. With his abdomen pressed hard against the launch's rail, taking most of his weight as he leaned over, he could barely breathe himself. Release. Repeat. He had no idea whether the air was going in.

“Ryan,” he heard Sandra say, “I can't hold you, my muscles are. . .” and he felt her grip slipping.

He pulled back. “It's okay. I'm going in.” In a moment he was climbing over the rail in his life jacket.

A movement caught her eye and Sandra looked up. The Etchells! She'd forgotten all about them, but here they were at last, slowly tacking up to the launch. “Get over here!” she shouted. “We need your help!”

The students had apparently just drifted downwind a ways before taking control, and had had to tack back up to the launch. At least they seemed to know what they were doing, she found herself thinking, at least they're in trim. She quickly looked down at Ryan and saw him beside the Swede, giving in-water rescue breathing just like she'd been taught only a few months ago. Something she'd then been certain she'd never actually have to do.